#you can See the truth clicking for him when blitz saves him

[sunshineandfangs]

Saudade, Retrouvailles

Day Seven (October 13th - Sunday): Canon-ish

Still annoyed by all the mess that was made in TVD/TO? Well, this is the day for you to write your own version of the events. TO’s ending fix-its, canon divergences throughout the show(s), future moments… It’s all fair game! So explore all the unexplored potential of Klaroline in this day and share the goodness with us all!

I didn’t manage trope x trope, but I finally decided to work on the canon fix-it I’ve been meaning to write for months...Although I guess one can argue there are at least two tropes in this.

The words are inspired by this post by @labime.

Saudade:

The feeling of longing for someone that you love and is lost.

“Vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist.”

Retrouvailles:

The happiness of meeting again after a long time.

“…in French, we say ‘les retrouvailles sont hors du temps’ which poorly translates to ‘there are moments that don’t fit time.’”

---

The Unmaking

She felt it.

Sitting in her car just outside the city limits of New Orleans, her head tipped back against the seat.

He was gone.

A tiny, hysterical giggle (sob) caught in her throat. Surely, it couldn’t just be her that felt the change of his absence? The most powerful creature in the world, as he once said.

And all those years and miles between them: twisting and turning and slowly, elegantly going to twine their lives together.

All of that, so it could end like this.

Her fingers curled, white-knuckled around the steering wheel, her head tilting forward.

No.

She wouldn’t let it.

---

For a woman that planned out the vast majority of her life, there was a distinct lack of such as she rushed to fix this-this travesty. It was a desperate, selfish feeling that swelled and consumed her from the inside-out. A feeling she couldn’t call anything but love. Ironic considering how long she spent running from such a label.

But she knew with a deep, long buried instinct exactly what she could do, as though through a veil of dreams old knowledge and memories resurfaced. They had been lost to her for a long time. Not blackened and suppressed like compulsion, but rather dimmed to something forgettable and unimportant.

See, on her dresser there was a beautiful music box. She had carried it with her from her childhood home to her dorm and on and on to each place she lived. Subconsciously, she had held it close even when she had forgotten its meaning.

And while hers was white and gold and sleek lines, delicately painted and carved with flowers and butterflies, her father’s had been a small, intricate thing. Burnished gold filigree and encrusted with tiny emeralds. It had led his heart to Steven, granted courage when he would have been cowed by small town judgement. Granted knowledge of how to protect all that he held most precious to him.

A vague niggling in her brain reminded her too of her grandmother’s, her father’s mother. How Nana’s had been deceptively plain, though sturdily made of a handsome wood. Whatever gift it had granted to her, Caroline could not recall, but she knew each of the Forbes line, back and back across countless generations carried one with them until they needed it most.

Once more the irony was near overwhelming. It had not been the innumerable disasters and dramas of Mystic Falls that triggered her remembrance, but Klaus. Klaus and the wild, powerful emotions that dwelled in her heart.

The drive from NOLA back to Mystic Falls was a blur, a blitz down the highway that she could barely recall. And as if on autopilot, Caroline stepped purposefully toward her room once she arrived. To where the music box sat, as it always had.

With delicate fingers, she cracked open the lid and slowly wound its key. Listened to the clicks of the gears. And when she released it, magic sung through the air. It wound itself around her figure, the sheer force unmistakable for all that its touch was gentle. The world shuddered and shrunk around her. Time and space and reality itself unwoven. Threads pulled loose and returned to the ether, ready to be twined together once more.

---

The Reforging

When the world came back into focus, Caroline found herself stalking away from the school. The transition was extremely disorienting, expecting it or not, and she was thankful that the current (past?) version’s memories were at the forefront of her mind.

Her eyes widened as she processed them, her body blurring into motion, a thousand thoughts whirling in her head. The cancellation of the 1980s Decade Dance, for all that it vexed this Caroline, would have been a mere blip on her radar. However, there was a different set of events that happened today. Events that she recalled far, far move vividly.

As she raced across town toward the Gilbert’s house part of her was thankful for the essence of world altering magic that lingered within her. Not only did it grant her memories of The-Future-That-Never-Was (now at least, and hopefully never will be), but also her strength. And sure a decade or two extra meant little in the grand scheme of vampire strength, but right now any advantage helped.

Splitting her attention, Caroline fumbled for a moment to grab her phone as she ran, hesitated a split second before settling on texting Klaus. (Ignored what it meant that she had his old number memorized). She was fairly certain she could get the jump on her friends, considering this would be an utterly unexpected and seemingly out of character move. Still, it wouldn’t do to accidentally alert more people’s suspicions than she had to with a call. Klaus would certainly be challenge enough.

---

Said Hybrid was fuming in the cellar of the Salvatore’s basement, only a fraction of his attention paid to snark at the elder Salvatore of all people. He was far more restless than he let on, sensing something was wrong, but not knowing what. Having long learned to trust his instincts, it was frustrating to be uncertain where to point them.

When his phone vibrated in his hand, he looked down eager for news, and saw the last person he expected to be texting him.

[Caroline Forbes] 4:12 PM: klaus this is caroline

[Caroline Forbes] 4:12 PM: get to the gilberts house

[Caroline Forbes] 4:12 PM: NOW

[Caroline Forbes] 4:12 PM: trust me pls!

He abruptly stopped talking as he peered down at his phone, wondering when Caroline learned his number, wondering if he could trust her as she requested. As she near begged him to really. And it was that note of pleading, present even through the pixels of his phone that settled the matter for him. Without so much as an acknowledgement or good-bye, unless one counted snapped necks, Klaus sped up the stairs.

---

Halfway to his destination, Klaus’ phone rang, Kol’s name on the caller ID. His eyes narrowed, instincts flaring, and he moved even faster as he answered the call.

“Well, if it isn’t the happy homicidal maniac,” he taunted, digging for the truth as he riled his brother.

His brother that was certainly not abiding by their normal script as he snarled back, “Did you know that your darling former blood bag and her brother are trying to kill me?”

“What?” He growled, the pieces easily falling into place with Caroline’s own texts from mere moments before.

“Don't pretend like you're not in on it. Your obsession to find the cure clearly trumps any sibling loyalty you once felt.”

There’s so much Klaus wished to say, most of which he swallowed to save for their upcoming confrontation.

“You are an utterly reckless fool, Kol, but you are my brother first.”

His words seemed to fall on deaf ears. “I'm going to rip off Jeremy's arm and kill Elena just for sport. Then I'm coming for you.”

The call ended before Klaus can retort. Though with the house mere streets away he could hear the fighting. Once this little problem was dealt with, he and his brother could have a proper chat.

---

Caroline came disastrously close to colliding into Bonnie in her rush. Though it took little time to turn it into something fortuitous, memories of a spelled cage and a furious Hybrid in her mind. Offering up a mental apology, Caroline gently knocked the witch out, setting her down swiftly, but carefully on the Gilbert’s front porch when she reached it.

Even from outside, Elena’s, Jeremey’s, and Kol’s fighting was glaringly obvious. Sounds of their shouts and the destruction of furniture carried down from the upstairs. Caroline rushed in, all but flying towards the sounds of their conflict.

It was sheer luck that had her appearing as Kol vanished to chase Jeremey, Elena’s head conveniently bowed as she struggled with the stake in her leg. Another mental apology and another unconscious friend later, and Caroline’s obstacles were dropping by the second.

Thankfully, her luck continued to hold as she flashed after Kol and Jeremey .And when she came upon them Jeremy was still dazed as he was dragged upright by Kol. Being a Hunter and in an Original’s grasp, Caroline couldn’t afford to be as delicate as she was with Bonnie. She slammed the poor boy out of Kol’s arms and used the momentum to smack his head onto the counter, being extremely careful not to kill him, though she feared he’d likely need some blood when he came to.

She then rapidly backpedaled as Kol snarled at her, confusion slightly softening his otherwise fierce expression.

“What is this?” He hissed. “Here to protect him? I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Darlin’.”

He took a menacing step towards her as she raised her arms in placation, even as she prepared to dodge his blow.

“Take another step and I’ll tear out your liver.”

Caroline didn’t allow the sound of Klaus’ voice to soften the wariness in her spine, no matter how much she longed to. She also didn’t take her eyes off Kol, even as he turned to sneer at his brother in the doorway.

“Don’t you have any original threats, brother. First daggers now my liver. Besides-” his slight pause was all the warning she had, and thankfully all the warning she needed. She just managed to dodge his blow, though he was uncomfortably close as he snarled, “you’re not invited in.”

Flashing closer to the entrance, she was able to hear every bit of menace in Klaus’ voice. (If both monster and woman were a bit flattered by his protectiveness... well she ignored that for now too).

“Do you think I’ve forgotten how to dismantle a house until ownership means nothing, because I assure you, Kol, I have not.”

Kol chuckled darkly. “And in the time it takes you to do so? What do you think shall happen to this tasty little thing, hm?”

Caroline still wasn’t looking at Klaus, but she felt the way the air shifted. Suspected that his eyes were burning Wolf gold behind her.

“Nothing,” he uttered with a frightening matter-of-factness, “if you don’t wish to be begging for a dagger by the time I am through with you.”

Something hateful shifted on Kol’s face and despite how all her instincts screamed at her to stay silent, Caroline knew she could not. Not when they were on the verge of dangerous escalation.

“Enough!” She yelled, startling both brothers, for all that they were partially arguing about her. Steadied herself as both their regard shifted. “There are far more important things we should be discussing.”

“Oh? And what things are those, Darlin’.”

It was obvious Kol wasn’t taking her seriously in the slightest. Irritating though unsurprising. That quickly changed when she uttered her next words.

“Things such as Silas.”

There was a moment of stunned silence before both Mikaelson’s spoke. Kol now serious and mildly suspicious. Klaus incredulous.

“However did a baby vampire from Mystic Falls learn anything of Silas?”

“Sweetheart, you can’t believe such utter rot.”

With both Originals now clearly hungry for answers and the mounting list of things Caroline knew she must do, she almost regretted stepping in to save Kol. 

Almost.

For all that she had never met the man prior, despite the apparent witchy shenanigans involved in his resurrection, most people agreed that he was a bit of a psycho. And this demonstration certainly did nothing to help his case. However, he was also Klaus’ brother, and Caroline well remembered the devastation on his face when Kol had died. How Klaus lashed out. How she was honestly stunned in retrospect that he hadn’t massacred the town in vengeance. And more than that it was the right thing to do. If not for Kol than for the thousands of uninvolved vampires that would have dropped dead with him.

Still, all that didn’t make what she needed to say, eventually needed believed any bit easier.

Caroline took a breath, dearly wishing to rub at the tension in her face, but knowing better than to drop her guard.

“Look, it’s a long story and I’d rather not be here when my friends wake up. There’ll be enough yelling as is, so if we could maybe move this little powwow elsewhere that would be great.”

---

So I still have more ideas for this, but my muse is flagging so I’m stopping here before it becomes crappy. May add more later

[btsskins]

i wish you would tell me how you really feel. but you’ll never tell me, cause that’s not OUR DEAL.

"i didn't get the grant."

that was all he said to you after he showed up uninvited and unannounced to your house, sitting in his car in the driveway for a half hour before you finally texted him asking what the hell was going on. your heart sank. you knew this meant everything to him. he was nursing a beer that you provided, plucking at the edges of the label with his thumbnail and very consciously avoiding your gaze.

"kook... i'm so sorry." a hand moved to his knee and gave a light squeeze. you expected him to pull away -- he didn't. jungkook was always a boy full of surprises and you didn't see that stopping even as clouds moved overhead, creating a storm in his eyes that seemed to cover the stars.

"i've been playing since i could fucking WALK. i do everything for them! i've been quarterback since i was a freshman in fucking high school and got on varsity in eighth fucking grade... and now they're taking away my fucking grants? you know who got it now? fucking wonpil. WONPIL! that guy couldn't tackle even if his life was on the line. you know how many times he's left me open for a blitz? twenty. and that was just in the last four games. he's the worst -- and..." he noticed that you weren't completely following. key words of the sport were like another language to you, but you got the gist. he softened. your frown deepened. finally, you moved closer to his side until thighs touch, your hand moving up to his shoulder to massage the anger out of his skin. he was full of it, carried it with him everywhere he went despite his golden reputation -- not many people knew about the rage that split open his knuckles on late saturday nights or the way his jaw clicked and tightened. you wondered if he ever knew how to relax. this conversation didn't seem to be going in a direction where that was possible.

"maybe there's another way... i'm sure there are more scholarships and grants out there. i can research it later or maybe joonie can help, yeah? i know he's good with this stuff. we can figure it out. you're almost gonna graduate -- i'm sure your coach will help you out." there were tears in his eyes. he never cried around anyone save for when you all saw marley and me and he didn't know that the dog died in the end. he chased hobi around the parking lot for fifteen minutes, claiming that he was lied to. 'it didn't have a happy ending!' he cried into the darkness, followed by hoseok's bright laugh. it felt like a hundred years ago. and here you were, getting ready to pick up the pieces of a boy who seemed to be breaking right in front of you.

"if i don't get this, i can't go to school anymore. and if i can't go to school, i'll be stuck in this town just like my parents. the scholarship and the grants were the only things keeping me afloat," came his voice after a long, thoughtful pause. you knew that he wasn't made of money, that he had been raising himself since his early teen years. the beautiful boy with a talent in everything and a smile so bright it made the sun jealous had more than enough troubles of his own and ones he kept solely to himself. he couldn't bother the others, he would whisper to you. they all had too much to worry about. the last thing he wanted was for them to take time out of their lives to try and comfort him as well. you bit down on your lip, moved gentle fingers to his chin so that you could nudge him to look at you clearly.

"hey -- c'mere. we are gonna figure this out. jungkook, you are so smart and talented... we will not leave you behind. we will NEVER leave you behind." thumb smoothed over the sharp line of his jaw as if you could soothe him, as if you could take away the tension that seemed to hold his bones together like glue. you sat that way for a moment with him picking at his bottle but refusing to drink, your touches much like a ghost's. he sighed, gave a nod. your shoulders finally slumped once you saw the anger roll away from his face.

"i've just been trying so hard for years... tried to be the smartest, the fastest, the best at everything... why won't anyone give me a chance?" you could hear the thickness in his voice, knew that tears were going to follow his words quickly. you didn't mind. everyone needed to cry sometimes, and you knew damn well that he rarely let his emotions take him under. hand moved, fingers brushing through thick strands of hair to push it away from his forehead. your heart broke for him with every word he said and even though it was four thirty in the morning, you were so eternally grateful that he chose to be HERE. you didn't know what to say now -- but something told you that he wasn't really looking for sage advice or problem solving. he just needed to get this out. your eyes closed the moment you heard him sniff, the tell tale sign that salt water was beginning to roll down his cheeks. he moved into you, arm curling around your waist and his large hand took in the fabric of your shirt. something to ground him. you could only let him. jungkook cried into your shoulder for a while -- you weren't exactly keeping time. your fingers simply continued to card through his hair, soft sentences reaching his ears telling him that this was okay, that he could let it all out.

you saw the sun beginning to peak up over the treeline when you glanced out the window, signifying that he had to have been crying for at least fifteen minutes. it was silent, the only sound breaking through being birds finally waking up to greet the day. jungkook gave a sigh, lifted himself up and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. finally, he smiled.

"you're really good at that -- at making people feel better." you could tell that he felt awkward, that he didn't know how to go about this. crying was fine. after it? how did you apologize to someone for soaking through their shirt with your tears? you could tell he was nervous and simply chuckled, brushing away the tears that he had managed to miss. you were ANNOYED, however... he was even beautiful when he cried. was there anything he wasn't good at?

"everyone has their gifts," you murmured, a bit taken aback by the compliment. his hand moved, covered your own against his face before he offered a smile. you returned it. the heaviness in the air dissipated with every passing moment, leaving something soft and unsure behind.

"i miss you."

"i miss you too."

you had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to give yourselves some space. it had been seven months since you had first touched in the dark, since you whispered things like 'this is a one time thing' and 'it can't happen again' into each other's mouths as if somehow that meant these were promises you had to keep. but you couldn't ignore the way your body thrummed just from these simple touches, couldn't fight the fact that your life had been a bit less dim since he began to leave it. you swallowed -- not wasn't your time to get emotional.

"can i stay here tonight?" he finally asked. there was a part of you that wanted to say no, mostly because you both were incredibly aware of the subtext in his question. staying over was never just staying over, not with him and his puppy dog eyes. he was emotional was what you should have pointed out. he was upset and needed and outlet and didn't know how to cope with his feelings very well. you opened your mouth to tell him so.

"please stay."

his lips were on yours in a second. it was softer than you were used to with him, where the taste of whiskey and beer lingered in your mouths long after you'd finished drinking. usually, he moved faster, had an urgency in his finger tips that made you wonder if he moved so fast because he was scared that he would somehow LOSE YOU. this was slower, deeper. he tasted like salt water and that was okay, because you loved the ocean in him. a sigh left your lips, made itself a home in his mouth before he gripped the back of your neck to anchor you against him. he ran warm, warmer than you -- and every touch, no matter how fleeting, felt like someone lighting a match against your skin. you knew better than to be doing this. you TOLD YOURSELF you were going to stop doing this. but there was something in his eyes and his mouth and his laugh that had you straddling his lap and pulling his shirt off and over his head, forgotten on the ground nearby. the sun was rising, but neither of you gave it any thought. the day could come and go and you would both be busy with wandering hands and lips.

you were bad for him, you told yourself as he bit at your collar bone, soothed the mark away with his tongue. this was a mistake, you thought as he laid you down on your bed, the blanket beneath you cool and comforting against your skin. you both would never be anything, was a sentence passing through your mind as he moved inside of you, held your hands with his own and intertwined your fingers. his breaths were hot and heavy against your neck. your skin was aflame.

your sighs and moans were full of 'i love you'. stolen kisses against bruised and marked skin told you that you were his. it didn't matter, you realized. it didn't matter how many times you told yourself that you would break away from him -- the truth of the matter was that there was nobody else you would keep returning to.

[deepfriedtwinkie]

Kingsman: A Trainee’s Mission (Pt. VII)

PREQUEL FIC, this section ~2,700w

pt. I  | pt. II  | pt. III  | pt. IV  | pt. V  | pt. VI

.

.

“For God’s sake, will you shut that dreck off?”

It’s that awful Blondie song on the radio again, the one he’s hated since it first came out months ago. Something about the tide over and over. Looking somewhat chastised—he hadn’t meant to snap, but good God—Kenneth reaches for the shared stereo and switches to another station. Hall & Oates drift through the barracks instead. Far more tolerable.

“Thank you,” Harry says, making an effort to sound more kindly this time.

Mr. Pickle pirouettes for attention at his feet. Returning to a smile, Harry leans forward in his seat, stroking the ruff of fur above his collar. I haven’t forgotten you, don’t worry. For a moment, they’re joined by a nosey Ainsley, but then she ambles off, posting herself at the door, wuffing at something or other.

“Hey,” Hamish warns. He snaps his fingers at his side. “Come on now, there’s nothing there for you. Here, girl.”

Ainsley returns, but she wasn’t off the mark. There’s a sharp one-two rapped on the door, and then it opens, bearing Arthur. The six remaining candidates burst to their feet.

“At ease,” Arthur tells them. He consults his clipboard while they sink back down, exchanging nervous glances. “I come bearing good news. Tonight, you will all be attending a party.”

Harry’s peripheral picks up Graham easing into a grin, then Derrington flicking him upside the head. “S’not gonna be for fun, idiot,” he catches.

Arthur is holding out a stack of laminated sheets of paper, the contents indecipherable from here. “Hand those around,” he says to William, who dutifully complies.

Getting his hands on one doesn’t answer any questions. It’s a photograph of a woman, unidentified, presumably in her early twenties. Peeking over shoulders, Harry notices that two of the others have the same one. The rest, including Hamish, share a second lady. Same age, similar anonymity. Different haircut.

“Sir?”

“The women in these photographs will be the targets for your next task.”

I don’t like the sound of that. “I…don’t suppose you mean interrogating them, or something like that?”

There’s an abrasive cackle from Derrington’s direction. “He means fucking them. Bit of slam and scram.”

It’s more than slightly surprising to see Arthur whip the photo away and whack him over the head with it.

“Rubbish,” he admonishes, jutting the page back into the flinching man’s hands. “And don’t ever let me catch a thing so crass out of your mouth again. A Kingsman agent must be prepared to use any means necessary to an end; that does not mean he uses the opportunity to misconduct himself. We are gentlemen above everything, and covert or not, you will be representing Kingsman to the world. I’ll not have anyone behaving like cavemen under our umbrella.”

And we’ve all seen what those can do, Harry considers adding, but he really wouldn’t rather interrupt at the moment.

“Yes. Your assignment is to win the favor of these young women. The objective is to inspire her to offer up her company for the night. But so help me, you will be charming, you will be civil, and you will remember you are speaking to another human being. Attempts to complete the task with any less than one hundred percent voluntary consent will not be tolerated, punishable by immediate dismissal, if not worse. Am I quite perfectly understood?”

Their six ‘yes sirs’ are simultaneous, which is a relief, frankly.

“All right then.”

A hand goes up, despite the fact that this isn’t primary school. “How come only two, when there’s six of us?” Kenneth asks.

This is the part where Arthur starts to smile. Rather wickedly, in fact.

“Well. What fun would it be without a bit of competition?”

Harry looks to Hamish, who’s looking back with the same trepidation. Oh, good. At least it isn’t only me.

It doesn’t take them very long to dress when Arthur leaves. Mainly because a garment bag has appeared on each of their bunks by the time they arrive at them. He’s stopped asking where these things come from. He puts everything on with a detached efficiency, saving his first proper look for the finished product, curiosity compelling him toward the mirror when he’s through. It’s a melon-pink blazer and slacks he’s got on, both in a fashionably-oversized ill fit, topping off a clinging beige turtleneck. Lucky thing Arthur’s got people for this. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t wear a stitch of this without cash up front.

Not that he doesn’t pull it off, of course.

A crane of the neck buys him a look at Hamish’s getup, and then he caws out the most graceless laugh imaginable by man.

Hamish is scowling. “Fuck off.”

It’s the most nauseatingly-patterned disgrace of a button-down, black and white with loops all over, and an oversize black bowler hat, clearly custom-made for someone whose skull was an animated watermelon. With a fondness for rosaries, no less, because he’s wearing three. Green slacks come out at the bottom somewhere, but it’s hardly their fault. They shouldn’t be burned without a fair trial. “I saved your life; I get to enjoy this from here to the transport.” There’s a brooch on the brim of the hat. With a feather in it. A turquoise one. My God, if a pawn shop could vomit up a human being.

“Remember when we didn’t talk?” Hamish starts his march toward the exit. “I miss that. Let’s go back to that.”

Harry scurries up to stay on his heels. “Sorry, not on your life.”

“I fucking hate this mission.”

“I’ll give it this: wherever we’re going certainly must be somewhere interesting.”

It isn’t, because of course it isn’t.

It’s a nightclub. Only once in his life has Harry ever been to one of these. His roommate at Oxford once dragged him along for a stag, where he came to the conclusion that intriguing company is wasted on rooms where you can’t bloody hear yourself think. They’ve gotten worse in the past year, clearly. The floors in this one are stickier, and the lights flash at a more obnoxious speed than he remembers. Oh good, I love scouring for targets in the Blitz.

The six of them split off almost immediately. They’ve got women to find and very little time to find them, which adds up to quite a few backs-of-heads to shout at. At least the music vibrating in Harry’s skull is a fair distraction from what was doing it before.

Truthfully, he’s never done this. He’s never seduced a woman. Or a man, for that matter. Sure, of course there’d been opportunities, at Oxford particularly, that had presented themselves, and yet… Nothing, to this day. And the strangest thing: he isn’t even sorry. There were always other goals in his sights, other prizes to keep his eye on. There was Kingsman.

Much like there is now. Watching him remotely, waiting for him to miraculously become Roger Moore and inspire a young woman to take her clothes off.

This is going to be a very long night.

A server passes, then rounds on him, wordlessly offering a flute of champagne specifically to him. At this rate, it doesn’t sound like a terrible idea. Nerves will bugger him up for sure. Nodding in lieu of shouting thanks above the noise, Harry accepts, downing a generous pull before the man is even gone.

“Looking for someone?” the server yells helpfully.

So much for avoiding that. “Yes, actually.” He drinks again, hoping to stall a bit. His dread is honest-to-God making the room spin now, but like hell that’s getting included in his answer. “I…”

Now the lights. They’re… They’re obscuring everyone. Everyone is…changing colors…

“I…seem to have…misplaced her… I’m… I’m looking…”

“That’s a shame, Harry,” the server says. The last thing that floats into his sight is the most leering smile. “Because I’ve been looking for you.”

He wakes to the cold shock of a tidal wave.

Thrashing his head, coughing, choking, Harry grabs. At nothing. A zip tie digs into his wrist. It’s behind his back, tethered to the other one. Around a chair. He’s in a chair. And his feet are bound. Tugging doesn’t free them.

His chest heaves erratically, partly in fear, partly for lack of breath. It’s not the time for either. Get ahold of yourself. Open your eyes.

He does. He scans desperately. In every direction, darkness. And concrete. Concrete walls, concrete pillars. He can tell there’s concrete under his feet. It’s a parking structure. There’s not enough light to tell him anything else. Nothing about where exactly this is. Or why he’s here. And there’s…

There’s something strapped to his chest. A box. A box, with…

With a readout on the front. Numbers. Red numbers.

Counting down.

A flashlight clicks on in the hand of a man ahead of him. Banishing shadow from the corner he was hiding in. Illuminating a face. It’s the server’s, from the nightclub.

“How wonderful you could join us, Harry,” the man says.

Harry thrashes forward in his seat. “Untie me. Untie me this instant.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t do that.” He stops straining as the man comes closer, horrifyingly aware of the metronome both inside and outside of his chest. “You see, Harry Hart, there are ways that you and I can help each other.”

This is to do with that Russian man. Or one of Mother’s enemies. What else do they know? What else have they gone after? He pulls at his wrists until the zip tie chafes away a layer of skin. “Kill me and you’ll regret it.” He swallows hard. “Kill me and there won’t be a safe place for you to hide. I promise you that.”

The man tsks, and his voice becomes a lull. Nauseating. “You think I’d prefer to kill you? What an awfully rude assumption… I’d very much prefer for you to live. And that can certainly be arranged.” He nods toward the device, ticking away. “I, and I alone, have the code to disarm that bomb you’re wearing.”

A bomb. So it’s a bomb for certain, then. He’d been hoping against hope he was wrong. Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, get me out of here.

“I’d like nothing more than to do that for you, Harry. There’s just one thing you have to give me first. The truth. About Martin Turner, and the fucking Kingsman ‘Tailors.’”

The beeps of the device drown out the cretin’s voice, and they’re in turn drowned out by memories. It’s not his whole life that flashes before his eyes. It’s the relevant parts, and he hears one now in particular, even as a bead of sweat rolls down his spine. His mother’s voice, a little sad. “Always remember, Harry. In this business, it’s the good of the world that must come first. Even when we don’t like it. Even when we wish we could do more.”

He looks up from under a darkened brow, personally damning this man to burn.

“We’re open Monday to Saturday, seven to five, you spineless piece of shit.”

His captor laughs loudly, completely devoid of both humour and joy. Bordering on rage. “You don’t want to die like all the others, do you, Harry?”

The others. No. Hamish. He hasn’t. He can’t have.

“I’ve blown seven of you little pricks to shit tonight; what the fuck do you think one more’s going to be?”

He’s starting to back up. One large, slow step at a time. Harry forces his chin as far down as it goes and barely makes out the upside-down readout.

There are ten seconds left. Ten fucking seconds.

“Your last chance is slipping away, Harry.” His backward walk quickens. “The price is Kingsman. I hate to see you die as stupid as the others.”

Five seconds, if that. Five seconds left to live. Harry shuts his eyes as tight as they go, rushing a silent prayer to whatever’s listening. Let my mothers know. Let them be proud of me. Don’t let them grieve too long.

The man disappears behind the concrete wall just as the roar rips from Harry’s throat.

“Then we’ll all see you in hell!”

The beeps go spastic. He braces.

Then they stop altogether.

For ten, fifteen seconds, Harry doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t so much as open his eyes. Not until he hears the sound of footsteps, too solid, near and real to be the afterlife. His eyes bolt open, and this time, the man with the flashlight isn’t the server. It’s Agent Lamorak.

He looks down. The timer, stopped at zero, blinks itself off.

Only then, finally, does he exhale, slumping as far as he’ll go.

“Absolutely fucking extraordinary,” pronounces Martin. “Not that that’s any great surprise to anyone.” From his coat pocket, he produces a small knife, swiftly cutting loose his ankles, then his hands. “Congratulations. You’ve passed beautifully.”

Passed… Harry rubs his wrists while his mentor slashes the bindings in back of the chair. “It was a trial all along. There was no woman.”

“No, there was a woman. Cynthia and Maeve, from our call centre. About four of you actually made it that far. No results of course, but fun to watch all the same.”

I should have fucking known. He wishes somebody would tell his heartrate.

“All right, that should do. Go on and take that dud off.”

He stands, slightly dizzy from the aftereffects of the drugs, peeling electricians’ tape from his soaked, awful jacket. “What of the others? How have they done?”

“Kenneth and Graham both failed like Hitler at Stalingrad. Sang like canaries, the poor bastards. You’re the first one to pass.”

“And Hamish?” Harry refills with hope for his friend, grateful for the second time he isn’t dead.

“He’s next. Takes a bit to set up.” Martin eyes Harry. “Want to watch?”

“...Yes, actually.”

They reach the control room in time to see Hamish, newly hatless and pissed, struggling against his chair on the infrared monitor. He’s facing off against the same assailant. Harry feels mildly bad for calling the man a piece of shit now. He’s very convincing. Probably works in their hangar or something like that.

“I’ll make this simple. Tell me everything you know about Duncan Billingsley and the Kingsman operation, and I’ll keep you from blowing sky high like all your friends.”

“Please. Like fuck you could kill Harry Hart.”

He’s oddly touched by that. It’s awfully sweet of Hamish to say in the midst of supposing he might die. He’ll have to remember to tell his mother he’s made that impression on someone.

“You can do what you like to me. I dunno what you’re talking about. I’m a fucking tailor’s apprentice, and you can go fuck yourself.”

“Have it your way.”

The man retreats out of frame. Hamish tenses. The decoy bomb’s rapid beeping fills the feed with static. It’s far calmer to watch than to experience. Harry wishes momentarily that the camera better captured Hamish’s expression, knowing he’s petrified, the poor thing. Give it a moment, you’re all right.

They watch Lancelot emerge.

“At ease, son, you’re not dead. Congratulations. I’m proud to say you’ve passed the test.”

It doesn’t take any delay for Hamish to lunge as if to punch him.

“Oh, the fucking test!? The fucking test, is that it!? Fuck you too. Fuck you. Fucking hell. I’ve got a mind to strap you down to one of these, see how long it takes you to shit yourself. That’s the last time I drink the fucking champagne.”

Harry can’t help but laugh as Martin knowingly holds down the two-way button for him. “Not a bad idea,” he says, and the Hamish on the screen visibly flinches, looking up toward the parking level above for the source of the broadcast.

“Harry? Where the fuck are you?”

“The control room,” he grins. “Come and join us. There’s still a good chance to see at least one of the others cry like a baby.”

Hamish is still for a moment while Agent Lancelot cuts him loose. There’s an appeased resignation when he stands, following his mentor.

“Yeah, all right.”

.

pt. VIII  | pt. IX

[agl03]

As many of you have noticed I have stopped sharing a lot of the Hypable articles, especially since we got into the Framework.   For me they are getting borderline ‘click bait” and just upset the fandom.

For those lucky enough to see the episode before the wield a great amount of power.   As @agent-85​ and I saw in seeing 16 early.   I could have done the same thing.  I could have twisted what I saw and totally freaked the fandom out.

So I am going to address the points from the article because I have a pile of messages requesting I do.  Just remember we all watch the episodes differently.  We all have our own takes on the stories and we all have favorite characters.   It’s no secret that the author of the article is not a fan of Fitz’s or Fitzsimmons.   So those preferences will come into play as she writes her reactions and teases.  

The B-Squad returns!

Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. 4×20 pulls back the camera to the brave but unexperienced agents keeping the Zephyr in flight — and keeping Daisy and Simmons alive. Yo-Yo, Piper, and the rest have quite enough to deal with before the Superior starts bombarding the aircraft. Once the blitz begins, the clock starts ticking on Simmons and Daisy’s time left in the Framework… and possibly, their lives.

This honestly took longer than I thought it would. I thought we would have checked in with them ages ago.  Natalia has said that Elena will be getting restless on the outside and learning some new skills.  So even if it’s not tonight we could see her hack in in some way to try to contact Daisy, Jemma, or Mack.  

We saw last week that AIDA/Superior had the Zephyr in their sights.  So when he attacks how we set up another ticking clock is if they damage the Zephyr, ie they are running out of power and once the power runs out so does the connection to the Framework.  Daisy and Jemma will be killed if they don’t wake up before that happens kind of thing.

Talbot is also likely to come calling here as well. Either someone form Team Redshirt calls him or he realizes something is up when he can’t get alone of anyone at Shield.  

Fitz and Simmons have their reckoning

With events coming to a head in the Framework, Simmons grows desperate to save Fitz from Aida’s tentacles. But as Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. fans will well know, desperation has rarely been either Fitz or Simmons’ friend.

The choices Jemma makes in “Farewell, Cruel World!” have drastic consequences within the Framework — and they may even echo beyond this dark, closed simulation.

I know this is the one upsetting everyone.  For me ITS ABOUT TIME!   Jemma totally deserves to have her Woman on Fire moment and to go save him.  It’s about time someone is trying to get to Fitz!  No one should frown upon Jemma’s extreme measures…especially when we have seen other characters have been just as desperate in the past and make their own ‘questionable’ decisions in doing so.  

“Desperation” has led to them saving each other.   See 1.22, 3.02, 3.09, and 3.10 just to name a few.  

Everything that happens in the Framework looks to have consequences in and out of the Framework, just like Daisy’s decision to leave Fitz and get the others out would have had consequences had Jemma not gone rouge to get to him.   We are also lacking a vast amount of context here.  I have a feeling this is one of those points that the authors views on Fitz, Jemma, and Fitzsimmons will really effect one’s opinion on what happens tonight.

And for a bit of hope, consequences don’t necessarily have to be negative.  It could be “We’re getting married” or “We’re stepping away” once this is all over.  Heck we could get a Baby Bomb.  But yes, it could be more negative in nature in someone gets hurt because of what Jemma does to get him back.  By the same token someone could get hurt following Daisy’s plan too.

It should also be worth noting that I think overall its positive for Fitzsimmons from here on out (there will still be moments that hurt).   Lil and Iain have been super happy and they wouldn’t be if something bad happened with Fitzsimmons.

My final bit with Fitzsimmons and consequences. This isn’t the first time she’d teased not so fun stuff on the horizon.  This is from her review of Maveth:

Fitz is ultimately able to destroy Will’s reanimated and horrifically stubborn corpse, but back on Earth, Simmons is clearly devastated at Will’s loss. Her love for Fitz is not in question, but the truth about Will’s death — and the forthcoming consequences — may suggest further trouble for both Simmons and Fitz when Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. returns.

That prediction was a bit...off.. We came back to start over, hand holds, shoulder kisses, and event horizons.

Picking priorities

It’s now or never for escaping the Framework, but our “woke” agents will have their hands full with the escape in Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. 4×20. Radcliffe’s back door is not quite as easily accessed as it seems — and then there’s the fact that Fitz, May, and Mack are all pretty content where they are.

Between May’s skepticism, Mack’s devotion to his daughter, and Fitz’s evil phase, it won’t be easy for Daisy, Simmons, and Coulson to convince their friends to escape the Framework. In fact, in at least one case, “not easy,” might even mean “impossible.”

We saw from the second sneak peek that one of those chosen priorities was Daisy saying that they needed to leave Fitz behind and get the others out. And we know Jemma is having none of that.  

From everything we’ve seen with May I don’t think she’ll be our hold out here. She’s just kind of going along for the ride in all this unless the pull the rug out from under us on her.  

Mack and Fitz are the ones that will be most difficult.  Fitz has been brainwashed and manipulated SO MUCH not to mention he’s being held in the heart of Hydra.  We know it will be a fight for him.  While Mack has Hope.  And at the moment I’m giving the edge to Mack in not wanting to go.  

The endgame becomes clear

With only three more episodes left in the season, every moment counts in “Farewell, Cruel World!” That’s especially true for the episode’s final moments, which unveil Aida’s true desires. It’s a conclusion that will have fans shrieking… but whether in delight or in despair, I dare not say.

Again, ITS ABOUT TIME!  We’ll learn AIDA’s true plan…spoiler alert it’s going to be big, bad, and crazy.  I’m hoping to get confirmation on my something else from the Darkhold theory at the very least.  

Hang tight guys.   The best advice I can give is if the articles are doing more harm than good when you read them…don’t read them.  Because click bait articles don’t really care about the content, they want the traffic. So we see them with sensational titles and then content that is twisted to fit the authors views.  Good or bad it’s still getting traffic and attention.   

Also take them with a grain of salt as it will all be skewed by the writers preferences.  I own my theories and metas fall into this category too.  They are skewed based on my own thoughts and evidence…though I do try to keep my personal feelings about a character out of it (and I admit I’m not always successful).   And the good news is…we know Fitzsimmons come face to face finally at the very least.