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tomtenadia · 3 years

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My knight in shining armour

Rowaelin month Day 2 - University AU

I literally just finished this. I wasn’t going to write for this prompt but then an idea finally hit me.

The title as usual is bad... sorry

2k words

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Aelin had days in which she hated men. That was one of those days.

After finishing high school she decided to took a challenging course at the University of Terrasen. Her dad, before he retired, had been an airforce pilot. She had grown up going around his base, visiting him when he was back. In doing so, she had become obsessed with planes. As she grew up, her dad had let her get friendly with his engineer and the man had started teaching her all she needed to know about aircrafts. From the basic physics to the more obscure detail of how the jet worked. Aelin had been fascinated. She had started reading all the possible books, and as she got older, her dad’s engineer had also started having her to actually help her in the hangar. In the summer when school was out, she would actually get a part-time job as an apprentice at the base and she had loved every moment of it. She had also become very close with the two female pilots and together they had spent time talking about the life of a woman in a boys club. The two women had become her role models very quickly.

Terrasen was quite and open minded country but some ideas were still quite obsolete.

In high school at the question “what you want to be when you grow up?” She always answered an aircraft engineer for the airforce. She never faltered or never doubted. That’s what she wanted to, that was her path.

But when time for uni arrived and she applied for a degree in aeronautical engineering, that’s when she realised that the boys club extended far more than she expected.

She was basically the only woman in the class. None of the guys had approached her and on the first day she had walked in the classroom, one of them had the guts to tell her that the humanities department was in the annex c. She ignored the bastard and sat down at the front. She belonged in that room and she would prove it to every single one of them.

Day after day she had shown her knowledge and surprised her professor who was amazed at the fact that she could answer such in depth questions. Last time it happened, she had turned to Chaol - the asshole who had told her about the annex c, and gave him a smirk. That had removed his stupid grin from his face. It felt amazing.

During a private one-to-one with her professor she had confessed to him she had been working at the airbase as an apprentice during the past three summers. Her teacher had luckily been very supportive and encouraged her to keep up the good work.

Now, six months in, she still hated with a vengeance the arseholes she had to study with. Some of them even had the guts to ask her for some help after they realised she was actually good. She had answered that surely they didn’t want the help of a woman, and walked away.

After another class it was finally lunch time and she was meeting Rowan down at their spot on the grass. They were a couple. He had asked her out in the summer after high school was over and they had been together ever since. He was a med student and he knew her pain about choosing a challenging degree. Both their degrees were very intense and required a lot of time so they would just try and spend as much time together as they could. They had a flat together but the public library was were they spent most of their time.

And when their schedules allowed it, they would enjoy lunch together, venting about their academical choices.

“I fucking hate that bastard.” She raged, dropping her bag on the grass and sitting at his side, depositing a kiss on his lips. She felt better almost immediately, being in his arms was all she needed to feel okay again.

“What did he do now?” Asked Rowan knowing of her struggles in her classes.

Aelin grabbed her bag and pulled out her food, the dinner that Rowan had prepared the previous night and then packed away for both of them.

“The teacher gave us an exercise where we had to design an aircraft with what we had learned so far.” She told him, while munching away her food “He was up first and his project was a effing disaster. Seriously, I’d wouldn’t want to fly on a plane designed by him.” She took a sip of her water “the teacher asked us to say what was wrong and it took me ten minutes to stop. I mean, a two year old would have done a better job with lego bricks.”

Rowan giggled at her side “then my turn came and the bastard had the guts to tell me that the aerodynamics of my plane were off and that my ailerons where wrong as well and would not allow the plane to function properly. I took my laptop and shoved it in his face and told him to find the error in my math. He had no clue.” Her face turned smug “then the teacher took over and said that actually my project was, among all, the only one that could actually fly. I felt smug as fuck.”

Rowan pulled an arm around Aelin’s shoulder and pulled her to him. He was proud of her. Every damn day.

“Then after class, he threw me a paper plane and inside it had a message saying this is the only plane you will ever build or work on. I swear, the guy is still alive only because I am not looking forward to finishing my degree via distance learning from a prison.”

She calmed down “how was your day?”

Rowan leaned back against the tree “I had anatomy and physiology. Today we covered the endocrine system and it must be one most boring of them all.”

“Well,” she added with a big smile “when you cover the reproductive system you are welcome to practice with me…”

He laughed and squished her to her chest “I am a very big fan of your… bits.” She kissed him deeply not caring that they were in public, she wanted him and hated that they had more classes before being able to go home and then alas, study more. Maybe for one evening they could study something different.

“Aelin?”

“Yes, buzzard?”

His tongue gently teased her and she opened for him while his hand brushed off a rebel strand of hair.

He pulled back “Nothing, you had tomato sauce on you lips. I was just wiping it off. Did you think I wanted to kiss you?”

Aelin gently punched him on the shoulder, in return he gave her a massive grin. Rowan was a very reserved man who struggled with stranger, but she had her own version, the goofy one, the one who made jokes and loved to cuddle with her. She would treasure that version forever. That was just for her.

They were busy chatting away and she was showing him on her laptop the exercise she had been working on and her plane prototype and although what she was saying was greek to him, he still listened to her in fascination.

She was telling him how a plane flew and the four forces when a figure stopped in front of them.

“It must be exciting to brag with your boyfriend about your hopeless projects.” Said the man.

Rowan raised his eyes and finally saw the face of the man that had been making Aelin’s life miserable.

“What did you just say?” Rowan stood and towered on the brown-haired man by twenty centimetres. Chaol also looked frail compared to Rowan’s muscular frame.

“Chaol, you’d better go.” Not that she cared about the man, she just didn’t want Rowan to get into trouble for a petty man.

“You’d better give up while you still can, Galathynius. Aeronautical engineering is not a field for a woman.” He crossed his arms at his chest trying to look intimidating but the look in Rowan’s eyes told her it was a useless attempt. Her boyfriend was ready to attack. She knew he had never hit anyone, but had a feeling that if Chaol didn’t stop it could be a first for Rowan.

“Chaol,” she stood as well and growled his name in warning.

“Oh, so you are one of those arseholes who believes that certain jobs can be done only by those who were born with a penis. It’s the fucking 21st century. Grow up, idiot.”

Rowan swore, alarm bells rang in Aelin’s head. He only swore when he was extremely mad, something that her unflappable boyfriend rarely was.

“Oh look, Galathynius, you have a knight in shining armour.”

Aelin moved between Rowan and Chaol, trying to separate them when her boyfriend moved a step closer to the other guy.

Chaol chuckled “Did you sleep with every professor—” but Chaol never finished his sentence. She saw the scene develop in slow motion in front of her. At those words Rowan’s face had turned feral and as on instinct his arm moved and a second later his fist found its target in Chaol’s face.

Rowan then grabbed Chaol by the collar and lifted him up slightly “You take it back, immediately or I’ll smash all the twenty two bones in your skull.”

“Go on,” said Chaol, nursing a broken lips.

Aelin stopped in between and grasped Rowan’s hand gently “Put him down, Ro, he is not worth it.”

Her gaze then turned to Chaol “now you go back to whatever shithole you came from and perhaps go back working on your project and design a real aircraft.” She moved closer to him “I know what the fuck I am doing. And I know I will have a job in the airforce after this. You will just go back being daddy’s little spoiled boy.”

Chaol glared at her and Rowan finally let go of him, bur before he fully released him he pulled the man close enough that his mouth was near his ear “you disrespect her like that one more time and you’ll finish your degree from a hospital bed while sipping your food from a straw.” Rowan flashed his teeth in a threatening gesture “you leave her alone, because if I hear you have been a bastard to her one more time, I will make your life a living hell.” And eventually released him. Chaol shrugged his t-shirt back into place and walked away without adding another word.

Rowan sighed and then turned to her, his expression back being soft as soon as she looked back at him.

“You didn’t have to punch him,” she said while snuggling against his chest. His arms quickly around her.

“Yes I had to. What he said….” She felt him tense up again “he made me so mad, fireheart.”

“Seeing you thump him was very sexy,” she kissed him gently on the lips “my knight in shining armour.”

Rowan chuckled and looked into he blue eyes “you don’t need a knight. You are fierce, brave and strong and do not need any protection,” he added, his lips on her head. Nesting under his chin was her favourite position. They fit perfectly “I, on the other hand, as a male who is hopelessly in love with you, felt the desperate need to avenge the sullied honour of my amazing other half.”

Aelin giggled hard “you really sound like a knight.”

“Come on, Sir Rowan Whitethorn of Wendlyn, let’s finish our lunch, I have an hour of mechanics of flight coming up and I need sustenance.”

“Yes, my queen,” he said kneeling in front of her.

Aelin laughed and kissed him deeply “maybe I can be your queen tonight in bed as well.”

His smirk grew wider and Aelin felt heat pool at her core at his expression.

“Whatever m’lady commands.”

They finished their lunch in peace without any more interruptions and eventually they parted ways, going to their respective classes.

Chaol did not bothered her anymore. He didn’t even met her gaze and him ignoring her was all she asked. She was there to learn, he could just go and sulk in the afterburner of a jet, perhaps while on, for all she cared.

Aelin texted Rowan a thank you and his reply was a simple To whatever end.

#rowaelin #rowaelinmonth #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #chaol westfall #university au #Throne of Glass series

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lochrannn · 3 years

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AU_gust: Let me play among the stars

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Prompt no 17: Wings

Relationships: Lila Pitts & Allison Hargreeves, minor Lila Pitts/Diego Hargreeves

Characters: Lila Pitts, Allison Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves

AN: So, you may have noticed that David Castañeda can’t wink and I’ve checked, canonically neither can Diego, so this comes up.

It’s half eleven in the morning at the Schiphol Hilton hotel bar and the staff have apparently taken pity on Lila and Allison and have not queried why they decided to drink Scotch before midday.

Lila took on her very first flight as first officer to Captain Allison Chestnut only about eleven hours ago and yet she feels like it has been a life altering experience. Or at the very least, after hundreds of hours of flight training, this trip has been the weirdest thing that has ever happened to her and in hindsight she thinks she was desperately ill prepared to contend with either members of the public or the fucking airline crew itself.

Roughly 11 hours earlier

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Allison Chestnut, I’ll be your captain for our overnight flight. With us today is First Officer Lila Pitts. We’re expecting clear skies ahead and with some tail winds we are hoping to arrive in Amsterdam about thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Once we’ve fully ascended, our cruising altitude will be approximately thirty five thousand feet. I wish you a very pleasant flight on board our plane and now I’d ask you to pay close attention to our cabin crew, headed up by chief flight attendant, Klaus Hargreeves, for the safety announcement.”

Allison clicks off the com and turns down the volume of the cabin announcement, and Lila can just about make out the cheerful voice of Klaus, who she only met while they were doing the final checks of the aircraft but took an instant liking to.

Lila is extremely nervous and doing everything in her power not to show that she’s intimidated by the fact that her first flight in a position of actual authority is with one of the most senior captains in the airline.

Even the relief crew seem significantly more experienced than Lila herself. At least that’s her impression with how Allison greeted the relief first officer, Vanya Cooper. The other pilot completely slipped by her, but Lila could have sworn she heard Vanya and Allison refer to him as Five. Must be some kind of nickname.

Despite her rank, Allison spends a lot of time chatting to Lila, as they don’t have that much going on once they are cruising. The other pilot tells Lila about her kid, her husband, who is apparently a professor, about her recent trips, and how much she loves the job.

She asks Lila how she came by her accent and they talk about how Lila ended up working for an American airline after effectively fleeing the UK and from a bad break-up.

Eventually Lila decides to ask about the thing that surprised her the first time she read the flight roster. “So, do you often fly with a crew where so many of the pilots are women compared to an all male cabin crew?”

“Huh, I hadn’t even thought about that,” Allison muses, then goes on, “It’s a hell of a combination of stewards, though, some of the nuttiest people working for this airline, I don’t think I’ve ever seen them all fly together. I’m sure it’s absolute mayhem back there.”

“How d’you mean?” Lila asks.

“Well, there’s Klaus, who is very good at his job, but an awful flirt and, well, he’s garnered a bit of a reputation. Then there’s Luther. Genuinely lovely guy, everybody loves working with him, but he’s just really not very good with passengers. Diego’s the complete opposite. Passengers love him, he makes a new best friend on every flight. Most people who work with him, though, think he’s kind of an asshole. Except maybe for Klaus and Ben, they seem to get on with him. Ben is actually the only one out there who I’d say is unquestionably competent, very snarky, but charming nevertheless. I’ve not flown much with Elliott, so can’t tell you much about him and I’ve never met the other guy. Axel was it?”

Lila checks the roster, nods and says, “Yupp.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll get plenty of opportunities to make up your own mind about these guys. I will say this though, I’ve seen them all in bigger and smaller crisis situations and they really do all step up then.”

Lila is grateful for the amount of information Allison is willing to share with her. She wonders if this is considered gossipy or if it’s just a necessary exchange of intel with a coworker. Either way, she thinks it’s really useful.

About three quarters into their flight time, Allison and Lila are relieved by Vanya and “Five” and when they step into the cabin the light is already dimmed in an attempt to get the passengers to settle down in a hope that they will sleep.

Just after herself and Allison get comfortable in their seats Klaus turns up in the aisle and says in a low voice to Allison, “Uh, skip, it seems we have a bit of a situation in coach and we were wondering if maybe someone with a bit more authority is just the thing we need to nip this in the bud.”

Allison pulls her sleep mask off her eyes, turns to glare at Klaus and then turns to Lila with a glint in her eyes that definitely juxtaposes the pleasant smile she directs at her and says, “Oh, I think this would be a great learning experience for our new first officer, don’t you think, Klaus?”

“Sure,” Lila says with all the confidence she doesn’t feel, gets up out of her seat and follows Klaus into the back section of the plane.

Back at the hotel bar

“So, was this one of the weirder things to happen on a flight, or would you consider shit like this to be normal?” Lila asks Allison in a congenial tone.

“I’ve definitely seen shit that was way more crazy than this,” a far more gruff voice than she expected, answers Lila’s question, before Diego sits down on the barstool next to her.

Lila looks over at him and he does a thing with his eyes…. if she had to describe it she’d say he’d blinked at her with... intent… is that supposed to be a wink? Lila’s almost embarrassed for him, but somehow he pulls it off. If he was any less handsome, he most definitely wouldn’t have, so Lila decides simply not to dignify that nonsense with a response.

Instead she turns around to Klaus, who’s just sat down on Allison’s other side, is pushing his hair back dramatically and drawls, “Oh Schätzchen, you’ve not seen weird until you start dealing with dead bodies at forty thousand feet above sea level.”

Lila snorts into the drink she’s just brought to her lips.

About 6 hours earlier

On their short walk Klaus gives her the cliffnotes of the issue. “This weirdo English guy keeps demanding to go into the hold because he has some apparently precious cargo to check on and we’ve been trying to keep him calm, but he’s starting to wake up the passengers around him. Diego’s talking to him now, but I don’t think they’re getting on very well.”

Up ahead Lila sees a man about Klaus’s height, with dark hair and a tight fade, leaning into one of the rows of seats and it seems like he’s talking to one of the passengers intently.

She probably shouldn’t, seeing as their coworkers, but she does notice right away that he fills his uniform out very nicely and that he’s clearly got some deliberate designer stubble going on to enhance the sharp cut of his jaw.

But Lila pulls her thoughts back to the situation at hand and the fact that she probably has never had a situation where she needed to be as professional as now.

“I don’t know what to tell you, man… Even if you have the queen of England in a crate down in the hold, we just can’t let you go down there mid flight!” the steward, who Lila assumes must be Diego, explains to a man with grey hair, a tidy Van Dyke mustache, and… Christ, how pretentious can one guy be? … a monocle, sitting in the seat by the window.

She takes a deep breath and walks up to the commotion.

“What seems to be the problem here, gentlemen?” Lila asks as calmly as possible.

Diego opens his mouth, presumably to explain what’s going on, but he’s interrupted by monocle guy, who says in a clipped accent that reminds Lila uncomfortably of one of her old headmasters, “Ah, finally someone with some seniority. I am entirely exhausted trying to explain to this imbecile that I have important scientific business to take care of in the hull of this aeroplane. Young lady, would you do me the favour of providing me with access to my work?”

Lila ignores the scowl that comes across Diego’s face and instead says, again calmly, though she’s quickly understanding why the stewards have reached the end of their patience, “First officer Pitts, please.”

“Apologies, madame!” the pushy passenger shoots back, and Lila is annoyed by his lack of sincere contrition, but at least Diego sniggered next to her as she pulled rank, so that’s something.

“I am really sorry, Sir, we just cannot let you go down there, but may I ask what’s so important, you’d risk decompression in the cabin, endangering all of your fellow passengers?” Lila uses her poshest voice, hoping that she’ll appeal to this guy that way, and she really hopes she’s not veered into parody. At least her fellow stewards wouldn’t be able to tell.

“Says he’s got a sedated monkey in a crate,” Diego drawls before the passenger can answer and earns himself a withering stare by the grey-haired man.

“It’s a chimpanzee, you nimrod!” monocle guy spits at him and Lila ignores the way Klaus’s hand lands on Diego’s shoulder as he twitches forward.

Instead she addresses the passenger again, “I’m sure all the necessary precautions were taken to keep your chimpanzee comfortable and safe on this flight and I have to urge you to calm down. There is absolutely no way we can allow for you to go into the hold and I must point out that you’re beginning to upset the other passenger.”

“This is ridiculous!” the man exclaims and then completely surprises Lila by getting up abruptly, pushing past her and Klaus and making his way swiftly along the aisle towards the front of the plane.

That’s when things go bananas, because before either herself or Klaus can respond, Diego has launched himself past them and after the monocle guy, rugby tackles him to the ground, and to Lila’s complete horror, a huge, blond man in a steward’s uniform appears at the other end of the aisle to help Diego wrestle the unruly passenger into the middle section of the plane, where they swiftly draw the curtains so the passengers near them, who’ve been roused by the commotion, can’t see what’s going on.

After two more rounds at the Schiphol Hilton hotel bar

“... so we had to get the fire crew to bring on a wheelchair so we could weekend-at-bernie’s that mofo and get his corpse off the plane before the other passengers even found out that anyone had died.” Klaus finishes his tale.

“Jesus,” Lila breathes. Allison just shrugs her shoulders.

“Right, Tom Bradey over there and I have to get going. You see, Lila, cabin crew don’t get the same amount of rest time during turnaround as the VIP do. That’s what I call the Very Important Pilots, ya know,” Klaus says and winks at her, then gives Allison a quick hug before he walks away.

The two women turn to Diego and he suddenly hesitates. Then he says, “See you around, I guess,” and taps the bar top with his fingers before he also heads away.

“Huh,” Allison says, a bit bemused, but then Lila notices that Diego wasn’t tapping just the surface of the bar but had actually shoved his cocktail napkin towards her. She picks it up and realises that he’s scribbled something on it. It reads ‘come say hi’ and then what she presumes must be a room number underneath.

“I thought you said Klaus was the one with the reputation,” Lila says, her mouth’s gone a bit dry as she turns around to Allison to show her the napkin.

“Huh! Never thought that grumpy asshole had it in him.” Allison intones almost more to herself. “You must have really impressed him,” she says to Lila then, with a bit of a laugh in her voice.

“Mmmh, but I mean, obviously I can’t go up there... right?” Lila says hesitantly, not quite sure she knows how she wants Allison to respond.

“I mean, obviously I’m a married woman, so maybe I’m the wrong person to ask, but I can only tell you it happens all the time, so I’d say go for it,” Allison offers with a shrug.

“Nah, I really shouldn’t, but I do think I'll also head to bed now. It was really nice flying with you Allison, even if things got a bit weird.” Lila says to Allison with a smile and a wave.

“Yeah, was great flying with you, too. I’m sure we’ll have many more opportunities to do so!” Allison responds as Lila starts walking away.

Then Lila stops, pivots on her heels, picks up the napkin and then whines a “shut uuuup!” at Allison when the other woman bursts out laughing.

#otp: just be gentle #lila pitts #diego hargreeves #dielila #diego x lila #diego/lila #tua #the umbrella academy #allison hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #david castañeda #lochrannn lxd au challenge

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bestillmyslashyheart · 5 years

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Angst/fluff prompt for Malex: #31. “You haven’t lost me.” I’m already sobbing...but happy? Angst is very confusing! 😭❤️😍

“I’m coming!” Alex yelled for the third time. The banging didn’t let up. Alex thought briefly that if the person knocking his door down would pause for just one fucking second they’d hear Alex but he shoved that aside and threw the door open.

Two men froze in the sudden silence. Alex because he was definitely not expecting to see Max Evans bearing down on his door at a stupid hour of the day. And Max obviously was not expecting Alex to answer if the way he took a half step inside like he needed to catch his balance was any indication.

Alex raised an eyebrow when the silence drew out.

Max cleared his throat. “I need your help.”

“With what?” Alex took a step closer. If it required a personal visit at 3:45 in the morning, it had to be important.

“Michael,” Max forced out and Alex’s heart clenched.

“Is he okay? Is he hurt?” Alex asked. “What happened?”

Max held out a hand to calm him but Alex glared it away. “He’s fine. But he’s leaving.”

The sudden energy burst caused by his frantic worry fled him and Alex sagged against the door. “I know.”

“You know?!” Max half yelled at him. “Why the hell haven’t you stopped him?”

Alex rubbed his eyes. “Look, it’s complicated, okay? And I really don’t understand why you’re here right now. Come back at a human hour and then I can tell you fuck off.”

“Michael will be gone by then!”

His drooping eyes snapped open. “What are you talking about?”

“Michael. Is. Leaving.” Max glared at him.

“Yes, I know. He finished the console or whatever but what do you mean he’ll be gone by then?” Alex straightened up.

Max stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “I mean he’s fucking leaving the planet, Alex! Right now!”

“What the fuck do you mean right now?!” Alex yelled back. He didn’t know when they’d started raising their voices but it wasn’t important. “He said he was still working out the logistics.”

Max spread his hands wide and shrugged. “Well I guess he figured it out. He’s got his hands on one of those jets from the base-” Max ignored Alex’s “How?” and kept going “-and he’s getting the console attached. He was still working on it when I left to come here but he might already have it done by now. So-”

Max took a step back as Alex pushed into him on his way out of the house. He stared after Alex as the man limped over to Max’s car. “What are you waiting for, Evans?”

Alex’s heart leapt into his throat when he saw the glow of the console lighting up the cockpit of a military aircraft sitting in the middle of the desert. The light illuminated a curl mop of air as it was bent over the controls.

Michael was still here.

He wasn’t too late.

Alex barely waited until Max stopped the car before he was throwing open the door and half running to the plane. His leg ached with every step, he really shouldn’t be wearing the prosthesis right now especially without a crutch, but he didn’t care. He had to get to Michael.

Vaguely, he recognized Isobel standing there with her hand pressed to her mouth as she stared at the plane but Alex ignored her too.

“Guerin!” He yelled when he thought he was close enough. The curls popped up and turned towards him. Another few steps and he reached the ladder leading to the cockpit. After all of this was over, he was really going to have to ask Michael where the hell he got his hands on this plane but that was a problem for later.

“Alex?” Michael’s voice reached him as Alex got his head and shoulders over the edge and he could finally see inside. Michael was staring at him in shock. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Max came and got me,” he answered as he hauled himself up and inside. It was a very small cockpit, really designed for only one person but two could fit in a pinch if they liked each other. Alex soaked in the warmth of Michael’s body and ached to press himself against the other man. “What the hell are you doing?”

Michael just stared at him for a moment, disbelief visible in every muscle. “Alex.” He said. “What are you doing here?”

“Were you really just going to leave Earth without a word? Did I even get a letter?” Alex asked.

Michael shook his head and ran a hand over his face. “I don’t understand. You’re upset?”

“Fuck you! Of course I’m upset!” Alex yelled in his face. His voice softened immediately when he saw Michael flinch. “I knew you wanted to leave but I at least thought I’d get a goodbye?” He hadn’t meant it to come out as a question.

“Alex-” Michael stopped himself. “You gave me the missing piece and told me to be happy.” His face contorted like he wanted to glare at Alex but couldn’t muster the necessary emotions. “I figured that was your goodbye.” He shrugged a shoulder and Alex wanted to punch him. “That was you telling me to go.”

Alex shook his head. “This is why I wanted us to talk. We need to use our words or shit like this happens.” Michael looked at him quizzically. “I don’t want you to go, Michael. I want you here. With me. But I’ve been selfish with this thing between us for too long and I can’t stand in your way if you really want to leave. I gave you the piece because it’s yours not because I wanted you to go. I told you to be happy because you deserve it, dammit. And as much as I really want you to be happy here, I understand if you need to leave. But goddammit you do not get to just take off in the middle of the fucking night without a word!”

Michael didn’t answer. He just wrapped a hand around Alex’s neck and pulled him into a kiss. Alex took the extra half step separating them and pressed himself along Michael’s body as he gripped his hips and eagerly responded. It was a softer kiss than usual for them. Usually it was all heat and fire and passion and need but this-this was everything else. This was love and desperation and longing and desire just to be close to each other and it was everything they never managed to say. Alex poured everything he was feeling into that kiss.

It was slow and gentle and Alex never wanted it to end.

Michael pulled away oh so slowly. Alex managed to get in a few more short kisses, mere presses of their lips really, before Michael pulled too far back.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Michael admitted quietly.

“You haven’t lost me.” Alex told him firmly. “You could never lose me. Not really.”

#malex fic #malex #rnm #roswell new mexico #my fic #up to you if Michael leaves or stays #allthehearteyes

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wistfulcynic · 6 years

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Their Way By Moonlight: The Message (Chapter 6)

In which hints are dropped and there is a very long dream sequence. Also another cliffhanger. Note at the end.

Summary: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time the Saviour is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from her son and anyone else who might help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Hook are soulmates, working together within their shared dreams to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from the clutches of evil yet again. (Alternate 3B, set in the What Dreams May Come universe)

Rating: A hard M

Tagging: @teamhook @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke @darkcolinodonorgasm @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @bonbonpirate @thejollyroger-writer @lfh1962 @laschatzi @katie-dub @ultraluckycatnd

Anyone wishing to be added to or dropped from this tag list, please do say so.

Read it on AO3

The Message:

Killian hustled Henry into the truck, performing a quick, apprehensive scan of their surroundings as he did. Nothing out of the ordinary caught his eye, but he found that this did little to settle the unease that was brewing in his belly at the lad’s revelation. An uncursed Evil Queen, or at least an aware one, was… unanticipated. Killian very much disliked that which he failed to anticipate.

The journey back to the apartment passed in silence. He glared at the road as he drove, his eyes flickering back and forth between it and Henry, slumped in the passenger seat, his face tear-streaked and distraught. Killian forced down a surge of guilt. He wished there were a way to break this curse without involving the lad, but even Emma had finally agreed that his presence was essential if they wanted to stand any kind of chance. Even bloody Oisín —or rather, Frank, if he insisted— had confirmed it, that very afternoon. The Saviour must have aid from her true loves. Both of them.

Perhaps if they had accepted this sooner they wouldn’t be in their current mess, he thought. If Emma hadn’t insisted on going to investigate on her own… but Killian shook those thoughts from his head. This was no time for recrimination. He had long since learned from bitter experience the futility of living in the past. What was done was done and they could only move forward, and Killian had certainly tried. Finding himself abruptly alone with a stepson who at the time had not fully trusted him, he had done the best he possibly could to build a solid plan, to prepare Henry for what had to be done. Perhaps his best efforts had not been enough, though he gave himself enough credit to suppose that nothing could ever really prepare someone for the experience of seeing their loved ones either strangers to them or trapped in misery. Or both. Although Henry had not yet elaborated on the exact circumstances in which the Queen now found herself, Killian could deduce from his reaction that they were not good.

The drive was a short one and soon they found themselves in their kitchen, both relaxing noticeably in a place that already felt safe. Killian immediately began to prepare hot chocolate, without even asking Henry if he wanted any. Hot chocolate after a bad shock went without saying.

“Did you make some earlier?” asked Henry as he watched Killian wash the milk pan.

“Aye. Your mother was here for lunch.”

Henry’s eyebrows rose. “She was? What, already? That was fast.”

Killian smiled wryly. “That does appear to be the consensus.”

“Why, who else said it?”

“Frank was here as well, delivering our order. You were right about the sofa, it goes perfectly.”

Henry’s troubled expression had been slowly easing as his fear receded, and now he broke into an actual grin. “I knew it would. I’m sorry I missed Frank, though, couldn’t he have stayed?”

Killian resisted the urge to scratch behind his ear. Henry had cheerfully accepted Frank as a magical authority, but there were some points on which he remained ignorant, and Killian intended to keep him that way. “Er, no I think he needed to get back. But he invited us to visit as soon as we’re able. All of us.” He smiled as reassuringly as possible and after a moment Henry nodded in acceptance. He sat down on a stool at the kitchen island, hugging himself tightly, and when Killian set a cup of chocolate, liberally doused with cinnamon and whipped cream, down in front of him he immediately wrapped his hands around it and brought it to his cheek.

“I feel so cold,” he said.

Killian looked at him with concern. “Drink up, lad, then tell me everything.”

Around warming and heartening sips of chocolate Henry told Killian his tale, every detail of his walk to school, the odd, icy wind outside Granny’s, Mary Margaret’s absence from school, the presence of Lost Boys, and everything he had seen through the window of his old house.

“My mom recognised me, I know she did,” he said. “She warned me to get away. And there’s magic around the house, it tried to push me away. It didn’t want me anywhere near it. The wind was there too, and stronger.”

Killian tried to keep his face neutral though his mind was racing. This was more worrying than he’d imagined. He’d need to see Emma in the dream tonight, and it was imperative to speak to Regina as soon as possible.

A thought occurred to him, one that made his hand clench involuntarily on his mug. He and Emma were not the only people who loved Henry, after all. If Regina still had her memories… well, what better way to torment a mother than by keeping her from her child, conscious of the loss and perhaps in a constant state of worry over his well being, prevented somehow from going to find him…

All of Henry’s family was here, under the curse. All except the stepfather none of them knew about. Emma’s appearance in Storybrooke last year, cursed and unaware and without her son, could only have sent an awake and aware Regina into a frenzy of panic and worry over what could have become of him.

That was truly cruel. Killian was no great fan of the Queen’s but the idea of such a fate befalling even her made him uncomfortable. He resolved to get a message to her as soon as he could, to reassure her that the lad was okay and they had a plan in motion.

And if in her gratutude she agreed to help them carry out this plan, well so much the better. Killian may have reformed but at his core the pirate still remained, and altruism was not what you might call a mark of his character. He imagined there was rather a lot Regina could be persuaded to do in exchange for access to Henry, and a properly motivated Evil Queen could be a valuable ally.

“I’ve gotta talk to my mom,” said Henry. “To Regina. Let her know—”

“No!”

Henry looked startled at Killian’s vehemence. “But—”

“We won’t let her suffer any longer, but let me be the one to approach her. For the time being I think it’s best if you keep your distance.” He held up his hand to still Henry’s protest. “No, Henry, listen to me. From what you’ve said this curse seems to be keeping a special eye on you, and who knows what it might be driven to if you attempt to speak to Regina. I’ll do it.”

Henry’s face was mutinous, but Killian’s was implacable, and after a short standoff implacable won. “Okay, fine,” grumbled Henry. “But will you tell her I love her? And I miss her?”

“Of course I will, lad.” Killian smiled and took Henry’s empty mug. “Now what do you say to pizza for dinner?”

The boy perked up at the prospect of the rare treat. “Really?”

“Aye, I think we both could use it.”

“Excellent.”

---

Emma is for some reason aboard an aircraft carrier about to lead a fighter jet attack on an unspecified enemy when her dream world shifts, adjusts, resolves around her into her bedroom. Not the dark room in Walsh’s house where she sleeps alone, but the breezy, softly coloured space she designed and built herself here in the dream. They built it, she and Killian.

Killian. Her husband.

Her real husband.

Emma feels the now-familiar wrenching ache as the tangle of her altered mind straightens and she remembers that she is cursed, has been cursed for over a year, separated from Killian and Henry and unable to remember her parents or anyone else she cares about. The pain of it is always fresh, as each time she remembers is as though it were the first.

This time, though, something is different. She realises that this is the first time even in the dream that she remembers —fully and clearly— the events of her cursed life. She remembers seeking Killian out and the time she spent with him, remembers how the intense pull of the attraction she has always felt for him was undiminished by the curse. She remembers leaving his apartment full of determination to finally speak to Walsh, remembers actually succeeding in confronting her false spouse about her unhappiness in their ‘marriage’. Rage surges through her as she remembers his response. He fucking drugged her or… or something. Again. She remembers now that he does this every time she begins to question… well, anything. He doesn’t like her asking questions.

Killian calls him a monster and Emma can only agree.

She is so caught up in her thoughts and her fury that she doesn’t notice Killian’s presence until he speaks.

“Swan.”

His voice affects her as it always does, soothing her even as it sends a curling tendril of lust through her belly. He lies down next to her and she launches herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist and burying her face in his neck, drawing comfort as she always does from his warmth and strength. It’s almost impossible now for her to remember that there was once a time when she hesitated to trust him, when she resisted the instincts that told her she could. She trusts him now, completely. Trusts him enough to leave her son in his care, enough that even when he is quivering with coiled rage barely concealed beneath the smirk and swagger of Captain Hook she still feels safe with him. Whatever tricks or disguises he may use to protect himself, under it all he is always her Killian, her love, the man who would die, would kill, before he allowed any harm to come to her or Henry. She is aware that her trust leaves her vulnerable to him in a way that she has never been with anyone in her life. Even in her youth and naiveté with Neal she had never opened herself up this fully. With Killian she can be completely herself, her once-formidable walls reduced to rubble and every particle of dust that comprised them swept away. The comfort of this deep intimacy with another person, the relief of it, is something that the old Emma, safe and alone in her personal fortress had never anticipated. She never imagined how much lighter burdens felt when they were shared, never realised that sharing them did not make her weak, or mean she couldn’t manage on her own. It just meant that she didn’t have to.

She never has to be on her own again because Killian is always with her. Even when she can’t remember him.

He strokes her hair and murmurs soothing nonsense in her ear until she relaxes against him, braces herself and allows the awful words to tumble out, all in a rush. “I think Walsh is drugging me,” she whispers, holding on tightly as his muscles tense beneath her hands. “Or keeping me under some sort of spell. I— I don’t think he’s under the curse. I think he’s here to— to watch me. To keep me under control.”

“Well, that would certainly explain a lot,” Killian growls, the deep rumble of it vibrating across her skin. “Why you seemed to forget about him when we were together today, why you couldn’t explain why you don’t wear a wedding ring.” “My wedding ring…” Emma remembers now what she was not quite able to call to mind with Walsh that evening, remembers why she was so confused once she’d truly noticed, actually thought about why she didn’t have a ring. Because she has a ring, of course she does. The one that Killian placed on her finger on their wedding day. The one they chose together, the twin of his own.

She looks down at her hand. There it is, winking up at her, a slim platinum band marked with the same engravings she’d unknowingly admired on Killian’s version that afternoon. In the dream she always has it. But where is it in reality? Fury bubbles up in her again. “What has that asshole done with my ring?!”

“Ssshh, love,” Killian tries to calm her even though she can feel the anger in him as well. If what she thinks is true, if Walsh is awake, then he has deliberately stolen not only Emma’s agency but more than a year of their lives. A year when they should have been basking in the blissful happiness of newlyweds as they built the foundations of their future. A year when they should at the very least have been together.

“We have got to break this curse,” Emma snarls, “And soon. I want to smash Walsh’s fucking face in myself and I don’t want to waste any more time.”

Killian chuckles and his expression when she looks up at him radiates pride. She knows he’s calling her a “tough lass” in his head, and it makes her smile through her anger. She loves that he loves this side of her.

He loves everything about her and that is something Emma still struggles to fathom.

“Don’t worry, love, we’ll break it,” he says, a hint of the old swagger back in his voice. “I find this sudden burst of memory you’re having most encouraging. You’re fighting, something in you is always fighting to free you from whatever curse or spell has you in its grasp. And you’re succeeding, darling.”

His faith in her simply never wavers, and Emma hates the feeling that this time it’s misplaced. “How can you say I’m succeeding? Nothing has changed!”

“Hasn’t it? You say Walsh drugged you this evening?” She nods against his shoulder. “Well. What precipitated that?”

“I— asked him why I didn’t wear a ring. Why he didn’t wear one. And why we never did anything as a couple when I had memories —curse memories— of us doing stuff together with friends.”

“So effectively you challenged the precepts of your cursed life. And how did he react?”

“He—” Emma struggles to remember. “He asked me about you. He said did this have anything to do with you, and when I said no he— he took this box off his desk and— I remember him opening it, but after that everything is blank. I think maybe he blew something into my eyes?”

She feels Killian’s hand twitch as though it wants to clench into a fist, but he continues to stroke her hair. “You see? If you weren’t succeeding at fighting back he wouldn’t need to take such measures to keep you in check. If you weren’t so dangerous he wouldn’t watch you so closely.”

She wants desperately for him to be right, but she cannot squash her doubts completely. Even as his staunch support renews her resolve, they prickle at the back of her mind. “Now, love,” Killian continues, and she can sense the effort it is costing him to keep his voice even. He is furious, but he is controlling it. “Can you remember anything about this box?”

“It’s silver,” says Emma, “Ornate. About… three inches long by two inches wide? He took it off his desk, I don’t know if that’s where he always keeps it.”

“Can you find out?”

She nods. “I can try. I’m getting better at leaving messages.”

“Excellent.”

He is silent for several minutes and Emma waits. She can tell he has something more on his mind, but knows there is no point in trying to push. He’ll tell her when he’s ready, and in the meantime she intends to enjoy this rare opportunity to cuddle, something the dreams do not generally allow. Is it because they haven’t had sex yet, she wonders, or are the dream’s restrictions relaxing somehow?

She snuggles closer, tightening her arms around him, tracing the lines of the scars on his back with her fingertips, remembering the last time they had the luxury of just lying in bed together, that last Sunday morning in New York before she left for Storybrooke. Henry was at Avery’s and she and Killian slept late, had lazy morning sex then whiled away a good hour snuggling in bed enjoying a rare quiet moment with just each other, until the need for food and toilets finally forced them up.

It was the closest thing they’d had to a honeymoon.

“I saw Frank today.” Killian’s voice breaks through her reverie.

Emma starts. This is unexpected. “On purpose?”

“Aye. He brought us a delivery, books and shelves. And information.”

“What sort of information?

“I asked him if you might be able to fight off the curse. He said yes you could but in order to fully break it you would need both your true loves.”

“Henry.” Emma still wishes her son didn’t have to be dragged into this, though she is trying to accept it.

“Aye. His role is crucial, as we suspected. Frank also told me that the curse caster is particularly powerful in dark magic, as powerful as you are in light, and you’ll spend eternity locked in stalemate unless you have help.”

Emma frowns. This is not particularly surprising but she remains wary. “I don’t trust Frank,” she grumbles.

“No wise mortal does, love, but he’s a valuable source of information.”

“When it’s reliable.”

“It is this time, I’m certain of it.”

There’s only one way anyone can be certain with creatures like Frank, and Emma bolts upright when she realises what he’s saying. “Killian, you didn’t challenge him!”

He has the grace to look abashed, if not repentant. “I needed to know.”

“Babe, it’s too much of a risk!”

“It’s fine, Swan, I got out. Or he let me go, I’m never quite sure.”

“Still, I wish you wouldn’t. He could just as easily decide to take you and I’ll have to go to some land of Nog or whatever—”

“Just another name for Neverland, love.”

“—and get you back! How am I supposed to do that when I’m cursed in fucking Storybrooke?”

“All right, darling, all right. I promise not to try again—”

“Good.”

“—at least until after we break the curse.”

“Killian!”

He gives her his wickedest grin and a raised eyebrow, and she entirely fails not to let them soften her indignation. He has been weighed down, she knows, both in the dreams and when she saw him that day, weighed down by worry and by the burdens he’s had to shoulder alone since she left. The melancholy that has always been present in him has been magnified by it, pulled to the fore and so wrapped and tangled around him that the cheeky pirate she first fell in lust with has been almost completely obscured.

Emma loves every part of him. But she’s missed that pirate.

Killian gives her arm a sharp tug that brings her tumbling down onto his chest. He curls his hand around the back of her neck and pulls her mouth to his in a kiss that is intended to be reassuring, to remind her that he is still here and that every risk he takes is calculated to give him the best possible odds of survival. He is reckless but not rash, which he insists is a crucial distinction, and Emma supposes that this should actually reassure her but it never does.

She couldn’t bear to lose him, and this alone ensures that she will never be rational about him putting himself in danger.

She fists her hand in his hair, tugging the soft strands with enough force to let him know she means business, and takes control of the kiss, changing the angle to force his lips apart and plunging her tongue into his mouth. He meets it with his own, duelling with her, but when they finally break apart he holds back, waiting for her next move. He is ceding control to her, happy as ever for her to set the pace and mood, and Emma realises that what she wants more than anything right now is to make love to him, slow and sensual like that last Sunday morning. She wants to wrap her love around him like a blanket, like a shield, to protect him from the dangers he insists on courting and from the intangible ravages of his own sadness.

She’s not sure if she can do that from the dream but she can damned well try.

She calls her magic to her, flexing it experimentally like a muscle long disused. It’s been so long since she’s called it that the reserves are almost flooded. She pulls it into fine strands and weaves them together, weft and warp wound densely, as impenetrable as she can make it.

She’s not certain how she’s doing this, wishes she’d had more time for training, but her instincts have always guided her well. She runs her hands down Killian’s chest, savouring the smooth skin and soft hair, the ridges of scar tissue, the firm muscles that leap beneath her fingertips. He sighs when she follows the path of her hands with her lips, wrapping her magic around him as she goes, securing it to him with every kiss. She checks the protection spell around his heart, relieved to find it still firmly intact, but reinforces it with this new magic weave, just in case. Kissing a trail back up his chest she finds him watching her with a curious expression. He knows she’s doing something with her magic but though he isn’t sure what he doesn’t question her and she knows he won’t. He trusts her.

She leans down and kisses him deeply, softly, letting him feel her love even as her magic secures it around him. His arms come around her, his hand sliding down her back and over her ass, pulling her hips tightly against his. He is hard and hot between her legs and she rocks against him, making him moan into her mouth in that helpless way that she finds so empowering. She shifts the angle of her hips, lifting them until he slips inside her. He pushes in deep and she braces on his chest, arching her back to meet his thrust and seat him in fully. Then she begins to rock in earnest, finding her rhythm instantly as always in the dream. Her hair tumbles in messy waves around her face as she leans down, wanting to feel his skin on hers, the soft abrasion of his chest hair against her nipples. His eyes are hazy with passion, his expression awed as it always is when she is on top. She kisses him again, sloppy and wet, then whispers in his ear. “Talk to me.”

Words begin to pour from his lips, by turns filthy and beautiful, breathy swears and prayers to the old gods, paeans to her beauty and to the feel of her body against and around him, heartfelt declarations of his love. Emma revels in it, feeds on it; what would once have embarrassed her she now craves. Her magic responds to the love that pours from him and she weaves it into her spell, strengthening the protection still further.

His love for her will keep him safe, as much as hers for him. There is a poetry in that which he would surely appreciate.

She ties off her spell and seals the edges, just as she was taught to do, then quickens the movements of her hips. Killian begins to gasp beneath her, his hand gripping her hair. He’s so close, just on the edge, but he is holding back, waiting for her. She loves him for that though it’s not what she wants tonight. She wants to watch him fall to pieces, wants to appreciate the look on his face when he comes.

She squeezes herself tightly around him and rocks still faster, riding him hard in a way that would have her muscles straining anywhere but in the dream. He gasps her name in a desperate plea. “Emma… I can’t…”

“Don’t, then,” she says. “Let go, Killian. I want to watch.”

With a groan he complies, his arms tightening around her and his hips lifting her off the mattress as he comes. He’s beautiful in his release, she thinks, though he hates her using that word to describe him it’s undeniably true. His long eyelashes flutter over his flushed cheeks as his face relaxes into bliss.

“I love you so much,” she whispers, almost too softly for him to hear, as her own orgasm begins to break over her. “Nothing is going to harm you.” He growls in the back of his throat and grabs her ass, grinding his pelvis against hers, the pressure on her clit sending her flying.

He holds her tightly as she rides it out. “I won’t leave you, Emma,” he whispers into her hair, understanding as always what lies behind her actions. “Not ever, not for anything.”

She knows he won’t, not intentionally, but despite his cocky assurances he is not indestructible. The last thing she does as the dream begins to dissipate is make one final check of the new protection spell, reassuring herself that he is as safe as she can make him, shielded against whatever may seek to take him from her.

---

“You saw her last night,” said Henry, before Killian could even manage to open his mouth to wish the lad good morning. “What did she say?”

Killian sighed. He had lain awake for several hours after the dream had ended, trying to decide how much Henry could and should be told. He wished to conceal as little as possible but with Henry already so upset over Regina’s circumstances Killian had finally decided that the lad didn’t need all the gory details of Emma’s as well.

He placed bowl, cereal, and milk in front of Henry before replying. “You remember your theory, that the strength of the curse might be gauged by the strength of the cursed relationships?” he asked.

“Yeah?” Henry filled his bowl as full as it would go, and Killian silently resigned himself to drips and splashes of milk on the countertop. Again.

“Well, I don’t think your mum’s cursed marriage is very strong.” Henry’s eyes widened in interest as he stuffed a loaded and dripping spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

Afraid the boy might attempt to ask him why before he’d had a chance to chew his food, Killian rushed on. “When she was here yesterday afternoon there was a moment when she appeared to forget Walsh entirely, and last night she informed me that she had gone home afterwards and confronted him over some…inconsistencies in her cursed memories.”

“You think she’s fighting off the curse?” Henry asked, fortunately with his mouth empty.

“That’s precisely what I think.” Killian beamed at him, pleased with the acuity of his insight. “It doesn’t seem to have a particularly firm grip on her, which I must say I find odd given your experiences with that wind and what you reported about Regina. For her to be uncursed, or at least aware, in such circumstances and not to fight back, there must be something powerful indeed restraining her. So why would it have a lesser hold on Emma? Perhaps due to her Saviour magic?”

“That’s why I need to talk to my mom, so we can find out—”

“We’ve discussed this, Henry.”

“But—”

“No, it’s too dangerous for you. Both your mothers would tear strips from my hide if I allowed you to take such a risk, and frankly I don’t have that much hide to spare. Now finish your breakfast and go to school, no detours this time.” Killian barely stopped himself from insisting on walking with him, at least as far as Granny’s.

Henry looked like he wanted badly to argue but finally wilted under Killian’s very finest I-am-the-captain-of-this-pirate-ship-you-will-obey-me stare. “All right,” he sighed. “But remember what you promised to tell her.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Tell her we’re gonna break the curse, too. Give her hope.”

“Aye, lad. You have my word.”

After Henry left Killian tidied the kitchen and then the flat, collecting Henry’s dirty clothes and damp towels from his bedroom floor and putting them in the washing machine. The washing machine was the one device from this realm that Killian loved with unconstrained fervour. Perfectly clean clothing was a luxury he had rarely been afforded in his life, and he couldn’t get enough of it.

Chores completed he headed downstairs, considering possible strategies for contacting Regina. He could hardly stroll up to the house and ring the bell, yet he didn’t really relish lurking in the bushes waiting in case she emerged. If only he had some means of getting a message to her.

He’d think about it as he walked, he decided, perhaps the exercise would stimulate his mind. Opening the door he strode outside without looking, and found himself colliding —again— with Emma.

Damn and blast it all to the icy depths of Davy Jones’ locker, he thought, as his arms closed instinctively around his wife, this is getting ridiculous.

Unlike the first two times they’d found themselves like this Emma seemed in no hurry to pull away from him, instead clinging tightly to the back of his jacket and inhaling deeply against his neck. Killian held his own breath, waiting for her to move, wondering if she could possibly be remembering… Familiar scents could trigger memories, he’d read that somewhere, and Emma had always loved the way he smelled. Salty like the sea, she’d told him with a smile. And sometimes like rum. But always sort of… spicy? That’s the essence of you.

She leaned infinitesimally closer, close enough that he could feel her racing heartbeat and hear the hitch in her rapid breathing. His arms were already around her, all he’d have to do was tighten them, just tilt her head back, and he could kiss her. His body begged him to do it, screamed with the need to feel her lips against his, really feel them, not merely to dream it. Somehow he knew that if he did she wouldn’t resist, but he couldn’t, damn it, it was too bloody soon. She didn’t love him, not this version of her. This was simply lust, the basic animal attraction she’d never been able to deny, even when he’d been her enemy. If he kissed her now the curse would be unaffected but she would not. She would feel guilty which would make her feel angry, and would certainly drive her away.

He loosened his hold on her and began to step back when she looked up at him, the expression in her eyes so familiar that it stole his breath. She looked like she saw him, really saw him, as though she remembered…

“Emma?” he whispered, hardly daring to hope.

She opened her mouth to reply when a sudden whirlwind whipped up out of nowhere, swirling around them, forcing itself between them, prying them apart. Emma stumbled back and wrapped her arms around herself as her whole body quaked with shivers, and when she looked at him again it was through cursed eyes.

Killian swallowed back both his disappointment and his sudden bloodcurdling fear, and arranged his face into its bland smile. “Swan,” he said. “Won’t you come in?” He wanted her off the bloody street and out of public view. This was clearly the wind that Henry had described, and Killian greatly disliked its presence on his doorstep. He held the door open and Emma entered, looking grateful.

“That’s a hell of a brisk breeze,” she laughed, though she looked uncomfortable.

“Aye,” he agreed, subtly locking the door behind them as he ushered her into the shop, behind a bookcase and out of sight of the windows. “What can I do for you, Swan?”

She stuffed her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, looking awkward. “Um, I was just wondering… about those books we looked at the other day?”

“Aye.”

“Well, um, I know you’re not technically open yet but I was hoping I could buy a few.”

Killian’s smile warmed as hope unfurled in his chest. At least one aspect of their plan was going as predicted. Even under a curse, the pull that Emma’s magic exerted on her would not be denied. “Of course,” he said. “Which ones did you have in mind?”

To his delight Emma chose three of the books he’d recommended to her on magical practice and spell casting, paying for them in cash. When the sale was completed and he took out a bag for them, Emma began to shift her feet. “Um,” she said.

“Did you not want a bag?” he asked in mild surprise. “These ones are actually made of corn starch, so they’re biodegradable—”

“No, it’s not that,” she said, “though that’s actually really cool. I was just wondering… I know it’s a bit weird but I was wondering if I could leave them here.”

“Leave them here?”

“Yeah, I just— it’s just— things with my husband are a bit, um, weird right now, and I’d just prefer—”

Hah, thought Killian, with a surge of pride. She’d obviously managed to leave herself at least one subliminal message. Of course she had, she was never less than brilliant. “Say no more, love. Of course you can leave them here. I’ll keep them in the desk for you, you’re welcome to come in and read them any time.”

She looked relieved. “Thanks.”

Sudden inspiration hit Killian. “It’s no problem,” he said, “But I wonder if you would mind doing me a small favour in return.”

Relief turned to wariness. “What sort of favour?”

“I need to get a message to someone, and for various reasons upon which I’d prefer not to elaborate, speaking to her directly is difficult. Would you carry a note to her for me?”

“Um, sure, I suppose. Who is ‘she’?”

“Regina Mills,” he replied, hoping the Queen’s cursed surname hadn’t changed.

Emma’s brow wrinkled in bafflement. “The Nolans’ maid?” she asked.

“Aye, that’s her.”

“Why do you want—” she began, then shook herself. “No, never mind, it’s none of my business. Regina normally goes to the market in the mornings, if you give me the note now I can try to catch her there before she leaves.”

“Perfect. Er, one moment.” Killian scrambled to think of how to convey to Regina that he needed to speak with her, that she should come to find him, in a way that only she would comprehend.

The Queen was an educated woman, he reflected. Educated by the Dark One himself, who would surely have been thorough. Languages must have featured heavily in their curriculum. But which language to choose? Killian’s Elvish was rusty but in Latin he was still fluent, and Latin was a very common language in magical scholarship. Perhaps too common, but it was a risk he’d have to take. Quickly he tore a piece off the bottom of his notepad and scrawled a few words upon it. There, he thought. Obscure, but still comprehensible, if given just a little bit of added context.

“Be sure you tell her it’s from the new bookshop owner,” he instructed Emma. “This is very important. Tell her the shop is called Jolly Roger Books, tell her where to find it, but don’t give her my name.”

“From the owner of Jolly Roger Books,” Emma repeated. “Got it.”

Killian handed her the scrap of paper, watching in amusement as she glanced down at it. She just couldn’t help herself, he thought fondly. Emma’s eyes widened and she held up the paper, showing it to him as though he hadn’t just written it.

“What the hell is this?” she demanded. “What language— no, never mind. None of my business.”She scowled at him. “Though you have to admit it’s a bit weird, you sending secret notes in foreign languages to the deputy mayor’s housemaid.”

Killian’s brows snapped together, the cheeky reply he’d been formulating dying on his tongue. “Deputy mayor?” he asked sharply.

Emma looked surprised. “Yeah. Mary Margaret Nolan. I guess you wouldn’t have heard of her since you only just moved here, but she’s been the deputy mayor for as long as I can remember.”

Killian’s mind raced. “And who is the mayor?” he asked, carefully keeping his tone casually interested though his every nerve was buzzing. So Mary Margaret was in Regina’s house, but evidently not precisely in her shoes, he thought. This felt very significant.

“Mayor Green,” Emma replied. “She’s my sister-in-law, actually.” Once again, Emma gave that startled jolt she did each time she was reminded of her cursed marriage. “Walsh’s sister. Zelena Green.”

Note: I suppose it’s appropriate that this chapter drops on (or in my case slightly after) St Patrick’s Day, as it contains a few more details about Frank McClelland. He’s an OC but heavily based (and named) on the Irish folk hero Oisín. If I tell you that Oisín spent centuries as the king of Tir na nÓg, a land where time doesn’t pass and people don’t grow old, I hope you can guess where this is going, or at least how he and Killian know each other. Although this fic respects the canon CS events up until 3.11, I intend to take some heavy liberties with the origin and backstory of Neverland, as well as Killian’s time there. Because I personally don’t believe that he spent centuries doing nothing but sailing in circles around an island, marching aimlessly through jungle, and running errands for Pan.

#cs ff #cursed storybrooke #cursed captain swan #canon divergence #s3 canon divergent au #alternative 3b #captain cobra #mystery #their way by moonlight #profdanglaisstuff

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werewolves-are-real · 7 years

Text

Tentative first chapter of a modern-Temeraire AU, which is, naturally, Napoleon/Laurence

Present - 2005

French aircraft, like French warfare, has clearly made remarkable improvements in the brief reign of Emperor Bonaparte. Clouds slip under the plane's wings as the Dassault Falcon 60X ascends into the troposphere and levels out without a shiver.

Normally Laurence does not doubt that the dubious honor of escorting the French Emperor to these long-awaited peace talks would have fallen to a more senior officer, but he doesn't question his placement here today. One easy but prestigious milkrun before the Generals will have to hint – or outright tell him – that he won't ever fly in warzones again. Won't fly in any active actions. He will not regret the actions that have caused his new disrepute – the same actions that saved Temeraire's life, along with many others – but if he will be stripped of all use he may as well retire.

Laurence is only serving as co-pilot – an honor and social politeness of some sort that he does not fully understand – but the French pilot has been very curt with him. Not that this is unexpected; France has become very insular in recent years.

Laurence is pulled from his thoughts as the plane jerks and creaks alarmingly. He frowns; it's the first noticeable sound the thing has made all night after more than 1200 miles of flight from Moscow, where the Emperor has just finished another set of talks. All the gauges read normal, but the plane shudders and groans.

He glances at the pilot. “Is this normal for the model, Sir?” he asks. But the officer does not acknowledge him, and his eyes are hidden behind black glasses.

In a complete breach of protocol the cockpit door slides open. It takes Laurence a moment to comprehend the irritated French scold: “What are you doing up here?”

Laurence glances up and tries to recall his briefing. “Nothing at all, Minister Fouche,” he tells the foreign Minister of Intelligence.

“Then damn well fly the plane!”

Laurence curbs his reply as the craft trembles. “I believe something is wrong,” he says instead, and the man shifts at once from furious to alarmed.

Again Laurence glances at the pilot. “...Sir?” he prompts, and when there is no reply he wonders if the man has somehow fallen asleep. He reaches out and taps the pilot's shoulder.

The French pilot falls over.

Fouche swears, yanking the pilot from the seat and tearing off his glasses. Open, dead eyes stare up at them. “What did you do?” the minister hisses.

“Nothing, Sir - !”

The plane shivers again. Fouche glances rapidly between Laurence and the controls, then comes to a decision. “Well, fly this plane, then!” He drags the pilot away to make room; this is unfortunately impossible to hide, and from the passenger area a riot of muffled questions break through.

Laurence ignores them and switches seats. “Yes, Sir,” he acknowledges grimly.

Fouche hovers ominously and with increasing impatience as Laurence runs through the standard diagnostic checks. “Call Paris,” Fouche snaps finally. “My security team - “ and when he rattles off a frequency Laurence has to admit,

“All communications seem to be down.”

Fouche vanishes into the back of the plane. Laurence checks the board once more, grimly, and then finding no choice angles down the plane's nose.

The rattling begins in earnest, easily accompanying the sickening dip of an artless descent. The door opens again. “What now?” someone demands.

“We are landing.”

“We are in the middle of the North Sea, Captain Laurence!”

“We are equipped for a water landing, Sir, and I do not trust this trip to fly to England – unless you have a better proposal. I would also advise - “ Laurence finally glances at the other speaker and stiffens.

Napoleon Bonaparte glares back impatiently. He is not as short as the papers say, Laurence thinks distantly. “Well?” Bonaparte snaps.

“...I would advise,” Laurence says, “That Your Majesty use parachutes to evacuate the plane; if there has been subterfuge at all it is not unlikely the plane has been rigged to explode, especially as this would be the most convenient time since leaving Russia. If I am correct we may have little or no warning.”

“Parachutes. And I suppose there are enough for all my staff? No?” Bonaparte sees the answer on Laurence's face. “I will not be made a coward by some terrorist. You think you can land this plane?”

“I shall certainly try, Sir.”

“Do it; and we, meanwhile, will search for answers elsewhere.”

If asked, Laurence would say that the use of cell-phones on a plane – especially one as advanced as the Dassault Falcon 60X - is not likely to do much harm; warnings against phone-use are mostly a precautionary measure these days, and primarily used to limit radio interference anyway, which Laurence for whatever reason cannot access. Still, under the circumstances it is exasperating as it is understandable to slide open the door, glance back, and hear the entire French convoy shouting into their phones.

Fouche seems to be insulting his subordinates; a man Laurence might recognize as the Emperor's brother-in-law us speaks wincingly in a pidgin French and Italian, apologetic and consoling, while Napoleon's head of household, Duroc, speaks rapidly and lowly into two different devices.

The Emperor himself is the picture of grim efficiency, splaying out half a dozen folders and holding a monitor close to his mouth as the plane rattles to pieces around them. “No, no, what did we do to Madame du Maurier? I – well, that is true. But she forgave us, and anyway she does not have the heart for killing. Of course it was a damn French assassin, do not waste my time, that is why we brought one of our own planes! To avoid assassins! - No – No, shut up if you have no good ideas. Limit your search to people in Paris; it does not help us if you question some culprit half the world away in a month when we are dead – Yes, what?”

Laurence clears his throat. “I beg your pardon; you should all sit down and secure yourselves. We are about to land.”

The next few minutes are likely fraught with tension for Laurence's passengers, but he can spare them no thoughts. The plane seizes in protest of the changing atmosphere as they descend through a cloud-bank and come into view of the glittering sea.

The Royal Air Force makes stringent preparations for every contingency – her officers, too, are expected to be well-versed in all intricacies of flight. This being said, Laurence has never personally overseen a water-landing before, mostly because they are typically avoided at every cost.

The problem is that planes are, first and foremost, designed to land one way; if an aquatic landing even occurs something has already gone very, very wrong. The Dassault Falcon 60X, like most passenger aircraft, has a series of small wheels that can jut from the base of the plane's body when landing begins. The plane doesn't put its full force on these at once; for a few minutes it will touch down and essentially fly parallel to the ground, slowly skipping over the earth and letting the wheels absorb speed and traction.

Water does not absorb because it pulls. On water, the plane does not skip or help the plane gradually pull down. There is only one chance to skate the plane across the water, perfectly at angle, so it doesn't crash and topple – at least not until everyone has had a chance to evacuate. In normal conditions this arrangement shouldn't be horribly difficult; in ideal conditions, it shouldn't be required.

Laurence methodically closes the air-vents and all other openings to the plane, hoping to keep it buoyant. He tilts the plan at a slight angle, so the nose will remain high, and keeps the wings carefully level.

Blotches of foam and roiling blue water pound over the viewscreen as they slam into the sea, jerking, rising; the plane skids like a ten-ton pebble before plunging down and bobbing, for one long heart-beat, above the water.

Laurence holds his breath.

____________________________

1989

“What do the poor sods think they'll accomplish,” is what John wants to know. He gestures at the television with a grimace, shaking his head. On-screen the bottom text reads, Rioters barricade house of the French minister!

“They'll be arrested by tomorrow,” dismisses Augustine. “Political protest means nothing these days; peaceful tactics are useless, and violence like this - “Augustine gestures with disgust, “Only causes trouble. And then people criticize that you should try a nice boycott, instead...”

Laurence must admit that this sounds correct. But he says, “It is certainly a statement.”

“I can make statements too,” Granby says. “All kinds of statements. I prefer the kind that don't get people arrested or beaten up by jumpy cops.”

A loud wail comes from the other room; Augustine excuses himself after sharing a brief, despairing glance with John. “Iskierka has to stop crying eventually,” John says, half to himself. “She's just a baby. She will stop crying eventually.”

Laurence smiles faintly. “I have no doubt,” he lies. Glancing one more at the bloody scene on-screen, he says, “I am afraid it is late; give my best to Augustine.”

By the time Laurence leaves the house no one in France has been arrested; the live broadcast just shows continuous rioting, continuous tales of tragedy. The next morning dawns too early. He wakens and starts to pack, fully intending to head out to the bus station, ride in to base, and ready himself for briefing and deployment. The Royal Air Force has been deployed in Bosnia and his number is up.

But the bus won't be arriving for half an hour; he's already packed, so Laurence circles his small sitting room for awhile, plucking his satchel, then flicks on the television while he waits.

He stares for a moment at the revealed screen, and then sits down.

BBC news continues to broadcast in Paris. Row after row of dismembered corpses run across the screen.

A close-up. Louis Bourbon, the caption reads under one bloody head. Late Minister of France.

_____________________________

Present

If someone has tampered with the plane there's a new danger in every action Laurence performs – he's already instructed the convoy to touch nothing, and for once he appreciates the value in having politicians with military experience. A few of the aides look a bit wild-eyed, but everyone does precisely as he says. Even the Emperor.

(Laurence reminds himself that very, very few people have been executed since Napoleon's reign began. It's not particularly reassuring.)

The Emperor's brother-in-law is head of the Armee de l'Air; he comes forward and watches Laurence suspiciously for a few minutes before seeming satisfied. At last the risk must be taken. Laurence powers down the craft entirely. Suddenly the engine's ominous stuttering whirs to a halt; the only sounds which remain are the slow, empty crash of waves and the echoing ocean as they bob over a barren sea.

______________________________

1989

“And now the new Directory of the Republic of France will read the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen - “

“They're turning into communists,” mutters Riley with disgust.

Laurence isn't sure. Some of the phrasing and rhetoric he has heard is a little disturbing (the French politicians over the radio keep calling each other 'citizen' and 'citizenyet' in a move eerily reminiscent of Stalinist Russia), but most of the Declaration sounds reasonable.

Of course, this Revolution started with a massacre; that isn't exactly a point in favor of the new French 'Directory'.

“I am afraid we are not in the best circumstances to judge,” Laurence says, and this his navy friend must concede.

The radio broadcast has monopolized attention throughout the compound, of course. There have already been mutters about a war in France, a war that would be much closer to home if the UK decided to intervene. Riley, Laurence and a few other naval and Air-Force officers have gathered outside the commissary to listen.

The reading of the Declaration is interspersed with cheers and shouts. Evidently the broadcast comes live from Paris. The reading does not last long, but after a pause, the broadcaster announces, “Eight people in hoods are now being led into the square, under guard – they're wheeling out a guillotine - “

Everyone waits, frozen.

“ - Oh. They're being put in the guillotines.” The broadcaster sounds a bit blank; in the background cheers rise, rise, blurring into static. “Their hoods are off – they - “

The broadcaster is drowned out by an explosion of shouting and screams.

And then her voice fades in, saying distantly, “Oh no. Oh no.”

______________________________

Present

“Completely helpless,” a man now identified as King Murat says to Laurence. Clinging to the sinking plane, and shivering in the water with everyone else, he does not look very regal in his borrowed life-jacket. “I do not like it, no; lost at sea, in this day and age! Good France will weep for our mysterious fates - “

“This is no fucking mystery,” Bonaparte says flatly. He throws his drenched phone at Murat, and it falls uselessly into the sea. “Fouche tells me a ship is coming from France; you will forgive me, Captain Laurence, if I do not care to journey the rest of the way by plane.”

_______________________________

1990-1998

France seems to exist in its own sphere outside time; no one inside appears bothered that the U.N. and NATO have both been called to investigate the conditions of post-Revolutionary France. As talks linger it surprises everyone when Italy unilaterally declares war.

It's an even greater surprise when France emerges victorious.

“Napoleon Bonaparte,” says Admiral Roland when the squadron sits down to talk about it, what it means. “Papers have been calling him the Little Gunner of Toulon, because apparently he shot down some of their own Frenchies during the Revolution. Ha! Now he's a symbol of France, and he's Corsican-born to boot.”

The little gunner – as though those guns weren't fully lethal, as though the empty bodies of dead civilians which lined up Paris' tiled streets don't still find their way across the covers of newspapers. Caricatures of the Corsican general depict him screaming 'Liberte!' while hulking troops shoot at rag-clothed women and children. The pictures don't do justice to the vividness of pictures and tapes smuggled across the channel, videos carefully posted in hidden corners of the emerging internet by defiant French loyalists. But despite this evidence it is not until the war of Italy that Bonaparte's name first makes international headlines.

When the war begins Bonaparte is not even a senior general, but somehow it's his name, again and again, that makes the news. And it's his voice the people hear when Italy cedes to France, in his name that peace is called; Bonaparte is a name that the common Frenchman knows, and loves.

And the Directory is stumbling.

______________________________

Present - 2005

Bonaparte's men put Laurence under watch as soon as they're aboard the Fraternite, which he can well understand. What shocks him is that the ship still proceeds to England.

“Sir,” he says when the Emperor visits him in his small berth; he has, at least, been spared the indignity of a cell, which is promising “Do you still intend to continue with the peace-talks?”

“Until I know if an Englishman tried to kill me? Yes. You will forgive this treatment, Captain, but precautions are necessary.”

Bonaparte does not sound apologetic at all.

“Of course,” Laurence agrees. “But if I may – ought I not report these events to my commanders?”

“No. We would prefer to arrive and take events as they occur.”

“England will already know that something has happened to the plane, your Majesty.”

“Yes – but of the whole world, only those on this ship know everything. For the moment.”

Well, everyone does say that Bonaparte likes to attack by surprise.

______________________________

1999

France's finances deteriorate; crime rises; trade and insularity hurt the economy while widespread hunger, nearly as severe as the poverty that struck under the old Ministerial regime, begins to take hold. “At least we have freedom,” say French citizens, desperately, when bold foreign reporters dare to sneak into the country for interviews. But the world expects another change, another tipping point; what is freedom with an empty belly?

Napoleon Bonaparte decides to address the Council of 500.

How curious, news stations proclaim – its only a vague note of interest, made slightly more interesting because Napoleon's brother, Lucien Bonaparte, is president of France's new legislative body. But half of Europe sits up when Bonaparte is ejected from the council - as General Murat's troops storm the building, eject the democratically-selected legislators, and leave behind a bare committee who dissolve the reigning Directory under Lucien's direction.

Every television station in France shows one clip on repeat – a man inside the House brandishing a dagger through the air, hand jolting toward Napoleon's heart amidst a yelling mob of politicians. The shot is blown up from every angle.

Outside France, they show the now-defunct legislators being run down by mobs on the streets of Paris. The mobs are frenzied in defense of the new Consul. “Good god,” says an English news anchor, taken so aback that his professionalism falters. “Will they kill anyone for that madman – why do they love him so much?”

_____________________________

Present - 2005

“Well,” sighs Admiral Roland. “There is no saving you now – I cannot imagine a better scapegoat, nor a more willing one. What was that report, Laurence? Possibly due to negligence in checking equipment - “

“It is a possibility that must be considered,” Laurence says.

“It is entirely inaccurate. The French made the plane, the French checked the equipment - you were just accompanying them over as some ridiculous diplomatic courtesy and still you manage to take the blame. And despite rumors, my power is not unlimited. I can't save you when you're so damnably determined to hang yourself.”

“I would like no such thing. But we both know,” Laurence says, “That my career in the Royal Air Force is over.”

Roland scowls. “Not by any fault of your own,” she says at last. It's the first time she has openly supported his decision; Laurence appreciates, also, that she will not lie to him with false denials. “But you do not have to make it so easy to blame you, Laurence. You do not deserve this.”

“I do,” he says, and means it. “That is enough, Admiral, I promise you.”

_____________________________

2001

Within a week of his reign First Consul Bonaparte makes overtures to half a dozen major world powers, including the UK and Russia. There are no similar appeasements for the broken remnants of Italy, a handful of scattered papal states left under loose French control.

Bonaparte is painted as a military genius, a tyrant, a madman. But the image won't quite stick: he's accomplishing too much, and Britain dithers over a reply to his offer even as the Russians begin negotiating for a firmer peace treaty.

The franc has stabilized the French currency, and despite disparate beliefs members of every political party in France applaud Napoleon's educational reforms, his modernization of the financial system, the newer and simplistic bureaucracy that has already been a relief to average citizens. Religious minorities praise the protection of his Organics Act even as he somehow makes successful overtures to the Pope – an especially impressive feat considering that Marie Antoinette, famed socialite and late wife of France's previous minister, was sister to the previous Holy.

Despite ongoing tensions over the Revolution, Napoleon himself is a figure of contradictions and debate. He becomes hard to criticize. Then in 2004 a news black-out, which is nothing strange for this new France, blocks information about the reborn country for a full six days. Finally the drama leaks that there's been an assassination attempt on Napoleon himself.

And, suspecting old supporters of the Bourbons were responsible, Napoleon responds like this: he arranges to have Minister Louis' cousin, the Duke of Enghien, kidnapped in the dead of night, brought to Paris, and shot before anyone notices his absence.

______________________________

“What do you mean he is to blame,” Bonaparte asks.

Laurence sighs a little. This farce will be terrible enough, but he did not realize he would be personally interrogated by the French Emperor. “Plainly Mr. Laurence did not sufficiently check his plane,” says Admiral Croft. “In light of that negligence - “

“Someone tried to kill me and you fib like a child,” Bonaparte accuses. “You are not even in the Air Force, Admiral. Captain Laurence. Do you personally check your plane before each flight?”

Laurence is forced to admit, “I run the systems through the computer, and conduct basic safety tests, but engineers on-base are responsible for general maintenance.”

“Yes. So. What did you do?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What did you do that your superiors are so quick to see you destroyed?”

_______________________________

2005 – Two Months Previous

“You'd think someone would know,” John complains. He gestures at the television, currently broadcasting yet another rundown of the situation in France. “'More information as it is uncovered' – that means they don't know anything... Iskierka, no.”

Iskierka looks entirely unfazed but leaps back when Temeraire eyes her suspiciously. She drops her paintbrush on the carpet (Laurence sighs) and begins tearing apart her paper instead.

He needs a bigger sitting room. One with a divider, perhaps, so when Iskierka visits she and Temeraire don't need to look at one another.

They were somewhat kinder to each other when Temeraire was still sick.

“I can't imagine that anyone will know when Napoleon is arriving until he's already in the country,” Augustine says. “I mean, he has his supporters even here, but he's just as likely to be shot as anything else.”

“Or his plane could get mysteriously lost,” John says darkly. “Save everyone some trouble.”

Laurence shifts uncomfortably. This hits a little too close to home.

He hasn't told anyone about his next assignment – his last assignment - for obvious reasons. In six weeks he'll be heading to Moscow to be drilled in security protocols, briefed by the French ambassador there, and instructed about the Dassault Falcon 60X to help transport the French diplomatic party, including Napoleon himself, back to Britain. The concession of a British co-pilot was meant to be a symbolic gesture; to Laurence it feels not only useless but potentially disastrous. He's been studying his French furiously since being given the assignment.

“You've been quiet,” says John suddenly. “What do you think of this nonsense, Will? You usually won't stop talking about politics.”

Laurence clears his throat. “We had peace three years ago,” he says. “I see no reason we cannot have it again; I hope only that this new resolution can be more lasting.”

“That treaty didn't last a year,” John complains. “And then Napoleon got himself crowned Emperor; an Emperor in Europe, like this is the Middle Ages. Anyway, that's not what you usually say.”

“I will always support the prospect of peace,” Laurence protests.

“You're usually a bit more cynical about actually getting it, though.”

“He is a soldier,” says Augustine dryly.

“I think we are quite due for a peace; there has been very little fighting on land between our two countries, and neither nation should wish for that. France and England are close enough to do great damage to one another in this day and age.”

“Piss poor time to be in the navy,” John agrees. “But you know Napoleon would attack us by land; he's done it to Spain and Italy. I'm more surprised he hasn't tried, really.”

“We have not yet provoked him sufficiently – that is the only, the sole reason for his restraint. If we are to prevent such war we must find peace; I do believe we could win such a war, but the costs would be too great.”

“I can agree with that,” Augustine says. “And even aside from the risks of war, peace would be wonderful; all this fear is awful. And I'm tired of seeing planes patrolling overhead, like we're going to get attacked any second – I'm sure this isn't what you imagined when you joined the RAF, Laurence.”

“That matters little enough. I will be finding something else soon.”

“Damn you will,” John snaps. “They're idiots if they fire you - “

“I will not be fired,” says Laurence wryly. “ - I am lucky not to be court-martialed, rather; it has been considered. It is still being considered. I had best resign now while I still can. This is all for the best, John, I promise you.”

“At least you'll have more time with Temeraire,” Augustine says when John looks mutinous. “Gong Su is a good man, but Temeraire will be thrilled to have you in England permanently, Laurence. You only have one more trip, do you not?”

“Yes,” Laurence agrees.

And what he'll do after that, he has not the least idea.

______________________________

Present

“I see,” says Bonaparte when Croft continues to sputter. Laurence looks away. “Very well; be assured I shall find out. If you want him cast away so badly that is all well and good. I will hire Mr. Laurence, then, and he will not be your concern any longer.”

“What?” asks Admiral Croft.

“What?” demands Laurence.

#Temeraire #my fic

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thecoroutfitters · 7 years

Link

North Korea’s antics and activities have filled the news for months now, having accelerated since Donald Trump was sworn in as president.

While their pursuit of nuclear weapons and missile technology is nothing new, the hermit kingdom of Kin Jong-un seems to be making strides in that direction.

Their latest missile test is a prime example of this. Scheduled on our Independence Day, this missile was a “present” to the United States, according to North Korea’s dictator.

This missile, the Hwasong-14, was the first truly intercontinental missile that the North Korean’s have developed, and its maiden flight went off flawlessly. After the failures of their most recent missile tests, the success of this new model has suddenly made the threat from North Korea much more real.

According to the South Korean Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Hwasong-14 missile flew over 900 miles, all of it under power. It splashed into the ocean within Japan’s exclusive economic zone, making it a real threat to the Japanese as well, another country that the North Korean government hates almost as much as it hates the United States.

But Japan is a long way from the United States, isn’t it? Yes it is, but the missile didn’t fly its full designed range, probably so that North Korea’s engineers could watch the descent and splashdown as well.

According to experts, the 37 minute flight time of the missile would have given it the ability to reach a maximum altitude of 2,800 km. That would give it a total range of 8,000 km or more, exactly what the government in Pyongyang has stated it would do.

What this means is that the North Koreans finally have a missile that has the potential of reaching the United States. Alaska, Seattle, Washington and Hawaii are all within its range, making Kim Jong-un’s oft-repeated threat of unleashing nuclear hell on the United States a real possibility for the first time.

The fact that this missile, the first of its type, performed so well on its maiden voyage is especially troubling, as it shows how much North Korea’s engineers have been learning from the failures of their recent launches. While those were not of the Hwasong-14, the lessons learned from those less-capable missile launches were obviously applied to the design and manufacture of this new one.

Essentially, this missile is an improvement on the Hwasong-12, with a second stage added. While the first three launches of the Hwasong-12 were failures, the fourth attempt, in May of this year, was a success, with the missile’s apogee 2,111.5 km above the ground and landing 787 km away in the Sea of Japan.

This leads me to think that the Hwasong-14 may actually be able to surpass the 2,800 hm altitude necessary to reach the West Coast of the United States.

What’s Next on the Battlefield?

Does this mean that thermonuclear war is going to come in the next few weeks? Probably not. But it does clearly show us that we are one step closer.

How many of these new missiles they have in production right now is a big question that remains unanswered, as well as whether their nuclear program has reached the point where their bombs are small enough to be installed on top of one of these missiles.

But it is clear that at the rate in which North Korea is improving their missile technology that it won’t be long before they are a true threat to the mainland United States. This new missile, if launched close enough to the United States, could easily carry a nuclear bomb high enough to generate an EMP that would blanket all 48 contiguous states.

Since the missile launches off a mobile launcher, rather than from a silo, this is a very real possibility. It is too large to fit into North Korea’s ballistic missile subs, but it is not too large to be ship-launched.

While too long to fit into a standard shipping container, a special container could be manufactured for it, with the launcher built in. Shipped on a North Korean freighter, this would not be noticeable by the international community.

Such a ship, armed with the Hwasong-14 and a team of technicians, could launch from the middle of the ocean, conducting an effective EMP strike. Being in the middle of the ocean would make detection and interdiction of the responsible ship difficult, but not impossible.

Even so, I am sure that Kim Jong-un would be happy to trade the lives of that crew for the destruction of the United States’ electrical grid.

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In addition, North Korea has as many as six ballistic missile submarines. While they are actually obsolete technology, their existence can’t be ignored. Each of those subs can carry up to two Pukkuksong-1 nuclear missiles.

While the range of that missile is limited to 500 km, the submarine could sneak in close to the shore, launching their missiles to take the heart out of any city within about 300 miles of the coast. Used in conjunction with the Hwasong-14, in a coordinated attack, these could add a considerable amount of punch to the attack.

Recently, I was discussing this with a friend in the military, who dismissed the North Korean’s submarine fleet as obsolete. While I have to agree with him to some extent, there is one glaring statistic which is of supreme importance in any discussion of North Korea’s submarine capabilities. That is, they have a lot of them.

Current estimates put their submarine fleet near 70, which means it would take every submarine the United States Navy owns, including our ballistic submarines to shadow them all.

What this means is that the North Koreans could swarm their submarines to sea and we would not be able to follow them all. Properly executed, there is a chance that their ballistic submarines would escape detection and therefore would not be shadowed. Should that happen, they would have a potent weapon pointed at our country.

Of course, a lot depends on what sort of attack the North Korean military would choose to hurl at the United States. While Kim Jong-un has made it clear that his intent is to attack us with nuclear arms, there are many forms that attack could take. Most specifically, it could be an EMP or a more conventional nuclear attack.

Video first seen on PBS NewsHour .

Our best chances would be if he launched a conventional nuclear attack against us. While that would probably mean the destruction of a number of our most important cities, as a nation we would survive.

But an EMP attack would take out our electrical grid, our communications and just about everything else in the country. Chances are, 90 percent of our population would die.

Currently, we have three aircraft carriers and their battle groups steaming off the Korean Peninsula, ready for anything that North Korea might do. While this constitutes a major naval force, projecting more power than any other nation’s military can project.

But it is of little use against a nuclear threat, except in the case of a disarming first strike. Should the president decide that such a strike was necessary, the combined air power of the three aircraft carriers doesn’t come close to the number of fighters available to North Korea.

Of course, our Navy’s F-16s are more advanced than the North Korean’s fighter jets, even their F-21s, of which they have about 200. Nevertheless, sheer numbers are on the side of the North Koreans, if it is decided that it is necessary to do a preemptive strike against them. Between 458 fighter aircraft and 572 attack aircraft, our 180 Navy aircraft will have a busy time of it.

Then there’s the risk of North Korea attacking our aircraft carriers with their submarine fleet, if we launch a preemptive strike. While our naval fleets always work with submarines in attendance and our nuclear-powered fast-attack boats are technologically far superior to their diesel-electric ones, the sheer numbers of submarines that the North Korean’s have available to them would make things interesting for the submarines working to defend our carrier fleets.

But the real trump card that the North Koreans hold, is the fact that their missiles are mobile. Unlike fixed locations, the missile carriers themselves would have to be located, before any attack could be made. While I’m sure that the NRO is hard at work at this task, hunting for something as small as a missile launcher, in the vastness of any country, even one as small as North Korea, is not easy.

Looking at all this together, it is clear that the threat of a nuclear-armed North Korea is a real threat. It is clear that we would win any exchange with the North Koreans. If they chose to use a nuclear-tipped missile against us, our long-standing policy would be to retaliate in kind.

While I would hate to have the responsibility to give that order, someone in the Pentagon has to be thinking about it.

Who’s Paying the Price?

Turning North Korea into a parking lot, in retaliation for destroying our country or even one of our major cities, is not an equitable bargain. We might win the war, but it would be at a terrible price in both military and civilian lives. That’s a price that we as a nation, can’t afford to pay.

So, while chances of a non-military solution are looking thinner and thinner by the day, we need to be praying and hoping for just that. The last Korean war cost approximately 1.9 million total casualties, this next one could cost many times more.

You and I need to be prepared for such an eventuality, regardless of whether it means a conventional nuclear exchange or suffering an EMP attack.

If you live in or near a major city, especially on the West Coast, I would recommend that it’s time to move. Find yourself some greener pastures elsewhere, where you would not be living in the midst of a target. If you can make that move be to a small town, where you wouldn’t have to content with the massive number of people trying to survive after an EMP, so much the better.

Either way, we have apparently just entered another Cold War, and this one seems like we are facing off against an enemy who is much less stable than the old Soviet Union was.

Chances of an actual nuclear attack are clearly much greater than they have ever been. Take the right steps to survival and prepare to face the blackout with your own energy bank! Click the banner for more!

This article has been written by Bill White for Survivopedia.

References:

http://nationalinterest.org/blog/the-buzz/north-koreas-submarine-fleet-big-threat-or-big-joke-20300

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The AngloZionist Empire: a hyperpower with microbrains and no cred left

[This analysis was written for the Unz Review]

Last week saw what was supposed to be a hyperpower point fingers for its embarrassing defeat not only at Venezuela, which successfully defeated Uncle Shmuel’s coup plans, but also at a list of other countries including Cuba, Russia, China and Iran. It’s is rather pathetic and, frankly, bordering on the comically ridiculous.

Uncle Shmuel clearly did not appreciate being the laughingstock of the planet.

Eviction notice of the USSS

And as Uncle Shmuel always does, he decided to flex some muscle and show the world “who is boss” by…

… blockading the Venezuelan Embassy in Washington, DC.

But even that was too much for the MAGA Admin, so they also denied doing so (how lame is that!?)

Which did not prevent US activists of entering the embassy (legally, they were invited in and confirm it all).

Now the US Secret Service wants to evict the people inside the building.

So much for the CIA’s beloved “plausible deniability” which now has morphed into “comical deniability”.

If you think that all this sounds incredibly amateurish and stupid – you are 100% correct.

In the wonderful words of Sergei Lavrov, the US diplomats have “lost the taste for diplomacy“.

But that was not all.

In an act of incredible courage the USA, which was told (by the Israelis, of course!), that the Iranians were about to attack “somewhere”, so Uncle Shmuel sent two aircraft carrier strike groups to the Middle-East. In a “daring” operation, the brilliant USAF pilots B-52 bombers over the Persian Gulf to “send a message” to the “Mollahs”: don’t f*ck with us or else…

The “Mollahs” apparently were unimpressed as they simply declared that “the US carriers were not a threat, only a target“.

The AngloZionists apparently have also executed a false flag operation to get a pretext to strike Iran, but so far this seems to have gotten rather little traction in the region (so far – this might change).

Lavrov reacting to the latest US threats

Now let’s leave this “Kindergarten level of operations” and try to make some sense from this nonsense.

First, while the American can pour scorn on the Iranians, call them ragheads, terrorists, Mollahs, sand-niggers or confuse them with Iraqis or even think that Iranian are Arabs (as, apparently, are the Turks, at least by the US common standard of ignorance), but the truth is that the Iranians are world-class and most sophisticated players, especially their superbanalytical community. They fully understand that a B-52 anywhere near the Iranian airspace is a sitting duck and that if the Americans were planning to strike Iran, they would pull their aircraft carrier far away from any possible Iranian strikes. As for the B-52, they have long range cruise missiles and they don’t need to get near Iran to deliver their payloads.

In fact, I think that the proper way to really make the Iranians believe that Uncle Shmuel means business would be to flush any and all US ships out of the Persian Gulf, to position the B-52s in Diego Garcia and to place the carriers as far away as possible to still be able to support a missile/bomb attack on Iranian targets. And you can bet that the Iranians keep very close tabs on exactly what CENTCOM aircraft are deployed and where. To attack Iran the US would need to achieve a specific concentration of forces and support elements which are all trackable by the Iranians. My guess is that the Iranians already have a full list of all CENTCOM officers down to the colonel level (and possibly even lower for airmen) and that they already know exactly which individual USAF/USN aircraft are ready to strike. One could be excused to think that this is difficult to do, but in reality it is not. I have personally seen it done.

Second, the Americans know that the Iranians know that (well, maybe not Mr MAGA, but folks at the DIA, ONI, NSA, etc. do know that). So all this sabre-rattling is designed to show that Mr MAGA has tons of hair on his chest, it’s all for internal US consumption. As for the Iranians, they have already heard any and all imaginable US threats, they have been attacked many times by both the USA and Israel (directly or by proxy), and they have been preparing for a US attack ever since the glorious days of Operation Eagle Claw: they are as ready as they can be, you can take that to the bank. Finally, the terrorist attack by the USN on a civilian Iranian airliner certainly convinced the Iranians that the leaders of the AngloZionist Empire lack even basic decency, nevermind honor. Nevermind the use of chemical warfare by Iraq against Iran with chemicals helpfully provided by various US and EU companies (with the full blessing of their governments). No – the Iranians truly have no illusions whatsoever about what the Shaytân-e Bozorg is capable of in his rage.

Third, “attacking embassies” is a glaring admission of terminal weakness. That was true for the seizure of Russian consular buildings, and this is true for the Venezuelan embassy. In the real (supra-Kindergarten) world when country A has a beef with country B, it does not vent its frustration against its embassy. Such actions are not only an admission of weakness, but also a sign of a fundamental lack of civilization.

[Sidebar: this issue is crucial to the understanding of the United States. The US is an extremely developed country, but not a civilized one. Oscar Wilde (and George Clemanceau) had it right: “America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between“. There are signs of that everywhere in the USA: from the feudal labor laws, to the lack of universal healthcare, to absolutely ridiculous mandatory criminal sentences (the Soviet Penal Code under Stalin was MUCH more reasonable and civilized than the current US laws!), to the death penalty, to the socially accepted torture in GITMO and elsewhere, to racial tensions, the disgusting “food” constituting the typical “SAD” diet, to the completely barbaric “war on drugs”, to the world record of incarcerations, to an immense epidemic of sexual assaults and rapes (1/5 of all women in the USA!), homosexuality accepted as a “normal and positive variation of human sexuality“, 98 percent of men reported internet porn use in the last six months, … – you can continue that list ad nauseam. Please don’t misunderstand me – there are as many kind, intelligent, decent, honorable, educated, compassionate people in the USA as anywhere else. This is not about the people living in the USA: it is about the kind of society these people are living in. In fact, I would argue the truism that US Americans are the first victims of the lack of civilization of their own society! Finally, a lack of civilization is not always a bad thing, and sometimes it can make a society much more dynamic, more flexible, more innovative too. But yeah, mostly it sucks…]

By the way, the USA is hardly unique in having had degenerate imbeciles in power. Does anybody remember what Chernenko looked like when he became the Secretary General of the CPSU? What about folks like Jean-Bédel Bokassa or Mikheil Saakashvili (this latter case is especially distressing since it happened in a country with a truly ancient and extremely rich culture!). And while we can dislike folks like George Bush Senior or James Baker – these were superbly educated and extremely intelligent people. Compare them to such psychopathic ignoramuses like Pompeo, Bolton or Trump himself!

So this latest US “attack” on the Venezuela is truly a most telling symptom of the wholesale collapse of US power and of the moral and intellectual bankruptcy and lack of civilization of the Neocon ruling elites.

The big question is obvious: will they attack Venezuela or Iran next?

NYT’s so-called “anti-Semitic” cartoon. Pretty accurate if you ask me!

In the very first article I ever wrote for my blog, as far back as 2007, I predicted that the US would attack Iran. I still believe that the Israelis will never cease to try to get the US to do their dirty work for them (and let the goyim pay the price!). What I am not sure about is whether the Israelis truly will have the power to push the USA into such a suicidal war (remember, if Iran cannot “win” against the USA, neither can the USA “win” against Iran – thus Iran will win simply by surviving and not caving in – which they will and they won’t). The good news is that US power has been in sharp (and accelerating!) decline at least since Clinton and his gang. I would even add that the last two idi*ts (Obama and Trump) did more damage to the US power than all their predecessors combined. The bad news is that the collective IQ of US leaders has been falling even faster than US power. We can hope that the first will hit zero long before the second, but there is no guarantee.

Truly, nobody knows if the US will or will not attack Iran and/or Venezuela next. The Neocons sure want that, but whether they will make it happen this time around or not depends on so many variables that even the folks in the White House and the Pentagon probably don’t really know what will happen next.

What is certain is that the US reputation worldwide is basically roadkill. The fact that most folks inside the USA are never told about that does not make it less real. The Obama-Trump tag team has truly inflicted irreparable damage on the reputation of the USA (in both cases because they were hopelessly infected and corrupted by the Neocons). The current US leaders appear to understand that, at least to some degree, this is why they are mostly lashing out at “easy” targets like free speech (on the Internet and elsewhere), Assange, the Venezuelan Embassy, etc. The real danger comes from either one of two factors:

The Neocons will feel humiliated by the fact that all their threats are only met with indifference, disgust or laughter

The Neocons will feel buoyed by the fact that nothing terrible happened (so far) when they attacked a defenseless target

Either way, in both cases the outcome is the same: each “click!” brings us closer to the inevitable “bang!”.

By the way, I think I should also mention here that the current state of advanced paranoia in which the likes of Pompeo point their fingers left and right are also signs of terminal weakness: these are not so much ways to credibly explain the constant and systematic failures of the Israelis and the Americans to get anything actually done as they are a way to distract away from the real reasons for the current extreme weakness of the AngloZionists.

2006 The people of Lebanon celebrate the victory which turned the tide of AngloZionist imperialism

I concluded my last article by speaking of the terrified Venezuelans who refused to be afraid. I will conclude this one by pointing at the first instance when a (comparatively) small adversary completely refused to be frightened even while it was the object of a truly terrifying attack: Hezbollah in 2006. Even though they were outnumbered, outgunned and surrounded by the Israelis, the members of the Resistance in Lebanon simply refused to be afraid and, having lost the fear too which so many Arabs did succumb to before 2006, they proceeded to give the Israelis (fully backed by the USA) the worst and most humiliating thrashing in their country’s (admittedly short) history.

I urge you to read al-Sayyid Hassan’s famous “Divine Victory” speech (you can still find the English language transcript hereand here) – it is one of the most important speeches of the 20th century! – and pay attention to these words (emphasis added):

We feel that we won; Lebanon won; Palestine won; the Arab nation won, and every oppressed, aggrieved person in this world also won. Our victory is not the victory of a party. I repeat what I said in Bint Jubayl on 25 May 2000: It is not the victory of a party or a community; rather it is a victory for true Lebanon, the true Lebanese people, and every free person in the world. Don’t distort this big historic victory. Do not contain it in party, sectarian, communal, or regional cans. This victory is too big to be comprehended by us. The next weeks, months, and years will confirm this.

And, indeed, the next weeks, months and years have very much confirmed that!

Any US attack on Iran will have pretty similar results, but on a much, much bigger scale.

And the Iranians know that. As do many in the Pentagon (the CIA and the White House are probably beyond hopeless by now).

Conclusion: good news and bad news

Finally some meaningful discussions between the two nuclear superpowers!

The good news first: Pompeo and Lavrov had what seems to be a meaningful dialog. That is very, very good, even if totally insufficient. They have also announced that they want to create study groups to improve the (currently dismal) relations between the two countries. That is even better news (if that really happens). Listening to Pompeo and Lavrov, I got a feeling that the Americans are slowly coming to the realization that they have an overwhelming need to re-establish a meaningful dialog with the other nuclear superpower. Good. But there is also bad news.

The rumor that the strategic geniuses surrounding Trump are now considering sending 120,000 troops to the Middle-East is really very bad news. If this just stays a rumor, then it will be the usual hot air out of DC, along the lines of Trump’s “very powerful armada” sent to scare the DPRK (it failed). The difference here is simple: sending carriers to the Middle-East is pure PR. But sending carriers AND 120,000 troops completely changes that and now this threat, if executed, will become very real. No, I don’t think that the US will attempt to invade Iran, but 120,000 is pretty close to what would be needed to try to re-open the Strait of Hormuz (assuming the Iranians close it) while protecting all the (pretty much defenseless) CENTCOM facilities and forces in the region. Under this scenario, the trip of Pompeo to Russia might have a much more ominous reason: to explain to the Russians what the US is up to and to provide security guarantees that this entire operation is not aimed at Russian forces. IF the US really plans to attack Iran, then it would make perfect sense for Pompeo to talk to Lavrov and open channels of communications between the two militaries to agree on “deconfliction” procedures. Regardless of whether the Russians accept such deconfliction measures or not (my guess is that they definitely would), such a trip is a “must” when deploying large forces so near to Russian military forces.

So far Trump has denied this report – but we all know that he suffers from the “John Kerry syndrome”: he wants better relations with Russia only until the Neocons tell him not to. Then he makes a 180 and declares the polar opposite of what he just said.

Still, there are now rumors that Trump is getting fed up with Bolton (who, truth be told, totally FUBARed the Venezuelan situation!).

As for the Iraqis, they have already told the US to forget using Iraqi territory for any attack. This reminds me of how the Brazilians told the US that Brazil would not allow its territory to be used for any attacks. This is becoming a pattern. Good.

Frankly, while an AngloZionist attack on Iran is always and by definition possible, I can’t imagine the folks at the Pentagon having the stomach for that. In a recent article Eric Margolis outlined what the rationale for such an attack might be (check out his full article here). Notice this sentence: “The Pentagon’s original plan to punish Iran called for some 2,300 air strikes on Day 1 alone“. Can they really do that? Yes, absolutely. But imagine the consequences! Margolis speaks of “punishing” Iran. 2,300 Air strikes in one day is not something I would call a “punishment”. That is a full scale attack on Iran which, in turns, means that the Iranians will have exactly *ZERO* reasons to hold back in any way. If the AngloZionists attack Iran with 2,300 air strikes on Day 1, then you can be sure that on Day2 all hell will break loose all over the Middle-East and the AngloZionists will have absolutely *NO* means of stopping it.

This will be a real bloodbath and nobody will have any idea as to how to stop it.

And you can be darn sure that the Iranians will show much more staying power than the imperialists, if only because they will be fighting in defense of their country, their faith, their liberty, their friends and their families. To expect the Iranians to cave in or surrender in any way would be the most stupid notion anybody could entertain.

Could they really be THAT stupid in Washington DC?

I don’t know.

But what I do know is this: any such attack will be extremely costly and very, very dangerous. Obviously, the Neocons don’t give a rats ass about costs, financial or human. They just want war, war, war and more war (remember McCain’s “bomb, bomb, bomb – bomb, bomb Iran“?). But the Neocons are only a tiny fraction of the US ruling elites (even if the most powerful one) and my hope is that the sane elements will prevail (which, indeed, they have so far).

As for right now, we are still okay. But if the US actually start sending large forces to the Middle-East, then all bets are off.

The Saker