#well we care sometimes but we are too senile to hold onto any thought for too long so we just move on 👴

[the-acid-pear]

me: [Googles if dying without pain is actually possible to "win" an argument with my ex]

google:

[atinybitofau]

S A N ↱ arranged marriage au

WHEN HE’S TOO (drunk) MUCH

a/n: may contain alcoholism past/present

• you didn’t understand why San neglected you.

• you fell in love with him.

• just like any girl would.

• cause who wouldn’t?

• he was strong.

• persistent.

• ambitious.

• the epitome of perfect.

• so was it because you didn’t meet his standards for a woman?

• that he’s too much for you.

• that you’re nothing more than just a business contract.

• “You’ve been in the clouds all day, Mrs. Choi.”

• “Y/n.” you mumble, pen signing your signature in your hand. “Please.. address me as so.”

• as a descendant of a successful line of entrepreneurs.

• it’s no surprise you owned 50+ coffee shops in the country and some international.

• known to be a silent woman.

• hiding in the shadows of your predecessors.

• and notoriously known as Choi San’s wife.

• — a man of many wonders and an A class entrepreneur of his own.

• you’re a woman everyone wanted to be.

• a woman everyone wanted too.

• “Will you be joining Mr. Park to Japan this weekend? You still haven’t confirmed if you’d be joining him. On his retreat.”

• you unknowingly glance at the picture frame of you and your arranged husband.

• wanting leisure from your deprived love life so bad.

• though the idea of spending time with another man sounded sinless.

• considering the circumstances...

• “It’s your anniversary with Mr. Choi this Saturday, is it not?”

• you turn the frame face front on your table, smiling softly at your assistant. “I’m sure he wouldn’t remember anyway.”

• now you’re at home packing.

• not surprised that San hasn’t came home yet.

• in the two— no three years that you two have been married,

• it seems he sometimes forgets this was his home.

• “Yes. That sounds splendid. Of course, I will be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. And to you too, Mr. Kang.”

• you hear him on the phone when he comes home.

• surprised that he actually did for the first time in a week.

• you don’t say anything when he enters your shared room.

• him not minding at all that you were packing.

• “Business trip?” he asks you seeming uninterested.

• and it does hurt.

• that your own husband never seemed interested in you.

• that though you’ve fallen in love with him despite the arrangement,

• he’s never fallen in love with you.

• “Um..” you choke on your breath. “More or less.”

• he hums in response while removing his tie. “I’ll be flying to Jeju sunday morning to meet with Yeosang. So I’ll be home all of saturday. That okay?”

• you don’t see why he’s asking for confirmation.

• he’d do it anyway without one.

• “O-okay.”

• he watches you from the corner of his eyes.

• wondering why you’ve never felt detested by the relationship in spite of your shyness.

• for someone like him,

• he thinks you two are an odd couple.

• that you two would have never been one if not for the marriage contract.

• but three years has taught him better

• “And where will you be going?”

• you sniffle while zipping you’re bags, letting loose your messily tied up hair. “Japan. I’ll be meeting with a... an investor.”

• it’s not entirely a lie.

• just..

• you won’t be meeting the investor in terms of business.

• “For how long will this be for?”

• you mentally think, why was he getting curious?

• he’s never once cared.

• if it doesn’t matter to him, he shouldn’t even ask.

• “The weekend. If things go well, I should be home by Sunday.”

• he doesn’t know why.

• why it hurt him that you forgot.

• that he didn’t intend to do much this Saturday but stay home and eat dinner with you.

• maybe talk about work and relieve some stress.

• but he’d think by now you’d appreciate the anniversary.

• that he’d mean just as much as you do to him.

• “Sunday?”

• you don’t notice the hidden annoyance.

• thinking, talking to him was like talking to a wall.

• “Seonghwa doesn’t want to stay for less than a day. And well, since my schedule seems free and no appointments have been made, I made some time for him.”

• you speak to your husband like a business woman.

• how fucking senile, right?

• how honorable you two are.

• how much pride you think San has over you.

• just two people in a marriage contract.

• nothing less and nothing more.

• but San’s overwrought though.

• the hints of displeasure from you sensible in his tone.

• “Seonghwa? Park Seonghwa?”

• his mind blurs.

• crazed in a frenzy.

• at the sound of another man in place of him.

• “He’s invited me to his Japan retreat.”

• you look at San for the first time in a long time.

• and you think there was something different about him.

• his hair looked the same.

• his god like features were still in tact.

• was it his lips?

• his eyebrows?

• oh...

• OH.

• “You are aware of our own affairs this Saturday, correct?”

• you think he’s crazy.

• that he can’t pin you down.

• for not even caring for the past two— no three years.

• he had no right to ask you if you were aware.

• especially on a day he’s never celebrated with you before.

• “San, I think you’re the one unaware of our affairs this Saturday. Seeming as though you tend to forget for every year that’s passed, don’t you think you’re being too much?”

• his jaw clenches.

• eyes blinking,

• getting dizzy and filled with rage.

• — jealousy and betrayal.

• how could you think of another man?

• when he was always right in front of you!

• “I-I never forget!”

• you’re flabbergasted.

• completely disbelieved.

• “You never forget? The first, spending it with another woman. And the second with your friends in Bali? You never forget?”

• his jaw clenches and he’s in denial.

• in denial that he neglected you.

• he doesn’t feel like he did.

• “I called you. The day of and—“

• the way your lips frown makes him uneasy.

• unsettled that he’s made you so unhappy.

• he didn’t even realize...

• that he was too much.

• and not enough at the same time.

• “Then I don’t think me calling you would be much of a difference.”

• you blink away refraining from tears.

• starting to believe this arrangement meant more to him than you inititially thought.

• that fact actually hurting you more than when you thought he didn’t care.

• cause now that you know he did,

• why did he neglect you all these years?

• “I don’t know, Seonghwa... do you think I should go home?”

• Japan was fun.

• Seonghwa making your day nice and all.

• but you hated knowing San might be home.

• alone with his stresses.

• his questionable decisions that often made him resort to the unnecessaries.

• only knowing that as his wife.

• when as his wife, regardless of what happens,

• it’s your duty to cherish him as your husband.

• “You love him even though you think he doesn’t love you?”

• you sadly smile, lips buried in a scarf San gave you last christmas.

• “He might be a lousy husband. But he’s still mine.”

• Seonghwa found you admirable.

• never understood why San didn’t.

• “San may as well be the luckiest man on the planet. The dumbest one too.”

• you miss San.

• even though he was rarely there.

• you appreciated the things he gave you.

• like being your husband even though he sucks at it.

• “It’s still pretty early in SK. You might be able to make it before midnight if you leave for the airport now.”

• you look at Seonghwa with dreamy eyes.

• thinking if you hadn’t been so strung on San falling in love with you,

• you would’ve dared him to.

• “Go. And make sure he makes up for being the lousy husband he’s been.” Seonghwa kisses you on the forehead before taking your hand. “As successful as he is, adapting to loving you can’t be too difficult. Not something he isn’t capable of, don’t you agree?”

• you’re racing against time.

• three minutes away from your penthouse.

• ten minutes away from Sunday.

• your mind’s made up.

• guilty for being ungrateful.

• timid about being his wife.

• San insisted he stopped smoking months ago.

• but the copious amount of musk in the apartment was uncanny.

• you see empty bottles of liquor stranded on the floor.

• music at full volume.

• his figure staring out the balcony quiet and lonely.

• it’s not all his fault.

• because you sometimes forget,

• San used to come home to you.

• “Cheers to your wedding anniversary, San.” you hear him sigh. lit cigarette falling at his feet. “To the one failure you couldn’t afford.”

• you smile in small font.

• suddenly wrapping your scarf around his waist, pulling him into you.

• “Y-y/n?”

• he was drunk, you mentally note.

• whipping him around.

• still dreamy eyed regardless.

• “What are you.. I thought you’d still be in Japan?”

• “And I thought you’d be out with friends.” you mumble hoping he’d react sober. “Didn’t we agree on no smoking in the house?”

• “Stopped.” he answers breathless, weirdly looking sober while staring down at you. “I stopped, remember? Started today because.. because I didn’t have you.”

• “S-san you’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

• you think his hands are filthy.

• from doing the things he used to do before meeting you.

• but you let him hold you.

• his trembling disappearing when he does.

• you curl against his palm and softly smile.

• “I haven’t.. I haven’t been good to you, have I?”

• you place your fingers over his and hum. “Well I can’t blame you for doing what you’re only capable of.”

• “I am capable! I am capable of loving you. I am..”

• you want to giggle.

• because you used to hate drunk San.

• when he’d come home gurgling.

• babbling like a baby.

• “You’re drunk, San.”

• “Y-you think so?”

• you wonder how drunk San really is.

• drunk words speaking sober thoughts, you know.

• but was he hammered enough to kiss you?

• “San, do you want to kiss me?”

• your husband pouts.

• eyes saying yes.

• waiting for you to do it.

• “Well?”

• “I-is it okay?”

• “San, I’m your wife. You don’t need my permission, dummy.”

• he’s not drunk.

• not drunk enough.

• wanted to kiss you sober.

• wants to kiss you now.

• “I don’t want.. don’t you to hate me, y/n. Don’t want you to think I’m too much.”

• so you lean up and press a kiss onto his potted lips.

• his eyes processing slow.

• “Do you think I’m too much?”

• you chuckle, nodding softly. “Yes San. I do think you’re too much.”

• “B-but you still love me, right? When I’m not there. And you like being my wife?”

• of course you do.

• I mean, through thick, it might have been difficult to.

• but you still do.

• “I didn’t sign the contract for just business, San. I wanted to love you, you know? Wanted you to love me.”

• he doesn’t need to think twice,

• about why people fall in love with you.

• about why he’s fallen in love with you.

• “Can we start over? As husband and wife. T-tomorrow when I’m sober. Can you come with me to Jeju?”

• you don’t need to think twice either.

• your schedule’s usually free.

• but you agree because it’s San who asks you.

• it’s San who wants you to make the time.

• “Let’s start tonight. By you taking a shower and sleeping beside me? You think you can do that for me, San?”

• his eyes say yes.

• and so does his lips.

• kissing you through his intoxication.

• knowing he’s capable of loving you.

• drunk or sober.

• “For the record, I like being your husband too.”

@atinybitofau

[sashasgargoyles]

"i don't want you to regret me" but for brotp eddie and Hamid

also posted on ao3

“Ready to go, Ed?” Hamid asked from the door.

Eddie spun around, looking at his outfit in the mirror with a wide grin on his face. He was wearing a brand new pale gold suit and a cape with sun patterns on it that he hadn’t been able to stop admiring since he’d seen them in the marketplace. “Ready!”

Hamid blinked at the sheer brightness of his friend’s outfit, before smiling. “Great! Thanks for coming with me! None of the others really enjoy these things.”

“I always enjoy your company, Hamid.”

Hamid’s smile brightened and he reached for Ed’s hand to lead him out the door and towards dinner. “That’s so kind of you to say, Eddie. Are you sure you don’t mind? Some of the people I used to go to school with aren’t… the nicest.”

Ed’s expression darkened, his eyebrows drawing together. “Evil-doers?”

“Well, hopefully not,” Hamid said quickly, “But they can be a bit… rude sometimes.”

“Then why do you want to go?”

“Well,” Hamid paused, thinking of the best way he could explain. He wasn’t even entirely sure himself, really, but it was expected of him. Besides, he’d just worked his way back onto his family’s good side, so he’d like to do what was expected as much as possible. At least, the good expectations. “I just think I need to go. Does that make sense?”

“No,” Ed said bluntly. “But I am here to support you! As your friend.” He smiled even wider than usual as he said it, placing a special weight on the word. It was as if it was unfamiliar to him, a special new treasure to be able to say it in reference to himself. Hamid had never asked Eddie about his past, but he had the feeling that before he’d joined the church of Apollo, before he’d met Hamid and his friends, he hadn’t had the best experiences with people.

“I appreciate it.” He squeezed Eddie’s hand as they reached the restaurant where the banquet was being held. “Two for al-Tahan,” he told the maître d’.

“Of course, sir.”

Eddie and Hamid followed the host, and Hamid stopped in his tracks when he saw who was sitting at their shared table. Oh, no.

His heart was pounding in his chest as he looked upon the image of his ex-girlfriend and his former best friend, smiling and holding hands as they sipped their wine and looked over the room.

“All right, Hamid?” Eddie asked as he felt Hamid’s hand, still gripping his own, stop him from moving forward.

“Yes,” Hamid said in a high-pitched, breathless voice. “Everything’s fine. It’s just- perhaps we should go.”

“Go? But we just got here.”

“Yes, but-“ Hamid sighed as he saw Liliana and Gideon notice him. “Never mind. Let’s just get through this.” He gripped Eddie’s hand tighter, drawing on his warmth and confidence as they reached the table.

“Hamid,” Gideon said, a stiff smile on his face that didn’t meet his eyes. “It’s so good to see you.”

Was it? Hamid remembered his last interactions with the two of them. He couldn’t say he’d ever wanted to see them again, after the hell they had separately caused him, but he recognized a man putting on a polite face for the sake of the public eye. He could play along, he supposed. Besides, arguing with them would only cause a scene, and Hamid wasn’t going to ruin his recently recovered reputation.

Hamid had grown, though, since the last time he’d had to deal with Gideon and Liliana, and he’d learned that, well, he has the power to hurt his enemies. He’d never do it, of course, but imaging their faces if he turned into a dragon in front of them…. Well, it was amusing enough to keep him going. He pasted a smile on his face that was almost real. “It’s good to see you as well. Ed, this is Liliana Beekos and Gideon Marsten-Langdon. We used to go to school together. Liliana, Gideon, this is Edward Keystone, he’s a paladin of Apollo.”

The two blinked as they took in Eddie’s blinding attire, but formalities eventually worn out and they each extended a hand to him, which he shook enthusiastically. “Yes, I can see that,” Gideon said, with a sneer that Hamid recognized but that he knew would go over Eddie’s head. There was a matching expression on Liliana’s face, but she schooled it into a polite blankness quickly.

Eddie held his cape to the side, beaming. “Isn’t it great? I got it at the market last week!”

“It’s something,” Liliana said under her breath. Hamid gritted his teeth, reminding himself that, no matter how much he wanted to, turning into a dragon and clawing their eyes out was not a good idea.

Eddie must not have heard her, because his pleased expression didn’t change as he and Hamid sat down at the table.

“So, Hamid,” Liliana asked. “What have you been doing since we saw you in Prague?”

Hamid thought that was a very generous way to say “since you had me arrested” but he wasn’t about to correct her. “I’ve been… traveling, mostly. Doing some work for the meritocrats.” He supposed Wilde still counted as one, if you thought about it loosely.

“You haven’t returned to your studies?” Liliana frowned disapprovingly. “That’s a shame. There’s a new article on the mathematical properties of dimensional distortion I was hoping to discuss with you. Professor Einstein wrote it, and-“

“Oh, we know him!” Eddie grinned. “He’s great! We should talk to him tonight, Hamid. I miss him.”

“What on earth could you possibly have to talk to Einstein about?” Gideon laughed. “The man’s a genius, I doubt he has time for you.”

Eddie’s demeanor, which had been pleasant all night, shifted, and his voice took on a hardness Hamid rarely heard from him. “Professor Einstein is my friend.”

“Einstein has been assisting us in our work,” Hamid chimed in, trying to control the situation. “Ed’s right, Einstein is our friend. He and Ed have become quite close.”

“That’s a shame,” Gideon sighed. “I’d heard the man had gone senile, but I was hoping the rumors were wrong.” His sneer became even more smug as he said, “Clearly that’s not the case if he’s spending his time with paladins. Of Apollo, no less. Airheads, the whole lot.”

Eddie stood up, towering over Gideon even more than he would normally. “I’m not an idiot. And being a paladin of Apollo is a great honor, one you will never be able to achieve. You have too much evil in side you.” It was angrier than Hamid had ever heard him, and it made Hamid stand up and reach for his hand again. Eddie shrugged it away, then turned and walked off.

Hamid turned and glared at his former friends. “The two of you are really horrible, you know that?”

“You only think that because you’ve been away for so long. Honestly, Hamid, even you could do better,” Liliana said, scoffing.

“No, quite frankly I’m not sure there is a better person than Ed in the world, and I’m more than grateful that I have him for a friend now, and not the two of you.” Hamid looked at them disdainfully and, forgoing any hope of redeeming the evening, spat, “Go drop off the side of your precious university,” then ran to catch up with Ed.

He found Eddie standing at the edge of the bridge overlooking the river, his back facing Hamid. “Eddie, I’m sorry about them. I told you, they’re all awful.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ed said. “And- they’re not wrong. I can’t- talk about that kind of stuff.” Hamid reached for Eddie’s hand again, and Eddie pulled it in front of him. “I- I don’t want to hold hands right now.”

“Okay. Could you turn and look at me?” When he did, Hamid said, “They were wrong. You don’t need to be able to talk about… interdimensional rifts. You’ve lived them, and you came out the other side a better person than either of them.”

“I just-“ Eddie sniffed, and Hamid realized he was crying. “I know that you- you’re trying to be a part of this, again, for your family, and- my family pushed me away from this, Hamid, because I wasn’t good enough. I don’t- I don’t want you to regret me.”

Hamid was overcome with the urge to hug him, but he knew his friend wouldn’t want that right now. “Eddie, I meant what I said. You’re better than all of them, and I don’t care about being a part of this life anymore if it won’t accept my friends. Forget about the banquet, okay? All I want to do is have a nice night.” Eddie nodded and Hamid pushed further. “Do you want to go to that ice cream shop we passed on the way in? Honestly, I just had to have a horrible conversation with my ex and her new fiancé, so really I’m owed a little ice cream.”

Eddie let out a soft smile. “Okay.”

They walked side by side for a few minutes until they reached the ice cream parlor, where they ordered two cones, and then sat on a bench outside, overlooking the river. “Mmmmm,” hummed Hamid as he licked his chocolate ice cream. “This is much better than whatever they would have had on the menu.”

Eddie smiled, his mood improved. “It is.” He thought for a moment. “Hamid, could I have a hug now?”

Hamid grinned and leaned over to hug his friend. Eddie was twice his size, and his hugs enveloped Hamid completely, which was one of Hamid’s favorite things about him. “I know tonight was awful, but thank you for coming with me.”

“It wasn’t too bad,” Eddie said cheerfully, pulling back from the hug. “Nothing can ruin ice cream.”

Hamid laughed and tapped his cone against Ed’s. “You’re not wrong there. Next time let’s just skip straight to the ice cream, though.”

[trustonlylokiposts-blog]

Diagnosis

“THAT’S IT. I’M DONE. NOT ONCE HAVE I EVER BEEN TREATED WITH SUCH DISRESPECT! I AM A DOCTOR, GODDAMIT, IF YOU TRULY BELIEVE THAT BECAUSE I AM A WOMEN I CAN’T POSSIBLY DO MY JOB CORRECTLY THE I’M OUT. I QUIT. FIND SOMEONE ELSE TO DEAL WITH YOUR SHIT!” I cursed and stormed out slamming the office door behind me. Fuming I walked to my locker, then to my tiny office. Shoved what little things I had into my backpack and stomped out of the clinic, not making eye contact with anybody.

If Doctor Wallis truly believed that I should continue cleaning up after patients like a housekeeper, and that my medical opinion truly meant nothing because of my gender than I am better off literally anywhere else. New York, land of opportunity my ass. I honestly don’t know how I managed to graduate top of my class, blow away residency, be labeled as a prodigy doctor and somehow manage in a clinic run by a senile asshole who should have his medical license removed and burned. I marched through the streets of the busy city and stopped to glare at my reflection on a shiny building. My brown hair fell past my hair in messy waves, blue eyes had never been colder, and my cheeks were still red from anger and humiliation. I smoothed my green scrubs and tore off my ID card, no use for it anymore. I sighed as the anger slowly left my body, I took my phone out of my pocket and rolled my eyes at the absolute disaster of panicked texts I had.

Please tell me you didn’t quit, look I know he’s an asshole, but we need you Jules.

I scoffed and typed back,

Thanks Tiff, unfortunately I didn’t spend all that time in medical school to be treated like I’m worthless.  I’m glad you enjoy your job, he respects women as nurses, but not as fellow physicians.

I made my way into a nearby coffee shop and ordered the tastiest, most sugar infused drink I could find on the menu, I deserved it anyway. I took a sip and took a deep breath as I sat down near a window. Looks like I’d need to find a new job, I’m sure it shouldn’t be too hard right? New York needs a lot of  fresh young doctors.. Right? I pulled my laptop out of my pack and began the hunt; after about an hour of mindless reading I stumbled upon something that caught my eye.

Stark Industries, in need of capable physician, willing to work in critical situations, must be able to keep up and learn alien or godly  physiology, will be working with The Avengers as their personal doctor and will be in charge of a small medical team for Stark Industries.

Huh. I clicked on the link and began reading more on the job description: Will be kept up to date on information regarding Tony Starks Arc Reactor and how to handle possible emergency situations regarding said reactor. Information on alien or godly medicine will be provided by Thor, of Asgard, but it is necessary to be willing to be learning and growing and developing better emergency care and medicine, for humans or otherwise. Offering up to 500k yearly salary with paid time off, provided living, transportation, and medical equipment and tools all at your personal disposal. Your team of nurses and Physician’s Assistant are at the top of their game and are an excellent team. Please call the number listed bellow for a pre-interview with Pepper Potts.

Okay, this sounds way too good to be true, and the competition for a job like this has to be outrageous. But the hell with it, what do I have to loose? I downed the rest of my diabetes in a cup and packed my laptop and made my way out. I hailed a taxi, gave directions to my apartment and immediately dialed the number listed on the add.

After a surprisingly thorough phone call I hung up and checked the call time, 45 minutes. I was asked all kinds of questions, regarding my schooling, residency, experience, I gave 10 different refences, and even answered questions from a “if everything were to go wrong” scenario. ( Question one: In the event that you are asked to accompany the Avengers on a mission across seas, are you capable of working in extremely critical circumstances that could be dancing on the line of life or death for countless people, should the Avengers be too injured to neutralize a threat?)  I’ve definitely been through some stressful shit, when that Loki guy sent his army through New York? I was providing emergency medicine until I could no longer feel my brain, I’m pretty sure after hour 10 of almost non-stop work my soul left my body to be replaced by Jesus, I sure as hell let him take the wheel. Unfortunately I was never one to believe in Jesus, especially after all this super-human chaos has been happening. Clearly Jesus isn’t the only magical white guy dancing around in the clouds. My train of thought was interrupted as I was greeted by Koda, and tall and lean Belgian Malinois. Her fawn coat and black mask only made her golden eyes see through your soul even easier. I got Koda as a puppy from a guy off Craigslist, apparently even though he boasted about being an unstoppable adult his mother thought otherwise and forced him to rehome his impulse buy puppy. I wasn’t mad about it, Koda has done wonders for keeping me grounded. Sometimes I think she’s smarter than most humans. I know every pet owner says that, but I really believe it. Especially after all the shit-brain assholes I’ve seen stumble into the clinic because they “accidentally” fell onto a broom stick and somehow managed to lodge itself up their anus. I gave Koda appreciative ear scratches as I opened my calendar, I marked down the time for my interview, two days from now at 10 AM. Stark Tower, feeling oddly optimistic towards the future I changed into a black tank top and running shorts, leashed Koda up, and made my way outside for a run.

I lived in a tiny apartment, it looked more like a concrete box than anything else, but the upside and pretty much it’s only saving grace was that it was near central park. I never considered myself much of a city person, and central park was the closest thing I could get to anything nature. Koda and I lapped around the park, I considered what it meant to be “Kept up to date on Asgardian physiology” when I spoke with Miss Potts over the phone she said it wont be too difficult as Asgardians shared a lot in common with us Earth dwellers. She mentioned them having skin that is roughly “three times thicker and stronger” than ours. Okay, so apparently I’m going to need stronger surgical tools and needles if the time comes for any of that. Pepper also reassured me that Stark had it covered, they had been recently using a willing Asgardian to build and put together tools just for them when the time is needed. I wonder who they had volunteer? It couldn’t have been Thor, I guessed I’d find out soon enough anyway. I stopped jogging for a moment to appreciate the setting sun and take a drink of water before bending over to give Koda a drink. I started my run again,  Stark’s reactor sounded very interesting and I did look forward to learning more about that. I haven’t seen anything even a little similar to that anywhere in medicine. Tony seemed to know what he was doing and had it under control anyway. I just wanted to understand what kind of shrapnel is constantly moving at an impossible speed towards his heart. And exactly how the reactor worked? Did it only prevent the shrapnel from moving further? Or did it also control how his heart functions? “Hey babe! Whatchu runnin from? I wont bite, or, maybe I will?” Great, who doesn’t love cat callers? Especially snot balls like this? I snuck a glance out of the corner of my eye as I kept my pace, pretending not to hear him. He started to follow after me, trying to act casual, I guess he didn’t notice Koda’s watchful gaze, oh yeah, another great thing about her would have to be the fact that I do have her trained in personal protection. Look, when you are a 5’5 petite women it doesn’t matter how much you exercise or how much knowledge of the human body and all the ways to heal it, or break it you have. Gross men with ill-intended ideas and thoughts look at you like you’re a piece of meat with perky tits and a pretty face.  No amount of “Hey beautiful, Hey babe! Watchu up to?” Would ever work, especially when said cat caller looked like a walking STD. Hey, I don’t need to be nice to someone like him. Koda swiveled around to stand behind me and keep pace with me while she herself trotted backwards, amber eyes never once leaving the slimy man behind us. “Beautiful, what a pretty dog you have. Smart too, is that a German Shepherd?  I had one growin’ up, loyal things aint they?” I said nothing and continued my jog, I now had to take a huge detour to my apartment. Couldn’t have him knowing where I lived, hell no. Slime ball caught up to me, Koda came to a grinding halt and placed herself between me and the stranger. I finally looked at him directly and with as level of a voice I could muster said “I’m not interested. Please leave me alone.” The man gave me a yellow toothy grin and replied “Is your dog friendly? I’m just wantin’ to know about your dog there?” I sighed through my nose and calmly said, “no, she isn’t. Please leave.” I sized the man up, he wasn’t too tall, maybe 5’11, 200 pounds tops, and almost none of it was muscle. I muttered the sniff command to Koda, she titled her nose in the air, she was taught to smell for any kind of weapon, especially a gun. If she caught onto the scent she let out a lone whine, if not, she would keep quiet. I let out a sigh of relief that I hadn’t realized I had been holding in when Koda didn’t whine. Thank god, if need be Koda and I can take this guy down, or well, Koda could. Firmly I said “leave now, or I will have my dog defend me, she is a trained protection dog. She will bite at my command.” At my word Koda stiffened and pulled back her lips revealing 42 sizer-like teeth.  The man scoffed but took a step back when Koda let a low growl rumble from her chest, “Okay, bitch. Message received. Must be a fuckin’ lesbian or somethin’.” He turned and walked away and I made my way back home, both Koda and I on high-alert. Fucking cities, man.

[serrj215]

Open the Window (Goodbyes May 4th)

He hated this place. Of course anyone that isn’t walking out with a baby hates hospitals. The florescent lights, and the smell of cleaning products always put him on edge. He couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t a place of healing as much as a place where life ended. This was the place where his Mother died, and now it was going to take his Father.  

He walked in to the hospital room the soft beeping from the machinery and labored breathing were the only sounds. In the bed his father laid asleep. It was hard to see him like this. When he thought of his father he remembered the giant man that held him over his head, and let him mess up his hair and then would act surprised for him when he looked in the mirror.  Mark could hardly recognize the slim green figure in the hospital bed.  Garfield Logan was never a large man, but the cancer and its treatments had reduced him to less than hundred pounds. His once bright green eyes had sunken into his face. His hair once hunter green was now silver and thin like a threadbare towel.  

“Dad, Can you hear me?”

Garfield Logan’s eyes slowly opened.

“Mark?”

“Yea Dad” Mark forced a smile “how are you doing?”

“What time is it?”

“It’s about four in the afternoon”

“You got here at a good time. If I can get that window open I was planning  to take a fly across the bay.  I could use some fresh air.” His voice choked out.

“Sure Dad”  Mark agreed knowing that he hasn’t been able to change shape for the last year, and for the last month could barely walk.  

“Maybe instead I will turn into a mouse, go along the hallways, tell me do woman still wear skirts? I always liked a nice set of legs.” he said with slow creeping smile.  

“Dirty old man”

“And I am getting older and dirtier by the minute” he laughed. “The good thing about getting old it’s amazing what you can get away with. Most people just think I am confused or senile.  My body might be falling apart but I am as sharp as I ever was”

Mark could almost hear ‘Yea somewhere between pudding and warm cheese’  in his mother’s voice.  Marks parents were always like that,  always jabbing at each other, verbal sparring. You wouldn’t believe that they had been together since they were teenagers, and married for almost 50 years. One minute they were arguing, the next they would be in each other’s arms.

“Maybe you should stay in this afternoon, it looks like rain anyway”

“And Rae would be pissed if I went out and got a new girlfriend. Well since you’re here then I will” he consented. “Is Sam here? did you bring Rachel?”

“Just me this time”

He looked into son’s eyes “I am that close aren’t I?”

Mark couldn’t find the right words. The ones the doctors chose to use did not offer him any comfort. He couldn’t imagine they would help his father.  

“Mark I raised you not to lie to me”  he said taking his sons hand  "Also you are really bad at it, and I take that as a sign of good parenting"

“Hours, You might make it to tomorrow morning”  Mark said with his eyes closed as if saying them was going to kill him right then and there and he didn’t want to see it.  

“Good”

“Dad? No-” Mark started but his father waved his hand to silence him.

“My affairs are in order.  We have all known this has been coming for a while. In a way it’s been a blessing” He said clearing his throat.  "Do you remember when my friend Vic passed?  Had no will, it was an amazing mess for his girls I was not going to leave that for you and Sam"

Mark didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know what he was going to say to his wife or his daughter, no matter what the Doctors had said the idea that his father was not going to be there just did not seem real. Till now.  

“Dad I really don’t care about your stuff-”

“Mark I am ready.” he stated. “This has been a good life but I miss your mother so much.” his voice was ragged “I can feel it, she is waiting for me. She’s probably going to be angry that I am so late.  So I am going to blame you.  She could never stay mad at you.”

He was still joking. Mark could almost see his father looking tough his memories like flipping tough a photo album in his head.  

“We are so proud of you, do you know that.”  

“You and Mom were heroes. You guys saved the world. I am just a guy that designs buildings”

“You listen to me.” He said a new hardness in his voice “My whole life has been about beating the odds.  I was not expected to live when that monkey bit me.  I spent my life putting myself in danger. I have taken on monsters and criminals and supervillains.  I have been shot, shocked, burned, stabbed, and beaten to a pulp. My back is a subway map of scars. I have taken on the Devil himself, and I got your mother to marry me.”  Another round of ragged coughing followed Mark wondering if he should get help but his father would not let go of his hand.

“But you were it Mark!  Your father has DNA alphabet soup your mother is half demon the odds of us having you was winning the lottery while getting hit by lighting. ” Mark could feel his father’s fingers tighten around his “You are the miracle Mark”

Another round of coughing came and a deep intake of breath.  

“We got the chance to raise you, see you graduate, see you marry Sam, have Rachel.” He pointed at his face “Look at me I am a shriveled green raisin. Do you know how many of the people I have worked with didn’t make it to 40?”  He closed his eyes and laid back into his pillow.  "On top of all that I got to spend nearly 48 years married to the love of my life. Trust me nothing tops all that.“

“I wish Mom was here. She would know what to do”  Make said quietly.  He could picture her there standing on the other side of the bed.  She would put her hands on her husband’s face and she would heal him. Just like she did for him every time he had a scrape or a bruise, or that time he broke his left arm after falling out of a tree.  If Mom was here she could fix this! Screamed in his mind.  

“No Mark” His father pulled him out of his head. “I wish she was here too, but this is my time.”

“I miss her Dad, I don’t want to lose you too”

“She at times was cold, impatient, neat freak and stubborn as a mule and I should know, I have been a mule. She was also strong, giving, her mind was as sharp as her tongue. ” His eyes eased closed  "She was truly extraordinary and I miss hearing her voice. I can close my eyes and see her in her chair in the bedroom a book in her hands. She would read to me. It was the first things we did that was intimate. It didn’t matter what it was or what language hearing her voice made my head quiet. She would let me lay in her lap as a cat, and stroke my fur and I would listen to her. When she found a passage that got her interested or excited I could hear it warming her words. It was almost as good as her rubbing my fur”  

“Mom was the neat freak?”  he asked  

“Every time I leave my socks on the floor, or a dish in the sink I can hear her scold me. Even after she passed.” He laughed “I would sometimes do it just hear that.  But I kept the place neat, like she kept it, it made it easier to think she was going to walk through the door again. You know sometimes I would brew up a pot of that tea she loved just to smell it. ”

“I make that tea sometimes. Rachel likes it. She not going to understand this.”

“Children don’t understand death, I am an old man and I barley understand it. ”

“Yeah, but I thought that was because you’re not that bright.” the words slipped out of his lips.  He was going to apologize but his father’s chest started shaking with laughter.  

“You are your mother’s son!” Came out between small chuckles. “Tell Rachel that I am going to be with her Grandmother, that we both love her, and she can have the old game station”  

“My daughter lover of retro video games”

“My son the real hero of the family that keeps stone age technology running.  Also tell Sam that the library is hers, You mom loved having a daughter in law that loved books as much as she did.  I know she will take good care of them”  

“I should have brought them…”

“No, I don’t want Rachel to remember me like this, and she is going to need her mother. Sides I wanted a word with my boy.”

They just sat there quietly, Mark holding onto his father’s hand.  

“Mark?”

“Yea Dad”

“Open the window”

Mark was frozen statue still not sure what to do.

“Mark trust me just open it,  the air is stale in here, all I can smell is my old sweat and antiseptic I want to smell the ocean, the rain, please.”  

Mark knew that look in his eye.  It was the look he had when he was going to do something nuts.  It was the look he had when he pulled him out of school so he could introduce him to the Green Lantern.  It was the look he had when he would show up at the house unannounced with toys for Racheal. Or that he and Mom were just going to pick a direction and go and be gone for weeks sending pictures back from their latest adventure.

He also knew that when his father made up his mind about something he was committed.  Mark knew that if he didn’t open that window his father would find away.  He got up slowly and walked over to the awning window. The pane of glass hinged only on the top was meant only to let air in it only opened a few inches.  He stood there taking in a deep breath, taking in the scent of the storm that was brewing outside.  

“Much better” Garfield breathed.  "Thank you Mark"

“Dad, you need anything else.”

“Could you go find that Nurse, the young blond one.” Garfield said with a smile.  

“Dad?” he asked wondering if he was making a joke.

“I am serious, my left leg is doing that thing again,  she will know what I am talking about.”

“Ok” Mark said reluctantly as he left the room to go to the nurses station. He found two older woman and a young man. None of them knew about a blond nurse working in the ward.

When Mark came back to his father’s room the bed was empty. The window was still open and the staff had no idea where he had gone.  Mark didn’t know what to think. That somehow his father was now flying over the water? Or maybe Mom had come to get him.  History will remember Beast Boy the green hero that could turn into animals.  Mark and his family will, remember Garfield Logan a husband, father and grandfather who made bad jokes, gave his granddaughter pony rides and loved his family fiercely.  

“Your late”

“Mark’s fault!”

“No its not, you got too caught up playing with Rachel.”

“I couldn’t help it. She’s cute, and she takes after her grandmother.”

“She had you wrapped around her little finger. ”

“So did her grandmother.”

“Azar,I missed arguing with you.”

“Mama take me home, and please don’t leave me ever again”.

This was a story that has been sitting with me for a long time. I was going to do the other prompt from this but when I wrote it out if felt forced. Also this is also my first attempt at something that is not pure fluff. I like to think of these characters as real people. Well real people die, I would like to think they would after a good long life with a happy family. That is why I do love these fanfics, we get to add or expand the facets of the characters that might not be explored in the books or cartoons.  Also I think that is why that years later why were still writing about them, these were not cookie cutter characters designed to sell action figures, they had depth. 

[whifferdills]

"Landscape With the Fall of Icarus" Braxiatel and his brother. Gen, with some background Brax/OFC and Brax/Romana. ~3k words.

alternately read on the Ao3

"It's from the war to come," Arkadian says, grinning wolfishly. "Or so my source says. You know how tricky provenance can be. But it's got a certain...something. Don't you agree?"

The Council is dispersing. Braxiatel tries very hard to ignore the reporter who's been hounding him (and everyone else) since the referendum had passed. Mostly just him and the other aides and assistants and advisors, though. He wills himself to vanish into the crowd. Eyes averted, a swift gait. No joy. He grits his teeth as Atrade scampers to catch up with him.

"Braxiatel. I heard a rumor."

"Yes?" He draws the syllable out, like he could put all the needed nonchalance into it. He fails.

"About your career change. Tell me-"

"Still a tutor and an advisor to Vansell, Atrade."

"-All the details. Open up, you can trust me. I'm one of your closest friends and colleagues. I am a trustworthy individual." Atrade slings an arm around Braxiatel's shoulders.

Brax shrugs him off. "Patently untrue. You're a snake in the grass. You've told me so yourself."

"Right. So. Yes, I understand your qualms about consorting with the enemy, the enemy in your case being any sort of investigative body, especially one which examines the various timelines for criminal manipulation. I feel your anxiety on this matter. But. Braxiatel."

"There's nothing to discuss."

"They're calling you the Deadagogue. I made that up, they're not really calling you that. But the CIA grunts, believe me, the halls of Old Tranley are buzzing with the news. An assassin being called, for one."

"Atrade-"

"Which hasn't happened for decades. And for two, that it's an assistant lecturer. Brother of famed muckraker. As the hidden hand of Rassilon. You are aware the job involves killing people, yes?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Brax stares straight ahead.

There is an opening: an express elevator down to the street, a path through the throng. He takes it.

(His brother is not the only one in their family who knows how to run away from their problems.)

The pouch comes skidding under his office door half past seven the next morning. The messenger's gone by the time he thinks to check, and the surveillance files will be deleted when he checks those. It's an object divorced from cause and effect. Lying there on the carpeted floor of his office, innocent as anything.

Department of Internal Security. Eyes only, read and burn, a blue square to put his thumbprint on. Inside is, predictably enough, a staser with the serial numbers filed off and the track/lock mechanism not there at all, and a disposable file card. A thumbprint to open that too, and here he is, squinting down at a tiny screen scrolling information on his first job. What's the Earth expression? A hit.

A date, time and place, a series of precautions and general instructions, and he knows what's about to happen before he even gets to the name. Which, there it is. The full dossier like he doesn't know, like his brother is a stranger. Twelve pages of details, known associates, statistically likely actions, past attempts at flight. Access codes for the Oubliette.

The Council is dispersing. He assumes Atrade will be there, and picks his pace up accordingly.

"So I was right," Atrade says, breathing hard as he struggles to keep up.

"Unlikely."

"I have proof that you've been working with the CIA, in a - a less than above-board fashion. And who you've been tasked with...following."

Braxiatel stops short, stuck calmly in one spot as Atrade tumbles forward.

"You have nothing," he says quietly.

"I have - I have more than nothing. I've enough."

"You have nothing. And even if you did - so what? Do you really think you could do anything? Change anything for the better? What happens is what happens, Atrade."

Still regulating his breath, re-adjusting his robes. Composing himself. "Forget the - the everything else. Just. Baseline, in terms of morals, in terms of family. Regardless of whatever is actually happening, something is happening with You Know Who. And surely, there's something you can change there for the better."

"I'm not my brother's keeper," Braxiatel says.

"Talk to him."

"There's no talking to him. He's unreachable. He does what he does."

"Talk to him. Or, the next thing is-" Atrade looks to the ceiling and then to the floor and then delicately massages the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. "You know what happens."

"Exile. Do I look like I care?"

"Not - not exile." He pauses, holds his hands up like he's conducting an orchestra. "Braxiatel. They don't want him exiled. I know this, you know this. They want you to take care of him. Is this making sense yet."

"They want me to talk to him." He knows, he knows. He knows what he's been asked to do.

"They want you to take care of the problem. I'm saying, talk to him first. For your sake."

“I’ll see what I can do,” Brax says. He smiles politely, and makes his exit.

Brax had long ago realized he was looking for something without knowing precisely what it was. The act of acquisition in and of itself seemed necessary, the gathering of things, a series of transactions. He was looking for something and at a certain point had bid on a lot, a random thing, had put up his hand without paying attention. The casual escalation of price, the opposing bidder warring with red face and urgent mobile-phone communications, Brax feeling a sort of perverse determination to win simply so the other man would lose.

He'd smiled the affable no-hard-feelings smile at the final gavel, the gentleman's battlefield smile, and went to collect his ticket. The other man vibrating with frustration as Brax swept past him to the auctioneer, the seller unconcerned with the small dramas of loss and desire, handing him the key to a storage locker and a thick black binder of documentation. Which, opening it, Brax discovered he'd just bought a collection of antique weapons. Sometimes he thought it didn't matter what he was looking for. It's the search, maybe.

And in the locker, located deep in a self-store warehouse, the emerging cloud of must and old gunpowder, gun oil, wood and steel and pearl inlay, a history of fetishized violence, someone else's nostalgia, another search for meaning in manufactured objects. The safety release, the spark and shot. The boyhood fantasy acted out with capguns in treehouses or back alleys, the peculiar human fascination, war games, cops and robbers, grown up into a man's dissatisfaction and impotence. A locker filled with weapons that hadn't been used for centuries. He'd lifted each one from its custom-built display, continually suprised by the weight, how his wrists and forearms were unequal to the task of aiming. Look down the sight, feel the spring-resistance of the trigger. Imagine the brutality of propelled metal ripping through flesh and bone.

The other man so desperate, so invested, that he refused to meet Brax's eyes. Spooling out his life's savings for this. A foreign compulsion, an alien culture's shared dream of power. Imagine arterial spray, imagine the recoil insistent against your shoulder. The lovingly cared-for Winchester '73.

Gallifreyan weapons, he's discovered, are plastic and fully automated. No moving parts. The staser feels like nothing in his hands. The staser feels like a toy. Wide-spray burns and precise holes. He practices in the Chancellery Guard firing range, after hours. He shoots at holograms. The electric pop and whine, the light beam. He figures he should at least know enough to be able to miss.

Arkadian is smiling broadly, falsely.

Brax grimaces back distastefully. "Let's make this swift, shall we?"

"Why rush? Some things deserve a bit of pomp and circumstance." Arkadian leans back and props his feet on the edge of the desk.

Today is not a day in which Braxiatel will kill someone. It is not. "Some things. Not whatever tat you're trying to pawn off on me. Do you know how many people try to sell me war memorabilia? And do you know how much of it is worth the blood on their hands? I'll give you a hint: you're looking for a number smaller than one."

"Sadly, there will always be those who attempt to profit from the suffering of others. I understand your trepidation."

"Do you?" Braxiatel asks. "Time may have passed, and we are neither of us the men we were, but you must know I cannot trust you. I'm not a very trusting man as a general rule, but you, well."

"I'm a con man and a thief. There's no need to mince words, not now. But you're a collector, and I, for all my many faults, am in possession of one of the finest, rarest artifacts this universe has to offer." Arkadian reaches into his ticket pocket and produced a small red bundle. "I'll let it do the talking," he says, and hands it to Braxiatel.

"Let me guess, you found it in your dear departed grandfather's attic," Braxiatel murmurs. He gingerly pulls the fabric apart, spreads the handkerchief flat on the desk. In the middle is - a medallion? A monocle? A black disc, mirrored, maybe two inches in diameter, ringed in silver. He feels the most curious sensation, as if the thing is inviting him in, asking him to keep it. He feels suddenly, obscurely, possessive.

"It's from the war to come," Arkadian says, grinning wolfishly. "Or so my source says. You know how tricky provenance can be. But it's got a certain...something. Don't you agree?"

His brother is defiantly old. His brother is frail and slow-moving, clinging onto his body like he's afraid he's wasted it. His brother, teetering on the edge of regeneration, has decided that now is the right time to run away.

The staser is in his pocket. The disc is in his other pocket. This is a fixed point. This has always happened, he thinks. The disc pulses in response.

His brother is playing at senility to make it past the guards. His brother's granddaughter is trailing close behind, smiling winningly, making excuses, carrying a pocketbook that probably holds all their worldly belongings. Wanderlust skipped a generation: her mother is still at work, sitting behind the same desk she's always had, processing the same paperwork. Her mother has committed a sin her grandfather cannot forgive, has failed him in some obscure way.

Susan, leaving everything behind, and she doesn't know that the man she's following must necessarily leave her. You can't take home with you when you go. Susan picking up the hem of her robes. Susan laughing like this is the most wonderful adventure. He's got a staser in his pocket and he's wondering what would happen if he actually went through with this. He won't, of course; he can't. This is his brother and grandniece, this is blood kin, Lungbarrow sitting silent and ancient in their hearts.

His brother playing the doddering fool. Still, the guards will catch on soon enough. Brax steps in.

"Oh, it's you," his brother says. "I don't have time for you right now. Perhaps later."

He takes a deep breath. "If you don't let me help you, you'll be dead within the span."

"Dead? Me? No no no. You must be mistaken. I'm perfectly healthy."

"Listen. For once. Listen. You know they won't let you out of here alive. Take a TARDIS from the bay and they'll recall you before you make the vortex. You've been planning this for centuries and you still haven't thought this through. Listen to me. There's an assassin-" He stops, thinks, plows on. "There's an assassin coming. You'll be wiped from history. She'll be wiped from history. If you don't pay attention and for once do what I say."

There's a bright, hard intelligence buried somewhere beneath the pretense. His brother hooks his thumbs around his braces and leans back. "If you have a suggestion. Potentially I'd follow it. Not that I am, of course, in the habit of committing crimes. I'm simply going for a walk."

"Transmat to the museum. The ships are unregistered and no one watches the security video. Take a TARDIS and leave. I'll hold them off for as long as I can. And."

"Yes?"

"Don't come back."

His brother smiles. "A trip to the museum sounds lovely. Susan? Would you enjoy a little educational diversion?"

Susan grinning and bouncing on the heels of her feet, like what fun this all is. "That would be wonderful, Grandfather. I do so love the dioramas."

"And the interactive displays, musn't forget those. Til we meet again, Braxiatel." He doffs his cap then dashes off, going faster than any decrepit old man has the right to go, Susan in tow.

"Which will be never," Brax calls out, but he's already disappeared down a corridor.

There's a matter to attend to. A death has been contracted, and there's a balance to these things: if his brother lives, then someone else can't.

His brother is a rapidly fading memory. His brother is in a tin can with faltering circuits, plunging into the unknown. His idiot brother, and there's a tiny part of him that's envious.

There is a woman in the foyer of the Collection. A beautiful woman, and a strange one, and a quietly powerful one. Brax slips a hand into his pocket and strokes the edge of the disc. It's warmer than usual, or maybe that's just his imagination.

She says her name is Sophia (no surname), which is most likely a lie, but that's fine with him; he wasn't born Irving, after all. She says Sophia, charmed to meet you and holds out her hand, not sideways for a shake or palm up as a gesture of openness but palm down, fingers bent, to be taken gently and kissed. He obliges, as there are few things in life he enjoys more than being a gentleman in the classical sense. Mr. Braxiatel of the pocket squares and doffed hat.

Sophia sells paintings. The provenance is iffy but the quality is undeniable, and he isn't above acquiring stolen goods.

"I've sent you our full catalogue," she says as they meander deeper into the halls of the Collection, their hands almost but not quite touching. "Though you strike me as the sort of man who knows what he wants."

He watches her out of the corner of his eye. "A reasonable assessment," he says.

He kisses her in the greenhouse and then fucks her in the Antiquities Wing. History, history. The disc burns red-hot through the silk lining of his coat as he slips it off.

She moans a name out, but it isn't his. In the morning, they strike a reasonable deal. He saves her contact information and blows a kiss as she leaves.

(The painting arrives swiftly and discreetly, wrapped in brown paper. Two men and a robot unload it off the clipper. He has them leave it by the stairs - he can take care of the installation, thank you.

And they leave, and it's silent again, and he slowly tears the paper off. Yves Klein, IKB 191. The bluest blue. He spends the rest of the day staring at it, an armchair pulled up and a clock, somewhere, ticking.)

Time passes, history happens. Braxiatel falls through the world and the disc falls with him. He stands up and dusts himself off. He can feel the disc, can sense it - not pulsing, now, but tugging. Back to where he came from.

From the war, Arkadian had said. The war to come.

"So let it," Brax says to a startled-looking bird. "It's not my concern anymore."

He lives here, he lives here. He garrotes himself with piano wire and watches himself die and neatly disposes of the remains. He lives here, now. The Collection is almost exactly as he left it. IKB 191 hangs high in the foyer, looming down at him.

There's a woman in his bed and she is beautiful. She says her name is Sofya, and if that's a lie he cannot judge her for it. Nor can he judge her for not being someone else, though part of him would like to - would hold her up to an ideal.

One of his hearts with Sophia and the other with...well. Everyone makes compromises, don't they, Madame President?

He won't judge Sofya for those things but he will judge her for the lie that arrived, vacuum-sealed, off the clipper three mornings ago. He will judge her for thinking so little of him to assume he wouldn't notice.

"It's a fake," he says quietly, the words pressed into the skin of her neck. "You've never tried to sell me a fake before."

"It's not a digital copy, if that's what you mean."

"It's not a Bruegel. That's what I mean." He'd meant to remain calm, stay detached and almost amused, but he finds himself becoming angry, like this was a trust that has been betrayed, like there'd been an intrusion into not just the Collection's system but himself. A 'how dare you' wavering gauche and banal at the back of his mind.

"Does it move you less now that you know it's a forgery?" Sofya rolls over and props herself up on her elbows, hands tucked beneath her chin. She has a look on her face like this has been a test and he's just failed. "Does its power and beauty diminish? The market value does, of course. Nobody wants an anonymous painting. But the painting itself."

"This is a museum, not a charity shop. I'm not in the business of exhibiting paint-by-numbers."

"The painting itself should exist outside all your machines and experts and auctions."

"It doesn't. I don't." He stares up at the ceiling, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound terribly bourgeois.

"So lie," she says. "It took you long enough to figure it out. No one else will care, they'll believe you."

"I can't lie to myself."

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, you can. You're excellent at it. And besides, even if you can't, or won't, does it matter? Does a person's name mean that much? Are you collecting art or brands, is I suppose the question."

His suit jacket hung up neatly by the closet. The disc in the suit pocket. The war on the other side. He can hear it, nearly. Can feel it tugging at the space between his hearts.

"I collect moments," he says, turning back towards her. "Of which this is certainly one." He's not the only brother who knows how to run away.

She smiles, teeth bright white in the dim lighting, and she kisses him. Above them, in the forgery hung high on the wall, the laborer toils unaware as Icarus falls into the sea.