#what are the rules regarding keeping your laptop in your bag? who knows! fuck you. it's changed 3 times since the last time you were here

[eyesoforpheus]

as someone whose home airport was newark for 11 years, seeing everyone universally shit on newark is so vindicating. charlie slimecicle made a joke about newark being awful recently and i out loud cheered

[imagining-supernatural]

The Work Call

Part 18 of Seventy Percent

Series Summary: When you left on your trip to Vegas, you’d planned on letting loose for one last weekend before heading back to reality and getting your affairs in order so your best friend wouldn’t be left cleaning up your mess when your cancer finally ended your life. What you hadn’t counted on was waking up married to a celebrity who has a knight-in-shining-armor complex, connections with an oncologist, and amazing insurance…

Chapter Summary:  You call your boss to get some work to do in your free time and do a little flirting ;)

Word Count: 2,258

With Sebastian off in Georgia for a week, you felt like a teenager whose parents just left her home for alone for the first time. Suddenly, you could break all of the rules. Not that your rule-breaking was something that would get you in too much trouble…

Since the press seemed to have gotten it through their heads that you were off limits, you finally had your privacy and space back again. As a result, you were taking advantage of the last few weeks of autumn before the snow came. After your hospital appointments, you walked down the street to a cute little café and sat in one of the over-sized, plush chairs for a bit. You’d either bring a book or your laptop.

On Wednesday, the café cat apparently decided you were okay and hopped up into your lap, purring loudly as you read. You’d snapped a quick selfie and sent it off to Sebastian.

Me: [image attached] Don’t be surprised if you come home this weekend and I’ve catnapped ol’ Misty here

Sebastian: What if I’m allergic to cats?

Me: Sucks to be you, I guess

Me: The apartment’s lonely without you

You stared at the last text you’d sent, suddenly overthinking it. Sure, you were married. And, sure, you were wearing his ring now. But you two hadn’t really discussed what that meant, exactly. So was that last text too strong? Too forward?

Hell, you didn’t even know what you’d meant by it.

Sebastian: Don’t know how I feel about being able to be replaced by a cat

Sebastian: Maybe I need to up my game

Up his game?

Shit, it had been so long since you’d flirted with anyone. So long since you’d even considered a relationship. After your hellish life growing up, you’d put all of your focus into school. You were determined to set yourself up for a better life than the one you were born into. Then you graduated and worked hard to secure your place at your job. School only taught you so much, and you needed to be able to apply what you learned to real life.

Once you felt secure in your professional life and you were finally ready to start exploring a relationship, you found out you had cancer.

So to say you were woefully underprepared for this situation would be the understatement of the year.

Me: Luckily for you, I like Jenny’s coffee so much that I don’t want her to hate me for stealing her cat

Sebastian: You still thought a cat would replace me

Sebastian: That hurts, sweetheart

Sweetheart. In writing. 

Me: I’ll find some way to make you feel better this weekend

Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Why did you never read over your texts before you sent them?

At least you hadn’t put a winky face emoji. Now that would have been a disaster.

Not that you didn’t want your relationship with Sebastian to keep going. You did. But there was a lot more pressure riding on this than there was back in high school when you went to the prom with Brad Trayton, or in college when you slept with the guy from your Chemistry 101 lab three times before having to break it off with him because he always smelled like bacon.

This was Sebastian Fucking Stan. And you were married to the guy. And you were in a literal life or death situation. If things went badly with him, that would make the rest of your cancer treatment very awkward, to say the least.

Sebastian: I’m sure you will…

Sebastian: I gotta go to a script reading rn. Skype tonight?

Me: Of course

You’d been Skyping with Seb at least twice a day since he left on Sunday night. It was almost like he never left, in that regard.

But with him gone, you found that you had a lot of free time on your hands. With your body starting to get used to the cancer treatment, you also had a bit more energy and nowhere to put that energy to good use.

So you called your old boss back home, dialing his direct extension to avoid getting his assistant. The press might have backed off, but thanks to the updates from Jasmin, people who knew you were still reeling over your marriage.

“Plathway.”

“Hey, Brendon, it’s Y/N.”

“Y/N!” he exclaimed, and you could just imagine him leaning back in his chair. Brendon Plathway was your mentor and had grown into a close friend. Of everyone in your life, you would say he was the closest thing to a good father figure you had. “How are you doing? I’ve seen your name on Facebook a few times.”

“I’m doing pretty good, all things considered. I’m in a clinical study in New York and the doctors are optimistic that it’ll work. They’re hoping I’ll get the tumor out sometime in February.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Brendon said. “And that husband of yours… he treating you well?”

“It’s not… it’s not quite like that. But yeah. He’s great.” It was a pretty decent segue into the reason for your call. “He’s actually out of town, shooting for a TV show. So I have a bit of time on my hands and was hoping—”

“Y/N Y/L/N?”

The unfamiliar voice interrupted you before you could finish. You looked up to see a guy about your age with a newsboy bag, notebook, and tape recorder.

A fucking journalist.

“I thought it was you. You mind if I ask you a few questions?” He didn’t say it like a question, nor did he give you time to respond before he sat on a stool beside you and set up shop on the small table. “If I could write an article on you, it would just—”

“I’m actually on a phone call right now.”

“Oh, I won’t take too long. I just can’t pass up this opportunity. You’re quite the enigma. No one’s gotten your side of the story.”

“And neither will you. I’m not going to answer any questions.”

He completely ignored you, flicked on the recorder, and put his pen to paper. “People have been saying that you planned your rendezvous with Sebastian Stan in Vegas. What do you say to that?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have no comment for you.”

“I thought you’d appreciate the chance to get your story out there. There are some nasty rumors spreading—”

You cut him off before he could continue. “I know my story and the people I care about know my story. I will not be answering any questions for you today.”

“Do you feel no guilt for being the reason Sebastian Stan’s reputation has taken a massive hit?”

“I’m going to give you one more chance to leave me the fuck alone before I call the cops.” He opened his mouth, but you spoke over him, voice lowering to a red-hot hiss. “And if you write a single word of this conversation or make any sort of insinuations that I said anything at all, I will slap you and whatever blog or magazine you work for with a libel lawsuit. Don’t even think about trying to manipulate your recording because you’re not the only one who has been recording this conversation. The phone call you interrupted was with my boss and it’s company policy to record all incoming and outgoing phone calls. He’s a witness that I repeatedly rejected your attempt to start an interview and anything else you say can be construed as harassment. Have I made myself clear?”

He stared at you, wide eyed. Guess he hadn’t expected a cancer patient to be so blunt. Nevertheless, he gathered his things and stood. Just before walking away, he muttered, “You didn’t have to be such a bitch about it.”

Once he was gone, you groaned. “Sorry about that, Bren.”

“Is that something you have to deal with often? That’s horrible.”

“No. Not since I got sick because stupid reporters were sticking their germy microphones in my face and Seb threatened them with lawyers.”

Brendon hmphed. “Well, you sounded like you had that speech prepared. Sounded like you’d said it a few times.”

“Before he left, Seb made sure I knew how to threaten any reporters like that. Luckily this was the first time I’ve had to remember what he told me.” The reporter had shaken you, and it took a few deep breaths before you felt calm enough to continue with your conversation. “Anyway, back to my original reason for calling… Are there are projects I could jump on long distance? I’ll probably only be able to put in about ten to fifteen good hours of work a week, but it’d be nice to have something to do other than wait for new episodes of my shows to come on Hulu.”

“Let me poke around the office a bit. I know there’s a big one coming up next week. Rachel’s heading that one. You’ve worked with her before right? She’d probably appreciate your input. Trent is in the middle of one for a pharmaceutical company, but he’s not feeling too sure about it. I’ll see if he wants you to try and hack the system and find holes.”

“Anything. I’ve worked with both of them before and I think we work well together. I did quite a few initial proposals before I left for Vegas and I enjoyed those more than most people do.”

He promised he’d send any projects your way that he could. After a few more minutes of catching up, you ended the call and headed outside to wait for Sean in the chilly fall air.

“How was the reading?” you asked later that night. “Any juicy plot lines?”

“Not that I can tell you,” Seb replied. The phone in his hand shifted as he settled further into the hotel bed that Marvel was putting him up in. “But it was good. We’ll start shooting tomorrow.”

“Excited to lube up your arm?”

He laughed, head falling back against the headboard. “I take it you finally did some research on me?”

“A little. The hospital was running behind today, so I was there a bit longer than I planned and I fell down the YouTube abyss of interviews. Anthony seems like a fun guy to work with.”

Sebastian grinned. “He is. Speaking of work, did you call your boss?”

“Yeah.” The reminder of the phone call – or rather of the interruption – made your roll your eyes.

“Didn’t go well?”

“No, no. It did.” You knew your news was not going to go over well with Seb, so you took a minute to get settled into the bed. It had been a long day and laying down felt good. You turned your laptop on its side so your face would still be the right way on Seb’s phone. “Brendon’s gonna check around work and find some projects and work to throw my way. That’s all good.”

“Then what is it?”

With a deep sigh, you began. “While I was on the phone with him, some hipster reporter dude interrupted.”

“Son of a—”

“It took a minute to get it through his thick skull that I was not going to give him a story but he finally left. It just kinda took a bit out of me.”

“God, Y/N. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yeah, it’s not,” you agreed softly. “But you prepared me. I handled it. Then Sean made me eat dinner with him and his wife. She’s an amazing cook. Sometime when you’re home, they want to have both of us over. And when this is all over, we definitely need to think of a hell of a way to thank him for everything. He’s done so much more than a driver gets paid to.”

The two of you brainstormed for a bit about how to repay Sean for his kindness and friendship. Then your conversation moved on to different subjects, bouncing around for a bit until you yawned for the third time in five minutes.

“You seem more tired than usual. You doing okay?”

“I’m fine. I mean, I haven’t been sleeping well, but that’s your fault.”

“My fault?” he asked.

“Yeah. You made me sleep next to you for two weeks then you just up and leave me alone. It’s rude, Mr. Stan.”

Something in your words sparked something in his eyes that filled you with… excitement?

“Well, Mrs. Stan…” His words were accompanied by a wink that stopped your heart. Forget your brain tumor. Sebastian was going to be the source of your death. “You only have two more nights before I’m home for the weekend.”

Flirting? Were you flirting?

“Two nights with you and five nights without you is just not a fraction I like.”

My god, you were flirting.

“If you can convince Marvel to move their studios to New York, I’m all game. Until then, we’ll have to make the best of those two nights.”

“Make the best of them, hmm?”

“Yeah,” he said in a low voice. “Mackie’s commentary on The Voice isn’t as good as yours. I’ve been waiting to watch the new episodes until I’m with you.”

The unexpected twist made you laugh out loud. It didn’t escape your attention how his eyes crinkled at the sound, affection flooding his expression. “The Voice on Friday and Dancing With The Stars on Saturday?”

“I’ll pen it in my calendar, sweetheart.”

“Ooo. I’m pen-worthy. That’s so much better than pencil-worthy.”

“You’re white-out-worthy, baby. I’d white-out plans I have with someone else to pen in plans with you.”

Fucking hell. Baby was a new one.

If he’d put on half this much charm on you in Vegas when you were drunk, it was no wonder you’d married him.

“Then I guess I need to go erase the pencil plans I had for Saturday evening and make room for you. Maybe even buy a special pen just for you.”

“Maybe wait for tomorrow? You’ve had a long day. Seems like you need a good night’s rest.”

“You too, hun.” The pet name felt foreign on your tongue, but it somehow felt… right? “Shooting starts tomorrow. You need to be ready to keep up with Mackie’s energy.”

“He wants to meet’cha, you know. Apparently I haven’t shut up about you.’

“Gimme a few more weeks to get used to this treatment and maybe I can spend more than three seconds around him without needing a nap,” you joked. “Unless he only has that energy when there’s a camera on him…?”

Seb laughed. “That is him all the damn time.”

“Then I better let you go for the night. You’ve spent the last few weeks shlumping around with me. Gotta get your rest to keep up with him tomorrow.”

“And you gotta get your rest so you can hand out candy tomorrow.”

“I’m excited for that, actually. Trick or Treating really slowed down back in Utah lately. I think last year I got, like, maybe three groups of kids?”

“You’ll get your fill this year. A lot of the kids in the apartment complex go to every door. Just be careful, okay? I don’t want you getting sick.”

It took twenty more minutes before you were finally able to say your goodbyes and hang up. You stared at your phone for a moment before placing it on the side table beside Sebastian’s bed and turning off the light.  

Houston, we've got some flirting!!! Also can we just take a minute to appreciate how amazing Sean is? But things seem to be looking up!

CHAPTER 19: THE LONG DAY

[livingfictionsystem]

August 4th-5th, 2020.

I’d been out at the new apartment, trying to get my power sorted, when I saw the texts that made my stomach drop. Shaking, I rang Asra. Asra had been appalled before when I’d spoken about the dog-piling three or four against one that had been done to me before, and told me to call them if the household ever tried to pull this again. In fact, they said they would drive here and protect me, if need be. “I’m scared to go home,” I’d blurted.

I couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t be harassed until my mind went blank and I was forced to apologise and beg for any sort of mercy.

Asra called Arkady, then called me back. “Hey, he’s upset, but he says he’s going to try not to yell at you. I spoke to Ash and they said they would try to rein him in a bit. It’s just one talk, then you all can move into different apartments and try to cool down for a while.”

I stared. There was a storm brewing overhead. A plastic bag did cartwheels in front of me as the wind whipped around my tense body. Somehow, a situation that was ‘unacceptable’ months before was turned into, ‘The household gets a little yell at Xanthe. As a treat.’

I shivered.

I’d tried to take a break away from Facebook for a few weeks. It was my most accurate mirror I could find, and it was becoming depressing to look at. I hadn’t reached out to many. And now, even someone who knew about the situation was fine with me being the sacrificial lamb for this crowd to get their pound of flesh.

The existential crisis that had been in my mind like a powder keg kept weighing on me. I remember I had theorized that perhaps if all of my friends were Neb’s characters, I likely was too. But why did she create me? What was I based off of?

Spoiler alert: As I’d said before, Neb was heavily into Black Butler and The Infernal Devices series at the time of my creation. But in this state, I was horrified by the coincidence that April had had a British blonde boyfriend by the name of Dante. What if she based me off that boy?

Vex would point out later on that I met April before even hearing of Dante. But this thought was the straw that broke the camel’s back. It’s what drove me over the edge. I’d tried to soothe my brain with wine, but it was practically screaming with an entire existential crisis and I couldn’t shut it up.

I booted up my laptop, went on Facebook Live. My laptop has an issue where it doesn’t like to let me filter down my audience the first time around, so at first I tried to go into my private FB group for mental illness, called Coping.

I actually don’t remember what I said on that one. I just knew that my audience wasn’t big enough. No, no, that wouldn’t do at all. I felt crazy, didn’t know who was real and who wasn’t, I’d been isolated far too long– fuck it, I’d just go public. I was too tired of screaming in my own head not to need a least a classroom’s worth of people around me.

As I was waiting for the broadcast to go through, I couldn’t help but notice I wasn’t alone in my room. Xhaxhollari, who I’d pointedly ignored these past couple of months, was seated on my bed. His wings were folded and he regarded me with a stony expression. Vex was seated on the floor, at the foot of my desk. “Good. You need witnesses,” Vex murmured, with a side-eye to the door.

I shook my head at her and opened my phone. Another text from Arkady. “You forgot to mention Gaslamp,” it said.

Oh, yes. The pack mentality that I gave a name. It reminded me so much of my ex that I thought she was following me. As it turned out, my housemate actually went to her. I was right about everything except the magic portion. I wasn’t trying to start with that, but–

“I need this to end somehow,” I whispered. “I can’t take any more of this.”

“You must endure.” Xhaxhollari, unlike Vex, made no effort to keep his voice down. “It’s clear there is something wrong. What if it targets Arkady next? You know he can’t survive this.”

I chewed on the ends of my fingers. “Even if we’re right, there’s nothing I can do if everyone hates me. And why am I still seeing Mx. Be Not Afraid over there? I integrated that angel!”

Yet that fucker was still over my shoulder, smirking, living its best life without going dormant.

I glanced at the broadcast as footsteps approached. It hadn’t started yet. Did I forget to push a button? Vex fiddled with the mouse a bit, crouching between myself and the door. I think I was already talking at this point– discussing the odd instances where Arkady had yelled at me and hadn’t seemed to remember it, how the house seemed obsessed with accommodating and defending certain people and mistreating others, how they weren’t like this before they met March–

I don’t remember if he knocked or not, but suddenly, Arkady. “Xanthe, come here. We’re having this talk. Now.”

Vex shook her head.

“I don’t want to.” I replied. “And I’m not even sober.”

“When are you sober, Xanthe?”

Ever not pay attention and have autism just auto-fill your next reply? Because uh. “Before 7pm.” A little rule I’d invented for myself. I was so proud.

“Mm. Yes, nice snark, there.”

“I was being literal.”

“I can tell the difference between your literal tone and your snark. Come downstairs, we’re talking.” His voice was icy cold, lacking in any sort of warmth and compassion. It used to sing me to sleep. It used to give me enough ‘I love you’s’ to last the weekend. It used to tell me about how it couldn’t live without me. It used to be my favourite song. And now it just sounded like an angry, violent stranger. He used to know me, and now he couldn’t even tell my tones apart.

“I don’t want to.”

Again, my memory blurs. I still have video proof on my FB, but trauma has made it difficult to bring it up again. I think it was full of him trying to get me into another intervention and myself refusing. I think it’s at this point where he told me, “We’re having this talk or I’m telling all of your Facebook followers when your birthday actually is.”

“You’re blackmailing me?” My voice sounded wooden. Vex narrowed her eyes, then looked at me in alarm. Something was going through its death-throes in my soul, and it wasn’t me. I thought it had been, for months. It’d been dying since the month of March. I had thought it was me, I felt it so keenly. Maybe this night would finally kill me. I would disappear into this brain as Neb did, finally be at peace. But at this blackmail, I felt a brief pain, as if the mortal blow had just landed, then… nothing. I felt an odd sort of detachment, as if the world around me were a nightmare.

He said some sort of reply. But I turned to my broadcast. I never could behave well enough to be properly blackmailed. “Yes, my body was born on August 25th, 1993. I’ve never used that birthday because I felt like a walk-in soul. I’ve only had this body since about 2013.” In the background, Arkady was screaming ‘Lies, lies, LIES!’ through the door. I continued on. “I don’t know what’s going on. There’s a lot of friends that I’ve had that are apparently fictional, like me, and I don’t know what’s real or not.” I rambled afterwards. I rambled about my paranoia over Zara, how everyone seemed offended that I didn’t want company over for half of each week with no notice and leaving a sprinkling of empty energy drink cans and a cloud of weed scent wherever she staggered. I discussed how toxic March was when he first moved in, about how he seemed to turn Ash from someone who cared deeply for Arkady to someone that would rather have sex with March for eight hours. Whoever just died in me, it was like I was breathlessly telling their tale of betrayal and how they met their fate.

At this point, Arkady was screaming, ‘Asra says to get off Live! Get off Live! Get off Live! Get off Live RIGHT now.’ He kept screaming. What would happen if I got off Live? What would he do?

I didn’t know. I didn’t know how to express that I didn’t know. He was still screaming.

I went non-verbal. I didn’t know how to make it stop.

I picked up some sort of holiday card, flipped it to the blank side, and wrote the only phrase I could express, and held it up for the camera.

I’M SCARED

He finally left. A friend, who had witnessed the exchange, texted me an offer to pick me up for the night, just to make me feel safe. Which, I decided was probably for the best, as Arkady was shouting, “Are you FUCKING kidding me?” downstairs.

Vex gathered a bag for me. In low tones, she coached me on where everyone in the house was, informing me I had a clear path to the cars outside. Together, we ran outside.

I vaguely remember hugging my friend’s friend. “You didn’t even seem to be talking shit?” She reassured me. “You just seemed to be… venting.” I remember shakily rambling about how it’d gone too far this time, stunned that this had even happened. The rest of the night occurred in a disassociated blur. I’d rescued my box of Franzia, intending to nurse that for the rest of the night. Upon noting this, my friend joked that I was a ‘high-functioning alcoholic.’ And you know, after six months of balancing on eggshells, it wasn’t far from exaggerative.

My friend received a text from March, detailing either lies or things the rest of the household used to endorse. He even mocked me for thinking Oscar Wilde may have been a past life. Which, was not only something that Arkady had suggested, but something March’s toxic ex had already went for. Funny, how one can become one’s worst enemy. Everything else had been a lie.

(So, addressing those one at a time… I never said March was possessed by a demon. I said that he had a cult-like effect about him, that reminded me of my ex, April, that made people seem to act possessed in their hyper-defense of him. And yes, I think my past-life is Oscar Wilde. I’m spiritual, and Wilde and I have gone through a lot of the same things. He just happens to be a Libra. It was actually Arkady who had told me that Oscar was a past life. Everyone else in the house endorsed it– Oscar would later become an ‘introject’ alter. Only one other person has used my past-life belief against me, and it’s someone who March calls abusive. I assume he’s too dim to catch the irony, there. Arkady and I hadn’t broken up yet. He dumped me in July. I posted those photos, likely about a dozen of them, in early June. They were still fond memories, and I didn’t feel like taking them down yet. Arkady had told me I was allowed to tell him ‘I love you’ in different ways. ‘On Vis Och’ was a line in a book that meant, ‘A good end and a new beginning.’ I hadn’t realised it made him uncomfortable, and stopped once I realised it had. I didn’t write handwritten notes to him in his room. I left them for Visarden, his alter? Past-life? Who told me our relationship was still there. About me using wine to loosen him up– Never happened. That’s not even a misunderstanding, it’s a goddamned lie. Once, Arkady had told me that I just ‘needed to buy him wine’ to get him in the mood. I didn’t take him up on that offer, but would occasionally do so as a gift, when I would stock up on my own supply. He also didn’t come out as grey ace until after we’d stopped sleeping together.)

(“I’m done speaking out against Xanthe” is probably the funniest joke March has ever told. Note that he wasn’t warning my friend. That abusive ex? Yes, was a prick. He tried to make me seem crazy by mocking my past-life. Sound familiar? It should.)

My friend offered me a stim toy and I slept a nice, drunken sleep on their apartment couch that night. The next day, I was still disassociated. I felt mostly numb and detached from reality. I kept having to ask my friend to repeat conversations. Especially after a text I’d gotten from Asra, saying I was cut off from them for publicly complaining about the round after round of hen-pecking. They took me to a walk around the river, helped me pick up some of AJ’s things they’d sent via the train. Then it was time to go back. My friend only lived in a shared apartment with a roommate, after all. And I hadn’t brought enough to stay extra days.

I updated a status, clarifying that Arkady was not beating me, and likely never would. I made the Lives private. I genuinely did not want anyone harassing him.

My plan was simple. Run in, lay AJ’s things in the public space, then go to my room. I would spend the next two weeks until my move-in date avoiding my housemates, packing, and minding my own business. They had other plans.

I came back to all doors locked. My house key could never undo the deadbolts, so I had to call Ash.

Then they confronted me. The very scenario I had been trying to avoid, but this time, they had more ammunition. They’d read my journals in my absence, leafing through them as if they had been studying for a test. This was the second offense of reading my journals. The first, being much more mild, something they said they regretted.

I have to say, I disassociated through a lot of the discussion. I was apparently talking, apologising, say that I meant my apology. I remember only snippets.

Apparently, Arkady was meant to stay away from the conversation, but came back up. “No, I’m not even scared.” He said, taking in my shaking form in the doorway. “This is just funny to me. This is like a soap opera, it’s just funny now. No, I want to watch.”

Me, falling into his arms out of the moving van. Dancing in the rain. Him comforting me after a nightmare. Him, in a rage, after my mother threatened to abandon me through top surgery. He, who sang me a sweet song of mourning after my bird had died. He, who taught me how to cry after so long not knowing how. It had to have been a different person who thought my fear was funny.

“You said you wanted us to help each other heal!” Arkady went on, in a tone filled with such disgust that one would think I’d confessed to drugging his cat for fun. “Is that how you see me? Is that what you think I’m for?”

“It’s just a joke. “Xhax’s voice was clear in my head, high in wonderment.

It was then March’s turn to throw something at me. “After I had gotten fired from Lori’s, you said that you fell asleep with a smile on your face and a song in your heart!”

Actually, I thought, that was after you’d freaked out that you mispronounced the word ‘ambivalent‘ and made it a Whole episode.

“These people aren’t interested in facts. It’s the narrative they want.” I glanced at Xhaxhollari. Clearly, the household couldn’t see him.

I just said I was sorry. The words were hollow on my tongue. There was an expectation that they should be otherwise, but I’m not sure how any of the four of us reached that conclusion. I was also aware that they were giving me two days to find other arrangements. I’d had nowhere else to go, but that clearly wasn’t their problem.

“You can get a hotel,” Arkady informed me icily.

“For two weeks?” Sure, I had a discount through Hilton, but it was based on availability. And they all decided to do this just as RIT students were coming through and looking to quarantine.

Obviously, I was lying about something. Arkady seemed sure of it. “You told me,” Arkady began, spitting the words like an accusation. I think he may have even been pointing at me. “That you got a discount from Hilton that would make any reservation 35 a night! It would be less than six hundred dollars. You can do that.”

I think I just stared at him for that. Even if I were to open my app and show him, he’d likely never be convinced. He had his narrative, what more did he need?

Then there was a barrage of how I’d ‘brought Gaslamp into the house.’ “No. My ex made me believe that. I shouldn’t have passed it onto the rest of you, but I was fooled too. I’m sorry I was the first.” I actually can’t picture my tone here. Was I even the one speaking? I don’t know. I only know I said that last part because March repeated it mockingly back at me.

“‘Oh, I’m sorry I was the first!'” March would make a bad actor. I’d always thought that. I was suddenly caught on the airy, patronizing quality of his voice. He really only had one tone of voice, and I could only describe it as a ‘Your bra-strap is showing’ sort of tone. “See, they’re just making themselves into a victim again! You’re doing it again, Xanthe, and we’re wise to all of your manipulation. And apparently you thought that I put Ash into a ‘Hostage situation’ by threatening to kill myself over the phone for hours when they were on vacation? I was having a breakdown, Xanthe!”

“Your pain is a joke. Your privacy is a joke. A soap opera.” I didn’t see Xhaxhollari’s point just then, but he was still talking at my side. His voice sounded calm, but his wings were arched and tense.

I remember them surrounding me and repeating again and again, as if chanting that I was the abuser was enough to overwrite my memories saying otherwise. They may as well try again, it’d worked before. It was this odd narrative that everything that March had ever done could never be abuse. He had a break down, he had a PTSD flashback, he needed help, and I heartlessly labeled his actions abusive. Meanwhile, my own PTSD was manipulation, my breakdowns were abuse, and who needs support when they could just tell me over and over again that I’m awful?

Ash spoke up, finally. “I ‘think I’m an Unseelie king’? Why did you tell Asra that, other than to damage my relationship with them?”

March chimed in. “Yeah, you have to stop talking about our worlds, Xanthe!”

I winced. I actually did feel real shame over that. I probably would’ve felt more if my conversation in confidence hadn’t been shared. But how else to reach out about the fact that these people assured me that my friends were real? For what reason? Their own validation?

Why were they so intent on suddenly dismissing a reality they’d once endorsed?

March was still talking. “And I have PTSD, too, Xanthe. C-PTSD, in fact!”

“Your enemy is a joke.” Xhax continued.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. March’s voice sounded just so pompous. My voice carried on, distantly. I couldn’t tell what it was doing. The last twenty minutes of that conversation are lost to me. In fact, most of that night is lost to me. I know I didn’t drink any more wine.

I remember calling Cotton. I remember calling Kaspar. I remember texting my father. Cotton reassured me that he’d known me for much longer than my household, and had never considered me manipulative. He’d been there for April’s fake possession, her fake seizures, her faked blindness. Kaspar, who was distressed at having known none of this prior to that night, saying how these people wouldn’t stand a chance if I had manipulated them. My dad, saying how my housemates were in the wrong for having read my journals again.

Again.

Again.

It was sinking in.

They’d done it again.

The quotes they’d used, it was all from my journals. More than one. That thought seemed to bleed through in my sleep, to the point where the violation was all that was on my mind the day aft.

It’d turned to daylight. I posted to Facebook, filtering out the cult that’d formed under my roof, “They went through my fucking journals.”

Not even a half hour later, March was outside my door. “We see you playing the victim, Xanthe. You tried to hide from Ash, but it didn’t work. Also, Asra knows how you really now. We told them everything.”

I was frozen in my room. Vex, who had refused to leave my side since last night, cursed under her breath, and began to pack a bag. “If they really knew everything, then what are they doing standing for this shit?” She growled.

Good question.

March, who claimed not to be the problem but was very much proving to be the instigator, continued to gripe to Ash. “They apologise to our face but then go behind our backs to bitch to Facebook! Apparently, this is all our faults! First they blame Zara, then Seven, and now me again!”

March was playing music from his room, blasting petty break-up songs and what seemed to be Onision’s breakdown. (I think they were attempting to make some sort of comparison?)

My therapist was on the phone with me in what seemed like minutes later. I only remember one part of that conversation. “They went through your fucking journals, Xanthe! And used it against you! You can’t stay another night in that house! Who cares if your friends are real? If they’re not the ones mistreating you, call them!”

Vex was very pointedly packing my journals into my suitcase. I reached for my pendant– it symbolized my heart, but it’d broken earlier this year. I hadn’t yet fixed it; it seemed odd to me to pretend that my heart wasn’t broken.

Xhax’s hand covered mine as I reached for the watch. “Not yet. You need protection, not your heart. Your heart is what’s gotten you into this mess.” He slid my clockwork angel pendant into my palm.

It was from the Infernal Devices series. Ithuriel, the angel, was trapped in a clockwork pendant the protagonist always wore. It was meant to protect her. I’d bought it recently to feel safe.

I stared at him. “I thought you were wanting me to sacrifice myself to save Arkady?”

He shook his head. “You did what you could. He just isn’t there right now. Any more selfless, you won’t have any more self left to lose.”

I slipped the pendant over my head, made my reservation for Collegetown’s Hilton, then fled. When I got to my room, I collapsed on my bed, wanting to sob and–

Just as before I’d met Arkady… no tears came.

I was fictional again.

[shu-of-the-wind]

From the ten types & tropes: rebelcaptain for 10-xiv threw a book at your head and detention pleaseeeeee

From the ten types &tropes: rebelcaptain for 10-xiv threw a book at your head and detentionpleaseeeeee

HOKAY SO. I hate writinghigh school fic, so I shifted it to college AU. XD

I also think this is from the same AU with Jyn having a broken leg and Cassian mothering her with food and cuddles and telenovelas. Which means this is their meeting for that AU. So there’s that.

For clarification:

xiv)  You pissed me off inclass so I threw a book at your head and now I’m in detention and jesus fuck Ihate you so much and the teacher made me apologise and wait you’re cuter upclose and the way you talk is kind of nice actually oh fuck no

“I hope I don’t have toexplain to you how many rules you just broke, doing that.”

Jyn folds her arms tightover her chest, and says nothing. She stares hard at the wall, and startsbouncing her foot. Across the desk, Mothma sighs tight through her nose, andfolds her hands together.

“Have you been going toyour sessions?”

“Yes,” says Jyn, becauseit’s the fastest way to get Mothma off her back. Mothma sighs again.

“You could be chargedfor assault.”

Jyn shrugs.

“You’re lucky you’re notbeing charged for assault, you know.” Mothma looks as though she wants torub her hands over her face, like she wants to put her head on the desk andmaybe bang it there a few times, just to give herself a concussion. “As it is I’mgoing to have to put you on academic probation. There’s going to have to be aninvestigation.”

Jyn shrugs.

“You could be expelledfor this,” says Mothma. Her voice gets tight. “I know you’re not exactly fondof school, Jyn—”

“Can I go?” Jyn asks,and stares at the wall rather than watch the hurt flicker over Mothma’s face.She doesn’t need to see Mon Mothma disappointed in her again. It happens thesame way every time, the crumpling brows and the pursed mouth. It’s like atattoo on the inside of her eyelids. “I have a shift to get to.”

“You’re not leavingwithout apologizing first,” says Mothma, and Jyn snaps her head around.

“I’m not apologizing tothat prick—”

“If you don’t he couldbring charges.”

“I don’t care—”

“This isn’t adiscussion.” Mothma stands, and wipes her hands off on her skirt. The scrape ofthe chair shuts Jyn up faster than anything else she could have said. Mothma’snot the sort to let chairs scrape, if she can help it. “Go and apologize. There’llbe a conduct hearing in a few weeks. You’ll get a letter in the mail. Don’t loseit.”

“Fine.” Jyn snags herbackpack up off the floor, heaves it over her shoulder. “I won’t.”

“This is your lastchance here, Jyn,” says Mothma, when her back is turned. Like slipping a knifebetween her ribs. “I can’t shove it under the rug this time. More than that, Iwon’t. I understand why it’s hard, but—”

“You don’t.” Sheshoves her free fist into her jacket pocket. “You don’t get it. You have noidea how hard it is.”

Mothma’s quiet, for awhile. She says, “Jyn, you have to deal with this.”

I know, Jyn thinks. Aloud, she says, “Whatever,” andleaves the dean’s office.

She can’t actuallyremember making the decision to throw the book. All the students in all her classespiss her off, but she’s never been that fucking stupid before. He’d just—been frustrating.Full of himself. She can’t even remember what he said, to make herso angry, but one minute she’d been trying to explain how wrong he was about thedefinition of frontiers and settler colonialism and then the next she’d tossedthe damn textbook at his head and the professor had tossed her out of the classroom.She can’t remember the in-between. Her palms sweat, to think of it. She hasn’tlost her temper that suddenly and that badly since she was sixteen,fucking hell, she can’t do this again, she can’t fall back into that,she can’t—

Jyn wipes her hands offon her jeans, and heaves her bag up higher over her shoulder.

Jackass Fuckface waitingout in the corridor. At least, she’s pretty sure he was waiting for her. He mightbe just waiting for Mothma to finish the meeting, go in and confirm Mothma’sworst nightmares, that he’s going to bring charges against her and the schooland everyone and their mother, but when she opens the door, he lifts his head. There’sa dark purple bruise on his jaw, from the book, and she can’t quite look at it.He’s also just a bit older than she realized. Not by much, just—most universitystudents are in their early twenties, not middling, and most of them don’t havequite so many stress lines around the mouth. Another student, closer to herage, she thinks, obnoxiously tall and very Asian-looking, shuts his laptop, andstares at her with unblinking grey eyes.

“This is the one,” hesays, without inflection. Jackass Fuckface shoves his history book back intohis ragged backpack.

“Leave it, Kei.”

Jyn stares at the floor,and doesn’t say anything. Neither does Jackass Fuckface.

“Well,” says his friend,in trim Queen’s English. “You could at least apologize for being amadwoman.”

“Kei,” says Jackass Fuckface.“I said leave it.”

“Fuck off,” says Jyn atthe same time. “I don’t answer to you, asshole.”

“You should bringcharges, Cassian,” says Kei to Jackass Fuckface. “Clearly there’s no otheroption here. Since she’s insane.”

“Go home, Kei,” says JackassFuckface. He keeps his voice even, but there’s something tight under the accentthat might be a leashed temper. “I told you I could deal with this on my own.”

“With little regard foryour own survival of this encounter, considering she threw a textbook atyour head.” Still, Kei slides his laptop back into his neatly kept messengerbag, latches everything together with the steadiness of an automaton. He drapesit over his shoulder. “I expect a text in ten minutes to confirm that you’restill breathing. If I don’t get one, I will regard you as demised, and sellyour furniture on Craigslist.”

“Thanks,” says JackassFuckface, sourly, and Kei marches away down the hall. By the time JackassFuckface has turned back around, Jyn’s staring at the carpet again, at theshitty pattern and his torn up trainers. It looks like he glues his shoestogether. The repairs are well done, and carefully hidden, but she’s done itenough herself to know the evidence. She’s had to replace the soles on herboots three times.

“Sorry about him,” saysJackass Fuckface, and Jyn can’t help it. She snaps her head up to look at him,because j’excuse? “He says whatever comes into his head. He neverlearned a filter.”

“You’re apologizingto me now?” she says, and Jackass Fuckface—Cassian bites the inside ofhis cheek. He also turns to stare at the wall. The strap of his backpack isworn, too, fraying at the edges. His jeans have holes in the knees.

“You’re right,” he says,clipped. “I won’t.”

Awkward silence for abit. Jyn scuffs her boot over the floor.

“Look,” she says. She triesto count to ten, and fails. Her stomach churns. “I shouldn’t have—shit.”

Cassian watches herthrough too-long bangs. His eyes are brown, she thinks. Brown and sad, somehow,and almost inquisitive. He waits.

“I have anger managementproblems,” she says. Jyn keeps her teeth tight together. “I’m in therapy. Ihaven’t—fucked up like that in years. But it’s been—” She stops. He doesn’tneed to know about Galen winding up in a mental hospital. “Look, it won’thappen again, okay? So don’t—you can charge me if you want, I don’t care, butdon’t fuck it up for Mothma. It’s not the school’s fault, it’s mine. So.”

His eyebrows drawtogether, very slowly. Something crawls up the back of her neck. It feels likebeing X-rayed, being watched like this. She doesn’t like it.

“Okay,” says Cassian,after a beat. “Sure.”

Jyn digs her nails intoher palm. “Seriously?”

“I’m not pressingcharges anyway.” He shuffles his feet, pushes his hair out of his eyes. “But—thankyou for clarifying.”

Jyn opens her mouth, andshuts it again. There’s no point in asking why the fuck he’s being polite toher. She should just take the win, and go. She knows that. But—

“Is your face okay?” shesays, without thinking, and bites her tongue. Cassian blinks once, and thenrubs at the bruise.

“I’ve had a lot worsethan this,” he says. The sadness creeps in around his mouth again. “I’ll heal.”

She looks him overagain, harder this time. He stands like he’s trying to slip into shadow, butthere’s a regimented kind of stiffness to his knees and shoulders that saysmilitary or police. His clothes are cheap and worn, so not working currently,but the patch on his jacket reads Alliance, and it doesn’t look like aknockoff. Just out of the military, then. Quiet and reserved. Officer, maybe. Theaccent says international divisions, not European, which means intelligencework or military deployment. Afghanistan, maybe. Indonesia. Iraq. Jedha. Whoknows. She shifts back and forth on her feet, the bootknife tickling at herankle.

“I’m sorry,” she says.It chips her teeth on the way out. “It was shitty. Like I said.”

Cassian blinks at heragain. The corner of his mouth lifts, just a bit. “I’ll heal. Like I said.”

Fuck it, Jyn thinks, and says, “Do you want—food, orsomething?”

He tips his head at her,and waits. “I don’t date. Even if I did, this isn’t exactly the rightcircumstance.”

“God, fuck, no, I don’t—”Her neck feels hot. “That’s not what I meant. Just—I’m shit at apologies. Food’seasier. Or—or a drink, or something. I’d offer to do your homework, but I’mshit at that, too. Academia’s not for me. I’m just here because—”

She stops, and almostkicks herself. He doesn’t need to know about her mother, either.

“Actually I thought youwere the only person in that class making any sense,” says Cassian, mildly. Jynstraight-out stares at him, this time, goggling, because are you high? “Ifit helps.”

“You were arguing withme.”

“Because you weren’t completelyright,” he says. The skin around his eyes gets all crinkly. “But you werestill making more sense than the professor.”

Jyn looks down her noseat him, and says, “You’re completely fucking mad, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” saysCassian. He shifts his bag on his shoulder, and hesitates. “And I wouldn’t sayno to lunch, if you’re offering.”

She ducks her head to hide behind her hair. “Right,” says Jyn. “Thisway, then.”

[thedeadflag]

Part 1 here

Part 2 under the cut. Figured I’d post more of this since I had this bit finished up

Clarke Griffin could admit that she was a bit of an oddball in that her hangover cure involved heavy water intake and exercise, when most struggled to get out of bed. Not that she wouldn't, it was just once she got moving, things started clearing up, her headache would go away, and her nausea would dissipate.

So she really didn't blame her friends when they'd hassle her the mornings after drinking, knowing they were dealt worse hands than she generally was. After hosting Anya's birthday celebration the previous evening, she imagined she'd be in for yet another round of aggravated remarks over her ability to be pain-free in the morning.

Today, though, was an exception, apparently; she'd woken to the sensation of her phone buzzing in her bra, forcing her to groggily pull it free from its confines. Putting aside the confusion of having slept on her couch, Clarke checked a text from her phone, the relatively brief message stealing her breath.

Left early, traffic good. Should be arriving at LaGuardia in 2h. Looking forward to finally seeing your little family! Love you - Mom

"Fuck!" Clarke cried out as a wave of panic overtook her, having completely underestimated her mother's sense of urgency over her and Anya's supposed marital status. As her eyes gazed over the message again, she found herself glued to the word 'family'.

I...Did I...fuck! I knew I should have tamped down on this and called her on Saturday to clear it all up. I can't believe this is what it took for her to break our rules and come see me without asking. Christ... Clarke mused to herself as she tried to think up a way out of her problem, getting up to stride over to the kitchen where she'd be less likely to wake anyone.

Her cursing and loud pacing weren't enough to wake most, but she did hear movement from the living room shortly after escaping to the kitchen. Octavia, Niylah, and Raven were crammed like sardines on the loveseat, while Monty and Miller cuddled up in the recliner. That left Anya, who seemed to have eventually crashed on her plush rub with a large throw pillow.

"Keep it down, you goddamn demon woman." Anya grumbled hazily as she got to her feet. She never was one for waking prior to noon after a night of drinking. "Can't a girl get some shuteye at...fuck, quarter to ten in the morning?"

Under most circumstances, Clarke would have helped Anya up and brought her back to her apartment, taking the time to make sure her best friend got back to sleep to get the rest she deserved, especially after a birthday celebration.

But it was a code red emergency, and she needed aid. And with Anya involved that made it doubly important. "Help."

The word came out as a strangled mess of sound, something that immediately had Anya sobering. "A bit early in the morning to ask for that. Look around."

Clarke shook her head hastily, feeling saturated with desperation. "I don't...it's my mom. She's flying here, and she'll be here in a little under three hours."

Anya froze in place, eyes slowly narrowing in thought for a few seconds before she let out a heavy sigh and went to dig in her bag. A few seconds later, the woman had a small black device in her hand and shambled over to the living room, pressing it up against Raven's forehead.

A faint click was followed by Raven jolting awake and swatting her arms in the air. "What the fucking fuck!" The astronaut shrieked, sending Niylah falling off the loveseat and causing Octavia's eyes to blink awake, appearing more than a little disgruntled as she cast her bleary gaze across the room. Miller seemed asleep still, but Monty was wide awake; as usual, Monty had been the sober one to take care of them the past night, and had chose to stay sober once everyone decided on sleeping over instead of grabbing cabs home.

"What's going on?" He asked, shifting her attention between Anya and Clarke.

"My mom's friggin ridiculous and stupid and decided to visit without telling me...like...she'll be here in about three hours and she thinks Anya and I are married. We tried to convince her otherwise on the phone the other night, but I guess it didn't take, and...just...shit." Clarke rambled at the mostly drunken crowd, drawing a slow nod from Anya and a cringe from Monty, who had his own family issues regarding her relationship with Miller.

The others in the room just stared at her for achingly long seconds, and Clarke honestly felt as if the ground was going to swallow her up, but then Raven stepped forward. "Two bottles of bourbon, my choosing. Your Netflix password. One month of at-will permission to use your bathtub. Six games from your season ticket pack." Raven listed off flatly as she crossed the distance to Clarke and reached out her hand. "Do we have a deal?"

Now, Clarke was no sucker, she knew that whatever plan anyone could think up probably wouldn't work given the short notice, but Raven was owed favors from everyone and was willing to give it a shot, so even if she had to use some of that leverage to get her hungover friends to kick it into high gear, she would.

So maybe she went for a handshake, Raven quickly meeting her with a firm grip. "Deal." She answered, earning a nod from her friend.

Anya, making use of the momentum, started getting everyone to their feet.

"Monty, wake Miller up. I need you to bring my roller bins over and some things from my closet. A balanced selection...oh, and my trench. Raven, I need you to bring my printer, my laptop, and the big brown box with 'paper' written on the top, Miller will help you. Octavia, there's a box with green tape in my closet, I need you to bring that over here along with at least half my shoe collection. Niylah, I'll be needing you to help me with something specific that I'm sure you can wrangle." Anya ordered, shooting out request after request, and surprisingly the others went along with it.

"I'm sorry everyone, I'll pay for everyone's drinks next time around." Clarke promised, which seemed to energize her friends.

Octavia actually shot her a tired grin. "I'm holding you to that, Clarke."

"And Clarke, I need..." Anya started, but Clarke already knew what would be asked of her.

"To take a shower, I know, I reek." Clarke finished, feeling a little stunned when Anya let out a harsh huff and shook her head.

"Absolutely not. I need you to go for your usual run, and when you come back, I need you to use the yoga mat in my living room and stretch out a bit. Exert yourself a little, but take your time." Anya ordered, and Clarke found it difficult to comply given it made no sense, but the seriousness of her best friend's expression had her nodding. "You need to de-stress. Keep hydrated, stay sweaty, and just get a little tired. Bring back some breakfast on your way back too, if you can. When we're ready in here, I'll come get you at mine and bring you over, alright?"

Clarke stared at Anya in disbelief. "My mom's on her way...and you don't want my help?"

"I'm just playing the long game. She comes for a surprise visit, and you're exhausted. Maybe you stay awake for the better part of the afternoon, but you'll be tired come early evening, and she'll...well, either leave, or stay at a hotel, giving us time to regroup later on and make adjustments and plan ahead. And we need for you to be calmer and not seeming like you'll explode from stress any second from now, alright?" Anya clarified as she crossed the floor, all soft brown eyes, a gentle hand lifting to cup her cheek.

It was a lot of faith to put in Anya, but Clarke needed a miracle, and if Anya was willing to try, she wasn't going to decline the offer. Anya could do pretty much anything she put her mind to, Clarke knew at least that much, so she had to believe they stood a chance of making it through the rest of the weekend.

Reluctantly, Clarke changed into her workout clothes, grabbed a water bottle, and made her way down to street-level, en-route to Forest park to do her usual circuit. She was thankful that she was in good shape, so it wasn't a tremendously tiring outing. As she ran, her legs got a little achy, but her hangover faded off in time, leaving her feeling more energized if anything.

Maybe it was a little frustrating that after returning nearly two hours later with arms full of breakfast food, that Anya shooed her off to be in her neighbouring apartment alone once the group had taken everything they'd needed. She hadn't even gotten a full glance at her apartment before Octavia and Anya had gotten her out, leaving her both intensely curious and more than a little frustrated. Five minutes into her yoga regimen, though, she could admit that all the chaotic sounds and muffled firm voices had her a little curious. The sounds of a vacuum cleaner and her tiny hand-held vacuum around the ten minute mark at least gave some clarity.

They're...cleaning. Not that my place is a sty, but...well, maybe it'll be a nice surprise for my mom, since my place back in Cali was always a mess. Clarke thought to herself as she held her boat pose, wondering just how long she'd be working out for. Surely, Anya would call on her soon, if just to get her into the shower.

Around the thirty-five minute mark, most of the noise in her apartment trickled away early to silence, only the spare patter of footsteps greeting her ears. Curious, she got off the treadmill and moved to her yoga mat to cool down and stretch until she was needed.

Five minutes later, her phone went off again.

We got in early, should be there in fifteen. See you soon! Love you - Mom

"We have fifteen minutes!" She yelled out, wanting Anya to know in case anything needed to be moved up the timeline. She'd focus on the use of 'we' in the text soon enough, but for now, she just wanted to be let in on the plan of action.

Oddly enough, there wasn't any rushing around, though over the next few minutes, she heard her front door open and shut twice, so someone had left and returned.

With maybe five minutes to go, Anya appeared, and it was all Clarke could do not to gawk. It wasn't as if she hadn't noticed the woman's beauty before, but there was something so incredibly seductive about seeing her looking like she just rolled out of bed. The woman's face was scrubbed clean, her hair was tactfully messy, and Anya was wearing a mismatched purple tank top with a rather alluring set of black lace underwear.

In short, Anya looked like sex on a Sunday morning. Which, given it was a Sunday morning, had her brain buzzing with all sorts of forbidden and naughty things, which in turn had Clarke realizing the woman's plan, or at least an estimate of it.

"They're going to walk in on us." Clarke guessed openly, drawing a nod from Anya.

"You told me a few years back that you'd complain about your mom inviting herself in when you weren't home, since she had a spare key. I assume she'd do the same today with an unlocked door?" Anya asked, and honestly, it was an ingenious plan. Her mother was way too nosy not to try the doorknob, and certainly way too nosy not to go in when she knew she could.

Still, it all had her feeling uneasy, since seeing them being seemingly intimate would only secure her idea of them. "Yeah, she would, but...I'm sorry, you're going to have to act really well, Anya. And...well, won't this make her believe even more that we're married?"

"Clarke, she flew in unannounced, we probably aren't going to convince her we're not married right now. But if we can waste her time, and if we can maybe fail the eye-test during her visit, then we still might have a shot at planting a seed that we're not married, but engaged." Anya clarified, bringing some sort of sense to the situation. "And don't worry, I know what I'm doing. Take off your tights and sports bra and meet me in your apartment." Her best friend noted, gesturing for Clarke to follow after tossing her one of her oversized tees and a fresh set of panties.

The blonde changed in no time and followed Anya over to her place. When she took a brief moment to look around, all she could do was gape. Not only was it clean, and the mess from the previous night cleaned up, but there were a bunch of new additions. How did she get all these photos...and the frames for them...and...god, how is this possible?

"Raven scoured my albums for some photos of us, and photo-shopped us together in a few. I had a box of empty frames in my closet, and a lot of photo paper hanging around, so we made quick work of it. There are two rinsed out wine glasses in the sink...I emptied two of your bottles of wine, and left the half-full one on the counter, to make it seem like we had an eventful night. It was my birthday after all."

Clarke just continued into her living space as if it was a dream. As she rested her arms on the backrest of her couch, she could see Anya's coat on her rack, and her neighbour's shoes lined up with her own by the doorway. It was the oddly placed vacuum cleaner and the discarded pajama pants that had Clarke quirking an eyebrow.

"What's going on there?" Clarke asked, more than a little curious at the staging.

"As you know, I'm very...meticulous when it comes to cleaning. I would wake up and clean our mess before noon rolled around, even if I wouldn't like waking up so early. I would have come out to do some cleaning up...hence the vacuum, and the bottle of Lysol I left over on the kitchen counter." Anya noted flatly, gesturing to the kitchen. "As for the pajama pants, you know I have sensitive skin."

The last addition had Clarke's head on a swivel, her gaze settling on Anya and hopefully expressing the full range of her confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You rotate two sets of sheets and pillow coverings, and only two. That they're lucky or something like that. It's a little absurd, Clarke, but I can respect your dedication. However, my skin is sensitive, and sleeping on low thread count sheets is like sleeping on sandpaper, so I'd wear pajama pants and at least a tank top to bed if I were to sleep over at your place." Anya explained, and suddenly the whole scope of the plan became clear.

"I heard you cleaning, and I don't like being woken up early either, so I'm a little grumpy. And...well, you already know I get a little affectionate when I'm being ignored." Clarke noted, drawing a slow nod from Anya. "I get frustrated and drag you back to bed, home left halfway cleaned. We lose track of time in each other. My mom barges in and catches us. I'm a sweaty mess and...well, you're you."

Anya narrowed her eyes at Clarke, a steely expression taking over her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Clarke felt herself blush as she gestured to Anya in all her splendour. Clarke felt grimy and gross, and then there was Anya, her skin looking like an air-brushed model's. "You're glistening."

"I had a shower. You wouldn't have had time for one, having just woken up and all. I needed you sweaty and a little odiferous." Anya stated as she suddenly stripped her tank off and flung it a few feet from the pajama pants, leaving her topless. Whatever counter-argument she'd been thinking of to contest Anya saying she smelled immediately vanished, being replaced with a full body heat at seeing Anya nearly nude. "Shall we?"

Clarke just followed without a sound, eyes fixed on the sway of her best friend's backside as she was led into her bedroom. Anya crawled onto the mess of sheets and tactfully tangled a leg in it as Clarke followed her up. The knocking sound in the background faded away as she crawled further up the bed and leaned over Anya's body.

"You nearly burnt your kitchen down and I bitched you out one night because it was the middle of a snow storm, and Jill and I were missing sleep and freezing." Anya noted, bringing Clarke out of her haze, forcing a blush to her cheeks at the memory. "I demanded you finally let me show you how to cook without burning your kitchen down so it wouldn't happen again. While we were already friends, that night of cooking lessons changed things between us. You were endearing, sweet, and you kept touching me in places I hadn't been touched in years. And we had more dinners. Which turned into dates. I proposed to you at Hammonasset beach in Connecticut on a family outing. Two weeks later after some nerves and a bad spat, you proposed to me, re-securing our engagement and commitment. Are you on board?"

Clarke digested the information and nodded, knowing it was a simple enough story, and based enough in truth to make the lie believable. Truth be told, she was staring a little too hard at the ring on Anya's finger to do much thinking. "So what..."

The sound of the front door opening had Anya pulling Clarke down onto her into an immediately intense kiss, Anya's limbs frantic as the woman clutched at her.

It was as if the entire world around her faded away, finally having what she'd desired the most for the past few years, putting her all into their embrace as she returned Anya's affections tenfold. The sudden sensation of Anya's hips rocking against her thigh had Clarke embarrassingly wet in an instant, and maybe it was a lot easier to play along and shift her own body in time with the woman beneath her, Clarke's lips peppering kisses down her neighbour's neck, buying into the scenario as much as she could while she could, knowing this could be her only shot at experiencing Anya like this.

The onslaught of sensation drew a hoarse moan from Anya that could hardly mask her own high-pitched whimper as Anya's hips twisted. A thigh suddenly pressed up against her core in an utterly delicious way, but it was gone as quickly as it came, those hips realigning and that brief jolt of wondrous pleasure vanishing into thin air as Anya swallowed her whine and stroked her cheek.

"Oh god, please..." Anya moaned just as the sound of the doorknob turning met her ears, not enough time to truly cherish how impossibly perfect it felt to hear that sound coming from the woman beneath her.

"Clarke, are you he...oh. Oh! I'm...I'll..." Her mother let out, sounding legitimately surprised and embarrassed as Anya scrambled out from under her, covering up with the duvet. The loss of Anya's heat, of her scent, of her lips, her touch, it all had Clarke reeling like she'd been shot, but she could see that their dramatics had worked.

It was a rare occasion when Abby Griffin was mortified, and it was more than likely that her mom would be far less aggressive during her stay. An unexpected bonus, for certain, even if it couldn't make up for the consequences of the scene she and Anya had put on.

Abby was out of the room like a bat out of hell, leaving her and Anya alone, breathing heavily.

"I'd say we convinced her, Clarke." Anya said with a breathless laugh, more than a little flushed. "Go take a shower, I'll handle your mom."

Clarke frowned at the sheer nonchalance in her friend's voice, as if what they'd done was just some everyday thing, as if it meant absolutely nothing. Which, after a second of thought, was probably how Anya actually felt about it, given it had been Anya's plan. No way someone who had feelings for her would concoct an idea that would leave her as tortured as Clarke felt right then. Still, if Anya needed her to act, she'd damn well try, knowing it wasn't Anya's fault for not feeling the same, so she shot her friend a confused stare. "But she's expecting me." Clarke noted, unsure how Anya's plan of going it alone was remotely reasonable.

"She's expecting you to not smell like you've run a marathon. I think she can wait a few minutes for you to freshen up and psych yourself up." Anya noted as she rolled her eyes and slipped out from underneath Clarke. "Trust me." The woman added as she quickly changed into some sweats and one of Clarke's old Columbia U tees.

With a sigh, Clarke nodded and carried her entirely aroused body off of her bed and over to her closet, in search of clothes. It took a moment to shake off the shock of seeing some of Anya's things mixed in there, and maybe she wasn't sure whose clothes were whose, and which Anya had brought over today versus which she'd left there beforehand. With a shrug, she grabbed something casual to wear and slipped out of her room and into the bathroom, nursing a brand new sensation in her chest that she hoped wouldn't linger.

I sure hope Anya knows what she's doing...and I seriously hope a cold shower can get rid of this ache...

This was a mistake...oh my Christ was this a mistake...Anya mused, catching her breath in the hall once Clarke had made her way into the bathroom. Her truly foolish mind had concocted the worst plan possible, and her heart was paying the price, each tiny little beat sending an equal measure of pain and yearning through her body.

Maybe it had been a long time since she'd been with anyone who meant anything to her, but it took every shred of strength and willpower in her body not to march into the washroom and kiss Clarke into the tile. Maybe it'd been too much to expect some sort of response to their little 'act', like Clarke reaching out for her when they separated, or Clarke focusing on her lips more than her eyes. Something that could give her evidence that what she felt maybe wasn't one-sided.

Instead, Clarke just went along with it all, looking exhausted from working out, and confused over her plan. It truly was a train wreck, but they were committed now. She'd have to make it work and put her heart aside to ensure Clarke and Abby wouldn't do anything they'd later regret.

Anya took a moment to smooth down her hair and tidy her appearance in a hallway mirror before emerging into the living room. She quickly spotted Clarke's mother in the midst of a quiet discussion with a slender dark-haired man, both seated quite closely on the couch.

She took a deep breath, recalling all her years of acting lessons as she schooled her features into a sheepish smile. "Hi, you two must be Abby and Marcus. I feel horrible for what you walked in on, there's really no excuse. I'd like to believe after years of knowing her that I've learned Clarke is mischievous when she's sleepy, but...well, apparently not. Sorry." She rambled as she moved to sit on the loveseat adjacent to them.

Anya watched the duo carefully as her orchestrated word vomit washed over them, seeing a mix of surprise, embarrassment, and amusement. Good.

Marcus was the first to stand. "It's so good to meet you." He noted, Anya rising to her feet as he opened his arms, the man quickly enveloping her in a hug. "But I feel you have us at a disadvantage."

Anya shook her head and cast her eyes downward as she let out a low laugh. "Where are my manners? I'm Anya Haywood. It's a pleasure to meet you both." She said, accepting another brief hug before Abby stepped closer, dark eyes looking her over closely.

"It's wonderful to meet you. Clarke's been hiding you away for ages. Is your daughter off on a play-date?" Abby asked after giving Anya a brief embrace.

Anya nodded, letting out a bright smile, forcing a bit of airy wistfulness into her voice. "She's feeling better, so Jill's with her Uncle Gus until Monday, he picked her up yesterday evening. It was my birthday last night, and Clarke and I were offered an evening and all Sunday alone, which is a bit of a luxury for a parent as you well know. I promised myself I wouldn't drink so much, but we slept in, and after I got up to do a bit of tidying, Clarke objected to being left alone and...anyway, I'm sorry for the mess. Clarke can finish up when she gets out of the shower, since she's why I didn't finish earlier."

The look of surprise on Clarke's mother's face was wonderful; she'd carefully placed some of Clarke's things around the apartment to make it seem lived in, to ensure Clarke's presence would be felt in each room, while establishing a tidier, more organized aesthetic. It appeared that she'd succeeded.

"The mess? Honey, when Clarke lived back out west, her room and her first apartment looked like a bomb went off inside. This is pristine by comparison." Abby stated, bringing Anya to sheepishly shake her head and shift her weight from leg to leg, as if she wasn't so convinced, or at least not comfortable being praised for something being below her standards. And really, she wasn't, but it was still Clarke's space, not hers.

"How long have you been living together?" Marcus asked as he got seated on the couch again, prompting her and Abby to take a seat as well.

"It's a bit complicated. We started dating seriously two months after she signed a new lease agreement last year, and we talked about moving in together, but...neither of our places had enough space for everything we had. So Clarke's is where we stay when Jill's away, or when one of us needs some alone time for whatever reason. All other times, we stay at mine, across the hall. I couldn't uproot Jill, after all, but once our leases are up in a few months, I'm sure we'll be looking into maybe getting new place." Anya noted, lifting her head as she spotted a freshly showered Clarke speed walking out of the hall and over to them, face turning stormy when she took in the sight of who was visiting. The last thing they needed was a blow-up early on. "There's my girl." Anya called out softly, reaching out a hand to her best friend and gesturing her over.

Clarke's cerulean gaze met hers for a brief moment as the younger blonde blushed hard. Whether it was her words, or the situation, a little embarrassment was good to keep everyone a little conservative in their questions and remarks. And, really, it seemed to snap Clarke out of her mood instantly.

"I am so sorry, mom. You really shouldn't have had to see that. I'm so sorry." Clarke apologized as she crossed the distance to her mother and let Abby envelop her in a group hug. "Still, as much as I've missed you, you can't just spring yourself on us without warning. We agreed on that."

"I'm sorry, I just...when I heard you got married, I needed to at least come see you....it was a last minute decision, we should have given you more notice. I'm sorry." Abby stated apologetically. "Can you forgive us?"

"We're gonna have a long talk later about this. You way over-stepped, not just visiting, but bringing Kane." Clarke asserted out, leveling her mother and Marcus with a hard stare. "Still, you're here, so we may as well make the best of it." Clarke added with a tired huff, plopping down beside Anya on the side closest to her mother and Marcus.

Which, really, gave Anya a perfect opportunity to slightly cuddle into her fake fiancée's side. It was actually a little surprising when Clarke, gaze still focused on her mother, just slung an arm around her shoulders and held her closer. A very pleasant surprise that maybe had her feeling warm and gooey.

"I agree. Besides, it's not as if we had any serious plans for today, so we'd be happy to share it. Right, darling?" Anya asked with a smile and resting her head on Clarke's shoulder, covering her mouth as she yawned.

Clarke let out a huff, the type she would when she was annoyed but resigned, which at least lowered the odds of Clarke butting heads with someone this early into the day. "Right...yeah, you did put your lives on hold and flew across the country to see us. We can spare a few hours. I'm sure you picked out somewhere for lunch while you were on the plane."

"Looks like we've gotten predictable in our old age." Marcus joked with a nudge to Abby's shoulder.

"Please, you're what, in your early fifties? You're, like, two decades away from old age." Anya noted after letting out an amused scoff.

Abby's eyes narrowed on Anya curiously, but a wry smile still spread across her lips. "I think I like this one, Clarke. You did well marrying her."

Anya rolled her eyes at Clarke's laughter, but she couldn't help but be caught off guard when soft fingertips pressed at the underside of her chin and turned her head enough for the younger blonde to pull her into a chaste kiss.

Maybe she felt a rush of adrenaline and yearning as Clarke's lips pressed into hers. Maybe blood rushed to her cheeks when they parted and Clarke punctuated the kiss with a fleeting one to her cheek.

"We're engaged, not married." Clarke spoke, holding up her and Anya's hands, displaying their rings, and the lack of wedding bands.

"Please, I'm hip to all the gay culture quirks around marriage. I've done my research, Clarke." Abby shot back with a laugh, staring at her daughter as if Clarke was trying to pull the wool over her eyes or something. "Lesbians get each other engagement rings and sometimes leave it at that. Frugal and still romantic."

Clarke groaned, the sound perfectly reflective of Anya wondering if Abby would ever just take them at their word. "That's...okay, maybe some do, but we'd get wedding bands. And I'm still bi, I'm not a lesbian, even if Anya is."

"Clarke, you got play-married to Monica Bennett in kindergarten with a ring pop. You've always been a one ring woman. I know you want to spare my feelings, but...Clarke, I'll be okay that you and Anya already got married, you don't need to plan an early vow renewal for our sake. I hate that I missed your big day, but I love that you got one with a woman that clearly loves you. You have a family now, and we...we just want to be part of it." Abby rambled, just blitzing through her and Clarke’s assertions en route to establishing what she felt was true despite a complete lack of evidence.

It was absurd.

"Look, just...why don't we take a few minutes to change and then head out to lunch? I'm already getting exhausted." Clarke offered, not bothering to wait for agreement from her mother or Marcus before she took Anya's hand and led her off to her bedroom.

It was clear that they needed a new plan. They needed something. What that was, Anya wasn't sure.

She could only hope Clarke had an idea.