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podiumackles · 4 months ago

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the moments that stay (they turn out all wrong)

In which the man she could never forget suddenly turns up at her cell, but he has no remembrance of the woman in front of him. And the moments that stayed with her for decades, turn out to be her memories only.

series masterlist

CHAPTER 3

A/N: English isn't my first language!! apologies in advance.

Outlines: After being his sidekick in Payback for years, you-better known as your supename Fury-ended up on the same end of Soldier Boy's violence as every other person. What you didn't realise, however, was that your old team had set you both up for betrayal, right when you thought you were helping them in getting him. After decades of being stuck in Vought's testing lab, you heard Soldier Boy got out. But the man who appeared in front of your cell wasn't the man you knew.

Warnings: swearing, descriptions of slight gore, mentions of blood, mentions of death, and possibly wrong storytelling in lines of the canon events. I'm not that good at remembering, guys. and the boys was just kinda complicated. forgive me.

Present

Getting out of your cell was easier than expected. The hard part was getting out of the facility alive; about twenty minutes into the escape, alarm bells rang out like a symphony of dread, filling the cold, sterile corridors. It wasn’t surprising, really—Vought’s security wasn’t going to let you walk out unharmed. Still, for the first time in decades, your wrists were free from the biting restraints, and adrenaline surged through your veins.

You ran alongside Butcher, who seemed to have an uncanny knack for navigating the labyrinthine facility. His movements were sharp and purposeful. It was clear he had done his homework on this place, even if Vought’s playbook was constantly evolving. Soldier Boy was ahead, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the narrow hallways like a battering ram.

“Thought you said you had this under control!” you shouted over the wail of the alarms, your voice rusty but gaining strength.

Butcher smirked, barely winded. “Oh, this? Bit of noise never hurt nobody.”

Ben shot a glance back at the two of you, his shield gripped tightly in one hand, his jaw clenched. He looked as though he was barely holding himself together—rage simmering just beneath the surface. You couldn’t blame him. Whatever memories Vought had buried inside him, they still left scars. And now, the sound of blaring alarms running through his ears, must trigger his fight or flight response. There was no doubt about it.

“We need to hit the control room,” Butcher said, his voice urgent now. “Shut down the security before they send the big guns.”

You and Soldier Boy exchanged a glance. His eyes still carried that haunting vacancy, but a flicker of something else—recognition, maybe—crossed his face. He jerked his head forward, signalling for you to keep moving. Old habits died hard. Even after everything, he still acted like a leader.

The trio turned a sharp corner just as a squad of Vought soldiers appeared at the other end of the corridor. You didn’t hesitate. Throwing yourself to the floor, you slid behind a row of metal crates, while Soldier Boy charged forward like a freight train. His shield crashed against the soldiers, sending them flying, their weapons useless against his brute force and super healing.

Butcher stayed low, pulling a gun from his coat and taking a few well-placed shots, neutralizing the ones that hadn’t already been knocked out cold by Ben. The man moved with ruthless precision, not a shred of hesitation in his actions. You wondered how many people like you and Ben he’d already dealt with, how much he’d seen. But that was a question for later. For now, survival was your only priority.

“Clear,” Butcher muttered, nodding for you to get up.

“We won’t have much time,” you said, still catching your breath. The alarms were one thing, but Vought had been keeping an eye on every single corner of the facility with the carefully hidden cameras around the building.

“Yeah, no fucking shit,” Ben muttered, shaking off some dust mixed with blood from his shield as if this were a regular Tuesday for him. “Where’s this control room?”

You pointed ahead. “Up two floors. We take the stairs—elevator’s a death trap.”

Your mind was racing with thoughts of escape. But there was another gnawing question you couldn’t shake: Why were they here, really? Why you?

As the three of you burst through the stairwell door and ascended the steps, your legs burning with the effort, you felt the weight of the years clawing at you. Your muscles were stiff, your body weak from disuse, but the rage—the fury—inside you was enough to keep you moving. You were sick of being someone else’s pawn.

Suddenly, Ben stopped at a landing, holding out his arm. You froze, instinctively falling back into soldier mode. “What is it?” you whispered.

“Listen.”

You strained your ears, and sure enough, your superhearing enhanced the heavy clank of footsteps echoing from above. A lot of footsteps.

“They’re sending the backup troops,” You muttered. “They think we’re trapped.”

Butcher grinned, something dark and predatory in his eyes. “Let ‘em come. They don’t know what’s comin’ for ‘em.”

You tightened your fists, feeling the heat of your powers surging just beneath your skin. It hurt, just the slightest. It had been so long since you had the chance to use them—so long since you’d felt anything beyond the dull ache of confinement.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” Butcher asked, glancing at you with an eyebrow raised.

You looked him dead in the eye, trying to hide your hesitation. “Always am.”

The first wave of guards came pouring down the stairs, fully armed, faces masked. Without hesitation, Ben launched himself into the fray, shield gleaming as it smashed into the front line. Butcher followed, a pistol in one hand and a combat knife in the other, carving through the chaos.

You stood back for a moment, feeling the pulsing heat build in your hands, until finally, with a sharp exhale, you unleashed it. Energy—wild, untamed wind—exploded from your palms, sending the next wave of soldiers crashing back into the walls. The surge felt powerful, like shaking off the chains that had weighed you down for years.

But most of all, it was stronger than it ever had been. The most powerful you had ever felt. And you barely dared to admit that it scared you.

Ben glanced back, eyes wide for the briefest of moments when he looked at you before he returned to dispatching the remaining guards.

“Not bad,” Butcher commented, smirking through the chaos. Though an unfamiliar look crossed his eyes.

Once the stairwell was clear, the three of you sprinted up the last flight of steps and into the corridor leading to the control room. You could hear more guards closing in behind you, but the door ahead was just within reach. With a mighty kick, Soldier Boy knocked it open, and the three of you burst into the room, slamming the door shut behind you.

Two of Vought’s employees shot around in their chairs, a look of horror flashed on their innocent faces right before Soldier Boy lifted his shield, moved it at the height of their necks and-

Two heads rolled over de floor.

The air was thick with tension, punctuated by the shrill wails of the alarms still echoing through the facility. The walls were lined with glowing monitors, displaying a maze of surveillance footage, flashing red warnings, and floor plans. This was the heart of Vought’s operations.

Butcher wasted no time, moving swiftly to one of the terminals. He began typing with a speed and confidence that suggested this wasn't his first time hacking into a heavily fortified system. Meanwhile, Ben paced near the door, shield in hand, his eyes darting between you and the hallway as if expecting another wave of soldiers any second.

You, however, stood frozen for a moment, taking in the room—the remembrance of decades of torment, experimentation, and manipulation. You thought you’d feel more relief standing here, so close to freedom, but instead, an overwhelming uncertainty bubbled just beneath your skin.

“Are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna help?” Butcher barked, not even looking up from the terminal. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he tried to override the system’s security protocols.

You snapped out of your daze and approached another terminal, feeling the heat of your powers still crackling under your skin. And it still hurt.

Before you could respond, Soldier Boy's sharp voice cut through the air. "We've got company."

The door behind him shook under the pressure of a battering ram. Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor as more of Vought’s enforcers gathered outside, their numbers growing by the second.

“Of course we bloody do,” Butcher muttered, his eyes never leaving the screen. “We’re almost through—just a bit more time.”

You clenched your fists, the air around you shimmering with energy that was so unfamiliar, it sent a shiver down your spine. "We don't have time, Butcher. I can feel them—they’re coming fast."

Ben squared his shoulders, stepping forward to brace the door. The rage that always seemed to simmer beneath his surface was now boiling over. He was done waiting, done being manipulated. “Let them come,” he growled, his shield raised, ready to take on whatever came through that door.

Butcher glanced at you, something like hesitation flickering in his eyes. It was a look you didn’t yet know he could have. “You’ve got a plan, love? ‘Cause if we don’t shut this down now, Vought’ll be all over us.”

The door rattled violently as Vought’s forces hammered against it, each thud reverberating through the control room.

"Me, a plan?" you spat ever so lightly, mild accusation in your tone. "You were the ones that needed me out!"

But Butcher didn't respond. Neither did Ben, for that matter.

Time was running out, and the tension was as thick as the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You focused, taking in the situation: Butcher was close to breaking the system, Ben was ready to stand his ground, and you—well, you weren’t the same person who had been shackled in that cell for decades. You had something new simmering inside, something dangerous. And you could feel it in every single piece of your body.

Your powers crackled just beneath the surface, stronger than you had ever remembered. The years of confinement, of being forced into silence, had built a storm within you, and you were ready to let it loose. But you knew this wasn’t you. This had never been you.

Ben stood firm by the door, his broad shoulders braced against the inevitable. His eyes flicked toward you, still cold, still distant. He was ready to fight, but this was a fight you had never been in before. A complete stranger, and a man who couldn’t even remember you, stood by you. And you had no idea if you could rely on them.

Butcher’s voice broke through your thoughts. “We’re in!” he called, finally cracking the security system. “But they’ve got some heavy-duty encryption on this place. It’ll take a few more minutes to wipe the files and shut down the alarms.”

You glanced at Ben. He was steady, but he couldn’t hold off a full squad alone. And your powers—they felt unpredictable. But you didn’t have a choice. Vought was coming, and this was your only chance.

The door shuddered again, and you could hear the muffled voices of the soldiers outside, preparing for a final push. You turned to Butcher. “You’d better hurry. We don’t have minutes.”

He looked at you, his jaw clenched, but nodded. “Just keep them off me, yeah? I don’t fancy getting me head blown off ‘cause you got distracted.”

Asshole.

With a deep breath, you stepped forward, joining Ben at the door. “You got an idea?” you asked, voice low.

Ben shot you a glance, his grip tightening on his shield. “You think I haven’t done this a thousand times? Just stay out of my fucking way.”

You didn’t respond. There was no point. Whatever bond the two of you once had was long gone, buried beneath the years of torture and manipulation. But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was getting through this.

The door burst open, and Vought’s soldiers flooded in. Ben moved like a force of nature, his shield slamming into the first soldier with a sickening crunch. He was fast, brutal, and efficient—every movement a practised execution of raw power. But there were too many.

You felt the heat rise in your palms, the energy building, and it hurt. It hurt so fucking bad. It was unlike anything you had ever felt before. It used to be a sweet touch of weather, the comforting droplets of rain. But this was different.

It neared a breaking point. Both your power and your well-being. At its maximum power, you lost control. And with a sharp exhale, you unleashed it. The energy exploded from you in a blinding wave, tearing through the room like wildfire. The soldiers were thrown back, their bodies crashing into the walls with bone-shattering force. Bolts of lightning crackled between the men, ensuring death upon impact.

Even Ben was forced to brace himself against the onslaught, his shield raised in defence. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, barely having evaded your attack from reaching him. But he didn’t say anything.

You were out of control. And there was no way you could contain this power any longer. Fuck, you weren't even sure what was going on. You weren't even sure if you were conscious.

When the dust settled, the room was eerily quiet. The soldiers lay scattered, unconscious or worse, and the air was thick with the smell of burnt metal and ozone. You fell to the floor, breathing heavily, your hands still crackling with residual power. For a moment, you didn’t feel anything—just numbness.

Then Butcher’s voice cut through the silence. “Well, that was bloody brilliant,” he muttered, stepping back from the terminal. “Shut down the whole damn system. Alarms are off, security’s locked out. We’re good to go.”

You turned to face him, your body still trembling from the power you barely remembered releasing. “It’s done?”

Butcher nodded, a grim smile on his face. “Yeah, love. It’s done. Now we get the hell out of here.”

Ben lowered his shield, his face unreadable as he looked at you. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was a glimmer of something other than cold indifference in his eyes. Maybe he remembered something. Maybe it was fear.

You didn't care.

You spoke up once more, this time directing your gaze towards Ben, who held a seemingly shocked frown. “What on earth happened?”

Soldiers scattered in the hallway, remains of them smashed against the bloodied wall.

Soldier Boy didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at Butcher, who knowingly glanced back at the supe.

All you could do was look around at the aftermath of whatever had happened to you.

And what feared you the most, was the fact you could only vaguely remember what the answer to it was.

A/N: as always, feedback is appreciated! let me know if you want to be added to the taglist.

thanks for reading! <3

taglist: @demodemo909 @deangirl96 @mostlymarvelgirl @n-o-p-e-never

#soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #jensen ackles #soldier boy #soldier boy x female reader #jensen ackles soldier boy #soldier boy/ben #the boys amazon #the boys fanfic #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy fic #soldier boy fanfiction #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x you #soldier boy smut #the boys #the boys tv

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ratsvalley · 10 days ago

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So I’m working on carrot chapter 3 which means I’m definitely not gonna be able to draw this out for a while but consider the following for a Coalectra Valentine’s oneshot…I can’t write so take my ramblings.

YES THEYRE ON MY MIND ALL THE DAMN TIME I CAN NEVER GET RID OF THEM

This headcanon is also surprisingly fluffy this time…

-I like to imagine Electra employs their components for any time of social interaction, whether it be gift giving, invitations, or even ordering food. (Hmmm possibly hinting to Electra having social anxiety hmmm)

Back to gift giving, Electra is rich, meaning they can and will spoil their partners with lavish expensive gifts. And they always get their components to deliver them.

-When it comes to Porter they’ll get him things that they think would suit them, like new clothes (they don’t like to admit it but they get very giddy when they see Porter wearing them). They also give him dark chocolates (they’re both dark chocolate enjoyers you can fight me on this) and little cakes throughout his shifts. Porters not a huge sweets guy but he’ll gladly eat them if Electra bought them.

-And it’s always the components who deliver them, usually under the guise of “an important order from Electra that you should very urgently attend to.” Then they pull him into an abandoned alleyway to give him the gift. It was a little frustrating at first, not having Electra to thank for these gifts but Porter would get used to it eventually.

-He wasn’t the richest freight around, so getting Electra good gifts was impossible. Every so often he’d be able to save up a paycheck to buy them something nice, which they would deliver to them IN PERSON

Oh also my friend @rowansro came up with an idea that Porter gave Electra a little pet rock once and now I’m inclined to believe Electra keeps it in a cupboard to take out and hold fondly when they break up. Cause like it or not, they miss him.

-Back to the present… it’s Valentine’s Day and Electra wants to be the one to deliver Porter’s gift in person. They’re inwardly cringing when they realize they want to do something they consider sappy and sweet but oh god just imagining the look on Porter’s face as he opens his gift is enough to motivate them.

They decide to surprise him in the middle of his shift, which alarms him and the other freights. They’d never expected THE Electra to show up while they’re working, and the side eye Slick, Lumber, and Hydra give Porter when they ask to speak in private is LOUD and MASSIVE.

-Now despite Electra’s initial willingness, they find now that they are UTTERLY TERRIFIED upon the realization that they didn’t think of what to say. Usually Killerwatt thinks of something on the spot or they’ll just relay a premade message, but of COURSE they had to deliver it themselves when they didn’t even plan on what to say.

Porter on the other hand is positively melting at the idea that Electra actually took time out of their day to hand him a gift, he notices how nervous they are and immediately thanks them for delivering the gift. Now Electra has to swallow their pride and let Porter do the talking for both of them as they regain their composure.

And yet, all they can think about was the look in Porter’s eyes when he saw them walk in to hand him a gift. Such a small gesture, something that shouldn’t be this fascinating to anyone…and yet it made him happy. So obviously they need to do this more.

#see? I can make them happy…sometimes #stex 2024 #stex #stex london 2024 #electra the electric engine #porter the coal truck #coalectra #electra x porter

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 1 month ago

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Chapter 3: I Know It Might Sound More Than A Little Crazy.

Summary: You have a curse: you can’t control when or where you travel through time, but you’re always tethered to Remy LeBeau’s life. For him, you’re a mysterious constant—someone who’s been there at every stage of his life, never aging, never changing. For you, he’s the soulmate you’ve loved across timelines, though you never meet him in the right order.

You’ve seen him as a reckless thief, a heartbroken lover, a guilt-ridden outcast, and a hero struggling for redemption—always knowing him, while he pieces together who you are with every encounter. Pairings: Remy Lebeau/Reader, Past!Remy Lebeau/Bella Donna, Past!Remy Lebeau/Anna-Marie. Warnings: Slow-Burn, Swearing, Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff Masterlist

The impact hit you like a freight train, and the second your back slammed into whatever you landed on, the air was knocked clean out of your lungs. The sharp crack of splintering wood was your only warning before you broke through, crashing down onto the floor below. Pain exploded across your back and ribs, and a loud groan escaped your lips as you lay there, gasping for air.

You coughed a few times, your chest heaving as you struggled to orient yourself. For a moment, you kept your eyes closed, the world spinning too much to process. The sharp smell of chalk and faintly stale air hit your nose, but it wasn’t until you heard hurried footsteps rushing toward you that you forced your eyes open.

“Hey—what the hell? Are you okay?”

You blinked up at the familiar face of Scott Summers. His usual calm, collected expression was replaced with one of complete shock, his mouth slightly agape as he stared down at you. For a second, he seemed frozen, caught between trying to process what he was seeing and deciding what to do.

Then, without hesitation, he crouched down and reached for you. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

His hands slid under your arm, firm but careful, and he helped you to your feet. Your legs felt shaky, your muscles screaming in protest as you leaned against him for balance. Every breath you took felt tight, sharp, like your ribs hadn’t quite remembered how to expand properly.

“That’s a lot of blood,” Scott said, his voice low and tense as his eyes scanned you. “Are you hurt?”

You blinked at him for a few seconds, disoriented, before glancing around. The room you were in was unmistakable—a classroom. The rows of desks, the chalkboard, the faint smell of cleaning products and paper—it all clicked into place at once.

And then you noticed the students.

There were at least two dozen of them, their faces a mix of confusion, concern, and outright shock. Some whispered to each other in hushed voices, while others just stared, their eyes flicking between you and the shattered table you’d landed on.

You followed their gaze down to yourself and felt your stomach sink. Your singlet was soaked in blood—Remy’s blood. Crimson stains streaked your pants and hands, drying in uneven patches that told the story of the hell you’d just endured. You looked down at the remains of the wooden table beneath you, splintered and jagged, and then back at Scott.

“It—it’s not mine,” you croaked, your voice hoarse and trembling. You shook your head slowly, the words spilling out before you’d even registered saying them. “It’s not mine.”

Scott’s frown deepened, but before he could say anything, you forced yourself to speak again. “I need to see him,” you breathed, your tone urgent.

Scott hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “He’s out on the basketball court with the others,” he said, his hand hovering near your back as if he was ready to catch you if you fell. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m not hurt,” you snapped, sharper than you intended, before brushing past him. You didn’t have time for concern or questions. You needed to see Remy.

You ignored the whispers and stares of the students as you moved through the rows of desks, your boots crunching over the splinters of wood from the table you’d destroyed. The familiar halls of the X-Mansion stretched ahead of you—worn and comforting in a way that only deepened the ache in your chest.

You were furious.

Furious at everything. Furious at the situation, at yourself, at the damn universe for throwing you into this mess. Remy needed you, and instead of being there for him, you were here, crashing through tables and surrounded by gawking students.

Your stomach twisted painfully at the thought of him waking up in that shitty motel room, alone, with nothing but the memory of you stitching him up and leaving. You knew he was okay—he was alive. But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that he needed you, and you weren’t there.

You stepped outside, the sun hitting your face in a warm, golden glow that felt completely at odds with the storm raging inside you. The sound of laughter and distant voices carried across the grounds, mingling with the faint rustle of the wind through the trees.

And then you saw him.

Remy was on the basketball court, a lazy grin on his face as he leaned against the fence, spinning a basketball lazily in one hand. He was laughing, his voice carrying over the court as he joked with some of the students. The sun caught the reddish tint of his hair, making it gleam as he shifted his weight, tossing the ball back to one of the younger kids with a smirk.

Your footsteps quickened, your heart pounding as you moved across the grounds, weaving through clusters of students without sparing them a glance. You barely registered when Ororo called your name, her voice tinged with surprise, as you stepped onto the court.

Remy turned at the sound of your name, his grin widening like he was ready with some smart-ass remark. But the second his gaze landed on you, the grin vanished. His expression shifted instantly, his red-and-black eyes widening as he took in the blood covering your clothes.

You didn’t stop until you were standing right in front of him, your hands trembling slightly as you reached out and grabbed the hem of his singlet. Without a word, you pulled it up, your eyes scanning his torso.

Your gaze locked onto the faint scars on his side—thin, pale lines that marked where you’d stitched him up. They were healed now, barely visible, but you could still see traces of the desperation and sheer will it had taken to keep him alive.

You nodded slowly, your chest tightening as you let the fabric fall back into place. “You’re okay,” you breathed, the words soft, shaky, as though they were more for yourself than for him.

Remy’s eyes softened, and he tossed the basketball to Logan without looking, his full attention fixed on you. “I’m okay, cher,” he said, his voice low and soothing, his thick Cajun accent curling around the words like a warm blanket. “I promise. I’m okay.” The world felt muted around you as his hands settled gently on your shoulders. Remy’s touch was steady, grounding, a stark contrast to the chaos and noise swirling in your head. His red-and-black eyes searched your face, his expression a mixture of teasing warmth and genuine concern.

“But you?” he said softly, his thick Cajun accent curling around the words like a familiar melody. “Dieu, you look like you been dragged through hell backward.” The corners of his mouth quirked up in a faint, playful smirk, but even as he teased, his voice carried an undertone of worry. “C’mon, ma belle, let’s get ya cleaned up. Can’t have you walkin’ ‘round lookin’ like you just fought a pack o’ wolves.”

His words were meant to lighten the mood, but the weight in your chest didn’t lift. You didn’t resist as he gently guided you off the court, his hand brushing against the small of your back as he led you toward the mansion. His presence steadied you, but the tension in your shoulders remained, the guilt and exhaustion pressing down on you with every step.

The halls of the mansion were quiet, save for the faint echo of your footsteps against the polished floors. Familiar, yet alien. Everything here had once been home, but now it felt distant, like a memory you couldn’t quite reach. You couldn’t ignore the way people looked at you—students peeking out from classrooms, staff glancing at you with curiosity or concern. You kept your eyes forward, your focus solely on Remy as he walked ahead of you with his usual unhurried confidence.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice low, barely above a whisper. “After I left. When you woke up?”

Remy glanced over his shoulder, his expression softening as he caught the strain in your voice. He let out a quiet sigh, the sound heavy with understanding. “Cher, I know you feelin’ guilty right now,” he said, his accent thickening slightly, his tone tender. He slowed his pace, his eyes drifting down to your bloodstained clothes before flicking back to your face. “But you ain’t got no reason to feel guilty.”

He stopped walking altogether, extending an arm out to halt you as well. His hand rested lightly on your arm, and he leaned down slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. “You saved my life that day,” he said softly, his voice low and steady. “I never woulda walked outta that place if it wasn’t for you.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you couldn’t meet his eyes. You stared down at the floor instead, the memory of that night flashing through your mind in vivid detail—the blood, the frantic stitches, the desperation.

“Yeah, you would have,” you murmured, your voice just as quiet. “Because you’re not one to take the hits.”

Remy tilted his head slightly, studying you with that unreadable look of his, the one you could never quite decipher. His sharp, searching eyes roamed over your face, as if trying to pull every thought from your mind without you having to say a word. He lingered there for a moment longer before nodding down the hall.

“Come on,” he said, his voice lighter now, though the intensity in his gaze hadn’t faded. “I got somethin’ for you.” He held out his hand, palm up, and for the first time in what felt like hours, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth.

You placed your hand in his, the warmth of his skin chasing away some of the cold that had settled in your chest. His hand closed around yours, strong and steady, and for the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe again. This was where you belonged.

He led you through the halls, eventually stopping in front of his door. Remy pulled a key from his pocket, unlocking it with a casualness that made you wonder how many times he’d done this exact motion. The door swung open, and he stepped aside, holding it for you as you walked in.

The scent of him hit you immediately—something faintly smoky, with a hint of leather and spice. His room was comfortably messy, the kind of chaos that was uniquely his. Clothes were draped over the back of a chair, and the bed was unmade, the blankets tangled as if he’d just rolled out of it.

“Wait here,” he said, letting go of your hand as he crouched by his chest of drawers. He yanked open the bottom drawer and began rummaging through it, muttering something under his breath in Cajun French that you couldn’t quite catch.

While he searched, you wandered the room, your fingers brushing over the little trinkets on his bedside table. A stack of playing cards sat near a chipped mug, and a small, intricately carved wooden token rested beside them. You picked it up, turning it over in your hands. It felt like a piece of him, something deeply personal.

“How long has it been?” you asked softly, placing the token back down. “Since I last saw you in that motel room?”

“Two years, maybe a bit longer,” he replied without turning to face you, his voice casual but tinged with something heavier.

Your heart sank at the answer, the time stretching far longer than you’d expected.

“I mean,” he continued, “there’s been other versions o’ you come through, but—well, you know how it gets. Confusin’ as hell.”

Your stomach clenched at his words, and you moved toward his desk, trying to distract yourself. A half-finished game of solitaire sat on the surface, the cards scattered across the wood in neat rows. Beside it lay a crumpled piece of paper with some scribbled notes and a few magazines, their edges worn from use.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, your fingers flicking absently through the pages of one of the magazines.

Remy appeared beside you, his presence warm and solid. “Why you sorry?” he asked, his voice softer now, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you.

“For being stuck with me,” you said quietly, not daring to meet his eyes. A small chuckle escaped him, low and warm, a sound that vibrated through the quiet of the room and settled deep in your chest. He held out a neatly folded set of clothes, his movements casual, easy, but there was something in the way he looked at you that made your breath catch.

“Stuck with you?” he repeated, his voice carrying that familiar teasing lilt. The corner of his mouth quirked into a smirk, but his expression softened as he added, “Cher, I wouldn’t wanna be stuck with anyone else.”

The sincerity in his tone hit you like a wave, crashing against the carefully constructed walls you’d spent so long building around yourself. You glanced up at him, and for a moment, time seemed to pause. His red-and-black eyes held yours, steady and unguarded, and in that instant, the weight of everything unspoken between you two hung heavy in the air.

He nodded toward the bathroom door off to the right, his voice quieter now. “Go shower, change. We’ll have dinner after.”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of your lips, the tension in your chest easing just slightly. “Always the romantic,” you teased lightly, taking the clothes from his hands. The fabric was soft, worn in a way that told you he’d been keeping it for you for a while. You raised an eyebrow, studying him with mock scrutiny. “Look at you, even keeping clothes for me now.”

His smirk widened slightly as he leaned back against the edge of the desk, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You have a whole drawer,” he said, arching an eyebrow as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The words startled a soft laugh out of you, and you gave him an impressed look. “A whole drawer, huh?” you said, your grin widening. “Anyone would think you’re expecting me to stay.”

The teasing tone in your voice didn’t mask the underlying truth of your words, and for a moment, you wondered if he would catch it. But of course, he did—he always did.

His smirk faded slightly, replaced by something softer, something that made your heart ache in a way you couldn’t quite put into words. He tilted his head, studying you with that infuriatingly deep gaze of his, the one that made you feel like he could see right through you.

“You’ll stay one day,” he said quietly, his voice a low promise. “I’ll make sure o’ it.”

Something in his tone made your breath hitch. It wasn’t a boast, wasn’t said with the usual cocky confidence that Remy carried everywhere like a second skin. It was something deeper, something raw and honest that made your chest tighten.

You looked at him, really looked at him, and the weight of what you felt for him pressed down on you like it always did—constant, heavy, and unyielding. Remy LeBeau, the man who could charm the stars out of the sky, who could waltz through life with a grin and a deck of cards, was standing here in front of you, open and vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be.

And you loved him for it.

You loved him for so many reasons it hurt to think about. For his sharp wit that could cut through even your darkest moments, and for the soft heart he tried so hard to hide behind the smirks and swagger. You loved him for the way he could make you laugh, even when everything felt like it was falling apart, like he could see the cracks in you and knew just how to fill them—if only for a while.

You loved him for the way he looked at you, like you were the only person in the world that mattered. That look, the one that made your heart ache and your walls crumble, as if he could see all of you—the good, the bad, the broken—and still think you were worth it.

But you couldn’t say it.

You couldn’t say the words that sat heavy on your tongue, that burned in your chest every time you were near him. Because even though you knew, without a doubt, that he loved you just as much as you loved him, saying it out loud would be a step too far. It would crack open something between you that neither of you could ever fix.

Because love wasn’t just a promise—it was a tease. A cruel, impossible thing that dangled between you both, always out of reach. The two of you lived in the margins of each other’s lives, never quite able to step fully into the light. If either of you said it, it would break your hearts. Because no matter how much you wanted him, no matter how much he wanted you, you both knew the truth: this—you—was something he could never really have.

So instead, you gave him a small, playful smile, trying to lighten the moment before it swallowed you whole. “You’re awfully sure of yourself,” you said, your voice teasing, though the warmth in your tone betrayed you.

“I’m sure of you,” he replied simply, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering, “I’m sure o’ what we are.”

The words hit you harder than they should have, like a quiet declaration of something neither of you was brave enough to say outright. His eyes held yours, and for a moment, you felt like the whole world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

The air between you grew heavier, charged with the weight of everything unsaid. It was always like this—always dancing around the edges of something too big to name, too terrifying to admit. The silence stretched, filled with the unspoken truths that hung between you.

You forced yourself to break the moment before it crushed you. With the clothes clutched tightly in your hands, you turned toward the bathroom, your voice breezy despite the pounding of your heart. “I’ll hold you to that, LeBeau,” you called over your shoulder, giving him the easiest smile you could muster.

His laugh followed you, soft and low, wrapping around you like a warm embrace as you stepped into the bathroom. It was a sound that you carried with you, even as you closed the door behind you, leaning against it for just a moment to catch your breath.

On the other side of the door, you knew he was still standing there, probably running a hand through his messy hair, maybe smirking to himself in that way he always did when he thought he’d gotten under your skin. And he had. He always did.

But for now, the door stood as a barrier between the two of you, a thin yet impenetrable partition that felt so much heavier than it should. It wasn’t just a door—it was a reminder. A physical manifestation of the distance you both kept, even when you were standing inches apart. Because while you could share these fleeting moments—filled with warmth, teasing, and the comfort of knowing how much you meant to each other—the words that mattered most would remain unsaid.

You leaned back against the door, your head resting against its worn surface as your fingers tightened around the fabric of the clothes he’d placed in your hands. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the water pipes in the walls, and the silence gave space for the emotions you’d been trying to bury to rise to the surface.

You stared down at the folded shirt and pants, your chest tightening as you thought about the drawer he’d mentioned.

A whole drawer.

The thought made you smile, despite everything. It wasn’t just a drawer—it was a gesture, small but profound. It was his way of saying he was waiting for you, that he always would be. Even through the chaos of your lives, through the distances and the silences and the inevitable goodbyes, he was still here. Always here. Always waiting.

It wasn’t the kind of waiting that demanded anything from you. It wasn’t heavy or resentful. It was patient, quiet, steady—like him. And that, more than anything, made your heart ache.

You let out a shaky breath, your thumb brushing over the edge of the shirt as if touching it could tether you to the moment. You’d never asked him to do this—to carve out a space for you in his world, to keep a part of his life open for you in case you ever came back. But he had. Without question, without hesitation.

It was the kind of love that didn’t need to be spoken to be understood, and yet, that understanding made it all the more painful. Because while you knew he’d wait forever if he had to, you didn’t know if you’d ever be able to give him what he deserved.

You turned toward the shower, your movements slow and deliberate, as though the weight of your thoughts had seeped into your bones. The sound of the water rushing against the tile filled the space, the steady rhythm drowning out the hum of your emotions, though it didn’t silence them completely.

As the steam began to rise, curling around you like a heavy fog, you closed your eyes and let yourself feel it all.

The love—so deep and unshakable it terrified you.

The guilt—sharp and suffocating, whispering that you’d never be able to give him what he wanted, what he deserved.

The fear—that one day, no matter how much he promised to wait, he wouldn’t be there anymore. That one day, he’d let go.

And the hope—the small, fragile flicker that wouldn’t let itself die, no matter how much you tried to snuff it out. The hope that maybe, one day, the universe would stop fighting you. That you’d stop fighting yourself.

Because despite everything, despite the chaos of your lives and the cruel tricks the universe played on you, you knew one thing for certain.

Remy LeBeau was your soulmate.

It wasn’t just the way he looked at you, or the way he made you feel like you could finally exhale after years of holding your breath. It wasn’t just the way he could make you laugh when the world felt like it was crumbling beneath your feet, or the way he always seemed to know what you needed before you even knew it yourself. It was deeper than all of that—something unspoken, something that didn’t need words because it simply was.

No matter how many times the world tried to pull you apart, no matter how many versions of you came and went, this version of him—this man standing in that room, waiting for you—was the one you would always come back to.

And maybe, just maybe, one day you’d be able to stay.

You stepped into the shower, the hot water cascading over you, washing away the blood and dirt and exhaustion clinging to your skin. But it couldn’t wash away the weight in your chest, the ache that came with every thought of him.

Your mind wandered back to his face, the quiet promise in his voice when he’d said, “You’ll stay one day. I’ll make sure of it.”

And for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe it. <><><><><><><><><><><> The kitchen was warm, the golden glow of the overhead lights casting soft shadows across the room. The faint hum of conversation and the clatter of utensils filled the air, blending with the scent of freshly cooked food. You stepped into the space next to Remy, your shoulder brushing his for just a moment before he moved ahead, gesturing for you to follow.

The kitchen table was large, well-loved, its surface worn from years of use. Around it sat the team, each of them familiar faces that brought with them a strange sense of comfort. They all looked up as you entered, offering smiles, nods, and casual greetings.

“Hey, look who it is,” Logan said with a smirk, his gruff voice cutting through the chatter.

Jean waved you over, her expression warm and welcoming. “We were wondering when you’d join us. Come on, grab a seat.”

It wasn’t just their words that put you at ease—it was the way they looked at you, like they knew you. Not just you, but a version of you they’d seen before. It was subtle but reassuring, a silent acknowledgment that you belonged here, even if you weren’t exactly the same person they remembered. There would be no awkward introductions, no forced small talk. This would be comfortable. Familiar. You took a seat at the table, nestling yourself between Ororo and an empty chair. The room buzzed with the easy chatter of the team, the kind of comfortable noise that felt like home despite the chaos outside these walls. Your eyes scanned the group, your gaze softening when it landed on him—Remy, laughing as he stood next to Jean for a minute talking to her. Relief washed over you, so palpable it was almost dizzying. After everything, he was here, alive and whole, and for now, that was enough.

When he slid into the chair beside you, your breath hitched. His knee pressed against yours, the contact deliberate, lingering. It was unnecessary—there was plenty of space—but it was like he needed that touch, that tether, as if to remind himself that you were here. That you were with him. You felt your heart stutter, warmth pooling in your chest and spreading outward. It wasn’t just relief; it was gratitude, fierce and raw. These moments were precious, even if they might be fleeting.

You looked down at your plate, letting the murmur of conversation wash over you, but you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Even when you weren’t looking, you felt him, his presence grounding you like nothing else could.

Anna-Marie’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. “So, we heard what you did to Scott’s classroom,” she teased, her Southern drawl laced with laughter.

You blinked, catching up to the conversation, and gave a sheepish shrug. “Yeah, I’ll fix that,” you said, poking at your food with your fork. Your voice was light, but you could still feel the heat creeping up your neck.

Logan let out a low chuckle. “There’s no fixin’ that,” he said, shaking his head as if you’d just committed a cardinal sin, “The kids have been talking about it all afternoon.”

Ororo raised a brow, her tone wry as she chimed in. “You’d think by now they’d be used to it—used to you just popping in and out of nowhere.”

You shrugged again, offering a lopsided grin. “Yeah, but I’ve never landed in a classroom while someone’s teaching before and I’ve never actually broken anything, ” you leaned back in your chair, feeling at ease for the first time in what felt like ages. But as the conversation continued, your gaze drifted to Anna-Marie and Remy. They were deep in discussion, her hand brushing his arm as she laughed at something he said.

A faint pang twisted in your chest—sharp, fleeting, but impossible to ignore. It was silly, irrational even, but the feeling took root all the same. You knew the history behind it, the story written in moments that hadn’t yet come to pass but were already carved into your heart. You knew their story like the back of your hand, each chapter etched into your memory. This was their beginning, the early days where nothing definitive had happened yet, but the undercurrent of something was there. You could see it in the way Anna-Marie’s eyes softened when she looked at him, in the way Remy’s charm took on a quieter edge when she was near.

You’d seen them together before—moments that played out in your mind like ghosts of a future you couldn’t change. The way he talked to her, his voice gentle and soothing. The way he kissed the side of her head, a gesture so tender it made your breath catch. The way he held her hand as if she were the only person in the world.

But you’d also seen the guilt in his eyes when he confessed it to you. Almost a year from now, he’d finally break through Anna’s walls, and she would let him love her in a way you knew you never could. You remembered that conversation with a vividness that hurt, the way he looked at you like he was begging for forgiveness for something that didn’t need forgiving. “It just happened,” he’d said, his voice strained, his Cajun accent thick with regret.

You’d whispered to him then, your own voice shaking, “It’s okay. I’m only ever passing through remember? I can’t give you what you need, soulmates or not.” The words had tasted bitter, but they were true, “You and Anna? You two are going to be amazing.” You tried not to let him see the hurt, see the way you were hurting.

His face had crumpled at your words, his hands grabbing yours with a desperation that cracked something deep inside you. “Mais cher, you an’ me—we could be amazin’ together,” he’d said, his voice breaking. You’d felt the weight of his words, the truth in them, but you’d also felt the inevitability of the future pulling you both apart.

And Anna-Marie… she always gave you and Remy space when you were around. That was why you could never hold any anger or resentment toward her. She knew who you were to him, the love you and Remy shared, and in her own quiet way, she was okay with it. Sometimes you wondered if it hurt her as much as it hurt you, but she never showed it. She always greeted you with a smile, always offered a conversation. There was no animosity in her, no bitterness. Just acceptance. And that made it impossible for you to hold anything against her.

In a future that felt both distant and imminent, you’d sat with Remy around a small fire, the dirt cool beneath your feet. His hand was in yours as you traced the lines on his palm, listening to him as he talked about Anna, about how much he had loved her. How he had loved so many others—so deeply, so fiercely—but their love always came with conditions. Conditions that he never knew about until it was too late.

His voice had been low, almost broken, as he recounted the betrayals. How Anna and the rest of the team had left him in Antarctica after learning about the Marauders, the betrayal cutting him to his core. How Bella had walked away after he’d been forced to kill her brother, a choice that had left him hollow. How others, lovers who had come and gone, had eventually seen the darkness in him, the cracks in his facade, and had turned their backs on him.

“But not you,” he’d whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “Never you.”

You’d kissed his palm then, lacing your fingers through his as you met his gaze. “Never me,” you’d echoed softly. You had seen every broken and damaged piece of him and still loved him with everything you were.

It was in that moment you knew, as you’d always known, that Remy LeBeau would always be yours. No matter how many people came and went in his life, no matter how many times his heart was broken, there would always be a part of him tethered to you. And you to him. It wasn’t a bond you chose, not exactly. It was something deeper than love, something ingrained in your very souls—inescapable, enduring.

Cursed to forever love each other but never to be anything more than this.

Still, as you sat at the dinner table now, watching him and Anna-Marie talking quietly, a sharp, unyielding ache rose in your chest. It was an ache you weren’t proud of, a mix of longing and jealousy that tangled into something you couldn’t quite untie. You forced your gaze down, focusing on your plate, willing yourself to let it go. The steady press of his knee against yours didn’t waver, his silent reminder that he was here, with you, even if only for this moment.

You stole a glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He was smiling faintly, the kind of smile that softened his sharp features, made the world fade into something lighter, something brighter. That smile—it grounded you, settled the storm in your chest. He was here, with you. And for tonight, that was what mattered.

Without warning, his hand darted over to your plate, snagging a bite of food and popping it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, deliberately, a mischievous glint in his crimson eyes. Then he leaned closer, nudging your shoulder with his. “You okay, cher?” His voice was soft, low, carrying that familiar lilt that always seemed to wrap around you like a warm embrace.

You nodded, meeting his gaze. “Just a bit tired,” you said, though the words felt hollow. The weight in your chest wasn’t something rest could fix. Then you narrowed your eyes at him, feigning annoyance. “Stop stealing my food.”

Before he could respond, you reached over and snatched a bite off his plate, popping it into your mouth with a triumphant grin. His laughter followed immediately, rich and warm, the kind of sound that felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. It sent a spark of joy straight to your core, a momentary reprieve from the weight you carried. He shook his head, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. It was a look that said Touché, his way of conceding this small, stolen victory to you.

And then it happened. That look.

The smirk softened, the glint of mischief in his eyes fading into something deeper, something raw and unspoken. His gaze held yours, the rest of the room falling away until it felt like it was just the two of you. His eyes, crimson and endless, softened in a way they only did for you, unguarded and vulnerable. You could see it there—everything he didn’t say but showed in every quiet, meaningful glance.

It was a look that made the air between you crackle with an intensity that wasn’t passion alone. It was devotion, plain and unshakable. It spoke of a love that was vast and unrelenting, a love that anchored him when the world became too much. It was as though he was memorizing you in that moment, holding onto every detail, like you were a lifeline he couldn’t bear to lose.

It told you what you already knew but could never openly say: you were his everything. His anchor, the one thing that steadied him when the chaos of the world became too loud. His constant, the one who had always seen the pieces of himself he was too afraid to show anyone else. His safe place, the only one who could quiet the storm raging inside him.

There was a weight to that knowledge, bittersweet and all-encompassing. His love for you was so big, so absolute, and yet it was a love he rarely gave voice to. It was in the way he reached for you when he thought no one was looking, in the way he lingered near you, as though being close was enough to calm his restless soul. It was in the way he said your name, his accent softening around it like a caress, making it sound like a secret meant only for him to hold.

But you also knew what lay at the heart of it—his fear. The constant fear of losing you, of knowing that these moments would never last, that every moment between you both was destined to be tainted by you both waiting for the inevitable goodbye. And so, as much as he loved you, as much as he needed you, he held back just enough to leave the space for goodbye. A space he thought he was protecting you with, but one that only deepened the ache in your chest.

Still, for tonight, it didn’t matter. He was here, with you, he was okay, he had survived in a way you knew he always would. And you let yourself hold onto that flicker of a smile on his lips, the warmth in his gaze. The love in it was so palpable it felt like it could mend every fracture in your soul.

<><><><><><><><> The halls were quiet, dimly lit by the soft, diffused glow of the overhead lights. The silence felt thick, heavy with unspoken words, but his hand in yours was a lifeline. His grip was firm and grounding, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as if to say, everything’s going to be fine.

Your boots clicked softly against the floor, the sound echoing faintly in the stillness as he guided you down the familiar path to his room. The air between you was charged with an unnameable tension—something warm, something safe, but tinged with the ache of knowing these moments were always fleeting.

When you stepped inside, the door clicked softly shut behind you, cocooning you in a quiet intimacy that belonged to the two of you alone. You moved to his bed without hesitation, the exhaustion of the day settling into your bones. Sitting on the edge, you leaned down to unlace your boots, your movements slow and deliberate.

“I’m stealing your bed,” you murmured, your voice light with teasing, but there was no mistaking the weariness that colored your tone.

Remy smirked, his eyes lingering on you for a beat too long before he tugged his shirt off in one smooth, practiced motion. The fabric slid over his head effortlessly, revealing the expanse of his chest and the sharp lines of muscle that spoke of a life lived in constant motion. He started toward the bathroom, the dim light catching on the curve of his shoulders and the subtle, fluid movement of his back.

You paused mid-motion, your fingers stilling on your laces as your gaze followed him. There was something hypnotic about the way he moved—graceful, confident, completely unselfconscious. Even now, in this quiet moment, he carried himself with a magnetism that made it hard to look away.

“Like somethin’ you see, cher?” he called over his shoulder, his tone dripping with that playful, teasing lilt that never failed to make your pulse skip.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes even as heat crept into your cheeks. “Barely,” you shot back, the corner of your mouth twitching into a smirk. You bent down to finish pulling off your boots, your voice light but playful. “I’ve seen better.”

It was a lie, and you both knew it. He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to catch the flicker of a knowing smile tugging at his lips. His crimson eyes sparkled, full of mischief and just a hint of satisfaction. He didn’t have to say anything—you could feel it in the way he glanced at you, that quiet confidence that said he knew exactly the effect he had on you.

“Sure y’have,” he murmured, his voice low and amused as he disappeared into the bathroom.

“Gotta do that beauty routine before bed, huh?” you called out, your voice laced with teasing as you raised an eyebrow at the closed door.

There was a soft laugh from the other side, one of those easy, unguarded chuckles that always made your chest tighten just a little. “Somethin’ like dat,” he muttered, his Cajun accent thick and warm, like honey.

The room fell quiet, save for the faint hum of the overhead light and the sound of water running briefly in the bathroom. You glanced around, taking in the familiar space. It wasn’t so much the room itself that comforted you—it was the way it felt like him. Every detail was so distinctly Remy: the faint scent of cologne lingering in the air, the pile of playing cards on the nightstand, the half-unpacked duffel bag he never quite put away. It was chaos, but it was his chaos.

Your gaze landed on the bedside table, and curiosity pulled at you. Reaching over, you opened the top drawer. Inside were small, scattered fragments of him. A deck of cards, worn and soft from endless shuffling. Loose change, the kind he always flicked between his fingers when he was thinking. A pocketknife, the blade well-used but cared for. And a pair of sunglasses you’d seen him wear a hundred times.

You ran your fingers over the items, each one stirring a quiet ache in your chest. These were the little pieces of him that felt so permanent, so rooted in this place, while you were just passing through. Always passing through. The soft creak of the bathroom door drew your attention, and your eyes flicked up instinctively. Remy stepped into the dim room, the towel slung over his shoulder catching the faint glow of the light filtering in through the window. His hair, damp and curling at the edges, gave him an even more relaxed, unguarded air. He caught your gaze and grinned, his signature lopsided smirk teasing and warm.

“Cher,” he said, his tone light but carrying that familiar undertone of amusement. “Still snoopin’, huh?”

You shrugged, raising an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. “When have I ever not done this?”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, as he made his way to the bed. He slid in, pulling the blanket around you both. He moved with the kind of easy confidence that always had a way of drawing you in, even after all this time. “You’ve been doin’ it as long as I’ve known you,” he said, his crimson eyes glinting as he settled beside you. “Always diggin’ through my stuff like ya own it.”

“Exactly,” you replied, smirking as you leaned back against the pillows. He reached over to turn off the lamp, and darkness blanketed the room, leaving only the faint silver light of the moon streaming through the window. It cast soft shadows on the walls, giving the space a quiet, dreamlike quality.

“You’re such a creep,” you teased, your voice hushed in the stillness.

Remy let out a quiet laugh, turning on his side to face you, his features softened in the dim light. “What does that make you? You’re doin’ the same thing.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips quirking up. “I can appreciate the finer things when I’m feelin’ kind.”

“Oh, feelin’ kind now, are ya?” he murmured, his voice playful, his accent thick and warm.

“Maybe. Let’s see how we go.”

The two of you laughed softly, the sound light and fleeting before it melted into a comfortable silence. In the quiet, he reached for you, his hand moving under your shirt and settling on your hip with a touch so gentle it made your breath hitch. His thumb began tracing slow, soothing circles, the movement grounding, steady, and intimate.

The warmth of his palm seeped into your skin, and you shifted closer instinctively, the space between you disappearing as his other arm slid beneath the pillow. His hand found yours effortlessly, his fingers lacing through yours in a gesture that felt as natural as breathing.

For a moment, it was just the two of you—no past, no future, no complications. Time felt irrelevant, and the weight of the outside world faded away. These were the moments you cherished, the ones where you could almost convince yourself that he was fully, irrevocably yours. That time was on your side.

The moonlight highlighted the sharp angles of his face, casting shadows that softened the intensity of his crimson eyes and accentuated the curve of his lips. You studied him, memorizing every detail, as if afraid this moment might slip away too quickly.

“Hey, Rem?” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the stillness.

He hummed softly, his thumb never pausing its gentle movements. “Mmm?”

“Thank you,” you said, your voice trembling slightly.

His gaze softened even further, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “What for?”

“For trusting me like you do. For trusting me to get you out of those tunnels, after everything that happened,” you murmured, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions.

His thumb stilled for a moment, and his expression shifted, the teasing edge replaced by something far more serious, far more tender. “Don’t trust no one in this universe more than you,” he said quietly, his voice steady and sure.

Your chest tightened, the vulnerability in his words wrapping around your heart. “I knew you were going to be okay,” you began, your voice trembling. “I knew. But I was so scared you wouldn’t be. That I screwed up somewhere—”

“Shhh,” he interrupted softly, squeezing your hip gently. The touch was a reminder: I’m here. I’m okay.

He pulled you closer, his arm wrapping fully around you now, his hand resting on your opposite hip. You could feel his breath warm against your skin as he murmured, “Can I tell you a secret?”

Your breath caught in your throat as his face inched closer, every passing second stretching endlessly, the air between you charged with an unbearable tension. The space separating you felt like it barely existed, your bodies so close that you could feel the gentle warmth radiating from him. The scent of him—clean, tinged with the faintest hint of something uniquely Remy—filled your senses, pulling you into the gravity of the moment.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, each beat like a thunderous reminder of the emotions you worked so hard to bury. The familiar ache in your chest surged, sharper and deeper than before. It was the longing that you had carried with you since the moment you realized what he meant to you.

Then his voice broke through the silence, so quiet that it was almost swallowed by the stillness of the room. “I didn’ have a second o’ doubt in my head that I wouldn’ be okay. That I’d die there. Not when I saw you.”

The words hit you like a wave, heavy with meaning. His faith in you, his unwavering trust—it was more than you deserved. For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, the raw vulnerability in his expression unraveling you completely.

A small, shaky smile tugged at your lips as you finally found your voice. “I’m glad you have that much faith in me,” you said, the tremor in your tone betraying the storm of emotions roiling within you.

“Cher, I have all the faith in the universe in you,” he replied, his voice steady and certain, the conviction in his words settling over you like a balm.

It wasn’t just about the tunnels and what happened in them. It wasn’t just about surviving. His words carried so much more weight than that, and you knew it. He was talking about you—about him—about the connection that had always been there, unshakable and undeniable.

The room seemed to shrink around you both, the air thick with unspoken words and emotions that neither of you dared to name aloud. The dim light filtering through the window painted soft shadows across his face, the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the gentle curve of his lips illuminated in a way that made him look almost ethereal. Yet, he was grounding, too—his presence as steady and reassuring as the earth beneath you.

You felt it then, the bond that tethered you to him, pulling tighter in the quiet of the moment. It wasn’t just love. It was something more profound, something eternal that defied logic and time. It was as though your souls had been woven together, each thread impossibly intertwined with the other. It didn’t matter where—or when—you found yourselves. That connection was unyielding, unshakable.

The impossibility of it should have made it unbearable. By all rights, it should have broken you. But instead, it gave you strength. It was the anchor that kept you holding on when everything else felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

He shifted slightly beside you, his hand still resting lightly on your hip, his touch steady and warm. His crimson eyes searched yours, hesitant, as if he were debating whether or not to speak.

“Does it hurt?” he asked finally, his voice quiet and tentative, as though he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

Your brow furrowed slightly. “What?”

“Jumpin’ through time,” he clarified, his tone soft, careful, like he was treading on delicate ground.

You shook your head slowly, offering him a faint smile. “No. Physically, no. It just feels like you’re on a rollercoaster. It’s the landing I can’t stick.”

His lips curved into a small smile at that, the corners lifting in quiet amusement. His laughter was low and soft, a sound that sent a ripple of warmth through you. “Those kids are gonna be talkin’ about it for weeks,” he teased, his voice light, but there was a heaviness in his gaze that betrayed him.

“Probably,” you replied, your smile matching his, though your own heart felt heavier with every beat.

The humor in his tone lingered only for a heartbeat before it dissipated, like smoke fading into the night. You both knew it was a mask, a flimsy shield against the truth neither of you could bring yourself to speak aloud. Beneath the playful facade was a deeper current—an ache that thrummed quietly between you, a longing that neither of you dared to act on. The fragile peace you’d built together, unspoken and precarious, felt too precious to shatter.

And then his expression shifted. The teasing light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something raw and unguarded. His crimson gaze locked onto yours, holding you captive in a moment that felt suspended in time. The air between you thickened, charged with something electric, something unspoken. His nose barely brushed against yours as he leaned in, the faintest touch that sent a shiver cascading through you.

“Do you know when it’s gonna happen?” he murmured, his voice low and hesitant. The way he spoke, so quiet and careful, tugged at something deep within you. It was as though he feared that speaking too loudly would splinter the delicate moment you shared.

Your heart clenched at the sound of his voice, and you could feel the weight of the question pressing down on you. The tension between you was palpable in the way his lips hovered just above yours, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. You could feel it in the way your body instinctively leaned closer to his, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

God, you wanted to close the gap.

You wanted to feel his lips against yours, to give in to the pull that had been building between you for what felt like your entire lives. You wanted to slide your hands into his hair, to let yourself get lost in him in a way you never had before. Your breath hitched at the thought, and your fingers tightened around his without thinking. His hand on your hip pressed just a little harder, grounding you, anchoring himself to you like he was afraid you might vanish.

It wasn’t that you couldn’t kiss him. You could—nothing was physically stopping you. You could let yourself fall into him, give him everything you had, and feel him do the same in return. You could pour years of unspoken words, unspoken feelings, and impossible longing into that single moment.

But it wasn’t the kiss that terrified you—it was everything that would come after.

If you kissed him and then you were pulled away, it would break you in ways you couldn’t even begin to comprehend. If you kissed him, if you pulled him close and let him take you the way you both knew you wanted to, let him touch every inch and kiss every piece of skin on your body; let yourself feel him in every way you possibly could, it would destroy you both. Your bond and the cruel reality of your powers would twist into something that hurt too much to bear.

So instead, you pulled back. Just slightly, just enough to put a whisper of distance between you. The motion felt like ripping out your own heart, the ache so profound it made your chest tighten. “Sometimes,” you said, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. “It’s touch and go on that one.”

Remy’s faint smile returned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned back as well, mimicking your movement, but his arm remained hooked around you, holding you close as though he couldn’t quite let you go. “I ain’t gonna sleep until you go, you know that, right?” His voice was soft, tinged with a bittersweet warmth that made your heart ache all the more.

“Yeah, I know,” you whispered, your words barely audible. You always knew. It was the same reason why he never left your side when you showed up. Every second mattered when you were together. The quiet between you stretched out again, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. His hand on your hip was a steadying weight, his thumb moving in slow, soothing circles that sent shivers up your spine. His arm stretched across your lower back, his other hand still holding on to yours tight. Every touch, every small motion, felt like an unspoken promise, a reassurance that even if you couldn’t have everything, you still had this.

His voice broke the silence, hesitant and raw. “Does it ever get easier for you?”

You looked up at him, your brows knitting together at the question. “What?”

“Sayin’ goodbye,” he clarified, his tone so soft it was barely more than a breath.

Your throat tightened, and it took a moment to find your voice. When you spoke, it was barely audible. “No,” you admitted, the weight of the truth settling between you. “Even though for me it’s only a moment before I see you again, it still never gets easier. It still hurts. I don’t think that’ll ever get easier.”

Remy nodded, his fingers curled slightly into your hip, tightening as though he were trying to memorize the feel of you—of your warmth, your presence, the very essence of you beneath his touch. It was a touch that carried the weight of everything he couldn’t say aloud.

And as you lay there, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the moment, you both understood that this, right here, these tiny, fleeting moments, were all you could have. “I meant what I said,” he murmured, his voice low but firm. “I’m gonna make sure you can stay one day.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that somehow, against all odds, he’d find a way to make it happen. But deep down, you knew better. You knew that the universe had never been kind to the two of you.

Still, you nodded, letting yourself pretend. “I know,” you whispered, the words soft, fragile even, as though saying them too loudly might shatter the delicate moment between you.

Remy’s gaze didn’t leave your face, his red-and-black eyes searching yours for something, though you weren’t sure what. Reassurance? Hope? A promise you couldn’t give? Whatever it was, you felt it settle in the space between you, heavy but unspoken.

“I’m gonna go to Hank in the morning,” he said, his voice low but steady, the determination in it unmistakable. “And we’re gonna figure this out. I don’t care if it takes me the rest of my life. I’ll find somethin’. It’s a big world out there, cher.” His words made your chest tighten, the quiet conviction in them both comforting and heartbreaking. You wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that somehow, against all odds, he’d find a way to make this work. But deep down, you knew better. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to take that hope from him.

“I wouldn’t know,” you replied, forcing a small smile as you nudged him lightly with your foot. “I seem to be only stuck wherever you are.”

The corner of his mouth quirked into a lopsided grin, mischief glinting in his eyes. Before you could retreat, he moved with that signature quickness, wrapping your leg with his and trapping it effortlessly. His warmth pressed against you, anchoring you in place. “That’s ‘cause you can’t stay away from me,” he teased, his voice low and playful, carrying that Cajun charm that always made your heart skip a beat.

You rolled your eyes, though the laugh that bubbled from your chest betrayed your feigned exasperation. “Oh, please. You’re like a magnet for trouble, LeBeau. I’m just the poor soul trailing behind stuck cleaning up your messes. Like your own personal garbage collector.”

His grin widened, a devilish gleam in his expression as he shifted closer, his other leg tangling with yours and pulling you in. The blankets were a lost cause, twisted between you as if they had been swept up in the whirlwind of his presence. “You sure ‘bout that? Seems to me you’re the one causin’ all the trouble, cher.”

The night unfolded from there, a blur of laughter, teasing words, and tangled limbs. You let yourself get caught up in the moment, allowing the weight that so often lingered between you to slip away. For a little while, it was just the two of you, suspended in a fleeting bubble of warmth and joy.

At one point, you had him pinned beneath you, your legs on either side of his waist, before his hands captured yours and held them firmly against his chest. His grin, wide and teasing, as you laughed breathlessly. “Remy, let me go!” you protested between fits of giggles, your voice light but tinged with mock outrage.

“Not a chance,” he said, his grin softening, shifting into something gentler that made your chest ache in the best way. Slowly, he lifted your hands, his gaze locking onto yours as he pressed a lingering kiss to your knuckles. The warmth of his lips against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, and the rumble of his laughter as it escaped his chest was the sweetest sound you could imagine. His eyes crinkled at the corners, his expression filled with something so tender, so completely him, that it felt like coming home.

It was moments like this that made it all worth it—the way he held you like you were something precious, the way his teasing softened into quiet affection, the way he looked at you like you were his whole world.

As the moon hung high in the sky, its soft glow filtering through the curtains, you found yourself laughing harder than you had in weeks. He had you in his grasp again, his arms around your waist as you struggled to free yourself, your laughter echoing in the small space. The blankets tangled further around your legs, trapping you even more effectively than his hold. “I need—” you gasped, barely able to form the words through your breathless laughter. “I need to go to the bathroom!”

He groaned theatrically, letting you go but not before leaning in to press a quick, feather-light kiss to your forehead. “Fine,” he relented with mock reluctance, his voice dripping with exaggerated defeat. “But don’t think this means you win.”

You untangled yourself from the mess of blankets, nearly tripping as you climbed out of bed. Standing up, you stretched, the grin on your face refusing to fade. Over your shoulder, you glanced back at him, catching the way he lay sprawled against the pillows, his hair mussed, hands on the back of his head as his chest lay exposed, his grin lazy and triumphant.

“Hey, LeBeau,” you called, your voice light with teasing. “I’ll get you back one day.”

Propping himself up on one elbow, he smirked, his confidence as unshakable as ever. “Oh, mi amour, ya can try. But we both know I’m always one step ahead.”

You shook your head, chuckling softly as you turned and made your way to the bathroom. The sound of his laughter, warm and genuine, followed you into the small room, wrapping around you like a favorite blanket.

For a moment—just a moment—the weight of everything else faded. The fleeting nature of your time together, the ache of what couldn’t be said, the looming choices that would inevitably pull you apart—all of it felt a little lighter. In that room, under the moon’s gentle glow, surrounded by his laughter and the warmth of his presence, none of it mattered.

In that moment, you had him. Completely. And for now, that was enough.

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mintyys-blog · 11 days ago

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Steve Rogers x Reader: Unspoken Bonds

WARNINGS: mentions of guns, violence.

Steve Rogers had faced countless battles in his life. Hydra agents, alien invasions, personal loss—he had fought through it all with a sense of duty and strength. But nothing prepared him for this.

The mission was supposed to be a routine extraction. A simple in-and-out operation to gather intel from a rogue faction that had been working under SHIELD’s radar. Nothing major, nothing too complicated. But when the ambush came, it hit like a freight train.

The blast of gunfire rang in his ears as he ducked behind cover, heart pounding. His thoughts flashed to the team—Natasha, Clint, and Tony—who had been with him in the thick of it. But now, the situation had devolved into chaos. He’d barely been able to keep his focus when he noticed the rookie agent, [Y/N], next to him, her face pale with anxiety.

She was new to SHIELD—still finding her footing in the field. Steve had seen her on a few missions, but nothing that put her in such direct danger. But today, there was no room for hesitation. The enemy had outnumbered them, and they were on their own now.

“Stay low,” Steve said, his voice steady but urgent. He was trying to keep it together, but there was a slight edge to his tone. The situation was dire.

[Y/N] nodded, gripping her gun tightly. “I-I got this.”

Steve watched her for a moment, seeing the determination in her eyes despite the fear. She was strong, that much was clear. Still, he couldn’t shake the worry that gnawed at him. She was inexperienced in these kinds of situations, and that made her vulnerable. He needed to protect her.

The explosion rocked the ground again, and in that moment, a surge of adrenaline kicked in. The ground beneath them gave way as a blast of debris hit their position, sending both of them flying. When Steve came to, his vision was blurry, the ringing in his ears almost deafening. He groaned, pushing himself up with one hand and immediately checking for [Y/N].

“[Y/N]?” His voice was hoarse as he coughed out the dust.

There was a slow, pained groan in response. She was alive—barely. Steve quickly moved over, lifting her up with surprising ease. Her face was bruised, and blood was trickling from a gash on her forehead, but she was awake. For now, that was all that mattered.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, her voice shaking but determined. “We need to move.”

Steve hesitated for a second, taking in their surroundings. The mission had gone south, and there was no radio signal to call for backup. The enemy forces were still out there, and they had to get out of this mess, but Steve couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of responsibility for [Y/N] right now.

“We’ll have to move quickly,” he said, his voice firm. “Stay close.”

They moved through the wreckage, dodging enemy fire when they could and taking cover when they couldn’t. Steve had been through situations like this before, but there was something different about this time. Something in the way his instincts screamed to keep her safe.

The two of them didn’t speak much, only exchanging quick glances and brief commands. But Steve could tell that [Y/N] was struggling. Not just physically, but emotionally as well. He could see the fear in her eyes, the way her hands trembled as she held her weapon.

“Hey,” Steve said, his voice softer this time. “You doing alright?”

[Y/N] gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll survive.”

Steve didn’t buy it, but he didn’t press her. They had more pressing matters to deal with. Still, he couldn’t help but keep an eye on her, ensuring she was okay as they pressed on.

It was a long, grueling trek through hostile territory, dodging fire and staying low. With each passing hour, they found themselves growing more exhausted, their resources dwindling. Steve’s mind was running through options, thinking of the best way out, but the longer they stayed behind enemy lines, the less hope he had of making it out unscathed.

Eventually, they found themselves holed up in an abandoned building. The sun had set, and with no clear way of calling for backup, Steve realized they were on their own. They’d have to wait until morning and hope for a chance to escape.

“I’ll take the first watch,” Steve said as they settled in for the night, his voice low but calm.

[Y/N] nodded, though she seemed exhausted. Her face was streaked with dirt, her uniform torn in places, but she was still standing. Steve admired her strength, even if it was tinged with exhaustion and fear.

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice surprisingly gentle.

“Yeah,” Steve replied. “You’ve been through a lot today. Get some rest. I’ll wake you if I need you.”

She hesitated for a moment before lowering herself against the wall, closing her eyes for what Steve hoped would be a much-needed rest. He kept watch through the night, ever vigilant, listening for any signs of movement.

As the hours stretched on, Steve’s mind wandered. He couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility for [Y/N]. It wasn’t just the mission—he’d been in plenty of tough situations. But this time, it felt personal. She was new to all of this, and in many ways, so was he. They had both been pulled from their normal lives and thrust into the chaos of this war. And somewhere along the way, Steve realized, he had come to care for her more than he had let himself acknowledge.

The silence was broken when [Y/N] stirred, her eyes opening slowly. She blinked a few times before meeting Steve’s gaze, a flicker of vulnerability in her expression.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly, her voice hoarse from the day’s events.

Steve gave her a small smile, though he could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on him. “I’m fine. You?”

She took a deep breath, leaning back against the wall. “I think I’ll be okay.”

For a moment, there was an unspoken understanding between them. It wasn’t just survival anymore—it was about each other. Steve wasn’t sure when it had happened, but over the course of the day, he had grown to trust her in a way he hadn’t trusted anyone in years. The burden of leadership had always been on his shoulders, but with [Y/N], it felt like something else. Something deeper.

They sat in silence for a while longer, each of them lost in their thoughts. Steve’s mind wandered, the weight of their situation pressing on him.

“Steve,” [Y/N] said softly, breaking the silence. “I… I don’t know what I would’ve done without you today.”

Steve turned to look at her, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. She wasn’t one for emotional moments, but the exhaustion and fear had cracked something open. There was a softness in her eyes that Steve hadn’t noticed before. A vulnerability that made her human.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Steve said quietly. “I’m just doing my job. Protecting you.”

[Y/N] smiled faintly, though there was a sadness in her expression. “You don’t always have to protect me, Steve.”

There was a pause. A moment of tension between them, as if the words she had spoken were heavier than they seemed. Steve didn’t know how to respond, so he remained quiet, unsure of what to say.

But in that silence, something shifted. Something unspoken. Something neither of them was ready to admit.

And as the night stretched on, Steve couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever bond had begun between them, it was just the beginning.

#avengers #x reader #reader insert #x female reader #the avengers #steve rogers #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #captain america x reader #captain america #marvel x reader #chris evans

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allthecanadianpolitics · 9 months ago

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Pay up, Alberta.

The City of Calgary has voted in favour of asking the province to relinquish part of its increased take of the education portion of property taxes, and to pay the full freight of Calgary tax on properties it owns within the city limit.

An item of urgent business was added to Tuesday’s regular meeting of Calgary city council under the title Intergovernmental Affairs (IGA) update. The item was pushed to a closed session portion of that meeting. This decision was the result of that closed session.

It asks for a decrease in the province’s property tax requisition, something they increased this year, to offset the provincial cut to the program. They also want a grant equivalent to the full amount of property taxes they owe on provincially-owned properties in the city. During debate, Ward 8 Coun. Courtney Walcott said that the province only pays 50 per cent of their required tax, down from 75 per cent in prior years. City of Calgary administration will return back to council on June 18 with recommendations to continue the program.

The mayor spoke with reporters Tuesday afternoon, critical of the province’s decision to cut funding. [...]

Tagging: @newsfromstolenland, @abpoli

#cdnpoli #Alberta #Calgary #taxes #budget plans #municipal politics #municipal VS provincial #Danielle Smith #UCP #United Conservative Party #Conservatives #corruption #Edmonton

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air-exec · 7 months ago

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What life is like on a troop train...

(Life Magazine - November 13, 1943)

What life is like on a troop train… speeding over the Water Level Route

This is "Main 100"… a twelve car troop train…identified on railroad orders only by its code number.

A few hours ago, no one at New York Central knew this train would be needed. Yet here it is, assembled, scheduled and speeding to its secret destination.

Sometimes "Main 100" is all Pullman, sometimes all coach, sometimes a mixture of passenger cars, baggage cars, and freight cars for equipment. But whatever its make up, its job is the same…to move its share of the 2,000,000 members of the armed forces carried on duty each month by the railroads of America.

Visualize the thousands of cars and engines required for this task. Add on the large number of accommodations needed for fighters on furlough. You'll see then why train space for civilian travel is often "sold out"…why trains are sometimes unavoidably delayed…and why civilians should travel only on urgent and essential business.

"Main 100" must have the right of way.

Field Kitchen The Mess Sergeant, an Army Cooking School grafuate, sets up his field kitchen in a baggage car to serve 3 or 4 troop cars. That's what many baggage cars are doing. So if you must travel, travel light!

Mess Call Men eat at their seats. On some trains they file up to the kitchen to be served; on others, food is brought to them. Meals are tops and plentiful. One reason why your home and our diners are rationed.

First Aid In one of the washrooms, the Army Surgeon sets up a "field hospital" for minor accidents or ills. His prompt care of scratches and colds keeps our fighters among world's fittest

G.H.Q. on Wheels From these "headquarters," the Train Commander orders the time for reveille and taps…the posting of guards…all the details of this traveling Army camp, of which he alone knows the final destination.

Railroad Liaison A New York Central Passenger Agents acts as "Train Escort" to assist the Train Commander with transportation matter…procure extra supplies…arrange for stops…handle mail…and perform may other services en route.

Music By The Mile The soldier with a portable radio competes with the local "live talent." Barrack room ballads and current hits share honors with "Sweet Adeline" and other old close-harmony favorites by the company quartet.

Preparing For Taps Men are usually allowed later hours en route than in camp. At the time set by the Train Commander, the Porter makes up the berths…as carefully as he would for the most generous traveler on a limited train.

V-Mail Soldiers long for letters, and write many to get answers. For secrecy's sake, none many be mailed en route…except through the Train Escort who posts them only at points permitted by the Train Commander.

39 Men To A Car Soldiers sleep two in a lower berth, one in an upper. Even with such full cars, today's military movement needs half of the Pullman's, a third of the coaches. One reasons you may find train space hard to get.

Seeing America Soldiers spend much time at car windows. They are moved an average of six times for special training…seeing the Hudson River and Great Lakes one trip, perhaps the Rockies or California next.

BUY MORE WAR BONDS

New York Central ONE OF AMERICA'S RAILROADS - ALL UNITED FOR VICTORY!

#wwii era #wwiii #life magazine #journalism #history #wwii history #us military

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piratetransport · 7 months ago

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Express Cargo Delivery Services in North Dakota | Pirate Transport

Pirate Transport provides fast and reliable express cargo delivery services in North Dakota and beyond. Specializing in time-sensitive shipments, our expert team ensures your freight arrives on time, every time. With 24/7 availability and a versatile fleet, we handle urgent deliveries with precision and efficiency. Whether for local or nationwide transport, trust Pirate Transport for all your express cargo needs. Contact us today to experience our dedicated and professional service.

#express cargo delivery #urgent freight solutions #North Dakota express delivery #fast cargo transport #time-sensitive shipments #24/7 delivery service #reliable freight delivery #North Dakota logistics #express transport #urgent cargo services

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thanatika · 4 months ago

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saw a post theorizing on how the bachelor and the haruspex arrived in the town, and it's reminded me of something i've been trying to figure out for ages: pathologic train lore.

i've always thought that patho classic sort of proved that daniil couldn't have arrived directly to the town via train, with this line in the haruspex route intro:

"Unwilling to wait for a regular freight train, Artemy follows the rails through the Steppe until he's caught up with by a small shunt locomotive. This is how young Haruspex arrives in the Town."

but reading more closely, now i'm even more confused. "regular freight train" implies that this would be the "regular" way for a person to take a train somewhere, but freight trains are... by definition, cargo trains, and do not carry passengers. then again, it seems pretty heavily implied that the only train that comes through town is a very infrequent cargo train. but apparently what he caught instead is a "shunt locomotive", which is mainly used for maneuvering train cars around a single railyard and do not typically go long distances. which doesn't line up with the fact that the town is meant to be very remote and isolated.

honestly, i'm curious about what terminology is used in the russian version of this intro? it's possible that it's just a weirdness of the translation and different terms are used in russian that make more sense, but there's no transcription of the russian version of the intros anywhere for me to translate.

regardless, and back to the topic of how these two arrived to the town, it does seem reasonable enough that artemy wouldn't have any qualms about hopping a freight train, especially for something so urgent. daniil on the other hand, i'm not so sure. he does plan on leaving town by freight train on day 2, if you go along with the "let's run away" side quest. but that's to escape dying from a plague, and he never mentions arriving by train in any of the discussions surrounding that.

the most recent ARG teasing daniil's route involved his train ticket, but i'm guessing it's not a train ticket directly to gorkhon, considering that no passenger trains go there. it's a ticket to "the end of the north east branch" of the railroad network. personally, i've always headcanoned that he took a passenger train to the nearest possible town, and from there maybe... paid for a ride as far as the locals were willing to take him to town-on-gorkhon? and walked the rest of the way? there is that flavor text in the marble nest about "wearing down three pairs of shoes" to get to the town, and i think he's being hyperbolic but i do think it makes sense that his journey might have involved a ton of walking.

obviously the actual answer is that we're not meant to think too hard about it, and that the town is meant to feel like it exists not only beyond time but beyond space. but it's fun to ponder. i do wonder if pathologic 3 will explore his actual arrival to the town to any greater extent, instead of just having him wake up in the stillwater.

#pathologic #patho meta #mine #if anyone has thoughts feel free.... especially if you know if the trains were called anything different in the russian intro

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thegildedbee · 9 months ago

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Blanket/Weather: May 17 & 18 Prompts by @calaisreno

Lhasa remains steeped in darkness, even though the stars at the roof of the world are beginning to fade as night closes its eyes. Sherlock carefully weaves in-and-out between the long-haul lorries in the crowded service area, moving towards the one that will clandestinely carry him to its destination in Shigatse, which will place him in the vicinity of a rogue copper mine. This improvised transport strategy allows him to slip surreptitiously from town, thwarting the restriction on international visitors that they be accompanied by guides anywhere they travel within the captive region. Careful to remain undetected, he slips through the back door of the attached freight container; once safely inside, he casts light from a pen-sized torch across the boxes, gauging how to arrange a space to conceal his presence.

The blend of noises outside the truck crowd in on his awareness, amplifying his sensation of confinement – snatches of conversation, mostly in Mandarin, random laughter and occasional shouts, the peremptory staccato of a horn, the groaning metallic scraping of engines downshifting, the crunching of gravel under moving vehicles. He sits down, pressing his back against the side wall, knees bent, his hands and fingers idly flipping and spinning the pen torch. After a few moments he stops, puzzled at feeling pulled off-kilter, unsure as to why. This moment, now, is just one more to get through, as are the moments to come over the next five hours, and then in however many days lie ahead. The waiting, the dark, the placelessness – these are all familiar companions; he’s practiced at tamping down his resentment, and meeting each of them with resignation. He allows his mind to drift, seeking to surface useful data . . . and when it comes, the result suggests an odd source -- the similarity of his physical position to that last day before he disappeared, sitting preoccupied on the floor at Bart’s laboratory, bouncing a small rubber ball, waiting for events to unfold. He rubs at his forehead, and exhales with an irritated huff, frowning, displeased that he’s let the memory intrude.

He disciplines himself to shift focus, to stay in the present, by mentally rehearsing the two major tasks he needs to complete today, barring any unfortunate developments that would require starting over. He’s here to neutralize two confederates of Moriarty's syndicate who work for a multinational energy corporation – the first is an enterprising engineer overseeing the digging of an illegal mining pit, the second an executive at the corporate headquarters in Lhasa, who is diverting impressive amounts of monies to the both of them. (Sherlock has no desire to know the whys of their circumstances – whether, in addition to greed, their actions are due to incentives, or blackmail, or outright threats; all he needs to know is that they’re beholden to the dictates of his enemy's network and any bounties they dangle, and are therefore a potential threat to himself if he returns, and to his friends.)

He arrived in the Tibetan Himalayas three days previous, but he’s had to wait impatiently to implement his objectives, betrayed by his body, waiting to gradually shed the debilitating effects of altitude sickness, in his muscles, his stomach, his lungs. He grudgingly admits to himself that the downtime, however, was probably necessary, allowing him to catch his breath in more ways than just the one that's so currently urgent.

The last fortnight had seen him – as Gabriel Vernet, a director at a French biopharmaceuticals start-up – in an unrelentingly tense journey in which he’d conducted business, fake as well as real, in Singapore, Hanoi, Hong Kong, Macau, and then through Sichuan to Chengdu for the flight to Lhasa. He’s been traveling on papers and an operative legend courtesy of the British government for this leg of his odyssey; while he prefers to chart his own course, unencumbered by the high-handed and condescending auditing of his brother, he had conceded to his better wisdom of seeking aid from London while being shadowed by ever-present governmental representatives of the People’s Republic of China -- as well as floating in and out of view of particularly vicious groups of gangsters operating in Southeast Asia.

His knowledge of Mandarin has been essential in keeping his forward movement going; it helped Vernet to facilitate cooperation from the sources he sought out, high and low. It also allowed him to expand his reconnaissance, especially when those on whom he was eavesdropping assumed that the sharply-dressed businessman within earshot was unable to understand their conversation. As a result, he’s obtained a wide-angle view of activities that he might not have been aware of otherwise, beyond his immediate remit. He’s learned, for example, from ancillary figures, of Chinese mobsters from Fujian, who have been tearing through various states in the U.S., muscling their way into the astonishingly lucrative illicit cannabis market that has accompanied legalization.

He’d crossed cyber-paths again with the Mexican cartel he’d come across digging through the dark internet in Tallinn – the one funding Nigerian meth labs to supply Asian buyers. Here, it’s reversed: Fujian gangsters are using the cartel to smuggle thousands of Chinese workers into the United States to produce illicit drugs – trafficked in to do agricultural labor at burgeoning marijuana grow sites. Trapped by fences, surveillance cameras, and guards with guns and machetes, the captive immigrants create tens of billions of dollars alone in states such as Oklahoma – a location that's an attractive target due to the abundance of cheap land, the lack of regulations on the size of cannabis farms, and a scarcity of police personnel with the language capabilities needed to translate communications and infiltrate networks. For what it might be worth, Sherlock had passed along what he’d learned to the CIA’s Crime and Narcotics Center.

He’ll be on a tight schedule in Shigatse today, needing to collect photographic evidence of the illegal mine, and still leave time enough to make it to the railroad station platform, and mingle inconspicuously amongst the groups boarding the local train bound for Lhasa. Once he's settled aboard, he’ll add the pictures to the files of documentary evidence he’s carrying on his mobile, and, as they near the city, he’ll press send and deliver the folder to one of the corporation’s higher-ups who is eager to rise even higher. Once the recipient verifies the information contained in the anonymous gift, he’ll be thrilled to gain credit as the conduit for the revelations it contains to his superiors in Beijing.

They’ve made good time on the road, and Sherlock stands up and stretches, releasing the kinks in his back, and jogging in place to get his adrenaline running. In his worn camping gear, he’s dressed completely different from Vernet, in his bespoke suits, with his expensive leather briefcase, and the expected Rolex watch.

The fact that copper mines require supplies of water will lend him the needed cover afforded by yet another identity – there are wetlands in the area, and it is unsurprising that a Canadian wildlife biologist on an international team will be there on foot, surveying the habitat of the black-necked crane. If anyone questions him, he’ll indicate that each of the members of the team have temporarily spread out to cover a greater area. There has been a great deal of anger, within Tibet and worldwide, at the damage done to the plateau’s environment due to China’s resource extraction agenda and its urbanization policies– the protections that the PRC is extending to the vulnerable black-necked crane population have been a public relations plus for them. The birds are currently in the vicinity, completing their breeding cycle, and as long as he can get in and out quickly, Dr. William Scott’s presence is likely to pass with little scrutiny, as long as his papers are in order.

Several hours later, Sherlock is relieved that his tracking efforts have paid off with actionable evidence – meaning that there will be no need to scramble for a new plan. After verifying that his file has been successfully delivered, he slumps in his seat, stubbornly indifferent to releasing himself from being on high alert. He knows that letting down his guard is when sloppiness can creep in and mistakes made, but having been awake for more than 24 hours and in action all day long at an altitude that still leaves him easily winded, relentlessly reminding him that breathing is problematic, is taking its toll. One last detail – dropping his mobile so that it lands on the train tracks when he exits – and then, in less than an hour, he can be seated in the hotel's oxygen lounge and restore his body and mind.

As they near the station, he shoulders his rucksack, ready to act out the fiction that he’s attached to one of the groups he’s sat nearby, and pulls out his mobile in order to remove the sim card. But when the screen lights up after he turns it over in his hand, he’s startled to find a text message notification -- receiving messages is not supposed to happen, ever, on this unit. No one has the number, save one person. This is not good. This is very much not good.

He takes in and releases several breaths to try and lower his pulse rate, hoping that when he clicks on the icon that he’ll find nothing more dramatic than someone misdirecting their text. At first glance, the message does appear to be irrelevant; at second glance, however, it is evident that the innocuous platitude it contains is negated by the fact that it is written in code.

His anxiety spikes at deciphering the communique: emergency action needed, abandon the hotel -- which means he'll not be returning to the inviting bed, the soft pillows, the warm blanket. There is no indication of why, or of what comes next, other than that he’ll be met at the station by a man who will identify himself as a tour leader from the Council for the Preservation of Sacred Alpine Cranes, and that he is to reply in Mandarin that he was honored to have seen four pairs of the noble birds nesting safely when he inspected the field site.

Other than this terse instruction, he has no idea what he’ll find once he leaves the train, and whether or not he is walking into a trap. And as he gazes out the window at the dark clouds beginning to gather in the east, he sees that the weather may be turning against him as well.

........................................................

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper

@helloliriels @a-victorian-girl @keirgreeneyes @starrla89 @naefelldaurk

@topsyturvy-turtely @lisbeth-kk @raina-at @jobooksncoffee @meetinginsamarra

@solarmama-plantsareneat @bluebellofbakerstreet @dragonnan @safedistancefrombeingsmart @jolieblack

@msladysmith @ninasnakie @riversong912 @dapetty

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#mayprompts2024 #calaisreno #sherlock bits and bobs #may prompts 2024 #johnlock

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novantinuum · 6 months ago

Text

Fandom: Steven Universe Rating: Teen Audiences Words: 4.2K~ Summary: Connie clenches her fists at her sides, envisioning a world where she still feels the safe, comforting weight of Rose’s sword strapped upon her back. But instead, it’s the Crystal Gems’ darkest, most forlorn hour... and she’s absolutely useless to them. Is there anything she can do to aid them in this struggle, anything at all? (Or: the beach fight in Reunited, but from Connie's POV.)

Woo, cleared another long-held WIP out of my drafts! I've always been very interested in what the beach fight was like beyond Steven's little mindscape adventure- and also, given her sword breaking, I thought Connie had a lot of potential mental angst to explore in that moment- thus this fic was born.

I highly recommend you read this one on AO3, it has some special formatting I cannot replicate on tumblr.

Enjoy!

___

It’s not that she hasn’t seen a sentient Gem poof before, but there’s something about the raw brutality by which Peridot’s form is torn asunder by Yellow's energy bolts that makes Connie feel outright sick to her stomach. She’s unable to bite back an alarmed yelp as she watches that green, triangular gemstone plummet into the sand, wholly inert.

(Ever the bold knight, Pearl strides in front of her and Lion, brandishing her spear in a wide-sweeping defensive stance.)

“Stop!!” Steven hollers, so loud and with such frenzied intensity that his voice breaks midway through the vowel. He darts forward to address the two Homeworld matriarchs directly, straying away from the safety of the rest of the group… away from the Crystal Gems, away from his dad, and away from her.

Her heart’s re-enacting a high tempo concerto in the confines of her chest, sweat beading at her brow as her mind grasps to understand what exactly he plans to achieve by pleading mercy from the two most powerful Gems they’ve ever faced while at such a strategic disadvantage. Peridot’s down, the house is wrecked, her sword’s been shattered, and worst of all, every last offensive effort they made against Blue alone only managed to knock her to her knees. Love him as she may… what impossible kindness is capable of standing against such ruthless might as this?

“Don’t do this!” he stubbornly continues anyways, and throws his hands in gesture towards his chest. “Listen to me— I’m the one you’re missing! I’m Pink Diamond!”

The militant monarch’s eyes narrow into thin, loathing slits the moment this claim (carrying almost unbelievable consequence, but true nonetheless) passes through his lips into stark reality.

“You…!” she seethes.

Yellow Diamond breaks into a terrifyingly swift sprint towards their party before any of the other Gems can shift even a finger to react.

Steven’s name urgently explodes from between Garnet’s lips, as if her split-second warning (much less a warning coming from someone who’s standing by the splintered wreckage of the house a good thirty feet away from him) would make any difference at all, as if any force in this universe— magical shield or not— could stop such a tremendous, terrifying presence from enacting her merciless judgement once it’s set in motion towards her mark.

The diamond’s foot plummets down upon the nigh-defenseless boy with the sheer unrepentant force of a freight train slipping off the rails.

Connie screams.

A boundless eternity passes within the depths of her soul, nestled in that vulnerable space between heartbeats. She watches the dust settle as she leaps off Lion's back, watches that cruel matriarch lift her heel from the massive crater she’s conceived. Still holding her breath as if a mere, misplaced huff of air could permanently shift the course of time in some brand new terrifying way, she locates Steven lying motionless in the sand. His suit jacket is scuffed and dirtied, and one of his arms is contorted in what— from her years of soaking up ambient anatomical knowledge through her mother’s stories about work— appears to be a wholly unnatural alignment.

(One of the Gems— she’s so distraught at this point that her mind is unable to process who— shouts his name, voice laced with an unfettered urgency. As expected, there’s no response.)

And then, with zero warning whatsoever, the waking world around her explodes into chaos.

Garnet bares her gauntlets against Yellow Diamond without even a second thought, shouting with a primal ferocity Connie’s never seen from her before. Pearl and Amethyst and all the rest of the Crystal Gems boldly follow her charge, weaving together their attacks in flawless devotion until practically operating as a single-minded organism. All in all, there’s simply too much happening to reliably follow. Spears, whips, and hammers clash against their towering foes to no success. And how could they? Compared to these diamonds, they’re nothing but fleas scurrying across the shore. They’re outmatched, fighting a battle that’s cursed to be lost. In the end, even the full splendor of the ocean’s might at Lapis’s beck and call fails to land a satisfying blow. Blinking back confused tears, she clenches her fists at her sides— harboring anger at herself (for ruining her weapon, stupid, stupid, stupid), at Steven (why on Earth did he voluntarily put himself in danger by trying to reason with them?), heck, at this whole damn galaxy— and envisions a world where she still feels the safe, comforting weight of Rose’s sword strapped upon her back.

But instead, it’s the Crystal Gems’ darkest, most forlorn hour... and she’s absolutely useless to them.

A strong palm lands on her shoulder, gentle yet urgent in its hold. With great reluctance, she pries her gaze away from the chaos of battle in the distance, the skin around her eyes dampened and puffy.

“Connie, w-we should go,” Mr. Universe says, his voice wavering with barely-contained grief. He glances beyond her for just a second, and she’s almost certain he’s looking at his son, his body crumpled in a broken heap in the sand at the heart of the battlefield. “I can’t let another one of you kids get hurt on my watch.”

He’s already reaching forward to grab her by the arm— too panicked by now to think about such fundamental things like politeness or personal space— when she makes her bold decision.

“No! I can’t leave yet!” she proclaims, brushing his hand away. “There’s still something I can do. And it may be stupid, and dangerous, b-but…” Connie wipes away a sudden wave of tears, matching eyes with her best friend’s dad. She flashes a watery smile. “It’s what he’d do for me, yeah?”

His expression surges with palpable dread as she turns her attention towards the fierce skirmish raging behind them.

“Wait… w-what—?”

She takes off running before he can even finish his question. In any other situation she might feel guilty for spurning his protective instincts— for leaving him in the dust, altogether anguished in his terror, shouting her name with an urgency that downright seizes at her pounding heart, begging her to not throw herself into the chaos of the field— but there’s no time to waste, not here, not ever, not when Steven’s very life may depend on the actions she takes now.

She has to pull him away from all this fighting before he gets crushed in the fray… or worse.

“Someone— cover me!” she cries out, nearing the front lines. Her foot collides with something hard and cold. She gasps, her glance snapping down in an instant. It’s a stray can of soda, unopened, something one of the party guests must’ve dropped while evacuating.

“I see you,” Garnet says, landing in a deep crouch near her. (It would not surprise her at all if the Gem already anticipated what she plans to do, seeing it as the most likely possibility amid a churning sea of choices.) She bares her gauntlets once more, and circles around. “Stay close, and be quick!”

“Connie!” she hears Mr. Universe wail from the sidelines.

She ignores him, though— she has to, least she let the final embers of her resolve be snuffed out by the sheer weight of her fear— and pushes her fragile human form through the thickets of this otherworldly battle anyways, following Garnet’s lead. ‘Cacophony’ is the only word she can think of that truly fits the harrowing scene ahead. There’s no more strategy in her friends’ strikes, no more clever battle formations… only their desperate, desperate defense against the wretched beings who created them. The Crystal Gems who are still standing thankfully seem to be holding their own… but just barely. Pearl’s losing momentum with each slice and slash of her spear, Amethyst and Lapis look like they’re halfway to abandoning all hope, poor Lion is tuckering out after such repetitive use of his concussive roars, and Bismuth’s filled with so much despairing fury towards their opponents (for the harm they’ve caused to this planet… for the harm they’ve just caused to Steven—!) that her footwork has grown rushed and sloppy. In the few seconds Connie’s watching her, the rainbow-haired Gem is almost hit by a direct bolt from Yellow Diamond twice.

Her chest seizes tight with dawning dread. This entire operation is falling apart. They don’t have much time left, do they? She must recover Steven, and fast!

Garnet keeps a watchful eye for any incoming projectiles as Connie skids to a screeching halt next to her friend’s comatose body lying limp in the sand. (And oh, has she never been more thankful to not see blood.) Okay. Okay. Here he is. Now all she’s gotta do is… ferry him to a safe distance. Steeling her core in preparation, she squats down and tries to leverage herself to scoop him right up. Her legs, though… in the midst of her terror, her legs are simply too wobbly to bear his mass, and after one valiant but failed attempt she’s scared she’ll hurt herself (or him!) trying again. Which means… she’ll just have to drag him.

“Sorry—!” she says with a faint hiss of regret as she grasps both of his arms by the wrist and starts to pull him across the battle-swept sands. Sure enough to her suspicions, one of his shoulders definitely doesn’t feel like it’s aligned in its socket right, and she worries that yanking him along like this will only serve to further exacerbate it. Still, what other choice does she have?

What choices do any of them have, all tangled up within the fallout of this thousand year war?

As Connie drags Steven off the battlefield towards his house, Garnet circles around the perimeter a few more times, ever-diligent in her role as lookout. She’s grateful for her help. Truly so. It allows her to focus her energy on protecting her best friend instead of constantly having to keep an eye out for stray attacks from the Diamonds. And boy, oh boy— she digs her heels into the sand, spent muscles all but screaming for her to rest, to drop her load and continue on alone— will her body need every last drop of energy she’s got. That’s why relief surges through her heart with all the ferocity of a tidal wave when Mr. Universe’s frantic voice comes into range once again. Because it means she’s here. She’s succeeded. She’s pulled him all the way to his father, halfway off the field.

The exhaustion hits immediately. Huffing for a lungful of air, she drops the half-Gem’s arms to the ground and collapses to her knees. For an extended moment, the unwanted melody of warfare rings through her ears like canon fire. She can’t move. She can’t even breathe properly. She can swear her friend’s dad is trying to say something to her— can feel his hesitant touch brushing against her shoulder in what barely counts as a whisper— but she can’t even manage to distinguish a single word. Her eyes brim with fresh tears, every last sensory input overloaded. It’s all too loud. It’s all too damn heavy. It’s all too—

“Connie,” Garnet slices through the static with astute authority.

She snaps her head up, her eyes flitting between the Crystal Gem leader (currently kneeling at her side) and a still panicking Mr. Universe (clutching his unconscious son’s hand). Her breath settles, slowly but surely. Her fingers twitch, tracing shallow patterns in the sand. The ringing lessens.

“Thank you,” the Gem continues, pushing herself back to her full height. The long skirt of her wedding outfit flares behind her as she glances back towards the chaos of the battle. “For protecting him where I couldn’t. Now stay back, and keep watch. If they poof all of us, promise me you’ll evacuate the beach.”

“I-I… of course,” Connie says, her gaze still wet with terror and barely contained grief. “But y-you… you don’t really think you’ll—?”

Lose, is the word she can’t bring herself to say. Surely you don’t think you’ll lose?

The Gem warrior gives a sharp, almost defeated exhale before grinding her fists within the tempered hard-light of her gauntlets and leaping right back into the fray.

Connie cries out after her, suddenly stricken with a churning feeling of dread (what grim futures did Garnet just witness?) as she scrambles to her feet, arms outstretched towards a self-appointed destiny she can no longer reach. A strangled sob wrests control of her body. If she still had her weapon they wouldn’t be asking her to stay at the sidelines. She’s nothing to them anymore, is she? She’s nothing without that sword. If she closes her eyes she swears she can still feel it… can still feel the perfectly countered weight of its thorn etched handle within her grip… but with it shattered, she’s completely useless out here. Feeble. Organic.

Weak.

“Connie,” her friend’s dad pleads for her attention, his tone warbling with all the wavering emotion of an out of tune guitar. “Connie, please! She’s right. You know she’s right. We have to get off the beach! There’s literally nothing we can do against Gems as powerful as that, we’re just humans.”

Slowly, the last of his words reverberating within her mind, her eyes widen.

“But he’s not,” she breathes, turning her head towards her friend’s still body on the ground.

“W-what are you—?”

She grasps his hand within her own like it’s their final lifeline, gently tracing her thumb along the back of his knuckles. If anyone could swerve the dangerous wake of this conflict into something better, it’s Steven. He’s certainly managed the impossible before.

“Steven!” she calls, her brows threading together in the wake of her thunderous desperation. “Come on, please wake up!”

Hot, messy tears threatening to cloud the edges of her vision, she lets go of his hand. Glances back towards the battlefield. The remaining Crystal Gems aren’t faring well in their war right now. Pearl and Amethyst appear exhausted enough to collapse at any moment, and the Diamonds have pushed the other three to the very extremes of their defensive capabilities. If they have any chance left of winning this encounter, it’s gonna require a miracle of encouragement.

“Come on, Steven,” she calls again, voice dripping with the burden of her pending despair. “We need you.”

No response, yet again.

Her breath ripples through her chest. He… oh stars, is he not healing? From what he’s described in the past about his healing powers, she’s surprised he hasn’t leapt back to his feet with newly restored vigor already. She leans forward, pressing her ear to his chest to listen for a heartbeat.

A harsh shriek ringing from across the sands interrupts her investigation, however— and Connie spins her gaze around just in time to watch Yellow Diamond strike down Lapis Lazuli with a fierce bolt of destabilizing energy right to her chest.

She swallows, already sensing their options eroding away at the wrathful whim of the tides.

Time is truly of the essence here, and much like an hourglass theirs is mighty limited in this state.

Connie stands to her feet once more. With him showing zero signs of pending consciousness, it’s growing harder and harder to ignore Mr. Universe’s intensifying plea for her to leave the battlefield.

“Wake up, please!” she cries, a pitiful final appeal before her inevitable shame-filled retreat.

Her lips screw shut amid her sheer heartbreak, fists clenching at her sides as she silently gapes at her friend’s pale, expressionless face.

We’re supposed to be in this together, remember?

And then…

Connie’s eyes blow wide, her entire body shuddering as she senses a familiar presence dance along the very fringes of her mind like stray raindrops splashing against her cheeks on a late spring day— a wholly recognized sensation, but not an overwhelming one. She gasps. The presence carries with it an instant aura of comfort and affection, as well as a hundred billion panicked questions like ‘what happened’ and ‘where am I’ and by golly, it’s the exact same subtle presence she’s aware of at the very periphery of their mind whenever she’s fused with him as Stevonnie.

“Huh? Steven?”

Her heart’s practically rattling within her rib cage as she feels that ghostly presence flutter within her thoughts once again, speaking in his voice, calling out to her by name.

“Connie, it’s me!”

Holy stars. It’s him. It’s actually him.

She doesn’t know how, but it is.

Her brows shoot up within her lingering confusion. Even though she’s well aware that this is a Gem thing, she’s unable to fully fight off the impulse to search around as if some conscious, flesh-and-blood Steven were somehow standing right next to her, whispering directly in her ear. “Wha- Where are you? How are you do—?”

“I’m not sure, but… I think it’s a classic psychic ghost type situation.”

“Ah, of course!” she exclaims, peering down at his motionless form. She’s heard all sorts of madcap tales about his astral projection powers— about how he used them to speak to Lapis through his dreams when she was stuck fighting for control of Malachite under a mile of ocean, or to drive the body of one of the watermelons he brought to life, or to make mental contact with the Cluster like he did not too long ago— thus it makes sense for this new mode of communication to be some sort of natural extension of that. “So, what’s the plan?”

“The Diamonds won’t listen to me out there, but… maybe I can get through to them here. They’ve gotta know Pink Diamond wasn’t shattered.”

There’s a brief, meek pause before he makes his final request.

“Please protect my body while I’m gone.”

“Got it! Good luck out there, Steven.”

His active presence fades from her mind like the setting sun over the cloudy horizon, taking that comforting aura right along with it. Connie’s form all but deflates as she exhales, her shoulders curling inwards as she wraps her arms around her torso and tries her best to keep whatever remains of her brave facade from cracking in two. Mr. Universe gawks at her, his attention clearly piqued by her conversational mention of his son.

“Wh—” his countenance is pale and streaked with fresh, messy tears, swirling with a conflicting mixture of grief and last-ditch hope— “h-how were you talking to—?”

“He’s okay,” she blurts out, her own voice quavering at the edges as the reassuring realities of this fact wash over her like a cleansing shower on a muggy summer’s day, a blissful salve to her previous strife. “I promise you, he’s okay. He… I think he’s trying to make contact with the Diamonds, like he did with the Cluster.”

His father closes his eyes for a moment and inhales deep and strong, steeling his nerves as he basks in the reassurance of this news. Then, rolling his shoulder back and standing at the ready: “Well, what can we do to help, then?”

“Keep him safe while he tries to work his magic, I guess. Listen, we gotta pull him further back so he’s out of striking distance.”

He issues her a swift nod. “Leave it to me.”

And after all her struggles she must admit she’s kinda jealous at the sheer ease at which he scoops Steven up in his arms, but, well… fair is fair. He’s clearly had fourteen years of practice on that front. The two of them turn tail and run towards what remains of the house, barricading themselves against the foot of the stairs. Connie doesn’t take a full breath until they’re out of range of the worst of it. She helps Mr. Universe set her friend down in the sand, and now that she’s calmed down a little, sets her attention to giving him a full once-over. And thank the stars, his chest is visibly rising and falling now.

Biting down upon her bottom lip amidst her rippling anxieties— sorry, Steven, this has to be checked— she reaches to untuck his dress shirt. A true miracle after the ruthless velocity of the hit he took, his gem is unblemished. No cracks at all, not even a tiny chip. So that means he should be fine, yes? His body’s just conserving energy to heal from the impact? It’s hard to pin down any precise points of improvement, but she swears a little bit more color has returned to his cheeks these past few minutes.

She also swears that the rest of the remaining Crystal Gems must have had a psychic encounter with Steven too, because there’s a tangible surge of renewed vigor that’s taken the front lines by storm. Garnet throws her punches a hair harder. Pearl swings her trident with just a tinge more finesse. Amethyst and Bismuth aren’t holding back their strikes in lieu of focusing on self defense quite as much. Not only that, but the Diamonds almost seem more distracted now, more vulnerable to their coordinated group attacks. (Is this Steven’s doing, she wonders? Has he found a way to weaken them from within whatever weird psychic mindscape his untethered spirit is drifting within?)

But no matter the underlying reason, the evidence surging to life upon this beach is undeniable: slowly but surely, despite every flagrant disadvantage they hold, the tides of this struggle are turning towards their favor.

“I think he’s doing it,” she marvels to Steven’s equally as mystified father, the pair crouched right next to the boy. “I don’t know how, but somehow he’s wearing them dow—”

And then she’s blinded.

Stripped of all coherent thought or word or rhyme.

Helpless of anything beyond peering through narrowed slits with her flattened palm shielding her view as the entire beach is engulfed with a pulse of magnificent pink light.

But no, no… it’s far more than just light. Her encounters with fusion can tell her that much.

It’s a song. A symphony. An entire story told in oscillating waves of light and sound that her organic body isn’t remotely equipped to process the fullest gamut of.

Sucking in a shaky bout of air, Connie tilts her sight to her periphery to follow the light to its source. And in her joy, her heart nearly skips a beat at what she finds. His body may still lie comatose upon these course sands, healing from an impact that surely would’ve killed a less stubborn soul, but Steven’s gem is glowing as bright as a miniature sun. Any lingering signs of injury heal in an instant as this potent aura radiates from his core.

Clear on the other side of the battlefield, the Diamonds are drawn to their knees in awe of this power. Blue falls into hysterics, sobbing an ocean’s worth of tears into her hands… and Yellow— uncharacteristically still and silent— seems so shell shocked by the revelation that she can’t summon even a word of doubt in retaliation.

When Steven’s bold display of might finally fades, there’s zero quarrel on who this struggle’s victors are. Their attackers make no moves to re-engage, and the Crystal Gems remaining sprint across the shore to help each other to their feet. She… stars, she can hardly believe it. They won. Even with half of their company down for the count— two poofed, Steven unconscious, and her shamefully stripped of her sword— they managed the impossible: they held the line against two of Homeworld’s most ruthless matriarchs and survived.

Of course, their battle isn’t quite over. Steven has yet to wake up.

Greg hollers out for Garnet and the others, alerting the lot to their position. They waste no time in hurrying towards the house to congregate around them. All the while, she clutches his hand within a vice tight grasp, running her thumb along the back of his palm, hoping… begging… no, yearning for him to be okay. He has to be okay— right?

“Show her to me,” Blue demands, her tone soaked in stalled grief as she hovers over them with all the lingering dread of a bad omen. “I must see her gem with my own eyes.”

“Bismuth,” Garnet warns as the Gem in question moves to shield him with her body. “Let them through.”

Her eyes flare with abject turmoil. “B-but how can you be sure any of this is—”

“Let them through,” she repeats, propping a gemstone laden hand upon her shoulder. “The battle is over. They have no desire to hurt him now.” Then, directed at her specifically: “And give him space, he’s about to wake up.”

Connie swallows hard— a part of her unwilling to let him out of her immediate care given the daunting uncertainty of these circumstances— but then again, Garnet’s not the kind of Gem to knowingly lead them astray. Despite her own tumultuous feelings on the matter, if she says they’re safe, then they’re safe. After all, they won. She won. Despite every last insidious variable working against her— a broken sword, spine-tingling terror, her lack of strength— she served her purpose. She, a mere human, proved her worth on this battlefield of Gems. Drawing in a deep breath of air, she drops her friend’s hand and pulls back with the others.

Sure enough, he’s starting to come back to them, his chest rising and falling with greater frequency and his features scrunching inwards on his face.

Steven’s eyes flutter open, his whole body jolting as he drinks in the unlikely picture of the scene before him… family, friends, and enemies alike clustered together upon the beach they were fighting upon just mere minutes ago… all gawking at him in slack jawed wonder.

“It’s you…!” Blue Diamond breathes in sheer disbelief. “Pink!”

#su #connie maheswaran #steven universe #greg universe #garnet #su fanfiction #su fanfic #my writing stuff

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