#wait izzy but where is fractions ?

[mastcrmarksman]

Okay but top three for show casing Clint's character? Since Amanda asked.

1. Solo / Spotlight Avengers ( issues 1 thru 36, 1987 to 1991 )

2. Thunderbolts vol 1 ( issues 9 thru 12, issues 20 thru 75, 1997 to 2003 )

3. Hawkeye: Freefall ( 2020 )

I don't have a spiel, except in the tags and honestly, don't have much brain power after worm, but here you go. This will help you honestly who Clint is as a character and person.

[ladyluscinia]

BLACKHANDS GIRLIES WE ARE REALLY IN IT NOW!!!

(aka Lady's OFMD 2x01 - 2x03 BlackHands rambling)

Link to the general non-BlackHands thoughts.

Screaming. Whooping. Cheering. *Singsong voice* My fucked up pirate husbands had mutual love confessions while the main fucked up pirate husbands are "on a break" after admitting they made each other happy! AAAAHHHHHH!!! Can't murder-suicide the other half of yourself! I am winning!!!

ADJSKLDFSKJFKDL

Ok. Deep breaths. This will be rambling but coherently (<- lying)

---

Breakup Boat - Izzy's Version

Fuck, I said in my general thoughts post that the extremities of Edward's cruelty & Edward's suicidal pursuit were working well, and nowhere is that more noticeable than in what Edward and Izzy have going on.

So in the timeskip between S1 and S2 we find out Edward has been raiding ships at a breakneck pace, uncaringly trauma bonding his crew (R.I.P. Ivan), going hard on murder & booze & drugs, and tormenting Izzy to the point my guy is literally having a breakdown in front of the crew. He lost the 1st toe for threatening to resign and accidentally setting off a Stede-hurt timebomb, and Edward goes to take a 4th because Izzy doesn't convince his whole crew to happily dump their pay in the ocean. "Threaten me again" has become "Give me any excuse" it seems, and Izzy has been complying. 😬 Edward (casually): "Take your boot off." 😬 Earlier Edward offers him rhino horn, too, and Izzy just says "No, not right now" leading Edward to call him a "lightweight", so I'm thinking Edward hasn't had exclusive rights to substance abuse as a means of coping, either. (Note: the rhino horn itself does nothing, so the substance abuse is booze and any actual drugs he's gotten his hands on.)

Oh, and they didn't include the shot where Edward throws a knife at Izzy? Did it just get cut, or are we getting flashbacks with more conversation later?

Going to rewatch the end of 1x10, Izzy's "smile" at declaring Blackbeard was back lasts a fraction of a second and looks just like his "everything is totally fine I swear" grimace-smiles from the beginning of the episode, so I think it's pretty safe to say Izzy did not ask for this and hasn't thought everything was fine for a single second since.

The Breakup Boat atmosphere is definitely fucked.

Now, personally, I'm still of the opinion we're not supposed to read this as a version of a domestic abuse arc (even with the intervention talk). (EDIT: clarifying thoughts and phrasing.) Because they still inject too much of it with humor and I can't imagine Edward comfortably coming out the other side at a happy ending if we frame it that way. Like there's black comedy and then there's "Wait, we're really just laughing this off?" I think horrific domestic abuse of your ex-situationship in a romance counts as the latter. But I do think it's revealed to be functioning as something adjacent - namely Edward's depression and suicidal tendencies have massively spiked post-Stede and he's actively seeking to a) confirm his own belief that he's unlovable, and b) get killed so everything stops hurting.

And Izzy? Izzy loves him and wants him alive. Worst thing Edward could hear right now.

Like oh my GOD IZZY LOVES HIM. As soon as Izzy hits his breaking point and realizes the crew have his back, he's emboldened to go stand up for them and himself to Edward. (He has been defending them already - the pre-intervention conversation open with him quietly alluding that they need a break - but this is more.) He ignores the boot order, ignores the threat, and finally asks the damn question:

"Who am I to you?"

This is where my linear coherency falls apart btw 🥴

---

Who KNOWS You?

"We've worked together for years. You know me better than anyone has ever known me, and I daresay the same is true for me about you. I have... love for you, Edward."

Oh fuck backstory implications oh FUCK.

Ok, I've already seen the posts doubling down on Izzy realizing he doesn't know Edward at all and I'm drawing my line in the sand. That's bullshit. That line there? That's straight truth.

To quote my own posts:

People will act like you are making bold and unsubstantiated claims if you say Izzy likes Edward as a person not just as Blackbeard, but I find the notion that “Blackbeard” as a human guy you live down the hall from is somehow substantially different / distant enough from the real Edward 24/7 that only liking Blackbeard is plausible to be a very bold claim.

(That conclusion comes from this post, but Izzy knowing Edward vs Stede knowing Edward was also a major point in my original overarching Edward Meta from Season 1.)

Of course Izzy knows Edward. He knows his talents and his weaknesses. He knows the shifts in his mood, his favorite foods to find in a hold, what tasks he used to pass off as often as possible. He talks about work with him because they live on a ship. Their state of dysfunction when we meet them doesn't negate that knowing.

Knowing each other so well actually made their dysfunction worse. Let them escalate more than two people less intimate could have managed, while also exacerbating their misjudgements into ruinous disasters. Izzy didn't know - probably in part didn't want to know - Edward was falling hard for Stede so fast. Edward didn't know or want to know that Izzy was reaching a breaking point for their relationship.

But still, crucially, Izzy did know Edward well enough to clock that something was fundamentally wrong in 1x10, and he knows what's wrong now. He knows Edward is hurting him and hurting the crew because Edward himself is hurting, and the whole point of this "I'm worried about you" talk is to try and fix it.

Unfortunately, Izzy has Stede so unspoken at the front of his mind that he accidentally quotes the man, and that sets Edward off on his interrogation / further terrorizing the crew Izzy is trying to stand up for. Which is why Izzy finally makes his choice to stop talking around the issue...

"The atmosphere on this ship is fucked. Everyone knows why." -> "Your feelings for Stede fucking Bonnet."

...and then Edward shoots his leg out. Not even looking at him.

Jump ahead. Edward says to Frenchie, "The new First Mate always kills the old First Mate. It's always been like that." - Has it though? Because that has some wild implications for Izzy murdering someone to secure his spot in Edward's circle of trust (...hot). And some interesting gaps for Edward if he was ever a first mate under Hornigold or anyone else. Or is this just him fucking with Frenchie because he knows "Trust is king. And queen. Trust is everything" is bullshit? Go, repression boy, go. Who am I talking about? Both. Both is good.

And then of course we get:

"Did you think I wouldn't know the smell of my rotting former First Mate?"

Knows him by the smell of blood and infection. By the avoidant look in his crew's eye. By the fact he doesn't know Izzy is dead. Their relationship is rot and ruin by his own hand but he would NEVER assume Izzy's dead until he knows.

"He was your friend," Jim spits in Edward's face.

Edward wakes up Izzy and even delirious, literal seconds after realizing he's down a leg, Izzy knows what Edward wants the moment he flips the gun. And he wants nothing to do with it.

He knows he can't. Won't. No matter how much Edward openly wants him to pull the trigger. (Edward knows him well enough to doubt, too. It's real convenient that his final staging has Izzy looking at the back of his head. No chance of his face giving anything away.)

Izzy's absolutely brutal in his assessment, trying to give some hurt back, but he's not wrong:

"Ohhhh. Oh, are you scared, Eddie? Too scared to do it yourself, eh? Go on, clean up your own fucking mess. I'm not doing it, I've been doing it all my fucking life. Fuck off."

All his fucking life.

I have to wonder... is this a conversation they've had before? Echoes of one? Izzy has a tactic here - dismissal. Refuse to play along with Edward's melodrama. Treat "I dreamt that you killed me" as though he's throwing a snit like a toddler. "Good for you" could have sounded like a question egging him on, but it comes out flat. A sarcastic sneer. Edward has always thought he'd go out with more of a bang. Loves a good fuckery. In his Purgatory he desperately wants Hornigold to recognize how unique and over the top his mutiny was. Not like those ordinary mutinies. Even his imagined death is being pitched over the highest bluff tied to a rock???

Izzy knows Edward is serious or he wouldn't be so fraught and sobbing as he laughs, but his words don't treat him as serious. Maybe a bit of derision has been effective at ruining the fantasy before? Suicide of a great leader is just so banal, you know? Quit daydreaming and pull off an impossible fix.

(Maybe "Fuck off" normally doesn't end the conversation, but starts the real one?)

Also "Eddie". First off of Izzy's lips at his cruelest, then Hornigold's. We heard it in S1 right before Edward committed to becoming the Kraken. At the time I thought he was bristling at the disrespect - "Eddie" is not "just Edward" - but maybe Frenchie stepped on a bigger landmine than we thought. Edward is so particular about names, and Izzy knows all the rules best, doesn't he?

Either way... This time the conversation ends with Edward leaving. "Farewell, old chum," he says without turning around. And when he hears the gunshot, he's not surprised.

Edward knows Izzy, too. Knows that the farewell may count as "closure" but Izzy is only going to take the ending one way. Izzy lifting the gun to his temple was the inevitable result of leaving that room. It takes seconds. Edward is still rising out of the stairwell when it happens.

We can't talk about knowing without touching on Purgatory, where Edward goes to know himself.

Lots of interesting stuff about Edward modeling his toxic spiral off of Hornigold as the fucked up example from his past. Probably where he picked up a lot of his piracy philosophy too. But the really juicy bit related to Izzy is the spectre of Hornigold confronting him about killing his dad and Edward's instinctive:

"I've never told anyone about that."

Hornigold calls him out for telling Stede, but it seems pretty likely that Stede is the only one he's ever had the conversation with.

However.

I still think Izzy knows. Hornigold even tells us how:

"A grown man covered in tattoos? Eh? With daddy issues?"

Edward didn't tell Izzy, and Izzy didn't ask for confirmation. But Edward will tell a whole crew of strangers about "the Kraken" killing his dad to win best ghost story. And that his dad was a dick. Izzy, who Edward loves and trusts and "outsources the big job" to, would not have much trouble connecting the dots between any version of that story / troubled childhood anecdotes / Edward's issues with killing / Edward's daddy issues.

I sincerely doubt "killed your abusive old man" is even an uncommon pirate backstory.

Izzy does know Edward - at his best and worst and everything in between. Knows him better than anyone. Suspects with certainty his darkest secret.

Izzy knows Edward, and Edward knows Izzy, and that's why everything fundamentally quakes for Edward in this self-destructive rampage when Izzy breaks their unspoken rule and tells him that he loves him.

---

Who LOVES You?

Jumping back to the (first!) literal, actual love confession we got, let's talk phrasing. Because yeah there's love there, but at the moment there's also a lot of other stuff.

"I have... love for you, Edward."

This is such a passive way of confessing, and there's the long pause as Izzy forces it out. People have attributed it to repression, or feeling ashamed of his love for Edward, or just not wanting to push it on him. I think "love" isn't a word they use out loud, so saying it is hard, but I also think Izzy's being passive because at the moment it does just feel like he "has" love. He doesn't want to actively feel it or offer it up right now, not with the complicated knot of anger and hurt and, tbh, probably some of his own depression. He "has" love because, despite everything, he still loves Edward.

And he does, is the thing! The whole goddamn reason Izzy is here, still trying to be a support for Edward is because he loves him. Literally anybody else would have left by now, or killed Edward, considering he's actively trying to push Izzy to the breaking point. And even at said point, when Izzy's finally standing up for himself, he offers Edward another chance to realize he's loved.

Edward starts dismissing him the moment he says the l-word, but Izzy continues:

"I'm worried about you - we all are. The atmosphere on this ship is completely poisoned. But if we could all just, maybe... talk it through?"

Izzy knows what's wrong and while he didn't originally think Stede was that important to Edward, he's put it together by now. And he's a huge fan of trying to talk through their problems, tries it multiple times even in the peak communication failure / stress powderkeg of S1, so of course he tries one last time to get Edward to accept he's not alone.

Instead, he accidentally invokes the ghost of Stede Bonnet and reminds Edward why he's doing all of this in the first place. Reminds him that he is unlovable while having the audacity to confess to loving him.

So Edward makes a big show of going out on deck, shoots Izzy in the leg, and tells Frenchie to get rid of him.

Frenchie doesn't, naturally.

And when Edward finds the crew saving the man who he just shot for daring to love him - because of course they are, he's their dick now - well... "He was your friend," Jim spits in his face, having just been thinking about their best friend (who they are more than a little bit in love with 👀).

How long do we think Edward stands there, looking at what he's wrought? How long does he sit at Izzy's bedside, looking at him "rather still" while he weighs if the missing leg proves his point where the toes didn't?

And you know Izzy's love is so bone deep and rooted in that it's unconditional by this point, because Edward did NOT prove his fucking point. Nothing he's done so far is enough to get the man who loves him to pull the fucking trigger. Down 3 toes and then a leg, asking first thing whether Edward was there for the other one, and STILL. STILL IZZY IS HEARTBROKEN AT THE REALIZATION THAT EDWARD IS READY TO END IT FOR REAL.

Still he won't pull the trigger himself. Not on Edward, at least.

And only after Izzy is gone can Edward return the words.

"I loved you. Best I could."

*screaming crying tearing at the walls*

He loved him.

HE LOVED HIM.

Edward's perspective of his relationships is fundamentally warped. Alongside his self-image. Probably has been for most of his life, going back to the self-hatred he ties to killing his dad. Stede leaving hurt him immensely (and predictably, Stede) in ways Stede will have to own up to, but it was Edward's own unaddressed issues - independent of Stede AND Izzy - that determined the appropriate response to that hurt was "realize that vulnerability and hope are lies and every dark voice in the back of your mind ever was telling the truth, actually."

Edward's conviction that nobody loves him and that he's not capable of successfully loving someone back is literally his depression talking. It is not rationally based in the reality of his life or relationships, Stede or otherwise. He may even have successfully beat back the sentiment for most of his life, with that getting harder and harder as time went on.

(He's expressed this kind of depressive-episode-driven warped view before, btw, and they explicitly parallel it in Purgatory just for me! The flashbacks of the bathtub scene while he attacks the spectre of Hornigold are my huge W in that episode. "It all boils down to this - you're afraid you're unlovable", said by the actual manifestation of Edward's suicidal self-hatred in Purgatory, is the new "That's why I don't have any friends." I think it's fair to question if he was a reliable narrator of his experiences back then, too. Jim and the crew certainly think he had at least one friend.)

Basically, "Best I could" now can mean a lot of things before. Young Izzy and Edward could have been much healthier than they are at present. Probably were, to be honest. It wasn't enough to save them from going sour, but it could explain why they've stuck together so long even as it has.

Izzy loves Edward. Edward loves Izzy.

LOVE LOSES. BUT LOVE WINS 😭😭😭

---

Kraken Era = Murder-Suicide, but Edward Wants to be the Murdered One

So, uh... *scrambling for notes* Where am I going with this? Fuck, I'm not even writing it linearly... OK!

Izzy KNOWS Edward - knows him going back ages, has seen his darkest and weakest moments - and even after 3 toes and a stress breakdown he still LOVES him enough to say it out loud (which I doubt these guys do, uh, ever). Which really throws a wrench in Edward's "Stede realized I'm inherently toxic and unlovable" theory, and prompts him to redouble his "prove to Izzy he doesn't love me" efforts by casually shooting him.

Afterward, he finally makes his passive suicidal intents explicit when talking (practically sobbing, in truth) to Frenchie:

"Never going back to land. We're gonna sail, rob, raise hell forever and ever, without end."

He's set on it, now. Izzy's potential last act was to finally rip down the illusion, give name to the hurt Edward had been running from since he first put on his Kraken makeup. So he pushes his little wedding toppers out the window, cleans himself up, and goes out to wave every single red flag imaginable for poor Frenchie's locked box.

Except it wasn't Izzy's last act, now was it?

But that's fine for Edward. That actually works better. He wants the hopeless situation to end, but he doesn't want to pull the trigger himself or he would have done it by now. After everything, surely Izzy should be ready to murder-suicide him??? He can't still love him, not after Edward so effectively proved he's exactly as toxic as his self-loathing depressive episodes say he is. It's poetic.

Edward underestimates Izzy. Knows him with his head, but the depression makes him underestimate his heart.

Edward doesn't get a bullet through the head, be hears the gun go off and - well - that's one way to spin "not even Izzy loves me any more" into a true statement.

Edward wants to live slightly more than he wants everything to end. It's the only reason he's alive. Before Izzy said Stede's name he was floating high on denial like that bird who never lands, keeping his depression and his destruction as a blast radius more than a dagger. He was lurching in the direction of dying by combat or by crew mutiny or by simple self-destructive behaviors, but he avoided thinking about anything long enough to have intent.

After Izzy's desperate attempt to intervene, Edward can't hide from his own reasoning anymore. Or his hurt. Or his self-enforced hopelessness. And with that comes aims. He has his rough night and then starts the massive red flag upswing. Cleans up. Gets ready for the big finale. He pushes Izzy with the "closure" conversation, trying to find a pressure point that will get him killed to close off the narrative with a artful bow.

Murder-suicide sounds like a fix to his problems, but he still wants to live slightly more. He still can't turn the gun on himself. He aims to be the murdered one.

After Izzy is gone, though, by Edward's own actions? That's the last straw he needs to commit in full. Thanking Frenchie? Just another final goodbye to get his affairs in order. "Take the day off, brother. Go live." The moment Izzy dies they all become dead men walking.

Thank FUCK that Edward a) still would prefer it if they snapped and murdered him / something out of his control killed him (he still wants to live), and b) still wants to die dramatically. A different man would have walked right back to his cabin and not missed.

Sidebar to appreciate the breakup boat crew some more because I love them:

Fang: "So... do we think he's better?" Jim: "Fuck no!"

Edward is ready to be the murderer with his cannon pointed at the mast, but he stalls on damning the whole crew to a watery grave (r.i.p. half of them), gives Izzy time to wake up and drag himself out to protect said crew, and then finally gets what he's been after.

Edward's motivations are already perfectly clear, but just to really hammer it in - he thinks he just drove a man he loved to suicide, and then he demands the couple he found kissing fight to the death with the reasoning:

"All love dies, I'm just hastening the process."

Jim literally just learned last season that was bullshit, my guy. It makes sense they are the one who finally puts a stop to him.

(Except the cannonball doesn't hit. There's no head wound. And Edward is alive when they take him back to the secret room, laying him out respectfully instead of letting the waves take him too. They don't even know if they'll survive. They certainly don't have anywhere to take the body, or a working ship to get there. Maybe they didn't notice because they didn't want to notice.)

(AND EDWARD STILL WANTS TO LIVE)

Both Izzy and Edward try to die. Both of them do - maybe, in the bottom of their hearts - want to live just a tiny bit more. They shoot each other. They say OUT LOUD they love each other (though Edward I swear to fuck you better say that to Izzy's face ohmygod). They are on this journey together.

BOTH OF THEM LIVE. AND NOW THEY HAVE TO DEAL WITH THAT.

(I feel like I wanted to add stuff about Stede & Izzy meeting again but like. I don't even know. Izzy doesn't even know. Is he protecting the crew? Deflecting? Edward's dignity (-ish)? Stede's good opinion of Edward? Dealing with his own massively fucked headspace? Ask me again on Friday. Fuck.)

My fucked up guys are in toxic fucked up LOVE!!!

[vocesincaput]

Open Starter

More than days had passed since Jim & Archie had removed his leg. It had to be more than days. It felt as if it had to have been an eternity to Izzy. Each passing day, each passing moment, seemed to drag on for longer and longer than the last.

The agonising pain that was ever present within him, stemming from where his lower leg used to be and upwards, a constant reminder of everything he had been through. Everything he had helped cause.

It was his punishment. A fraction of what he deserved.

When he had risen from the bed the crew had kept him on, Izzy hadn't seen to his wound. Simply tying up the end of his trouser leg to cover it. There was no point in seeing to it properly, even if the opportunity to do so would arrive. He didn't deserve the aid that had already been given to him, let alone any more than that.

When the pain began to subside sometimes, Izzy could tell that it wasn't a good thing. The pain would be replaced by a sense of unease and numbness that meant things were getting worse. But still, he didn't say anything.

He deserved this pain. He deserved what was coming to him.

And besides, someone had to watch over the crew.

Looking out over the side of the Revenge, leaning heavily on both the upside mop he had taken to using as a crutch and the side of the ship. It was one of the moments where the pain had turned into the numbness and it was lasting longer than the previous. Izzy knew what that meant. He didn't need to look at where his lower leg had been to know that things were getting worse.

He knew he had to look like absolute shit by that point but he wasn't going to draw attention to it and if anyone else tried to, he would tell them to fuck off.

And so he stayed swaying where he stood, attempting to find peace in all he had done. In how everything around him seemed to be clouded in something that made their sounds die down to barely a murmur.

Izzy had no idea just how long he had been in that same spot, everything else around him having faded away when a voice seemed to call out to him. Sounding as if it were calling from a distance through water, he didn't respond.

There was no point in responding. Not anymore.

Not when all he was doing now was simply... waiting....

[dragonmuse]

I have a homophobic flat tire and I’m mad about it, so I’m sending in this prompt: Izzy and Pete rescue Lucius from car trouble in the Iz/Pete/Luc timeline.

(Note: this particular flat tire is homophobic because I’m gay and my wife a and I got it last night on the way home from the Lil NAS X concert.)

(so the only issue with this is that Lucius doesn’t drive, so instead, here he is at the mercy of the public transit system instead, but there is a metaphorical homophobic flat tire at the root of things) 

Lucius: I’m going to be late. Like really late. May never make it home, actually. Remember me fondly.

Pete: what’s wrong? 

Lucius: the entire Blue line is seized up, something on the tracks and it’s cascading over to every other line. waited in the tunnel for an hour to get off.

Izzy: where are you? 

Lucius:  It’s fine. I’m emerging from the pit of despair. I’ll just walk it. 

Izzy: where are you? 

Lucius: seriously, no big. 

Pete: babe, he’s just going to keep asking 

Izzy: it’s pouring and freezing 

Lucius: I have an umbrella. 

Pete: the blue and white one? 

Lucius: yes

Pete: no you don’t. I’m looking at it in the coat closet right now. 

Lucius: I have two? 

Izzy:  Shuster or 11th? 

Lucius: 11th. 

Pete: go wait in that weird cafe, we’ll be there in fifteen. 

Lucius: I don’t need rescuing. 

Izzy: good, cause I'm fresh out of white horses. just get me a coffee then. Pay for your way. 

Lucius: fine. 

Izzy: fine. 

Pete: how is this an argument?  

Izzy didn’t bother finding parking, just pulled up in front of hydrant and got out his phone. 

“Don’t,” Pete sighed, unbuckling his seatbelt. “I’ll get him. The two of you are fucking ridiculous.” 

“He won’t accept help,” Izzy gritted out. 

“Oh., because you’re so good at it,” Pete rolled his eyes, then leaned over to kiss Izzy on the cheek. “He’s used to being on his own. Be nice.” 

“No,” Izzy said sullenly, but his lips twitched when Pete laughed at him. 

He got out of the car and ran for the cafe door. Even with the blue and white umbrella, it was punishingly wet and cold. A few people were crowded under the awning, so he didn’t feel bad taking up his own sliver of space to close the umbrella, gather his thoughts for a second then head in. Lucius wasn’t hard to find, sitting at a small table, his hair still visibly damp and his sweater spattered darkly along the shoulders. 

He was clutching a cup of coffee, shoulders hunched, and had a drink holder in front of him with two more paper cups in him. His eyes were on the street, but he would’ve missed Izzy’s car, tucked as it was a few doors down. As Pete watched, he sniffed miserably, reached for his phone then dropped it again. 

Pete’s heart clenched and he stopped stalling. 

“Hey, babe,” he said cheerfully. Lucius’ shoulders came down fast, and he plastered on a smile. 

“Heya.” 

Pete put a hand on his back, “You didn’t actually have to get him coffee. He was joking, I think.” 

“No, I know,” Lucius smiled fractionally. “It’s fine. I figured we could all use something hot to drink. I got you decaf.” 

“Thanks,” he kissed his cheek. “C’mon, you look like you’re freezing.”

“It’s...not pleasant,” Lucius conceded. “I think my socks are mostly water now.”

“The worst,” he said sympathetically. “Izzy parked like an asshole, so we should probably go.” 

“He’s going to get ticketed one day and we’re going to hear about it for weeks.” 

“Are you kidding? He wouldn’t admit to it under the pain of death.” 

They got back to the car and Pete opened the back door for himself immediately, forcing Lucius to jog around and get into the passenger seat. Lucius handed Izzy his coffee with a tart, 

“Your majesty.” 

“Thanks,” Izzy took it and slipped it into the cup holder. “You okay?” 

“...no,” Lucius mumbled.  

“Okay,” Izzy sighed. “Let’s get you home.” 

Izzy’s place had slowly become home over the last few months though it was probably the first time any of them had put a word to it. It sank into the tension simmering in the car and skimmed the worst of it right off the top. 

“Please,” Lucius slumped.  

They didn’t talk, so Pete didn’t either. He watched the rain come down. Things were certainly less complicated when it had just been him and Izzy. But it also hadn’t been called ‘home’. He figured it was a good trade. 

When they got in the front door, Luicus started shedding damp clothes in the doorway, his socks making a sad ‘twump’ sound as they hit the floor. Izzy watched the puddle form underneath his feet and before Pete could cut off whatever comment about preserving the floorboards was coming, Izzy said, 

“How about you get in the shower and warm up?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Lucius frowned like he’d also been waiting for it and drifted off towards the bathroom. 

“Where was he this afternoon?” Izzy asked. 

“Uh...dunno, actually.” Pete frowned. “He doesn’t usually take the Blue line, does he?” 

“Don’t think so. And he usually wouldn’t give a shit if we came to get him. Hell, once he saw it was raining, he probably would’ve just called.” 

“He gets weird about us taking care of him,” Pete pointed out, sweeping up the undershirt Izzy had missed. “Figured it was just that.” 

“Sometimes,” Izzy agreed, but it was clearly still bothering him as he took everything over to the washer and put it in on a delay so it wouldn’t rob hot water from the now running shower. 

Pete concentrated on getting dinner started. It was leftovers, but he got rice on the go to pair with the stirfry while Izzy made a salad. They moved easily around each other in the small space and some of Pete’s worry dissipated under the tide of it. Lucius came out of the bathroom, went into the bedroom and shut the door. 

“Don’t love that,” Pete said quietly. 

“Me either,” Izzy sliced a tomato thin. “Could go in.” 

“Let’s give him a few.” 

Sure enough after ten or so minutes, Lucius re-emerged in pajama pants and an old worn t-shirt. He sat down heavily at the counter. Izzy slid him a glass of water and Lucius made a protesting noise, but did pick it up and sip.  

“You want to tell us what’s up?” Pete ventured.

Lucius scrubbed a hand over his face. “I forgot the umbrella was here. I thought I had it in my bag. I wasn’t lying.” 

“No one thought you were,” Pete said.  

“No?” 

“Would’ve gotten you even if you did have it,” Izzy put in. “So why would you lie about it?” 

"To prevent you coming to get me, obviously."

"Why?" Izzy set down the knife. "Seriously, why do you give a shit? One of us would've had the time and we don't actually like you being miserable."

"I had it. Fuck. What is the inquisition over?"

"What's this about?" Izzy pressed. "You're being...prickly."

"I am NOT."

They all let that sink in.

"Kind of are," Pete said gently. "Like just a wee bit."

Lucius dropped his gaze to the counter. “I maybe had a not great day.” 

“Tell us about it."

“I went to go see my mother,” he muttered. 

Ah. Izzy and Pete did not look at each other, but understanding vibrated between them anyway.  

“You didn’t mention it,” Pete leaned on the counter to face him. 

“It was last minute. She had some- it doesn’t matter,” Lucius laughed mirthlessly. “I know better. I have to plan the visits so I can get in and get out. I let her trap me and it was three hours of bullshit with her jackal friends. I left early, so she couldn’t drive me to the station and it started raining on the way there.”  

“That sucks,” Pete came around to pull him into a hug. Lucius slumped into it. “You know, one of us could go with you next time.” 

“You know that I-” 

“Pretty sure between Izzy’s spy experience and my acting skills one of us could just be your friend,” Pete cut him off. 

“I wasn’t a spy,” Izzy said. “But yeah, I think I could manage not to jump you in front of your mother.” 

“You could not manage to be quiet the whole time,” Lucius challenged.  

“I could,” Pete offered. “Really.” 

“Really?” Lucius raised his eyebrows. “If she said some deeply passive-aggressively shitty things to me, you’d just sit there and let me handle it?” 

“If that’s what you wanted,” Pete said staunchly. 

“He would,” Izzy nodded. “I’d eat her for lunch, but I bet Pete could do it. He’s better at internal screaming.” 

“Really?” Pete smiled at him. 

“Don’t let it go to your head.” 

“I’ll think about it,” Lucius conceded. 

Dinner was a happier affair after that. They talked about movies and finally put one on when the plates were cleared out. Pete fussed over the popcorn, mostly so he could watch as Izzy settled at Lucius’ feet, resting his head onto Lucius’ knee. They were talking quietly, the words lost over the distance. Whatever they said seemed to thaw out the last of the ice and Lucius’ hand went into Izzy’s hair.  

Pete sat down on the couch beside Lucius. They were pressed warmly to each other. Within a few minutes, Izzy reached across Luicus’ legs to circle his fingers around Pete’s ankle and gave a single squeeze before retreating again.

Maybe Lucius would let Pete come next time and maybe not, but he thought next time might be easier anyway, if he knew he’d come home to this.

[rottingformerfirstmate]

Co-authored by @biweatherman and @blacklavenderbeard

Summary: Father Hands, a loyal priest of the Kraken, grapples with his devotion to his god and his hatred of Edward’s companion, Stede. As he balances a fickle god, a kind one he has never forgiven, and a seemingly incompetent crew, Izzy must also contend with his own perceptions of what it means to worship. [ SteddyHands, Rated M ]

Chapter: Help that Never Came (7/13) | WC: 4.1k

AO3

Warnings: Suicidal Thoughts/Behavior, Child Abuse (Referenced), Drowning

They don’t make it more than half a night’s journey, during which Izzy doesn’t get a moment’s rest, before they run into trouble. He’s been pacing in the captain’s quarters between sporadic trips back on deck, thinking about how much he hates where he’s ended up. It’s his own fault, if he had been a better prophet, or even a better man, he wouldn’t be here. It stings twice as much to know that this crew were well aware of who they were dealing with and still made themselves useless and disruptive to the task at hand. They knew what was at stake, but just didn’t seem to care.

It’s not a surprise that he notices the glow of another ship’s lanterns on the night watch, but it isn't expected in this part of the sea, when the land is so far and they've made sure to avoid the usual trade routes. He pulls his telescope from his pocket and extends it to get a better look. Some part of him considers raiding the thing. It might win back the Kraken’s favor if he proves himself so bloodthirsty and single minded. Before he has the chance, however, he hears an earth shattering boom.

It’s a warning shot, he can tell by the hundred meters or so that the cannonball misses the ship, but it’s a bad sign.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Shit, shit ,shit.” He turns to Ivan, who is supposed to be sharing the watch but who has mostly busied himself with a solo card game that could not possibly be more boring. “Ivan, wake the crew. We’ve got company.”

“Yes, boss,” Ivan says, hurrying below deck and Izzy can’t help but feel grateful that it was Ivan on deck, one of the few crewmembers who actually seems to understand that certain things out here mean life or death. Within a few minutes the crew is assembled on deck, looking at Izzy expectantly as the ship rapidly gains ground on them, and he realizes he hasn’t a clue what to do.

Izzy knows, strategically, the maneuvers they could take to try and outrun the ship bearing down on them. He also knows which of the men he can rely on to fight: Ivan, Fang, Jim, and potentially Wee John all spring to mind. But the thought of actually barking these orders out, of making the decisions completely by himself, fills him with dread. If he makes the wrong move this crew will die, and it will be because of him.

This is maybe the part of godhood that he had never considered, not that he would think himself on their level; they must be burdened constantly by the weight of having to know all the answers. It must come easily to them, but as he looks out at the crew, he can imagine exactly the sort of pressure they’re under.

“There’s no time to try a negotiation,” Izzy warns them. “They’re coming, and they’re boarding. “Let me handle it until I tell you otherwise, understood?”

A hushed murmur of affirmations rises to meet him. The only other time he’s heard the crew so silent and so serious was a few hours earlier, before they were abandoned. The sober mood has come back. All they can do is wait.

Luckily, they are not kept waiting long before the ship is within range, and a long ladder is placed to bridge the gap between decks. Even for sailors, the boarders are dirty and coated in what Izzy first assumes to be gunpowder, but quickly realises with a sinking heart is ash. These aren’t pirates who can be bribed, or navy men who can be threatened. They’re devotees, not unlike him, except their loyalty lies with a god who bears even less mercy than the Kraken, and only a fraction of the foresight.

Izzy’s run in with the Calico’s devotees have been few and far between, especially recently, something he can only feel grateful for. The Calico is ruthless, revelling in the pain of his followers just for the fun of it. At least the Kraken’s punishments had a point.

Izzy knows that he can’t let these followers come close to the crew. They would delight in their softness, in ruining it. He’s almost surprised by the cold that runs down his spine at the thought, and the determination to stop any harm coming to the crew. It’s his fault they’re in this mess. He knows that the Calico and the Kraken have history, and he wouldn’t be surprised if this is one final punishment from his god. He won’t let the crew suffer for his mistakes.

Izzy tightens his grip on his sword, forcing his shoulders back and his chin up as he faces down the follower facing him. He isn’t surprised that he doesn’t recognise them; the Calico runs through devotees fast, discarding them like broken toys when they’ve burnt themselves out. Izzy has hardly ever seen the same one twice.

The follower launches themself at him. He doesn’t even bother checking to see if they’re carrying a weapon, his sword dancing through the air as he cuts them down, and that seems to be the signal for the rest of them to swarm onto the deck. He lets himself wonder for just a second if there could have been a way to talk them down, but he knows that the followers are here for one thing, and one thing only. If it’s bloodshed they want, he’ll happily give it to them.

He’s surprised by the way his own crew responds with the same fervor. The deck becomes a frenzy of bodies clashing, screams and blood spraying the air in equal measure. It’s been a long time since Izzy participated in a fight like this, but wielding a sword is something one never forgets how to do. Things that require balancing the forces of life and death, trained into the very fibers of a man’s muscles, are difficult to forget. He knows when to swing and when to slice, knows how many steps he needs to take on each turn like a ballerina’s pirouette into the next death he commands. Again, he’s struck with a sense of power. This is power. Not just taking down the words of deities, and not just spreading their messages to every willing ear, but getting to take the beating of another’s heart into his hands and make it stop. And it is a power he wields by himself, every decision his own.

“Izzy!”

He doesn’t bother to correct the informality, or even process who screamed his name, simply pivoting to the sound and blocking what would have surely been a deadly blow from a sailor scant more than a child. He wants to let her go. Instead, he sends a whispered prayer to anyone who might be listening when he used to send them to the Kraken, and runs the long blade of his sword through her shoulder. When he pulls it back, she crumples, and he does not check to see if she’s still breathing. There isn’t time.

The second he looks up he sees Jim, cornered against the mast, slashing with a knife he knows them to be far more proficient at throwing, but they are unable to find the space to do so. He crosses the deck without a second thought. Another new thing, he realizes, is his willingness to risk his own life to save theirs. Loyalty amongst men is a funny thing, far different for what he has shown to the gods.

He will not get rewarded for this show of loyalty, quite the opposite, if the sword slicing through his arm is any indication. He can feel the warm trickle of blood dripping down his skin, and the stinging pain, but it barely slows him down as he cuts his way through the chaos to Jim. He has suffered far worse pain. He’s used to pushing it aside when he has something to fight for. He just never thought that would include anything other than the Kraken.

He manages to get to Jim, he can see from the sweat dripping down their face that they wouldn’t have been able to hold on for much longer. They don’t display any worry about their situation, just give Izzy a nod before they dash back into the fray. The stinging in his arm fades as Jim darts off, and when he glances down the fabric is unripped, as if nothing had happened.

Izzy has barely a second to consider it before he is blocking another attack, pushing forward into the fray. He scans the deck, taking in the bodies piled high, heart sinking at the constant stream of attackers still making their way onto the ship. His crew has held up longer than he thought possible, but they can’t hold on forever. For every attacker they cut down, another seems to step forward and take their place.

He has a moment to wonder how many people there could possibly be before a wayward arm catches him upside the head, sending stars across his vision and forcing him to his knees. A curse escapes him before he manages to get back to his feet. The air feels tight again, like it normally does around Edward and Stede. He’s currently far more inclined to label it as panic and his own physical weakness then any interaction by the divine.

As he raises his sword again he realizes just how exhausted he has become by this. Not only the fighting, but the living, the breathing, the being. His crew is holding their own for now, but with no end in sight there’s no way they’re making it through this. The night will swallow them whole, and with their bodies left on the deck to be desecrated by the Calico’s worshippers there is no other side of heavens and beauty and riches to look forward to. Dying in honor of one’s god grants them eternity. Dying a failure is a promise of emptiness and damnation.

Izzy heavily considers the notion of lowering his sword and baring his neck to be slashed open, his body crumpling to be burned and worse. Nothing but a book that will surely be incinerated will remain of the things he has tried to do for the Kraken.

It is only the smell of burning, thick and cloying, that stops him. When he dies, it will not be in flames, it will not be quick, and it will not be under the eyes of the Calico. He may not have earned eternal rest in the Kraken’s arms, but he is determined that his final moments will still be in his embrace. The Kraken is not a kind god, but he is a just one, and Izzy hopes that he has at least earned that final mercy in Edward’s eyes.

He stumbles to the railing, hands gripping the wood, knuckles white, as he stares down at the rolling waves. The clanging of swords and screaming fades into the background as he looks down, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in his ears. It’s far easier than he thought it would be to take that final step over the edge, and he's falling, stomach swooping as he plummets towards the end he always knew was coming.

The air is knocked out of his lungs as he smashes against the waves, and he gasps on instinct, sputtering as he swallows mouthfuls of water, the salt stinging his throat. He sinks down into the depths, falling away from the ship and the crew and the Calico’s men and this whole damned voyage.

Izzy had heard that as you died, your life flashed behind your eyes. That, it seems, is not just an old wives’ tale, but has some truth in it. As he falls deeper and deeper beneath the depths, the world growing darker and darker, he remembers his childhood, as short and miserable as it was.

His fate was not an uncommon one: the youngest and smallest of a mass of kids, a mother who found peace in opium, and a father who drank far too much and whose preferred method of finding his own peace was beating the shit out of whichever family member was closest. Food, clothes, and love had all been scarce, and Izzy was never exactly going to win a fight against his elder siblings for it.

Izzy prayed as a child. He prayed for warmth when his hands stung with the cold, prayed for food when his stomach ached, prayed for someone to protect him. To care for him. To love him. He had hated praying to Stede, even back then. But Stede was meant to be the protector of lost souls. He was said to wipe away the tears of children crying out in the dark, telling them bedtime stories until they drifted peacefully asleep.

So, feeling even smaller than he usually did, Izzy would curl up in whatever corner he was hiding in, eyes squeezed tight. He would recite the prayers that had been taught to him, over and over again.

He remembers the story of the way humanity was constructed by the gods long before the first iterations of that sequence of events was taken down. Mankind was cobbled together on a balmy summer afternoon, after the land had been set for them and the seeds planted to feed their hungry mouths. In some tellings of the beginning, it was the work of an egret of a God, dressed in the most blindingly white feathers, creating sparks of heartbeats between beats of its wings all across the habitable land of the Earth, which had come quite a long way since its first moments.

Every deity gave something to the shriveled, pink, pathetic creatures set to inherit what was not built for them, to help them along in their path and live lives fully dedicated to the service of one or more of their creators. Izzy first read texts of the Kraken when he was too young to fully parse out the words’ true implications. He fell in over his head, he thinks, but he would not have it any other way. There were those who sighed intelligence into unprepared ears, and who taught rough palms to craft the first fires, and who strummed melodies unlike what a sole human might be capable of producing, and who sharpened weapons for the first murder. The Kraken gave them all the passion of the tumultuous high seas for them to make use of the gifts others had given them.

It is for reasons like this that Izzy adores him so completely; without the Kraken, there is no possibility of true experience in life, not of the gifts from the other deities and not of their own inventions. Stede, on the other hand, thought it prudent to give them tenderness at what had been the closest approximation gods experience to a birth. While this alone does not encapsulate all that Stede is or represents, it is what he deemed most important to share with the pathetic dribbling creatures most of humanity has become. Tenderness has never been afforded to Izzy, and he has undoubtedly encountered too many men who are ignorant of such a trait. The Kraken made them useful. Stede made them capable of cruelty.

The waves swallow Izzy and it feels almost like a hug. Despite himself he finds himself thinking of Stede’s beginnings more and more. Different scriptures give different views on the god's origin, and the man himself seems unconcerned with setting the record straight. Izzy figures it doesn’t much matter how the god came into being, all that matters is that he is here now.

The worst part about the discrepancy between Edward and Stede is that Stede seemed to listen when Izzy was a child. He would pray and then find some food on the street, discarded and stale but otherwise perfectly fine. Or his brother would suddenly hit a growth spurt and he would be handed down a set of warm clothes just as the winter chill was setting in. All he had to do was feel small and helpless, and he would be given what he needed.

Perhaps to the gods, humans are always pathetically small in that way. With the currents taking him deeper asunder, he can tell that even this small portion of the ocean is unfathomably large. It is still a microscopic piece of one tiny slip of the Kraken’s domain, and he alone is only one of many gods. He is infinitesimal in his plight. No matter what he thinks he is or has done, at the end of his life, he will simply be relegated to a whisper of memory, just as the Kraken’s first priest was.

When the humans first rose into existence with the Kraken, not quite monkeys but not yet more, there was a boom in innovation like none had ever seen. Every deity had something to give to this final exam of creation, which was intended to carry them on through indefinite centuries of worship and humble service. The Kraken first walked among humans then, before he gave them any gifts, to get a good handle on who they are, and who they will ever be. The Kraken, a mysterious monster full of eldritch possibilities and seething rage, gave the gift of passion to humanity. He gave them the ability to feel all the emotions whittled into their cores by the others so fully that their very souls are almost bursting with it. It gave them the ability to hate, to kill, to maim, to destroy- but it also came with devotion. There must be passion for devotion, something the followers of other all-knowing beings should remember. It all comes from the Kraken.

According to legend, the Kraken began hiding himself among humans to keep his eyes on their increasingly unbecoming behavior, taking on this pseudonym or that as he watched. Edward is a popular one, a fact Izzy knows not because all creatures with a brain do, but because he’s been blessed with the intimate knowledge of all forms the Kraken takes. He knows the whispering spilled darkness of tentacles. He knows bronze skin that is deceptively cool to the touch. He knows unfathomable beauty and ephemeral human cheeks. Edward and the Kraken are the same entity, but there’s softness stored between the splashes of wine-dark blood in Edward’s veins, and it is Izzy’s to safeguard and throw himself to the floor for. Edward is capable of extraordinary acts of love. He is also capable of hurting people in ways that the Kraken’s true form is not quite land-faring enough to manage.

Still, he receives a daily devotion from countless followers around the world, even if none are so fervent as those Izzy bestows upon him the second he can force breathy words from his throat on a foggy morning.

The scriptures do agree, however inconsistent the many versions, that Stede is a newer god, and that there had not been Stede without humanity, or humanity without Stede. He is their constant protector, answering the prayers of the needy, inspiring communities, guiding even the coldest of hearts to help their neighbor. With the rounding circles of gifts and intentions dancing waltzes through the souls of every human being, it is no wonder that so many are devoted, and that so few then agree on which of their creators holds the most power and deserves the most of their attention and adoration. It has felt like a given longer than it hasn’t, for Izzy; he will always turn first and most attentively to the Kraken. It is not Stede who deserves the affection.

In contrast, the Earth hadn’t yet fully formed when the Kraken came into existence, rising from the humid mires of the primordial soup that first supported life. It was then, according to the texts, that long dark tendrils began to whisper through the waves and a weather-beaten face peeked over the surface. The gods, most of them, came before humans had any right to the world, but there was something in them that calls to mind a delicate human stature. People were created in the divine image, after all.

Under the watchful, burning gaze of the sun, the Kraken made himself real and known. He was born of the sludge, through sheer force of will, with a punishment already written across the tip of his oft forked tongue, prepared to be unleashed upon the first creature to draw his attention. Violence, passion, anger, true justice, were there before even a single person had yet thought to sully the world with their own weak imitations of emotions created to befit a god such as this one. The groundwork was laid for them by the Kraken’s calloused hands. There was no one around yet to appreciate such a thing. Perhaps there never will be.

Sometimes, if one turns their face precisely to the morning sun, there is a saying that the true light of the divine will bathe their eager lips and cheeks, and they will feel the full weight of the love and care that the gods carry for them in all they do. Izzy has done this thousands of times, and has only ever felt the answering call of Edward’s beckoning fingers against the column of his throat. Maybe this is because he has always touched the sea as he does so, or perhaps it is a result of his failure to want anything the others will give to him.

Izzy has long thought of Stede as a sickness, thought that he seeds softness in men’s hearts. That he makes them reliant and complacent, clouds their minds with rotten compassion until they are willing to die for no reason, as long as they die together.

Now, he isn’t too sure. Seeing the crew move as one, allowing them to cut through the waves, to sail through Ed’s domain and weather the storms that roll in with his mercurial moods, he can see the worth in a group acting as one mind. And he can feel Stede with them as well as see him as they act together to heave the sails. He can feel him in the way the crew will sit on deck and share rum and stories after a harsh day, so that they can face the next morning with a smile.

Eventually in Izzy’s childhood, Stede stopped listening, and Izzy found himself abandoned by the god who abandoned no one. So he had given himself to a new god, the only one who listens, the only one who wants a soul as twisted and rotten as his. To the god who understands his unending rage at the world, to the god who urges him to preach of strength and violence and power. He preaches for the god of storms and unimaginable destruction, the god who spurs on pirates during a raid, the god whose hymns are sung in the war drums accompanying soldiers marching onto beaches in the boatload. And he was rewarded for his service.

The memory of Stede standing up to Ed, of needing Stede’s protection, of Ed listening to him, also comes to mind, making his stomach churn as much as the waves tossing him about like a toy do. But, that did take courage, or maybe stupidity, to face a storm, and command it to change course, to become steady waves, and for the storm to listen. To be dismissed. To be called into something gentle.

Izzy’s lungs start to burn, and as he kicks to the surface he gasps for air. One thing he does know for certain is that all the scriptures and philosophers, the preachers and the believers are wrong about one thing. Stede is not a constant. He will make you soft and reliant, and then he will leave. He is the fathers who kissed your skinned knees better, but also the ones who walked out. He is love and the absolute cracking destruction of grief when that love leaves. He had stopped the Kraken’s wrath, but that too was just temporary. You can only calm a storm for so long; in the end it will come back. And Izzy will now return to Edward’s domain for his final judgment, his final reckoning. At that thought, the waves claim him once more, pulling him away from the sweet taste of air.

As he sinks into his god's domain, as his bones ache with the effort to keep treading water and fight his way to the surface, as his lungs scream out for air, he knows that this is the final embrace of the only god who could ever love a soul like his.

[melanated-maddy]

TYTON

Hey welcome to this fan fiction. I recently finished war storm and I’m in love with Tyton. Couldn’t help but want to right a fic after seeing so little on this guy on tumblr. Don’t know if I’ll write more as got exams but if you like let me know! All characters and world and everything belongs to the queen herself Victoria Aveyard

Chapter 1

“Debark, debark, debark.”

Tyton was snapped out of his musings pale fingers still gripped against the fading cover of his book. They’d finally arrived back in Ascendant after another long plane journey. A year after the kingdom of Norta was officially dissolved with Cal’s abdication there was still unrest with the Silvers. Too many houses had attempted to feel comfortable on the sparkling throne. ‘Osanos says water comes after fire, Rhambos is taking strength and power a little too literally and Merandus is trying hard to distance themselves from the insanity their own brought forth in Maven and actually claim the throne. At least there’s no more Samos worries. That ship sailed or should I say smashed along with Volo’s head with his offspring are safely tucked away in the capital.’ The soldiers on the plane had started their move off some in a rush to get home to worried families and others ready to have a drink. Davidson was the closet family Tyton had after his own lost their lives to a raid. His mother, father and two younger brothers all gone in an instant. That instance was the first time Tyton’s ability was able to properly manifest. Properly surge. Properly show how dangerous he was. It was Davidson who found him when searching the wrecks of homes and families. Still holding his brother’s Aeon’s hand tears in his eyes. Davidson was always quiet even back in those days and knelt to Tyton’s small height hugging him close. After that day Davidson properly set about burying the family well allowing Tyton to grieve and giving him another place to call home. He’d never admit it, but Tyton was lucky...relieved that Davidson and Carmadon took him in. Even if those raiders who had taken his family from him deserved his rage, he was terrified of the lightning under his skin. With a huff, Tyton uncoiled his long body from his seat standing and stretching up to remind his muscles of their function. The suit he wore was dark not one of the traditional Montfort green it just would not do for some missions. Under his seat he pulled free the small bag carrying a bottle of water, bag of nuts and stored the book into it securely. It was the last thing he’d received from his parents and even so he still struggled to get through it properly. As Tyton turned to move out the aircraft door onto the tarmac he spotted Mare struggling to reach an overhead compartment to grab something. He quickly moved forward and grabbed hold of two items: a maroon scarf and backpack.

“Thanks.”

“No worries I’m always available to help the vertically challenged.”

Mare’s face turned into a vivid shade of crimson and she moved as if ready to punch his arm when Cal swung his head back into the cabin. He seemed exasperated which quickly shifted to a swift glare as his eyes settled on how close the two were.

“Tyton.”

“Cal.”

“Mare what's taking so long?”

“Difficulties getting the scarf and backpack you decided to thrust into the overhead bin. As well as being ready to obliterate string bean here.”

Tyton gave a chuckle, although he was slightly leaner than Cal a string bean he was not.

“Don’t worry just helping her out she’s still yours, your highness.”

Cal bristled with the label, but Tyton was already strolling out onto the blinding tarmac doused in bright light.

As he got his bearings about himself, Tyton could not help feeling the pulses of electricity going off in every person around hims body. Just as you could imagine different emotions and thoughts had different electric compositions. As people moved around he recognised stress signals, pulses of joy and shifts of concentration. The signals never went away but with time he’d found away to keep them working in tandem with him so he didn’t get overwhelmed.

“Tyton come on rides here.” Rafe called his hair in the sun giving the appearance of green flames.

Tyton walked to the transport, long legs eating up the distance in a few moments to be face to face with Rafe. Ella must’ve caught a different one as the storm addict’s blue hair was no where to be seen. Together the two walked towards Davidson who was speaking to Arezzo in hushed tones. With a nod she was dismissed walking instead of jumping to wherever she needed to go. Davidson turned to the two a smooth smile on his face and opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a quick trill.

“Rafe!”

A blur of orange smashed into Rafe’s chest holding him tightly as he clutched her back.

Laughing Rafe greeted her, “Iz, nice to see you too, but you’re crushing me.”

With one last tug, Izelle released her older brother a wide grin tugging on her lips as she looked up at him. Izelle, was Rafe’s little sister by a year who shared his dark brown skin smooth and even and bright smile. In her orange dress that spun around her knees and black combat boots, she giggled letting her hair of tight curls circling her head move slightly held back with an orange band.

“Is it wrong for me to have missed my dumb big brother? Am I wrong Tyton?”

Tyton smiled and shook his head as Rafe glared at him.

“So nice to know that it won’t be a strongarm that gets me but my sister’s choke hold.”

Iz shoved Rafe as he rolled his eyes and moved to put his bags in the transport while Iz turned to greet Tyton.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

And with that Tyton opened his arms and Izelle moved into them giving him a tight hug.

‘Her hugs are always great.’

“Thanks for looking out for Rafe. I’m one hundred percent sure he’s not dead somewhere because of you.”

A deep rumble erupted from Tyton as he shook his head. They walked to the transport as Tyton asked how she’d been.

“All good here finally ready to move onto the fourth arc only two more to go before I’m a qualified teacher of education.”

“That’s excellent. You’ve worked hard for it.”

“Yeah it’s been so long definitely the hardest thing I’ve faced, but it’ll be so worth it once I’m in a class with little guys.”

“Do you know what specialism you’ll take yet Izzy?”

In Montfort, classes were not segregated at all with children of all blood types getting the same education to the best standard they could. Those who were Ardent or Silver has supplementary classes to help in coming into their abilities. However, it was courtesy for teachers at normal school to specialise in understanding one blood type well so that support chains could be used in school for any student struggling.

“I’m not sure yet to be honest. I’ve still got to think, might swing for Ardent or Red they’ve already got lots of silver specialists.”

Tyton liked listening to Izzy speak. Her mind although more hyperactive than most was one he enjoyed feeling the thrum of. She would be an excellent teacher one who was fun and silly, but able to understand and be serious when needed. For all her loudness Rafe often called her the thunder to his lightning. As Izzy spoke she tended to often get enthralled by her words and lost her bearings of where she was. So much so she didn’t see a smaller transport squealing into her path. In seconds Tyron had pulled her back allowing the small buggy to rush past on its was.

“Izzy.”

“Ha sorry about that. Forgive me.”

And with a smile, all was forgiven.

“Come on Rafe is definitely going to start a mood if we don’t hurry up,” and with that she pulled his arm to the transport releasing him to clamber up and take a seat next to Rafe. For all the bickering and teasing they did the two siblings loved each other dearly. They had sought refuge in Montfort from the Piedmont principalities with their mother. The two remembered little about their original home as they had left so young, but the happiness Montfort gave them was all they needed. Forgetting all about her conversation with Tyton, Izzy poked Rafe to tell her all about Norta and what things they’d encountered. Izzy had never left Montfort. She was definitely not a soldier, barely remembering to tuck in her thumbs properly when punching Rafe and the Ardent abilities had only passed to him so a useful electricon on the battlefield she was not. The ride to Ascendant was bumpy, Davidson muttering about looking into the concrete and upkeep of the infrastructure when back home. The air rushed in as they sped across the landscapes moving closer to the capital with every second until the transport stopped in a quick halt. The stop was so fast Izzy almost span out of her seat if not for Rafe and Tyton’s arms coming to forth to stop her fall.

“What’s going-“

Davidson was cut off when a terrible crunch sounded off. Leaning forward, he could see one of the transports being crushed the metal casings crumbling against each other. Without a thought Davidson threw out a shield glowing blue in the setting sun surrounding the two vehicles.

“Raiders already?” Rafe hit his head against the seat in frustration before moving out of the car to help passengers in the afflicted vehicle. Tyton quickly went about feeling how many Raiders were out there without being told.

“10, all seems to be magnetron. 3 females, 7 males. Wait they’re leaving?”

“Leaving?”

“Yeah moving away.”

Davidson heaved a sigh, “Radio in for some teleporters for the wounded.”

“They’re already here.” Tyton looked out seeing that those badly injured were being jumped back. Being so close to Ascendant meant the teleporters could make the jump.

“Alright then, destroy that transport don’t leave anything of use behind for them.”

With that, Tyton moved to the transport now empty and absentmindedly called forth a storm preparing for a powerful bolt. The skies darkened as his storm came into existence. Davidson let the shield down for a moment to let the bolt come through. In a fraction of a second, a burning bolt of lighting came down from the sky smashing against the transport reducing it to dust and scorched earth. The air singed with crackle as the fire wreck obliterated. Tyton surveyed the scene inspecting the damage to see if it was at a high enough level to not be useful to a magnetron. Being happy with it he turned and started to walk back to Davidson and Izzy, Rafe already sitting in his seat. He was laughing at Izzy as she covered her ears wincing at the terrible sound of the lightning on metal. It was a sound not comfortable for most ears, but Tyton’s power was unheard of in an Ardent. He was different to the other electricons being able to handle electricity more naturally than even them. It didn’t take much for him to call a storm bolt of that magnitude. As he was within a few metres of the transport he suddenly felt a barrage of electrical energy moving towards them. Recognising it as the previous magnetrons he turned to quickly release brain lightning on them being able to drop 4 of them before one let off a spike. Moving out of the way he could do, but the spike still got him in the side forcing him to the ground. Davidson’s shields again went up and Tyton was pulled into the transport as it began to drive away with Davidson’s shields still up. Izzy clambered towards him pulling apart his suit to get a better look at the cut. Her hand pressed down hard as she told Rafe to get the medical kit under the seat. Tyton grasped onto her had holding it down as he grimaced from the pain. “You’re fine it’s only a scratch.” Izzy nervously laughed.

“Of course because scratches produce this much blood.”

“Shut up big baby. I’ve met toddlers tougher than you,” she grinned and Tyton smiled back focusing on her electricity and letting it calm him down in the transport racing back to Ascendant.

[penwieldingdreamer]

Caring Makes You Weak

So, as there are too few Harvey Specter Stories and inspiration finally striked again while rewatching Suits I decided to rework an old story of mine and post it on here, too.

Hope you guys will like it. Let me know what you think. If you want to be tagged, just let me know.

Also shout out to my beta @fortheloveoffanfic​

Summary: Harvey Specter, best closer in New York City and Senior Partner at Pearson Hardman, the man most females in the city want, yet he himself doesn't want commitment, because caring makes one weak. Enter Elle Howard, a woman he met a long time ago. Will she be the one to break down his walls and make him care?

Words: 1704

(Coverart still pending)

"Mommy? Can we see daddy today?" the three-year old's question sounded from the back of the car as the young mother was on her way to drop her two children off at daycare and school. 

A deep sigh left Elle's lips when she stopped at a red light. "I don't think he's got time today." she said, keeping her mouth shut about her ex-husband's questioning ability to spend more than five minutes with his kids. 

"He doesn't have time because he doesn't want us anymore, Izzy, he's got a new family." her son ranted angrily. Ever since Travis and her had split up, the seven year old pulled away from her. He was easily irritated and his grades were suffering. Elle wasn't able to spend as much time with her children as she used to when she was still married to Travis Tanner. During that time she used to be a stay-at-home-mom, but now she had to work odd jobs to keep her kids in the same facilities as they were right now. She didn't want to take that away from them when they already had so much on their plate. 

"Charles Henry Tanner, stop it. Don't talk like that to your sister." she called, only just taking her eyes off the road for the fraction of a second. It was enough time for the light to change again and another car speeding towards them. 

Mike raced towards Harvey's office, the files tightly gripped in his hand. His heart was racing, reading through the Pro Bono. Donna looked up from her desk, her eyes widening when she saw the associate come running down the hallway. 

"Mike!" she called, getting up from her chair. "What's going on?" 

He held up his hand and stormed into the office. "Harvey, I need your help." 

Looking up, the closer opened his mouth but closed it again when he saw the wild look in Mike's eyes. "What the hell are you doing storming in here?" Ever since the younger man had lost his beloved Grammy and the problems with Daniel Hardman, Harvey had been irritated to no end, not even Donna being reinstated had helped lighten his mood. 

"Louis gave me that case. I can't take it." he answered, putting the folder onto his boss' desk. He raked his hands through his hair, pacing in the office, his long strides taking him from the corner window to the door and back again. 

Harvey took the files, reading through the case notes, cursing on the inside, while not showing his own reaction to his associate. "So? What do you want me to do about this?" 

"This is a custody case. I never did that and it's Tanner's ex-wife." the younger man argued. "He's going to rip this case apart. There's no chance I can beat him." 

Leaning back in his chair, Harvey Specter watched his associate. He knew what he was capable of, but Travis was a pitbull in court. "How about you talk to his ex-wife and get started, I'll look into the rest of the case." 

"Elle's my neighbor, Harvey." Mike told him, falling down into the chair in front of the desk. "When I lose that case, she's going to lose her kids. Tanner doesn't even want to spend time with his kids anymore, he's got a new family now. They might as well end up with a foster family." 

Rubbing his chin, the lawyer turned around and looked out of the window. "What exactly happened?" 

"Actually I would have loved to have you come with me to ask that question." 

"Mike, I can't" 

"I cleared your schedule, Harvey. You should go with the puppy." Donna's voice sounded over the intercom, the smile on her lips clear as a day. 

Harvey turned to the glass wall of his office, seeing his secretary looking at him. He raised his eyebrow, giving her a warning look. "I thought we had an agreement about you listening in." The redhead just shrugged her shoulders and gave him her typical 'Donna' look. "Right, let's go ask some questions." 

Together, the lawyer and his associate stood in front of Elle Howard's apartment, the one just down the hall from Mike's. 

"Harvey, please be gentle this time. They took the kids from her as soon as they were checked out from the hospital." he told his boss, fidgeting with his tie. 

Rolling his eyes, the closer hit him in the chest. "Stop it, Mike. You know her, what are you nervous about?" He raised his hand and knocked on the door. 

"I just don't want to let her down, you know." he answered, looking at his boss and friend. 

Before he could answer, the door opened and Harvey felt his breath catch. It wasn't that he was shocked by the beauty of the woman leaning in the doorway watching them closely, not that she wasn't beautiful even with the cuts and bruises on her face and body, but he remembered those eight years ago. "Elle." 

"Harvey." 

Swallowing, the closer and his rookie entered the apartment after the redhead. Mike gave his friend a questioning look before he shook his head. "You know her?" he angrily whispered, pointing his thumb at Elle. Harvey just shook his head and walked over to the couch where the younger woman was already seated. 

"So, Tanner and you?" he opened his questioning, leaning back on the couch next to his associate. 

Chuckling softly, Elle looked over at the lawyer. "That's what your first question is going to be? I thought you'd at least have the nerve to ask me how I am doing." 

"Elle, listen, I'm sorry that we showed up like this, can you tell us what happened the day of the accident?" Mike intervened, sending his boss and mentor a dark look. 

Brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the mother-of-two sighed. "I don't know what you want me to say? I'm just happy that my kids are fine and didn't get hurt. Do you have any idea when I can see them again?" 

Clearing his throat, Harvey watched her closely. "Your ex-husband has filed for custody, Mrs Tanner, also banned you from seeing the children until trial is over."

"I'm going by Howard now, already done that for the last two years." Elle bit back, fidgeting in her seat, when she felt tears spring to her eyes. "I didn't do anything wrong for that jerk to deny me my kids. He didn't even want them in the first place, Travis gave me sole custody but no money for Izzy and Charlie." 

Getting up from the plush couch she moved over towards the window, looking down at the numerous picture frames showing her wonderful children. They were her life and not having them here with her was tearing her up inside.  "It was only a second." she started, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Harvey watched her closely, remembering the weekend they had spent together, while his associate rested his eyes on him. Never in his life would Mike have believed that the notorious Harvey Specter would show emotion, besides that one time they were smoking pot in his apartment. "Izzy wanted to see Travis, I told her that he didn't have time, like always and Charlie, he's been so angry ever since we split up. I just, the light was green when we drove off and it, I only just turned my head to look at Charlie. Next thing I know both my kids are standing outside, next to the car with the EMTs while the FDNY is pulling apart my car."

"Okay, please don't think I'm being rude but I have to ask." the associate started, earning raised eyebrows from his boss. "Were you drinking or taking medication that would lead to any failure of sight or control of your body." 

Shaking her head, Elle turned back to the lawyer and his protégé. "There were no drugs and no alcohol, the only thing I took was some mild medication for my headache."

"That, that's good. We can work with that. We'll have to check the traffic cameras, there might be something there that police missed in the beginning." Mike told her, adjusting his shoulder bag before both Harvey and he stood up. "We'll get back to you as soon as we got something for the case." 

The lawyer buttoned up his jacket and nodded at his associate to wait outside. "I'll be right there, Mike." 

"I'm glad he finally got his life together." Elle said, looking over at the closed front door. 

Clearing his throat, Harvey watched the mother-of-two. "How have you been doing?" It had been a while since he saw her but she hadn't changed one bit. "It's been a while, Elle."

"I got married to a dick head, he screwed me over with his secretary and now he took my kids away. I'd say I'm doing quite good." she pointed out, crossing her arms in front of her chest. 

He shoved his hands into his pants pockets, knowing if he'd move just one muscle he'd compromise everything they'd need to work for. "I'm sorry about Tanner, I had the privilege to meet him twice now and the last time I decked him." 

"Good for you, Harvey, he probably deserved it." Elle whispered, not knowing how to act around him. "So - uhm - do you think I got a chance to get my kids back?" 

"We're going to try everything in our power to win this." 

She raised her eyebrows at the dark haired lawyer. "Try?" 

"Do." he corrected, "We'll do everything to win. Mike is the best and brightest associate Pearson Hardman ever had." 

Giving him a small smile. "I'm glad you took my case. I trust Mike, and I trust you. All I want you to do is give it your best, I don't want my kids ending up with a foster family." 

"I promise." Harvey said moving toward the door, opening it and watching his associate fidget in the hallway. "Ready to tackle Tanner?" 

Mike turned to his boss, already seeing the determination written across his face. "We're tackling him?" 

"He ain't gonna know what hit him." 

[too-many-baes]

Cito Books

Pairing: Fem!reader x Peter Maximoff

Warning(s): N/A

Word Count: 2.2K

Summary: AU where a bookstore owner is enchanted with a man who regularly frequents her shop. She guesses he’s taken as he brings in two kids constantly but litle does she know that he is pining after her just the same - requested by the ever lovely @steve-chandler​

A/N: Wow, what’s this? Another long overdue request? It couldn’t be, but it is!! I’m so sorry about that wait, but if you haven’t already completely lost interest in wee Peter here you go. (p.s your other one is still in the works) xx

I hope you all enjoy!

A bell’s chime fills the small room you occupy, your favourite sound of the day. Shortly after the initial sound, two sets of small but loud footsteps thump out as they race across the dark ochre floorboards of your shop.

“Girls, calm down!” Your smile only grows as the voice you had been anticipating follows the girls. You giggle lightly to yourself, propping your upper body up on your elbows to peer out your office window. Standing directly in your line of sight was your favourite customer, despite the fact he was one of your more recent regulars. A smile stretches across his face as he watches them run down into the children’s section, reaching up and mussing the shaggy silver mop that sat atop his head. You let your eyes linger on the movement, watching the sun filtering in from the long front window and glistening in his locks.

You realise that you’d let your eyes rest on him too long, as he turned around at the feeling of being watched to see your eyes on him. The longing of your stare was obviously lost on him as his smile remained and he lifted his hand in a cheery wave. Your cheeks instantly flush as you extend a much smaller wave than his own before putting your attention back down to your inventory logs where it should have been all along. Best not to dream about things you can’t have.

You loved your wee office. It was situated directly behind your counter by the front door, which meant with its window, it allowed you to simultaneously work and keep an eye on your shop, Cito Books, all at once. The room had a door, but you opted to never shut it, instead a wedge kept it permanently open to allow you to hear customers calling out to you. Today was no exception.

“Y/N!” The younger of the twos voice rang out from the back corner clear as day. You promptly leave your chair and make the short journey to where all three patrons now sat on the matt in the children’s nook.

“Yes Lorna?” You ask, your eyes occasionally flicking towards the silver haired man who had an easy smile resting on his lips. You can’t help but let your eyes briefly look at his hand splayed out on the rug. No wedding ring still.

“Do you have the next Rainbow Magic book?”

“Well what one are you up to?”

“Izzy the Indigo Fairy!” She exclaims excitedly, her sister still intently staring at the shelves in search of the book her sister so desperately wanted.

“I think we just got it in actually, give me one second,” you say, even though you know full well it had come in with your most recent stock. You fetch it from one of several boxes in your office before nonchalantly presenting it to the ecstatic girl.

“Wait, I thought you didn’t have this one last week?” The still seated man asks with a quirked eyebrow.

“Well Mr- ” You go to answer him before you are interrupted as he stands and speaks.

“How many times do I gotta tell you? It’s Peter.” The smile he gives you as he absent-mindedly swipes his hands on his jeans makes your cheeks flush again. You hated that you loved the impact he had on you. You wordlessly asked Lorna with a gesture if you could take the book back. She passes it to you and you lead the three to the counter to process the purchase, replying as you do.

“Well Peter we actually just happened to get it in so…” You let your feeble reply fade off as you ring up the book and place it into one of your paper bags, refusing to meet the eyes you knew were on you.

“If I didn’t know any better Y/N I’d say that you got it in especially for us.” Just as you suspected, when you dared to briefly meet his gaze he had a cheeky smirk on his lips and mischief in his eyes. You involuntarily gulp before passing the book to eager outstretched hands.

“That’ll be $14.99.” You fail to find anything to say that would dispel his absolutely correct assumption. He shakes his head slightly at his verbal victory before pulling out his wallet and handing you a twenty dollar note, telling you to keep the change. You immediately protest this, as he supports your little store plenty without needing to not take his change but he was having none of it, firmly placing his wallet back in his pocket where his hand remained. You give him what was supposed to be a disapproving look as you put the money into the till with a ‘thank you’, him merely giving a jovial shrug of the shoulders in return.

“Isn’t that the last one in the series?” The other little girl, Wanda, finally pipes up. You reply with a smile.

“It is actually, but don’t worry there’s a whole other series that comes right after.”

“Do you have it?” Lorna asks, quick as a snap.

“No not just at the moment.” You reply with a slight frown. Peter places a hand on both the girls’ shoulders, gently starting to lead them out the door.

“Don’t worry though, if we’re really lucky it might just be here next week,” he says with that signature cheeky smirk and a wink. Even though he had assumed correctly, you weren’t about to admit he’d been right. “We’ll see you next week Y/N,” he yells over his shoulder, turning his head once they are out of the shop to wave at you through the window as they leave your sight down the street.

“See you next week,” you say with a smile to an empty shop. You rest your head on your hands as you stare at the space that they once occupied. The family had probably only been coming in for a month, yet you could confidently say they were your favourite customers. There’s just something about him that never failed to put a smile on your face, even from the first moment you saw him.

You shrug yourself out of your thoughts, settling on sorting your new stock. Even if he wasn’t married, which he still could be for all you knew, he had two kids. There was more than likely someone in the picture, so you needed to rid your thoughts of the cheeky silver haired man. Even if you didn’t want to.

*

Over the next few months you saw Peter more often alone than with the girls. He had taken to coming in sometimes as often as twice a week, just browsing rack after rack that hadn’t changed since the last time he was in. Some days you’d engage in idle conversation, some days you were too busy with customers to chat with him, but that would not deter him in visiting. You thought occasionally that he was looking your way, yet every time you turned to face him his eyes were firmly on the shelves. Just wishful thinking you supposed.

You had felt a lot of strange gusts of wind in the shop recently, and you had no idea where they were coming from. Sometimes pages in books would rustle when nothing had happened, and gusts of air had taken to flying past your face, catching loose strands of hair in its motion. You had investigated your store thoroughly and came up flat, no holes or crevices that so much draft could be coming through. The events puzzled you when it happened, but for the most part you left it be. If only you knew the source.

You see, Peter was taken with you. From the first moment he had stepped foot in your store and was greeted by your smiling mouth that bid him welcome he’d been under your spell. He usually took the girls to a different book store but as soon as he had found out you owned the quaint bookshop, he had yet to take his business anywhere else.

He wanted to see more of you, he couldn’t help himself. He found himself through that front door more often than he’d like to admit. He’d walked the shelves so many times that you’d probably never have to do another stock take again, he could just recite your inventory to you.

He couldn’t help but watch you. How you gleamed when recommending books to customers. How you chirped up when your doorbell chimed. How you tidied your shelves and store daily, making sure your shop was always pristine. The pride you took in your work was evident, and Peter loved your passion, sometimes whizzing by in super speed just to see the glint in your eyes for a fraction longer. He was lost in thought when a voice rang out.

“Something I can help with?” He jolted slightly, dropping a book out of his hands in shock. Somehow he had been so lost in thought that he hadn’t even noticed you approaching, and didn’t manage to catch the book before it hit the ground.

“I’m so sorry,” you say with a joking lilt to your voice as you retrieve the fallen book and place it back on the shelf, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He lets out a breathy laugh, scratching the back of his neck out of embarrassment.  

“You must be too quick for me.” You laugh at his joke, despite not knowing it was much more for himself than for you.

“So, anything in particular you were looking at Mr- ,” the quirk in his eyebrow stops your sentence dead in its tracks, “Peter.” A smile springs to his lips at his name leaving your lips.

“No you’re okay,” his eyes involuntarily flick between your rose tinted lips and your eyes before looking back at the shelf, the motion making a shiver dance down your spine, “I was just browsing.” You nod at him, not wanting to call out the fact that he’s browsed everything there is to be browsed, because frankly you didn’t mind his constant company.

“Well, I’ll be just over in the kids’ corner,” you motion to the brightly coloured area, “let me know if there’s any other books your daughters might want.” You smile at him intending to make your way there but the puzzled look on his face stops you in your tracks, your expression mirroring his. “Did I say something?” You question quietly.

“Daughters?” He says incredulously, you simply nod your head. “Y/N, Lorna and Wanda are my half-sisters, I just look after them when I can.” Your eyebrows furrow before they raise in surprise.

“Oh!” You exclaim, nodding your head at the new revelation and what that might mean. “Well, that’s great!” Shaking your head you go to the kids’ corner to sit on the matt and tidy the shelf, cheeks flushed with your last statement.

“Yea it’s pretty great,” Peter says following you, sitting in the much too small pink chair directly behind you, “they’re great girls.” You hum in acknowledgement, smiling over your shoulder to show your agreeance. You were dying to ask him if he was single but didn’t know how to approach the topic.

“So you’ve got no kids of your own then?” You ask instead, trying to make yourself seem busy enough to offset how much you wanted to know his answer.

“No.” He replies simply, making you think he was not going to divulge any more. “No partner to have kids with either, so none for a while.” You can’t help the giddy sensation that fills your chest. He was single. You felt like you had to act upon this new found information but once again the silvery man had you at a loss.

“So you’re single?” You pluck up the courage to ask, standing from your spot and walking to your counter, avoiding eye contact as you do so. Peter follows and leans on the opposite side of the counter to you, keeping his eyes on your face.

“Free as a bird.” You grin at him, finally having the courage to meet his expectant gaze. Something in them said that you weren’t alone in your feelings, that maybe you made him feel the same as he did you. You can do this. Just ask him.

“How free are you at 5:30 tonight?” Your sentence that you hoped would come out smooth and collected came out rushed and jumbled, making him let a soft breath out.

“Free enough that I could get dinner. If I had someone to go with.”

“I could do dinner.” You can feel the giddiness radiating on your face leaching into your voice, completely nullifying the indefinite you spoke in.

“Alright, 5:30 then. It’s a date.” With that, he reaches over and gives your nearest hand a gentle squeeze before parting with a wink and the dinging of the bell.

You let out a contented sigh, finally allowing yourself to not feel guilty about your pining, knowing clearly he was feeling the same. No more staring and imagining, you had a date with him. Tonight.

And you couldn’t wait for 5:30 to tick around.

[echo-bleu]

straight through the smoke (4/5)

Summary: After Magnus breaks up with Alec and chooses to align with the Seelie Queen, pulling the Downworld Cabinet with him, Alec is arrested  by the Clave for high treason. Will Magnus find out in time to save him from a death sentence?

This chapter takes on right where we left Alec in the previous chapter, standing on the immolation rune waiting for Imogen to light it.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

On AO3

“Wait!”

Alec opens his eyes. Imogen has frozen with the end of her staff just inches from the fire rune. He looks around to see who has spoken, but he already knows. He feels it. It’s Jace.

“Not now, Jace,” Imogen scolds him, keeping her staff close to the rune. “This can’t be interrupted.”

Jace resolutely steps inside the safety circle, and Imogen immediately lifts up her staff. Alec locks eyes with him. What are you doing? he tries to ask silently. His whole body is coiled and almost trembling in anticipation of pain that isn’t coming. He can almost feel phantom flames lick at his feet, but there’s nothing.

The faces around them are expectant and apprehensive, but not shocked. No one tries to stop Jace, and they look at him with something like pride.

“You’re about to execute my parabatai!” Jace shouts. “I can’t let you do it.”

“He had a trial and pleaded guilty,” Imogen frowns at him in anger. “It’s over. I’m sorry Jace, but it’s done.”

“No, it’s not,” Jace breathes as he reaches Alec, grasping his hand. “Be ready,” he murmurs.

Ready for what? Alec wants to ask. But he doesn’t get the chance. Izzy joins them in the center of the circle, and Alec’s heart goes up to his throat, as much in pride as in dread. They’re going to get themselves killed, or arrested. But he can’t help the way his body vibrates at the feel of his siblings’ hands in his, when he’d thought he’d never feel them again.

“Get out of the circle, Jace,” Imogen’s tone turns threatening as she lowers her staff once again.

“If you ignite this rune,” Jace gestures at the carved rune under their feet, “then you burn me, too. Are you ready to kill your grandson? Your only family?”

“Why are you doing this?”

Jace looks at Alec for a fraction of a second before turning back to Imogen. “Because he’s my parabatai and my brother. And he doesn’t deserve this.”

“Being bound to him weakens you,” Imogen sneers. “You forget your place. You’re a Herondale, and you deserve better than a traitor for a parabatai.”

Jace swallows, and Alec squeezes his hand. Through their bond, he feels the last of his brother’s hesitation, his hope for a reconciliation, fade away. “If there’s one thing I learned about family, living with the Lightwoods, it’s that it’s not just a name,” Jace says. “Alec is my family more than you ever will be.”

“And he’s not a traitor,” Izzy adds. “Just a good man who did his best to avoid a war.”

“Guys, you can’t do this,” Alec murmurs, too low for anyone but his siblings to hear. “You’ve got to go, or she’ll punish you too.”

“It’s okay, Alec,” Izzy whispers back. “Luke is waiting for us outside. Just be ready to run.”

Alec closes his eyes. This can’t end well. They’re surrounded by several hundred Shadowhunters, even if no one seems to be in a hurry to stop them. They won’t make it out of here, and even if they did, the consequences of this…

“I will have you removed,” Imogen warns. When neither Jace nor Izzy makes a move to get out of the Circle, she signals her guards to grab them. Jace and Izzy look at each other and let Alec’s hands go, stepping in front of him.

Jace delivers the first blow, in front of a silent, unmoving audience. Imogen gasps in disbelief as the first of her two guards takes a step back, then attacks Jace. He doesn’t last more than thirty seconds and crumbles under Jace’s well placed right hook.

Izzy slips a stele in Alec’s hand before she goes to dig her heel into the second Shadowhunter’s stomach with a kick-flip. Alec quickly activates his strength and accuracy runes. As Izzy finishes off the guard, he adds his stamina rune as well. He hasn’t slept in almost three days, and he’s really feeling the strain.

His mind still hasn’t really registered that he’s not dead, but he falls into a fighting stance all the same.

“Shadowhunters!” Imogen calls out when she sees her second guard go down. “Arrest them!”

For a moment, nothing happens. There’s a lull, the Shadowhunters around the courtyard staring at Jace and Izzy inside the rune circle. Staring at Alec. Jace and Izzy fall back closer to Alec, but they don’t look tense, like they don’t expect the other Shadowhunters to do it.

Then Kara steps forward, weaponless, her hand on her Institute insignia. “I refuse to obey,” she calls out, her voice trembling but resolute. She breaches the safety circle and joins them inside.

Imogen stares at her, gobsmacked. Alec feels a rush of pride, but closes his eyes in dismay. The last thing he wants is to put her at risk.

“I stand with you,” Jens declares before Imogen can recover from her surprise. He joins Kara inside the circle with no hesitation.

One by one, the Shadowhunters around them step into the circle. Underhill. Laura. Raj. Lindsay. Stunned, Alec stares as they all refuse Imogen’s order and declare their loyalty. In a minute, a good third of the Shadowhunters present have made their move, and none of the others seem prepared to go against them.

Alec bows his head under their stares, a tear running down his cheek, overwhelmed by pride and gratefulness. Shadowhunters learn to lay down their life for their comrades without hesitation in battle, but he would never ask them to do that in such a situation. This is more than a show of support – they’re proclaiming their loyalty in a way that leaves no room for ambiguity. They’re putting themselves on the line for him.

Jace pats his shoulder and looks Imogen in the eyes, through the crowd now separating them. “You can’t execute all of us.”

“This is an insurrection,” Imogen seethes. “Do you know what you all risk?”

“This is our Institute,” Izzy opposes. “Our turf.”

“Alec’s Institute!” Underhill proclaims.

“You still answer to the Law!”

“Valentine is dead,” Jace murmurs in Alec’s ear as voices of protestation rise across the courtyard.

“Magnus and Clary?” Alec asks.

Jace opens his mouth, but in a twist of fate, that’s the exact moment when a commotion starts at the edge of the courtyard, by the door that leads back into the Institute’s ops center. Alec and his siblings turn to look as the Shadowhunters move to let through two people. The first has Clary’s unmistakable red hair, though it’s dirty and tangled. The second takes Alec’s breath away as he always does.

Magnus looks perfectly composed, aside from the bloody cut just above his left eyebrow. By contrast, Clary is covered in dirt and blood. But they both look alright, if exhausted, and Alec lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

Magnus meets his eyes across the courtyard, and almost staggers in relief. “Alexander,” he mouths, moving in long strides to Alec before anyone can try to stop him. He reaches out and stops just before touching Alec, suddenly unsure.

Alec takes his hand and leans forward, letting their brows meet for the briefest moment. He can feel the gazes on them, the curiosity and the impatience there, and he doesn’t dare do more. He doesn’t know where he stands with Magnus, and now is not the time to find out.

“You’re both okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” Magnus breathes.

“Valentine is dead!” Clary announces loudly. “His body has been retrieved by the Council. The wards around the city are now down.”

“Malachi is dead too,” Jace whispers to Alec. “We’ve got proof that he was in the Circle.”

Alec lets out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes briefly. Valentine is dead. The threat against the Downworld is gone. Magnus is safe.

Now it’s time to fight for his Institute. His people. He lets go of Magnus’ hands.

Kara taps his wrist, and Alec looks back at her. She slips her Institute insignia in his hand with a small smile. “Your Institute,” she murmurs.

Alec nods at her proudly, briefly squeezing her hand before he pins the insignia on his dark red shirt – the closest thing Imogen’s guards could find to the traditional red of execution in the Institute. He makes his way to Imogen and the edge of the circle, his people parting respectfully before him and standing at attention.

He keeps his movements purposefully slow as Imogen watches him approach, and stops a few steps away from her, holding her gaze.

“We answer to the Law,” he says. He feels Izzy slip a phone into his hand and he looks down briefly to check the screen. “But not to a corrupt Clave. Did you know, Inquisitor Herondale, that your Consul was a Circle member?”

“Excuse me?” Imogen bellows. Her surprise looks genuine, though she might simply be a very good actor. But Alec doesn’t think that she’s working for Valentine, not with her history. Not when she very nearly executed Magnus in Valentine’s body herself.

He forbids himself from thinking about Magnus, who is standing at his left shoulder, any more than that and he extends his arm to show Imogen the photo on Izzy’s phone’s screen, which shows Consul Malachi Dieudonné with a Circle rune on his neck. She brings a hand to her mouth in shock.

Alec takes a deep breath. “I declare a state of emergency over the New York Institute and invoke the right of Separation under the Laws of Governance,” he announces. “From this moment and until the matter of the Consul’s treason has been investigated and resolved, this Institute stands outside of the Clave’s jurisdiction and will answer directly to the Angel.”

Imogen still looks too stunned to answer, but one of the other Clave officials steps in front of her. “You can’t do that!” he shouts. “You’re not Head of the Institute anymore!”

Alec calmly stares him down. “I believe that both an execution order and a demotion from the position of Head are required to be signed by the Inquisitor’s hand and filed officially at the Council Hall. Since no Nephilim has been able to pass the wards around the city since yesterday morning, they haven’t been filed yet. I’m still the Head of the Institute, and within my rights to declare our Separation.”

“This is wrong,” Imogen pushes past her colleague to stand tall in front of Alec. She’s almost two heads shorter than him, but another time, he would have bowed down to her. Not today. “Where did you find that?” she gestures to the phone still in Alec’s hand. “It’s a fake. Warlock!” she points at Magnus. “You did this!”

Magnus stares at her for a moment, letting a slow smirk spread on his face. “That depends on what you’re trying to accuse me of,” he tilts his head dramatically. “Did I kill the Consul? No. That was Clarissa’s admirable work.” He ignores the gasps of surprise around them. “Did I take this picture? Also no. Did I, while you were here trying to execute my boyfriend, defend my people and yours against a terrorist and kill Valentine Morgenstern? Now that I can answer affirmatively.”

Alec would laugh at Magnus’ poise if he wasn’t so tense. He tries not to let his mind linger on boyfriend.

“Downworlders have been banned from this Institute,” Imogen spits out. “You’re here to declare war.”

“No,” Magnus sobers. “You already have. I’m only here to stop an injustice and protect my family. I should probably warn you that the Institute is surrounded by vampires, werewolves and warlocks as we speak.”

“The Institute’s wards have been raised against all Downworlders. They can’t enter!”

Magnus laughs blandly. “And who do you think built those wards? I can bring them down in seconds. In fact,” he waves his hands, blue sparks moving around him, “I already have.”

Alec nods at Izzy, who slips away discreetly as Imogen gets even more agitated. “The wards are down and Downworlders are assaulting this Institute!” she shouts, her voice echoing around the courtyard. “This warlock just admitted it! Why are you all still standing there? We are under attack!”

A number of Shadowhunters look hesitantly between her and Alec, wondering who to obey. A few – Alec makes note of their faces – start taking out their weapons, but they stall when they realize that the rest of the crowd isn’t following.

“There is no attack,” Alec opposes coldly. “Downworlders are welcome in my Institute.”

Izzy slips back in at that moment with Raphael and Luke in tow. They step behind Alec, a wall of loyal Shadowhunters automatically forming around them for protection. Alec makes sure that the symbol of it all is abundantly clear to Imogen.

“You, however, are not,” he continues. “Magnus, will you open a portal? It’s time for the Inquisitor to go back to Alicante. Anyone here who’s loyalty goes to the Clave above this Institute is welcome to follow her.”

Imogen’s face looks constipated, but before she can answer, Underhill signals for Alec’s attention by the door leading to the ops center. “The portal won’t be necessary, warlock Bane,” comes a loud voice. Alec recognizes Jia Penhallow, who walks into the courtyard briskly, followed by Aline and five Shadowhunters in Council Guard uniforms, as well as another warlock. “We have our own.”

Alec straightens and stands at attention as Jia reaches him, but he keeps the Downworlders safe behind him. “Councilor Penhallow,” he says formally.

“I apologize for not taking the time to warn you of my visit,” Jia tells him. Aline smiles at Alec from behind her and he relaxes a fraction. “The Council called for an emergency meeting and had to make some executive decisions in the wake of Consul Dieudonné’s death.”

“I should inform you before anything that I have invoked the right of Separation,” Alec speaks up. “The Downworld representatives are here under the New York Institute’s protection.”

Jia’s surprise is only betrayed by a minute halt before she nods. “Noted,” she says. “But I am not here to arrest them, nor any of your Shadowhunters. The Council has obtained proof that Consul Malachi Dieudonné has been working with Valentine Morgernstern. He has been declared a traitor and his entire staff will be reviewed.” She turns to Imogen, who is still standing frozen at the edge of the rune circle. “Inquisitor Herondale, you are hereby suspended from your functions, pending investigation. All your current cases will be reinvestigated. Any ongoing sentence you have dealt is revoked and will be reviewed.”

There’s a general sigh of relief around Alec, and Izzy squeezes his arm.

“Lightwood,” Jia goes back to Alec. “Your actions will be re-examined in the light of the recent event. As you cannot be tried by the Clave under Separation, your case will be reviewed by a jury of your Peers.”

“I understand,” Alec bows his head.

“In the meantime, you will remain Head of the Separated New York Institute. You have a period of thirty days to dissolve the Separation or have your Institute vote for permanent Detachment by referendum.”

“I intend to dissolve as soon as a new Consul is elected, unless something else happens,” Alec promises. Detachment would incapacitate his Institute too much to be reasonable, even if the thought of parting with the Clave is sometimes tempting. That part of the Laws of Governance was written for times of war, when dire situations arise that need to be resolved faster than the Council can make decisions. Separation makes Alec the sole authority over the Institute, and he’s in a good place to know how dangerous that can be.

Jia softens imperceptibly. “That should happen within a few days,” she says. “There will be other matters to resolve, but for now, I will escort Mrs Herondale back to the Guard and go back to the Council. Your Institute and your friends have been through a lot. Take your time to regroup. And don’t worry too much about the trial,” she adds. “I’m confident that your peers will see that you acted like any good Head would have.”

“Thank you,” Alec nods, allowing himself a small smile of gratitude.

“Given the threat that Valentine Morgenstern put on the Downworld, there will be no repercussion for the warlocks’ actions of the last few days,” Jia nods toward Magnus. “The Council is grateful for your help in stopping Valentine.”

Magnus nods back without a word.

Jia signals to the warlock who came with her and he opens a portal. The entire crowd watches Imogen, defeated and silent, walk the length of the courtyard and disappear, followed by the two Clave officials who joined her for the trial. Underhill and Jens help the two half-conscious guards through the portal under Jace and Izzy’s smug gazes. None of the Institute’s Shadowhunters choose to leave. Jia and her own guards bring up the rear, leaving Aline behind.

“Alec! By the Angel, that was amazing!” Izzy exclaims as soon as the portal closes, jumping into his arms.

Alec laughs, suddenly exhausted. “Thank you,” he says tearfully, not quite capable of holding in his emotions any longer. “It was all thanks to you.” He makes a gesture to encompass Jace and all the others.

Everyone starts talking at the same time, and he gives up on understanding anything that is said. He’s tired and overwhelmed and swaying on his feet as his siblings and his friends all try to hug him in their relief.

He takes Kara’s Institute insignia off his shirt and pins it back on her chest, cupping her neck to make sure she knows how proud he is. She smiles back widely, her eyes full of tears. Alec tries to have a word for each of the Shadowhunters who approach him, even though their faces quickly start to blur in his head. They all stood for him, today. They saved his life. His parabatai bond pulses with reliefpridejoy and Alec wants nothing more than lie down and let that overtake him.

But he has something to do first. He scans the crowd for Magnus and finds him right beside him, hovering without quite touching him, his face unsure.

“Can we talk?” Alec asks.

Magnus nods with a small smile. “How about we sleep first, and talk later?”

“Yeah,” Alec laughs weakly. “That’s probably best.”

[bidnezz]

Revenant [2/5]

Pairings: Magnus/Alec, background Clary/Izzy, mentions of past Magnus/Camille

Rating: Mature

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Blood and Violence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Clave Politics (Shadowhunter Chronicles), Downworlder Politics, Betrayal, Revenge, Background Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood, Angry Magnus Bane, Light Romance, Mystery, Prophecy, Minor Character Death, lots of death

Summary:

Alec has heard the legends of Magnus Bane. He knows all the tales and he’s read all the records of his downfall. The High Warlock of Brooklyn who became so hungry for power that he began to mistreat the very warlocks who sought his help. It’s been a hundred years since then, and when a sudden rift opening between realms brings an onslaught of lesser demons, so too does it bring Magnus Bane, insatiable and vengeful for the power and people that locked him away in Edom. As newly appointed Head of the New York Institute, it’s Alec’s job to protect the residents of New York from one of the greatest Demons he’s ever faced. Only, he has no idea how, and maybe things aren't what they seem.

Art by the talented: @abby0007

Beta’d by the wonderful: @squiggly-lines-on-a-page

Read on ao3

Chapter Two

A myriad of colors flood Alec’s vision; a blur of purples, blacks, and yellows. The thrum of the portal around him and the pull of it against his core, all-encompassing and loud until finally, finally, it stops.

He stumbles forward gracelessly, all attempts at being nimble lost with the sudden foreign jerk of motion as the portal closes behind him. Behind them.

Magnus Bane, the Greater Demon gone mad, causing all of the destruction and chaos tonight, standing right before him. Because Alec followed him through a portal.

A hundred and one words flood his mind, questions and concerns and the hopeful glimmer of diplomacy all lodged in his throat with no way out. Not because Alec is afraid to speak, not because he’s stunned at the horror Magnus Bane has shown himself to be. His silence is forced. He is prevented from uttering a single word by the rope of magic that clings to his throat and holds him captive.

His fingers clutch at nothing, digging at the tender flesh of his neck where he knows there should be something solid and obtrusive. He finds nothing there, nothing but the bones of his collar and the rapid beat of his pulse, his heavy heart pounding against his ribs in a cry for salvation. A gasp escapes him then just as a noise catches his attention off to the side, barely distinguishable through the rush of blood that infiltrates his hearing, but when his eyes search before him where Magnus Bane once stood, he finds no one.

Has Magnus Bane inflicted him with the slow torturous death of strangulation to suffer all alone?

“To think you could simply follow me into a portal and assassinate me all on your own is the stupidest thing I could have imagined from a pathetic Shadowhunter,” comes the low, grisly voice against the back of his neck, close enough to cause a chill but not close enough for Alec’s hands to wildly reach around to.

No, he wants to say. I’m just here to talk. 

All he manages is the dry wheeze as the magic tightens around his throat and the corners of his eyes prickle as tears form.

“I told your kind to stay out of this,” the voice begins again, now to Alec’s right. He’s being circled like prey, watched aptly as he sinks to his knees and the oxygen deprivation pales his face, taking his life in the slow seconds. By the Angel, what a sorry way to go. “If this counts as Shadowhunters starting a war with Edom, so be it.”

Stars dance across the scene before him, a modest apartment decorated in silver and deep colored fabrics, slender legs filtering in and out his sight that leads higher to the Demon above him. Magnus Bane, staring down at him with a look of contempt, disgust curling his lip and the color of his jacket blending perfectly with the droop of Alec’s eyelids as he slips further under and his vision begins to fade.

Another scratch against his throat that meets nothing but raw skin, blunt nails that fruitlessly seek what they will never find, blood that begins to sink into the grooves and ridges of his fingerprints. And one last attempt as his eyelids hang heavy and he catches golden salvation high above. One word, mouthed pleadingly, that he can only pray to the Angels will save him.

Jace. Isabelle. Max. 

The faces of his family take over his consciousness, playing before him in slow motion as the last thing he sees before he goes. A life he let pass him by, a life he took a sideline to as he let the ambitions of his family’s reputation take over. Too soon, and too late, and no chance at remedying any of it. Not now, at the mercy of a mad demon and his thirst for revenge.

---

The next time Alec opens his eyes, it’s to the pale light of the setting moon and burgeoning sun that filters through the windows of the same unknown apartment as before. He hasn’t been moved. There’s a hammering in his skull, a steady throb of pain that threads all the way down to the open wound the ravener demon gifted him with, that begets a wince and a groan when he sits up too quickly. Dizziness follows immediately, too much too soon, and suddenly the memories of his last interaction fill his mind. 

Magnus Bane.

“Your request for mercy has been granted, but I must warn you that there is a limit on just how long my graciousness will last in the presence of a Shadowhunter.”

The voice, not the low rough voice Alec remembers from before, comes from a lavish chair to his right that houses exactly the person he hopes for.

Fear spikes through him first involuntarily, the instinct to pull out his seraph blade enticing enough, but a recipe for disaster should he actually attempt it. No, that’s not what he’s here for. He’s here to have a conversation with Magnus Bane, to find out his true goal and what that means for the rest of them. Alec curls his fists where he sits, balled against the soft material of the couch he woke up on, and clears his throat.

It’s sore, uncomfortably so, but he bears through the pain and begins to speak.

“I’ve just come to talk,” he offers, his voice foreign to himself, more along the lines of white noise than anything resembling actual words. “I’m not here to harm you, or get in your way.”

If he suspected it would aid his cause, Alec would raise his arms in a show of surrender, too, but Magnus’ sharp gaze keeps him locked in place. No sudden movements for fear of his life.

“As if you could harm me,” Magnus scoffs to himself, though loud enough to be heard. 

Alec doesn’t comment on it, or the way Magnus keeps a watchful eye on him despite the casual demeanor he feigns. It makes him itch underneath his skin to be scrutinized like this, to be seen as beneath the person across from you. Magnus doesn’t watch him for his own safety, or because he trusts Alec. He watches him with distaste coating his tongue and lips, as though the thought of Alec dirtying his sofa is a great travesty. He supposes he should expect as much from a Greater Demon.

“For someone who has come to talk, you have awful little to say.”

He’d feel foolish, for sure, if the oxygen deprivation hadn’t clearly left residual effects on his brain. “It’s a bit hard to get my thoughts in order when I’m still recovering from near-death,” he snaps.

Maybe it’s not such a great idea to anger the demon who just spared your life, though Magnus seems unbothered by the remark. “I did what I had to.”

“Is that what happened last night, too?”

The golden eyes that watch him reduce themselves to barely visible slats, and Magnus’ lip curls in anger. “You would be wise to remove the judgement from your tone, young Shadowhunter. You know nothing of my goals in this wasted realm.” 

Alec swallows carefully, the metal of his seraph blade burning against the holster that houses it, begging to be used in the presence of danger. 

“Then tell me.”

Magnus’ brows knit closer together and Alec feels magnified under his piercing gaze. Uncomfortable. “You want me to divulge all of my plans to some measly little Shadowhunter who’s going to run off and recite it all to the Clave as one more reason to help banish me again? I think not. You’re in no position to make demands.”

“I’m Head of the Institute,” Alec announces emphatically, hoping that his status will garner him at the very minimum an ounce of respect. “A bit higher on the chain than just some ‘measly little Shadowhunter,’ I’d say.” Then again, who would respect someone equivalent to a bug they almost squashed with a fraction of their power?

Magnus doesn’t respond in any timely manner, choosing instead to look Alec up from the sole of his combat boots, to the wayward strands of hair haphazardly resting on the crown of his head. He’s sure he looks a sorry sight with his dirty, bloodied clothes and roughed up features, but there’s no helping it. Pulling out his stele would undoubtedly cause more harm than it would be worth to heal and stabilize himself properly.

After more than a moment’s observation, Magnus summons himself a drink and stands from his chair.

For the first time since he regained consciousness, Magnus looks away from him to watch the city skyline from the window. It’s a poor view, Alec notices. Nothing attention-grabbing or worthwhile to see from his seat, and he’s sure Magnus’ can’t be much different. A Greater Demon with all the power in Edom and the expensive tastes Alec remembers connoting with Magnus Bane could surely set up a base in a better location than this. The top floor, perhaps. With lots of gaudy accessories to spruce it up, not the muted reds and blues and metallics that sparsely decorate it now.

For all this mental evaluation of Magnus Bane’s base of operation, Alec doesn’t miss the solemn sip he takes from his martini glass, or the way he seems to let it sit on his tongue before swallowing. Contemplating.

“Last night was… Necessary.”

Alec waits for more, expects it. But a hesitant silence fills the space between words instead. He stands carefully, unsure if this will have an unexpected reaction from Magnus, and when it doesn’t, Alec takes a step closer to the window. “Why?” He asks, to the point.

Another swig of liquor leaves the glass, this one bigger than the last and going down with a near audible gulp. “Camille needed to be the first, or she would have been the last, and I’m not sure I would have had the will to go through with it by the end.”

It’s a moment of raw honesty that Alec isn’t expecting. He knew Greater Demons had the capacity for human emotions, but he didn’t suspect to this extent.

“Camille was close to you, I gather?”

The way Magnus’ eyes shoot to him with disbelief makes Alec visibly step back. “Have you not done your research, Shadowhunter? Do the Nephilim take pride in going into battle headfirst and unprepared?”

Stubborn anger begins to bubble inside of Alec, but he pushes it away as he always does, and tries to remain as professional as possible in this situation. “I admit, I do not know a great deal about you. Only what I’ve gathered from Clave documents, although there’s hardly anything of substance written in them.”

Those eyes, cat-like and sharp, shift in their intention from anger to curiosity, something more appealing than talking about the revenge Magnus is here to carry out, piquing his interest. Alec makes a mental reminder to circle back to Camille later. “Do tell me more.”

“Alec,” he offers on instinct. The corner of Magnus’ lips twitch. 

“Alec,” Magnus corrects with a nod. “Go on.” 

With the spotlight on him now, the room feels a bit hotter, and the unhealed wound on his shoulder flares with the need for attention. He ignores it, if only for a little longer, and dredges up what he can remember from this evening’s research of Magnus Bane.

Has it really been less than 24 hours? Time feels stretched, as if it’s been days since everything started, since Magnus Bane became an actual figure in Alec’s life and no longer just a cautionary tale to ward off greed for power. That’s all his legacy had been reduced to, really. A fable. 

“Your existence according to Clave records goes back centuries, but there’s not actually much information on you. Just what the Clave perceived of you: dangerous, sly, hedonistic. You partied constantly through the 1800’s before you rose to power and became High Warlock of Brooklyn. Despite what the Clave thought of you, the Downworlders must have respected you enough to give you that power.” Alec’s thinking out loud at this point, he realizes. So he lets one more thought escape. “Why did you do it?”

He’ll never know when in all of his talking Magnus turned to face him, or when his features softened to the point he looked more human, but he’ll never forget the way Magnus’ small smile slips and the reminiscent memories floating behind those golden eyes plummet back down into stoic indifference.

“What exactly is it that you think I did, Alec?” Magnus’ voice floats quietly between them.

“You sought more than you had, you became hungry for more power than you had,” Alec states, matter-of-fact, forcing down the uncertainty behind his words. “You began to abuse that power and summoned what you could from Edom. You gallivanted around as a Warlock, hiding what you really are the whole time.”

“What am I?” Magnus questions solemnly, as though he doesn’t already know.

“A Greater Demon.”

The stiff tilt of a head, and another sip of martini, and then Magnus is turning back to the window with pursed lips. “Is that what Clave history says about me? The terrifying wonder of Magnus Bane and his downfall, consumed by greed and lust for more power, a Greater Demon in hiding.” Magnus inhales deeply, holds it for three precious beats Alec can’t help but count, and then releases it with a defeated slump. “What a story to tell.”

Alec takes a timid step closer. “Are you saying it’s not true?”

At that, Magnus strikes him in place yet again with a sharp look. “Did the Nephilim become so stupid in the hundred years I was away? Did no one think to question the lunacy of the assumptions wrapped up in Clave history with a neat little bow? Should I summon my father to show you what a Greater Demon truly looks like?”

The words are hissed with such spite that Alec begins to question them himself, to re-evaluate his own upbringing and knowledge of the past learned through years of training. Who is he to question the past? The Clave wouldn’t change the passages of history intentionally, that would surely go against the Accords and everything Alec knows to be true.

There must be a mistake.

“You summoned power from Edom, you-” Alec falters, just for a moment. “You pretended to be a Warlock to gain power among the Downworld. You were banished to preserve the Accords, and because you couldn’t be stopped unless drastic measures were taken. The Downworlders banded together to stop you, Bane.”

Magnus downs the remainder of his drink and rolls it around his tongue, letting the words sit and marinate in the spirit. 

“I was there when everything happened, Alec,” Magnus scoffs, “obviously.” In a flash of grandeur, Magnus turns from the window, away from the pinkening sky of the city. “History has a tendency to change over the years. Word of mouth, tales of skepticism, those in power feeding their lies to those who don’t know any better. And you lot,” Magnus shakes his head, “you gobble it up like the little birds you are, waiting to be fed by your mother. What would the Angels think of their Accords now, I wonder?”

The topic at hand is territory that begins to feel unsettling. The words Magnus speaks of imply known lies from the people Alec trusts the most, the people who guide and direct their entire lives. What would Isabelle and Jace say if they were to hear the same words? It would incite anger, surely, outrage and disbelief. It would start a war with Edom, at the very least, and go against the shreds of diplomacy Alec has worked towards. 

So why doesn’t Alec feel the way he knows he should? Why are the words of this Greater Demon in front of him sowing seeds of doubt into his mind where none have ever taken root? Is it having a face to the name that makes it all the more real for him? Is it being able to see the way those words are uttered, the nuance and enunciation of each and every one?

“So you’re not a Greater Demon?” Alec questions, hesitant. Not to ask, but to hear the answer he knows will follow.

Magnus catches his eyes and stares between both pupils, seemingly taking in all of the emotions hidden deep down inside of Alec, buried so far below where not even he chooses to acknowledge. Magnus searches and searches but for what, Alec’s not sure. He delves and prods with those eyes that Alec can’t tear his own gaze away from, Magnus resolute in his endeavor until whatever he finds is enough, must be enough, because soon that swirling golden gaze is pulling away from him.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not the Greater Demon you were hoping for.”

Something sinks low in the pit of his stomach, acidic and bubbling and causing so much discomfort Alec takes a step back to catch his breath with his body tucked into the cushions of the sofa. He’ll ask his mother, he’ll get clarity back at the Institute, and he’s sure it will make sense. It has to.

Until then, he needs more answers. Different ones that won’t affect everything he thought he knew.

“Camille?” He tosses out, and Magnus catches without missing a beat.

“My former lover.” 

Former… lover? “Then why did you kill her?”

Magnus’ back straightens from his spot in front of the window, and his shoulders sit rigid. “As I said before, it was necessary. Camille is - was - a master of the fine arts, and manipulation was the medium she chose to wield most proficiently. If I let her live any longer, she’d have found a way to send me back to Edom, or get me to do it myself.”

“I gather she was the one who rallied the other Downworlders against you, then?”

A hum flits between them, and Magnus lifts a hand to his chin where idle fingers rub against the silver that decorates them as he sits in thought. “Not entirely, I believe. Although with her soul gone I suppose I’ll never truly know.” It rolls out so nonchalant, Alec can’t help the chills that run up his spine. “I’ve had nothing but time in Edom to try and make sense of that day. It was Warlocks, friends and foes alike that banded their powers together to silence me. They weakened my defenses, abused the trust I blindly allowed them, and when my back was turned, they took a knife to it.”

“Everyone betrayed you? Why would they have done that?”

“Not everyone,” Magnus sighs with a genuine soft smile. “My two dearest friends of course would never betray me. They tried to warn me numerous times and I regret every time I did not listen to them. Every instance I shrugged their worries off was bathed in my overconfidence of my own prowess. I was foolish and naive. I believed I was untouchable to most, that I was respected and loved by my own kin enough that these worries were fruitless.”

Pain mars Magnus’ face and the kneading of his fingers stops. “Nothing is guaranteed in this world, Alec. There is always something darker lurking in the shadows, something more sinister than any Downworlder or demon you can imagine. Greed and jealousy can change a person, can make them capable of horrifying realities. The only guarantee we have is that there will always be someone else who wants what you have.” At that, he motions towards Alec with a wave of his hand. “You’re in a position of power, Alec. You should know just as well as I the dangers that lie below.”

It’s a chilling thought, to think of the faces of Shadowhunters he’s grown to know over the years, Shadowhunters he’s met along the way here and there, and wonder if anyone might one day try to take him down the way the Downworlders took down Magnus.

“There must have been a reason,” Alec inquires.

“I’m sure there is,” Magnus sighs, lifting his other hand to twist the silver band across his wrist. “Camille, for how easy she was to read when she was begging for her life, gave me very little to go off.”

The way he casually throws out Camille’s death unsettles him again, and this time Magnus takes notice. 

“It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, Alec,” Magnus states, a forlorn expression cast across the shadows of his face as the sun lightens the room. “I loved Camille for hundreds of years, and I don’t doubt I’d have loved her for many more if she hadn’t betrayed me. Locked away in Edom I had no choice but to quell the ache in my heart that she caused, and truly see the wickedness she commanded. For all her beauty and charisma, she was not a good person and I hate that it took me this long to see.”

Alec swallows the lump in his throat and nods. It hasn’t been an easy path for him, but Magnus must have prepared himself for the grief he would feel afterwards. For that, Alec feels a hint of guilt that he’s holding hostage this time of mourning Magnus likely needed.

But it had to be done. Alec needed these answers, he needed to hear what Magnus had to say tonight, and he’s only surprised the words came so willingly, with very little cost to himself.

Well, not entirely free. His neck still feels scratched, bloodied and bruised, and the slow leak of the Ravener demon’s wound continues to spread blood against his clothes. For the information he’s gathered, and under the flag of diplomacy, it was well worth the trade.

“I seem to be doing most of the talking this morning,” Magnus mentions lightly as he adjusts his position in his seat. “For someone who is very much at my mercy, I’ve heard little of your plight.”

What is his plight? With everything he’s learned, everything Magnus has trusted him with, he’s not even sure where he stands anymore. His world has been spun on its side, and until he can take a step back and properly think, get an actual unbiased look at things… he has no idea.

“In my mind, there were only three options. One, I could sit back and watch as you destroy Downworlders, the Shadowhunters left out of it to observe. Two, I could intervene, try to gather whatever defenses I could and prepare the Institute for the war with you that would be inevitable once I made my decision known. Or three, I could try to,” Alec pauses, searching for the right word, “reason with you, be as civil as I possibly could with a Greater Demon.” 

At Magnus’ pointed stare, Alec corrects himself. 

“Alleged Greater Demon.”

“Hmm,” Magnus exhales into his steepled fingers. “The first one would have been the safest option. I would have stayed true to my word, assuming no Shadowhunters tried anything funny. The second one would have been the total destruction of the New York Institute, no doubt about it, clearly.” Magnus offers a faint smile that Alec almost feels himself returning, but forces himself not to. “The third brings about a whole round of further questioning. What does being reasonable entail?”

Alec’s furrowed brows and the way he rests his balled fists in his lap must give way to the overwhelming uncertainty he feels in this moment. He doesn’t know what it entails, if he’s being honest. He knows what it did entail, which was an attempt to get Magnus Bane to back down and return to Edom. A chance for him to see the error of his way, and correct it.

But then Clary had stepped in, altered it and put ideas in Alec’s mind of helping Magnus, before he even knew for sure all of the minuscule details of the situation. She suggested they help him, that they find out why he’s here and fight this battle with him, unsanctioned by the Clave.

A truly terrible, horrible idea. 

Yet, now, the most compelling.

In a reciprocated moment of honesty, Alec reveals this to Magnus. “At first, I wanted to guide you into returning to Edom, to try and find a way to avoid all of this death and destruction. But then it changed. The Clave didn’t want me to concern myself with you, they wanted me to stay as far away as possible, to be less of a threat to the rest of the Shadowhunters, I suppose. So if I couldn’t reason with you, if I couldn’t get you to go back to Edom without the damage… Maybe I could help you.”

Alec releases an anxious breath and allows himself the chance to peer over and meet Magnus’ wide golden eyes. It’s just a second, maybe two, or perhaps three that they keep contact, searching and afraid and so deeply confused by each other. Eventually, Alec turns away and focuses down at the scuff that covers his boots.

The sun is rising higher with each minute that passes, and time seems to drag on forever, but Alec sits patiently and waits. He’s always been good at that.

“I could kill you with the snap of my fingers,” Magnus whispers, after what feels like hours. 

There’s a creeping feeling along Alec’s neck, the slithering tendrils of magic that he unmistakably catches. They’re not quick to whip around his neck this time, rather, so gentle and curious that it almost feels taboo to let them continue. A prickle of heat remains where the magic brushes by, growing warmer and hotter with each pass until the remnants of pain subside and the self-inflicted wounds close up and heal. “You could,” Alec responds with a low voice that he isn’t sure he can equate to the tenderness of his throat anymore. “But I’m trusting you not to, Magnus.”

Perhaps it’s the fact that Alec is using his name for the first time, or the fact that he’s putting the power so willingly in his hands that Magnus winces at the words, and the recession of warm magic around him leaves Alec feeling suddenly hollow. 

“Trust is not something you give so blindly, Shadowhunter.”

“I don’t give it blindly,” Alec corrects. “You’ve told me your truth, and I want to help you. After everything you’ve been through, isn’t that the right thing?”

A flash of anger crosses Magnus’ face, and he offers a dark, crooked smile to Alec. “What do Shadowhunters know of the right thing?”

“Magnus - “

“I appreciate the sentiment, truly, but I did warn you that my graciousness would only last so long. You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

With that, a portal is summoned beside where Alec now stands in front of the couch, a movement he doesn’t recall even making. The static of the portal is loud in his ears, and his jacket flaps viciously in time with the wind. 

“Magnus,” he tries again, but Magnus raises a finger and shakes his head.

“It’s kind of you to feel I’m owed the satisfaction of my revenge, but for your safety, and the safety of keeping the Accords in tact, I must refuse your offer. Be well, Shadowhunter,” Magnus articulates through the rush of the portal, completely unfazed. 

A flick of his wrist, and fiery red magic shoots towards Alec, propels him forward and through the portal that he knows will take him back to the Institute.

Bright sunlight burns his eyes when the portal dissipates behind him, and he stumbles forward yet again, catching himself just in time to not fall onto the concrete sidewalk. People walk by him, blissfully unaware as they meander along the paths that pass by the Institute, oblivious to the death the previous night brought upon the Downworld. Ignorant to all of the inner machinations that go on inside the Institute, free to live the life they choose, as they see fit without having to answer to a higher authority in what’s the right thing to do.

For just a moment, Alec feels a sting of jealousy towards the Mundanes that walk around him. 

Jealousy and greed, he remembers Magnus’ words.

The next step is unclear to him, he realizes as he heads towards the tall wooden doors that greet him, the same doors he knows so well. Everything feels the same, standing here in front of the Institute, but at the same time looks so foreign to his eyes that feel awakened by the conversation that just transpired.

He thinks of Magnus, drink in hand, staring at the high-rise of absolutely nothing important in the humble apartment he temporarily resides in. Magnus, with all the power in Edom, and all the clarity of a spurned Warlock cast out by his own people for reasons still unknown to Alec. Magnus, opening a world Alec never knew in front of him, a world hidden in shadows and secrecy. Hidden by the Clave.

But now, standing on the steps of the Institute, Alec begins to doubt again. The Clave wouldn’t hide the fact that Magnus was a Warlock this entire time, would they? To knowingly transcribe fallacies into their proud history, to crown an innocent man as a monster that should be feared… 

With the shake of his head, Alec places one hand on the door of the Institute and pushes it open. Whatever questions he has, he’s going to figure out the truth. Even if it means disappointing his mother and seeking out an uncooperative Magnus Bane.

[witchfall]

universal constant

Rated: M Words:  5,711 Read it on AO3 (Wolgraha. Mild sexual content within) 

beta’d by @vaniccio

G’raha’s world ends. She dies. And then, inexplicably, she doesn’t. The Echo, he comes to realize, is a callous master.

-----

The first time G'raha sees her go down in a fight, he forgets how to breathe.

It is only a fraction of a moment. The air is knocked out of her in a thick cry. He hears the skid of her feet against mud and stone and the clatter of her bow upon the ground, even amid the heavy rain.

She becomes a wet pile of leathers, unmoving for just a moment too long.

An imperial mech bears down on her, but G'raha’s feet move automatically. He hurls his body over her and then he throws up his arm, summoning a shield of light just as a gigantic sword crashes toward them both. His arm vibrates so hard from the blow that his teeth clatter. His off-arm digs deep into the dirt. His eyes water -- and then Alisaie sets the enemy alight with red flares. Metal explodes in fiery flints over the field. He ducks under his shield so that his forehead nearly brushes Izzie's, and the battle stills, if only for a moment.

He opens his eyes (when had he closed them? Everything moves too fast for him to remember) and is met by Izzie staring up at him, her sea glass eyes bright against the mud smears on her face. Gods, he thinks, gods and wicked white and every curse, of course she is fine. Of course. The thought alone is cooling as a salve. He remembers to breathe.

But then she is suddenly, impossibly close, her breath hot against his face. She yanks him up by the biceps. Her fingernails dig into his skin, even through his clothes. She shakes him fiercely, yelling something, and it happens so quickly he doesn't process what she is saying until--

"--so don't fucking do that!" she shouts over the rain. "Some blows aren't meant for you!"

"Izzie--" Her name spills out of his mouth, but the rest of his words clot in his throat. Am I supposed to just stand here?

She shoves him away before he can finish.

The fight swells and her fury becomes magnificent to behold. He loses track of her, but never completely. He would hear her over the loudest of dins; whether via the lingering mysticism of the Crystal Tower or this young body's constant yearning, her soul has left deep marks on him. Its aura presses like high tide, smothering and heady in its power. Arrows fly. Her voice rises to haunting crescendo. Magitek scatters to blue sparks and flame. Only later when she vice grips his shoulders does he see the sickness that drives her into reckless battle. Her eyes scan him so thoroughly he would have blushed if he had the energy.

"Okay," she breathes. She shakes and shakes and shakes. Heavy rain plinks on dead metal. All else is silent. He could hear her bones chatter together, if he listened hard enough. "Okay," she says again. "We're fine."

She sways on her feet. He wraps his arms around her taut waist and pulls her close, but she resists him, tensing in his arms, turning her face away from him. Blood and ceruleum and ash drip from her pale skin as rain showers them both. He rubs her forehead with his thumb, but his gloves are dirtied with battle, and so he simply leaves another smear.

"Izzie, look at me."

"I'm fine."

"I know--"

"I just need..." She sucks in a breath between her teeth. He would give her anything she asks. The moon and every star in the sky. "Just give me a second."

He purses his lips. He pushes her hair from her drenched forehead and tests her tension. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it," he says.

She bristles in his arms. Her nails dig into his wrists. She is a bow string near to snap. "So?"

He blinks. "What?"

She sniffs heavily and still won't look at him. "This isn't new."

But he had never been in the field like this, never felt the slick of dirt and grime on her like this, never smelled blood and gunpowder in her hair like this. He drinks her in, how small she seems now, soaked by rain. He is well aware that she is only in his arms because she allows it, but the dichotomy between Izzie of the Fight -- the Izzie the stories sing about -- and the Izzie of the Aftermath is discordant. He fears one of them may shatter from the sound.

"I'm sorry," he says. "You're right."

A heartbeat passes between them. When she finally turns to speak into his shoulder, her voice is near lost in the rain. "...Just let me do my job."

He sways in place, holding her in his arms. He knows that tone -- the determination, the resignation of it. The stubborn will to stand in the storm so no others will. It is the only way she knows how to seize control.

An old frustration makes his tail thrash.

There is no time here to hash it out, not as the other Scions begin to approach. There is no time for him to spill his heart on the floor for her -- to explain just how each blow she takes is one for him, too.

"Alright," he says, picking his battles. "Alright."

-----

It isn't always like that. But he does learn just how terrible of a chirurgeon patient she is.

After another engagement at Bozja, Izzie lays her head in G'raha's lap while Krile sews up the re-opened gash in her side. Izzie grits her teeth. You’re here as a distraction. And a focus. So she remembers not to throw me across the room, Krile had said, blasé, and G’raha couldn’t tell if she was joking. Izzie’s body jerks as Krile begins another stitch. Her hand grips his tightly enough his mouth pops open in shock.

“Sorry,” Izzie hisses out. She lets go immediately. “Sorry.”

“I fear this is my doing." He manages a light tone despite the throttling nature of the pain. He opts to let his thumbs linger at her temples, instead. "For making you laugh too hard.”

“Shame on you.” She smirks up at him, wobbly and disjointed, and affection floods him, warm and rounded. She jolts again.

He brushes hair from her brow. “Are you sure you--”

“Nope,” Izzie says quickly. “I’ve had worse.”

Izzie, he discovers, hates pain medicine -- hates the way it blurs her thoughts and stunts her movement, even for something as routine as stitches, and he realizes he is there to shine like a sharp light through the sensation of Krile digging into her flesh.

“Prepare yourself, Warrior,” the lalafell says, and she goes for another stitch.

Izzie almost thrashes out of G’raha’s lap. He presses his palms into her shoulders, startled. He would soothe her with a healing spell but he’d been yelled at by Krile enough for that; such spells interfere with chirurgeon work by making the body repair along bad seams.

“Bitchass motherfucker, Krile !” Izzie seethes in his lap, eyes watering. “You’re doing this on purpose!”

An old, silent war rages as Krile meets her patient’s gaze. It doesn’t have to be like this, Krile would say. We live in a society with medicine. And Izzie would insist upon it because her stubbornness is near a sickness of its own. He frowns.

She is a horrible patient for one who must be treated so often.

Even so, she is not the only one with hurts -- and despite everything, he comes to cherish the moments late in the eve when both lay in bed, beaten and bruised and tired and together. He relishes the way her body melts into his when he smooths his hands over her shoulders, healing aether warming his palms. The way she presses messy kisses into his chest, his wrists, his jaw. The rejuvenating rest allowed two people, waking in shared soreness, beneath the soft dawn light.

It’s not so bad, he thinks; it’s all he ever wanted. It is a deeply survivable thing, to share these burdens.

Until, sometimes, it isn’t.

-----

Her striking shadow slices the beam of Garlemald’s fearsome weaponry, a flare in the negative against roiling light. He stands struck by her glory.

And then his stomach curdles as her shadow scatters, like grass eaten by locusts, beneath the assault.

He doesn’t even have time to scream.

She's gone.

She's gone.

He feels outside his own body, staring blankly at the scorch mark left behind on the ground where she stood. His feet move on their own.

Thancred shouts for him to hold the line. The man's voice barely registers over the white noise buzzing in G'raha's ears. What line is there left to hold? Was it really doomed to end like this? Even with the balance of the Universe reset by centuries just to--

Wait.

A figure appears amid the smoke and shadow, and he has to blink back the blurred edges of his vision.

She’s... there.

She stands, whole, where she should not be -- a filagree of light against the dark. Silence rolls across the field. It’s as if she’d never been gone at all.

She turns toward him, face blank. His throat is hoarse. He realizes he is screaming her name. The world skips past him like a broken orchestrion roll until he has her in his arms, pulling her down from the outcropping that made her such an obvious target.

She doesn’t resist him. “Raha?”

Hate surges through him then, suddenly -- a fear so poisonous it cripples him -- and he realizes the hate is not for Garlemald or even the killing blow but for the heroic image she strikes despite the damage it clearly ekes. She blinks helplessly, eyes reddened and bloody. Burns seep away from her skin like paint under rain, disappearing before his eyes. She gropes in desperation until she finds his chest and her hand wraps around the edge of his scarf. Her dirt-caked nails leave grimy splotches on the fabric.

“Do I have my bow?” she manages.

He can’t speak. Her hands reach for the weapon anyway.

His heart rips. “You shouldn’t--”

“I’m okay, darlin’.” Her voice is an unusual, knowing calm. “You shouldn’t be this far afield.”

And she turns away. She somehow returns to the fight. No one asks. They don’t need to.

He looks toward the backline and sees the rest of the Scions watching him.

They deal with it in their own ways, he realizes then. It's why Alphinaud focuses so hard on healing and the reason Alisaie throws her all into her offensive battery. It’s one of the myriad reasons Thancred took up his position as the group’s shield. Why Y’shtola turned from conjury to the most fearsome of black magics. Why Urianger brought the power of the stars to bear.

If they are enough, she doesn’t have to go through that.

The battle ends, largely a stalemate but slightly in their favor. Even Izzie tires. G’raha’s body protests but he ignores it; he half-carries her back to the camp and does not let her out of arm’s reach until they’ve regained enough energy to teleport back to the Rising Stones. Even then he feels she could too easily slip from this coil.

He knows she is not feeling right because she doesn’t rebuff him.

He fears his uselessness. A habit from a century of living with want. While he quietly helps her out of her armor and into a bath, he ponders what the Echo has wrought. He sprinkles healing salt into the water.

She died. She died! Her body flipped like a switch to a moment before her demise, shivering and burned, gasping for air.

He wonders at its function alongside her connection to the Ancients. It’s different from revival; she was disintegrated. The Echo made it not so. He knows she can die. He lived centuries to prevent that very outcome. But which deaths are final? Which can she shrug off? How many does she get?

Does she exist outside the usual laws of time and space? A paracausal existence, where cause and effect do not matter in ways comprehensible to the Spoken mind? If Hydaelyn and Zodiark are merely primals, the most powerful of all meant to rewrite the laws of science, is it possible that glimpsing the power of the Ancients makes it so the most Blessed of Her heart can only be felled in the most horrific and reality-twisting of ways?

Why? Why would that be Her solution?

He jolts when her wet palm settles against his cheek. “Hey.”

He breathes deep. Her soap smells like lavender and honey. He presses his mouth into the grooves of her hand and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry.” His throat tightens. “Today, I--”

“No,” she says, so soft. “I’m sorry. I know the...the weird thing happened.”

He somehow never had seen it. The weird thing. The Weird Thing. He’s shaken by this term. “Do you know when it will happen?”

She lets out a shattered sigh. “I don’t.”

“...do you...remember what happened to you?”

“Not really,” she says. A primal memory of the muscle, but not of the heart or mind. He feels deep relief right alongside revulsion. “I just know no one likes it.”

His mind buzzes. He has a thousand questions. He sometimes wishes the song of the Tower was clearer in his head, like back on the First. Perhaps the Allagans had known of this phenomenon; they seemed the type to cultivate such a talent. But he knows, too, the history of their avarice and he feels a spike of protectiveness at the thought of exposing her even to their memory.

The water splashes as she sits forward in the tub. “Raha?”

He meets her gaze and is lanced to the ground. Her eyes threaten tears.

“You just can’t think about it, okay?” She looks every which way. “Are you...does it…”

He leans forward and cradles her face between his palms. He kisses her hard enough that their teeth clash. His hands are still dirty. He would have to wash her face again. But he kisses her until her wet hands settle on the back of his neck and he feels her relax into the water.

“No,” he says. “It doesn’t change anything. Nothing could.”

His world nearly ended today. And then it didn’t. He would, for her sake, do his best to forget.

-----

He sees the blood spray from her arm. He watches her stumble and drop her bow. His body’s response is near automatic, summoning cool aether to weave a healing spell even as smoke fills the air. But when he charges forward to find her through the morass, she is not there.

He spins. He thinks of the blood rolling down her bow arm, sticky and dark.

“Izzie!”

Figures collide in the corner of his eye. He turns and turns and turns but her fiery hair is nowhere to be seen, wholly devoured by the chaos. He swallows down the building panic in his gut.

And then--

A thick silence descends, before his hair stands up and air sucks away from his ears and he dives to the side but it is not enough--

He stumbles to his knees from the concussive force and acrid stench of a fire bomb. Smoke burns his eyes. His ears ring from the biting kerang of gunfire. His shield nor his barriers are ready; the other Scions are scattered across the field. The Garleans must be catching on, he realizes, dark and heavy. They’ve had enough of the Scions’ tricks.

A war machina bears down on him. He spins to the side but the damn thing feints.

Raha!

In one moment, he is upright. In the next, he is on the cold ground. The world spins and spins and spins. His mouth fills with dirt; blood paints his teeth. Warmth trails down his chest and sticks to his tunic. Pain, dull at first, crescendos in the back of his head until it is shrieking.

A familiar voice rises over the din.

Fuckers! You’ll pay for that!

He opens his eyes. Blue-black debris flies overhead and then--

“Raha. Raha, look at me, okay? Look at me.”

Slick hands touch his face and turn his head until all he can see is the sea green of her eyes and the red flare of her dirty, war-tangled hair. He blinks. His limbs feel malms away. He can’t move fast enough to stop her from attending to him right here in the middle of a fight. Izzie’s hands slide up and down his chest until her fingers dig into his wound and he bucks in pain. His shoulder feels...incomplete. Bitten off. Wet and gone. Bits of fire dig into his skin. Shrapnel, perhaps.

“Okay. Okay. Okay. I can...no, can’t tourniquet there...cloth...pressure…”

She’s talking to herself.

He hears the tearing of cloth. Her stilted hands press a ripped part of her tunic into his shoulder. He cries out in agony as she pushes and pushes and pushes to try and stop the bleeding.

Her breathing is sharp and watery in his ear. “What the fuck were you doing,” she hisses. Her eyes are wide as saucers. “Where did you go?”

He braces himself to grunt out a few words, but he can’t form them.

“No. Don’t talk. Just focus on me. I...I don’t...” She takes a sharp breath and remembers her linkpearl. She pleas for a healer over the line, her voice shaking even as she barks out their location. Her hands are rough and seizing as she hoists him onto a field stretcher, but that is all he remembers before he wakes up under Krile’s care back at the safety of their camp.

He is laid out on a soldier’s cot, groggy and hazed, and he feels a strange anger simmering just below the medicinal fog. He hears his father’s laugh, cruel and thoughtless and drunk. You’ll never understand. None of us ever has.

Izzie sits in a chair, staring at the thin line revealed by the tent’s flap. Her face is still smeared with black oil and dirt. Her head is tilted slightly, like a garden ornament about to fall in the rain. His heart tumbles strangely.

“Where had you gone?” he croaks.

She jumps a foot in the air before she spins in her chair toward him. Her eyebrows creep near her hairline. In the next instant, she leans over him, hands hovering over his injuries. “I’m right here,” she says.

He thinks to tell her she hadn’t been. She hadn’t been where he thought she was and he thought she died, again, and he couldn’t bear it. Doesn’t she know that? Doesn’t she feel it, too? But her eyes are so wide and blown out and her skin shines so wetly he fears she is sick with fever.

So he buries the anger, deep and dark, and focuses on the feel of her fingers in his hair.

-----

He has sworn to love a wildfire. But wildfires are not known for their fairness.

The anger, simmering between them, spills out the next morning. She pushes open the tent flap and a warning klaxon sounds off between his ears, seeing the paleness of her brow and the darkness around her eye sockets. She had not slept. Yet her gaze glimmers, dangerous and lucid, and she says to him as she hands him a tray of rations: “You’re not doing this again.”

He squints up at her. Krile had said he likely won’t be returning to this particular engagement, but something in Izzie’s tone feels heavy and final. “I’m sorry?”

“We’re going back to the Stones.”

He sets the tray aside. “I understand I need to recover--”

But she won’t let him finish. “A warfront isn’t for you. You’re too...you’re too reckless.”

For a moment he forgets how to speak, struck dumb by her sheer audacity. “I’m reckless?”

She glares down at him. Challenging him. “Yes.”

She’s baiting him. He knows this.

“Izzie.” He bites out her name. She doesn’t flinch. “You were injured. It’s my job to protect you. You know that. You agreed to it.”

“It was just a small cut. You exposed yourself for no reason.”

He remembers the blood splatter. Anger, thick as sludge, makes his lungs hurt. “No reason? Izzie Nenelori, you took a hit that would have taken the arm off of any other man!”

“That’s my job!”

“It is, emphatically, not.”

She purses her lips. Her eyes glitter. He should fear this face, he knows, but he can barely see through his own fury, red and vile.

“You don’t know anything,” she hisses. “You know what I can do. What I can survive.”

Some dam in him breaks. He doesn’t think. He snakes out a hand to seize her by the wrist, as if that might prevent her from proving the power of the Echo here and now, and his heart stutters when her eyes widen. But he glares, intent. “Don’t. Do not even think to joke about that in my presence.”

“Or what?” Her eyes flick to his fingers wrapped around her arm. Her voice is desiccating. “What will you do.”

“Do you have any idea what it feels like?” His eyes burn. “To watch you throw your life about as if it holds no worth? Do you have any concept of the hole you would leave in our lives, in my life, if your Echo failed you once?” He can barely speak for the lump forming in his throat. “What it does to me, every time you shrug off a hit that should flatten you?”

She is silent for a single, heavy beat.

His throat burns as he resists breaking down in sudden, furious tears. “Do you?” he presses.

She tears her wrist from his grasp. She balls her hands into fists.

“How fucking dare you.” She takes a watery breath before her voice rises like the tide. “I watched you near die some three times already!”

His ears ring. Her words hang in the air, dripping and cruel and right.

“You think I don’t know?” Her cheeks glisten. “What it’s like to watch everything you love in the world fade? Are you really that godsdamn stupid?”

His mouth slackens. His shoulders sag. Tears leak down his face. He remembers, vividly, Alisaie flicking him on the forehead for openly considering his sacrifice for all their sakes. He had been so cavalier. He felt the circumstances had required it, then, and that Alisaie’s reaction had been driven by something a little illogical...

But Alisaie had been protecting Izzie’s heart. Because he hadn’t considered the possibility of the harm he could do to her, even then.

He grips the blanket, cursing his foolishness. Always the idiot boy in her presence.

“You’re right,” he churns out. “I...I’m sorry. I am.”

She turns away from him but she doesn’t storm off. He reaches, gently, for her hand. She does not pull away, but she does not loosen her fist.

“I struggled to remember, then, that I was...I was still...close enough to a Spoken man for it to matter, and…” He struggles to breathe. “I worry that you think the same thing. That you forget you are still a Spoken woman.”

Her shoulders crumple. Her hands fly to her face. She does not say anything for a long moment and he feels like a monster writhing in chains as he swallows down the desire to sweep her into an embrace. She would turn him away. She must come to him first.

“Am I?” Her voice shakes. “Am I?”

She sits at the end of his bed. He waits until her first sob breaks free before he pulls her to him, tucking her tightly under his chin. He strokes her back and hides his own tears in her hair. His shoulder be damned.

His lips brush her skin as he whispers his adoration. “You are.”

She is the girl he met in Mor Dhona, bright as seltzer. She is a rarity and fleeting and real -- like any girl, yes, but his.

-----

Even injured, he still tames her.

His hands rest at her bare waist as she reveals herself to him, word by word. She leans over him until her ruby hair pools in the cave of his collarbones and her taut arms frame his head. Her lips brush his jaw. “I just go crazy, thinking about it,” she admits, quiet, as if it is only the moon watching. “I survived a world without you, once. I don’t...I don’t think I could do it again.”

Before he can reply with words of his own, her teeth graze his chin and seize his lip. She eggs him on. Tell me, she would say, but don’t speak.

He flips her over him and pins her to the mattress. He buries his nose in her scent. Runs his hands down her naked body. Maps her sharp curves and deep scars, presses his thumbs into the dips of her hip bones, mouths her until her chest heaves -- even as she fights him.

His mouth is kind even as he manhandles her. His grasp is gentle but firm; she desires boundaries to rail against and he will give them to her. He drives her body into the mattress. He whispers sweetness into her ear as he does it. My star. Beautiful and glorious. I will never tire of your body under mine. He pulls her hair to expose her neck to his chastising teeth. Do you know how long I've wished for this? How lovely you look, laid bare and taken and mine?

It is the greatest honor he knows to have her like this, to break her open so the ache comes free and she can fill her heart with joy again. There are some hurts she need not bear. Pain need not be her only constant.

And it is thrilling to remind her who she belongs to.

He treats these moments like arcanima proofs. Through them, he describes the unknowable with what tools he has. His fingers, his tongue.

“I... Raha, I…”

Her voice saying his name sets his core alight. He is driven harder and harder until the pressure between them crests like a mad wave.

But when she finally cries out her pleasure and falls lax beneath him, he is the one who feels split in half. He leans over her, spent. His mind keens. His shoulder throbs. Her voice sends him a thousand different places -- to memories and fantasies that are both ancient and new, sometimes the same memory at once. A shattered kind of Echo.

She brushes the hair from his brow. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out when he meets her gaze. Her lingering silence pressurizes the room. He feels lightheaded. She’s holding something back and he no longer has the mind to figure out what, exactly; it may as well be dripping from him along with his sweat.

Her hand cups his cheek. He closes his eyes.

He would not survive another separation, either.

“It’s not just losing you,” she says. “It’s losing...losing me. Losing the people who remember who I am. I don’t know who I would be.” She looks up at him, wide-eyed and small. “If no one...if you weren’t here to...remind me...”

He lays down and pulls her in against his chest. She presses herself entirely against him, bracing him. His arms tighten around her waist. His fingers thread through her hair.

“Sometimes I fear I’m no longer tethered anywhere in time,” he confesses, throat tight. Ghosts linger in his blood; that is the true curse of Allag. “That I’m a mistake in the tapestry...and that all could be unwoven in a blink…”

She pulls back just slightly and brushes the backs of her fingers down his jaw. His eyes swim, overwhelmed by the sweetness of her face and the bruising of her lips.

“But we’re here,” he says, voice breaking. “And if I am a mistake, so be it. I will fight for my place. To remain here, with you, as long as I can. Even if that means I must take a hard risk now and again.” His shoulder throbs, as if to be the declarative point on his sentence.

Her answer is simple and shattering. She just says his name. “Raha…”

He pulls her into a kiss. Her voice is what he had followed when all else failed. He named the Musica Universalis after her -- the beating heart of the city, the center of their strange star and the harmonies within. The place where merchants and birds gathered and sang their hopeless, hopeful songs.

She pulls away. Her back is taut, but her hands are gentle, reaching up to rub his ears, and he is helpless before her.

"Let me show you something. Tomorrow." She turns her face into his neck. "It might help you understand."

-----

Ishgard splits the horizon like Halone’s Spear, painted in light and heavy stone. Coerthas’ mountains swell just behind it. From here, everything feels worlds away, even as the wind sears freezing gashes across his face.

But the gravestone feels too small.

Izzie stares at the broken shield, eyes threading seams into the hole, and G’raha feels a rock slowly sink into his stomach.

"That," Izzie says, "is why people can't take blows for me."

A moment passes. And then she tells him everything from the day Haurchefaunt died -- the details Lord de Fortemps could not bear to put in his memoirs. The warm twilight sky. How she and Haurchefaunt only needed share a single look before they both sprang into action. How they moved in sync, down a walkway gilded in purple and gold.

How he said he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, instead. How she watched the light leave his eyes.

She doesn't say it, but G’raha can feel it in her thoughts. It should have been me.

He guards her from the worst of the chill with his shoulders. "You could never know for sure. What might have happened if he hadn't been there."

Izzie's gazes upon the gravestone with a heaviness only worn by those who have made the same calculation over and over. "And Edmont wouldn't want me to think this way. I know. But I'm always going to wonder."

G'raha purses his lips. He remembers something a first generation settler of the Crystarium once told him. "That's the curse of the living, I'm afraid."

She eyes him. He can't pin if it's suspicion or annoyance or concern, her face half-hidden in a scarf.

"He knew who I was. Beyond the Warrior of Light. Like...someone else I once knew." She shoulder checks him hard enough that air rushes from his lungs, but he deserves it, teasing or no. "I was in a really bad place for a really long time before you found me again in another world. But even you…" Her gaze slides away and he snakes an arm around her shoulder. "...well, you know," she grumbles.

Even he almost died for her.

"So that's why it makes me crazy. When people try to help me. It's just easier for you to...not."

"But it isn't," he says softly.

Her hat re-shapes as her ears flatten.

"You've seen so much loss,” he says. “But what does that mean you'll do? Will you love others and receive none in return, in the hopes of sparing them some dark fate?"

She grumbles something, which signals to him he's right.

"It doesn't work like that, my love," he whispers into her ear, hiding the words from the icy wind. "And you, more than anyone, deserve the fullness of affection people have for you."

She bunches her gloved hands near her face, clawing at her cheeks before hiding her eyes in her palms. He thinks perhaps they've reached the end of it when she says: "I know you're right."

His heart jumps. "I do so love to hear it."

She gives the smallest snort of a laugh. He smiles into her wool cap.

“Ma always said the world doesn't owe us anything." Her shoulders bunch forward. "So it feels stupid to say I'm due for something." She pins him with her eyes. The heat in her gaze turns his frozen legs to water. "But maybe I am. I think I've paid for it enough."

She curls in around him against the cold. She suddenly sucks in a breath. It mists in the frozen air, like his own words inside his head.

"I want you with me forever," she says. "I mean it.” She hides her face against his neck and he's shot through with golden light. “Rings and everything.”

He feels dunked into champagne. Thoughts short out in a fizzy fog.

She leans back and searches his face. “Raha?”

“I want it very much.” His words spill out fast. “I want to be tied to you in any way I can manage. I never want to make the mistake of separating myself from you, ever again.” The cold air in his lungs grounds him. “If you’re willing to have me, of course.”

She stops her strange searching and her eyes land on the grave. She laughs like she has been surprised by what she sees. “Sorry,” she says. “I know that’s sudden.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, perhaps too quickly. “We’ll do it right. With all the pomp and circumstance you deserve.”

He gets the reaction he seeks. Her head leans back in offended shock, eyes dancing over his face.

“No.” She glares at him. He grins, helpless. “No! I’m gonna do it my way and you’re gonna like it.”

“You sound very certain. As if I might not be scheming anything of my own.”

She scans his face. “You’re not.” Despite these revelations being fresh, her voice rings with uncertainty. She looks so concerned -- her brow so furrowed in consideration -- that he pulls her into a kiss. He can’t stop smiling. He is dumbstruck.

He feels a conviction so dense that he is, for a moment, cleaved to the universe.

When he pulls back, she is beaming.

[cbraxs]

Warped [Time Warp Trio Fanfiction] - Chapter 13

Izzy didn’t pay attention to Cleo teaching her friends how to play Senet on the floor in the center of the room. Not that she needed to; her mom taught her years ago. At least she’d have some people to play with now.

She sat on her bed beneath a wide window overlooking the bay. Her eyes gazed at the dark water; the glittery flecks dancing along the surface reflected the gorgeous stars above. She'd seen stars before, but they were always a welcomed view (she loved New York but all the light pollution ruined casual star gazing. She'd tried searching for her constellation; Andromeda. It was hers on account she had a collection of moles on her back that resembled the star formation.

A sigh escaped her lips. Izzy’s mind drifted towards what happened in the boys’ room. She had no clue what she did to upset Jodie. She didn’t say or do anything, at least nothing significant she could remember. Was it because Izzy was an outsider, someone who shouldn’t get to time travel and didn’t belong with the trio?

A flick to her forehead broke her out of her thoughts. “Earth to Izzy. Helloooo? Anyone home?”

Fred stood in front of her with his usual goofy grin. Somehow he made his way to her bed without her noticing.

Izzy scooted over and made a spot for him to sit. “Sorry. I was… thinking.”

“No kidding, you were more spaced out than my brother’s eyes.”

“You don’t wanna learn to play Senet?”

Fred put his hands behind his head leaned back. “Nah, it’s pretty much chess with extra steps.”

Izzy tried to laugh, but it quickly fizzled out.

Fred frowned. “What’s up?”

She hugged her knees to her chest. “I think Jodie hates me.”

“What gave it away?”

Ow. Sometimes Izzy wished Fred wasn’t so blunt. “Y-you think so, too?”

“I mean… she’s kind of a mean girl, but she’s not that bad. I wouldn’t worry about her, she’s still getting used to me, and we’ve been friends for years!”

Izzy smiled. “Thanks, Fred. Still… I’m worried about what her and Joe were talking about.”

Fred shrugged. “Don’t sweat it. They’re just trying to fix The Book.”

“You’re probably right– wait, they found The Book?! When?” At Izzy’s outburst, the others turn to look at the two of them. Cleopatra screamed.

Arms snaked around Izzy’s throat and waist and dragged her towards the window. Izzy yelped. She grabbed the arms of her kidnapper and flipped them will all her weight.

It worked a little too well. The momentum dropped them both on the floor with a thud. The whole room wobbled like a spinning top. Thankfully, Fred was there to help her up.

Her cloaked attacker stood, glaring at them beneath the hood, seemingly unfazed. They didn’t cower, even when outnumbered.

“What’s going on?”

Joe rushed into the room, Jodie right behind him. They stopped in their tracks once they noticed the cloaked figure.

“Some creep tried to yank Izzy through the window,” Sam explained.

Cleo stomped towards the hooded would-be kidnapper, despite Freddi warning her not to. “What is the meaning of this, villain?!”

The figure reached into their sleeve and pulled out something small and wooden. In an instant, Fred tackled the assailant to the ground. The item flew out of their hand and shattered to pieces on the floor.

The hood fell and they all could see the person underneath: tall nose, proud dark eyes, and she looked like–

Cleopatra gasped. “Berenice!”

Izzy’s heart sunk. “What?”

“Crocodile!” Sam shrieked.

Where Berenice’s wooden trinket fell, stood a crocodile, slimy from the Nile. A normal crocodile was bad news enough, but this one must have had a gym membership because it was easily twice as big. It hissed and snapped at them with razor-sharp teeth.

Sam, Freddi, and Samantha, who were the closest to the beast, yelled and scrambled away, almost toppling Joe and Jodie. The crocodile’s eyes glowed with an unnatural human hatred, but despite this it wasn’t going after any of them. It was like a yapping dog on a porch: it insisted you watch your step, but was incapable of making you do so.

Izzy looked at the wooden pieces and the croc, and slapped herself for not putting two and two together sooner. She rushed to her friends. “Guys, it’s not–”

Berenice kicked Fred off her and grabbed Izzy’s ankle, sending her a quick trip to the floor.

Izzy drew ragged breaths, trying to get some air back into her lungs. Berenice pounced on Izzy and dug her knees into Izzy’s back. Izzy clawed at the arm shoved into her neck, but the more she fought, the more Berenice put weight on her.

Berenice held something above her, and Izzy stilled. She thought it may be a weapon… until it glowed gold.

Then suddenly, the weight flew off her. A thud, followed by Berenice spitting curses at Cleopatra. Cleo had lunged past the crocodile and threw herself at Berenice.

“No!” Berenice wailed and reached for Izzy. “He wanted you! He–” The item Berenice held glowed stronger and brighter than before. It enveloped the two of them before dying in a pop! And the royal sisters vanished without a trace.

The others stared where the two once were. The room was deathly silent compared to the chaos before. Joe was the first to speak. “What the–”

The crocodile snapped at him, and he screamed.

Izzy jumped up, “I-it’s okay! Watch.”

She approached the crocodile, ignoring the pleas of her friends to stay back. The animal turned on her, but Izzy simply walked through the crocodile like it was made of mist, kicking it apart like a sandcastle. “It’s an illusion.”

Freddi’s brow furrowed. “So this whole time it couldn’t have bitten one of us?”

“It still could’ve, but it wouldn’t have hurt.”

“There are bigger things to handle,” Jodie said. “Like, I don’t know, how Cleopatra just disappeared!”

“I-I–” Izzy rubbed the back of her bruised neck. “Of course that’s more important, but I had to let you know the crocodile wasn’t serious...”

“It’s fine.” Joe shot Jodie a stern look and stepped towards Izzy. “Thanks, Iz. Are you alright?”

Izzy nodded and slowed her breathing. She hadn’t noticed she was nearly hyperventilating.

A barrage of footsteps thundered down the hall. Two guards burst through the door, one Izzy recognized from earlier, Ahmose.

“We heard screaming!” The other guard said.

“Great reaction time, guys,” Fred muttered. Samantha elbowed him in the ribs.

Ahmose eyes searched around the room. “Where is princess Cleopatra?”

“Berenice took her!” Freddi cried.

His curious looked turned into a glare. “Berenice was here and all seven of you thought to alert no one?”

“It’s not our fault!” Samantha said.

“Yeah, man,” Fred added. “It was all so fast! She had a buff killer crocodile and a glowing piece of wood and then they crossfaded out of here and–”

Sam rubbed his temples. “You’re not helping, you’re not helping!”

Even if Berenice were here,” the other guard said, “how are we to know you weren’t working with her. You foreigners showed up just as she escaped.”

It was fair to be suspicious, Izzy thought, the timing was not in their favor.

“We wouldn't do anything to hurt Cleopatra. You’ve got to believe us,” Izzy pleaded. She looked from Ahmose to the other guard, trying to communicate her honesty through her eyes. The one guard wasn’t convinced, but Ahmose’s glower softened by a fraction.

He shook his head. “It is not up to me to believe you or not. That will be for the Pharaoh to decide.”

~*~

The guards carted the seven of them to the Pharaoh to plead their case. They begged for him to believe them, they tried to reason with him; if they meant Cleopatra harm, then why go about it in this way? But the Pharaoh was incorrigible. He refused to listen to anything they had to say. Fred tried to argue he had diplomatic immunity, but that only served to make the Pharaoh angrier. He had them sentenced to prison until he decided their fates.

Their jail cell was little more than a dank, damp hole in the ground. The air was dusty and hard to breathe, as if they were inhaling 20% dirt. The stone bed against the wall made the floor look like a better sleeping option.

There weren’t any bars covering the hole and obstructing the starry sky above. The view was more haunting than alluring now that they were at least twenty feet below the surface. Despite this, Fred was trying to climb his way out. He’d get about a third of the way up before losing his grip and falling– usually on Sam– scattering prison hole dust every which way.

“Can you stop that!” Jodie said after his third attempt. “It’s not going to work.”

“You got a better plan?” Fred asked.

Apparently not, as Jodie turned troubled eyes on the floor.

“Let’s face it,” Sam said. “We have no way out. If the Pharaoh won’t have us tortured for answers, then we’ll definitely be executed.”

“We could be drowned, impaled, beheaded, burned alive...” Freddi listed off.

Izzy rubbed her arms. “Burned alive?”

“That’s the one that bothers you?” Fred asked.

“The ancient Egyptian’s actually didn’t burn many people as a punishment,” Samantha explained. “They thought that destroying a person’s body would rob them of an afterlife.”

Joe threw up his hands. “Could we not talk about execution methods for a minute and figure a way out of here.”

“Wait a minute.” Fred turned to Izzy. “You can levitate us out of here, right?”

Izzy twisted an earring. “I-I don’t know if I can. I’ve never levitated myself, let alone another person, before. Maybe I could do one at a time, but we’ll get caught doing it that way.”

“Would it be easier with two of us?” Joe asked.

Izzy nodded, considering it. "Jodie, do you think you could help? I think we can do it between the three of us.”

Jodie twisted her hair around a finger. “Magic like that isn’t really my strong suit.”

“So you can’t do it?” Fred said.

“I didn’t say that,” Jodie snapped. “I just don’t do it. Kind of like how you have a brain but don’t like using it.”

“Oh, yeah? Well you don’t like–”

Sam, Samantha, and Freddi stepped between them before they got a chance to really go at it.

“I think you can do it!” Izzy said. “I mean, Anna told me the women in your family are good at magic and you’re Joe’s cousin after all. He picks things up pretty fast so I’m sure you can do it, too.”

Jodie smiled at Izzy, which completely caught her off guard. “I guess I can give it a shot. What do I have to lose?”

“Okay,” Sam said. “So we get out of here. Then what? We need to find The Book and save Cleopatra. Who knows how history will be rewritten if something were to happen to her.”

“At least we know where The Book is,” Jodie said. “I left it in the guy’s room.”

“Good going,” Fred snarked.

“If I had brought it with me, the Pharaoh might have confiscated it. Prisoners don’t usually get to keep their belongings.”

Izzy frowned. “If you had The Book the whole time then why didn’t we warp home earlier?”

“It’s busted,” Joe explained. “Jodie and I were trying to fix it.”

“How–”

“That's not important right now,” Jodie insisted. “Getting out of here and saving Cleo is.”

“How are we supposed to do that?” Sam asked. “We have no clue where Berenice took Cleopatra or why.”

Freddi wrung her hands. “Um, isn’t it obvious why she took her? I mean…”

She didn’t have to finish her sentence for the implication to be loud and clear.

Samantha shook her head. “If she wanted to kill Cleo, she would’ve done so when she had the chance or attack her later when we were asleep. Besides, Berenice wasn’t after Cleo. She was... after Izzy.”

Izzy’s fist clenched. She knew Samantha was right even before she confirmed her fears. But why? What would Berenice want with her? How would she even Izzy? No, Berenice said, “He wanted you!” So she was working for someone who wanted Izzy? For a blissful second, she thought it might be her father, but then a nastier possibility hit her.

“It doesn’t matter,” Izzy said. She pushed the thoughts out of her mind. “First thing’s first, we gotta get out of here. It might be easier if we all held hands.”

“Alright.” Joe offered Izzy his hand. Izzy reached to take it but Jodie was giving the two of them a weird look.

Izzy retracted her hand. “I-it's probably better if we spread out in a circle. To disperse the magic.”

“Oh.” Joe rubbed the back of his head. “Makes sense.”

The three of them spread out evenly among the group, with Fred on Izzy’s left and Samantha on her right.

“Now what?” Joe asked.

Izzy smiled a bit, despite their dower situation. “Now, it’s time for boring meditation.”

~*~

As Berenice feared, the man flew into hysterics upon seeing she hadn’t brought the correct girl back to him. He stomped like a petulant child who hadn’t gotten his way, waving his arms as he ranted.

“What is this, you incompetent buffoon? How on Earth did you manage to bring the wrong girl here? Did I not give you specific instructions? You had one job!”

“I had your girl!” Berenice. “But this,” she motioned in disgust at Cleopatra, bound with rope in the corner, “pushed me away once I had her. I can try again–”

“No. By now, the palace will be on high alert. The Pharaoh’s men will be–”

“They all will be looking for me!” Cleopatra yelled, as if she had any power to intimidate them while tied up. “My father will find you and we will have your heads!”

The mad man rolled his eyes and shot a green beam of light at Cleopatra with his cane. She slumped to the ground, limp and still; proof she was still alive was the shallow movements of her chest as she breathed.

“This is not the end,” Berenice said. “We can use her for leverage. My father will easily trade her for a worthless priestess.”

The man opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself. He paced the floor, rubbing his chin. “Those warp runts are foolish enough to try and tell the truth,” he said to himself, “which will no doubt land them in prison. We need to get her before they’re all surely executed”

“What is this girl to you?” Berenice asked. “Is she... your daughter?”

Berenice winced at her impulsive question. But instead of the usual anger and yelling, the man was silent. He gazed at nothing with an amused look on his face.

“My daughter, eh?” His laugh made Berenice's stomach turn on itself and she wished he'd never saved her.

The man pulled an odd object from his cloak: a circle of wood the size of his hand, the decorative strings across it formed a spider web-like pattern. Three ostrich feathers hung from the bottom.

He grinned wickedly. “I can work with this.”

[let-me-love-you-loki]

The Christmas that Wasn’t-Ch. 13

Chapter 13: Leigh

           The sky was beautiful with the lights streaming over the velvet black of space. There was faint music in the distance, muffled by the sound of the surf slipping up on the edge of the sandbar. All of that was drowned out by the thundering of my heart in my ears. Kenny walked close to me with his hands stuck in his pockets. The scent of him reminded me of tree blossoms and something sweet beneath.

           I knew what he’d seen, and I knew from Adam that he’d immediately thought the worst. Even though I didn’t owe him an explanation, I felt that I needed to tell him the truth of how I felt. I took a deep breath of the ocean air, screwed up my courage, and tucked my arm through his. He stiffened for a moment, the muscles in his arm tense and hard, then relaxed.

           “Kenny, I know you saw…”

           He reached across his chest and settled his hand on mine. “You don’t have to explain yourself. It’s none of my business.”

           I leaned against his shoulder. “I’ve known Allie since college. We fell into this thing we have, and it shaped who I am. She’s my best friend, Kenny, and I don’t know what I’d do without her. I mean, we had this dream of the production studio in college, but we both played it safe. I started out teaching. She got an MBA. She met Jon on a business trip. But she was always there for me. Allie Mason is the first person I ever loved. I still love her, in just about every way that you can love a person.”

           As soon as I started talking, the words poured out without stopping. “There was a brief time right after college—before I met Izzy—that Jon tried to set me up with one of his friends. That whole heartedly didn’t work out from the start. He was… well, the best way to say it is a fuck boy. You’ve probably seen his dick on Twitter.”

           Kenny’s eyes went wide. “Wait… Allie was engaged to…. that Jon? Holy shit.”

           “You’ve heard of him?”

           He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. He’s spent the last year trying to be me. And spoiler alert, he’s failing spectacularly.”

           I couldn’t help but grin. “Good.”

           Kenny laughed, and it made something like electricity run through my body. He was handsome and sweet and kind. There was no doubt about how physically attractive he was, but there was something about his sweetness that amplified all the rest. It had been a long time since I’d felt this way about anyone but Izzy or Allie. Even though it scared me, I got the sense that he was feeling the same.

           I stopped and turned to face him. The breeze ruffled beneath the skirt of my dress and blew my hair around my face. I reached up to tuck the wayward locks behind my ear, my fingertips skimming along my jaw and along my cheek. Kenny’s eyes watched every move, and I could see them darkening beneath the starlight.

           “It’s been a really long time since I’ve… wanted anything with a guy,” I confessed quietly. “But I want something with you.”

           His lips curled up into a soft smile. He brushed his knuckles along my cheek, his fingers tangling in my blowing hair. I watched his tongue brush across his lips. “I know the feeling,” Kenny whispered back. “I know what it’s like to give someone your whole heart and have them break it into pieces. I never expected Ibutan… Ibushi…” He paused, taking a deep breath. His fingers settled against my face. “I never expected him to do that to me, but I guess we never do.”

           The sadness in his voice made my heart ache for him. I leaned into his touch, my eyes slipping closed. My soul was desperate to comfort him, to take away some of the pain he felt. “I’m so sorry, Kenny.”

           He moved closer and slipped his arm around my waist. I settled against his chest with my palm flat over his heart. “I haven’t felt really alive since it happened… since I left Japan. Not until I sat with you in that airport.”

           I opened my mouth to respond, but Kenny settled his lips against mine in a feather light kiss. It lasted only a fraction of an instant, but it made me feel warm inside. When we parted, he rested his forehead against mine. The heat of his body settled around me.

           “I want something with you,” he murmured. The words came out almost pained. He sighed and pulled me closer. “Come dance with me.”

           The shift was almost comically dramatic, but I didn’t say no. I liked being in Kenny’s arms. It didn’t matter if there were other people around. He folded his hand into mine and lead me toward the edge of the sandbar where the music was a little louder.

           “Stay right here,” he said just before giving me another barely-there kiss. I stood in the sand, the surf washing up over my toes, and watched as he walked back to the tent where we’d had dinner. He spent a moment talking to Adam and Allie, who grinned at him. Allie looked at me over Kenny’s broad shoulder and smiled.

           Kenny came back a moment later and wrapped me up in his arms again. The music was barely audible over the sound of the water, but it didn’t matter. Being curled against Kenny’s chest and swaying beneath a sky full of shooting stars… it was the calmest I’d felt in a long time.

           Time stood still and stretched out. The rhythmic sound of the ocean and the beating of his heart against my ear lulled me into a daze. I could feel his fingers brushing against my hair and along my back.

           “Come back with me?” Kenny whispered in my ear softly. It sent a shiver down my spine.

           I looked up into his blue eyes and fell into them. “Okay.”

***

           Kenny ran his fingertips along my shoulders and along my arm as I slid the key into the door of the bungalow I shared with Allie. I had a feeling that he’d asked for Allie’s permission for this. It was sweet.

           The moment I opened the door, I was awash in flickering light and the scent of flower petals. Kenny stood behind me, just inside the doorway, as I walked slowly into the room. Little electric tealights sat on the counters and along the windows. Flower petals were spread out on the floor and over the duvet on the bed.

           “Kenny… how…?” I turned to see him looking sheepish. The grin that spread over his face was adorable and made his eyes crinkle. It made warmth tingle along my skin.  

           He stepped close and gathered me against his chest. “I called in a favor,” Kenny said quietly. His fingers slid along my cheek, strong and gentle. They trailed up my jaw and skimmed along my jaw. “And, honestly, Hangman and Allie might have played a part, too.”

           I smiled, my heart skipping a beat at the sweet gentleness in his touch. His fingers tipped my head up, and I rose on my toes to press my lips against his. What started faint became more insistent. Kenny pressed on hand into the base of my spine, curled the other around the back of my neck. I relaxed into his arms as he deepened the kiss. My fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt.

           He pulled away, the tip of his nose brushing against mine. “It’s been a while,” he murmured against my lips.

           “Me, too,” I replied as I draped my arms around his neck. He grinned and splayed his beautifully long fingers against my shoulder blades and held me like I was breakable. “I’m not good at this.”

           He settled his forehead against mine and closed his eyes. “Neither am I.”

           I could feel blood pound through my veins as I leaned into him. My fingers slipped through his curls. He was solid and strong, but in that moment, he looked so vulnerable. There was a softness in his touch as we stood amid flower petals and flickering tealights. Kenny drew me closer, our lips touching briefly once again.

           A soft moan slipped out of him. His fingers tightened against my body, sliding down my back and settling on the curve of my hips and thighs. My dress bunched beneath his searching hands. A shiver ran up my spine at the thought of those beautiful fingers of his along my flesh.

           “Leigh,” he said, his voice deep and rough. The sound made me burn all over.

           I blushed at the thoughts that skipped through my head. “Come with me,” I whispered, curling my fingers around his wrists and pulling him deeper into the room.

           We stopped beside the bed, watching one another with all the nervousness of two inexperienced teenagers. It felt that way, at least for me. Kenny was the first to move. He sat on the edge of the mattress and curved his hands against my hips before drawing me close to stand between his knees. His fingers flexed, every move pulling the hem of my dress higher and higher. Blood pounded in my ears.

           Kenny smiled up at me, and I felt my heart melt. I cradled his face in my palms and leaned in to kiss him softly. He sighed against my mouth as he finally slid his hand beneath the fabric of my clothes. The feel of his touch on my bare skin was stronger than I imagined it would be.

           “You are so beautiful,” he murmured as his fingers dug into the flesh of my hips. “The moment I saw you…”

           I kissed him again, more insistently this time. My fingers wound in his hair, tugging the strands gently. The way his touch tightened and drew me closer made heat rush through me. I scratched my nails against his scalp.

           “Jesus Christ,” he swore when I drew away and turned around. I gathered my hair up in my hands to pull it out of the way. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw him taking his time looking along the lines of my body.

           “Are you going to unzip me, Kenny?”

           The moment he drew the zipper down, I tugged my dress over my head and tossed it onto the floor. Before I could turn around, I felt Kenny’s fingers along my hips and his mouth settling on the curve of my spine.

Tag List

@mox-made-me-do-it​ @not-that-kinda-gurl08​ @lilred91​ @unabashedwrestlefics​

[imaginedigimon]

Koumi as Parents, Part 2

as requested by @swiftly-sweetheart​

If it had just been Riku, perhaps they would be fine, but there was also Harumi, so in many cases, they were not fine.

Riku looked like Mimi but had the same curious streak as his father, as evidenced by the debacle about where babies come from. (He was still waiting on an answer.) Harumi, however, looked like their father but was a lot more playful, like her mother. No matter how you looked at it, it was a bit of a hellish combination.

Unfortunately, both Riku (now seven years old) and Harumi (at age five) had the tendency to leap on top of Izzy and Mimi to wake them up. This was cute when they were four and two, but not so much when they were bigger and much heavier. Most of the time, they got either Palmon or Tentomon to distract them while they caught five more minutes of sleep, but a fraction of the time, they were just unlucky enough that Riku wouldn’t leave until Izzy answered a question (”How do bees make honey?” “Does Tento have a mouth?” “Is Uncle Tai coming over soon? What about Auntie Yolei?”) and Harumi wouldn’t leave until Mimi did her hair.

Izzy and Mimi slept well enough, but with these two hooligans living with them, sometimes it was like there was never enough sleep.

Around his eighth birthday, Riku showed them both another side of himself: a mama’s boy. Whenever Mimi came home, he’d grab her sleeve and beg for a hug, while Harumi would still be sitting on Izzy’s lap as he worked. It was very clear which parent they identified with more, even if their personalities did not quite match. Paired with their fascination with the Digital World, it seemed like they were poised to take their places as DigiDestined soon enough.

On his eighth birthday, Riku asked for one thing: to see the place where they battled Ordinemon.

They didn’t ask why; they didn’t have to. Riku wanted to see for himself the place where things had changed for his parents and his quasi-aunts and uncles. When they went, Harumi reached out and took Riku’s hand. They stood there, on the beach, not saying a word, and their parents didn’t say anything either.

It was honestly a little like looking at their past selves, complete with the height difference and their small hands. While watching them, Izzy reached for Mimi’s hand, and they didn’t let go until their children decided it was time to leave.

Riku and Harumi would grow up to receive their own Digimon partners--another Palmon and another Tentomon, respectively--but they would never forget where they came from and what their parents had done. Most of all, they would never forget that their parents loved them very, very much.

Even if they were completely exhausting.

-----

Thanks for requesting more of this! I can’t believe you liked Riku and Harumi despite me literally pulling their names off of Google for vague meaning reasons, haha!

I’m not sure if this was even what I was going for at first, but this is what happened? Even so, if you want something specific with Riku and Harumi, let me know, and then perhaps what I end up giving you will be better. <3

[baldwin-montclair]

@skanaski06 Now what will happen when he finds her????!!! 😳😘

Tagged: @sylverdeclermont @christi14 @fanficqueen306 @holamor

———

PART 1

PART 2

———

It had taken Eileen five years, from the age of ten to properly perform the spell to shield herself from vampires.

There were three components.

Scent. Breath. Heartbeat.

Even if Baldwin couldn’t detect her scent, he could still easily hear her breathing or sense the vibration from the thump of her heart.

Had she been wrong in telling him, in breaking a tradition many hundred years old?

It was the only thing she kept from him and it had weighed on her like a stone. Now he knew, what would that mean for them, she would have to wait and see.

Baldwin was more disconcerted than he thought he would be. The sudden vanishing of her trace from his senses shook his centre of gravity and he had to force his calm.

The last time this happened was over in a fraction of a second. Izzy had slipped their attention to look at an exhibit in the Natural History Museum, amongst throngs of people. Despite his abilities, the sudden absence of the child made his stomach drop in a way he’d never felt. His senses kicked in instantly and he easily located her, standing transfixed at a T-Rex model.

“Uncle Baldwin look, just like the one I gave Blathers!”

He didn’t understand what she was talking about but nodded regardless, more relieved than angry. She took his offered hand and they returned to Eileen, none the wiser of the incident.

Now, though, his senses could not help him, he would have to hunt blind, trust his instincts.

“Alright, where would you hide?” He pondered to himself.

He envisioned each room of the house, tried to narrow down the places she felt most safe, where she would run to if the big bad wolf blew down the door.

That was the point of this exercise, to hunt. But, without the use of his abilities he would have to use his strategic skills.

Nowhere to hide in the lounge, cross off list.

Bedroom perhaps?

Which one, there were five others besides their own Master bedroom.

If there was danger the first place she would run to would be Izzy’s room, protect the child before anything.

Baldwin started there, under bed, in cupboard, wardrobe.

Not there.

Neither was she in their bedroom.

The only other place...

He smiled at the realisation and made his way to their reading room, where he would read over reports, Eileen a novel and Izzy would be practicing whatever new drawing skill her cousin Jack had taught her.

There was a large chest in there, it could easily accommodate Eileen.

Her ability to mask herself from him was one thing, but even she couldn’t help the slight scrape of her knee against the side of the chest, it couldn’t be comfortable and she’d have no idea he was there.

Pausing a moment, he stood over the heavy mahogany box and gave a quiet yet decisive knock on the lid.

Eileen huffed and dropped the spell before opening the lid.

“Five minutes,” she frowned, standing and stretching, “were you even slowed down by-“

She was silenced by his lips on hers as he effortlessly lifted her from the box, her legs around his waist and placed her on a nearby table.

He only broke the kiss to relieve her of her plain t-shirt.

“Baldwin, what’s-“

“You are my prey, I hunted you, I caught you,” he explained with eyes darkening in lust, “now I get to devour you.”

Her physiological response to his words was unmistakable, yet, there was an important part to their play that he needed.

“I intend to take you right here, unless you have an objection?”

She shook her head, reaching for his buttons.

“None!” She answered pushing the shirt from his shoulders.

Eileen knew instinctively what he needed at that moment, to be in charge, and she was more than happy to oblige.

When he unfastened her jeans and slipped his hand inside the waistband of her underwear she melted into his touch as he demonstrated his thorough knowledge of her needs.

When she attempted to return the pleasure, he merely shook his head.

“I’d much rather be inside you.”

In almost an instant, he had relieved her of her jeans and was pressing into her, with the familiar, yet not entirely used to, slight pinch of him.

He moved gently at first, soft kisses on her lips, neck, shoulders, slowly moving within her until her body accommodated his size. She held tight to him as he gripped her thighs, moving within her with insistence, his lips on her throat. She would likely have several visible marks of their passion but she was too lost in pleasure to care.

She clenched around him and he watched her face with reverence.

He once told her that the way she looked when she climaxed was more breathtaking than any artwork he’d ever seen. This provoked a most furious blush from her.

It did not take much longer after, that he followed her to oblivion, preceded by a low growl close to her ear that made her shiver in delight.

After a moment of gathering their senses, Baldwin pressed a light kiss to her lips.

“We have a lot to discuss.”

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @magnuslightwoodbane!

I tried to include as many of your likes as I could. You had so many fun ones, and I hope you enjoy! I’ve played a little fast and loose with the show timeline and sequence of events, and I hope that’s okay. This will be a six-part fic in total, and it’ll continue to be updated regularly.

Read on AO3

*****

a love supreme

Chapter 1

I.

A splash of icy cold water and snowy slush sprays up in an arc as Alec’s boots hit the ground hard. A loud shriek of shifting metal and then a clang echoes behind him, and the rusted ladder of the old fire escape he’d jumped down from drops straight to the pavement. He barely spares it a glance. His agility rune screams across his abdomen, working double time to keep him upright and surefooted when he immediately takes off running with only a half-second’s pause to right himself.

His quarry is already a good fifteen yards ahead of him, darting across a busy street for the alleyway beyond. The glint of the seraph blade at the man’s hip flashes in the streetlights, and then he disappears into the darkness.

Alec swears under his breath and speeds up.

Three months have passed since Valentine Morgenstern was found dead on the shore of Lake Lyn. Unfortunately, ideas are much harder to kill. The Clave and every Institute across the world has spent the interim hunting down what’s left of the Circle, but new pockets keep springing up like a goddamn fairground Whack-A-Mole.

New York has had more than their fair share, but with the way Valentine had narrowed his attention onto the city, it’s not surprising. Just a pain in Alec’s ass.

Reaching the street, he dodges between the flow of pedestrian traffic and races across, slow-moving cars allowing him to slip into the alley silently. The tall buildings to either side swallow up most of the light as he crosses the entrance, the illumination of the nearby streetlights creating a borderline on the pavement. He doesn’t know how far back the rest of his team is having left them behind as soon as he saw their last straggler make a break for it, but for the moment, he’s completely on his own. Alec slows, turning cautious as he keeps every step light and quiet. The cold stings his throat and lungs, breath fogging out into the air in drifting smoke.

There are too many noises coming at him from every direction, but it’s the one sound that shouldn’t be there that alerts him, a sound he’s intimately familiar with: the whisper of metal across leather, of a weapon being drawn.

He sees the brief glimmer of activated runes along the blade as it flips through the air, and then pain explodes across his shoulder and chest, radiating down his draw arm. His bow was going to be pretty useless in close-cornered combat, anyway, but he’s effectively been muzzled in that department now.

Alec has a split-second to rip the blade out before a shadow tears away from the right, slashing wildly at him. He feels the displacement of air in front of his face and ducks, rolling through the snow and grime and wet.

The momentum and force carries his opponent forward. The sword clashes against the brick of the opposite wall with a flash of sparks. Alec finds his feet and tightens his grip on the hilt of the dagger. He throws. The dagger hits, embedding itself in the man’s back. He stumbles, losing his grip on his blade and drops to his knees.

Alec yanks his bow from his shoulders and dives in close again. The curved back of the bow finds its place against the man’s fragile neck, and Alec yanks hard. There’s a brief struggle and then a snap, and he goes still, slumping in Alec’s hold.

Alec lets go, still breathing hard from the chase and the adrenaline and the pain, and he stumbles back to fetch himself up against the wall behind him. He feels a little light-headed. It’s possible that dagger found an artery.

He just needs a minute.

There’s movement at the mouth of the alley, another figure stepping into the darkness. Alec huffs, body tensing in preparation to throw himself back into another fight.

But instead of a blow coming, there’s a sigh of relief and a soft “tsk” of exasperation. The figure comes closer, stepping over the dead body, and the vague form now comes into sharp focus.

Magnus reaches out to settle his hand against Alec’s neck.

“You couldn’t have waited one second to let me come with you?”

There’s no real accusation or heat behind the words, and Alec smiles, “Sorry.”

Magnus shakes his head, fondness in his eyes that Alec loves to see, “Shadowhunters.”

Tiny pinpricks of cold alight along Alec’s cheeks and melt, and Alec turns his face up towards the sky as the snow begins to fall in earnest. With it comes almost a blanket of quiet over the city, seeming to muffle the somewhat distant sounds of traffic and people talking, off-key but enthusiastic carols being sung by a passing group of drunk friends. From somewhere nearby, a church bell tolls the hour, the beginning of a new day.

Cool fingers find his jaw, tilting his head back down, and he’s met with the warmth of Magnus’s smile to send a frisson of heat through his body. His head aches in a way that means he’s probably got a concussion, and he can feel blood still dripping sluggishly down his arm, but the dull throbbing pain of it is of far less concern then the taste of Magnus’s lips.

Magnus smirks a bit, and when Alec focuses again, it seems he’s noticed where Alec’s attention has drifted.

“You’re looking a little delirious. How much blood have you lost already?”

Alec shrugs, immediately wincing when his right shoulder protests with another sharp rush of pain.

“Eh, I’ve probably got a couple more pints in me, I’m fine.”

Magnus snorts, shaking his head again as he gets his arm around Alec’s waist and snaps his fingers. A swirling vortex of golden light appears in front of them.

“Well, I can’t say this isn’t the first Christmas I’ve spent patching someone up. Let’s get you home, hm?”

Alec nods, too tired now to argue that he needs to get back to the Institute. He’ll call Jace. At the very least, he can hold things down until Alec can come in. Something pings, then, at the back of Alec’s mind as they head for the portal, and he pushes through the fog and the pain to reach for it.

Oh. Right. Christmas. It has just turned into Christmas Day, hasn’t it? Nephilim don’t really go in for mundane holidays, but half of the Downworld were mundane at one point in time. It’s not a surprise that this time of year is more of a big deal for them nor that Magnus celebrates it, either.

“Hey Magnus?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Merry Christmas.”

The arm around his waist tightens a fraction, and Alec can hear the smile in Magnus’s voice when he answers, “Merry Christmas, Alexander.”

Chapter 2:

II.

The Hunter’s Moon is decked out for the holidays, red bows and garland along the bar top and multi-colored lights wrapped around the support columns. A large decorated tree stands tall in the corner by the jukebox, shedding pine needles and glitter onto the dingy floor. The place smells like stale beer and a little of wet dog on a good day, but there’s now an added scent of evergreen. Alec can’t decide whether it’s an improvement or not.

Cheery Christmas music plays over the sound system, some smooth voice singing about how cold it is outside. Maia’s got felt reindeer antlers sprouting from the thick curls of her hair, and the attached bells jingle every so often when she moves her head as she stands pouring a couple pints of beer at the tap.

Alec leans against the bar, one boot propped up on the bottom rung of a stool, and his eyes drift over Magnus’s profile as he waits for him to finish catching up with Maia.

There’s the shimmer of melted snow still glistening on his eyelashes, scattered like diamonds in the black of his hair. Gold eyeliner catches the light, sparkling as he tilts his head back in a damn near giggle, and Alec can’t help the smile that spreads across his own face in helpless response.

It hits him at random times just how lucky he is to have this man in his life, how different it could have been if they hadn’t met.

He catches sight of the mark he’d left on his throat the night before. It’s hidden well enough below the collar of Magnus’s shirt, but the long line of his neck as he laughs has it peeking out.

Gone are the soft, warm emotions to be replaced with something hungrier that twists low in Alec’s chest.

He wants nothing more than to take Magnus home and get him back into their bed. His mind conjures up thoughts of last night without any prompting, the wide spread of his hand against Magnus’s ribcage, the squeeze and slide of his thighs around Alec’s waist, the arch of his body beneath him.

“You’re staring, big brother.”

Izzy’s voice in his ear has a teasing lilt to it. He can see her smile before he even turns his head to look at her. She’s dressed nice, hair up in some fancy style that she usually only reserves for when she’s going out. Over her shoulder, he can see Clary shaking snow off of her jacket by the door.

The place is getting more and more crowded by the minute. Alec had thought, foolishly, that this would be a fairly tame affair for the night before a major holiday, but when the Downworld decides on a party, the community steps up.

Clary reaches them, giving Alec a bright and slightly damp hello as she tucks herself against Izzy’s side, but Alec is only half paying attention.

Magnus starts to step away, pulled into another conversation with a Seelie Alec doesn’t recognize. It feels like his chest constricts in that moment, the slowly lengthening distance between them already too much. He reaches out, hand curling gently around Magnus’s wrist to pull him up short. His skin is soft and smooth beneath Alec’s fingertips, pulse beating a steady rhythm against his thumb. He rubs back and forth across it, waiting.

There’s curiosity in Magnus’s eyes when he turns, the corner of his mouth tilted up in a slightly confused smile, but he lets himself be reeled in. Alec’s fingers slip lower. He grips Magnus’s hand, bringing it up as he ducks his head to lightly brush his lips across the back of his knuckles.

Magnus bites at his bottom lip, smile growing a little wider at the gesture, and Alec’s heart skip-trips a beat at the sight.

“Alexander?”

The soft honey of his voice around his name is probably Alec’s favorite sound in the world.

“Don’t go too far.”

He presses a last kiss to the bare skin of Magnus’s ring finger before releasing him.

Soon.