#which means the clock is now less than a year until i become a legal adult

[jacenotjason]

di

did i make an official "its my birthday" post

it uh

ITS MY BIRTHDAY!!!

I'm 17

[autumnalfallingleaves]

WondLa (book and show) headcanons part one of two (Tumblr's character limit got me :( ) because I am, once again, as I was when I was a preteen, hyperfixated and I have so many headcanons :)

Part two

Eva may be an extrovert, but she also has very strong social anxiety and a very limited social battery, thanks to growing up incredibly isolated. Muthr did her best to combat this, but there really wasn't any avoiding it. Post-all the shit that goes down in Solas with Loroc, Eva can't be in a gathering of over six or seven people for a longer length of time without becoming incredibly anxious and having to leave the room to decompress. It helps to have a member of her family there. 

If it's one of the other kids (Hailey, Gen, Ojo [I think show!Ojo is around Eva's age, developmentally]), they'll joke around and try to get Eva's mind off of it; if it's one of the adults, they'll just chat with Eva; if it's Rovender, she's clinging. Social stuff is Hard but having a parent nearby is Good.

Since book!Eva is 13 Earth years old, she isn't even 1 by Cærulean/Halcyonus standards (they use units of 15 called trilustralus) (I don't know what other tribes on Orbona count by) so she's young in their eyes. Infant. Tiny little child. 

To that effect, once it gets out in Faunus and Lacus (and other Cærulean and Halcyonus villages but primarily those two) that the planet's savior is less than a trilustralis old, there's a lot less hero worship and a lot more taking care of a young child who is more famous than they know what to do with as a community. She's effectively Just Another Kid (positive), which means that all the adults around her are looking out for and teaching her, which is a huge boon for her integration into her adopted culture. 

(In the books, Rovender never actually got to meet/parent his unborn child, so he's just now learning how to be a parent. The people in Faunus and Lacus immediately clock this, and now Rovender is also being taught by those around him, specifically how to be a single parent. He gets a ton of support-- it's not easy, parenting a very, very famous kid, especially when they're not the same species as you. The humans who are more friendly towards the non-human Orbonians chip in, too; they actually have knowledge of human developmental cycles. There come to be many commiseration sessions with Van Turner about raising human teenagers.)

Eva, in either version of canon, never really got the chance to be a "normal" kid with a "normal" childhood. She goes immediately from survival training to actual survival to being on the run to being one of the most famous people on the planet. She's never known normalcy. So, after all the shit in Solas, when she and Rovender have moved to Lacus, Rovender does his best to keep Eva out of the spotlight (the Lacusians help with this and with treating her like the kid she is) to give her as normal a childhood as he can manage. It's not totally normal, not with that family, but it's a hell of a lot more normal than what Eva had before. She's actually a happy and carefree kid, after a while, which is something she's never actually gotten to be.

When she turns 15 in Earth years, she turns 1 in Cærulean/Halcyonus reckoning. This is a big event for Eva's family and the section of Lacus she lives in, so she gets a decently big birthday party that year. She normally has small party with just family, but the families in the area wanted to celebrate that milestone and threw a party for her. It was very cool. She got some really good gifts. 

The best gift, however, wasn't something physical. At the point Eva turns 15/1, humans (and more specifically, Sanctuary-born humans) have integrated into the preexisting Orbonian structure enough that there are now legal standards and proceedings for certain things. (There is still far to go until full integration, but there is enough for one certain thing.) After the party, Rovender sits Eva down and asks if he can formally adopt her as his child. He's got most of the legal stuff cleared, he just needs approval from the adoptee. Eva is his daughter in all but blood already, but this is a formality that will make it official with the government-- it's also a reassurance for Eva that she is wanted, that she has the family she always wanted. She, of course, accepts. 

Show!Eva's best friend is Queen Ojo. They're the two most famous teenagers on the planet; they find comfort in being able to chat and bitch to the other without judgement or expectation. Ojo doesn't have to be the queen; Eva doesn't have to be the savior of the planet. They're just two kids making blanket forts in the living room and eating junk food with bad movies. 

(Yeah, yeah. Show!Ojo grew on me. I was skeptical at first but it turns out that I really like her character and how she's an example of how Eva can inspire hope in people.)

Sometimes, Rovender will just come home some days to find the queen of the entire planet napping on the floor of his living room while his adopted human daughter sees how much stuff she can stack on the queen before it falls over and/or she wakes up. If you told him this would be his life a few years ago, he'd call you insane.

Poor guy finds himself half-parenting the queen of the entire planet, who has no parents, actually! They're dead! He teaches her a lot of practical stuff, stuff Ojo wasn't ever able to learn, growing up as royalty. Spending time in Lacus also helps her see multiple aspects of Orbona, which improves her rule, overall. The Kitts are also a very good grounding factor, and Ojo really does appreciate having a family again :)

[cmagines]

What We Become: Prologue

Fandoms: Criminal Minds, Agents of SHIELD

Summary: In the aftermath of Afterlife, Y/N decides to leave SHIELD and aim for a job opening in the FBI.

Word Count: 1,278

           Nightmares were to be expected before starting a new job. That’s what you told yourself, repeatedly, until you halfway believed it. Never mind that your new job was likely to be a cake walk considering the last year you’d been through. Rapists? Murderers? Dark stuff, but nothing compared to the webs of violence and espionage you’d finally left.

           It was too early to be awake. It was too pointless to go back to sleep. The treadmill took a pounding from your feet, and then your shower ran as hot as you could bear. When you had first joined SHIELD, you had hated training, but now exercise was such a part of your routine that you struggled to rest without burning out the energy in your muscles. The shower that followed was even better. You could imagine that the water washed away more than just sweat and shampoo. On bad days, you unwillingly imagined tiny specks of stone being carried down the drain.

            The clock read almost six once you were dressed in your robe, so you took your time making breakfast, hoping that some food would calm your stomach. After all, you had no idea what exactly you were walking into and being prepared could only serve you well. Coulson had said you were a shoo-in, but it was a competitive position and you still had to get the other foot through the door. That in mind, you had a sizeable meal and packed an equally sizable lunch.

           Though there was enough time to fuss about your outfit, you didn’t see the need to bother. SHIELD agents dressed just like FBI agents. At the end of the day, a fed was a fed, and to make a good impression, you needed to show that you could fit in, play ball. You spent the rest of your extra time skimming recent news on your phone before heading out early in case of traffic. Driving was another thing you’d have to quickly get used to, right up there with staying in one place and cooking only for yourself.

           The FBI had a parking garage that connected to their two buildings. One was their training center, while the other was headquarters. Both were heavily secured – not to the point that you didn’t think a sufficiently motivated terrorist could get in, but enough so that you felt fine leaving your emergency stash of cash in the glove compartment before taking out your gloves.

           It was the first time you had opened the box, and you let out a deep breath as you saw them. Fitzsimmons had come through, as always. They were almost identical to the pair they had made for Skye – well, she went by Daisy now – except for that there was less texturing on the outside. Jemma had designed them that way to be less conspicuous. The gloves fit like gloves, to borrow a satisfyingly accurate phrase, but they felt airy enough to be comfortable.

           After you had landed in her shoes, Daisy had been able to help you in a more efficient way than Lincoln had been able to help her, simply because she knew exactly how to train you. Once you had a handle on exercising your powers, targeting your abilities came more easily. The gauntlets weren’t supposed to be as necessary as they had been in the beginning for Daisy, but it was better to be safe than sorry – especially among people who knew the bare minimum about how the world was beginning to change. You curled your fingers into fists and inhaled deeply, practicing the mindful breathing that Dr. Garner preached to you. Between Fitz’s genius engineering and Dr. Garner’s coaching, you felt confident that you could control yourself enough to blend in and leave your strange “heritage” in the past.

           Daisy ached to see you go and it pulled at your heart to leave her behind. She had become such an essential part of your life that it felt like betraying a sister, especially now that she could use your support more than ever. Her Secret Warriors project was on thin ice from the start, and a trusted right hand would go a long way to solidifying the tentative ground she rested on. But, as you looked down at your gloved hands, the power in them still made you wish you’d never set foot in Afterlife, and that was how you knew it was the right call to walk away.

           The question that remained was whether you had walked to the right place in the aftermath. Leaving your lunch and your go-bag – which you had packed in the spirit of optimism – in your car, you headed for the doors to headquarters and fastened your new ID to your belt where you could easily reach it. Bobbi would have had a fit if she’d seen, scolding you about how easily a thief could steal it. Right now, a thief was the last thing on your mind. You had an interview to ace, and hopefully a new team to impress.

           The directory told you where to go. There were two other people on the elevator when you entered, but only one of them got off with you on your floor. The big glass doors in front of the bullpen office space were more nerve-wracking than exciting, especially when you realized that if you failed to impress, the odds were slim that you would ever walk through them again.

           You weren’t certain where to go but hoped that if you walked with confidence, no one would think you looked pathetic or suspicious. Your gut told you that the man in charge would have an office to himself, so you picked a path that went along the left side of the room towards the mezzanine stairs. You caught the attention of a brown-haired man at a desk facing the wall you walked past, and to pretend not to notice, you looked at the wall instead and realized it was a memorial to agents who had died in the line of service. It was sobering.

           Maybe this wouldn’t be such a cake walk. SHIELD had put you through loads of convoluted worst-case-scenarios, some of them even involving aliens, but that didn’t mean that danger began and ended with what could be classed as science-fiction. Even with your added advantage – which you were determined to keep under wraps for as long as possible – you were fallible, just like Daisy, Sif, and SHIELD itself. Thinking otherwise would get you killed, and possibly some others alongside.

           Breathe. You were perfectly qualified. This was still bound to be safer than your former position. And as a bonus, no one was going to know what your former position actually was. An old friend at the Triskelion had helped you make sure of that. The last thing you wanted was to quit before you even began, beaten to the punch by breaking news or bureaucratic red tape. You were even outsmarting the newborn Index by legally taking a new surname. Just so you didn’t forget all you were capable of, all you had survived, and all you could still lose, you picked one that reminded you of family.

           The agent’s name was on a plaque centered on his ajar office door. You raised your left hand and knocked with your knuckles.

           “Come in,” the man’s voice called, sounding busy but almost friendly.

           With your wrist, you pushed the door open wider to step into the organized office and introduced yourself, politely but confidently. “Good morning, Agent Hotchner. My name is Y/N Johnson, and I’m here to interview for the open position in the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

A/N: This crossover idea has been floating around in my head for a couple of weeks. I’m curious if anyone is interested, so I decided to write a quick little introduction. What do you guys think?

[whump-me-all-night-long]

Jeweler!Sapphire AU (not canon)

Welcome to 3k words of this amazing AU idea that may or may not become a multi-parter. No editing, we die like.. idk. Please let me know what y'all think!!

Tagging the usual group (let me know if you only want to be tagging in canon stuff): @newbornwhumperfly @unicornscotty @itsleighlove @whump-scribbles @getyourwhumphere @skunkandgrenade @penny-for-your-whump @lektric-whump @just-a-whump-lover @thelazywitchphotographer @restrainthenmaime @angstyachesplus @lilbitwhumpy @leaderofthebeanarmy @aquard-skaii @whumprincess @thatgaysnail @finaldreams1106 @reveriedeludesme @kemonoinuzuka @circlingravens @whumpasaurus101 @spicy-wendigo @femmewithadhd @wafflestakethecake @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @broadwaybabe18 @whumpinggoodtime @temporary-whump-sideblog @dumb-and-lesbian let me know if you want to be added/removed!

CW: talk of death (in a pretty disrespectful manner), talk of human trafficking, intimate whumper, hair pulling, noncon touching, some pretty noncon vibes near the end, uhhh Saph/Dustin is a real asshole, let me know if I need to tag anything else!

Masterlist

---

The sound of a ringing phone woke Dustin. With a groan, he rolled over in bed, blankets tangled around his legs. Blindly groping along his nightstand, he found his phone and answered the call, from an unknown number, blue eyes squinting against the flash of the bright screen.

“Yeah?” he answered, stifling a yawn.

“Is this Mr. Moore?” a timid male voice said.

Rubbing a hand across his face, Dustin sat up, glancing at the clock with a groan. “Yes, this is he,” he responded, voice tight. “Now who the fuck is calling me at four a.m.?”

A throat was cleared on the other end of the line. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I’m Nicholas Jameston.” There was a pause, as if he expected Dustin to recognize the name. “I’m your uncle’s lawyer.”

Dustin blinked, brow furrowing in confusion. “My uncle? You mean.. Uncle Spence?”

A curt “Yes, sir.”

“Okayyyy,” he drew out. “Listen, I haven’t talked to him in years. Since I left for college at least. Probably before even high school. You see, my dad and him, they didn’t really get along-” He cut himself off. Why was he telling this man anything? “Anyways, there must be some confusion. I don’t know why he wants his lawyer contacting me all of a sudden.” Shit, he thought. Did I break or steal something last time I was at his place? Is this what this is about?

There was an awkward beat of silence before the lawyer cleared his throat again. “No, sir, there’s no mistake or confusion. You see, you’re Mr. Spencer’s closest remaining blood relative.”

Dustin was really not awake enough for this conversation. “Just say what you need to and be done with it.”

“Your uncle is dead,” the lawyer finally said. “And you’re his sole heir.”

-

Dustin pulled up in his car, a shiny BMW he’d bought using his dad’s life insurance money a few years ago. He squinted against the darkness of early morning, checking the address again. This place looked less like a family home and more like a fortress. A prison.

He wondered, for the millionth time since getting rudely awoken and told that a man he’d met only a handful of times was a) dead and b) giving him everything, what exactly he was doing here. His dad must be rolling over in his grave. Not that Dustin particularly cared about that.

He knew that the brothers had never gotten along, that his dad, the older brother, had apparently “abandoned” the family business because it was “amoral,” but Dustin had never really been privy to the details. He rolled his eyes just thinking about his dad and his need to be righteous and perfect all the time.

That apparently had gone out the window at some point, but the bastard was too proud to go back to his brother - their parents were already dead by that time - and instead decided to start his own company, selling.. who knew? Certainly not Dustin. No, the young twenty-six-year-old was perfectly content enjoying his bachelor playboy lifestyle, feeding off mommy and daddy’s blood money.

“Mr. Moore?” A man was standing on the doorstep, fidgeting nervously with a thick manila envelope.

Dustin took one look at him and barely withheld a sigh. This man, short, balding, oily, was a lawyer alright. He raised one lazy eyebrow. “Jameson, I presume?” he called back, making his way slowly up the path to the door.

“Uh, it’s Jameston, sir,” the man corrected quickly.

Dustin didn’t bother to hide his smirk. “Whatever. Let’s just get this over with. It’s early and I have a busy day ahead of me. Left a pretty girl waiting for me to call. Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

Not bothering to wait, Dustin stepped up to the door and opened it, stepping inside a grand foyer. He whistled softly, taking in the shimmering chandelier, the sweeping staircase, with a gold-woven rug running down the middle, and the many large and well-furnished rooms branching off from the entrance.

“Now this is a nice playhouse, huh?” he said, grinned indolently.

He saw Jameston’s jaw tighten fractionally. “Yes, sir,” he responded. “Now, I can give you a complete tour of the house now. However, Mr. Spencer’s real estate agent can do that when she arrives here in-” he glanced at his watch - a fake, Dustin had noticed - “a couple hours or so. Furthermore, there was a, erm, rather sensitive matter that Mr. Spencer tasked me with familiarizing you with personally.” He adjusted his tie slightly, clearly nervous, before motioning Dustin down one of the smaller hallways to the side.

His curiosity piqued, Dustin followed. “What do you mean? Oh, don’t tell me, was the old man into some shady illegal business? Drugs? Girls?”

Jameston shook his head, Adam's apple bobbing. “No sir. Your uncle, he was an.. art collector, of a sort. Well, he created his own art, really. However, it was not necessarily, um, legally acquired.”

Dustin barely held in a laugh at the lawyer’s clear panic. “Of course it wasn’t,” he scoffed. “Do you know how much shady shit has gone on in this family?” He couldn’t stop the bark of laughter this time. “Of course you do, you’re the lawyer.”

Jameston’s face flushed but he remained quiet until he reached an indiscreet door at the end of a short hall. If Dustin didn’t know any better, he’d assume it was a closet or something. Jameston cleared his throat as he opened the door. “Welcome to the Jewelry Box, sir.”

-

Carnelian sighed, his head falling back against the wall as he stretched his legs out along the small bed. The only sounds in the large room was the occasional movement from one of the others.

“That’s it,” he muttered, standing up and marching over to the glass wall. “Is anyone else wondering where the bastard is?” he called, frowning as he caught the gazes of several of the others.

Emerald just shook his head, silently warning him. Amethyst, however, scoffed, picking at her nails intently. “Why do you care?” she snapped. “It’s not like you’re ever doing anything but yelling and cursing.”

“So?” Carnelian shot back. “Aren’t you at least a little curious as to what’s going on?”

As if to answer his questions, he heard the door hiss open. Turning his gaze towards it, he felt his lips tugging down into a frown.

“Here we go again,” he muttered. “I knew the bastard would be back before long.”

Then he met the gaze of a stranger, arrogant and lazy and startlingly bright blue. Eyebrows flicking up, he blurted, “Who the fuck are you?”

Smirking, the stranger glanced at a smaller man next to him, one Carnelian had glimpsed down here once or twice before, always with the Jeweler. “I think I’d like to ask you the same question.”

The small man cleared his throat and began speaking, quietly enough that Carnelian couldn’t hear. Instead he took in the stranger, as if he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away.

The man was attractive, annoyingly attractive from Carnelian’s perspective. His skin was a bronzed tone, clear and smooth. He was tall, probably taller than Carnelian, with a lean, slightly muscled body. He had on a dark t-shirt that clung to his body and somehow looked expensive, with form-fitting jeans and some Converse high tops on as well. His dark brown hair was slightly wavy, with the top grown out long and falling into his face. Carnelian’s eyes drifted down towards his mouth before he forcefully pulled them back up to his eyes, which were-

Still on him. Carnelian felt himself blush and then scowl as he met the man’s gaze. Already he was getting on his nerves. And where the hell was the Jeweler? Was this stranger some new client of his, looking to buy one of them? At that thought, Carnelian felt a flash of panic through him and glanced over at Emerald, who was looking subtly at him as well, clearly thinking the same thing.

Carnelian tuned back in when the stranger exclaimed, “Are you shitting me right now?” The stranger was now looking at each of them, studying them more intently.

His gaze almost completely skimmed over Diamond and Ruby, both of them still curled up in their beds, watching with wary and confused gazes. He barely even noticed Amber, the new one still drugged to high heaven after mouthing off to the Jeweler yesterday. Carnelian doubted the kid could even remember their own name right now, much less stand up from where they were sprawled in their bed. He took a bit longer looking at Emerald, his defensive stance, wise eyes, then Amethyst, with her crossed arms and haughty expression, before finally settling on Carnelian.

After several long, tense seconds, he looked back at the other man. “So you’re saying,” he drawled slowly, deliberately. “That this, all of this, the house, the business, the.. Jewels-” his mouth twisted into a cruel smirk- “they’re all mine?”

Swallowing, the other man nodded. “Yes sir, that’s what I’m saying.” He drew out a piece of paper and, clearing his throat, began to read. “‘I hereby give the entirety of my properties, including my family home, my businesses, and my Jewelry Box, to my closest remaining blood relative upon my death.’ That would be you, Dustin Moore.”

There was a gasp from one of the other cells, where Diamond had stood up, flying to the window, eyes wide and frantic. “Death? Wait, no, Sir, he- he can’t be-” They dissolved into sobs, sliding to their knees on the floor.

Carnelian glanced around at the rest of the Jewels, the only sound coming from Diamond. The rest of them had frozen as well, not sure how they were meant to respond. Carnelian was reeling, glancing down as he took a shaky breath. On the one hand, he was glad the bastard was dead. On the other, well, the Jeweler had never looked at him the way the stranger, Dustin the other man had said, looked at him. The Jeweler looked at him like some prized object, something to be shown off proudly and then put back into storage. The Jeweler treated him less than human; Dustin’s gaze said he knew precisely how human Carnelian was, he just didn’t care.

Before he knew it, Carnelian was raising his head to glare at the other man, only to find him still looking at him. As Dustin slowly moved forward, he asked, “Did my uncle give these.. Jewels any names? Because I think I’m seeing a theme in them.” He stopped a couple feet away from the glass, his head tilted slightly. “The only one I can’t seem to figure out is this one.”

Carnelian’s lip curled. “Stay the fuck away from me,” he snarled softly, looking him up and down before raising his brows slightly. “Bastard jr,” he added.

Dustin almost seemed caught off guard before letting out a laugh. “I thought you said that he trained them to be all submissive and whatever,” he called over to the other. “Jameston, this one seems to be a bit feral.” He stepped even closer, lifting one hand to touch the glass. Carnelian fell back a couple inches, eyes still narrowed.

Jameston cleared his throat yet again. Carnelian would almost feel bad for the guy, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was complicit in letting him stay kidnapped. “Yes sir, your uncle had his ways of training them. However, he didn’t train them all the same way. He found that one’s fight to be..” He skimmed his notes quickly. “..rather appealing, sir.”

Carnelian made a noise of disgust as Dustin grinned. “I can’t say I blame him.”

Carnelian barely breathed until Dustin stepped away, turning back to Jameston. “Well, I’ve seen them all. Let’s go back upstairs now. I think I saw a nice liquor cabinet that I’d like to raid.”

Once they were both gone from view and the door had hissed shut, Carnelian leaned his head against the cool glass.

“You okay?” Emerald asked.

Carnelian just shook his head, a sudden lump in his throat. “The way he looked at me,” he said softly.

“I know,” Emerald murmured back.

He glanced up to find the older man looking at him with concern and pity.

“Well then,” Amethyst said loudly, breaking the silence that had fallen thick and heavy. “That was certainly something.”

Diamond sobbed loudly. “That.. that can’t be true. Can it?” They looked up, searching the others’ faces. Carnelian felt a twinge of pity for them. After over a decade of being trapped down here, they had been reduced to a mere shadow of whoever they might have once been. At whatever they might’ve seen on their faces, Diamond dissolved back into inconsolable sobs.

Resting her head on the wall, Ruby quietly asked, “So what happens now?”

There was a beat of silence before Emerald replied, “Now we wait.”

-

Back upstairs, Dustin was finally alone after getting rid of that annoying lawyer. He had had to practically shove the man out of the house to get him to leave. Even then, he had only left with promises to call later about the details.

For now, Dustin was sprawled out in a large, overstuffed armchair, a bottle of expensive whisky and a half empty glass next to him. He was already on his second glass, and he had no plans on stopping any time soon.

His mind drifted to the one who had glared and cursed at him. The smaller one, with the hard gaze, numerous freckles, and bright curly hair. The one Jameston had said was named Carnelian. Dustin looked up the stone and smiled at the pictures that were pulled up. Bright, fiery stones, of varying shades, Dustin had to admit, he could see the resemblance.

Pouring himself another glass, he sunk down further into the chair. He supposed he should be more concerned with the fact that there were six human beings locked in some creepy basement that he had apparently just inherited. But, after living the life that he had lived so far, Dustin had to admit that this was far from the craziest thing he had seen. He knew plenty of friends whose families had, well, less than legal people working for them, and now that he thought about it, he swore he could remember some show a few of his friends had gone to where the host had all his pets or whatever they were called designed as gemstones.

He laughed softly, quietly murmuring, “Carnelian, huh?” before draining the glass and pouring one more.

-

It was hours later when Carnelian awoke in the darkness. The bright lights, luckily, were still on their automated timer, so they had shut out at their usual time. It had been hours since Diamond’s sobs had slowly petered out and since the others’ quiet, stilted conversations had dwindled. Now, everyone was asleep.

Well, everyone except Carnelian. It took him a moment to figure out what had awoken him, a soft tapping on the glass wall of his cell. With a soft groan, he rolled over, out of the bed, squinting in the dim light.

In front of him stood the silhouette of a man. A couple seconds later, Carnelian recognized him as Dustin, his new.. owner. He almost snorted at the title. This man wasn’t any older than Carnelian, and he looked and behaved like an entitled, overprivileged frat boy.

Carnelian slowly walked closer. “What the hell do you want?” he whispered, because he didn’t want to accidentally wake the others and unleash the chaos that would bring with it. It took him a moment to realize that Dustin was fiddling with the lock on the door.

Without answering him, Dustin finally figured out how to unlatch it and swung the door open. He looked back up at Carnelian and made a silent motion for him to follow as he padded back towards the door.

Frowning, Carnelian carefully stepped out, towards him and the hallway beyond, where he could see light spilling out from the door. Knowing it probably wasn’t very smart, Carnelian walked into the hallway, squinting slightly at the suddenly bright lights.

Before he knew what was happening, there was a hand fisting in his hair and pushing him up against the wall. Carnelian looked up, eyes wide, to find Dustin standing much too close to him and several inches taller than him.

Feeling his breath stutter and his heart skip a beat, Carnelian breathed out, “What the hell do you want?” He barely dared take his eyes away from Dustin’s.

With the hand not pinning him to the wall, Dustin leaned closer and wrapped a curl around his finger, pulling until Carnelian wince slightly before letting it go, watching it bounce. This close, Carnelian could smell the whisky on his breath.

“Are.. are you drunk?” he asked, swallowing hard when that steely blue gaze met his, hazy yet surprisingly clear.

“That’s irrelevant,” he said, smirking as he pushed closer to Carnelian, who tried to pull away, but one vicious yank on his hair had his eyes watering and stilled the rest of his body. Dustin raised a hand and slowly traced over Carnelian’s cheeks, ending with one finger following the outline of his lips. “You’re Carnelian.”

Carnelian barely resisted the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and instead held his breath, eyes wide and searching Dustin’s. He didn’t dare to breathe, much less speak, so he didn’t ask why Dustin had said something he already knew the answer to.

It felt as if an eternity had passed before Dustin pulled away, shoving Carnelian roughly back towards the door. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said glibly, pulling the door shut once Carnelian was through, leaving him back in the darkness.

Immediately, Carnelian went back to the one place he never thought he’d call safe. Once he had pulled the glass door closed, hearing the lock click, he curled up in his bed, as far away from the door as he could get, the thin blanket pulled over him as his heart beat in his throat.

He didn’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night.

[five-rivers]

Adoption (part 2)

A gift for @a-flower-lover!  This wound up being more along the lines of vignettes...  Little snapshots into Danny’s life after being adopted by Clockwork.  I hope that’s ok!  (PART 1)

.

Mr. Lancer had met Charles Worth before, albeit briefly. The man had fostered a number of Casper High students and with that responsibility came parent-teacher conferences. He had struck Mr. Lancer as being steady and reliable, if, perhaps, impersonal, despite his predilection for clocks and ominous announcements. A decent foster parent, if not... ideal.

Mr. Worth just didn't seem to connect with his fosters, although he certainly didn't neglect them. Then, too, were the persistent rumors that his home was haunted.

Alright. So, Mr. Lancer didn't think Charles Worth was really a children person. Oh, he was a good person! It took one to do well as a foster parent, but... yeah.

Which was why the scene in front of him surprised him so much. Not the who of it, but the what.

The who was Daniel Fenton and Charles Worth waiting outside the office. The what was smiling and having a conversation. True, Mr. Fenton's smile looked like it was pasted on over several layers of anxiety, but it was genuine.

"Mr. Worth, Mr. Fenton?" he said, tamping down his surprise. "Come on in."

"Hi," said Mr. Fenton, his voice hoarse.

Mr. Worth smiled and nodded, pushing him up with his cane.

But Mr. Fenton must have noticed the curious look Mr. Lancer was giving him. "I knew Cl- Uh. Mr. Worth before this." He winced and smiled widely to cover it up. "So, uh, make up work? Since I missed the past week?"

"Yes, well, circumstances being what they are," aka his parents trying to murder him in public, in broad daylight (and didn't that give Mr. Lancer a chill?), "your teachers have put together a few packets for you to look over this weekend. They should get you more or less up to speed with where your classes are. I'm also willing to stay after school, to help you with anything you've missed in my classes."

.

Jazz knocked on the door of the Worth house. She had been made aware, via various supernatural (she did not particularly appreciate writing suddenly appearing on her fogged-up bathroom mirror) and mundane (Danny did have her phone number) means, that the man known as Charles Worth was actually the ghost known as Clockwork.

How this had occurred was not entirely clear to her. She assumed ghost powers, specifically time travel, were involved somehow.

But, to be honest, that didn't really matter to her. It was secondary, less than.

What was important here was that she hadn't been legally allowed to see her little brother in over a month. To keep her parents from contacting him. To keep her from letting her parents near him. Because they were legally barred from seeing him.

Because they had tried to kill him.

Jazz planned on never seeing her parents again, as soon as she got all of her and Danny's things from their house.

But now that prohibition had been lifted, because Clockwork had forced through what had to be the speediest adoption in the history of adoptions, and Danny was now legally his son. In the eyes of both humans and ghosts. Which was... Well. Danny seemed to be excited about it, anyway. He'd looked up to Clockwork for a while, from what he told Jazz.

Internally, Jazz had more than a bit of trepidation. She didn't know what adoption meant to ghosts, didn't have any context for it. And ghosts, even the good ones, even Danny, tended to be... obsessive. Extreme. She wasn't sure how that would translate when it came to interpersonal relationships.

The door creaked open, ever so slowly, the squeak it made grating on her eardrums. At first, it appeared to have opened on its own, then a hand gripped the edge of the door, and Clockwork, in human guise, leaned out from behind it.

Jazz raised an eyebrow.

Clockwork raised one right back. "This house is haunted, you know," he said.

Okay, never mind. The only thing she had to worry about was the fact that her brother and his mentor both had terrible senses of humor.

"Hi, Jazz!"

Being used to having a half-ghost brother, Jazz only yelped a little bit at his unexpected appearance behind her. Then she sighed and ruffled his hair. He hugged her and then bounced over the lintel into the house.

"Come on! I want to show you my room! It's so cool!" His voice became fainter as he went farther into the house, until his last exclamation was an eerie whisper.

Jazz looked at Clockwork as she stepped inside. "Is he doing that on purpose?"

Clockwork smiled blandly. "I am very fond of the acoustics in this house."

She looked at her surroundings with a skeptical eye. "It seems... dark in here."

"We are ghosts," said Clockwork. "Daniel is very excited to show you his room, by the way."

"He's human, too, don't forget," said Jazz.

"I won't."

.

The house was creepy.

Really creepy.

This was coming from someone who had spent most of her life living under the same roof as two ghost-obsessed mad scientists.

But Danny seemed to enjoy it, and he was the one living here. It wasn't like there was anything wrong with the house. Or anything in the house. It was just... off.

Danny was half-ghost, however, so maybe this was something he needed. Perhaps not all of his peppiness could be attributed to being the heck away from his murderous former parents.

Even so. Jazz had a duty, both as a big sister and an aspiring psychologist.

"I already read it," said Clockwork, setting a cup of tea down in front of her.

"What?"

"The book you were about to give me. I've already read it. And a number of others. I am not the kind of person who goes into things unprepared."

Danny rolled into the kitchen on the ceiling. This was easy to ignore. After her life, an Exorcist reference made by her over-excited younger brother, was, well. Underwhelming.

(Okay, she was a little distracted, but only by his glee.)

"Well," she said. "That's good."

.

"I know this house is out of the way," said Clockwork, craning his neck to look up at his coworker, "but you are rather conspicuous."

"Hm. Am I?" asked Pandora, craning her neck down to look at her comparatively tiny colleague.

"Yes. At that size, humans with average eyesight will be able to see you from town."

Pandora looked out over the trees. "Interesting," she said, mildly. "Do you think the ghost hunters will come?"

"You've spoken to Daniel."

"Yes. He stopped by earlier today, on his way to visit Mattingly. Although, I suppose you knew that already."

"Indeed I did. May I ask, is it your intention to lure the ghost hunters here, fight them, defeat them, and then leave them just close enough to here to constitute a breach of their terms of bail and the restraining order against them?"

"I am not terribly well-versed in human law," said Pandora, "but, why, yes. That is exactly what I'm doing. Best to get it done while Daniel is visiting friends, isn't it?"

"Yes. If you had done this while he was here, I would be significantly more annoyed." Clockwork smiled the sanguine smile of a parental figure who would commit murder if their child was upset.

Pandora returned a matching grin, one that promised retribution against persons who had harmed said child in the past. "Please, Clockwork. You know me better than that. I wouldn't subject him to being in the presence of those fools."

"Good," said Clockwork, eyes glinting.

.

"Hey, Clockwork? Do you know why there were police cars driving down the- Oh. Hello?" He stopped at the sight of an unfamiliar woman sitting at the dinning room table, next to Clockwork. He blinked and tilted his head to the side. "Wait. Pandora?"

"Perceptive," said the superficially human olive-skinned woman. "You seemed so happy when you stopped by, earlier. I thought I would come check in on you."

"You didn't have to," said Danny, beaming.

"Pandora has been trying to convince me to set her up as one of my relatives," said Clockwork, rolling his eyes. "Would you care for a cup of tea, Daniel?"

"Umm," said Danny, dubiously. "I'll try one, I guess. Does that mean you'll be my aunt?"

Pandora smiled. "Why, yes, it does."

Clockwork groaned theatrically.

.

"Ah," said Mr. Lancer, at the next parent-teacher conference. "Are you Mr. Worth's wife?"

"No," said Pandora, grinning. "I'm his sister."

Mr. Lancer looked back and forth between the two very different-looking entities. "I... see."

"We're adopted," said Clockwork.

"Oh! Alright then. Now, about Daniel..."

.

It was a bit strange to see Danny with so much energy, Sam reflected. Strange, but good.

It just went to show how drained he had become over time, how much the constant ghost attacks and worry, all the lies and stress and impossible expectations had worn away at him over time. She hadn't seen her friend this happy since freshman year. If that.

On the other hand...

"Dude," said Tucker. "Your house is spooky. And this is coming from someone who's been inside a literal mad science lab."

Danny rolled his eyes. "Mad science labs are campy, not spooky. Besides, you knew coming in that this house was haunted." He draped himself over the back of the couch, rolling until he was 'sitting' upside-down. "Anyway, what kind of movie do you want to watch? We've got a bunch, because Clockwork apparently collects media from doomed timelines."

"He's got a hobby?" asked Sam.

"Yeah, three," said Danny. "Gardening- you should talk to him about that, by the way, I think he'd like it- baking, and alternate timeline movies. And some books, too, I think. He's got a huge library back in Long Now. I've read like. Two books from it."

Clockwork's voice floated in from the other room. "You've read significantly more than that, Daniel."

"I guess," said Danny, doubtfully. He flopped off the couch, picked himself up, and started prodding at a shelf of movies. "This is from a timeline where the Earth got beaned by a massive asteroid. It's, like, a romcom, but it was made when everyone knew the asteroid was coming. This one is, uh, this is actually a dramatization of real events, apparently, but their timeline split from ours in like the fifties, so the events are pretty wild." He waved the DVD at them. "It's surreal?"

"How'd they die?" asked Tucker.

"Wacky superscience. No, really. Irradiated the entire planet."

"How do you know?" asked Sam.

"Oh, Clockwork puts notes on the boxes. He thinks it's interesting. And there does seem to be some correlation between how cursed the movies are and how bad the timeline was. Which maybe shouldn't surprise me? I mean, if they were bad timelines..." He shrugged. "Oh, this is a CGI Lion King. I can tell you: very cursed. Absolutely soulless. And this is from a timeline where copyright laws weren't changed, so Mickey Mouse and a bunch of other stuff was in the public domain."

"Isn't that a good timeline?" joked Sam.

"You'd think so," agreed Danny. "But apartheid in South Africa apparently never stopped, and they got a nuclear bomb, and, well... World War Three."

"Is that like, a domino effect, or...?"

"I'm not sure... Anyway. Uh. Genre?" He clapped his hands together.

Tucker leaned forward. "I want the wildest version of the Matrix you have."

"Ooh, good choice. There are, like, six with Will Smith. I haven't watched them all yet, but I think the one where they've got another sequel and Zion is also a- Wait, I shouldn't spoil it."

"After that, can you see if there's a non-crappy version of Dracula?" asked Sam.

"Sure. I haven't seen one yet, but I will look."

"I have popcorn," said Clockwork, entering the room, "and various baked goods. No dairy."

"You're the best."

.

Clockwork selected a thick blanket from the chest, then teleported himself to the living room to drape it over the three teenagers passed out on the couch. Overall, he found pretending to be human oddly enjoyable, but it could be trying at times. Tedious. All the finicky little motions humans had to go through to do the simplest of things added up over the day.

So, Clockwork tended to ease off of them when no one was watching. It made life easier.

Heh. Life.

(He would say that Daniel's puns were rubbing off on him, but in truth Clockwork's sense of humor had been like that for, well. Eons.)

He put the kitchen in order with an absent wave of his hand, and double-checked the stove out of habit. It wasn't nearly as good as his actual oven, back in Long Now, but it was serviceable.

One of Daniel's friends mumbled in their sleep, and Clockwork looked in on them. Still peaceful. It was good for Daniel to have them here. Beneficial for both his human and ghost halves.

He hummed to himself and patted Daniel's head as he thought about their plans for the weekend. He had arranged for some truly aggravating evangelical missionaries to darken their doorstep. It would do Daniel good to inspire a touch of terror. In an entirely controlled and risk-free way, of course. No matter how unpleasant the people coming were, Clockwork had no intention of harming them, or suggesting anything of the sort.

But, well. They were ghosts. Being feared was soothing.

(Clockwork knew this wasn't what Jasmine meant when she suggested Clockwork engage in family bonding activities with Daniel. But what she didn't know...)

.

"I think my teeth are getting sharper," said Danny, pulling a face at the mirror. "Is that normal?" The last was shouted, to get Clockwork's attention. Intellectually, Danny knew he didn't need to do that, but a lifetime of habit was hard to shake.

"It is difficult to say what is normal for someone like you, but many ghosts do have fangs," said Clockwork. "Including myself."

"Hm," said Danny. "This isn't, like, a ghost puberty thing, is it? Because I already used up most of my evil puberty jokes."

"Oh, only most?" Clockwork slid behind him and started rubbing the tension out of his shoulders.

Danny shrugged. "Eh, give or take. But, seriously."

"No, it isn't a ghost puberty thing."

"Oh, good. Because dealing with one puberty is more than enough."

Clockwork was silent. Danny looked up and met troubled eyes in the mirror.

"Clockwork?"

"Daniel," started Clockwork, before giving Danny an uneasy smile. "Speaking of puberty..."

Danny blanched. "No."

"What?"

"No. Nope. Not doing the talk today, no sir. I got that at school."

"Daniel, as strange as Casper High may be at times, I highly doubt they taught you anything about immortality."

"What."

.

"It's why ghosts put so much forethought into relationships like this," explained Clockwork, careful not to look directly at Daniel's hiding place. "They might last forever. I certainly hope this one does."

"But I don't want to be a teenager forever!" wailed Danny. He had mastered the art of making his voice sound like it was coming from a completely different direction than it actually was.

Clockwork was older than human civilization and had been worshiped as a god by several civilizations. He did not wince at the heartbreak in his child's voice.

"Your shapeshifting abilities should come in after a few years," said Clockwork. "You'll be able to pass as older."

Daniel answered with a moan.

"I must confess, I'm not sure why you are so upset about this. I can see that you are, but could you explain why for me?"

"I don't knoooooowww..."

.

"I don't want everyone to die and leave me alone," admitted Danny, hunched over a carton of ice cream. "I don't want to see my- my people die." He sniffled.

"We don't have to stay in Amity Park if you don't want to," said Clockwork.

Danny shook his head. "No! That's worse," he said, hating how his voice tilted into a whine. "That's- I can't abandon them! I can't- can't miss their time. I just..." He let out a huff of air. "It's hard."

Clockwork wrapped an arm around Daniel's shoulders. "It may not help much," he said, "but people in Amity Park have a much higher chance of becoming ghosts. It's the ectoplasm in the air."

"Promise?" asked Danny.

"Promise. Although, who, exactly, becomes a ghost is outside of my control. All I can tell you is that the people here have a better chance."

Danny leaned against Clockwork. "Thanks," he mumbled. "Clockwork?"

"Yes?"

"You don't think I'm a freak, do you?"

"Of course not."

.

Mr. Lancer squinted down at Daniel Fenton's latest assignment with a mix of appreciation, disbelief, and shame. This was easily the best work he had ever received from Daniel. In fact, it rivaled papers he had received from Jasmine.

It made him wonder- How long had Daniel been suffering? What had Daniel been suffering? He was no expert when it came to abuse, but all teachers had some training, and he knew that abusers tended to escalate, starting with something relatively innocuous and ending with a travesty. For things to progress to attempted murder... What had it started as? When had it begun?

(Could Mr. Lancer have stopped it?)

(That question would haunt him more than any ghost.)

Well, there was a silver lining to this, Mr. Lancer supposed. He had rarely seen two people who got along as well as Daniel and Charles Worth. It was good, he thought, for the man to have someone in his life on a more permanent basis, rather than the revolving door of temporary foster children.

How rapidly the adoption went through was a little odd, but... Mr. Lancer shrugged. Undoubtedly, Mr. Worth had taken the time over his years as a foster parent to familiarize himself with the system, and with Daniel's former parents unfit to be anywhere near children...

He shrugged again and stamped Daniel's paper with an A+.

[ag-celestina-gorillaz]

Daisies and Daffodolls Day 17: Book Series

Sorry I've been MIA a lot. I've been busy doing sewing stuff (next photo challenge I'll prepare a few weeks in advance). But anyways, I took a pic of Celestina in what would be her meet outfit. Celestina's story is different in many ways than other AG characters. For one thing, she's my Gorillaz OC as well, so her story involves some Gorillaz lore as well, and her story starts at age 11 in middle school in 2016 and goes to at least 2020 when she's 15. Basic outline, Celestina is a cheerful creative girl living in Orbitz Ohio. She was raised by her mom Sharon and her stepmom Mia, (they got married in 2015 when gay marriage became legal in the US), and her dad is Stuart "2-D" Pot, the lead singer of the British band Gorillaz. In her story, Celestina faces many changes, such as her Mom starting a new paramedic job, her dad returning to England to reunite with the rest of Gorillaz to record Humanz, as well as starting her first year in middle school. I'm actually planning to write a whole book, maybe more, about Celestina, and post the chapters here on tumblr. I think I'll go ahead and post the first chapter here as a preview, but I'll post the full story later, maybe with illustrations.

Summary - It's the year 2016, and Celestina is starting her first year of middle school.  While she's excited for a fresh start of the new year, she's also nervous.  School uniforms, more classes, more teachers, and new classmates.  Unfortunately, the school year starts out on a sour note, she barely shares any classes with her best friend, and in homeroom class, she gets paired up with Lucy Phillips, a cold, aloof, yet mysterious, new girl from Britain.  Meanwhile, things aren't easier at home either, her dad ends up returning to the UK to reunite with his fellow band members to record their next album, and her mom begins work at her new paramedic job.  But when Celestina begins to get close with Lucy, the new girl's iciness starts to melt, and they both learn they have more in common than they thought.  

Celestina's Family and Friends

Celestina Damon - An excitable 11 year old girl starting her first year of middle school in the year 2016.  

Sharon Damon - Celestina's mother, a practical, but cheerful, lady.  She starts working a new job as a paramedic.  

Mia Lucci - Sharon's wife and Celestina's stepmother, a funny and kind woman, she's always there when Celestina needs advice.  She runs and works at The Leaning Tower of Pizza pizzeria with her twin sister Gina.  

Stuart "2-D" Pot - Celestina's father, and lead singer of the British band Gorillaz.  He isn't quite wired like other people, but in his own 2-D way, he's very deep, and he's also got a big heart.  Despite the troubles that come with being a long distance parent, he loves Celestina immensely and tries to be in her life as much as possible.  

Kailey Green - Celestina's next door neighbor and best friend since childhood.  A smart and sweet girl, if a little awkward.  A self proclaimed theater nerd.  Often gives Celestina the nickname "Lessie".

Lucy Phillips - A new girl in Celestina's homeroom, who's family arrived from Britain.  She seems mysterious and comes off as cool and guarded, but in reality, she's a little shy, and becomes much kinder and sweeter once you get to know her.  

Chapter 1

New Year, New School, New Hope

The alarm clock on the bedside table chirped on and on as Celestina Damon slept in, nestled in her soft, pastel colored, blankets.  She was dreaming a wonderful dream; Celestina, rocking a sparkly, purple, galaxy print dress, was singing in front of a sold out crowd on her first performance.  Fans in the crowd were holding handmade signs and cheering her name.  Here she is posing for pictures with fans!  There she is signing autographs!  She finishes her last song of the show, wishing the audience a good night.  The crowd erupted into a thunderous roar of applause, fans shouting her name "Celestina!  Celestina!  Celestina! -"

"CELESTINA!!! WAKE UP!!!"  

That did it!  At the sound of her mom's voice, the young girl jolted up from her bed with a start. "Gah!" she exclaimed.  Her wavy blue hair was messy and needed brushing, and she was no longer clad in galaxy print, but rather, blue and white pajamas with panda bears printed all over.  Celestina ground the sleep out of her eyes and smashed the "stop" button on her alarm. 

"Okay, I'm awake Mom!" said Celestina, slightly irritated.  Her mom chuckled.

"Hey, if I let you have your way, you'd be asleep until lunchtime." laughed Mom.  "I told you not to stay up too late."

"I didn't stay up late!" Celestina protested, "I'm just, not used to waking up this early."  She was kinda right.  Today was the first day of the new school year, after three months of staying up and sleeping in later than usual, it can be hard to get back on a schedule.  

"Fair enough," said Mom, "but I can't always be around to make you wake up, especially now, you understand?"  Celestina nodded.  What her mom had meant was that she just got hired to work as a paramedic at a new ambulance company, which meant that some days she had to go in early.  Unfortunately, it also means that she would come home later after working many hours, some nights possibly after when Celestina was supposed to go to bed.  Luckily, today was only her orientation, which wouldn't start for a few hours, so her Mom could drop her off on her first day of school, but she was still dressed in her work uniform, black boots, navy blue pants with lots of pockets, and a wine red shirt with the ambulance's logo embolized on the left breast, and her curly blonde hair was tied up in a long ponytail.  

Speaking of uniforms.  Not only was Celestina starting her first day of school, but it's the first day of a new school, specifically, middle school.  Okay, so technically this school is a combo middle and high school, so not only does she have to deal with the 7th and 8th graders, but also all the high schoolers as well.  And all the students have to wear uniforms.  Actually, the uniform itself wasn't that bad, it was pretty cute, the top was a rich shade of purple with a white collar and ribbon, and a white pleated skirt that fell below the knees, had a "sailor suit" sorta look to it, kinda like what an anime character would wear.  All the same, Celestina couldn't understand why she just couldn't just wear her regular clothes to school, you know, like everyone did in elementary school.  Sigh, another change to have to get used to.  Mom caught Celestina eyeing her uniform.  

"Well get dressed, hon." said Mom, "And come downstairs for breakfast.  I think Mia made some chocolate chip pancakes!"  Mmm, just the thought of those pancakes made Celestina's mouth water.  

"Okay, you win." laughed Celestina, giving her mom a hug.  "I'll be down in a few."  After Mom had left the room, Celestina got dressed, brushed and pulled her long wavy blue hair into a ponytail, using a hairband with two pink poofballs on it.  Before she left to go downstairs, she looked toward the corner of her room, and saw Scratchy, her fluffy gray bunny, stirring around in her cage.  

"Hey there Scratchy!" she cooed, giving the bunny little pats.  She then slipped a little chew treat for her to play with.  "Be good while I'm at school, okay?" 

The young girl grabbed her backpack, filled to the brim with school supplies, and headed downstairs to the kitchen.  The aroma of chocolate chip pancakes and maple syrup filled the room.  Mom had seated herself at the kitchen table, eating her small stack of pancakes, and Mia, Celestina's stepmom, was busy flipping the pancakes at the stove.  Her mother, Sharon, and Mia have only been married for less than a year, but Mia has lived with Celestina and her Mom her whole life.  They probably would have married sooner had it been allowed before last year!  Mia is a pretty lady, tall, tan skin, and shiny dark brown hair, and she's a great cook.  Her and her sister Gina (Aunt Gina to Celestina), run a pizza place called Leaning Tower of Pizza.  

"Pancakes, comin' up!" shouted Mia to Celestina.  Mia still spoke with a New York accent, despite the fact that she's been living in Ohio for at least 15 years.  She served the girl her pancakes before sliding her own onto a plate.  Celestina took her breakfast to the table and poured on the sweet maple syrup.  She cut a piece and took a bite, mmmm, was so good.  Her smile fell slightly looking around the room.  She couldn't get used to the empty space at the table.  

"What's wrong?" asked Mia, noticing Celestina's frown, "Don't you like chocolate pancakes?"

"I LOVE them!" exclaimed Celestina. "I just wish Dad was here to have some."  Mia and Susan exchanged a look of understanding. 

"You miss him don't you." said Mia.  Celestina nodded. 

"Yup!" said Celestina.  It was actually more than that.  She paused a bit, trying to think of how to put it into words, "I mean, I dunno, I guess I'm also a bit worried, you know, about him leaving again."  Celestina's eyes looked down at her pancakes.  Talking about stuff like that always made her uneasy.  

Celestina's dad, her whole family life in general really, was, well, unusual to say the least.  For one thing, her parents weren't married when her mom had her, in fact, they split up shortly before Sharon found out she was pregnant.  Whatever, no biggie, there are lots of kids whose parents are like that, people who have children before they got married, or had kids and didn't stay together.  However, it was even more complicated in Celestina's case, because her mom is American and her dad is British, meaning it's harder for her to see her dad on a regular basis because he lives so far away.  Also, her dad is famous.  Celestina's father is none other than Stuart Pot, better known as 2-D, the lead singer of Gorillaz.  Yes, that 2-D!  It's been awhile since the band did any songs together though, the last album, Plastic Beach, was released when Celestina was 5, but a couple years before that, something else happened, and that's what worried Celestina.  For a short while after Celestina was born, 2-D would often call the house to say hi, sometimes even visit.  But after a visit that Dad made sometime when she was 3, he had gone on a trip somewhere, and suddenly vanished.  Her mom tried to keep calm around her when she asked where Dad was, but even as a kid, Celestina could kinda tell that her Mom was worried about him.  The sudden release of a new Gorillaz album didn't help either.  At one point, her Mom told her stories that 2-D and Murdoc Niccals, the band's foul mouthed, green skinned, bassist, were taken by pirates and trapped on an island called Plastic Beach, an island in the middle of the ocean made of garbage and spray painted pink.  Looking back, Celestina wasn't sure if this all really happened or if this was something Mom was making up, but she knew something happened that made her dad unable to contact her for awhile.  Shortly before Celestina was 8, her dad had called her on the phone for the first time in years.  

"Celestina, is that you?" said 2-D in his thick Londoner accent, "You sound so big!  How old are you now?"

"I'm gonna be 8, Dad!" answered Celestina proudly, "I'm a big kid!" 

"8!?  Wow!  You really grew up!" exclaimed 2-D, Celestina could hear the tears caught in his throat. "I've missed you so much!" 

After a brief vacation, or "holiday" as her dad called it, in Guadalupe, he visited Celestina and the family for the first time in a while, right in time for her 8th birthday.  And since then, he had been able to keep in better contact, and came to visit Celestina in person more often these last few years, as if to make up for missing out for those last 5 years.  She even got to fly with him to England one time and met her grandparents, David and Rachel Pot, for the first time at the amusement park that Grandpop had owned.  This year, 2-D stayed in the guest room for a few months, he was able to keep Celestina company during the summer while Sharon was taking paramedic classes, and Mia was working at Leaning Tower.  2-D had been helping Celestina with her budding interest in music, teaching her how to play her new blue Melodica, a small keyboard with a flute-like pipe in it.  When they weren't practicing, the father daughter duo would watch scary zombie movies, or listen to some older Gorillaz songs on Celestina's old CD player.  On June 23rd, the whole family, and a few of Celestina's friends from school, celebrated her 11th birthday with a bonfire cookout in the backyard.  It was a wonderful summer.

But all this fun and excitement of summer had to come to an end.  It was now time for school, and just as well, Dad left to go back to England, rather suddenly at that.  Somehow, one of his old band mates, Noodle, the guitarist and the only girl in the band, (and Celestina's favorite band member, next to Dad of course), ended up getting back in contact with him.  Apparently, the band was getting back together to make a new album called Humanz, which would be released sometime next year.  Like always, Celestina was sad to see him leave, but she was also worried too, maybe because a part of her is scared he would go missing again.  

Sharon put a comforting hand on Celestina's shoulder.  "It'll be okay," she reassured her daughter, "He said he's gonna text us when he arrives to meet the others.  Plus, he said you can visit him during spring break."  

"I know," nodded Celestina.  She finishes up her pancakes, thinking about everything going on.  Mom's starting a new job, Dad's going back to England, I'm starting a new year in a new school, and we have to wear uniforms!  So far so good, she thought sarcastically.  She rinsed her dirty plate in the sink and slipped on her black flats to meet Mom out in the car.

"Are we taking Kailey today?" asked Mom.  Kailey Green is Celestina's best friend and next door neighbor.  

"No, Mrs. Green wanted to take her this morning," answered Celestina, "but she's picking both of us up after school."

"Okay, good," said Mom, "let's get going, you don't wanna be late," she checks her watch "and neither do I!" she laughed.  Celestina gave Mia a hug goodbye.

"Have a good day at school, rockstar." said Mia lovingly.  "I'm coming home from Leaning Tower about an hour after you get home from school, okay girlie."

"'Kay 'kay, I got it." smiled Celestina.  She gives Mia a fist bump, complete with a little explosion sound effect.  

"You have a good day at school," then she turns to Mom "And good luck with orientation Sharon."  Mom gives Mia a loving kiss on the cheek.  

"Bye honey," said Mom grabbing her keys.  "I should be home by dinner tonight."  Celestina and her mother wave goodbye to Mia before getting in the car.  As Sharon drove on to the school, Celestina sat in her seat nervously, her breakfast doing flip flops in her stomach.  

"Are you doing okay back there?" asked Sharon, looking at her daughter in the rearview mirror.

"I dunno," she answered.  "Honestly, I'm pretty nervous.  Middle school sounds kinda scary.  All these classes, new teachers, ugh, no recess, school uniforms," she grimaced.  She had so many thoughts, so many "what-if's", that they started coming out one after another.  "What if I don't like my teachers?  What if me and Kailey don't have any classes together?  What if all the classes are too hard?  What if I get bullied by the older kids?  What if -" 

"Celestina!" said Mom suddenly, "sweetie, sweetie, it's alright." She took a deep breath before continuing, "I know this isn't something you want to hear, but I kinda know how you feel.  I was nervous starting middle school when I was your age.  And, if I'll be fully honest, I can relate to how you're feeling right now.  I'm a bit nervous starting this new job."

Celestina looked up in surprise, "You are?" she wondered.  "But you said you were excited."  Mom gave Celestina a loving smile.

"And I am," answered Sharon, "But I have so many mixed feelings.  I'm worried I won't be good enough, I'm worried the boss could be a jerk, or that I won't like my co-workers.  So many things can go wrong.  But," she paused before continuing, "There are also good things I'm looking forward to as well.  I'll be able to use the skills I worked hard learning in all these classes, I'll be able to help people, I'll be bringing home a little more money, which means we will be able to go out more often." she said with a smile.  "It's normal to be scared and nervous, it's okay in fact.  But you also have so many good things to look forward to.  Yes you have more classes, but you get to have more classes you enjoy, like music and art.  And even if you don't have any classes with Kailey, you'll always be able to see her because we're neighbors.  If you're having a problem, whether it's classes, mean kids, or even a mean teacher, you can always come to me or Mia.  I just want you to know, even if the bad things do happen, there are also a lot of good thing to come, I want you to remember that."  Celestina thought over what her mom had said.  She did have a few good points.

"I did hear that the music department puts on a school musical every year," said Celestina, feeling a bit more hopeful, "And there's all these fun clubs".  Sharon's eyes lit up.  

"See, there you go!" said Mom. 

"It just seems like so many things are changing at the same time." Celestina admitted, "it just feels so fast, I feel like I can barely take a breath."  

"I know, it sucks, it really does." said Sharon in an understanding tone.  "The funny thing is, is that the only thing that never changes, is that everything changes."

"That's so confusing to think about!" said Celestina laughing.  

"Ah, but that's the truth," said Sharon with a chuckle.  "But you know what else will never change?"

"No what?" asked Celestina.

"I'll always love you," Mom answered warmly, "The same goes for Mia, and for your dad, we will never stop loving you.  You are our child, and nothing will ever change that."  

"Aw mom, I love you too!" she exclaimed.  At that moment, Celestina's cell phone chirped with a new message.  Oops, better silence it before class, she thought, making a mental note.  But seeing who the message was from made her smile.  

"Ooh I got a text from Dad!" shouted Celestina in excitement.  The text read "i made it to studio 13 in london.  about to start recording for the new album.  I miss you already, but i'm happy to be home again.  russ, noodle and murdoc say hi.  say hi to your mum for me.  love you little panda bear."  Celestina smiled at the mention of the special nickname her dad gave her.  Attached with the message was a picture.  It was a group photo of the whole band in what looked like the inside of a recording studio.  Celestina had yet to meet the other band members in person, but she knew who they were from the music videos and interview clips on YouTube, and from a few stories from her dad.  There was Murdoc Niccals, the band's bassist, and probably the biggest troublemaker of the band.  He has an odd scrunched up nose, and green skin and black hair, sorta made Celestina think of the Gangreen Gang from The PowerPuff Girls.  Then there was Russel Hobbs, the drummer, a heavyset black man from New York, with bright white eyes lacking pupils, a result of being possessed by a demon when he was young.  He seemed to be the voice of reason in the band, and when he speaks in interviews, he has a gentle voice.  Then there was Noodle, the guitarist, and the only girl in the band.  Celestina almost didn't recognize her at first, she's so used to seeing her in the music videos back when she was a kid or a young teen, and now she's a beautiful grown up woman!  Noodle was not much older than Celestina is now when the band released their first album, and according to her dad, when they were first looking for a guitarist, Noodle traveled from Japan all the way to England, in a FedEx delivery crate, and gave such an epic explosive guitar solo, that the band ended up giving her the part on the spot.  Celestina likes to imagine that if they were the same age, she and Noodle would be great friends.  And in the middle of the pic was her dad, 2-D himself.  He's tall and wiry, the tallest of all the band members in fact, he has spikey blue hair, and due to two separate car accidents (which were Murdoc's fault), he lost his front tooth, and his eyes were injured, they now look like blank black circles.  Murdoc gave him the nickname 2-D because his black eyes made it look like he had "two dents'' in his head.  Surprisingly, her dad liked that nickname, at this point, the only people who really call him Stu anymore would be Nana and Grandpop, as well as Sharon and Mia.  People would often describe her dad as, well, not very bright, sometimes saying he's thick and calling him names like "space cadet", but Celestina doesn't like any comments like that.  To Celestina, her dad has his own 2-D way of thinking, and his creativity with making music is where he shines the best, and he's got a kind heart.  In the attached picture, all four band mates were smiling (even Murdoc), and that made Celestina happy, seeing her dad and his old friends all back together.  

"That's great!" said Mom, "What does the message say?" 

"Dad said he got to England safely, he's excited to work on songs again, and that he loves and misses me, plus he sent a pic of him and the rest of the band." said Celestina.  "Oh yeah, Dad says hi, and so does Russ, Noodle, and Murdoc."

"Aw that's awesome!" replied Mom, "See, I figured he would make it there okay.  How do the other three look?"

"Murdoc is as green as ever," Celestina replied with a laugh, "Russel pretty much looks the same, but Noodle looks so different!  She's a grown up lady!"

"Yup, I believe it," said mom with a chuckle.  "Oh man, I haven't seen her since you were a baby, she was still a teenager then.  Grown up so fast, both of you." she said with a sigh.  "It's good they seem to be doing well." She paused, thinking, "I got an idea.  We're almost there, why don't we take a few back-to-school pictures of you when we get there, and you can text them back to your dad?"

"Ooh I'd love that!" said a delighted Celestina.  She was quiet for a bit before continuing.  "Hey, I know I was sad before with Dad leaving, but, well, it's also really cool that the whole band is back together and they'll make more songs again."

"I know, I can't wait to hear them," agreed Mom, "but like I said earlier, it's okay to feel sad about missing him.  Just don't forget that there are also a lot of good things to look forward to."

"I understand," answered Celestina.  Mom had just pulled up to the school.  There it was, Orbitz Public School.  Mom was lining up to park at the entrance where the middle school classes were.  While Celestina had seen the school many times when going on errands with her mom's around town, today the building somehow seemed larger and more intimidating.  Her breath slowed down and her hands grew sweaty the closer they got to the entrance.  Mom had found a parking spot and Celestina nervously left the car, carrying her backpack.  

"This place is way bigger than South Lincoln," remarked Celestina, referring to her elementary school.  Sharon gave Celestina's hand a comforting squeeze.

"I know it's scary," said Mom. "But you got this."  Even though Celestina was still nervous, she somehow felt a bit better with her Mom hyping her up.  

"I got this!" repeated Celestina.

"You're the star of your own stage," encouraged Sharon, "You knock 'em dead!"

"I'll knock 'em dead!" repeated Celestina, feeling pumped.  "Oh yeah, let's get that picture taken to send to Dad" she remembered.  Celestina and Sharon walked around to find a spot with good lighting in the courtyard. 

"Ooh, we can take one here," said Celestina, handing the phone to her mom.  She struck an adorable Sailor Moon style peace sign pose in her new uniform with the school in view in the back.  After the picture got taken, she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder.

"Huh," said Celestina, before turning around to see her best friend, "Oh hey there Kailey!"

"Hi Lessie!" greeted Kailey, using the nickname she used for Celestina since they were little.  Kailey was wearing the same purple and white school uniform that Celestina was wearing.  She kept her short brown hair in her natural curls, and her red square glasses framed her blue eyes.  The giggly girls greeted each other with a hug, before realizing that both their moms were standing by with their phones.  

"Smile you two," said Mrs. Green.  Both girls smiled for the camera with their arms around each other.  

"Perfect!" exclaimed Sharon before handing Celestina her phone back.  Celestina then quickly sent both the pics to her dad with a special message.

"So glad you made it home safely Dad.  Mom and Mia say hi back.  Today is me and Kailey's first day of school.  Can't wait to see you again, and maybe meet the rest of the band (even Murdoc lol).  Have fun recording.  Love you lots!  We got this!"

Shortly after she sent it, her dad replied with another quick "I love you", and Kailey got Celestina's attention.

"C'mon Lessie," said Kailey, "We still need to get our schedules."

"Oh my, that's right!" exclaimed Celestina.  "We gotta get going!"  

The girls gave their Moms a quick hug and said goodbye, and headed into the school.  Celestina still felt a bit nervous, but she felt a lot better than this morning.  She headed inside the front doors of the school with Kailey, walking through the purple and white crowd of students, feeling determined to take on the day no matter what happens.  

"Celestina, you're on!" 

[writing-fool]

Hey, real stressed out right now, if you're not too busy can I get the Mlqc boys with a stressed out s/o? I'm in some need of some serotonin, love your work x

mlqc | so will i

Hi hun, I’m very sorry to hear that. I hope you’ll feel better soon. If this doesn’t end up giving you enough serotonin, I have something a little similar up on my blog: here

That said, I think I’m becoming a comfort writer, and I can’t really complain about that. So, here’s a couple of quick and loving headcanons for each boy.

Much love,

R.

Victor

Victor isn’t actually all that cold as a husband anyways (and we ALL know author Ré likes their moody boys just a little gooey) 

but when you’re stressed? oh boy this gentleman is ready to do anything in his power to make you feel better

he was deadass about to buy a whole spa before you stopped him and told him you just need him to hold you

“Oh. I...guess I can do that.” be careful, this man will not let you go until you feel better

as an excellent chef, he’s also The Person to ask when you need comfort food

mac & cheese? you got it. congee? already done. chicken noodle soup? yes yes.

the way to a person’s heart is through their stomach and mine is currently growling

on occasion, he’ll be the cause of your stress, and while he doesn’t want to favour you over his other employees necessarily, he does understand that sometimes you need a break

for once, he’ll be the one pulling you from your work

how does he notice you’re stressed? your reports become dangerously subpar. sorry hun, it’s the truth

if you don’t listen to him and keep working yourself to near death, he’ll just have to use drastic measures

did he swing you over his shoulder? yup.

did you low-key enjoy it because his ass is Immaculate? also yup. 

he knows you like it when he pampers you, so when you’re stressed out, he’ll run you a nice bath with expensive oils and soaps

he’ll wash your back for you, digging his large fingers into those knots at the nape of your neck

afterwards, Vic will brush your hair for you, making sure you’re all cozy in your fluffy robe

he doesn’t like to admit it, but seeing you relax warms his heart and makes up for all the mediocre reports you write

Lucien

our favourite perceptive professor notices right away

i mean, everyone has tells when they start getting stressed out, and Lucien knows yours like the back of his hand

sometimes, he even notices before you do. how does that even happen?

prepare for the endless amounts of chamomile tea he’ll make you drink

Lucien’s very supportive of what you do, but he also reminds you that you need to rest like a filthy hypocrite~

so he’ll jot down cheeky notes in your agenda

14:00 / come have a relaxing walk in the park with me. ~L

7:30 early morning online meeting 8:00 have a lie-in with your favourite scientist. for research purposes, of course

you confront him about it and he’s just staring at you with this innocent look that’s absolutely illegal because you’re not innocent Lucien, not in the slightest i won’t believe it i’m not going to fall for it—damnit i fell for it

“Am I not allowed to take care of my little flower?”

is really good at clearing your schedule

like, suspiciously good

he’ll probably help you with anything you’ve got going on regarding paperwork, and instead of having to do research for a production, a whole stack of highlighted and marked articles will already be on your desk, waiting for you to quickly sift through everything

on a more serious note, he does know a lot about destressing and ways to relax

so he’ll suggest practicing mindfulness together, or something similar 

from experience, these things may sound silly, but breathing exercises or meditation can really just refocus your brain on the tasks at hand to lessen stress. obviously though, this is all very personal

but he knows he can’t love your negative emotions away, so most importantly, he’s always there for you

whether it is to listen to you rant, to give advice or even just to soothingly rub his thumb over your shoulder

Lucien’s always right next to you, and that’s one less thing to worry about

Gavin

Birdcop! lately i’ve been associating him with bnha’s Hawks/Keigo, and i don’t know how to feel about that. but i digress

Gavin’s not the quickest to pick up on your emotions

like, he knows there’s something going on because his mind is filled with you all day, but he can’t really decipher what’s wrong

will just straight up ask you what’s going on, how you’re feeling, etc

i always turn Gavin into this really understanding and communicative, healthy relationship poster boy, but y’all deserve it

“Babe? Are you feeling alright?”

if the answer is no, this man just clears his schedule for a week, or a month, or a whole year Gavin you can’t ignore your responsibilities don’t—

not really, but he does go out of his way to spend more time with you

clocks out earlier, only does missions that require him,...

flies to you the moment he’s got time to spare

does so recklessly. gets caught by some people who, fortunately, are convinced it’s just some very weird humanoid bird. gets reprimanded by STF. does not care.

at home he doesn’t really do more than give you space when you need it, offer a listening ear when you need that. he’s really not doing anything grand, because that’s not really Gavin, but he lets you know that he cares, and that’s good enough.

Gavin will force Minor to look out for you at work, and will stage a freakin’ intervention if you’re getting overworked

“MC, you’re getting kidnapped.” wraps you into a blanket like a burrito and flies home with you in his arms

actually flying seems like a relaxing thing to do, especially at night

when the stars are twinkling, the moon is glowing, and you’re high above the city, all your problems seem just a little smaller

Kiro

the chances of him not knowing you’re feeling bad aren’t very small

he’s obviously very busy, and if he’s overseas...

being concerned that you’re going to be lonely without him like he is without you does make him call you as often as he possibly can

he’s a clingy pupper, what can i say

he picks up the stressed out tone in your voice though, even when you try to hide it

“Oh, Miss/Mr. Chips, you can’t fool me, The Best Actor Of All Time. Now, tell me...are you alright?” imagine him saying that last bit in like a hushed, slightly worried tone. i wouldn’t even be able to lie

he’ll let you complain as long as you want on the phone, even when Savin’s been calling him

he’ll just hide in the closet so he doesn’t get found

when he goes back home, the first thing he does is trap you in a big hug

he refuses to let you go, pouting about how worried he was, and how much better he’ll make you feel

“Because I’m your brightest star after all!”

if he’s free while you’re feeling stressed, for example, when you’re at home together, he’ll do something silly to cheer you up

like dance on the coffee table

yup. that’s why it broke.

i don’t think he’d be too focused on your problems, as in, he doesn’t need to know 100% of what’s going on

Kiro just kind of zooms in on the fact that you’re feeling sad, overwhelmed, stressed out, and he’ll do anything in his power to relieve that feeling

and that’s one of his qualities, to be fair

you’re not going to do stuff like have long chats about your feelings, but he is going to propose doing face masks together to calm down

maybe you’ll play a couple of video games together

at the end of the day, how could you worry when your sun is right next to you?

Shaw

look, i don’t know if you’re of legal drinking age...but Shaw’s coping mechanism is drinking and going out

so the moment you say you feel bad, he’s whipping out the wine, hun

lowkey wants to drag you to the club to make you forget about your problems...but even he realises how inappropriate that type of behaviour is

he’s actually a lot cuter when he’s a little tipsy

“Hm, beautiful.” “What?” “Nothing.”

Shaw’s also a huge diva, which is canon now you guys can’t stop me from making it canon

so you guys will have matching head bands on, face masks, glasses of wine, bottles of nail polish, talking about how horrible life is

you’re venting to him, and he vents back, and you just both come to the conclusion that life sUCKS, work sUCKS and Shaw...doesn’t suck at all

the next morning, you wake up slightly disheveled and a bit disoriented

but you feel significantly lighter

well, not physically, since there’s literally an arm slung around your waist

he doesn’t really change much about his behaviour...but you notice he’s a tad more affectionate

and a lot less mean

like, forehead poking suddenly turned into teasing hair ruffling.

tickling turns into soft kisses in the crook of your neck while you’re cooking

his rough hands intertwine with yours

“Don’t just overwork yourself, stupid.”

ahh, his words don’t match his actions at all

I had very little inspiration for Shaw...but I wanted to get this out ASAP. Feel free to send in any requests!

[captain-emmajones]

Love, Emma (1/7)

(Art by the wonderful @carpedzem​ <3) 

Loosely based on Love, Rosie (2014). 

Killian and Emma are best friends and neighbors. They've always been -- until he leaves for the Navy when his brother dies. When he comes back, nine months later, summer has begun and childhood is ending. Emma can tell something is changed in him, but she doesn't know what. Until she does. He's fallen in love with someone else.

And then, suddenly, they're kissing on her nineteenth birthday. When she asks him to forget their night out, and never talk about it again, Killian thinks she means to tell him she regrets the kiss they exchanged. Except she has no memory of it.

Killian and Emma will dance around each other, until their heads spin and their legs hurt, and everything becomes blurry and it has to stop – for both of their sake.

Title and lyrics are from Taylor Swift’s Mirrorball -- which clearly inspired the mood of this chapter. Had it on loop while writing, so if you feel like it, do try to listen to it while reading! 

A huge thank you to @profdanglaisstuff who beta’d this and gave me her precious thoughts <3 

Friends to Lovers - Mutual Pining - Angst - Fluff - 6000 words - ao3  

Part 2 - AUGUST , Part 3 - HOAX, Part 4 - PEACE, Part 5 - THIS IS ME TRYING, Part 6 - CARDIGAN , Part 7 - INVISIBLE STRING

PART 1 - MIRRORBALL.

Emma clutches Ingrid’s yellow irises against her chest – almost too strongly, she might be bruising the inside of her fingers.

As she stares at the Arrival Board in front of her, she couldn’t care less for her own skin. The beat of her heart is drumming in her ears, and she is pretty certain oxygen is having a very hard time reaching her lungs.

Her right eyelid twitches. She wasn’t able to get any sleep last night, inhabited by a very childlike enthusiasm at the thought of seeing her friend again.

A breath of relief escapes Emma’s throat as the light next to Portsmouth changes color.  

“He has landed,” she whispers to herself, flowers still pressed to her chest.

She is too engulfed in her surroundings to notice she’s damaging the flowers. Ingrid is definitely going to kill her for butchering her favorite bush. She doesn’t care.

He should be here any time now. Her heart skips another beat and really, it’ll be a miracle if she is still standing on her feet by the time he reaches her.

Gazing all around her, she suddenly notices the large window in front of her that gives away a blurry reflection of her body. Emma frowns. One hand reluctantly gives up on the flowers to comb her hair.

You’re combing your hair for Killian, of all people, snorts her inner voice. But Emma is too happy to pay attention to her pride.

He’s been gone for nine months now, since last September. Has been going all around the world with the Navy, and she is proud of him. He did the right thing. (Even it meant leaving her behind.)

Emma has never known what it feels like to miss someone before she missed him. Being brought up as a foster kid, she hasn’t had anyone to miss for the longest time.

She’s bouncing up and down on her feet by now, anxiety shaking her legs.

Ingrid welcomed her in Storybrooke on her twelfth birthday. It was the best thing that ever happened to her. It allowed her to meet the brothers Jones – their orphan neighbors. Liam became Killian’s legal guardian when their father died.

The crowd of people around her brings Emma back to the present. More people gather together, and Emma understands they are all just as eager to see their loved ones as she is.

She cannot wait anymore. Her palm hurt around the cut flowers. Another few minutes go by, and time is painfully slow. She clenches her jaw. Unclenches it. Takes a look at the clock in front of her. Come on, relax, Emma.

And then, there he is.

“Killian!” The excited scream escapes her throat without her consent, a brutal wave of bliss sweeping her off her feet. She doesn’t hold it back.

He hasn’t changed one bit, or he isn’t the same at all. She doesn’t care. She only cares for the sweet hue of blue that meets her eyes and smiles in recognition.

“Emma!” He mirrors her happy scream.

Her heart beams as they run towards each other, and she throws herself intohis arms as soon as she reaches him. (By then, the flowers are to be respectfully buried and missed.)

She wraps her arms around his neck, and her senses are filled by him – his smell, a strong cologne she isn’t familiar with, his skin under her fingers, his tousled black hair that is suddenly very kept, the beginning of a scruff against her cheeks, the strength of his arms around her chest, and when did he get this tall?

“I missed you,” she exhales against his cheek, and holds him tighter. She is very unwilling to let him go now that she has him.

She hears a chuckle against her ear, and it is the most wonderful sound she has heard in those last pitiful nine months.

“I missed you, too, Swan.”

A tear rolls down her cheek at the nickname – it’s been so long and her world has been so bleak without him and she’s never known this kind of homesickness – and she realizes just how wet her eyes have become. She’s never cried from happiness before, but tears are rushing down her cheeks without her consent.

His grip becomes tighter around her waist, and then he slowly lets go. She does not expect him to let go first. She profoundly inhales to chase down a feeling of fear deep within her throat and backs away, her hands still around his neck.

Staring at him after all this time seems to stir something really odd within herself and her breath gets caught in her chest. She didn’t remember him this handsome. Did his nose always look this elegant, and have his lips always been this bright pink, and why are his eyes the color of the sea?

And then she remembers the flowers crushed between her clumsy hands.

One finger tracing the scar on his cheek, she shoves the bouquet against his chest. “That’s for you,” she smiles and her fingers cannot seem to let go of his face.

“Swan,” his eyes are so kind over her gift, she can tell he is really happy about them, although their lives were cut short in their prime, “thank you so much. They are my fav—”

“—favorite, I know! That’s why I got them for you.” And she smiles, harder, her cheeks hurt but she cannot bring herself to stop.

She ignores as well as she can the alarm ringing in her head. Why is he not touching her? What’s wrong? Did she get ugly while he was away? He was always touching her, before.

“Aye,” he grins, and then relief – his palm is over her cheeks and something incredibly tender and innocent blooms in her chest. She sighs, leans in his touch. She’s missed him so much. “Shall we go, Swan?”

She picks up the bag he let go of to hold her while he very gracefully carries the flowers. Surely he wouldn’t have damaged them. Killian is very careful not to damage anything ever.

“Sure thing. Welcome home, Killian,” and before her arm finds his, she’s bold enough to press her lips against his scruffy cheek.

She lingers there longer than intended, longer than what is reasonable and appropriate.

The glint she catches in his eyes when she backs away triggers something painful in her. She swallows it down. (Why did he look embarrassed? There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. They are friends.)

But then, they are walking down the airport like old times, and surely she must be thinking too much – as per usual.

.

She is so glad to have him back, she ignores very meticulously all of the signs telling her Killian might not be as happy to be back. (To be with her.)

She’s holding a watering can while he delicately drops flowers – pink roses – on Liam’s tombstone. She watches him frown, fingers caressing the marble with care and something else – anger.

She swallows. This wound is still very fresh. It’s been a year.

She pours some water on the plant she brought last month – a gorgeous, bright pink bush of flowers, and she quickly puts it down on the grass to hold his hand.

His eyes flash in surprise and she offers him a smile – why is he surprised? Emma never liked to be touched before, before he touched her. She chases down the feeling once again and holds his fingers tighter in her hands. I am not letting you go.

The sun is shining. It’s such a bright summer day. The air is not too warm, just warm enough to feel comfortable wearing a t-shirt, and a gentle breeze that carries summer smells brushes their cheeks.

It was also a wonderful summer day – the day Liam died. Her brows furrow. Last summer had been the best weather they had had in Maine for years.

“He would be proud of you,” she whispers, desperate to make him feel better.

She is aware there is not much she can do to help him fight this darkness that swallowed him alive. She is still willing to try.

“Would he?” He echoes back, and she does not recognize the bitterness she hears in his voice.

For the first time since she has known Killian Jones, Emma feels like she’s missing something. A piece of the puzzle to understand him. She feels like perhaps she does not know him as well as she thinks.

She would have taken a step back with anyone else. But with him, she playfully bumps her shoulder against his, fighting back her inner instincts. He got tall, and bulkier – only in a good way.

“Of course. You joined the Navy to make him proud, didn’t you?”

For the first time in ages, she really is asking him a question.

He’s been back for a month now, and his scruff is prominent over his face. She likes it. He looks manly. She thinks he knows he looks manlier.

She still looks like a teenage girl, with her long blonde hair and her freckles and her frail body, and she still wears sneakers with her dresses (when she wears them). And he looks so much older.

“Aye, I guess so. Thank you, Swan,” he smiles at her, his hand brushing her cheek, but somehow he is miles away.

She presses her lips against each other, firmly. There are pebbles in her belly. He put them there.

“Anytime, Killian,” she smiles, and in a desperate attempt to bring him back to her, she presses another kiss to his cheek.

He steps away quicker than she expects him. A cold breath reaches her lips in spite of the agreeable weather.

Another smile. She’s suffocating.

.

“Okay, so then after dinner we could finally go to a club!” She’s standing in the middle of her room, arms swung up towards the ceiling of her childhood bedroom.

Killian is chewing on a strawberry bubblegum, lying on her bed. He hasn’t let go of his phone all afternoon.

“As you wish, Swan. It’s your birthday, after all.”

Can’t he look a bit more involved? A very childish anger burns her tongue as her hands find her hips in disapproval.

“Exactly! Which is why I’m going to ask you to look a little bit more enthusiastic, Killian Jones.”

She doesn’t mean to sound this harsh but she does anyway. At least, that gets him to look up from his phone, and she sees a glint of regret pass in his eyes. A smile finally cracks his face.

“You’re right, Swan. Forgive me. I’m just a bit concerned by something but don’t worry, I’m all ears now.”

She hates herself for how quickly she kneels in front of him, on her pink carpeted floor that she hates but Ingrid tried her best to make her feel at home.

Even more for the way she grabs his hands, pouring her soul into his eyes.

“I can tell you’re not really here, Killian.” She pauses, watches as he raises one eyebrow – it isn’t what she expected but it isn’t mean either, “And I want you to know there’s nothing you cannot tell me.”

She’s so naïve. She means every word.

He nods. Her eyes look down at his lips. She wants to kiss him. But she cannot – not when he’s still miles away from her, still stuck in Portsmouth.

“I know that, love,” something blooms in her chest. He hasn’t called her love in a year now, “Don’t worry, I’m quite alright.”

He lies. It’s the first time he’s lied to her about something important since she’s known him.

Fear captures her heart. It’s green, and viscous, and it drips on everything she holds dear.

He’s slipping between her fingers. She’s losing him. She cannot lose him.

.

She’s the one lying on his bed while he takes a shower when she sees her message. She doesn’t mean to, really. But his phone vibrates on his bedside table, and she only glances at it out of curiosity.

She sees it. M. Who is M?

She rolls on her belly, glances at the closed door of his bathroom, and reads the message, heart drumming in her ears.

“I know, baby. Rumple is driving me crazy too. But it will all be worth it, soon. I promise. Just hold on to our love.”

Something rings in her ears, it’s painful, it spreads from her liver and all the way up to her mouth, and she cannot see anymore, and her birthday is tomorrow and he is in love with someone else.

It takes her a lot of strength then, to roll back on her back, to try and make herself comfortable again between his pillows and his smell – in spite of the rigidity in her bones and this feeling of utter disgust in her mouth. She holds on to the silver bracelet around her wrist - the one Killian offered Emma for her eighteenth birthday, last year. 

So many questions bounce in her mind, but one fact absolutely obliterates her. He doesn’t want to confide in her anymore. He is clearly struggling with this Rumple, and this M, and he doesn’t want her help.

The bathroom door swings open and steam invades his bedroom as he steps out, wet hair and big grin. She knows the grin will remain but will become a mere theatrical performance once he reads the message. She doesn’t want him to read it. She wants to keep him to herself.

“Ready for that ice-cream, Swan?” he attacks right away, all charms out. When did he get this charming? When did he become aware of his charms?

“Always ready for some rocky road,” she answers back, and she’s surprised to hear her own voice calm and collected.

Perhaps she is growing up, too. She used to be a terrible liar. But that’s what they do, now, apparently.

His smell fills her lungs, and it’s the one of her childhood – peppermint, and something muskier, and him.

.

“Emma, you won’t forget to take care of the garden –” exclaims Ingrid as they’re about to leave her ice-cream shop.

She squints her eyes. Fuck. Exactly what she wanted to avoid.

“Sure thing, Ingrid,” she mumbles, before taking Killian’s arm in her hers and guiding them both out of her shop.

Emma swallows a scream of injustice. That’s her punishment for stealing the flowers for Killian.

“Flowers are not meant to be picked. They’re meant to be cared for, admired, but not picked, Emma.”

Emma didn’t tell her what’s the use of having flowers if you cannot offer them to someone you love but she did stare at her with a lot of defiance.

Rocky Road has never tasted this wrong in her mouth, as they sit outside of Granny’s, on the warm concrete. It’s burning her naked thighs, but it still doesn’t suck as much as the way Killian stares at his phone – just like she expected him to. He’s waiting for M to answer him.

Emma wants to tell him he can confide in her but clearly he doesn’t want to. And it’s one of the strongest pain she’s ever felt – it’s a wicked, wicked pain that spreads from her heart to her pride and slays every inch of her good feelings.

She keeps licking her ice-cream, eyes locked to the road.

Her birthday is tomorrow. On the twenty-first, the first day of summer. She waits for summer all year, waits for the special moments she knows she’ll spend with Killian.

Only, this year, Killian doesn’t seem as happy to spend them with her.

Thankfully, Ingrid’s Rocky Road is still the best thing in town.

.

As she gets ready for her birthday party, Emma figures out she has nothing to lose. She decides to play all of her cards.

She’s staring at herself in the mirror while pop music plays in the background.

She hates her round cheeks and her slender body that refuses to give her the big chest boys seem to be so fond of. She’s frowning as she examines her features meticulously.

She usually doesn’t wear makeup, if not for a bit of mascara. It’s the only thing she’s comfortable with wearing on her face. As for her clothes, Emma is a jeans and sneakers kind of gal. Her only accessory is Killian's bracelet - and it doesn't count, because by now it is part of her. 

She didn’t use to mind. It’s who she is. But since she’s seen M’s contact photo – she really didn’t mean to intrude, it just appeared when she tried to call him – Emma has become more self-conscious. (Terribly so).

M has long back curls and red lips, and she’s a woman. Not a girl like her. Her eyes are blue but they’re not timid, they shine sure and knowing and her smile is confident.

Emma hates her freckles. She looks like she’s twelve.

Tentatively, she brushes her blond eyebrows – just like she’s seen Ingrid do. It doesn’t make much of a difference and she muffles a dramatic sigh, frowning.  

Killian will never find her pretty ever again.

That night, she also tip toes to Ingrid’s room to borrow some lady-like perfume. Emma only likes to use a very natural ginger fragrance – her smell but a bit better.

She winces. She hates the too-sweet, too-flowery smell that wraps itself around her body. Whatever. Killian must like that.

She’s nineteen tonight. The only teen year left of her life. She better make the most of it. (If Killian does not tell her about his mysterious girlfriend who’s far too beautiful for her to compete with, then she can’t really be doing something wrong, can she?)

She eyes the different dresses spread on the pink blanket of her bed. (Ingrid is very committed to pink.)

At her feet, the only pair of heels she could find in her wardrobe. They are small, black squared heels but really they’ll do the trick. They will have to at least.

Hands on her hips, she settles for the pink, light dress. It’s not her favorite color, but the fabric is very soft and fits her small waist like a glove. The lower part of the dress is flowy and ends well above her knees. Emma knows her legs are long and toned and she wants to show them off tonight.

To finish the look, she ties her hair in a high ponytail to get her hair off her face. Ingrid has always told her to.

As she eyes herself in her mirror, she thinks she looks pretty. She smiles at her reflection, her earrings glinting.

She glances at the big clock on her wall. 8:15. Killian should be here anytime, now.

Her heart beats faster, thinking of him.

She smiles, grabs her bag and goes down the stairs of Ingrid’s house. It already smells like dinner time, and it should comfort her, but it does not. She catches Ingrid’s surprised eyes in the kitchen.

“What do you think?” Emma asks, and it’s the first time she asks for Ingrid’s opinion on her appearance, but well –

Ingrid lets go of the tomato she is expertly cutting to stare at her. Her mouth slightly opens. And Emma swears she sees something very gentle sparkle in her green eyes.

“I think you look beautiful, Emma.” Ingrid’s smile is very tender over her figure, and something weird clenches Emma’s heart.

She simply smiles back. “Thanks, Ingrid. Don’t wait for me tonight, Killian and I are going to party!”

.

She almost runs to the door when she hears him knock. She tries to remain as composed and adult as possible, and instead calmly walk there. (Her feet are already killing her and her legs are stiff. This is going to be hell.)

She opens the door to discover him in a white shirt and black suit, and with a bouquet of yellow irises.

“Those ones I did not steal from Ingrid,” he smiles, his eyes glinting over her figure, and she could swear he likes what he sees, and her toes curl in her shoes and a very sweet heat invades her face, “Happy birthday, Emma,” he grins, and then she cannot hold herself back and wraps her arms around his neck.

She loves how her feet leave the floor for just a moment, as he spins her around, and she feels like they’re immortal.

“Thank you, Killian”, she murmurs against his cheek, presses a long kiss there, and intertwines their fingers together.

She thinks her crush is showing but really, as he glances at her body in her dress and climbs back to her face – a really lovely pink hue over his cheeks, and perhaps is pink not such a bad color – she doesn’t care.

She’s quick to put down the flowers on Ingrid’s kitchen counter, “Please take care of them!”, before disappearing in the night with her friend.

.

They pay all due respect to their Birthday tradition and go eat a grilled cheese at Granny’s. Granny’s give them a knowing look as they sit on the terrace outside. The old woman eyes Killian’s hand on the small of Emma’s back just as Emma feels it sending sparks up her spine.

They look like a couple, she’s sure of it, and the thought makes her feel giddy.

As they sit outside, by the lanterns and the Storybrooke sign, it feels like Killian never left.

“Remember when you were thirteen and I had to get you out of a bloody bin, Emma, just because you didn’t want to face Ingrid—”

“Hey!” Her scream isn’t really one and she’s waving an onion ring at him, “It’s my birthday, be nice to me.” And she rolls her eyes and he waggles his brows, and everything is right in the world.

His phone is still on the table, but face down. He is all eyes on her and she is very much pleased. (Even when it rings, once, twice, until Killian turns it off and she sighs in relief.)

“You’re very beautiful tonight, Swan,” he tells her as she finishes her grilled cheese.

And she hates him for saying so when her hands are wrapped around the greasy sandwich, and there’s probably cheese in the corners of her mouth, and strings of hair have fallen in front of her eyes – but she smiles.

“Thank you,” something warm and sunny blooms in her chest, “you’re not too bad yourself.”

She sees his eyes go wider, and she realizes he mustn’t have expected to say something back.

She keeps smiling. She feels an unfamiliar confidence take hold of her, straighten her spine and push her to grab his hand, on the table.

He glances at their knuckles but he doesn’t back away, and that must be good.

Finally, he waggles his brows and lets a small chuckle escape his lips. “Eat up, Swan. Before your favorite meal gets cold.”

She thinks then that she’s been touching him with her greasy fingers, and clearly that’s a mistake M wouldn’t have made, but… but he didn’t seem to mind. And his cheeks are red again. And that must be good, right?

.

They walk down to the only club in town – one down the beach. Storybrooke is a small town, but their fake IDs should be enough to get in.  

Her feet are quite literally killing her, so when Killian offers that they walk in the sand instead, she happily complies. (She thinks he saw her suffering.)

It’s a full moon above them, and its reflection on the tender waves that come crashing at their feet is breathtaking. He is walking slightly ahead of her, but just now she doesn’t mind.

A sea breeze tangles her hair. She is happy.

“Hey, Swan,” he finally turns around to face her, and he is very handsome, and she realizes he has been carrying a plastic bottle in his bag. “Want some?” he asks her in a cheeky tone.

Her heart skips a beat in her chest. It’s not the first time Killian and she have gotten drunk together – and usually it ends with both of them asleep in one of their beds and a terrible headache the next morning.

(Killian’s always been her only true friend. Sure, she’s sympathized with Mary Margaret and Ruby at school – but they don’t get her like he does.)

“Hell yes,” she exclaims and stretches her hand to grab the bottle. “Cheaper to get drunk now than in the club.”

“Aye, that’s the spirit, Swan.”

She guesses he must have gotten drunk several times, this past year, without her. She figures he is grown up in all of the possible meanings of the word. It scares her, to think he’s going on without her. That’s he is already ahead of her, and she cannot quite catch up. She probably never will.

The bottle’s neck meets her lips, and it’s a pretty well done mix of vodka and fruit juice that she tastes against her tongue, and she wishes she were kissing him instead.

She takes several big gups, wincing as alcohol burns her throat and abandons a pleasing warmth in her chest.

“Careful, Swan. This isn’t only fruit juice.” She wipes her mouth as she hands him the bottle over.

“Oh come on, Killian. It’s my birthday, let me have some fun.”

She hates the concern she hears in his voice. He isn’t her big brother. She can take care of herself.

She watches as he drinks at his turn, watches as his Adam’s apple goes up and down. They used to be so similar, both of them all slender bodies, and now he is a man, and his shoulders are wide and his back strong, and she isn’t quite sure she is a woman yet.

She waits for him to put back the bottle in his bag and grabs his hand.

“Come on, let’s have some fun!”

And then she’s twirling around him, laughing brightly, and only stops when her body reminds her she just drank vodka and this will end badly if she keeps pushing her limits. Out of breath, she wraps her arms around his neck to settle herself, and his arms come to meet her waist.

The sea still whimpers behind them, but she only sees the soft waves in his eyes and the soft smile he dedicates to her.  

There is a sparkle, in his gaze, a question at the tip of his tongue – but he will not ask it.

She wants him to.

Her fingers trace the shape of his jaw as she swallows, a small smile on her face.

“Dizzy, are we, Swan?” he asks her, and she realizes just how close their faces have gotten as his breath caresses her face.

She shakes her head. “Not dizzy at all. Happy.” She calmly exhales, licks her lips.

He will not kiss her. She wants him to. But he won’t. Because of her, she’s sure now. But, the night isn’t over.

He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and steps back to let go. She misses the heat of his body immediately, can’t fight back the frown that takes over her features.

“I’m glad, Swan.” Why does he sound so mature? She hates it.

A childish anger shakes her heart and she feels cold. He left childhood behind and he didn’t bother to tell her he was leaving. He didn’t bother. And now she’s stuck in this weird limbo, not a child anymore but not an adult either, not really, not like M, and he isn’t with her anymore.

She shakes her head to chase her thoughts away.

“Right, let’s get in.”

It’s still pretty early, and there aren’t a lot of people queuing in front of The Forbidden Fruit (the name never fails to make her cringe). This allows Killian and Emma to display their fake ID’s quite quickly.

Killian plays the part awfully well, although they’ve downed the entire bottle of vodka before stepping in. Emma is very focused on not looking completely hammered, as Killian would put it. Girls get in easier, it’s a known fact.

The bouncer clearly knows they are underage but the forgeries are good. Killian got them done during his Navy year. And he is savagely challenging the tall, sturdy guy to prove those are fakes, one eyebrow raised.

How can he look this sober? It’s unfair.

“Fine, get in, kids,” mumbles the bouncer, and Emma is sober enough to muffle a scream of joy inside her palm.

Killian takes her hand in his as they enter the club. They let go of their bags in one corner – I’m not about to pay two dollars to have my stuff kept by people I don’t bloody know.

When they turn towards the dance floor, neon lights seize their eyes as pop music shakes the walls.

Killian turns to face her, smiling brightly. “Ready to party, Swan?”

She nods vigorously, her heart beaming. “Hell yes!”

He takes her hand again and it’s so easy to forget everything as they make their way between the swarm of young adults dancing. They swirl together, spin, fly some more. They are both soon panting and sweating but it does not keep them from continuing to jump around.

Emma thinks this is it, the great, terrible happiness she’s heard about her entire life. It must be this beat in her heart, this strong pulse of life inside of her, as Killian holds her hands and swings with her.

They dance for what seems to be only a few minutes – except almost an hour goes by – and Killian glances urgently at the watch on his wrist before pulling her towards him.

“Let’s go on the rooftop before midnight,” he yells into her ear, and it sounds like he’s whispering.

She nods again, smiling brightly, and presses a napkin against her forehead. She tries to catch her breath, stuck in some liminal space, but Killian is still very energetic and drags her along with him towards the stairs.

She finds her legs trembling under her weight and to be quite honest, the room might only be spinning in her head. He must feel her struggle because he turns to face her on reaching the stairs, and his hold is very firm on her hand as he secures his grip around her waist. She thinks she smiles then, and they climb up together.

“Since when do you hold your alcohol so well?” she asks, boldly, and it really isn’t the kind of question she would have asked had she been sober.

Purely because it echoes the year they spent apart. And they haven’t talked about it, at all. And she’d be damned before she opened up to him when he hasn’t opened up to her.

“Well, you’ve got to, in the Navy, love.” It’s the second time he’s called her love since he’s been back. Her heart smiles.

The vibrant sea breeze that welcomes them outside nearly swipes Emma off her feet. Or perhaps it is the vodka. Either way, it’s a plausible excuse to grab him again.

From the corner of her blurry vision, she sees Killian set a timer to midnight on his phone. It’s funny, how the music from the club sounds like a very muffled sound and the only thing she hears now is her own heartbeat.

She’s still out of breath. She inhales deeply, and then bows down to him. “May I have this dance?” she asks him, eyes shining with mischief.

He chuckles, and it’s a wonderful sound. “Anything for you, Swan.”

There must be some synchronicity in the universe because then a much gentler song resonates, and it sounds like her teenage years and she cannot believe childhood is already over.

They swirl together, his warm palm in hers, and her arm is wrapped around his neck, and he still smells good after all their dancing and it’s unfair. She hopes she doesn’t stink.

Another swirl, another turn, and she’s back in his arms again, and nothing ever felt this right. She thinks he must feel it, how well their bodies fit together, how easy it is to be together.

Before she knows it, she’s staring at his lips and she thinks he’s staring at hers too, and no air suddenly reaches her lungs and the timer rings painfully.

A smile spreads across his face. “Happy birthday, Emma.” He murmurs, says it with a lot of caution and care and affection and that other word she’s scared of.

She grins, brightly, vividly.

And then, she stands up on her tip-toes, and before they are both aware of it, she kisses him. Melts into his mouth, muffles a whisper of contentment against his lips, eyes firmly closed, just in case he pushes her away.

He doesn’t.

He kisses her back, his arms wrapping tightly around her, and she swears in that moment something explodes inside of her. She never believed in butterflies. She does now. A swarm has invaded her belly.

Her hands are in his hair, while his roam back and forth between her waist and her shoulder blades, and she cannot help but notice how expert his movements are against her body when she is still shaking with emotions.

And then he pulls back, and he’s all disheveled hair and rosy cheeks, and then, and then – she falls.

To the ground.

.

A ray of sunshine falls on her closed eyelids. When she wakes up, her hand is spread over her face and her mouth wide open. She groans, whimpers, groans some more and finally opens very hesitant eyes.

What the hell.

A terrible headache says hello to her. It isn’t fair.

The first thing she notices is Killian’s hand around her waist. In spite of the pain, that does make her smile. The next is that she isn’t home but in Killian’s childhood home (the one Liam and he inherited when they lost their father).

She slowly, very carefully, turns her face towards the nightstand. Of course. He left paracetamol and water there and a small note: “For my dearest idiot. Love, Killian”. It is set next to a picture of her and Killian, from middle school. She leans forward, tries her best not to wake him up in the process, and grabs the bottle. She drinks avidly, trying to hydrate the desert that is now her body.

A small chuckle echoes behind her. “You alright, Swan?” mumbles a voice, still very full of sleep.

She turns to face him, an apologetic smile on her lips. “Except for a ferocious headache, pretty good, yeah.”

He’s smiling at her, eyes still puffy and there is a very clear pillow mark in the middle of his forehead that makes him look like a wizard, and she swears he’s never smiled at her this way before.

And then shame circles her throat as memories come back to her mind.

She really made a show of herself last night, didn’t she? She hopes he doesn’t hate her.

She hands him the water bottle, and straightens her back in the bed to get some composure.

“Hey Killian?”

“Mmm?”

“Let’s forget all about last night, ‘kay? I was drunk and I’m sure I was awful...”

She hears him gulp loudly beside her. Her eyes twitch. Oh, it must be worse than she thought. Guilt swallows her. What has she done?

“All… all about it?” he repeats, and she swears his cheeks have become redder.

Her hands come to the blanket over her body, hold it tighter against her to protect her.

“Yeah, everything. I mean, it would have never happened if we hadn’t downed that damn vodka just the two of us.”

She tries to shrug it off, rolls her eyes really hard to seal the deal, but really, she is so ashamed.

He swallows beside her, frowns. “Alright Swan, if that is your wish, then I—”

“—Oh yeah,” she cuts him, and she’s throwing her legs out of the bed, “—I’m really sorry Killian, it won’t happen again.”

As he stares at her with what she thinks is some sort of judgement, the thought that she might be forgetting something does slip her mind.

But only for a few seconds, and then it’s gone forever.

[noona-clock]

A Familiar Face ✨🏰 - Part 2

Genre: Harry Potter!AU

Pairing: Eric Nam x You (Female!Reader)

Warnings: None

Part 1, 2, 3, 4 | Words: 2,264

“Friday,” you sighed to yourself just after the last student left your classroom. It wasn’t quite the end of the school day yet, but it was the second-best time of the day: Lunchtime.

One thing you hadn’t enjoyed about being a student here was meal times. The Great Hall had always been full of people, and there was almost nothing you enjoyed more than a quiet meal to yourself -- or, at the very most, only a few close friends with you.

That, obviously, was never the reality at Hogwarts.

So, now that you were a teacher and could legally use magic to apparate food from the kitchen to wherever you were, you took lunch in your classroom every single weekday.

And it was marvelously lovely.

As the sounds of shuffling footsteps died off out in the hallway, all of the students making their way down to the Great Hall for their own lunch, you reached for your wand lying on your desk, preparing to conjure up a cornish pasty with some mashed potatoes and gravy. ...And a treacle tart for dessert. It was Friday, after all!

With a swirl of your wand and a silent incantation, the food popped out of thin air, appearing on your desk where your wand had just been.

But before you could sit down and tuck in, you heard a soft and relieved-sounding chuckle.

“There you are,” a familiar and heart-pounding voice said.

Your eyes quickly shifted to your doorway, landing on a very exhausted-looking Eric.

“I’ve been looking for you all week during lunch,” he admitted as he took a step inside. “Don’t know why I didn’t think to look here...”

Oh, dear.

Eric... had been looking for you? All week? Like, specifically seeking you out?

The two of you had become friends this past week, ever since that first staff meeting before the students arrived, but you never imagined he would actively look for you.

“Oh!” you said breathlessly, unable to hide your surprise. “I -- Well, I -- I tend to eat in my classroom during the week. It’s just... quieter. There are less... people.”

Eric had taken a couple of more steps into your room as you’d spoken, but when he heard your last words... he paused. His face fell just a little -- not too much, but enough for you to notice.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I didn’t -- I’ll leave you alone, then, I’m so --”

“No!” you interrupted as you shook your head and moved toward him. “No, it’s fine. Please, of course, you’re more than welcome to join me.”

Eric paused, and even though he wasn’t standing all that close to you, you could tell he was looking adorably hesitant at the moment.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you nodded. And, to reassure him even more, you waved your wand and conjured up an extra chair for him to sit in. “What would you like to eat?”

Eric let out a soft exhale, his lips curving into a grin as he began walking toward you again. “What are you having?” he asked.

“Cornish pasty and mashed potatoes.”

“Hmm...” he hummed, arriving at the chair you’d summoned for him. “I think I’ll have the same.”

You nodded once before waving your wand yet again, lifting your shoulders pridefully when another plate appeared on your desk.

“I added a treacle tart, too,” you explained with a shy smirk. “It’s Friday, and we have almost survived our first week of teaching for the year. We deserve it.”

Eric simply let out a whew and shook his head.

Your brows raised curiously, your lips curving down into a concerned frown as you slid into your chair. “That bad?” you asked gently.

He nodded slowly, shooting you a look which clearly said ‘yeah, that bad.’

“Is it the kids?”

“No, not the kids,” he told you. “Well. Not most of the kids. There are a few --”

“Trust me, I know exactly who you’re talking about,” you chuckled.

“It’s just... a lot more work than I realized.”

A sympathetic sigh escaped your lips, and you almost reached out to place a comforting hand on his arm... but you stopped yourself before you worked up the nerve.

“It gets easier,” you assured him. “A little... I guess you really just get used to it. But the beginning of the school year is always the hardest.”

“That’s nice to hear,” Eric murmured before picking up his fork and digging into his meal.

You took a few bites yourself, eating in silence until you came up with an idea.

“If you want... I have the perfect place to go to help ease stress,” you said hopefully, eyebrows raised just slightly. “I mean, it helps me, at least.”

Eric glanced up at you in-between bites and said, “Yeah? What is it?”

You took a breath, preparing to answer him, but... “It’s a surprise,” you said instead.

“A surprise?” Eric smirked.

You nodded, your lips curving into a grin. “A surprise. Can you meet me in front of the teacher’s wing at... 10pm?”

Eric jerked his head back slightly in wonderment. “That late?”

“I want to lessen the chance of us running into any students,” you explained. “They’re the reason for our stress in the first place, so it’s better if it’s a completely student-free experience.”

“Ah, gotcha,” Eric chuckled. “That makes sense.”

The two of you ate the rest of your meal talking about nothing in particular -- not work, though. You hadn’t seen each other a whole lot during the week since you’d both been busy with your classes, so you took this opportunity to talk about what you’d been up to since graduating from Hogwarts.

When the clock in your classroom warned you that students would be here in ten minutes (a very handy charm you’d invented and passed on to the rest of your fellow professors), Eric stood and waved his wand to clean up his plate and utensils.

“Thank you,” he said with a soft, very friendly grin. “That was really nice.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied. You could feel your cheeks warming, but you still added, “You can join me anytime, really. I don’t mind one person’s company.”

“Okay,” Eric chuckled. And before he turned to leave, he said, “Tonight? 10pm?”

You nodded, your stomach already filling with anxious butterflies even though that wasn’t going to be for another nine hours or so.

“All right, see you then,” he said, lifting one hand in a wave before turning and heading out the door.

Since you were you and you felt like you were late if you got anywhere on time, you were waiting outside of the teacher’s wing at 9:50pm that night, trying to calm your racing heart as you clutched your wand in your hands.

...Now that you were here, arriving ten minutes early had clearly been a bad idea. Ten minutes was more than enough time to overthink everything and become even more nervous than you already were.

Oh, god, you should just turn around and go back to your room, shouldn’t you?

You were honestly just about to -- your foot was even lifted up ever so slightly so you could start walking back to your room. But then Eric turned the corner, his face kind of lighting up when he saw you.

And, boy, did that make you feel wonderful.

You had no expectations that Eric had or would have any sort of romantic feelings for you, but it was enough to just know the guy. Enough to be even somewhat friends with him. 

Enough to be someone who made him smile.

“So, what’s this special secret surprise of yours?” he asked in hushed tones when he got close enough to you, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“Come with me,” you grinned.

You then turned on your heel and began making your way to the other end of the castle. Your feet were quiet as you guided Eric through the corridors and up staircases, finally leading him to --

“The astronomy tower?” he asked, brow furrowed as he gazed up at your final destination.

“I find it calming,” you explained a bit bashfully, hoping he didn’t think you were totally lame. “And seeing the stars always reminds me that the universe is so massive, so how big are my problems, truly?”

When Eric turned his expression to look back at you, you saw immediately that he didn’t think you were totally lame. He actually seemed... impressed.

“I’ve never thought of that before, but it totally makes sense,” he said with a soft grin.

“You Gryffindors need to learn how to use your head more,” you teased.

“If we did, we would hardly be Gryffindors now, would we?”

“This is very true,” you conceded. “You have a very good point.”

Eric simply beamed at you, and you wasted no time in turning away and heading up the winding stairs to the tower. Your heart was absolutely no match for one of Eric’s beaming smiles.

“Oh, wow,” Eric breathed as the two of you came to stand at the railing of the tower. His head was tilted up toward the night sky, and even just glancing at him made your lips curve into a giddy smile and your heart skip a couple of beats.

“Imagine when it’s not so cloudy,” you said. You were a bit disappointed that the sky wasn’t as clear as it could’ve been, but you could still see more than a few stars. Enough to impress your guest, at least.

“No one else really comes here?” he asked, still very much in awe of his surroundings.

You shrugged, bending one knee and letting your toe tap on the tiled floor behind you. “I haven’t come across anyone.”

“You’re so right, though,” he said as he bent to rest his forearms on the railing. “It’s so... I’m not even thinking about whatever it was that was stressing me out this week.”

“See?” you chuckled, leaning over and nudging him gently with your shoulder. “I told you.”

A smirk tugged at one corner of Eric’s lips as he shifted his gaze to look at you rather than at the sky. “You realize you’re now at risk of running into someone up here, right? I’m pretty sure I’ll want to come up here as much as I possibly can.”

Your cheeks positively burned at the way he was looking at you, and you simply shrugged again. “That’s all right.”

But what wasn’t all right...?

It was starting to rain.

Those clouds in the sky had grown darker, and they were now sprinkling water droplets onto the ground.

“Don’t worry,” you assured Eric preemptively. “I have a backup plan.”

“...Why didn’t I have more Ravenclaw friends back in school? You guys could’ve helped me out of a lot of tight spots,” he said with a chuckle.

“To be honest, most of us probably would’ve come up with a plan to help and just kept it to ourselves so we could watch you suffer.”

Eric paused for a few moments before he burst out laughing. “What?! There’s no way you’re that diabolical.”

“Oh, no, I’m not,” you confirmed as you began to lead him back to the staircase. “But some of us are. We’re not Hufflepuffs for a reason.”

Eric followed you back down the spiral stairs and into the castle, keeping quiet until you approached your next destination.

“Ah, the Room of Requirement,” he murmured, standing back as you began to pace in front of the door three times. “Clever. Does it turn into the astronomy tower or something?” 

“Patience is a virtue,” you reminded him.

“Okay, to throw your earlier words back at you, I wasn’t a Hufflepuff for a reason.”

You burst out laughing as you passed the door for the third time, watching as it magically shifted into a sleek, bronze door.

“Touché ,” you nodded. “Come on, let’s go.”

You opened the newly-transformed door, holding it so Eric could follow you into the small, dark room with a domed ceiling. In the middle of the floor were some of the largest and fluffiest pillows you’d ever seen. Apparently, Eric couldn’t help himself because he jogged over there and practically jumped onto the pillow pile, landing with a soft but delighted ooph.

I mean, you had to admit: the pillows were extremely inviting.

You held yourself back, though, walking over and bending down to sit quietly on top of the plush mountain. Eric was already laying on his back, cradling the back of his head in his palms with his arms bent, elbows pointing out in opposite directions.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asked as you cautiously laid down beside him -- but not too close.

Instead of answering, you simply lifted your arm and pointed your wand toward the ceiling.

“Astrellus Lumos,” you murmured.

Immediately, a bright light shone from the tip of your wand, and a replica of the night sky was projected onto the dome above you.

You heard Eric let out a gasp, and you grinned goofily to yourself.

“That is awesome,” he marveled quietly. “I’ve never heard of that spell before.”

“I made it up,” you admitted, feeling shy but also quite proud of yourself.

Eric was quiet for a few moments, but then you felt him turn his head to look at you.

“Remember earlier this week when you said you weren’t cool?”

“Yes,” you answered with a breath of a chuckle.

“You’re such a liar!” he grinned, his tone nothing short of admiring and playful at the same time. “I honestly think you’re one of the coolest people I’ve ever met.”

You simply rolled your eyes instead of answering, and you let out a soft sigh as you settled further into the pillows.

There was no earthly way you would ever let this show on the outside, but on the inside... you were dying.

You were fairly sure you could live off this happiness for the rest of your life. Just knowing that Eric Nam thought you were one of the coolest people he’d ever met?

You had no idea what you’d done to deserve this luck, but you weren’t going to question it.

At least, not right now.

Part 3

[dibleopard-writes]

Make This Chaos Count

Fandom: The Island (2005) Characters: Bernard Merrick, Gandu Three Echo/Alpha, others Rating: Teen for language and brief violence Warnings: Terminal Illness, brief description of symptoms, murder, shooting, brief description of blood, infrequent strong language, CHARACTER DEATH, hospitals, mention of a car accident Additional tags: Angst, fluff and angst, cloning, pre-canon, canon compliant, technically

Word Count: 14,074 Also on Ao3 and Wattpad

Summary: Is it really stealing if you’re taking back something that was stolen from you in the first place? In the wake of his partner’s death, Bernard Merrick thinks not.

Watching the film isn’t really necessary since this is just the lead-up, but you should watch it anyway cause I’m carrying the fanbase on my back.

The study had an absent solemnity to it that Bernard Merrick wallowed in easily. He watched his own fingers tap against the red leather of the sofa. Tap. Tap. Tap. Along in perfect rhythm with the infernal ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

“Stop sulking,” said Steve, who had carefully selected a can of inexpensive beer from a cooler of vintage whiskeys. “Hey, at least I won't leave you a widower.”

Bernard glared at him. He had been hoping to leave the question of their marriage for another day. Still not legal, even after their decade of waiting. Hopefully they would get the opportunity soon enough. He had half a mind to march to the capital and write the bill himself. Steve never quite cared as much about that kind of thing. ‘I mean the tax thing would be nice but really it's just a piece of paper, right?’ He’d said so many times before, when there wasn't yet a deadline hanging over their heads. Bernard would nod, ‘Right’, and wonder if either of them were qualified to select wedding flowers. It was the small things.

“You know drinking will make it worse?” He unlocked his phone to the webpage he had found in the hospital lift. For the tenth time in three hours, his eyes glided over the concise little paragraphs, taking in none of them.

Steve rolled his eyes. “I'm drinking to cope, Bernie.”

“According to the NHS, less than fifty percent of people with cirrhosis live for five more years when they keep drinking.”

“Well then I'd better get all of my living done now, then, hadn't I?” He flopped down next to Bernard, threw one hand over his eyes. “And getting blackout drunk is first on my to-do list.”

Bernard sighed, knowing a losing battle when he saw one, and wrapped an arm around Steve. They still had time.

Months later, in that same room, papers lay on every available surface as well as many supposedly unavailable surfaces. At his desk, Bernard had a sizable stack of documents balanced on his lap and was holding a file in one hand, typing and scrolling with the other. So far his computer had coped with keeping fifty-seven tabs open with only minimal lag. Most were various healthcare websites, some for hospitals nearby, others for the most successful hospitals, and the rest for the best options in their price range. Tinny hold-music was playing from underneath one of several empty mugs; the last few days had seen him drink coffee and tea indiscriminately and, in one memorable instance, simultaneously.

“Man!” There was a crash as several thick hardbacks fell from their perch on the stair banisters outside. Steve’s hand emerged around the door, one foot poised over the paper-covered floor. “You say I’m a slob! What do you call this?”

“Try not to move anything; I've got it all where I want it.”

Steve poked his head around the door, still balancing on one foot, to give him an unconvinced look. “Is this still the same thing as last time?”

Bernard could only meet his eyes for a split second. “What else would it be?”

“Bernie, you can’t keep using your sick days to go looking for something that doesn’t exist. What if you actually get sick?”

“I wouldn’t be as sick as you,” replied Bernard, typing more aggressively than strictly necessary.

“Low blow, man.”

“Listen, I think I’ve found a few that could work.” The printer by the door thunked and juddered before deliberately whirring out webpages in glorious black and white. “There’s a research group in Italy working on artificially grown organs, and a firm in Japan that’s trying mechanical versions. Also, I have a hospital on the line about donation and three more to call by five o’clock.”

Steve took the pages and flicked through them half-heartedly. Bernard couldn’t see him from behind the door but he heard the sigh. He’d been hearing that sigh with increasing regularity. It signalled something in the area of pity, which rankled him more than he liked to admit. He wasn’t the one who had been falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon; he wasn’t the one who became nauseous every other meal; he was not the one with an expiry date hanging over his head. If anyone was worthy of pity, it was Steve, and Bernard refused to subject him to that indignity.

“You know they won’t give me a transplant when I’m still drinking?” said Steve. He did know. He hated it. “Ethics, and all.”

“Then stop drinking, for God’s sake!”

“Bit late for that, don’t you think?” And he could hear the smile in Steve’s voice, the dry humour. “The withdrawal would probably kill me before the liver.”

A sigh of his own, signalling something in the area of anger.

“Look, just– I’ll find something. I’ll find something. I promise you.”

“Promise yourself; you seem to need it more than me,” Steve put the pages on top of the printer, voice somber. His hands were shaking. “Just don’t run yourself into the ground, okay? I need you.”

Bernard nodded, unseen, “Of course.”

Steve’s footsteps retreated in time with the hold music. Bernard stared at his screen, at the file in his hand, at the forest of paper around him, seeing only the potential futures in his head.

“Steve?” He called.

“Yeah?”

“Could I take a genetic sample from you? Just in case?”

“Anything for you, Bernie.”

...

    It was snowing. Bernard Merrick was dressed for the weather in the loosest sense: a long coat, a scarf, but with business shoes and no hat. The frigid air nipped at his ears and the snow soaked through his trousers as he knelt in front of the freshly turned earth, which was only just beginning to turn white. 

Steve Gandu had not been a religious man; there was no church, no service, no stone angel, just a funeral, a wake with a noticeable lack of alcohol, and Bernard paying vigil until the sun set or he collapsed from cold, whichever came first. Who did you pray to, he wondered, when neither of you believed much in an afterlife but you liked the idea of someone keeping him safe, now that he was out of reach?

    It was a strange thought to have, and unproductive. He let it become numb and fall away from sensation as his fingers had.

    The last few months had been bad. He’d been bad. Steve had been coping as well as he could, but was also bad when it came down to it. His eyes had lost their life before the rest of him, the whites yellowing as they became more and more drowsy. Sometimes he’d wake up confused, or blood would end up in places blood shouldn’t be, and Bernard would find him with a can of something foul scrounged from who-knows-where. Those were bad days. 

On bad days Bernard would find himself gravitating towards the study even after he’d promised to leave alone the ‘mad scientist pipe dreams’, as Steve occasionally referred to them. Not all of them were mad. Every now and then there was a spark of brilliance among the paragraphs of otherwise uncreative research papers. He’d pursue the thread until he found the end, which was usually before anything left the realm of theory, a brick wall few were willing to take a sledgehammer to. Ethics, funding, feasibility. All seemed negligible in the early hours of the morning, but apparently biochemistry did not occur before dawn.

Steve would look at him sadly, once he would return to bed, eyes red from screen strain. Bernard would smile at him, and they would both be too tired to do anything about it but sleep.

There was no one left to smile sadly at him anymore. No one to sigh dramatically when he brought up a new idea he’d found, or make snarky comments about death and inevitability and karma. It was just Bernard Merrick and the snow.

The house was empty which meant he could slam as many doors as he wanted. Papers flew as he swept into the study with a crash. They didn’t matter, they hadn’t helped him. Disorder could reign among them until he screwed them up and set them alight in the garden. It could all burn.

His snow-sodden shoes made the print underfoot bleed. Memory stick, wallet, change of clothes. That was all that mattered. Car keys, they mattered too. Only the things he needed to get out and not come back, at least for a night. Toothbrush? Yes, and toothpaste. Nothing else.

Articles were stuck to his shoes as he left the house, door locked only due to a chance remembering in the fervour. He noticed the papers only once he was in the car and threw them into the passenger seat. 

Where to go? Simple enough: work. They did good things at work, things he could use. He would stay in his office. He would find an answer among all of the meaninglessness around him. He would make things better. He would fix everything. He would. He would.

...

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was entirely natural. It’s practically indistinguishable from the real thing. Bravo, Dr Merrick.”

A small crowd had gathered around the plexiglass container. Visually, the contents was unremarkable, if visceral: a wet, reddish mass that was ever-so-slightly pulsing where blood-filled tubes pierced the surface. Beyond the visual, it was the culmination of the department’s collective careers, brought to fruition by Merrick’s own contributions.

Months of work, years for some, and now they had a liver.

“Thank you, Dr Wilson, your feedback is greatly appreciated.”

It was a liver. A real, organic liver grown entirely in the labs.

Grinning, someone slapped him on the back. “You know, Merrick, I think this makes up for all that time off. I bet this’ll be on the other side of clinical trials before the year is out.”

“Just need to consolidate all the data,” added another, “And we’ll breeze through peer review.”

Before all this, he’d expected livers to be bigger, somehow.

“Saving lives, Merrick, this is what it’s all about. This is why you join the industry!”

Adrenaline-fueled conversation filled the room, most of it only half directed at him. His reflection in the plexiglass stared back at him, tight-lipped. Behind the reflection, the liver glistened. It had been made with the genetic material of some poor sod who still had years to live. They’d stopped drinking, presumably, to make the whole venture worth the investment.

The liver wouldn’t bring back Steve. It would save a life – and many more by its legacy – but it couldn’t bring back Steve. It was just one liver, and that wasn’t enough anymore.

“Merrick.”

Trial eighty-one looked up at him with beady eyes; its distinctive black-spotted ear flicked disinterestedly. Only a day old, and it appeared identical to the photos of the original mouse, which had died of old age around the time that trial thirty-seven had woken prematurely and drowned, still half-formed.

“Merrick.”

Trial eighty-one had so far avoided the pitfalls of its predecessors. It had taken sixty attempts to make the switch from accelerated aging, and another twenty to iron out the kinks in developing a physically mature specimen from the initial stem cells. Maybe this time he had succeeded.

“Merrick!”

He blinked. “What?”

“I was being serious yesterday, we need to watch ourselves or we’ll get–” Merrick’s supervisor reached the desk, moving through the jungle of pipes and cables. “Is that–?”

“That,” said Merrick, not taking his eyes off trial eighty-one, “Is our first mature clone to survive twenty-four hours out of the growth-support system.”

“Oh my god. Merrick–”

“I know, I know, but I think we’ve done it.”

“You’ve done it.”

“Well, yes, but it’s on behalf of the company, of course. This is our research.”

“No, no. You don’t– Merrick, the boss needs to talk to you about this. We’ve had people– This is a major thing – way beyond the scope of the project – and we can’t just–” She gestured at the mouse, “Do that. Not– not here.”

“You seem to be overlooking the fact that I just did,” smirked Merrick. His supervisor dug her hands into her face.

“Listen, just– the boss needs to talk to you. Now.”

“Of course. I think I’m just about finished here,” he replied, gently scooping up trial eighty-one and putting it in a small enclosure.

“Yeah, I think so too. You’d better be up there ASAP.”

His new lab was in an unassuming building in the outskirts of the city – the industrial sort of outskirts, filled with warehouses and trainyards all in various states of rust. The main entrance looked more like a side-door, painted in flaking blue, opened from the inside with a crash bar designed for fire exits. In the corridor, the plaster was flaking off the walls, coating the exposed pipes in pale dust. The few rooms he had been allotted for his exile, however, had been repainted and retiled upon his arrival. It still wasn’t the old labs, but it was clean, it was big enough, and it was his.

There had been an ultimatum: he could no longer work towards human cloning while openly under the company’s employ. Covertly, however, with reduced funding and a team only of those who volunteered for a supposed career suicide, he could continue. He would owe the company money for their investment, but their name would be kept from any research papers and, by extension, any controversy.

The deal was fine by Merrick. At least, it would be if some of the supposed volunteers were actually trustworthy. He could have sworn that one of them was reporting on him to someone a phone call away. Another was far too eager to know the ins-and-outs of the process. Merrick kept his office locked.

A small menagerie of animals had come and gone by the time he felt ready to take on the endgame. The success rates were climbing, and their equipment was no longer as foreign as it had been – not to mention bigger.

It was after hours. Everyone else had left and Merrick was staring at the completed designs for the final growth-support system. 

Could he do it? 

Obviously, he could do it, but could he do it with so many suspicious eyes on him? Was it safe to make this final step in the lab, which had less-than-stellar security? What would happen if the spy reported to an ethical committee? Or if his work was stolen and misappropriated? What would happen to the clone, if anyone knew about it?

Finding out was not worth the risk, he decided; he would have to find another way.

He took the design sheet, downloaded the digital backup, and put a coil of tubing in the boot of his car. None of it would be missed, and now he needed it in his own hands – his hands alone.

...

It took two months to gradually assemble everything in his basement, and in that time he finally got used to being alone in the house. He’d never been superstitious, but he couldn’t help but shiver every time he had heard the boiler knock on the walls or passed the cold spot halfway down the basement stairs. There were two new locks on the door and he hadn’t opened the curtains in the front room since he had begun to work on the project at home.

In the lab, the construction of the new growth-support system was months behind, interrupted by small, hard to find mishaps that threw the entire system out of balance. Two loose bolts one day, a punctured tube another. Poor luck, said one scientist. A sign, said another. Merrick simply tapped the desk irritably and said that there had better not be any bad luck tomorrow. Often, there was. Funny how things happened like that.

He had requested a new genetic sample for the lab’s first test, claimed the one he was originally planning to use had been damaged in the freezing process. Now, in the safety of his basement, he carefully placed Steve’s sample into the analyser. The computer whirred for a few minutes and he watched, drinking the fifth coffee of the day, forcing his hands not to shake from caffeine or otherwise. Readings flicked onto the screen. The sample was safe. It would work. Just another month, and he could hear Steve’s voice again.

A few taps of a keyboard, and the arduous process of creating the first human clone began. He pulled up a chair, his eyes not leaving the system until he fell asleep hours later, still sitting upright in front of the foundations of a human skeleton.

...

The clone was not Steve. Perhaps that should have been predictable.

It did not have his memories, it did not have his wit, it did not have his rough-around-the-edges smile or his world-weary optimism. But it did have his eyes, and, once it learnt to speak, it had his voice, albeit stilted as his never was. It was a newborn in Steve’s body, with Steve’s brain if not his mind.

It was not Steve. It was a facsimile. However, it was Steve enough to put the thrill of success through Merrick’s nerves. The clone was a second iteration of Steve, similar but different. Manufactured. Gandu Two Alpha.

Good enough. He would always be good enough.

After the initial birth, as it were, after fluid splashed across the floor, soaking his shoes and the air was filled with gasping and begging and “breathe, breathe, breathe,” after choked sobs in two voices had abated, after eyes had opened, clouded with unfamiliarity, after Merrick felt the blow of being a stranger to those eyes, after he locked the pain away with viscous practicality and helped dry everything down, after all of that, he left the basement. The deed was done. It was alive.

That night he cried himself to sleep, back in the bed they had shared for the first time since Steve’s death, and the clone remained alone downstairs.

Eventually, he collected himself. The morning was spent teaching the clone to walk and then helping it up the stairs into the kitchen. There was no conversation, only Merrick’s monosyllabic encouragement and the clone’s attempt to catch the eyes that looked anywhere but its face.

In the days following, when Merrick wasn’t at work, he was guiding the clone – someone had thought of another term, a euphemism, but that was what it was: a clone – through human experience. The messy basics, initially, hygiene and eating and drinking, but then speech, abstract ideas, self-sufficiency. He set boundaries but allowed free roam around the house, not that he could have done much to stop it. Alcohol had long been banished from the house, so he needn’t worry about that, and he had long forgotten to pay the cable fee, so there were few opportunities for the clone to see something Merrick wasn’t ready to explain. The basement was locked again, cleaned and relegated to the back of his mind.

A finger gently prodded Merrick in the sternum, eyes questioning, brow furrowed with the intent seriousness of a three-year-old with a mission. 

“Yes, this is me, Bernard.” 

“Bernard,” confirmed the clone’s achingly familiar voice, “Me.” 

“No, no, you’re you, I’m me.” Merrick took the unnaturally soft hand in his own and pointed it at the clone. 

“Me?” Repeated the clone. 

“Yes.” 

The clone smiled, somehow managing to make it too wide, even if Steve had always smiled more than Bernard. It was strange that Merrick was more aware of those little details now than he had been when the real thing had still been right in front of him.

“Bernard?” The clone’s hand hadn’t moved from where Merrick had put it.

Merrick pointed to himself. “I’m Bernard. That’s my name.”

A nod of understanding, clarity, then, “My name?”

The clone wasn’t completely dopey, not anymore; it knew what it was asking. Perhaps last week it would have been a case of parroting, but now the clone was beginning to attach meaning to words. It took a few tries, sometimes from different approaches, but slowly things were clicking into place and comprehension was dawning.

Still, the gaze was fixed on Merrick. Still, Merrick found it difficult to meet.

“Bernard.” Not a question. Deliberately so. “My name?” A demand, skewing strangely into an English accent, imitating Merrick’s own tone.

What was its name?

He had named it on the documents, but the thought had been fleeting in his mind, where he mostly thought of it as ‘it’ or ‘the clone’ or, if he was feeling particularly morose, ‘not him’. The name was comfortingly clinical, distant and inhuman. He could shorten it to just ‘Gandu’ but that was a step too close to calling the thing ‘Steve’. If he couldn’t look it in the eye, he couldn’t call it by his name.

“Your name is Gandu Two Alpha,” he said, ignoring the way it felt strangely final, as if this, of all moments, was the one he couldn’t turn back from.

“Gan-du Doo– Gand-u… Two Alv– Gon–” The clone stopped with a huff, frown morphing into one of frustration. Apparently ‘Gandu Two Alpha’ was more of a mouthful than ‘Bernard’. Who’d have thought?

“Me,” decided the clone.

    ...

By the time the lab’s version (which had been completely dismantled and reassembled in an effort to fix several loose connections, twice) was ready for its first trial, Gandu Two Alpha had mastered basic speech and was gradually learning to spell. If it tried, it could probably work its mouth around its name, but it seemed content with writing ‘me’ instead, and if Merrick hadn’t wanted to push Steve’s name onto the thing, there was no one meaningful to judge.

Work, however useless it was becoming, was still taking up half of Merrick’s day. From what he could tell, the clone spent most of that time pottering around, inspecting inconsequential little details. Merrick had hidden all of the photos of Steve in a box under his bed, but it was only a matter of time before the clone got curious enough to venture there. Already, it had blindly reorganised the bookshelf in the front room, presumably by spending hours taking each book out, scrutinising every aspect of it, and then forgetting where it had originally been and putting it back at random. At least it hadn’t moved everything around in the kitchen.

Every now and then, Merrick would catch himself smiling as he watched the clone stumble through life. It was still painful to see that face with none of Steve behind it, but he found himself growing used to the differences and the clone had a captivating innocence to him– it– that was more endearing than Merrick wanted to admit. The smile that the clone often gave him when Merrick came back at lunch was not Steve’s smile by any stretch, but it was earnest and the fact that Merrick was the cause of that smile somehow made it better.

The clone had all of its own little eccentricities: an accent that was a strange mesh of the one its mouth was adapted to and the one it heard Merrick use; a fascination with water (Merrick had once come home to all of the taps running and the clone staring into the bath); and an insatiable sweet tooth that earned Merrick a wild grin anytime he made jam on toast. It was easy to forget that the clone was ever intended to be Steve, and that somehow made it easier to be around him– it. They had a strange little harmony between them that hummed beneath the heartbreak and the stilted navigation of conversation.

It was nice, and Merrick learned to accept that it was.

One evening, they were sitting at the kitchen table playing Scrabble – Merrick had decided to put the clone’s memory and spelling skills to the test – when there was a knock at the door. The clone jumped, skewing the tile he was placing. He realigned it with deliberate precision, eyes darting between the board, Merrick, and the hallway.

“Over,” he read.

Merrick smiled, rising, “Good, v is quite high scoring. I’ll be back; I just need to see who this is. Stay here, okay? Don’t follow me.”

“Okay. Is it work?”

“Usually I go to work, not the other way around,” Merrick replied, dryly. The clone tried to smile, but the anxiety of the unfamiliar made it flicker. The door knocked again, more loudly.

One of Merrick’s peers from work was behind the door when it opened. “You’re a hard man to get hold of, Dr Merrick. You keep your phone on silent or what?” He didn’t, he just let the calls ring through. They were never worth his time.

“Ambrose, what brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing much, just that some of the guys were working overtime and got the system up and running,” he grinned. Ambrose was a relatively young man, the kind instilled with that insufferable swagger that made Merrick want to put him on admin duty for a month. “We need a sample, preferably before the thing falls apart again.”

“And you came to me at eight o’clock in the evening because…?”

“Well, we need your go-ahead before we can make any decisions about this sort of thing, y’know? You are the one in charge. And you still haven’t got back to me with that new sample you were talking about months ago. After the first one got... damaged...?”

Ambrose’s eyes were fixed on something beyond Merrick’s shoulder. Urging himself not to sigh too heavily, he turned around to see the clone standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Good morning,” called the clone.

Ambrose swallowed, nodding. “Evening.” Then he looked back at Merrick. “Is that–”

“No.”

“I thought he was de–”

“No.”

Ambrose grinned in a way that Merrick didn’t like. This was the problem with normal humans: they always had an ulterior motive. At least Two Alpha was always genuine or, failing that, a terrible liar. This time Merrick did sigh. “You’d better come in.”

Ambrose didn’t hesitate, his attention fixed on the clone, who smiled nervously back and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Oscar. Oscar Ambrose. What about you?”

“What about me?” Their voices moved into the kitchen as Merrick worked on relocking the door.

“What’s your name?”

In his mind’s eye, Merrick could see the frown on Two Alpha’s face as he worked on recalling it. The last lock clicked into place.

“Gandu Two Alpha.”

Ambrose shot Merrick a disbelieving look as he entered. “Dr Merrick–!”

Merrick glared at him and played his turn on the Scrabble board. Resolute. Two Alpha mouthed the spelling to himself, expression somewhere between indignance and admiration. It was a long word by his standards and Merrick had so far been playing five letters maximum.

“Work on your turn. Ambrose and I need to talk upstairs. Stay here. Really, this time.”

“I did stay here; I didn’t leave the kitchen.”

Cheeky brat. Merrick rolled his eyes, unable to maintain his stern facade. Ambrose was still staring, so he dragged him up to the study by an arm. 

As soon as the door was closed, Ambrose was talking. “‘Two Alpha’? What sort of name is that? Is he actually an agnate, you really did it? Wait–” He stopped dead, processing something. “Are you the reason the system keeps breaking? You want the tech all for yourself!”

Merrick thrust the desk chair across the room. “Sit.”

Ambrose’s legs gave way as he sat. Behind his back, Merrick’s own hands were shaking. “None of what you’ve seen or heard today will leave this house, understand?”

A skeptical narrowing of eyes. That damn arrogance, even as the man was slumped in Merrick’s shadow. As if there weren’t an innocent life at risk, sitting downstairs and playing Scrabble, unaware of what damage loose lips could do to his entire way of life. Irreverent bastard.

He lunged forward, pinning Ambrose’s wrists to the armrests. “I said: do you understand?”

Ambrose nodded unconvincingly and then winced when Merrick leaned into his hands. Merrick spat, “Yes, I sabotaged the system. No, it was not to hoard it. None of you can be trusted, not with him, so I did it myself. I needed you to be delayed.”

“So he’s your…”

“His genetic donor was my partner, yes, not that that’s any of your business.”

“And… Sorry, I can’t get over that name–”

“It’s better than Human Trial One.”

Ambrose gave a conceding nod, “Point taken.” Then, “Hey, could you ease off a bit? I can’t feel my fingers.” Merrick pushed into him, perhaps taking too much pleasure in the way he folded at the pressure, before moving to lean against the desk. Hissing, Ambrose tried to rub the pain out of his wrists. “God, you don’t do things by halves, do you?”

Merrick glared.

“Okay, okay, whatever, water under the bridge, doesn’t matter, but– do you know what this means? It works! You’ve made a human agnate! Have you– have you done any testing? Like, genetic analysis? Is he one-for-one identical?”

The main negative to having someone in your house, Merrick decided, is that you couldn’t walk out. “I haven’t taken any samples. Cognition has been my main focus, if not his survival. He seems accurate enough, physically. He has no memories, though, and he’s had to learn everything practically from scratch.”

“Sucks. Bet you were hoping for a carbon copy, memories and all, huh? Hang on, have you…” 

Merrick could see the way his mind had turned and was unimpressed. Let him wade through the embarrassment, Merrick wouldn’t fish him out. “Have I what?”

“...Kissed him?” Ambrose’s shoulders were hiked up to his ears. Idiot.

“Mentally, he is a child, Ambrose, get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Sorry, sorry. Had to ask, though, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t.”

Ambrose sighed as if Merrick was the insufferable one. “Look, I think we’re overlooking just how massive this is. If we could make this on a mass scale, we could– I don’t know. This is the kind of thing that very wealthy people would pay a lot of money for.”

“Millions of dollars for… an organ transplant?”

“Millions of dollars for an organ transplant with a wait-time of days, maximum, practically zero chance of the body rejecting it, and it would be up to the client to decide whether or not they should get a transplant – no lifestyle changes necessary just to tick boxes. That’s millions of dollars for twenty more years of life. Maybe more! If I were the kind of person who had a billion just lying around…”

Steve hadn’t had a million, let alone a billion dollars collecting dust in a drawer somewhere. If he had – if either of them had – would it have made a difference?

“Hell,” continued Ambrose, “at that point immortality is within reach. Imagine that, Merrick! Once the surgical world catches up, you could just keep going forever!”

“And we just keep harvesting from the agnates,” His voice was far more somber than he intended it to be.

“Yeah, I mean, if you think about it, the net result is positive. In terms of life, that is. If you count them as real people, which– which I wouldn’t, legally. Not if we wanted to sell anything.”

At some point, Merrick realised, he had begun to think of Two Alpha as a ‘he’. Somewhere else – before or after, he didn’t know – he had begun to care for him as an individual. Perhaps it was latent love for Steve, or perhaps it was an independent affection for someone who was slowly learning who they were as he guided them along. Either way, something in the back of his mind reared at the idea of Two Alpha being killed for parts. 

If Two Alpha had existed before Steve had died… 

Part of Merrick wanted to say that he wouldn’t have sacrificed him, that he’d have kept both for as long as possible and accepted Steve’s death when it came. The rest knew that he wouldn’t have given himself the chance to care for him – Two Alpha would have been on the operating table before he knew how to cry for help.

Sometimes Merrick hated himself.

“And we could do it on that scale?” It was hardly a question.

“You’re the one to ask.”

“We could.” He ignored the sound of the kitchen tap being turned on and off, on and off. “If we had enough money to do so.”

“Well that, my friend, is where you’re lucky I was the one to find out.” Lucky was a strong word. Merrick didn’t feel very lucky. Oblivious to it all, Ambrose continued, energised and far too loud for the time of evening, “I’ve got some sway with one of the banks, and if we proposed the project to, say, the Department of Defense, I’m sure they’d be more than willing to make an investment. I can handle all of the marketing, networking, whatever, you’d just have to get the science going.”

“You’re saying we start a new company – not research-based – to sell organs grown in…” He wanted to say sentient beings, or humans, but already he could tell that it was a dangerous train of thought, “Agnates?”

“I doubt the boss wants us to do it with his funding. Breaking off is the only way to go.” It was a valid point and Merrick had already been one bad day away from walking out and never returning, but starting an entirely new business venture had never been on the table – he was a scientist, not a businessman.

“Why should I agree to this?”

“Why not?! Millions, Dr Merrick, why would you turn that down?”

“Agnates are hardly cheap on the production end, not to mention upkeep.”

“They’ll pay for themselves, you know they will. What’s your problem with this? Your real problem.”

The real problem? As if he would spill his emotional turmoil to the kid with the supposed business skills. No. Merrick lied, “I feel you’re underestimating exactly how much time, money, and resources this will take.”

“And I feel you’re underestimating how worth it it will be.”

Sighing, Merrick took off his glasses and began to clean them, using the distraction to sort his thoughts.

Two Alpha had never left the house. He would never need to know exactly what Merrick was doing if he agreed to this plan. Merrick could create hundreds of agnates and keep Two Alpha safe for himself, all the while he would be saving lives like Steve’s from preventable deaths. If he just didn’t talk to them, if he didn’t stimulate their individual development beyond the physical, didn’t allow them to be much more than walking organs, they wouldn’t really be people. Not like Two Alpha. They would just be insurance policies, clean and clinical.

He put his glasses back on. They were smudged.

“Fine. I’m in.” Ambrose’s grin returned and Merrick wondered if he’d regret putting this much trust in the man. “But we’re doing this my way. I don’t want any surprises, understand?”

“Of course, Dr Merrick.” He held out a hand. “I think this is the start of something incredible.”

Merrick shook it. “I want you in my office tomorrow morning; we need to plan this properly.”

Ambrose was already moving back downstairs, “Nine AM, sharp, Dr Merrick.”

“Make that eleven.” God knew he wouldn’t be able to cope with the man so early in the day. He unlocked the front door and waved Ambrose out.

“You won’t regret this!”

“Make sure of it.”

With the door finally closed, Merrick could acknowledge the headache worming its way into his eye sockets. He needed to sleep this off.

“Is he gone?” asked Two Alpha, standing by the kitchen door, just barely behind the threshold. His weight was shifting from foot to foot anxiously. 

“Yes. I trust you haven’t run the taps dry?”

“No,” the clone smiled, “There’s still water in them, look!”

Merrick put a glass under the tap as Two Alpha demonstrated, nodding seriously. “Very good. And did you play your turn?”

“Yup, error. I had a bunch of R’s.”

He drained half of the glass and stared at the board. “Do you want to continue? It’s getting late.” 

Two Alpha seemed to disagree with that assessment, but he also seemed to have hit his energy limit for the day because his objection was broken by a yawn. “Maybe,” he conceded. “What was Oscar Ambrose doing here?”

They left the Scrabble untidied on the table, climbing the stairs to the guest room that Two Alpha now occupied. 

“He just wanted to talk to me about work, nothing to concern yourself over.”

“He seemed nice.”

If only you knew the things he is planning, Merrick thought, before saying, “I suppose he did.”

Two Alpha nodded, content in his first assessment of any human beyond Merrick. “Goodnight, Bernard.”

“Goodnight.”

...

    In far less time than was reasonable, Ambrose had wrangled the lab’s growth system and plans out of the company’s possession – easy, he claimed, when they had refused to have their name on any of it – and into the asset pool of the newly christened Merrick Biotech. Soon enough, they had enough investors to buy land in a barren part of the Arizona desert, specifically an abandoned missile facility complete with underground silos and outdated wiring.

    “The missiles were Titan II’s, you know?” said Ambrose, unlocking the facility for the first time. “They were going to be replaced, that’s why they were decommissioned, but the replacements were never produced.”

    “Fascinating,” Merrick lied. He had never been to Arizona before, but the desert reminded him of Steve, beautiful in that rugged, slightly unforgiving sort of way. Even after only fifteen minutes of direct sunlight, he could feel his skin burning.

    They stayed in the nearby motel for days at a time, returning home for a few weeks at most before something else required their supervision. Two Alpha remained at the house, alone. Merrick found it more anxiety-inducing than he anticipated, unused to no longer being able to check in every few hours.

    One morning he came downstairs to see Two Alpha intently scribbling on printer paper, seemingly trying to cover the whole sheet in graphite.

    “You don’t always come back,” he said, not moving his gaze from the table.

    “Of course I do,” replied Merrick, surprised by the sullen attitude, “I’m here now, aren’t I? So I must have come back.”

    “But not always.” Two Alpha had the look on his face that betrayed his frustration when he couldn’t convey his thoughts properly. It used to be an almost permanent fixture but months later his communication had improved to the extent that Merrick struggled to remember the last time he saw it. “Sometimes you’re not here when I go to sleep or when it’s morning and I don’t know what to do. Sometimes you come back and it’s good and you don’t go for ages. But then you do go and you don’t come back.”

Merrick sat next to him, put an arm around him. “I’m sorry. Work has changed. It used to be nearby but now it’s far away, so I have to stay there for a few days every time. I try to stay here as much as I can, I promise.”

Two Alpha stopped scribbling, eyes distant with thought. “What’s promise?”

It was always jarring to find the little gaps in Two Alpha’s knowledge, the oversights and the things that seemed too obvious to miss. Each one would be filled, however, and Merrick took care to do it well.

“A promise is when you say something and you mean it. If you promise to do something, you should always try your very best to do it. Don’t make them lightly and don’t break them.”

“Do people break them anyway?”

“Yes, some people. That just means you shouldn’t trust them when they promise things. Especially big things.”

“Do you break promises?”

Yes, he thought, though his promise to Steve was not one he wanted to talk about. “I try not to,” he said instead, “But sometimes I get carried away and make promises that I could never hope to keep.”

“Big promises?”

“Yes, though I don’t think anyone expected me to actually fulfil them. Except myself, maybe.”

“And you promise to stay here as much as you can?”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been doing.”

Two Alpha refused to look him in the eye and returned to his paper. “... I’m not sure it’s enough.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t promise much more.”

An understanding nod. “The promise would be too big to keep.”

“Yes.”

Two Alpha processed the conversation and Merrick waited. Eventually, Two Alpha sighed and leaned into Merrick’s hold. “But you’ll come back eventually. You won’t always be gone.” Two statements, more self-reassurance than anything.

Merrick nodded. “I… May be able to get you a phone. So that you can talk to me when I’m far away.” It was a risk, of course, a hole in the protective wall of isolation that Merrick had erected around him, but it would put both of their minds at ease. He could try to put restrictions on it, to prevent internet access and unwanted calls. A curated library of apps would help keep him occupied while Merrick was alone. Yes, it was worth the risk.

“That would be good,” Two Alpha agreed.

    ...

The phone proved its worth but also highlighted Two Alpha’s loneliness. Previously, it had been relatively easy to forget that every hour Merrick spent away was another for Two Alpha to kill at home. On Merrick’s first day away after buying the phone, Two Alpha called almost hourly until Merrick had to tell him to ease off while he was working, after which the calls came every three hours on the dot.

On his second trip, three weeks later, Merrick was flicking through the channels in his motel room when the fourth call of the day came through.

“Hello?” Even after so many of these calls, his voice still raised as if there was any question as to who was on the other end. It felt silly. Distant.

“Hi, Bernard.”

Usually it was at this point that Two Alpha would choose an arbitrary conversation starter, anything from the weather to where paper came from. Instead, there was quiet. Merrick pulled the phone from his ear, checked the call was still working, then put it back and asked, “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” came the voice, strained in the way voices were when their face was pressed into a pillow. “We don’t need to talk. I just…” There was a staticky sigh. “We can just be together like this.”

Something hurt beneath his collarbone and he pretended it had nothing to do with the creeping guilt rising in the back of his mind.

“Okay,” he replied, voice strained in the way voices were when emotion pressed into them. Strange how such abstract things had such physical symptoms.

Steve had liked these moments, the ones where the conversation had run dry and there was nothing but companionable silence. Nothing owed, no performance, no give and take, just being near someone you loved. That was what he lived for. He enjoyed the rest of it, sure, but this– this was what the it all amounted to. When he had explained this, half-asleep on Bernard’s shoulder,

Beyond Steve, however, Merrick found people’s presences grating. They were always watching too intently or not listening enough or putting far too much thought into the act of existing near him. It made him hyper-aware of every infuriating aspect of the situation, on guard and tiring. Steve made it easy to drift, semi-conscious, relaxed. With Two Alpha he had never been truly on edge, rather wary of his own tongue slipping, saying something that would break the translucent illusion he now lived in. As such, the silence of Two Alpha was comforting in a completely different way; no chance of error when there was uncomplicated quiet between them.

Merrick lay back and allowed himself the calm.

Construction was underway at the facility, installing new wiring and digging out new space. He didn’t pretend to know much of what any of it meant, why any of it was happening the way it was, but the schematics that he had been talked through seemed sound enough to his inexpert eye. Ideally, he’d be able to let the construction team do their work and stay home, but such projects were never without their hitches and Ambrose was never without his impatience.

“I know you have your hang-ups about this whole thing,” he had said that day, having dragged Merrick into an unpainted office, “But we need you to be here. Like, really be here. Whatever’s going on in that head of yours can’t take up so much of your attention; yesterday you signed off on a cement order that was ten times under what we need – if I hadn’t caught it this morning we’d be another week behind schedule.”

“You said I wouldn’t have to handle any of this.”

“Cross-checking numbers hardly needs a business degree, Merrick! Your head isn’t in the game. I’m here a week more than you per month. What’s your excuse?”

“Well, unlike you, I have responsibilities at home.”

“What? The agnate?”

Merrick had clenched his teeth and tried his hardest not to glare too venomously – the last thing he needed was to get over-defensive. That way lay exposing himself to a man who would not hesitate to attack such weakness in the name of the bigger picture. Ambrose took his terse silence as a confirmation.

“The agnate can manage by itself – it has so far. This is so much bigger than that, this needs you to put the effort in. What difference will it make to the agnate? You just won’t be around three goddamn weeks a month – who do you know with that sort of time off? It doesn’t happen! This is work, so treat it like work. Prioritise.”

“My private life is just that: private,” Merrick had replied, enunciating sharply, “You would do well to remind yourself of that, Oscar.” And then he had left, wondering if he regretted using Ambrose’s first name. In the end, he decided that he didn’t, which was the easiest problem to solve.

The entire conversation had been repeating in his head like a blinking indicator, only silenced once the underlying issue was confronted. It was true that his total working hours had tanked after leaving the company and it was true that he rarely had more than seventy-five percent of his brain focused within those hours, however there was an entire life hinging on his own and it did so far more directly than the abstract lives that Merrick Biotech could save.

Two Alpha hated being alone and Merrick was loath to extend that time anymore than he had. Already, Two Alpha was navigating more negative emotions than he had ever felt and Merrick could only guide him so well with an entire week of absence looming over both of them, let alone two. The dependence could be called unhealthy if not for Two Alpha’s age.

Still, the tension was undoing them both, the phone simply a loosened valve to release the pressure before something exploded. A coin-sized valve in the Hoover dam, more a weak spot for the pressure to crack than any real aid. Perhaps Two Alpha needed to learn to alleviate the tension by himself, reduce his dependence just enough that there wasn’t such a weight on Merrick’s shoulders.

But how to do it?

He would need to do some research – out of work hours – but he should let Two Alpha down slowly before he could let himself get caught up in radical solutions. Gradually easing him off calling so regularly would help. That was a simple enough step to take.

The phone told him that the call had lasted over ten minutes, most of which was dead air. Their silence hadn’t yet been broken. He sighed.

“Hey.” Thinking about it, he’d never addressed him as Two Alpha. Perhaps it was a bit too inhuman. But was now really the time to think of a more endearing name? “You know that I get charged per minute?”

“For what?” The voice was soft, the tension melted away. Merrick hated the way that his couldn’t do the same.

“For these calls.” Silence. “So– so I’m going to have to go now. We can talk tomorrow. Or not talk. Up to you.”

“Oh.” Soft again, but not in the same way. Damn it. “Okay.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Bernard. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, instinctively, though he didn’t quite know what for. In the moments it took for him to wonder, the line went dead.

...

Merrick stayed in Arizona for three days longer than he had originally planned, if only to get Ambrose off his back. Two Alpha had kept his calls to twice a day, morning and evening and kept both strictly within ten minutes. Merrick supposed that his words had gone deeper than intended and Two Alpha was hyper-aware of the time and money Merrick was using to talk to him. It was charming, in a bittersweet kind of way.

He was hoping that Two Alpha hadn’t noticed his extended stay, and as such he hadn’t brought it up. He would be back soon enough.

On the morning of his last day, the phone rang at eight o’clock exactly.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at work.”

“You can’t come back?” 

“Unless there’s an emergency,” he lied. Two Alpha had clung to his promise, used it to reason his way through Merrick’s absence. It felt cruel to exploit that trust, break the promise, but the semantics of whether or not he truly could have returned earlier saved him from complete self-hatred.

“No, no emergency. Is there an emergency with you?”

“No, why would there be?”

“I dunno.”

The rest of the conversation was subdued, though Two Alpha often tended to grow withdrawn in his loneliness until Merrick returned and he bounced back. Nothing abnormal. No reason to be concerned. None at all.

Hours later, when Merrick was digitising spreadsheets at something resembling a desk, the phone rang again. He frowned at it and picked it up with a speed he would never admit to being panicked.

“Mr Merrick?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

“Yes?”

“I’m calling from St Luke’s Hospital about a patient we’ve just received from a recent motor incident. You were the only emergency contact.”

“What?” he croaked.

“Unfortunately, the patient had no ID and was unable to provide a name. Are you able to come to the hospital at this time?”

No. No. It couldn’t be–

“I– I’m in Arizona, I can get there in– nine hours? Where did you find him?”

The matter-of-fact tone of the answer didn’t help calm him as the caller listed an address barely ten metres from his house. Already, the spreadsheets were abandoned in the wake of his strides to the nearest exit.

“What condition is he in?”

“I can’t tell you much without you here to confirm your identity and relation to the patient, but his prognosis is poor. What did you say his name is?”

Merrick hung up. That was not a question he would ever be able to answer, not to anyone other than Two Alpha himself. Even then…

No. Now was not the time.

He ran.

...

Since the 2007 American Transport Initiative, high-speed maglevs connected major cities down each coast and across the southern states, drastically reducing travel times on even cross-continental scales. Unfortunately, there was still a two hour drive to the Phoenix station – perhaps once the system was more established he could petition for another to be built in Tucson, the drive was easily the most grating experience of his life – a four hour trip along the Latitude Line, and another three hours of sporadic stop-starting up the Eastern Seaboard. His loose interpretation of the speed limit in Arizona cut thirty minutes off his prediction but the extended adrenaline high made the journey feel like aeons.

He was already hammering the open door button when the train hummed to a stop and squeezed through the moment the doors allowed him. No one batted an eye at the sight of yet another smartly dressed man rushing with no regard for those in his way and he wouldn’t have noticed if they had. The route to the hospital memorised on the journey, he was a gale force wind weaving between the crowds.

Merrick practically collided with the reception desk, making the receptionist jerk back in her rolling chair.

“I’m here for–” he gasped, caught his breath again, “For a man. Admitted about nine hours ago, no ID. I was called–”

The receptionist typed in the number he showed her once he fumbled his phone over the desk. “Well, the numbers match but we’ll need a proof of identity for you and also what relation you have to him.”

“I’m– I’m Bernard Merrick. I’m all he has, he has no family– except– except me. Please, I need to see him.”

“He has no name on the record, do you–”

“Where is he?”

“Just follow the blue line, he should be in room six. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

Merrick just about managed, “Thank you,” before he was moving again. Blue line. The signs blurring past identified it as the route to the ICU but the blurring was in his head as much as his vision. All he could see was the line. It was all he needed to see.

There was a man standing outside room six. Merrick almost missed him in his determination to pass through the door, but he stepped in the way, placing a hand on Merrick’s shoulder. The hold was probably meant to have some compassion to it, but all he registered was the firmness keeping him from entering.

“Mr Merrick, I presume? Please, a word before you go in.”

There must have been something wild in his eyes when they met the man’s face, because the grip on his shoulder became tighter.

“I’m Dr Colby; I’ve been looking after the patient since his arrival in the department. He is… gravely wounded. Honestly, I’m amazed he’s lasted this long. When you go in there, please, be gentle. The state he’s in may be shocking to see, but you must stay calm, for his sake.” Colby caught his eyes as they darted to the door. “Breathe, Mr Merrick. And… prepare yourself – it is unlikely that he’ll recover.”

Blood was rushing through his ears but those final words rang through his mind clear as anything. They couldn’t be true, the doctor was just pessimistic; he’d seen too many deaths in his career, he was seeing a ghost where there wasn’t one. Two Alpha would make it through. 

Nevertheless. “I need to see him.”

“He has been somewhat aware of his surroundings, so he may be able to talk to you. The best we’ve got from him is what we believe to be his first name, Alf, right?”

Merrick nodded, no longer feeling tethered to reality.

“The worst injuries were elsewhere – his heart has been… erratic. Try to keep any conversation from working him up. Just be there for him, okay?”

Frustration bubbled up – I know, that’s what I’ve been trying to do – but it was distant, as if it hadn’t accompanied him all the way from Arizona. All he could do was croak, “Please.”

Colby nodded solemnly and opened the door. Behind was a small room made smaller by the abundance of machinery, most of it feeding back to the pale shape on the bed. Merrick moved in, suddenly slowed as if moving over sacred ground.

“Hey,” he said, softly, and the eyes opened and his own began to sting. Two Alpha’s eyes were bloodshot to the extreme that the whites of one had become rust-dark. They looked up at him drowsily.

“...Bernard?” His voice was raw, from disuse or pained screaming Merrick couldn’t tell. He took the hand that tried to lift itself off the bed, weighed by the IV line. The fingers were cold but they wrapped around his, fitting like Steves’ had, positioned like his didn’t. 

“Yes, it’s me. I’m here.” Merrick had taken Steve’s left hand, at the end, traced the ring there, covered the back of his hand with his own. Now, he was on Two Alpha’s right, and the hand was upturned, nothing to trace but those lines he didn’t know how to read. Life line. Heart line. Fate line. Illegible.

“Good… I was… worried about you.”

“Worried? Why should you be worried?”

“You didn’t come back. I know you said–” Two Alpha’s voice caught on its raw edges and on the shortness of breath. Perhaps it caught on something else, Merrick could hardly judge. “You said that you would always come back, if you could, and you couldn’t always because of work but– usually you’re back after seven days, sometimes it’s eight. So I waited and– you were away for ten days, no coming back, so I thought–” He sniffed, a thin tear track catching the light to become visible. “I know– I know it wasn’t– you were still on the phone. Looking back, I shouldn’t have worried ‘cause you were still answering, but– I thought maybe something had happened so I went out, the way you go when you leave. To find you.”

He was openly sobbing now, the monitors around him grumbling at the strain it put on his respiratory system. Merrick knew that if he turned his attention to himself, he would see the same sorrow and regret on his own face, but he didn’t, his focus purely on the man on the bed. The man who, if he was willing to admit it, did look terrifyingly delicate. 

It was only in comparison to the clinically white sheets that Two Alpha’s skin looked at all alive. There were bandages covering half of what was visible, bruises covering what remained. Every movement, down to blinking, was measured, pained, subdued. All except the crying.

“I don’t remember– I walked for a bit, I think, then–” He tried to screw his eyes shut as if to block out the sensations still wracking his body, but the bruising was too much to do more than furrow his brow.

“It’s okay,” said Merrick, beginning to stroke the hand with his thumb. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. I should have kept you informed, that’s my fault.”

Two Alpha simply opened his eyes to look at him grimly. There was a depth, a weight to him now that there hadn’t been and Merrick desperately wished to relieve him of it. He met his gaze, unflinching, and let it hurt.

After a while, Two Alpha whispered, barely audible over the machines, “What’s going to happen to me?”

Merrick wished he could offer some spiritual belief, some promise of heaven or of rest. He wished that his first thought in response hadn’t been death, that clinging to his hope of Two Alpha’s survival wasn’t as hollowly delusional as it suddenly felt. He wished that he had anything to say that wasn’t a lie.

“I don’t know.”

“I– I never thought about it. ‘Cause I can only remember being alive, and you being alive too. But, now that… There must have been a time when I wasn’t alive, right?” He watched, a warped half-pride at working it out in his eyes, as Merrick nodded. “So… I think that maybe it’ll happen again. ‘Cause I feel like I’m… running out.”

Merrick felt himself slump forwards, head on their hands, his breathing refusing to work normally. It couldn’t happen again. Was it inevitable? If he tried again, would he be forced to watch this face die again, inhabited by yet another person with his own quirks, his unique endearing traits, a new name? A different death; illness, injury, what else? How many cooling hands would he have to hold for daring to pursue a different, kinder fate?

“You’re okay,” he said into the sheets.

“It hurts.”

Pulling his head back up, he moved one hand to Two Alpha’s shoulder, holding as lightly as he could to avoid causing any further pain. “I know,” he said, “But I’m here now. I’m here as long as you need.”

A weak smile. “Thank you.”

As he returned the smile, he pushed all of his sincerity to the fore. “I love you.”

It wasn’t the same love he had for Steve, but it didn’t need to be, because this was Two Alpha and he was enough. Love was the thing tearing him down from the inside, no regard for dignity, undeniable. Two Alpha deserved to know. If Merrick didn’t love him, he’d have lived his entire life unloved.

“Thank you,” Two Alpha repeated, “I love you too.”

With that, tears finally fell, landing on Two Alpha’s arm. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“It’s okay,” he added, echoing Merrick’s speech the way he had when he was still learning. How long ago? A year? He was so painfully young… “You’re okay.”

All Merrick could do was repeat, “I’m sorry.” You deserved better.

“I think, maybe…” mumbled Two Alpha, eyes becoming drowsy, “Maybe it’ll just be like… those times on the phone. When we don’t talk… and we can’t see… but we’re together anyway. I’d like it, if it was like that.”

“Perhaps it will be.” The tears made his voice wet, but the words didn’t taste of cruel deception. It sounded like a good afterlife, for one invented by a clone with barely any life lived to speak of.

A twitch of lips, probably intended to be a smile. “I’m glad you came back.”

“Me too.”

Then Two Alpha closed his eyes and his breathing slowed. The fingers in his hand slackened their grip. Merrick didn’t take in much after that, even as the flatline drilled through his skull and medics bustled around him. What did any of that matter, anyway?

The important thing was that face, tranquil despite the wounds, motionless again. The important thing was Two Alpha and the heavy silence between them. He half expected to hear the click of a phone disconnecting.

...

This time the aftermath had no storm to it. He didn’t march home, threatening to burn everything in sight. He didn’t go to work and start shouting at Ambrose – though he probably deserved it. No, instead he began to make a list of criteria for the new facility. If they were going to have half an army of walking organs biding their time underground, they would need to do it properly.

The plan as it stood was to teach the agnates hygiene, nutrition, exercise, but nothing that would constitute a normal education. Speech would be necessary, reading less so but perhaps convenient. They would simply need to keep themselves healthy until their time came. Minimising contact to just staff members was also outlined in the initial protocol, though it sat uncomfortably with Merrick. He had no better plan, however. If they could communicate with each other, they would eventually catch on that some disappeared and never returned.

It would be easier, he found himself thinking at least once a day, if they never woke up and could just remain in those gel sacs until they were needed. Unfortunately, all of the animal trials proved it impossible or at least too much effort to be a better option. Once the agnates reached the end of their growth cycle they would wake up regardless of whether they had been taken out, occasionally drowning if they weren’t removed quickly enough. And if they were kept unconscious from there, they would atrophy – brains never finalising their development quite right, muscles never developing, digestion system shutting down without ever being used properly. Unfit for transplant donation.

The investment required to keep them in any fit state was major either way, but at least there were fewer fatal risks when they were allowed consciousness. So, living beings. Care to be taken to do it right.

From his list, Merrick found a sense of purpose in monitoring the construction efforts, making sure everything was as it should be, compiling another list of potential scientists, maintenance workers, caterers, making sure there was enough accommodation in the area, streamlining the growth-support system, getting a small team of lawyers to handle NDAs.

Maybe there was a storm, but he had found the eye more quickly than last time – a numb haven where he could work until he collapsed, ignoring the chaos beyond.

“We need a test run,” Announced Ambrose, walking into the break room where Merrick was lamenting the lack of kettle.

“A test run?”

“Yeah, like your guy, just to make sure everything works. We’ll give it a better name though.” Though Merrick was the one who had garnered a reputation for being cold simply by virtue of his general demeanor, Ambrose could be downright cruel. Not that Merrick had discussed Two Alpha at any length; he wasn’t a masochist.

“And do you have a genetic sample ready?” He asked in lieu of dignifying his jab with a response.

“No, ‘cause I’m not familiar with collecting that kind of thing, but I was thinking we should clone me.”

Merrick simply looked at him, disbelief readable enough without any expression. When Ambrose failed to elaborate, he collected his mind enough to ask, “You?”

“Yeah. Me.” The poor man. His brain must have been damaged from inhaling fumes from the construction. Or perhaps there was unhealthy amounts of radon this far underground. That would need to be checked. “All great pioneers of science end up trying their stuff on themselves, it’s practically a rite of passage. Besides, I can’t sue myself if it all goes wrong, now can I?”

“The legal team still needs to finalise the consent forms…”

“We don’t need it if I own the company!”

“You don–”

“Sorry, if we own the company. Point still stands. Bet this is why all those scientists do it.”

Should Merrick really stand in the way of such a misled endeavour? It was one thing to clone a dead partner, it was another to clone a man who was still alive and in regular contact with the project. Still, it would be interesting, for data collection purposes. Far too much of their current plan was based on hypotheticals. On one hand hubris, on the other… 

“I’ve heard the physicists get on just fine without it,” he said.

Ambrose waved a hand dismissively. “Physicists.”

Merrick made a conscious effort not to put a hand to his eyes, turning instead to what passed as a kitchenette. “And what do you intend to do with your agnate?” 

How did people make tea without a kettle? Would he have to microwave a mug full of water? Was that even legal?

“Dunno, figure it’ll be an insurance policy like the rest. Maybe teach it how to do my paperwork.”

“I’m sure that will pay back the millions it will take to do it.”

“Investment, Merrick, I know you’ve heard of it.”

“And I’ve yet to see the benefit.”

“You’re taking jabs at me ‘cause nothing’s happened while I’m telling you to make something happen!”

He sighed, “If you really think it’ll be of benefit to us, be my guest. Just don’t make the decision lightly. If I find out that you thought of this five minutes ago–”

“You wound me, Dr Merrick, when have I been anything but thoughtful with this venture? This is a great idea – what do we have to lose? It’s the same thing we’ll be doing in a few months anyway, just contained so we can troubleshoot any issues. A prototype!”

This was not a battle that Ambrose was about to lose. Merrick hardly knew which side he was even on. Why not humour the man? 

“Give it a week so I can train the skeleton crew on the initialisation and get everything calibrated,” he said, giving up on tea and instead filling his mug with cold water, “Make sure you’ve thought it through. If you want to go ahead, I’ll get your sample on Thursday.”

“Great!” exclaimed Ambrose, already halfway out of the room, “You won’t regret this, Dr Merrick!”

“You keep on saying that,” Merrick mumbled to the empty doorway. Mug water wasn’t as nice as glass water, he decided, but that hardly mattered.

...

In the end Ambrose went through with it. He dubbed the endeavour ‘Project: Pelasgus’ in the files, though Merrick could think of several more accurate titles, ‘Narcissus’ for one. Was he in a position to pass such judgements? Perhaps not, but there was no one else around to do it and Ambrose was in severe need of someone to temper him.

A great chamber had been hollowed out near the base of one of the old silos, fitted with a surprisingly expensive drainage system and the equipment needed to keep up to twenty-five growth-support systems, only one of which had actually been installed. Merrick viewed the room with much the same strange discomfort as he did the version in his basement, which was probably rusting with neglect. It was the discomfort of an ugly yet unregretted truth and he didn’t like how much of his life now had that tint to it. Sometimes, among the haze of work and his general distaste for Ambrose, he wondered if he too considered the whole affair to be ugly. Then he would decide that Ambrose had no such depth to him and, if anything, thought it cool.

When, eventually, Pelasgus was up and walking, Ambrose holed him away in the large office that was by now his own small apartment. Apparently there had been a scene regarding the staff seeing the agnate’s naked body – more out of concern for himself than the agnate – but Merrick could not bring himself to watch the security footage back to scan for any other red flags. This was Ambrose’s agnate, Merrick had had his chance already.

Which wasn’t to say that he hadn’t been tempted to stick his foot in.

“Check this out.” A memory stick collided with his forehead as Ambrose entered, no knocking as always.

Merrick remained motionless at his desk. “What is it?”

“You need to watch it. I showed Pelasgus a mirror this morning.” He didn’t know how he could say that name so seriously; it was ridiculous. Ambrose picked the memory stick up from where it had fallen, removed the one already in Merrick’s computer, and plugged it in before any preventative measures could be taken.

“I was using that!”

“Hope you save regularly,” replied Ambrose, unrepentant, “This is more important, anyway.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Just watch the damn video.”

The video began with a scene featuring Pelasgus having a simplistic conversation with two technicians that had probably been dragged in from the corridor, camera jerking about until the agnate was centred in the frame and Ambrose moved into view.

“Hey, Pelasgus, can you tell me these guys’ names?”

His response was a dubious look, as if the agnate knew it was a stupid question. Ambrose had probably introduced him to them ten minutes previously. 

“Clyde and Bill.”

“Which is which?” asked Ambrose, to the tune of an even more unimpressed glare.

“Clyde,” poking one, “Bill,” poking the other. Both technicians, wearing matching dusty coveralls and stony expressions, seemed to share the agnate’s attitude.

“Good. You two can go about your business.”

Clyde and Bill seemed all too happy to comply. How the agante had mastered complete disdain so early, Merrick didn’t know. It was almost impressive. Apparently these thinly veiled tests were a regular occurrence and consistently skewing beneath his capabilities.

“Now,” continued Ambrose, moving to uncover a mirror he had leaned against the wall, “Who’s this?”

“You,” said the agnate to his reflection. Then he paused, mind visibly working as he watched his reflection move with him.

Ambrose apparently grew impatient and stepped beside the agnate, grinning. “You.”

A frown creased the agnate’s face as he watched their two reflections, identical if not for their expressions and clothing.

“You look like me,” explained Ambrose as if the agnate hadn’t already worked it out.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I made you to. You’re a copy of me, a clone.” 

Merrick fought the urge to bat him around the head. No subtlety. He had mentally run through the scenario of Two Alpha finding evidence of Steve a hundred times, preparing for each a gentle way of responding to any range of reactions to the inevitable revelation of Two Alpha’s origins, and Ambrose had just barreled through it, no awareness of any of the variables Merrick had mapped a route around.

“A copy?”

“Damn right.”

“Why?” hissed the agnate, half in shocked confusion, half in indignant outrage.

“God, you sound like Merrick saying that–”

“I stand by that statement,” interjected the Ambrose watching over Merrick’s shoulder.

“I had lots of reasons. You’re just the first in a line of agnates that will revolutionise our ideas about illness and the human lifespan. Not to mention that it’s breaking scientific boundaries and starting a whole new industry!”

“How?”

“How what?”

“How does me looking like you change our ideas about illness and the human lifespan?”

At this point Ambrose seemed to spot the hole he had dug himself into. The chances of Pelasgus knowing the meaning of everything he was saying was unlikely, but there was no way that he would misunderstand what being an insurance policy entailed.

“Uh, well, there’s something to being able to create an adult human without the physical development of childhood…” Ambrose rambled as he walked back to the camera.

“What’s childhood?” Merrick had to stop himself from snorting. Ambrose was out of his depth, that much was clear.

The video cut out as he began, “You know what–”

Amused, Merrick looked up and saw that Ambrose’s ears had turned faintly pink.

“So you see, Pelasgus can differentiate between two different faces and identify that we look alike. It even seems to understand the general idea of cloning.”

“Perhaps you should provide some support with that,” Merrick said, as if there was any chance of it being a bad idea, “I can’t imagine that’s an easy pill to swallow.”

Ambrose waved a hand dismissively as he plucked out the memory stick. “It’ll be fine. Introduce the idea early and it’ll be normal. The rest’ll have to come to terms with it.”

“Will they? I was under the impression that we weren’t disclosing that to them.”

“What? You’re saying we should just lie?”

Sighing, Merrick pulled up the document he had been working on. Pelasgus was going to be a psychologist’s nightmare by the time Ambrose was through with him. He almost wanted to move him into his own office, but that was probably just the grief-echoes talking. Ambrose would turn it into a situation anyway, and Merrick was here as a scientist, not a caretaker.

“If your Project doesn’t see any issues arise because of this, we can consider telling the first generation. If.”

Grinning in the disconcerting way that he did, Ambrose strode backwards to the door. “You’re a pessimistic man, Dr Merrick,” he jeered before spinning into the corridor, exclaiming, “Self-recognition! Incredible!”

...

Conversation with Pelasgus would have been easy to avoid if Ambrose didn’t insist on keeping him in his office rather than in the purpose-built accommodation that would benefit from the prototype’s test run. At any given moment, Merrick was at most only half convinced that Project: Pelasgus was actually intended to be a true prototype and not a vanity project. Either way, Ambrose left them in the same room together far too often for Merrick’s liking.

The agnate had gradually accumulated a sort of static around his person that crackled every time Ambrose waltzed in. Existing in the same room as the two of them made Merrick exhausted and often left him with a pounding headache. Ambrose, of course, was too wrapped up in his fantasies of power and wealth to notice.

When he wasn’t there, suspicion was still thick in the air, which Merrick supposed was not helped by the small library of sci-fi and murder mystery films that was strewn about the TV. Although he had decided not to involve himself, he couldn’t bring himself to truly ignore the agnate. Initiating conversation felt a step too far, but throwing what he felt to be a comforting look in the agnate’s direction, or offering him coffee from Ambrose’s machine was fair game. If no-one did it, something would snap, so why not the only person in the godforsaken facility who didn’t look at him like either a freak of nature or a point of fascination.

Occasionally the agnate would say something and they’d talk until Ambrose returned and transformed the air into electricity. He’d often choose far heavier topics than Two Alpha had. Or at least topics that were heavy in context.

“Do people not like me because they don’t like Oscar or is it because I’m a copy of him and they don’t like that?”

“No consideration that they dislike you for your own merits?” Merrick asked, dryly. It was probably less than sympathetic but the agnate seemed to be on his wavelength about such things. The equally dry look he got in response affirmed this.

“How likely do you think that is? I don’t want to talk to them, but that’s because they already don’t like me. So do you think it’s because I’m a clone or because I’m Oscar’s clone?”

“Honestly? Given the people who work here and Oscar Ambrose’s general demeanor, it’s probably a bit of both.”

The agnate swore.

“Quite.”

...

At some point or another there was an incident in which Ambrose was mistaken for his agnate – or was it vice versa? – which had sent Ambrose into a somewhat vindictive frenzy, culminating in him commissioning an entirely new security system featuring RFID keys and a tech-filled bracelet that was quickly locked around the agnate’s wrist to prevent any further misidentifications. It would be amusing if not for the ire that was now constantly palpable between the two of them and the new glint in the agnate’s eyes. 

Apparently there had been an argument and Ambrose had started shouting.

“Do you even know what being an insurance policy means?!” a security officer had quoted when he offered to show Merrick the footage, finding it to be far more hilarious than it was. “It means you’re here for parts! I own you! The moment I get sick or injured, you’re done and I live on! Don’t start thinking you can go around being me. Don’t think you’re on my level. You hear?”

Subsequently, Merrick tried to keep himself away from the administration and management block, instead investigating a way to keep the commercial generations from ever even considering the possibility of their grim prospects. Evidently, the truth had a negative impact. Who knew?

...

Merrick was taking one of his unfortunately necessary brief visits to his own office when it happened. All he had in warning was a percussive commotion sounding from down the corridor, then Pelasgus was in his room, knocking the door as he passed it and appearing noticeably ruffled.

He stood up. “What–”

“Please,” gasped the agnate, “I don’t– I–”

The uncharacteristic desperation was written over his entire body, shaking and wide-eyed. Footsteps thundered on concrete and the agnate began to stumble forwards.

Merrick was halfway around his desk when the dark uniforms of the security team filled the doorway.

“Dr Merrick! Move away from the agnate, he’s dangerous!”

He froze as he spotted the firearms in their hands, the blood flecked on the agnate’s trousers. Slowly stepping backwards, he asked in a voice that thankfully didn’t shake, “What’s going on?”

“It killed Mr Ambrose, sir, we caught it on the cameras.”

The agnate step forwards again. “I–”

The reaction was instant. One, two, three shots. Merrick jerked back as the agnate toppled over. A member of security rushed over to usher him away from the rapidly pooling blood.

“Sir, are you okay?”

He nodded, still trying to process. It was hard to ignore the shape on the floor even as he was guided out of the room. Everything had happened in the space of a minute and now… 

“We’ll get someone in to clean up. You should find somewhere else to be.”

“How did this happen?” he asked.

“The agnate attacked him. Unarmed. Slammed his head against the desk, I think. Blood everywhere. We’re gonna cordon off the area until this is sorted.”

“Christ.” He needed a drink, though he didn’t own any alcohol. One of the maintenance workers would have something under the board, surely?

...

Death was one thing, seeing a man get shot was another. Nightmares plagued him. Faces in double, growing resentment, blood. The sensation of falling, over and over again. Two Alpha flatlining as he entered the room, moments too late. Pelasgus trying to retake control, fighting the man keeping him trapped. Ambrose dismissing and dismissing and dismissing.

Merrick found himself unable to sleep, spending his increasing waking hours reorganising the accommodation sector. Isolation was evidently asking for trouble, so the agnates would need regular contact. He couldn’t exactly hire people for them to talk to, so they would need to talk to each other in order to build proper social networks. But then how would staff be able to take them out of the active population for donation without arousing suspicion? How could he keep them from trying to find a way out? How, how, how?

In the end he hired a writing team to fabricate a world-ending event that had turned everything outside the compound into a dangerous hellscape unfit for living things. A Contamination. One that hadn’t reached a single small haven in the middle of the ocean, where a chosen few would be sent to repopulate humanity in the outside world. He didn’t want competition inciting violence within the group, so the method of selection would be presented as truly random, a lottery.

This all necessitated bringing in a further team to imprint artificial memories: the life before the Contamination, which they could hope for on the Island and make the staff’s memories of real life seem unextraordinary; and the devastation that the Contamination caused.

It was all quite elegant, in the end. Everything was explained neatly. The agnates would keep themselves contained, not needing to trust the word of the staff since they had memories of exactly what they were being told about. Perhaps this was the sort of lie that Ambrose had wanted to avoid, but Ambrose was dead by his own stupidity, so Merrick could continue as he wanted to.

He ordered the construction of new exercise facilities, various forms of entertainment, and a rudimentary educational curriculum all to keep them occupied so that they wouldn’t be bored into unpredictable behaviour. A techie had suggested that they get the clones to do some of the manual labour involved in maintaining the growth-support systems and hydroponic farms, which filled in the impression of ‘work’ given by the false memories and Merrick’s staff having obvious jobs.

Yes, all very elegant.

Now all that remained to be done was the agnates themselves.

...

The first generation was called Alpha.

Merrick watched as the first batch of samples got loaded into the system. Most of them were high-ranking officers in the Defense Department. A few were from notoriously flagrant billionaires. One was the only remaining genetic material from Steve.

He wouldn’t interact with Gandu Three Alpha out of course, he had learnt that lesson. Three Alpha would just be another face in the crowd, making friends, finding himself, living. But Merrick would be able to see his face, hear his voice. Steve and Two Alpha would live on through him. He would never be able to talk to them again, but he wouldn’t forget their face. It would be a silent phone call, staring at a photo across the room.

That was all he needed.

[swellwriting]

You found me.

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader

Warnings: none

Request: can I request Draco x female reader imagine? students are on break and girl convinces Draco to visit her home in the muggle world. they go shopping, visit museums, drink hot chocolate, go to the cinema... at the end of the day they are back in the girl's home and search through her old Hogwarts memories. later they are cuddled up and have sweet conversations🥰

Word Count: 3.7k

A break from college was much needed at this point in the semester, between exams and final projects you were glad to have a week where you could literally do nothing and not feel guilty about it. The week prior was spent surviving on a diet of 60% caffeine and 40% muffins with a mix of only 5 hours of sleep at most, but it was worth it for this stress-free break.

You lied in bed staring at the ceiling, you had just woken up of your own volition instead of by an alarm clock for the first time in months. Your mind raced with all the things you could do today, you could go to the coffee shop and enjoy having your morning drink there instead of racing out the door with it, you could read for pleasure in your own bed instead of the stuffy library with the weird mildew smell, or you could go shopping. The ideas drifted through your head as you weighed which was more favourable to yourself.

You got out of bed, grabbed a knitted sweater off the floor and pulled it over your shoulders walking to the kitchen in your small flat to get some cereal. As you crunched on the sugary breakfast food you continued pondering, you looked at the calendar on the wall to see something scribbled in red ink on today's date. It read: renew apparition licence today!

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath. That would be a good chunk of today's time wasted on long lines at the Ministry. You shrugged accepting the fact that you needed your apparition license, you needed to apparate to class at least a few times a week when you were running late and you couldn't afford to possibly pay the fine of being caught with an out of date licence. Not that you ever would get caught, attending a school full of muggles meant you only apparated into empty bathroom stalls and broom closets, but it was better safe than sorry.

Once you rinsed out your bowl you made your way to your room, your flat was small, deemed student housing making it was fairly cheap, so you wouldn't complain. The small closet in your room had a dresser crammed into it and hangers full of clothes on top, it was great being able to wear whatever you wanted, as long as it was reasonably appropriate, to school every day. You grabbed a pair of light wash jeans and slid them on, pulling the high rise pants up past your belly button, you slid a thin black long sleeve shirt on and tucked it in fastening the button, you grabbed your bag and a sweater before sliding your boots on and running out the door, better to get there early and get this over with.

Sadly, that's what many people had in mind as well. When you apparated into the main entrance of the Ministry you were met with the crowds of people making their way through the busy building. You looked at the signs and tried to find the licence renewal line and make your way there. You hadn’t had to do this since you turned 16, you got it a week after your birthday, though you weren't legally allowed to apparate until 18. You wondered if you would see anyone you knew here, anyone from Hogwarts with a birthday near yours that would also have to renew their license around now. As you walked, staring up at the signs trying to find the way you bumped into someone else who had been staring at their feet as they walked.

You noticed his polished black shoes first, as your eyes drifted up you saw a perfectly pressed white button up and then your eyes met his, a shade of silver just as you had remembered them.

“I'm sorry.” Where the only words that came out of your mouth as your mind raced, it had been over two years since you had last seen your old acquaintance from Hogwarts.

“It's alright.” He answered plainly making the conversation go nowhere but you both still stood there waiting for something to happen.

The large crowd seemed to part around the two of you as you stood in place looking up at him expectantly, but for what, you weren’t sure. From Draco you didn't expect a warm hug like you would from a different classmate, you expected perhaps a handshake, the general courteousness of a pompous rich boy like himself, instead he smiled awkwardly at you, “Hello, Y/n.”

“Hello, Draco.” You replied formally repeating his greeting to him, unsure of where the two of you stood.

The two of you weren't friends in Hogwarts, to say that would be a stretch but for a moment you wondered what would define a friend to Draco and though perhaps in his mind, you might fit the bill. You were kind to him, kind to everybody actually, you were potion partners for three years in a row at the end of Hogwarts and he once even bought you a hot chocolate at The Three Broomsticks when you ended up at the same large table with mutual friends. So even though it hadn't really crossed your mind maybe he did see you as a friend from school, more than you saw him as a just an old classmate.

“Do you work here?” He asked gesturing to the building you were both standing in.

“Oh no, I'm in school actually, the University of London, second year.” You said awkwardly. You hadn't seen many old friends from Hogwarts, you ahdnt looked forward to telling anyone from your old magical school that you had chosen to go to a muggle school, especially not someone like Draco. Even if you had heard that he changed, you had seen it a bit yourself in the last years of Hogwarts.

Draco raised a brow like he had no idea what you were talking about so you decided to further explain yourself to the boy with such a narrow world view, “Its a muggle school.”

He nodded and then looked confused again before asking, “Then what are you doing here?”

“Well I'm still a witch Draco,” you said it with no malice instead you gave a lighthearted chuckled before continuing to explain yourself, “I have to renew my apparition license, but I'm having trouble finding it.”

“Oh me too, I just got told its downstairs, here let me show you.” He said before turning and walking the direction the lady at the desk had just told him, he looked back every now and then to make sure you were still behind him, not daring to grab your hand. He seemed nervous and uneasy, to top it off he looked pale, paler than usual.

When you got to the line he stopped, “I guess a lot of people are here for the same thing.”

“I guess so.” You answered awkwardly as he stepped aside for you to go in front of him in the line, you smiled and quietly said thank you before turning to face the front. After a few minutes of awkward silence, the line had only moved a smidge. You decided it would be best to let the time pass with conversation, you turned swiftly to face Draco which seemed to surprise him.

“How are you?” You said abruptly, forcing a friendly smile on your face.

“Me? Oh, I'm good, yeah good.”

“Just good? Are you working somewhere or?”

“No.” He answered awkwardly fidgeting with his hands, “I'm rather uninteresting actually, how are you?”

“I'm good, stressed out beyond belief, well I'm sure you've felt similarly distressed.” You commented, meaning to relate to your mutual schooling at Hogwarts and being stressed for OWLS and such but by the look of bewilderment on his face, you knew he assumed you meant stress from the war or something regarding his trial.

“I mean, stressed from school, like at Hogwarts for OWLs, College is similar, actually less difficult really, but it's still a lot.”

“Oh, of course, yeah, schools always stressful.”

Your conversation was interrupted when you noticed Harry Potter walking out of a doorway with the sign “Department of Magical Law Enforcement” overhead. He quickly noticed Draco and walked over, it was hard to miss that platinum blonde hair.

“Draco! How are you?”

“Good, you?” He replied, he still looked just as uneasy when talking to Harry, you assumed they had become friends since you read that Harry testified for him at his trial.

“Good.” He said with a nod before noticing you, “And Y/n hello.”

“Hi, Harry.” You said, it was weird, you were never friends with him at Hogwarts. He would have never said hi to you if you weren’t stood beside Draco.

“Are you guys here together?” Harry asked as he looked at Draco expectantly.

“Now we just ran into each other, renewing our licenses,” Draco said, and you just nodded.

Harry’s smiled deflated a bit as he patted Draco on the shoulder. “Well, you should get out more often, other than renewing license’s and stuff, come by sometime soon!” Harry said before waving goodbye to you and then walking away.

“That was awkward.” You commented not meaning to let it slip out, you covered your mouth with your hand.

Draco chuckled, a genuine smile spreading across his face, “What and this is not?”

“Well, sort of, but it'd be awkward if I saw anyone from Hogwarts, it's not specifically because it's you. Regardless, you seem uneasy, like you don't want to be here.”

“Do you want to be here?” He asked and you shook your head.

“No, but you seem more nervous to be here than just generally annoyed like I am.”

“I just feel like, I don't know how to talk to people, I am a very different person from when I last spoke to you, for example, I don't know how to be me now. It sounds weird but it's just, I don't know. I feel like everyone everywhere is staring at me all the time and everyone hates me.” Draco confessed, sounding so honest and real that it almost scared you.

“You shouldn't care what people think.”

“Y/n, I haven't changed THAT much.” He said with a smile and you laughed.

Before you could say anything back to him the lady at the desk called out for the next person in line, which you hadn't realized until now was you.

Draco got called to the desk beside you and you both turned to each other when you were finished, standing there awkwardly again, unsure of what to do.

“I should go.” You said quietly as you stood out of the way.

“Yeah, me too, busy day ahead of me.”

“Busy? What do you have to do?” You asked, wondering what Draco Malfoy did if he didn't work.

“Sit in the manor, alone. Actually.” He tried to say it as a joke but the sadness in his eyes was telling.

“I actually have a few things to do, if you want to tag along, you know if the whole brooding alone thing can wait.”

“I can reschedule it actually,” he said with a thin smile, you could tell he was holding himself back from smiling wider, not wanting to seem too excited to actually have something to do.

You grabbed his hand and apparated back into the living room of your flat, it was small, like every room. There was a large window that took up most of the wall and looked down on part of London, you were a few floors up so you had a teeny tiny balcony as well. You had a bright patterned couch that you found on sale and textbooks and notes covering your coffee table, as well as many half drunk cups of tea.

“Sorry for the mess, I have to take a day to clean sometime this week.” You said gesturing to the mess before grabbing the sticky note attached to your fridge with a list of basic groceries you needed. You stuck the sticky note to Dracos neat white shirt, “hold this for me,” he looked down and peeled it off his shirt with a grin, holding the small list in his hands.

-almond milk

-bread

-muffins

-tea bags

-pasta

He read it over, what a weird shopping list, it was so normal. He looked at you as you grabbed your bag and walked over to the door, waving your hand for him to follow. As you walked down the stairs he had to ask, “Where are we getting these things? Why don't we just apparate?”

“We are going to the grocery store, and we are walking because it's nice outside for one and because muggles don't take kindly to someone magically appearing in front of their cart in the cereal aisle.”

Draco nodded trying to understand, he had never been to a grocery store in his life, he always had someone to do that for him. There was a small grocery shop a block away from your flat, you grabbed a basket instead of a cart and walked to where you knew, the things you needed, to be. You quickly grabbed them as Draco followed you like a lost puppy dog.

“This is really all I have to get done today, but I should take you to more muggle places, you seem confused and scared but in the way someone fears something unknown to them, when we were at the ministry you looked anxious and scared but in the way that you were scared of the people around you.” You paused for a moment thinking he would say something but he stayed silent so you continued. “The muggles? They don't care about you, they don't even know who you are, you will only get weird looks for wearing dress clothes in the middle of spring while walking on the streets.”

“So my attire is not muggle appropriate?”

“No, it's perfect of sulking in your house where only the house elves will see you, but it's terrible for literally anything else, except maybe a pureblood party.”

“This would never be suitable for a pureblood party, this is too dressed down,” he scoffed and you raised a brow at him as to tell him he was being too stuck up and posh, he mumbled a sorry in acknowledgment under his breath. “What would you suppose I wear?”

As the two of you stood in the checkout line you placed your items on the counter and turned to him trying to work with what you had. You raised a hand up slowly to his hair and paused looking him in the eyes before daring to touch it, he nodded his head giving you permission to mess up his perfectly gelled back platinum hair.

You dug your fingers in and shuffled them back and forth until his hair was less stuck in place and more tousled, falling to one side and sticking up in a few places, perfectly messy which made Draco already look like a whole new person.

Then as you still stood in the checkout line in the middle of a busy grocery shop you moved closer to him and undid a few buttons off the top and pulled his shirt untucked, you then rolled his sleeves up giving him an instantly more casual look. “That's the best that I can do,” you said with a smile.

As you paid for your food Draco whispered from behind you so the clerk wouldn't hear, ‘You made me look ridiculous didn't you?”

“No you look very handsome I promise.” You said without even thinking.” Draco’s cheeks turned light pink at that and he stood in shock, staring at the clerk behind the counter for a minute before he realized you had walked away.

He hurried to catch up with you and took your bag out of your hand to carry it for you, but as you got outside finding an unusually empty sidewalk you took the bag back from him and in a snap, it disappeared, being sent to your kitchen counter.

“So you buy groceries the muggle way, but you use magic at your own convenience.”

“Though this is a Muggle shop, wizards buy groceries too Draco, you just have house elves for such things.” You teased and he frowned realizing his view of a wizarding life varied from yours and others quite a bit.

“So, what other muggle things are we going to do then?”

“You actually want to? You have changed quite a lot then, you won't be too disgusted by them or too busy thinking you are superior to them?”

“My parents are still very much that way, and though I wouldn't want them to know what I was currently doing, I have no issue with it.”

“And if your parents knew you were willingly spending your day with a half-blood?”

“They'd probably faint but I don't care.”

“Ooh, Draco Malfoy. Ever the Rebel.” You teased as you stopped walking in front of the small museum you had always opposed but never gone to. “Care to be super rebellious and learn a little bit about Muggle history?”

Draco shrugged as he followed you inside, you walked in silently looking at the different exhibits, the one about past wars, the dinosaurs, some old statues and near the end there was a small art gallery with historic paintings. Draco was looking at one of some detailed building, an old castle of some sort when he heard you start laughing, it would be very disruptive had anyone else been in there.

“What's so funny?” He asked as he walked over and then frowned when he saw the painting, it was of a young man with white hair and a large frown on his face, he wore some old time clothes and it very much resembled Draco. “Oh, Merlin.”

“Nope, doesn't look like Merlin to me,” you paused bending over in laughter as Draco looked at you completely unamused, “looks like you.”

“Oh shut up,” he said as he finally let a smile crack. Now that you had seen he wasn't actually upset at finding his painting doppelganger you grabbed his shoulders lightly and moved him to stand beside it, you backed up admiring the resemblance and then burst out laughing again.

“It's uncanny really.” Then your mouth opened as you came to a great realization, you had a camera with you, you shuffled through your bag and felt it in your hands, before pulling it out you looked at Draco with a pleading smile. “Please.”

“What?” He asked looking a bit scared.

You pulled the camera out and hid your face behind it, he breathed loudly letting out a huff. “Fine.”

You looked into the viewfinder and framed the photo, it was perfect. You clicked it, making sure the flash was off to not draw attention from any security guards.

As soon as you pulled the camera down he moved away from the painting, you walked up beside him moving on to the exit and out to the sidewalk.

“That was fun.”

“Ah yes, fun. You making fun of me is very fun.”

“I'm not making fun of you, I'm having fun with you, there’s a difference, even if you're not used to the latter.”

“I have fun,” he argued.

“When is the last time you had fun with someone and you weren't making fun of someone else?”

“Probably potions class with you?” he said honestly, almost like a question. You smiled at that, it was such a cute thing to say even if it was just his honest thoughts.

“I guess that counts, this is better though.” You smiled as you turned into a   shop, holding the door for Draco to walk in behind you.

“Hot chocolate? I need a break from my caffeine binge of last week. I’ll buy this time if you buy next time.” You said with a smile and Draco agreed, going to find the two of you a table by the window.

“If you want me to pay next time we will have to visit the three broomsticks or something, I might be rich in the wizarding world but to muggles my money is rubbish.” He commented.

“Sure, I've been dying to go back there anyways I haven’t been in so long.”

“Last time I was there was when we pushed two tables together, it was right before the big battle at Hogwarts, maybe a week before, we were all so stressed and nervous that it didn't matter who was sat at the table, Slytherins sat there, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws and even Gryffindors, it was fun complaining about school and the war together, it was like group therapy.”

“You bought me a hot chocolate that night.” You said with a smile as you sipped your sweet drink.

“I remember that.”

“A weird act of kindness for the then Draco Malfoy.”

“Well, I felt like you deserved it, you looked stressed.”

“I was stressed, we all were.”

“But you were the only one I really cared about, the others could fuck right off if I'm being honest.”

“Did Draco Malfoy just say he cared about me?”

“You were always kind to me, patient, even when I didn't deserve it,” he admitted as he sort of his behind his drink, taking small sips.

“Everybody deserves a bit of kindness.”

“And here you are, being kind yet again even though I haven't talked to you for over two years, I thought about it but I never had your address anyways.

“Well, you found me now.” You said with a smile and he smiled back, genuine, all toothy with no holding back for his reputation.

“Let's go see a movie, I'm out of ideas after that.”

“A muggle movie I assume.”

“Yep, with muggle snacks and muggle actors and everything, the full experience, even chewed muggle gum under the seats!”

“I don't even want to inquire on that last part.” He said as you both stood up and walked over to the movie theatre down the street, preparing to stuff your faces with overly buttery popcorn and bubbly soda drinks.

[missmentelle]

i want to write a character who just left a toxic relationship, but the character depends on the toxic partner, because they are having trouble finding a job. when character leaves the toxic relationship, they are left with basically nothing and are kicked out of the only home they had. however i have never experienced something like this(fortunately) and im not sure what would and could happen. could you help me? (fyi later on the character does actually get help, in the end everything is ok)

Unfortunately, I do have a lot of experience with this kind of situation. I have never personally had to go through something like this, but in working with the homeless and in intimate partner violence crisis centers, I have met many, many people who’ve been in this exact situation. These stories are very individual and complex, but typically, if you have left a toxic relationship and lost your home because of it, there are a couple of places you end up from there:

If you have family and friends nearby, that’s probably the first place you’re going to land. You might end up sleeping on a couch, in a guestroom, or back in your old childhood bedroom after leaving an abusive relationship. That’s not an easy or comfortable situation to be in, however - it can be very, very difficult to admit to your loved ones that you’re in this situation and need their help, even if they have never been anything but loving and supportive towards you. Most people have some degree of pride in being able to take care of themselves, and having to admit to your friend that you were abused for years and you need to crash on their couch can be absolutely humiliating. Abusers also tend to isolate their victims and actively try to sabotage their social connections, so turning to friends and family after escaping often involves that you break months or years of silence to reach out to someone that you are no longer certain you can count on, and then immediately confessing some of your darkest secrets and asking for help. If your abuser has moved you far away from family and friends, and cut you off financially (another common tactic), you’ll also probably need to ask someone to send you some money for a bus/train/plane ticket home. The shame of having to reach out to family and friends can be so overpowering that many survivors will allow themselves to become homeless rather than reaching out - the greater the perceived obstacles in place (distance from family, closeness of relationship, time since last contact, whether or not the family already suspect abuse, how much of a burden they think they will be on their family), in my experience, the less likely they are to actually reach out. 

If you don’t have friends or family to turn to (or if you are not emotionally able to reach out, or if your friends/family are not in a position to help you), you can also end up in a domestic violence shelter. These vary wildly from shelter to shelter, but typically you will go in, speak to an intake worker, and be assigned to a shared room with several other women (these shelters are almost exclusively female-only, or female-and-child-only). The shelter will also typically provide the bare-bones basics that you need if you had to flee with nothing - they’ll give you basic toiletries, clean underwear, socks, etc. Your time at a domestic violence shelter is typically limited; they are somewhere to land while you get back on your feet, but they are not intended to be a long-term solution. Many shelters here in NYC do not have maximum stay limits, simply because this is such a difficult place to get housing, but I have worked with shelters in other cities that had 60-120 day limits, with some ability to get an extension if you needed in. In that time, though, you’ll generally be working with counsellors at the shelter to try to get your life together - they’ll try to help you with your resume, look into going back to school if you need to, help you look for work, help you look for employment, assist you with any court case you may be dealing with, etc. Again, though, this can take an enormous emotional toll. You’ve just been through a horrific experience, and instead of taking time to recover, you are now being rushed into achieving a level of independence that you might never have experienced before, with the knowledge that there is a ticking clock over your head and you don’t know what will happen when it runs out. You’re also trying to deal with the loss of privacy that comes from sharing your living space, and from having to tell your story to shelter staff before you’re totally ready to do so. Domestic violence shelters do amazing work, but being there is not easy. 

Many domestic violence survivors end up homeless. Many people who leave abusive relationships do not immediately have the life, job or emotional skills necessary to immediately transition to independent living. Abusers like to make their victims dependent on them, to discourage them from leaving - many people living in abusive relationships are prevented from completing their educations, furthering their careers, managing money, properly treating mental health or medical conditions, or fostering a strong social support network. As a result, many people struggle immensely after leaving a relationship, and may experience short-term or long-term homelessness as a result. This kind of thing doesn’t discriminate - in my career, I’ve met women with multiple graduate degrees who ended up in long-term homeless shelters after leaving abusive relationships. It’s hard. There is a strong, documented link between domestic violence and homelessness, and we don’t yet have the kinds of resources we need to break this connection. 

You’re almost definitely going to end up in an ugly legal battle. In many jurisdictions, it’s not really legal to kick your spouse out of the house and make them homeless and destitute - but the battle to get alimony or marital assets from your ex-spouse can be long and ugly. Abusers typically lash out when their victim escapes them, and one of the ways that they can try to do that is by attempting to make the divorce as messy, vicious and drawn-out as they possibly can. A woman who has left an abuser she is legally married to will face a long battle to divorce her spouse and get any kind of financial recourse. Abusers can generally afford much nicer lawyers than their victims can, and can afford to let the case drag on and rack up legal fees. There are pro-bono or low-cost legal resources out there for survivors, but the court case can take an enormous emotional toll all the same. 

Returning to the job market is incredibly difficult for most survivors. Again, abusers like their victims to be dependent on them - they will go out of their way to discourage you from fostering your independence. That often means that they will discourage or prevent you from finishing school, having a serious career, hanging on to your own money, or developing professional contacts. That can take many forms - they might move you away from a city where you have a career, tell you that you can’t afford school, ensure that you are constantly pregnant/parenting, constantly accuse you of cheating with coworkers, whine about you “neglecting” them until you agree to quit your job, etc. And all of this can be very hard to overcome. Having a large gap in your work history because your partner made you stay home for several years can make it hard to find work, and disclosing that this gap is due to domestic violence can hurt your chances of landing the job. Plus, many survivors come out of these relationships with their confidence absolutely shattered, which makes it difficult to think that you’re even worthy of applying on jobs that you are qualified for. 

Domestic violence (and life after domestic violence) is definitely a topic that could stand to get more coverage in fiction and the arts. When you are basing a story around domestic violence, though, I think there are three things that you really need to keep in mind:

What is my purpose in telling this story? What message am I trying to convey? Writing about domestic violence should not be done simply because it’s a shocking topic, or because it’s an instant tear-jerker - there should be some purpose for basing a story around it. What are you trying to say about the topic? What are readers supposed to take away from the story?

Talk to real survivors about their experiences, or at least do some research by looking at narratives from people who have personally experienced this. There is no end to the memoirs/stories/films/shows written about this topic by people who have actually been there. See what they have to say about it. What do different people’s stories have in common? What things set them apart? Ideally, you should try to have someone with personal experience read over your story when it’s finished, to see if anything comes across as hollow or unrealistic. And if you are basing your research heavily on a survivor creator’s work, try to buy their book/kick in a few dollars to their ko-fi or Patreon if you can. 

Consider what a “happy ending” looks like in this situation. The hard reality of the situation is that very few people get to have that victorious ending where they become more powerful and successful than their ex and get to destroy their abuser and laugh in their face. For many people, a “happy ending” is a quiet, humble life where they are no longer actively haunted by the abuse, and where they are at peace with the fact that their abuser faced no real consequences for their actions - and even this happy ending can take years to achieve. Having someone bounce back from this kind of situation quickly in a story can come across as flippant, and as glossing over the hard realities of the situation. 

Best of luck to you!Miss Mentelle

[caffeine-catastrophe]

Go the Distance! CH. 2!

click here for chapter one!

A/N: Thank you so much for such a positive response to the first chapter! It made my day to see all the reviews. Please keep them up :) There were a few questions about what a grant is, and some confusion over the general plot of this story, so I will do my best to give y'all some context. The rest will be revealed later on in the story, I promise.

A grant is defined as "a sum of money given by a government or other organization for a particular purpose. ie: a research grant". The one mentioned in this story is being offered for the sole purpose of giving young people a chance to pursue their dreams and aspirations, without having to kill themselves working three jobs like the rest of us do in real life.

Some other things: the gang is about the same age, a year or two out of high school (in my mind, L is 19 - coincidentally the legal drinking age where I live - N is 20, and G and E are 21 ish). None of them are in college at the moment, because student loans mean interest and none of them really want to (or are able to) deal with the future repercussions of that. Their individual career paths and aspirations will be discussed further into the story.

I hope you like the second chapter! The next one is already done, so I'm going to finish the one after that before I publish it!

Go the Distance

Three days, four million dollars, and a cross-country road trip that will change their lives for good. OR: The Dreyar Grant for Brighter Futures is a prestigious scholarship granted to only the most deserving of candidates, but even miracles don't come without a price.

---

... And a thousand years would be worth the wait It might take a lifetime, but somehow I'll see it through...

"Thank you all for coming," Ms. Strauss begins cheerfully, seating herself at one end of the large conference table situated in the centre of the room. She gestures for the four trailing awkwardly behind her to take a seat on either side of her. Lucy finds it increasingly hard to concentrate as Ms. Strauss begins to brief them on the legalities of the grant. She hands her the envelope containing her high school transcript and photocopied version of her passport, and watches in a zombified stupor as the others do the same. "I'll send these to HQ in Crocus to double check your eligibility, but for now I'm going to assume you're all wonderful people and take your word for it," Mirajane continues in a humoured tone that does nothing to relieve the tension in the air.

"Now tell me, what do you four know about Mr. Dreyar?" Ms. Strauss asks. "I assume you all did your research," she continues, raising an amused eyebrow. Lucy can't help but think this is some kind of test. She exchanges a quick glance with the rest of her companions, each shifting uneasily in their seats. Erza seems to have disappeared into her hair again; even Natsu is looking a little bit less confident about 'having this'. Lucy waits for one of the other three to speak up, before looking nervously back at Ms. Strauss, who – Lucy notices with a jolt – is looking directly at her.

"Ms. Heartfilia? You seem like you might have something to say," Ms. Strauss says with an encouraging smile. Lucy bites her lip. She always was terrible at public speaking. You're a high school graduate with a theatre diploma and English honours, Lucy. Get it together.

"Mr. Dreyar is a so-called legendary business mogul worth approximately 64 billion dollars," Lucy begins slowly, glancing quickly at Ms. Strauss for confirmation. The woman gives her a small smile and Lucy continues, "He was an Ivy League student that originally wanted to be in law, but after a few years of schooling he had a change of heart. He dropped out to pursue a degree in business, and by the time he graduated he had sold two successful companies and had a net worth of 1.2 million dollars."

"Very good, Lucy," Ms. Strauss says, smiling. "Anyone else?" She looks over at Gray, who clears his throat reluctantly. "He never married but has taken in many apprentices over the years and treats them like they are his blood. He acts like a sponsor to ensure they become successful, and then takes a small percentage of their annual income once a year until he has been paid back."

"Not only that, but now that all of his so-called children have grown up and are able to stand on their own, rumour has it that he's looking for a new group of young people to mentor," Natsu jumps in enthusiastically, nudging Erza beside him, who rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

"Rumour has it, that's us," she finishes quietly in a voice that's tinged with equal parts exasperation and excitement.

"Rumour has it, indeed," Ms. Strauss responds vaguely, eyes roving over the group in what almost seems like approval. "Now, on to business," she says abruptly, disturbing the air of quiet anticipation that has settled over the four young adults. "Mr. Dreyar, while a brilliant man, can be quite… eccentric. Rather than handing the grant over to you at this moment, he has insisted that the four of you join him in Crocus in three days' time so that he can assess your eligibility in person. This means the four of you will have to acquire your own methods of transportation and lodging, should you choose not to travel there via aeroplane. Hotel rooms will be provided for you once you arrive, of course. He has written you into his schedule this Thursday at noon. Any questions?"

When Ms. Strauss finishes speaking, the only sounds in the room are the quiet ticking of an analog clock by the door and the muffled din of traffic outside.

---

The group is silent as they file out of the room en route to the elevators. They stand awkwardly as they wait for the car, each lost in thought. Erza is tugging on her hair again while Gray and Natsu furrow their brows in the same tense expression, which Lucy might've found amusing if she didn't also find herself so unbelievably screwed. No one says a word until the elevator doors open with a soft ding and close behind them with another muffled thump.

"So, we're pretty much screwed," Natsu echoes Lucy's thoughts, ever the spokesperson. "Flying expensive, and I don't know about you guys, but the reason I applied for this scholarship is that I couldn't afford to splurge on a plane ticket if I wanted to."

"Yup," Gray lets out stiffly, exchanging a loaded glance with Erza that Lucy can't quite decipher.

"However," Natsu continues, "I've driven down to Crocus a few times for soccer games in the past, and I'm sure my dad wouldn't mind us borrowing his van since there's a chance we'd be coming back with a total of four million freaking dollars." He sends a silly look in Lucy's direction, reflected in the polished gold of the elevator still counting down from 14, and she lets out a tense laugh. She takes a deep breath, feeling the tension of the group lift for a brief moment. "If you guys are okay with chipping in for gas money and splitting the cost of a few nights in a hotel, we could spend the next few days driving down to Crocus in time for the meeting," Natsu suggests, raising his eyebrows at the other three expectantly. There's a pause, and then Gray breathes a sigh of relief.

"I mean, that's actually a pretty good idea. I've got my license too, so I could take turns driving if you'd like," Gray offers.

"Same here," Lucy chimes in, and Erza nods in agreement.

"Does that mean you're in?" Natsu asks eagerly, turning to Lucy, who turns to Erza. The two exchange a look, raising hesitant eyebrows as if to reassure each other that going on a spontaneous road trip with two strange guys won't end with getting themselves killed. Girls need to stick together, after all. Then again, Lucy's been through worse and while Erza may look demure, she also seems like the type of person to kill someone in their sleep. Lucy sets her jaw determinedly and gives Erza a little wink. The other girl smiles nervously in response. The world spins a little as the elevator settles, and when the doors finally open with another soft ding, Lucy turns back to Natsu with a grin.

"We're in."

---

"This one's a little more out of the way, but it's a lot cheaper," Gray suggests an hour later. The group of four have made their way over to a café down the block in order to iron out their plans for the weekend. Lucky for them, Natsu had his laptop in his dad's car that's parked across the street, and they've all crowded around the small table in the corner of the shop, each trying to get a better look at the screen.

"Is it going to be safe, though?" Lucy asks concernedly from behind him. "Family-owned inns usually have lower budget security systems, if you know what I mean."

"Nah, it looks fine," Natsu reassures her, reaching over Erza's plate of strawberry shortcake to pull the laptop closer to him. "It's got a ton of reviews, and all of them say it's clean and relatively safe, see?" he says, pulling it up on the screen for her to check.

"We'll go with that one in Acalypha, then," Erza says resolutely, jotting down the phone number and address in the little notebook Lucy had stashed in her purse at the meeting.

"I can call them later tonight when I call the place in Hargeon to book the rooms," Gray suggests, taking a picture of the page with his phone.

"We did it!" Lucy cheers, flipping back to add it to the PowerPoint Natsu and Gray insisted they create in honour of their 'Road Trip'. Boys. "Looks like we've got it all sorted out then! Where and when do you guys want to meet tomorrow?" she asks, leaning back and nudging the laptop closer to Natsu, who's straining to get a better look over Gray's head.

"I can pick everyone up in the morning," Natsu offers, grinning at her in thanks, and her heart stutters at the easy way he leans across her lap to save the document and shut down his laptop.

"Around 10, then?" Erza suggests, chewing savagely as she stuffs the rest of cake in her mouth. Lucy is kind of surprised at how passionate Erza is about dessert. Never mind how gentle she usually is, she nearly tore off Gray's arm when he came close to knocking it off the table while scuffling with Natsu over the PowerPoint font.

The group confirms the time, each pulling out their phones to add each other on social media. The boys create a group chat with a reminder for their plan tomorrow, aptly naming it 'The Four Million Dollar Road Trip'. Erza and Gray live in the same direction, so they quickly gather their things and head to the train together, casting apprehensive glances at the overcast sky. Apparently, Gray is a last-minute packer and Erza admits to being that chick that brings four suitcases in the name of being 'prepared'. They need all the time they can get.

Natsu and Lucy, on the other hand, take their time packing up. Lucy is organized to a fault and Natsu doesn't seem to be too concerned about getting home right away, so they fill the café with their chatter until they forget that the sunshine surrounding them isn't coming in through the window. When it starts to get dark outside, the conversation turns to their homes and families. They are surprised to discover that they live in the same neighbourhood; his building is just down the block from hers. She learns his sister Wendy takes dance classes and sings off-key in the shower, and in turn she tells him all about her golden retriever, Plue, who used to follow her to school every day in the third grade.

By the time they are ready to leave, the rain has started and the lightning makes the sky look like it may have cracked open in the downpour. And if Natsu is pleased to hear that Lucy has forgotten her umbrella and may need to join him for the car ride home, well, he doesn't say a thing.

---

I based Makarov's backstory on Mark Zuckerberg lmao. He's a controversial person, for sure, but useful when it comes to needing rich entrepreneur character backgrounds.

Comments? Questions? Reactions? Drop me a review!

See y'all soon!

[emperorsfoot]

YJ fic. # 2, “Emergence”

Originally posted on FanFiction.Net on 1/6/12

This was a fill for a prompt in the “Young Justice Fandom Challenges” forum. Amazingly, the forum is still active: https://www.fanfiction.net/forum/Young-Justice-Fanfiction-Challenges/86355/

The prompt was to write a fic where Superman wanted to adopt Superboy and Supey was the one to reject him. 

There was some wiggle room for interpretation. 

My summary: “Fathers generally get nine months to get used to the idea. But when the child's already walking, talking and asking for attention, nine months might be to long to wait. -ONE SHOT”

Emergence:

Clark watched Bruce with his new ward. The two worked well together, better than one would have expected a newly orphaned nine-year-old circus boy to work with a still unfamiliar adult and far better than one would have ever expected the Dark Knight to work with… well anyone. Even the teamwork of the World's Finest would be hard-pressed in a comparison.

The Man of Steel hung back as he used his telescopic vision to observe Gotham's hero and his new protégé take down a small-time roof-hopper that Clark didn't recognize. The Batman was fiercely territorial about his city and Superman wasn't looking to step on his toes, he just had to see this for himself. He knew Bruce Wayne had adopted an orphaned circus acrobat a few weeks ago. The young billionaire bachelor and his flavor-of-the-week date for that week had been in attendance as spectators the day of the accident that had killed all but two of the Flying Graysons, leaving the youngest son orphaned and his only surviving uncle to injured to care for himself let alone the nine-year-old boy. That was note-worthy news for the gossip columns. But what brought Clark to Gotham tonight, almost a month since, were the rumors that the Batman was now being seen with a young boy by his side.

It was no surprise to the reporter that Bruce would take in a young boy whom had also witnessed the brutal death of his parents. He probably saw a bit of himself in the boy, felt a sort of comradery through their shared tragedy. But what the Man of Steel found hard to believe was that the Dark Knight would place such a young child in harms way by taking him out on patrols and cases every night. But there they were, a duo that seemed to be developing a very effective dynamic for fighting crime.

He waited until they had dispatched their quarry and finished their circuit of the city and returned to the Batcave. Bruce had just shifted the Batmobile into park and cut the engine when Superman entered the cave.

"I was wondering when you'd finally stop hovering and say 'hi'." The Dark Knight commented dryly as he hopped out of the driver's seat, cape swishing behind him. "Spying doesn't become you."

Before Clark had the chance to respond, he was cut off by the excited exclamation of the Wonder Boy, "Oh wow! You do know him!"

He did a forward flip out of his seat and landed, feet first, on the hood of the Batmobile. A second flip landed him directly in front of the Man of Steel. He beamed up at the famed hero with an almost worshipful grin on his face. But before the boy had the chance to say more, his legal guardian cut him off.

"Don't you have school tomorrow?"

"Right, right." The boy groaned and then was cartwheeling towards the stairs that lead into the mansion proper. Clark waited until the faux grandfather clock had shut firmly before turning his attention back to the Dark Knight.

"I must say, I'm surprised."

"What are you doing here, Clark?"

The Man of Steel suppressed a smile. He might have adopted a son and become a parent, but Batman was still the same blunt and sometimes abrasive Batman. "Honestly, I had to see it for myself. Bruce Wayne adopting a kid I can totally see, Batman taking a kid out on cases is just so out of character and plain irresponsible, to me."

Bruce pulled his cowl off and ran his fingers through sweat matted hair. "Since you're new to the whole spy thing I'm guessing you didn't see that he's more than capable of holding his own on cases."

Clark had noticed that the boy was rather talented, but he was so young and Batman's cases were usually so dangerous… "I just don't see why you'd want to get you're adopted son involved in this part of your life."

Bruce flopped down in the swivel chair in front of his monitors and said with a shrug, "Its our version of father-son quality time."

Clark thought about that for a long time after leaving Gotham. Father-son quality time, huh. If Clark Kent were to ever adopt a child he would never be able to include his hypothetical ward in his… extracurricular activities. Not unless the boy (or girl, he supposed) could also fly, had super-strength, and was invulnerable. His villain gallery may not be as mentally unbalanced or creative as Bruce's but that didn't mean they were any less dangerous. In fact, in many instances, his gallery was much, much more dangerous than the Dark Knight's, he could never in good conscience involve a child in that. If he were ever to have a sidekick or a protégé, they'd have to be a kryptonian like himself, with the same abilities he had. But that was something that would never happen. Kryptonian physiology wasn't compatible with humans'; no matter how much the two races resembled each other, they could not procreate. He would never have any progeny by normal means.

He could never include an adopted son in the 'Superman' part of his life and he could never have a son of his own. Clark supposed he'd never be able to relate to Bruce where that aspect of his life was concerned.

…

Barry was the second member of the League to take on a sidekick. His newly wedded wife, Iris, apparently had a nephew whom was blessed (cursed) with a keenly inquisitive mind and a pre-inclination towards science. He had not only discovered his newly acquired uncle's identity, but also managed to reproduce the experiment (accident) that had given him his super-speed. Now the Flash had a 'Kid Flash' underfoot trying to be a hero like his uncle.

Between bites of pizza and popcorn, Barry would regal anyone willing to listen with tales of his adventures and misadventures with the boy. He would whine and kvetch and complain about his youth and his inexperience, but behind the grousing and grumblings, Clark could hear amusement, affection and even pride in his voice. For all his complaining, Barry was happy to have a partner to help-out with keeping his own little rouge gallery in check.

"There is one good thing about having the Kid around." Flash gave a dramatic sigh, waving his arms wide before slumping his shoulders in defeat. He waited for someone to follow his cue. After a prolonged pause Clark decided to bite.

"Alright, Berry, and what's that?"

"Its good practice!" He answered with a smile. "Ya know, for when Iris and I have little speedsters of our own."

Clark had muttered something non-committal to that, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. He made his excuses to the Flash and exited the mess hall. Barry could have little speedsters; the accident that had given him his powers had not robbed him of his potential to become a parent. But Clark would never have little boy scouts of his own; he wasn't human and so did not have the potential to ever become a parent with a human woman.

…

Ollie had been the next one, another adoption case. Clark had been rather busy with an off-world mission at the time and so didn't get to hear the full story of young Roy Harper from Green Arrow himself. Instead receiving the cliff-notes version from Aquaman upon his return.

"Batman seems to have set a trend." The Atlantian king joked. "What about you, Supes, any plans to become the next 'Justice-daddy'."

"The next what?"

"Its what Berry's started calling the members with sidekicks recently." He shrugged. "I'm not fond of the term, but I must admit that the idea of having a partner on certain missions would be advantageous. So, what about you?"

Clark answered with an uncharacteristically short and sober, "No."

A few months after that had been Aquaman's faithful battle with Ocean Master in which two students of the Academy in Poseidonis aided him; and Orin suddenly got himself a sidekick of his own. Maybe Batman really had set a trend that the rest of the League was slowly following by one means or anther. But it was a trend Clark could never follow himself.

He had long since resigned himself that he would never have any progeny, he also knew that no one born on Earth would be able to keep up with him and his villain gallery. He now began resigning himself to the belief that he would also have no one to pass on all the knowledge Jor-El had left him with. The legacy of Krypton would die with him.

Not for the first time, but the first time in a long time, the full weight of his title hit him. He really was the Last Son of Krypton.

…

Independence Day had been a shock to his system.

Superboy's existence gave him a great deal of food-for-thought. Upon later reflection, the usually-Boy Scout had to decide that his handling of the news and the boy himself had been less than admirable. But personal feelings (on both sides) aside, the boy's existence meant two things to the Man of Steel: first, there were very few places where Cadmus could have gotten a viable sample of his DNA which meant that one (or more) of the people on the short list of those he trusted were compromised, and secondly, grooming the boy as a weapon to destroy him so carefully and concealing his existence from the League so completely implied some greater and deeper plot than their standard run-of-the-mill Big Bad's quest for world domination. Before he claimed any sort of personal responsibility for the boy he had to get those two questions sorted out.

He had told the boy that the League would figure something out for him, and the League had. He was living at Mt. Justice, he was working on a Team under Batman's careful observation, he was surrounded by friends… the boy didn't really need him. Clark pushed the boy out of his mind.

Besides, it wasn't like the Superboy was his son. Superman couldn't have children.

…

Clark had all but forgotten about the boy until August when he showed up in Metropolis to help with a collapsing bridge.

At first he'd been annoyed. The clone's landing had been rough and shook the bridge enough to make the Man of Steel to a double take. He floated up totake hold of the bus that Superboy was trying (and failing) to pull back from plunging nose first into the bay.

"I had that!" The boy snarled at him.

Clark met the hostility with some blunt harshness of his own. "I didn't want to take the chance. As it is, your landing could have destabilized the whole bridge."

"But it didn't!" He argued.

"But it could have." Superman shot back deciding that he didn't have much patience for the boy right now. "As it is, we don't yet know the limits of your powers."

He had expected the boy to snap back with defensive anger, or lash out with an insult or maybe just shout that the Man of Steel didn't know what he was talking about and to take his advice and tell him where he could shove it. Instead, the Superboy gave him the same hopeful but vulnerable expression he's worn back in July.

"Maybe… you could, ya know, help me with that…?" The boy gazed up at him pleadingly.

Clark was assailed by a sudden stabbing of guilt. He hadn't seen the kid since July, hadn't thought of him in two months and when he did think of his clone, it was as the living weapon he'd been created to be, a tool made by a nefarious organization for an ambiguous purpose with no real mind or will of its own. 'He doesn't like to be called an "it".' Kid Flash's words echoed through his head momentarily.

"Batman's got that covered." Clark suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable. He wanted to get away.

Luckily, Green Arrow happened to call just at that moment and he was gifted with an excuse to leave.

Let it never be said that metas were never saved by norms.

…

Perhaps his outburst at the diner had been a bit of an overreaction. But Bruce was pushing. If their rolls had been reversed and it was the Man of Steel pressuring the Dark Knight to take on an unexpected responsibility he'd have punched him in the jaw (there was some question as to with or without his kryptonite ring). So, yes, his public outburst might have been a little unreasonable given the setting, but it wasn't an overreaction. No.

But what had really set him off was not the fact that Bruce was asking him to take responsibility for the boy, but that Bruce had dropped the F-bomb. 'Father'. He had called Clark the boy's father and that was something the Superman had not been prepared to hear. Something he had not been ready to think about. He had lived almost his entire adult life under the belief that he could never and would never have any children of his own. Superman might be many things, but 'father' had never been one of the possibilities. …And now Bruce was implying it was not a possibility but his reality.

Clark lay awake chewing on that little tidbit.

He thought about how much Bruce's life seemed to have improved after he adopted Dick. How he seemed less angry, less hostile, more casual, more comfortable; overall the Dark Knight seemed just generally happier since the boy appeared in his life. Clark had never thought he would have children so he had never given the idea much thought, but now that he actually was thinking about it he began to wonder if another reason why he never gave the idea much attention was because he might have (on some level) been a little jealous. Jealous because Bruce had something that he believed he would never have and he saw how happy it made him.

But then he thought about Oliver and all the grief Roy gave him, not just with their falling-out and the boy's subsequent solo act, but grief over the boy's short heroin addiction a few years prior. Clark saw the strain it put on not only Green Arrow but Black Canary as well.

The decision to adopt the boy as his son and take all the emotional baggage that when with it would not affect solely him; the decision did not rest solely with him. The boy would be Lois' son too, she should have a say in the decision as well.

Clark rolled over and gently shook his wife awake.

"Wha'…?" She slurred drowsily. "Wha's goin' on?"

"Lois," he whispered. "Are you awake?"

"No." She groaned and rolled over… and was back asleep before Superman could say 'Great Scott!'

"Lois…" He gave her another gentle shake and rolled her back over to face him.

She moaned in irritation. "You can do whatever you want to me, just don't wake me up."

"Sweetheart, I want to talk."

"Okay, I'm listening." Her eyes fluttered and then closed and she began to snore. Clark shook her awake for a third time. "Damn it, Clark! What!"

He recoiled at her ire but still asked what he wanted to ask. "Have you… have you ever thought about us having a kid?"

She yawned and ran a hand through her sleep-matted hair. "Why? Are you pregnant?"

"What! No! Why would you even…"

Maybe she was still asleep and this really was a conversation best left until morning. But he had been avoiding the subject of Superboy for so long, he wanted to stop procrastinating. The boy was on his mind right now, there was no guarantee he'd give a care about him in the morning.

"Well, you're an alien, Clark, for all I know on Krypton men could have babies." She stretched and cuddled up close to him.

"No." He said flatly. Then, before the conversation could swing off into a bizarre tangent he said, "Lets start over: Do you remember a couple months back when I told you that the League had found a clone of me?"

"I remember the incident at the bridge today a lot more clearly than I remember you telling me about him."

Clark suppressed a wince. Lois hadn't been anywhere near the Hobb's Bay at the time, but the emergency and his and the boy's response to it had been televised. Thankfully the cameras had been far enough away not to catch their conversation, but their body language had been just as telling. It was a far more accurate summary of their relationship (or lack there of) than the short, 'Lois, the League discovered a clone of me tonight,' he'd given her back in July.

"How would… um, how would you feel if I invited him to live with us?"

She missed one… two… three beats before saying, "Sure. But I think the rest of this conversation is best left for when I'm awake."

Unfortunately they did not discuss the subject of Superboy the following morning. A hurricane drifted unseasonably high up the eastern seaboard and Superman rushed off to offer his assistance in any way he could while Lois rushed off to cover the story. When they finally found a few minuets to once again be alone together, they were wet, dirty and in Lois' case exhausted, certainly in no mood to discuss a new addition to their household. The subject of Superboy went undiscussed for some time after that.

…

In mid-September he and J'onn helped defeat the pair known as the 'Terror Twins' in New Orleans. Bruce, in semi-classical Batman fashion, had a plan to sneak two members of the Team into Belle Reve as undercover operatives. Clark had stood silently in the Cave's briefing room while the Dark Knight explained the mission, but he had really only been partially listening. Seeing Superboy again had reminded him that he and Lois still were yet to discuss the possibility of his coming to live with them.

Standing behind Bruce and trying to stay out of the way, Clark watched the boy's expression shift from the blank stare of a soldier awaiting orders, to sharp attention as Batman began to speak, to fierce determination when he singled the boy out as one of the operatives. The Man of Steel was quickly reminded that, while he resembled a sullen teenager and Bruce insisted the boy was his 'son', he was actually a living weapon, a weapon created to kill him. Did he really want to bring something like that into his home? Expose it to his family?

He did not speak with the boy at all either after the briefing nor at any point during their brief jaunt in New Orleans. After he'd neutralized Terror and sent him and his sister plummeting towards the 'switch-point' he had prepared to leave. His portion of the mission was over; Bruce could handle everything from there. Before flying away his super-human hearing couldn't help but pick-up a brief exchange of dialogue.

"But I don just gone toe-to-toe wit' Superman!" That would be Tommy Terror, his grammatically challenged southern drawl was rather distinctive. What surprised Clark was the person who answered him and their reply.

"Congratulations. That's more quality time than he's ever given me."

Clark recognized that voice, it was his own voice only two decades younger, it was Superboy. The boy wanted to spend 'quality time' with him? Why? They'd only ever been in the same room together a handful of times; they'd only ever spoken to each other twice. What reason could the boy have to expect any sort of 'quality time' from him?

He remembered the pleading gaze the boy had given him back in Metropolis the previous month. It wasn't that the boy expected anything from him, but he did want certain things from him. Namely, just some of his time. He might be a living weapon, he might have been created to kill and replace the Man of Steel, he might be just a clone, but he was still also just a boy and like all boys, he wanted the time and attention of a parent. Bruce had called him the boy's 'father'; did the boy view him in the same way? Was that the boy's only interest in him?

The kid might be a weapon, but what was a weapon but a tool? And what were the merits of a tool but the way it was used? 'He doesn't like to be called an "it".' Kid Flash's words once again echoed through his mind. If he didn't like being called an 'it' he probably wouldn't appreciate being compared to weapons and tools either.

Clark sighed. Bruce thought that him claiming the boy was what was best for him, but was that really what was best for the kid? Would it really be healthy to have the boy live with a person whom still viewed him, not as a fully formed individual, but rather a boy-shaped tool? A weapon that could be turned against the hand the wielded it just as easily as any other. If it was just him, he wouldn't have to think so hard about it, he could take care of himself, but would he be putting Lois in danger by inviting the boy into their home? Or, would he be avoiding danger by reaching his hand out to the boy and offering him the guidance and 'quality time' he seemed to crave so much?

He chewed on that question for a while, too.

…

"Lois, c'mon we're gonna be late." Clark paced the living room of their apartment with impatience. While their two year anniversary had actually been two weeks prior, this was the first night that both of them had actually managed to find the time to celebrate and he wanted to celebrate before some cookie-cutter baddie decided it was a nice night to try to take over the world.

"Oh, you actually made reservations somewhere?" His blushing bride emerged from the bathroom looking radiant in a blue silk gown with yellow trim. It hugged her figure, showing off the delicious curve of her hips to their best advantage while still concealing their creamy flesh to his eyes (well, to a normal man's eyes, if Clark wanted to see her creamy flesh all he had to do was…). She threw her arms around him and waggled a finger in his face. "Ah, ah, ah. There'll be none of that, you naughty boy."

"Lois, I'm insulted that you think I'd be so lewd as to-"

"Uh-huh." She crossed her arms over her chest, the action pressing her breast together in a way that was thoroughly pleasing to look upon. "So, what are we gonna do?"

Clark helped her into a heavy coat before handing her her purse and lifting her up, carrying her bridal-style to the window. "I was thinking we'd do a little dancing." He said. "Maybe make a little love… generally just get down tonight."

She gave a snort. "Smallville, you are probably the corniest person I know."

He waited to see if she would follow that up with a crack about corn farming in Kansas but she did not. Instead she changed the subject.

"But I meant, what are we gonna do about the Superboy?"

His happy-playful mood deflated at the mention of the boy and he backed them away from the window and put her down. "Lois, its our anniversary, do we have to talk about this now?"

"Its just that its been a couple months since you last mentioned anything about him." She said. "The last time we talked about him, you woke me up in the middle of the night to ask if he could live with us, you haven't mentioned him since. I would kinda like to know what's going on…"

"But do we have to talk about him tonight?"

"No, I suppose we don't." She admitted. It was hard enough finding time when the two of them could spend a romantic evening together. She didn't want to spoil it any more than he did, but his lack of mention about the clone had begun to bother her. "Just know that I haven't forgotten and I expect to have that talk some time soonish."

"Yes, dear."

…

It would be late November before the subject of Superboy came up again in the Kent household.

Lois and Clark had flown to Kansas to spend Thanksgiving with Martha on the Kent Farm. They sat around the table laughing and joking about the latest antics of the Smallville townsfolk, the misadventures of the Daily Planet in Metropolis and the latest exploits of the Superman. It was a perfect evening; the only thing that would make it more perfect was if Jonathan Kent were still alive to share it.

…But then Ma shattered the mood with the kind of calm command that only a mother could wield.

"I've been thinking." She said, folding her hands daintily in her lap. "You should convert the guest room in your apartment into a bedroom for the boy."

"What boy?" Clark had blinked in confusion only to realize what his mother must be talking about all to late.

"Lois and I have been talking, Clark." Neither her voice nor her posture changed, there was no outward indication that she was suddenly mad, but the Man of Steel had lived with his mother long enough to know when he had upset her. Forgetting about the boy had been his second mistake, but thinking that his wife wouldn't discuss a possible addition to the family with his mother had been his first (and bigger) mistake. "She told me that you mentioned an interest in taking in the Superboy I've been hearing so little about recently. I want to know why you haven't yet."

"I've been… thinking about it…" He answered her lamely.

"Well, its time to stop thinking and start doing." Martha Kent's eyes narrowed at her son. "You'll start by making a space livable for him, a teenage boy needs a room that's all his own. The next time Lucy or the General come by for an extended visit, I'm sure they can make do with your couch. You will invite the boy to live with you and you will make darn sure he feels welcomed, Clark, like he belongs. When he's settled, you'll bring him here for a visit. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, Ma."

…

In between chasing stories as Clark Kent, saving the planet as Superman and one very awkward Christmas dinner with the Lanes, the Man of Steel found himself spending his free time going through, rearranging and moving things out of the guest bedroom. He and Lois had been using it as a sort of home office-slash-storage room for evidence they might have collected on their cases, copies of old articles, photos (both personal and work related), etc.

Clark had been willing to shred or burn most of it, but Lois refused to destroy a single page. And so he had spent almost all of December and the first week of January flying copy-boxes from their apartment in Metropolis to either the Kent farm to be stored in the attic or the Fortress of Solitude to be copied into his archives at a later date. When that was done, Lois put him to work rearranging the furniture a bit.

The second bookcase had to be taken out; it took up to much space and made the room feel cramped. Lois made him move it into the living room and then stood back and gave orders as to how the rest of the living room furniture was to be rearranged due to the addition of the new piece. Clark spent two obnoxiously long hours doing that, it would have been longer, but to his unexpected relief, Intergang decided to rob the Federal Exchange with a tank, and that sounded like a job for Superman! Their adventures in moving would have to wait a bit.

When Clark returned later that evening it was to find that Lois had acquired a new dresser for the boy. (Because, apparently, she felt a closet wasn't enough.) The movers had left the solid wood chest of drawers in the middle of the living room floor and guess who she asked to move it into the bedroom for her. They then repeated the furniture dance for the bedroom just as they had the living room until Lois was satisfied with the arrangement and thought the boy would be likewise satisfied.

The desk stayed. She said the boy would need a place to put his computer and when Clark asked why couldn't he just put it in the living room where they had moved theirs she told him that she didn't want the boy doing what teenage boys usually did with their computers in the living room. At that Clark had politely blushed and dropped the subject.

…

It was towards the end of January and the boy's room was all ready.

Clark stood back and surveyed the room that he had made for his clone, the boy that Bruce kept insisting was his 'son'. For a moment the farm-grown alien hero had the insane idea that this must be what it was like for normal expecting fathers when making up a nursery for their child. He squished that thought back down very quickly, however. He was not an expecting father, Superboy was not his son, this room was not a nursery. He was asking the boy to move in with them, he wasn't yet ready to officially adopt him like Bruce had adopted Dick or Oliver had adopted Roy. And he certainly wasn't ready to start calling the boy 'son'.

Still, the boy was going to move in. All that was left was to actually speak with Superboy about the prospect. But once again, Clark found himself hesitant.

Lois entered behind him, her arms encircling his waist. "Are you excited?"

'Excited' was not the right word. 'Nervous' was more accurate.

…

Superman did not go strait to Mount Justice. Instead he flew to Gotham, he wanted to talk to the original 'Justice-daddy', he wanted to revisit their conversation from Bibbo's back in August.

The Dark Knight was reclining in his swivel chair, watching his monitors, his black booted feet resting up on the consol, his cowl down, a bowl of cereal in his hands. He seemed so casual and laid-back. Four years ago Clark never would have imagined he'd walk into the Batcave one day and find Gotham's Hero with his feet up enjoying a bowl of… what was that, Apple Jacks? Fruit Loops? All the brightly colored ones looked the same.

"Something wrong with your JLA comm. or did your farm-boy upbringing never teach you to call before dropping by uninvited?"

"I was kinda hopping we could talk." He cast his eyes about for the Boy Wonder and found him nowhere in sight. "Where's Robin?"

"School." Bruce answered flatly.

Right… that was another thing Clark would have to think about. Superboy was still a minor and would need to receive some version of schooling. With his powers it would be a little to dangerous for him to attend public school with other children, he ran the risk of easily hurting or even killing another student. But he and Lois lead such busy lives, neither of them would have the time to home-school the boy. He supposed they could hire a tutor, but on reporters' salaries they'd have to tighten their belts and budget carefully. Good educations didn't come cheap and unlike Bruce he wasn't made of money.

How was the Dark Knight handling the boy's schooling? Someone as careful and paranoid as Batman would never allow a civilian tutor to come to the boy at Mt. Justice. Was he having different Leaguers teach the boy different subjects, maybe?

"Listen… I, uh, I want to talk about Superboy."

Bruce set his bowl of cereal aside, lowered his feet down from the consol and turned his chair to face the Man of Steel. He folded his hands and waited for Clark to continue.

"I, uh, Lois and I were thinking… um…" Not for the first time the Superman found himself at a loss as to what to say on the subject of the Superboy. Perhaps it was because he himself hadn't quite yet sorted out his thoughts and feelings about the boy. He was firm in his decision to take the boy in, but that didn't mean he was sure of his view of the boy. Recently, he had been imagining him as a lost relation of his that had somehow managed to find him from across the cosmos. It was a nice fantasy, but Clark knew it wasn't true. But it was also the best explanation for how his perceptions of the boy were changing and how that change was starting to make him feel. "How's Superboy been doing?"

Bruce raised one quizzical eyebrow at the Man of Steel. "Lois wants to know this?"

"Well, no." Clark fidgeted under the Dark Knight's questioning gaze. "I was just wondering how he's doing… and stuff." 'Great, real eloquent, Kent!' "Its, um, its been a while since he and I last spoke… I just wanted to touch base and see if he's adjusting alright…"

It had been almost six months since the Man of Steel actually exchanged words with the Superboy and they both knew it. Bruce's eyes narrowed suspiciously at his sudden interest in the boy he'd been ignoring for almost half a year.

"Also…" Clark continued with increasing unease. He hated it when Bruce gave him that look. It was the same look he'd often seen the Knight give criminals from his gallery during interrogations, it made Clark feel as if he were being given the third degree when he was the one to come to Batman, not the other way around. "Also, I was wondering if you still wanted me to take the boy. Lois and I… we've made up a room for him and… and well, I… I, uh, I can take the boy for you."

Those narrowed eyes and questioning gaze did not change, but Clark could detect the slightest bit of surprise from the man. It was subtle, a slight shift in posture, he probably only detected it because of his superior senses and the fact they they'd been friends for so long. He had managed to shock the World's Greatest Detective! Great Scott!

"Do you want to take the boy in?"

Clark paused to consider his answer. The boy had been a great shock to him at first and that had been his reason for not claiming responsibility for him in the first place. Then, after the shock had worn off he had viewed the boy as a possible danger, he had been created to kill the Man of Steel and so would have no problems harming or killing his wife or mother. It had been for their protection that he'd continued to refuse to take the boy. But at the bridge he had seen, not a living weapon, but a lost and lonely child reaching out to him for guidance.

That had altered his perceptions of the boy greatly. It had also heaped onto him a great deal of guilt. And because of that guilt he became afraid of facing the boy for a different reason. That guilt had latter been compounded in New Orleans when he'd heard the boy's comment about 'quality time'. The boy wanted him, needed him and for the first time in his life, the Man of Steel, the Boy Scout, the Superman had turned his back on someone in need. Clark had spent four months chewing on that realization and come to the conclusion that he'd behaved in a despicable manner. The boy was blood of his blood. Even since he learned that he had been adopted, Clark had wished to find another living blood-relative of his, the boy wasn't a blood-relative in the conventional sense, but there was no denying that they were, indeed, related.

"Yes." He said at length. "Yes, I want to take the boy."

This time the Dark Knight's surprise did show on his face and Clark found the image of a shock-faced Batman sans his mask a little disturbing. The World's Greatest Detective wasn't supposed to be taken by surprise, especially not twice in one conversation. It took the man some time to find his voice again.

When he did, the Dark Knight said, "You've missed allot."

And so, they spent the next few hours going over the mission reports for the last six months. Bruce noting things of importance while Clark nodded his recognition. He was a little ashamed that the job of naming the boy had fallen on the Martians, naming a boy was supposed to be his father's job and Clark hadn't bothered to- Hold on a minuet! The Man of Steel brought his train of thought to a screeching halt. He was not the boy's father! He reminded himself firmly. He was taking responsibility for a clone he hadn't known about, not an illegitimate son he hadn't known about. Big difference! He was willing to admit to the boy being related to him, it would be difficult to deny anyway. He was taking the boy into his home and integrating him into his household. He would guide and support the boy as he grew into his powers. But he was not the boy's father.

He hoped none of his sudden internal turmoil showed on his face. Thinking the F-bomb in his head was one thing, but he didn't want to hear it from Bruce a second time.

Then they got to the botched training simulation, the psychic no-win scenario, and Clark halted his friend's narrative with an exclamation of, "Why didn't you tell me!"

The quizzical look was back on the Dark Knight's face and the Man of Steel regretted his strong emotional outburst.

"The situation had been dealt with before the day was even over." He explained. "There didn't seem to be any reason to worry the other mentors or parents over it. After they woke up, their families and mentors were briefed on what happened so they could look for and recognize any lasting effects."

"But why wasn't I told?"

"Honestly? After our conversation at Bebbo's, I didn't think you'd care." The Dark Knight answered flatly.

"His coma could have been permanent!"

"I was aware of that." Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I still didn't think you'd care."

"What kind of monster do you think I am?" Clark had no idea why he felt so strongly about this. It had happened back in October, the boy was obviously fine. There was no reason to get so worked up. "Of course I would care! He's my- !"

For a second time in the conversation Clark found himself slamming the breaks on his train of thought. His speech abruptly cutting off before the particular word that had almost escaped his lips.

" –clone." He finished lamely. "He's my clone."

…

When he returned home that evening Clark gave the boy's room another critical look. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe.

Maybe this was how normal expecting fathers felt; nervous, apprehensive, wary, unsure –overall conflicted. Maybe, somewhere between his conversation with Bruce at the diner and today he had come to view himself as the boy's 'father'. He had always known that he'd never have any children though normal means, but the boy –Conner- hadn't come into the world through 'normal means'. Perhaps a clone was the closest thing to a son he'd ever have, and perhaps on some level he recognized that fact early on. It had just taken his conscious mind a bit more time to catch up.

And Conner was already mostly grown. He could take care of himself in a fight. Clark wouldn't need to worry about the boy being in danger if (when?) he took him out with him as a sidekick. The Man of Steel smiled to the empty room. He'd also always said that if he were to ever have a sidekick it would have to be another kryptonian, someone with the same powers he had (or in the boy's case, someone who'll develop the same powers he has). It all seemed so clear and simple now. Like some missing pieces of a puzzle had been found and put in place. All was suddenly right with the world. He may not be the boy's 'father' in the conventional sense of the word, but since when was he a conventional person? Since when was his family ever a conventional family?

Behind him, Clark heard the door to their apartment open and the lights flicked on. He turned to find Lois in the doorway juggling groceries and he rushed forward to help her.

"Thanks." She smiled as she passed custody of the bags over to him and took off her coat. She scanned the apartment with her reporter's critical eye. "I can't help but notice that Superboy still isn't here."

"Conner." Clark corrected her. She looked at him in confusion. "Superboy's name, its Conner, Conner Kent."

"I see." It figured he'd end up with the same initials as Clark. "And where is the young Mr. Kent?"

Here Clark turned shamefaced. "Still in JLA custody. I haven't spoken with him yet."

Lois crossed her arm over her chest, planted her feet and dropped one him in a pose that Clark recognized as her 'annoyed' stance. "Well, you better step on it, Smallville." She said. "He might not be willing to wait around for you forever."

"I know." He replied soberly. "I already missed my chance at naming him."

"His civilian name, yeah, you really dropped the ball on that one." She agreed. Oh, Lois, you were so empathetic sometimes you could apply for Sainthood. "But I doubt anyone in your League would have given him a kryptonian name."

That perked him up. "Lois, you are beautiful!"

She smiled a sultry smile and crossed the small distance between them to press her body against his. "Hm, flattery will get you everywhere."

…

Clark spent the first week of February sifting through kryptonian boys names. He had narrowed his choices down to three, Jor-El III, Kon-El and Erok-El. Jor-El in honor of his father and grandfather, Erok-El after his ancestor, the first Bethgar of Urrika and Kon-El just because he liked the sound of it. Clark had written his final three choices out in Kryptonese to see how they looked aesthetically, hoping to break the three-way tie between them. He sat in the Watchtower's mess hall, tapping his Daily Planet pen on the stainless steel table in thought.

"Hey, Supes, what'cha' doing?" The Flash plunked his tray laden with food down next to the Man of Steel. "Some kryptonian word game or something?"

"No." Clark shook his head and allowed a tentative smile to creep onto his lips when he explained, "I'm trying to decide on a kryptonian name for Superboy."

Berry paused in his meal to stare shock-faced at the Superman. "For Conner?" He gaped. "Are you and he speaking now?"

"Well, no…" Clark had to admit. "But I will soon. Lois and I are gonna take the boy in and I just thought it might be nice to have a name for him, to show the boy that I'm serious."

"I… see…" The Flash fidgeted, suddenly very awkward. "Supes, um, a bit of advice from a 'Justice-daddy', you shouldn't take so long when dealing with children. They're young and impressionable and impatient. Its better to do things sooner rather than latter. Otherwise they'll decide that they can't depend on you."

"I understand that." Clark assured him. "I just needed some time to get my own feelings sorted out. I'm going to see Conner soon."

Berry patted Clark's red-caped shoulder with something the Man of Steel would have sworn was preemptive sympathy. "Good luck, Big Guy."

…

'Soon' for the Man of Steel turned out to me the first week in March. Shortly after he and Lois had celebrated Valentines Day there had been a call for some off-world aid and that sounded like a job for Superman. Clark had been gone two weeks, returning just in time for the months to change. He was frustrated with all the delays, but now finally seemed to have found the time and opportunity to speak with Conner.

It had been nine months since Independence Day.

…

Conner leaned most of his weight on Kaldur as he limped down the boarding ramp of M'gann's bio-ship. To spite a twisted ankle, an injury of his own making, the Boy of Slightly-Less-Durable-Than-Steel (apparently) couldn't help but grin with satisfaction.

"Best. Mission. Ever!" He declared. Then paused when he saw who was waiting in the hangar with Red Tornado. What was he doing here?

"Dude, are you mental?" Kid Flash zipped out of the ship only to skid to a halt in front of their unexpected visitor. "Whoa! You're not Batman!"

Well spotted, Wallace. Clark shook his head at Berry's nephew before turning his full attention to Superboy –his clone, Conner –his son. "How did you injure your foot?"

Conner glared at the Man of Steel with eyes full of distrust and guarded emotion. He missed, one… two… three beats before saying, "Its nothing for you to worry about." He lifted his arm from where he'd slung it over Aqualad's shoulders and limped over to Tornado. "Is Batman in the briefing room?"

The android gave his affirmative and the Boy of Steel began to limp out of the hangar. Miss Martian followed after him, insisting that they put some ice on it before Batman debriefed them. One by one the teens filed out of the hangar, each giving him a questioning or even suspicious look at they passed the Superman. Robin was the only one to stop and speak with him.

"His super-speed kicked-in in the middle of the mission." He said.

"That's great." Clark nodded. "That'll be one of the first things I'll work with him on."

Dick opened his mouth to speak. Thought better about it then closed it again. There was a prolonged pause, then the Boy Wonder said, "Wait until after the debriefing."

…

Clark did not attend Bruce's debriefing of the Team. He waited patiently outside for them to finish, leaning against the wall, his eyes focused on the lead-lined, sound proof, door of the briefing room. Ah, Bruce, your paranoia would be amusing if it weren't so damnably frustrating.

From the floor below in the hangar, Clark heard the computer register Black Carany's arrival on the base and sure enough, the blond bombshell appeared in the hall with him a few moments later.

"Hello, Dinah." The Man of Steel offered her a friendly smile.

"Clark?" She all but froze in surprise at seeing him in the Cave. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to pick up Conner." He said as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and he had to marvel at just how natural it felt to him. He felt an almost nervous pride whenever he mentioned the boy by name nowadays. Was this how normal fathers felt?

"Oh, I… I, uh, didn't know you two were speaking now." Dinah said awkwardly, suddenly avoiding eye contact with the Man of Steel.

"Well, we're not really." Clark admitted. "But I'm going to change that."

"That's… nice…" The fem fatal fidgeted, uncomfortable.

She was quickly saved from the awkward moment, however, when the door to the briefing room slid open, the meeting over. Upon seeing her, Conner rushed out, hopping on his good leg.

"Canary!" He beamed and threw his arms around her in an affectionate hug. "Guess what!"

"You're practicing for a hop-scotch tournament." She guessed in reference to his hopping on one foot.

Clark stood and gaped at the pair.

"I got super-speed!" The boy announced. "Do you know what that means!"

"That we've exchanged a bending forks and breaking glasses problem for a running into walls and melting shoes problem."

"No." The boy shook his head. "It means I'm not flawed!"

"That's great, Conner!" She stroked the boy's hair with motherly affection and then cast an apologetic smile to Clark from over the boy's head.

The others gave the three awkward glances as they filed out of the briefing room on their separate ways, all trying to escape their notice and avoid becoming involved in what would undoubtedly become a train wreck. Batman was last to exit. He look one look at Clark, glaring jealously at another mentor embracing his son with maternal warmth.

"Room's free." He said and stood back for the three of them.

"What for?" Conner blinked in confusion.

Dinah offered him a strained smile. "Conner, Superman has an offer for you."

The boy glanced between them, the guarded suspicion back in his eyes.

Bruce took that as his cue to leave, the Dark Knight slipping away with the slightest notice, as was his fashion, leaving the trio alone in the hall. They ignored the empty open room, Clark diving right into the conversation.

"Conner, I'd like you to come live with me." He said.

He had hoped that the declaration would melt some of the guarded suspicion from the boy's eyes, instead it only intensified the expression. He took a step back from the Man of Steel and asked, "Why?"

Clark supposed he deserved that, his distrust. He had been missing in action in regards to the boy almost since his first appearance nine months ago. He was ashamed of his behavior and sorry that it had taken him this long to get his feelings sorted out, but he was here now. He was reaching his hand out to the boy, ready and willing and wanting to give the boy the guidance and attention he's asked for back in August.

"Well, it would be a heck of a lot easier for you to be my sidekick if you're also in Metropolis."

Silence followed that statement.

Dinah placed her hands on Conner's shoulders, a silent statement that she would support him in whatever decision he made. Clark's eyes focused on the action and he couldn't help but feel a sudden stab of territorialism that was not in his usual character.

"And…" He added, now glaring a challenge at Black Canary. "I also wanted to give you a kryptonian name and officially adopt you into the House of El." A pause. "Conner, I want you to be my son."

More silence.

Then Dinah patted Conner on the shoulder and took a step back, ceding to Clark. "I'll leave you to alone."

The boy turned, a silent protest on his lips but he said nothing. Turning back to Superman, he glared up at the man whom looked so much like himself only two decades older. The Man of Steel expected an answer.

The silence dragged on.

"Conner?" Superman finally ventured.

"Don't." The boy said at last. "Don't call me by my Earth name. I'm sure you learned it from Batman, but I haven't given you permission."

Clark paused, thought, began again. "Last summer you asked me to help you figure out your powers. I'm ready to do that now."

"Batman's got that covered." The boy said, throwing his own words back at him, verbatim.

"Conner, I-"

"Stop. I've already asked you not to use my name once. If it happens again I'll report you to Batman for harassment. That is the word applied to the action of continuing an unwelcome behavior after being asked to stop."

Clark paused.

Superboy crossed his arms over his chest. "There's an old axiom Green Arrow told me not to long ago, 'if you give a man a fish, he'll eat for a night; teach a man to fish and he'll never starve', as a companion to that one, Aqualad also told me that people either 'sink or swim'. Both are metaphors for coping with trials in life. After you rejected me last summer I was forced to 'sink or swim', I chose to swim and I learned how to fish. I don't need you anymore, Superman and, frankly, I'm not really sure I want a person like you close to me."

Clark was shocked speechless.

"If there's nothing else, you can go now."

The boy turned to leave.

Clark found his voice again. "Don't… don't you at least want to know your kryptonian name?"

The boy paused but he did not turn to face the Man of Steel. "No, I don't."

He left.

…

END

[megers67]

Saisei Academy Verse: Saitou Hibiki

I’m re-making this post since it’s not showing up in the tags. I suspect it’s because I linked my fic which is bullshit, but I want others interested in this little OC grouping to find it so I de-linked it. If you want to find it, I’ve linked my AO3 to my blog or you can just ask me!

I'm finding it increasing difficult to refer to this as an AU version of Hibiki since, while I came up with it second, it's the only verse I've actually written about so far. But now that @miracide has created the wonderful school, Saisei Academy, I've decided that this version of Hibiki would end up there. My story, Ascent, is an origin story for her. So uh... I guess this will inevitably contain spoilers. Take that as you will.

For that reason and for length, I will put her bio under the Keep Reading. Also, I based the formatting after one of the bios she made for one of her own OCs, though I added my own sections.

Hibiki Saitou

Age: 16

Status: 2nd Year Student, General Studies

Basic personality: Deeply cares for others and tends to put them ahead of herself to a fault, quiet, usually only speaks when she has something to say, good listener but bad at communicating her own needs, tends to mother people, over-prepared, anxious and paranoid, only truly comfortable when doing something she knows she’s good at (her preferred school subjects, first aid, cooking) so she is most likely to speak up during these times (providing answers in the school subjects, assertive during first aid, opening up while cooking) though it’s not a guarantee

Basic appearance: On the shorter side of average, thin (due to recent months), long dusty-pink hair that she usually keeps up in a tight bun, dark eyes, covered in scars including prominent one at the corner of her mouth and a crooked nose from when an injury there failed to heal properly, she hides her scars as much as she can (basic foundation on her face, tights/stockings, and sleeves when she’s allowed to, even when it’s hot) because she doesn’t want people to ask her about them

Likes: English language media (especially music), cooking, biology, first aid

Dislikes: Being touched, passive aggression, things being put on higher shelves out of her reach

Favorite food: Hot chocolate

Best school subjects: Biology, English (nearly fluent since her father was)

Worst school subjects: PE, arts

Random fact: She tends to sing while she does chores when she thinks nobody is around (her skill is only average). She gets super embarrassed by it if someone catches her doing it. But because she keeps forgetting that she lives with other people, this happens relatively often.

----------

Quirk: Injury exchange

- With skin-to-skin contact, she can exchange any active physical damage between herself and the person she is touching.

- Injuries transfer between analogous body parts so a broken left arm causes a break in the same place in the same way on the other person’s left arm. If one gets an injury in a place that is otherwise uninjured, the state of non-injury is given in the exchange. So if Person A has a broken left arm and Hibiki is uninjured there, she takes the broken arm while it is healed in Person A.

- By default, it switches all injuries across the entire body, but with concentration, she can focus it to a specific area. This means she can theoretically heal others while stockpiling a dangerous amount of injuries onto herself.

- The quirk activates automatically and she has to specifically cancel it, so she is dangerous to touch while unconscious (since generally injuries are what cause one to become unconscious).

- Her most common use of her quirk is where she can sense any and all injuries of the other person, but deactivates her quirk before the exchange is made. This allows her to accurately access someone injured without advanced scanning equipment or putting herself in harm's way.

- Still-present causes of injuries are not affected, only the active damage to the body. A stabbing would need to have the knife removed first. Otherwise it will completely heal around the knife in the victim and leave a disconnected knife-shaped flesh in her own wound in the exchange as that could not be exchanged. Similarly, damage from an illness or a poison can be exchanged, but the original victim would simply acquire that damage again. The only advantage of proceeding with the exchange despite this is it gives the chance to “restart the clock” once that may buy time.

----------

Background:

Unlike many students at Saisei Academy, she came into the program with excellent quirk control. She mainly attends the school for psychological support and reform due to her criminal activity. Since she has an otherwise clean record and her crimes were nonviolent in nature, she avoided jail time. This, plus her good academic record and other extenuating circumstances, saw her admission to Saisei Academy. However, as she IS a criminal, she is liable to have more restrictions than the average student (I just don’t know what restrictions Miracide would have for this kind of situation).

Her home life has not been great. Hibiki's mother died shortly after her quirk manifested because a villain attack left the toddler gravely injured. When her mother naturally came to her aid, the injuries transferred to her and help didn't come until it was too late. Hibiki's father, in his grief, always blamed her for her mother's death, often taking his frustration out on her and using Hibiki's quirk to indirectly aid in his hero work.

He was a local pro-hero named Noci whose quirk allowed him to store any pain he's sustained in the past 24 hours and give it to someone else. This allowed him to incapacitate villains without causing actual damage to them. The potential for his quirk to be used for torture made him a controversial hero so he never became incredibly popular outside of his home town. For his hero work, he would often allow himself to become injured so he could store the pain, but later force Hibiki to take on the actual injuries herself so that he wasn't incapable of actual fighting. She'd attempted to go to the authorities about this, but his connections with local law enforcement prevented the case from being pursued seriously. This long-term abuse and the refusal of its acknowledgment made Hibiki incredibly skeptical and disillusioned towards the hero system and law enforcement as a whole.

Hibiki was left to her own devices for much of the day, but was not allowed to interact much with her peers outside of school. She took on many of the domestic responsibilities of her house at a young age as a result. She disliked most of them, but became very efficient in doing them, a skill she carries to this day. Hibiki does like cooking, however.

Her only true friend in school was Tanaka Rin. Rin was one of the only students who didn't treat Hibiki any differently despite her scars and frankly was the only reason Hibiki has any real social skills at all. The two girls became even closer when an accident permanently blinded Rin and Hibiki helped her devise a way for Rin to use her temperature quirk as a form of thermal imaging.

The two however were separated when Rin chose to pursue a career as a pro-hero and succeeded in getting into the hero program at the famed UA. Hibiki applied to a more normal high school on the area in order to be near her and in the process ran away from home. However, she became too embarrassed to let Rin see her as she was since she had nothing to her name after becoming a runaway. This put her in a very dark place.

A fateful encounter with a young criminal who nearly died since he didn't want to be arrested had he gone to a hospital led her to create The Bunker. The Bunker was an off-the-grid medical facility housed in an abandoned bunker that had been built when quirks first began to emerge, but had long since been forgotten. The 6-bed facility allowed her to help those who, like her, had been ignored but still needed help. With the help of a disgraced nurse who had been fired from the local hospital for taking pain killers while on the job, she ran the facility for 6 months before a raid brought it to its end.

While the raid meant Hibiki now had a criminal record (though the charges were less than you'd expect due to the care she took to remain as close to technically legal as possible), it also finally exposed her father's abuse to the world. He went on the run before he could be arrested and remains at large. As she now doesn’t technically have parents or legal guardians, she is a ward of the state until further notice.

----------

The main goals for Hibiki's reform are to:

- Regain trust in authority. While she doesn't necessarily act out, she does a worrying amount of hopeless/mindless compliance.

- Learn it is okay to put her own health first. She went through much of her life thinking it's her place in life to sacrifice herself for the betterment of others and that prioritizing herself was selfish.

- Figure out what she wants to do with her life. Due to the above, Hibiki has resigned herself to believing she will die young and as such has difficulty thinking in the long-term. She's never thought much about her future because she never thought she had one.

[chloecarsonwrites]

What Joey Left Behind

TW: descriptions of kidnapping, infidelity, and brief mention of the corpse of a child.

Word Count: 4.5k

“Natalia...it’s time. You and I both know we can’t keep living like this.” My heart paused, then started beating twice as fast as before. I could feel the tips of my ears grow hot, and I knew that they were bright red. I gripped the countertop at the kitchen sink so hard my knuckles went white, staring out the window at a single blade of grass in the yard that my eye had fallen on to ground myself in the midst of what my estranged husband had just said. I looked over my shoulder at him where he was sitting at the kitchen island, the sweaty glass of ice water I had poured for him remaining untouched. He looked up and caught my eye; I immediately averted my gaze as if he was a stranger that had caught me staring at him. “So this is it then,” I sighed, trying to keep my voice steady. “What now? We go to an attorney or something?” “No...I think we can settle most of it ourselves. I mean, we’ll have to go to an attorney to settle the logistics and legality of it all. But I think that we both know that we can’t afford a legal battle between the two of us over money, property, and custody. I’ll make is as easy on my part as possible, if you agree to do the same. You can have the house. Hell, I basically live in the motel on 5th street as it is, I’m sure I can stay there a few weeks until I get an apartment.” I could see the gears turning in his head as he spoke. “All I ask for is joint custody of Edith. I know that I haven’t exactly been...there for her these past couple of years, but I still love her just as much as you do. We can discuss how often we each have her for, but I can’t just give her up altogether. It would ruin me.” I turned towards the fridge, focusing on a lighthouse magnet holding up a picture of Edith and her kindergarten teacher on the first day of school. I didn’t want him to see me brush away a tear that I hadn’t been able to keep in. “Yeah, you’re right...this...isn’t how married people should be living. My brother has a friend who he went to law school with. I’ll call him tomorrow. Maybe we can get a good deal and only be out a small fortune rather than a large one.” - Joseph was seven years old when he disappeared. Everybody in our 2,459 person town was a suspect, and all 2,459 people suspected each other. Losing the dynamic of trust between us all was foreign and filled us all with paranoia. Was there a kidnapper or a murderer living among us? People just didn’t go missing in little towns like ours in the middle of northern Michigan, which felt like an oasis in the middle of a world run rampant with terror. Parents let their children run around town until after dark and only worried if they didn’t return for dinner. To this day, I wonder if that’s where we went wrong. That night was like any other. It was the middle of July, and even though the sun had retired for the night, the summer air was in the upper 80s and thick with humidity, the kind that sticks to your skin. The backyard was illuminated by the fireflies that sparkled like droplets of dew when they catch the sun. I remember exactly what he was wearing the last time I saw him: old, faded denim shorts covered his pale and freckled legs; his favorite yellow t-shirt printed with pawprints hung off of his thin-framed shoulders. He also wore his purple sneakers that were always caked with dirt and mud because of how much he loved to adventure in them. The search party found one of them, the left one, less than 200 meters from our house in a stream just past the tree line. They gave it to Benjamin and me, said they thought it would help us get through the hard time. Once they had milked it of all the evidence they could, I hid it in the attic and never went back for it again. They say that the first 72 hours during a missing person case are crucial, that after those 72 hours, the chances of recovering said missing person alive decrease to nearly impossible odds. I remember watching the clock as the 72nd hour faded into the 73rd, begging with time itself and whatever higher power was out there to make that stovetop clock stop ticking, to give us a little more time to find our son. I had seen the missing person postings, the ones that described men and women who had disappeared as children and had been missing for 10, 20, 30 years. How did their families cope, knowing that they were more likely to find their children dead than alive? Joseph was our only child. After his disappearance, there was a kind of hole left in our family, if you could even call us that anymore. Two and a half years later, around the time that Joey would have turned 10, we had another child, a daughter, and named her Edith. We told ourselves that we weren’t trying to replace Joey, but deep down, I think we both knew that we were. We had never planned to have another child. We were both well into our late thirties. I was past my prime childbearing years. We never gave up hope on finding Joey--but I had hoped against hope that once we had Edith, I could finally be at peace. I should have known that peace never comes to the parents of missing children. They suspected that he had drowned in the river on the edge of our town, hidden from all eyes by the trees and brush, and that his body had floated down to the reservoir and sunk to the bottom. It, of course, was too expansive and deep to scour the entire thing, not that they didn’t try. I, however, had theories of my own. Had someone swept into town that day and plucked him off of the jungle gym at the park and was across state lines before we even knew something was amiss? Had he been lured into some trap under the guise of promised sweets and toys? He was only seven, after all--he was too young and innocent to know that there were people in this world that didn’t have good intentions. Benjamin dismissed my ideas with little more than an eyeroll and a wave of his hand, arguing that kidnappings “simply don’t happen here”. But lack of occurence doesn’t mean lack of possibility. Edith’s childhood was far different than Joseph’s, to put it lightly. She would run up to me, begging to go outside and play with her kindergarten friends at the river. I would open my mouth, about to say, “of course, Edie, you can go”, only to find the image of Joey’s body at the bottom of the reservoir, bloated and waterlogged, taunting me from somewhere in the deepest part of my brain. It felt wrong to shelter her so much, like I was doing a disservice to such an adventurous spirit. Edith was the type of person who couldn’t be chained--she saw our fence as a cage rather than protection. She ran our yard in her princess light-up Sketchers from dusk until dawn, when we finally coerced her into coming inside, or until she tired herself out. I wanted to let her explore our little town--which, to a child, seems like the whole world. But whenever I was about to let her go beyond that freshly painted white picket fence that now bordered our yard, there Joey was, thrashing about in the river’s rapids, or crying for help from the back of a stranger’s van. I went over that day in my head, time and time again for months. Who had been the last adult to see him? It was concluded that it was myself, when I sent him out to play after lunch. He said he was going to the park to play with Harriet and Lucas from school, and was only supposed to be half a mile away. “You know the rules, Joey, be back for dinner at 6,” I reminded him as he skipped off, his orange hair bouncing atop his head. “I know, Mommy, I will!” he called back, barely looking back at me over his shoulder. “I love you, honey!” “I love you more, Mommy,” I heard him respond, even though he had already rounded the corner. The authorities were never able to conclude whether he ever got to the park or not, because his friends had apparently forgotten about their play date. Did he see that his friends weren’t there, and decide to go play in the river instead? Had he wandered just outside of town and gotten lost? Too many factors were missing to conclude anything, and we had to live with the unknown. I can’t place the day that our marriage began to crumble. Neither of us wanted to admit it, of course, that when Joey had left us he had taken with him our entire family dynamic and nearly all of the love that Benjamin and I had once felt for one another. We tried to keep it together, for Joey’s sake, as if he would be hurt to know that his parents’ marriage was falling apart because of him. Around a year and a half after Joey left, we sat at our worn kitchen table, only two out of the three chairs occupied. We sat across from each other in a tense silence that was screaming the things we wanted to say. We hadn’t spoken in days, and hadn’t slept in the same bed in over a month. We had fallen into some kind of unspoken agreement where we would take turns sleeping on the couch. “How...how have you been?” I timidly asked. His head shot up, a look of genuine surprise that I had spoken painted on his face. “Oh, you know...fine. The usual.” I nodded slowly and turned back to my plate, feeling as though I had just spoken to a stranger. I poked at my pasta with my fork before dropping it onto the ceramic and blurting out the words I had been dying to say. “You know, we don’t have to be this way with each other. I don’t want to be this way. Please, talk to me. I see you every day but I miss you like you’ve been away for months.” He sat there in silence, but I could tell that he felt the same. Ben was never good at vocalizing his feelings, so I had become very good at deciphering his body language over the years. “Why don’t we do something?” I was practically begging. “All we do is sit in this godforsaken house and wallow in our self-pity. We’re never going to get  better if we don’t start communicating.” And so we did. We began going to church even though neither of us were very religious, sitting in the very back pew, a foot apart as if we were strangers. We took a three-month long trip to the Canadian archipelago, to a secluded cabin on Baffin Island where Edith was conceived, just to escape the whirlwind chaos that our lives at home had become. For a few years, it worked--we were as close to happy as we could be, tackling each new day as they came. But the euphoria of our revitalized marriage was only a facade. It started a year after our trip to Canada, when Edith was only a few months old. Benjamin stopped coming home after work, instead escaping to the amnesia that was offered to him by the bottle and the company of other women. He never told me outright that he was unfaithful, but I knew from the way he stumbled through the front door at 3AM smelling like whiskey and a perfume that I didn’t own, and the purple bruises that I didn’t leave starting to show under his right ear and just above his collarbone. “Ben,” I started, trying my best to keep my voice steady. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried out of my mind.” He placed a wet kiss on my cheek and called me a name that I didn’t know, Iris, before trudging off to Joey’s room in his drunken stupor, already asleep before collapsing onto the twin bed that was covered in a thin layer of dust from disuse. I let out a shaky breath and wiped away the tears that escaped before going to Edith’s room to put her back down, as she had been awoken by the ruckus. This happened, more and more frequently, until around five months after that first incident when Benjamin stopped coming home altogether, instead appearing randomly on a Saturday morning or a Tuesday night and staying for a few days before leaving again to chase whatever escape he had learned to occupy himself with. We lived like that for years, exchanging words maybe once every few weeks, and they were never kind. I would ask him when he next planned to come home--usually because I wanted to rekindle the romance we once had. I wanted us to cook a nice dinner and have him see the daughter he barely knew, but the truth was, we barely knew each other anymore. I imagined our kitchen table with all the seats occupied, Edith filling the spot where Joey once sat. Me, setting the table, and Ben putting dessert in the oven. We would discuss Edith’s school friends and Ben’s work obligations. That was never the case, though. “I don’t know when I’ll be home again, Nat. Maybe if you didn’t bitch so much when I was here, I would like coming home a little bit more,” he said, speaking to me as if I was a small child that needed to be reprimanded. “No Ben, you would like being here if you could drink and sleep with women who aren’t your wife, but you can’t. That’s why you leave for days on end and then show up unannounced, not because I’m a bitch.” With that, he launched himself out of the worn armchair and marched towards the front door that he had stumbled through only 45 minutes prior. He slid his boots on, not bothering to tie the laces, and was gone again without another word. - A month after Ben brought up the divorce, we sat at our old kitchen table, in front of the papers we had drawn up concerning the division of our assets. I wore a pair of painful black heels and a blouse with the top two buttons undone, a part of me hoping that he would see me the way he did when we first met and decide to repair what was left of our relationship, or at least, what was left of it. I was seeing Benjamin for the first time in a month and a half; his longest boozing trip away from home yet. When I saw him, however, he looked like he hadn’t spent those six weeks wasted in a dirty motel room with a woman whose name he didn’t know. He was clean-shaven and had cut his hair so that it no longer brushed his collar, and he looked strikingly like the man I had once been in love with, the one who had painted the walls of the house we no longer shared and made mud pies with the son we no longer had. I had almost forgotten what he looked like under the scruff and disheveled hair, and it was uncanny how much of him I saw in Edith, from the pointed nose to the green eyes and chestnut brown hair. I wonder if he saw it too. He had always been jealous of me for having so much resemblance with Joey while his own features were nowhere to be seen in our son. Was he happy now, that he had a child who was so clearly his own? My handwriting was shaky due to the trembling of my hand. I was overflowing, bursting at the seams with things that I wanted to ask and say to him. I felt like it wasn’t right though, that he was a stranger, and that I had no place asking him the things I so badly wanted to. Eventually I broke. “What happened to you?” I suddenly blurted out, the first sentence spoken between the two of us in 20 minutes. “What do you mean?” he responded, meeting my eye with his brows quizzically furrowed. “I mean how you look. Last time you were here you were unrecognizable. Is there a reason that you’ve gotten all cleaned up?” Part of me hoped it was for me, an attempt to win me back. “I guess I just needed a change. Especially for the...occasion. It didn’t seem like the type of thing to show up to looking like a mess.” I fought back a chuckle at that, the implication that this was an “occasion”. It was just us in our kitchen under a single dim overhead light. He hadn’t put any effort into his appearance around me for the past six years. What reason did he have to start now? But when I thought about it, I had also dressed up, only I was trying to win him back. Something was telling me that Ben had dressed up to salvage my view of him, not to make me swoon. He noticed my smirk. To my surprise, he didn’t immediately become hostile. “What’s that look for?” he asked with a grin. “It’s nothing, you just haven’t been this cleaned up in God knows how long. I wonder if Edith even recognizes you,” Edith probably hadn’t seen her Dad looking like this in over a year, and to a six-year-old, a year feels like a decade. “Speaking of her, where is she? I’ve been here for nearly an hour and she hasn’t come down to see me yet.” Despite the demons he was battling with and all the pain he had put me through, I knew that Ben still loved Edith more than anything in this world. My stomach sank a little at his question. The truth is, Edith wasn’t sure if Benjamin actually wanted to see her. It had been a while since he made time for her. I knew that she was probably upstairs, playing with her Dreamhouse and trying not to cry. My heart squeezed painfully at that the thought of her little six-year-old cheeks shining with tears because she thought her daddy didn’t love her. In all honesty, I didn’t know if he did, either. “She’s upstairs in her room. I can call for her, if you want?” I offered. “Yes, please. It’s been so long since I saw her,” he replied, nodding. I got up from my seat and walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Edie!” I called, “Do you want to come see Dad?” I heard the tiny gasp of excitement and the footsteps running to the stairs as her compact body came into view. She skipped down the stairs, holding two Barbies in her hands as her brown waves and pink tutu bounced around her. She had a huge grin on her face, revealing her two missing front teeth. It was remarkable how similar her mannerisms were compared to Joey’s. She was reaching the age he had been, and even though Joey was shy and timid and Edith was firey and bold, I suppose that some things between all children are constant. “Daddy!” she exclaimed in a high-pitched screech, running as fast as her little legs could carry her and jumping into his arms. I grinned at the sight, allowing myself to pretend that we were a normal family of four, and that a teenage Joey was upstairs sulking in his bedroom, never having disappeared. I was forced back to reality when I heard Edith’s voice. “Daddy, what are all these papers for? Are you doing homework?” “Ah, Edie,” he chuckled, picking her up and letting her sit on his lap, “I guess you can say it’s homework. Homework for grownups. I’ll bet your homework from school is a lot better than this.” “Maybe,” she replied with a giggle. “Ms. Jane is teaching us how to add and subtract numbers. It’s not that hard though.” Benjamin laughed. “Well, I’m sure it’s not hard, especially for a girl as smart as you.” - A few hours had passed, and Edith was now lying asleep on the kitchen floor, her dress-up clothes scattered around her sleeping form. Benjamin and I had taken a few hours to play with Edie, and for that brief time playing with Barbies and dress up clothes, I felt like we were a stable, healthy family. Some of the tension from before had faded away. With the air less thick with anger and unspoken words, the questions started to creep back in. “Ben,” I started, my voice shaky. “What...happened to us?” He stopped writing and set down his pen, the hostility I knew all too well flashing briefly in his eyes before fading away. “Honestly, I don’t know,” he said with a sigh. “I guess, you know...after Joey, it just hit me hard. That’s the kind of thing you hear about and forget because you think it will never happen to you. But then it happened. And I didn’t--still don’t--know how to handle it. And I suppose I took it out on you because you remind me so much of him. The pale skin, the red hair...every time I would look at you I would see his face, in that river or in the back of someone’s van, with a look on his face that terrified me because I knew I wasn’t there when he needed me the most.” I could feel my eyes pricking with tears. “Why didn’t you tell me? I was hurting too, I could have helped you. We could have helped each other. But you didn't want that, did you? You wanted to chase other women and the bottom of a whiskey bottle. That is why you never got to heal. Because you chose to numb and suppress it instead of confronting it. And I never got to heal because in my worst moment, the person who vowed to stay with me through it all wasn’t there!” I was choking back a sob, years of pain bubbling to the surface of a wound that never closed. To my surprise, Benjamin was crying, too, a sight I had never seen--streams of tears rolled down his cheeks and choked sounds erupted from his throat. “I know, and God, I’m so sorry. I loved--still love--you so much, and I wanted to heal and learn to cope with our loss. But I ruined it. I fucked it all up--our marriage, my relationship with my remaining kid, my own mental health. And I don’t think any of it can ever be okay again. And it’s my own damn fault! What am I, besides a deadbeat father and a borderline alcoholic? I’m nothing! And Joey...well, at least he never had to see me like this.” I tried to push back the tears, I did--but the years of pain that I had kept inside for so long were all coming out. How could I have been so blind, to think that Benjamin wasn’t hurting as much or in the same way as I was? He was a parent, too. Joey was as much a part of him as he was a part of me. For a while, we cried together, mourning the loss of our son and what our lives could have been. We both knew that it was over--there was no repairing our marriage, it was in too many pieces for the reconstruction to occur. All there was left to do was to gather them up and use what we could to heal and forgive each other. When I didn’t have anything left within me to cry, I rubbed my hand up and down Benjamin’s back. “You know,” I sniffed, “his class graduated this past weekend. He would be heading off to college, or to the military, or to start his career. What do you think he would be doing?” “Definitely not the military,” he snickered through his last few tears. “He was always too soft and shy for that kind of thing, he wouldn’t survive basic--he would probably be going off to some big campus somewhere to study literature. You know, because he always loved those fantasy books.” “Yeah, or maybe history, because he always wanted to watch those documentaries about medieval Europe, even though they were too mature for him.” The memory came back to me and hit me hard: Ben and I on the couch, Joey wedged between us, begging us to let him watch the History channel. If I had known that three months from then the spot where he always sat would burn with his absence, maybe I would have let him watch. “Do you think him and Edie would have gotten along? Ya’know, if the circumstances were different, if we had planned for two, and they were born only two or three years apart. Edie’s so fiery compared to him, of course she would be the one bossing him around.” He had this kind of bittersweet smile on his face, as if he were reminiscing on a time that had never existed, an alternate reality where, maybe, a different version of us in another universe were living. “She would probably make him play Barbies and dress-up. They would have tea parties together. But then, Edie would want to make it up to him, so they’d go outside and play in the mud together, not that she doesn’t already enjoy that.” The thought brought a smile to my face. Edith still didn’t really understand that she had a brother she never met; there was no good way to tell a child about the disappearance of another. One day we would tell her about Joseph, about the kind of boy he was and how much they would have loved to grow up together. A comfortable silence fell between us. We both found ourselves staring down at the yellow legal pad sitting on our worn kitchen table, our fingertips covered in blue and black ink stains. There was an unspoken question lingering between us: how did we end up here? Both of us were allowing ourselves to imagine the possibility of trying to start over, wondering if we were really broken beyond repair. Maybe somewhere, another version of us was sitting at an old kitchen table, only they were a healthy family of four rather than a broken one of three. Despite our shared desire to try to be that family, or at least some skewed version of it, neither of us were brave enough to voice it. So instead, we picked up our pens again and got back to work, only now each of us had an understanding and respect for the other. It was unspoken, but present nonetheless.