#you'll never guess what i spent my afternoon doing instead of homework....

[gravitywonagain]

Can't Cheat Death While You're Digging Your Own Grave; Part 3

Continued from [1][2]

What if Nie Huaisang and Wei Wuxian were closer? Sworn brothers, even? What if NHS visited WWX in Yiling?

Prompt from the wonderful @shiranai-atsune

[T (for now?), implied Wangxian, 2k, 3/?]

~

Wei Wuxian:

“How much do you know about the Saber Path, Wei-xiong?”

There’s a change in his friend as he asks the question. Nie Huaisang prefers to be seen as someone who is flighty and unaware. He never makes definitive statements, nothing anyone could pin to him as his own opinion; he doesn’t like to appear to know things. 

But now, Wei Wuxian is cut by the sharpness in his friend’s eyes. 

“Uh… I know it’s strong,” he says. “Very yang focused, active.”

“Did you know it kills its practitioners?”

Wei Wuxian blinks. “Early deaths of Nie sect leaders do seem to be a pattern.” 

“I thought,” says Wen Qing, next to him, “that was mostly about… ah, temperament.” 

It’s a delicate way to put it. But Wei Wuxian is pretty sure this isn’t the time for delicate. 

“She means that they always seem to go out in a blaze of idiotic glory on some epic nighthunt.” 

Nie Huaisang does not appear offended on his ancestors’ behalf. He remains sharp, rigid. The blade of a saber he always keeps sheathed. Voice hard as steel. 

He says, “My father died at home when my brother cut him down to protect my mother and me from his final rage. After his saber broke, he deteriorated. It was,” he pauses, clears his throat. It’s a raw kind of sound, wet and red, but he remains calm and cold. “It was difficult to watch. I still don’t understand what happened to him. But our doctors called it a qi deviation.”

“I see.” 

“Nie-er-gongzi, may I ask,” Wen Qing seems to be struggling to phrase her question but finally settles on, “may I see your saber?” 

When Nie Huaisang smiles at her, it’s discordantly soft. Gently amused. “Oh, I doubt my saber will tell you very much, Wen-daifu. I do not cultivate with it.” 

“How much do you know about the Saber Path, Nie-xiong?” Wei Wuxian asks. 

“Not a lot, to be honest.” 

Nie Huaisang flicks his fan open then, retreating back behind a vapid smile as if his candor has reached some limit and he must rest a moment. It’s an oddly placating kind of gesture. Like Wei Wuxian is someone who needs to be coddled or pacified. It irks. Sits wrong, stringing a tension between his shoulders where there wasn’t any before. 

“I believe you,” he says. “But you still haven’t answered my previous question. What is the cost, Huaisang?” 

The fan flickers back and forth as Nie Huaisang seems to consider how exactly to arrange his words. 

Usually he doesn’t take this long. Usually he walks people through a conversation he’s rehearsed in his mind, choreographed and memorized. At least, when he wants something. And maybe the pause itself is strategic, but Wei Wuxian knows his friend well. It seems… careful. Which only twists the band between Wei Wuxian’s shoulders tighter. 

Finally, Nie Huaisang snaps his fan closed. He deliberately meets Wei Wuxian’s eyes and says, “You’ll have to study it.” 

It would be misleading to say that this is what Wei Wuxian had been afraid of. The idea would have had to occur to him first, for him to fear it. But it is tangential to his fear. Connected. 

“Ah…” Wei Wuxian rubs his palms against the rough fabric of his robe. He glances over to Wen Qing, who meets his gaze with the anxiety in her own. “Nie-xiong…” 

“You don’t have to… cultivate it,” Nie Huaisang says, far too knowingly. Wei Wuxian’s eyes jump to his friend’s face, but Nie Huaisang presses on, “Just. Just study it. Fix it.” 

They’re going to have to address that at some point. Probably. Because just how the fuck-- No. Not now.

“Fix it?” Wei Wuxian asks with no small amount of incredulity. No small amount of curiosity either. “I can’t-- I know I helped you pass your exams during the lectures but--” His brain is already beginning to circle around what he knows of the Saber Path. Yang-focused, prone to qi deviation -- or at least something like it. 

Nie Huaisang must see it in his face, because he smiles, a little fiercer this time, and says, “You can. You think about cultivation in ways that other people can’t even imagine. Look at what you built during the war!” 

“You’ll recall,” Wei Wuxian says, raising a pointed eyebrow, “that not many people are very pleased with what I built during the war.” 

Wen Qing, with a bit more wariness adds, “And some are extremely greedy for it.” 

“Also true.” 

“Wei-xiong,” Nie Huaisang huffs. “False modesty will get us nowhere.” 

Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes. “Yes. I’m smart. But this…” He flaps his hands uselessly. 

“This is new. A challenge,” Nie Huaisang grins, and Wei Wuxian hates that it works on him. “And you’ll be tackling it inside a library. With insulation. And on a full stomach.” 

The Wens, aside from Wen Qing, are all outside the cave somewhere. Tilling corrupted soil, washing clothes with barely cleansed water, gathering any scraps of cloth they can find to sew into blankets and coats as the winter looms near. 

Wei Wuxian looks toward the strained sunlight that brightens the mouth of the cave. He bites a strip of cracked skin from his lip. His leg bounces under the table. 

When he turns back, Nie Huiasang is watching him closely. He’s letting Wei Wuxian see how closely he’s watching, which counts for something here. Between them. He needs this. He’s almost begging them for it. And when has Wei Wuxian ever been able to turn down someone in need of his help? 

“Chifeng-zun has agreed to their safety?” he asks. An insane question in any other circumstance. 

“He has.” A similarly insane answer. 

That Nie Mingjue would willingly shelter Wens is almost as unbelievable as the Wens all surviving this winter in the Burial Mounds. But that’s the thing, isn’t it. Their options are severely limited. And if Wei Wuxian wants to keep them safe, he must consider any that are open to him. 

He nods and asks, “What else?” 

The vapid smile returns. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Huaisang.” 

Nie Huaisang shakes his fan at him. “You sound eerily like Da-ge when you do that, did you know?”

He’s avoiding the question. “It’s bad, then.” 

“It’s…” he trails off for a moment, but has the decency to look guilty when he nods and says, “permanent.” 

Wei Wuxian huffs, exasperated. He’s so fucking tired of games. 

Nie Huaisang sets his fan down on the table. Presses his fingers against the surface until his knuckles bulge with it. Then he says, “You’ll have to give up the Yin Tiger Seal.” 

“To whom?” Wen Qing asks, the question quick to her tongue, like she already knew this would be the request. 

She probably did. Wei Wuxian probably should have known, too. But he’d thought, of all people… 

“No,” he says.  

“Wei-xiong--” 

“No, I’ll do it,” he amends. “But I won’t give it to anyone.” 

“Wei Wuxian.” Wen Qing’s voice is sharp with warning. Pointed and precise like her needles. Because she knows what he’s thinking now, too. 

“Qing-jie. It’s the only way we do this.” 

“You don’t know it won’t kill you.” 

It won’t matter if it does, he doesn’t say. Instead, maybe more bullheaded than necessary, he bites out, “Luckily, I’ll have a library at my disposal.” 

Wen Qing’s jaw tightens like she heard him anyway. 

“Ah, Wei-xiong?” Nie Huaisang flutters his fan, blocking the lower half of his face, exactly like he used to during their tutoring session when Wei Wuxian would go off on some borderline esoteric tangent about cultivation theory. 

It’s so familiar that Wei Wuxian almost laughs aloud with the nostalgia in his chest. 

“When?” he asks. 

“When what?” Nie Huaisang returns. 

“When will I need to give it up?”

Nie Huaisang’s eyebrows dip together. “I don’t--”

“If your brother will allow me to hold onto it --” unlikely, but, “fuck, if he’ll lock it away for me -- Tight, safe even from himself. He's more suspicious of Jins than any of the other clan leaders,” he trails off, considering. But Nie Huaisang taps his fan and Wei Wuxian finishes, “I can figure out how to destroy it. Safely.” 

That seems to take Nie Huaisang by actual surprise. His fan pauses, mid sway, then shivers back into motion, faster and far less even. “Destroy it?” 

“Completely,” Wei Wuxian says with a confidence he forces into his throat. 

He needs to be confident in this. He needs to be sure he can destroy it, otherwise… Otherwise none of this will matter anyway. 

Nie Huaisang hums, considering. He folds the fan and taps it against his lips. “We can probably make that work.” 

Something like relief breaks in Wei Wuxian’s chest. A breath he hadn’t been holding. He wants to reach for Wen Qing’s hand, but she probably wouldn’t appreciate the gesture in front of their guest. 

He takes a deep breath. Waits for Wen Qing’s tiny nod. And says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” asks Nie Huaisang, hope shining too bright to be false in his eyes. 

“If you can guarantee the safety of the Wens,” says Wei Wuxian, “we’ll go.” 

Wen Qing inhales, pauses, inhales again, and says, “Nie-er-gongzi…”

“Yes, Wen-daifu?”

She still seems to be gathering her words, but Nie Huaisang waits patiently. His fan is still, his smile gentle again. 

She tilts her head, eyes calculating, and says, “There will be political backlash for this.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose there is one last thing I’ll require of you, Wei-xiong.”

Wei Wuxian waits, annoyed, but also dazed. He’s not entirely sure that any of this is really happening. It’s too good. Even if there is yet another condition. 

Nie Huaisang smiles -- smiles, not a grin full of mischief or a calculating quirk of the lips -- and says to Wei Wuxian, “Become my sworn brother.”

Wei Wuxian’s face reacts before he can tell it not to. His jaw drops open, his brow furrows, his eyes search his friend for the joke, for the punchline, for any hint that he’s not serious about this. When he doesn’t find one, he yells, “Huaisang!” 

“What?” asks Nie Huaisang, fan flapping back and forth over an exaggerated pout. “I didn’t realize it was so detestable a concept.”

“You cannot swear yourself to Yiling Laozu.”

“We’re not getting married.” 

Wei Wuxian scoffs. “We kind of would be, and you know that.”

“So what? You’re a war hero. And an incredibly powerful cultivator.” 

A glance to Wen Qing offers no help. Her lips are softly curled and her eyes are unfocused, like she’s imagining Jin Guangshan’s face when Wei Wuxian is pulled out of his reach for good. Or maybe just the spectacle of Yiling Laozu swearing himself to Nie Huiasang, the most unassuming figure of the highly ranked gentry. 

“I don’t have a core,” Wei Wuxian blurts out, “which you seem to have figured out somehow.” 

Nie Huaisang looks very smug and says, “Nothing in the ceremony requires a golden core.” 

“I’m a servant’s son.”

“Meng Yao is a prostitute’s son. Wei-xiong, I really don’t understand what the problem is here?”

“He has self-esteem issues,” says Wen Qing. Which is just-- 

“I--? What? I’m incredibly full of myself, ask anyone.” 

Wen Qing catches his eyes and glares. But he isn’t lying. 

It’s not self-esteem he has issues with. It’s other people risking themselves for him. Reputation means everything in this world, all three of them know that. And Nie Huaisang’s reputation is far from spotless. He does not need it raked over the coals by being associated with Wei Wuxian. 

But then. It’s not for him. Or not just for him. It’s for Nie Mingjue. It’s for the Wens. 

It-- Damnit, it could work, too. 

This time when he looks at her, Wen Qing looks back. It’s in her eyes: his acquiescence. He can see it there, taunting him. She knows him too well. She knows him better than anyone, it seems, even himself. 

“In front of everybody?” he asks, a whine more than anything. 

Nie Huaisang’s smile gets wider. Victorious. “That is generally how it’s done, yes. I’m planning it for your nephew’s 100 days ceremony.”

“That’s quick,” says Wen Qing. 

“It’s necessary.”

“I’m impressed.”

Nie Huaisang winks, “Don’t tell anyone.” 

“And Nie-zongzhu is just-- fine with that?” Wei Wuxian asks, some last token protest before he has nothing left. 

“He understands the complexity of the situation. And the… Jin Guangshan of the situation.” 

“Ah.” 

“Yeah.” 

Wei Wuxian blows out all the air in his lungs. It’s not a lot, but it gives him several seconds to collect himself. Then, finally, he says, “Alright, let’s do it.” 

He’s not sure who looks more satisfied, Nie Huaisang or Wen Qing. He ignores the strange ease that settles into his own gut at the idea of it. At a path forward that isn’t a single-log bridge in the night. It’s… nice, he thinks. To have somebody else to help him across the river, to help him help the rest of them cross safely to the other side. 

It’s a new feeling. A new lightness. 

He’s sad, suddenly, that it didn’t come from someone else. Someone who has been his candle in the dark since they were teenagers. 

And then he is abruptly guilty for that feeling, and he shakes it off, letting his mouth run instead. 

“How does this sworn brotherhood thing work, anyway? Am I siblings with my sworn sibling’s siblings? What about their sworn siblings and those sworn siblings’... siblings?”

He ran out of steam at the end a little bit, and “siblings” now more resembles a jumble of sounds than it does a real word. But then Nie Huaisang sighs and says, “You will still be allowed to marry Wangji-xiong,” and Wei Wuxian feels all of the blood in his body rush into his cheeks. 

“Good,” he nods, with every ounce of dignity he has left. It’s not a lot. “That’s all I need to know.”

[blueskrugs]

I Know I Could Have Loved You | Brock Boeser

at long last, it's here! this is my fic for @wyattjohnston's winter fic exchange, written for @one-night-story! Once again, I am SO sorry this is a bit late, but I had a really brutal week.

I hope you enjoy!!

length: 2000 words

You met Brock Boeser in 2015 when you were both freshmen at the University of North Dakota.

He wasn't your best friend at first. 

In fact, he'd rolled his eyes and when you were forced to partner with him for a stupid project in your intro to stats course. You don't remember exactly when he did become your friend, but  before you knew it your weekends were spent watching hockey games, then going out for fast food french fries with Brock, or lounging in each other's dorm rooms while you did homework. (Or while you did homework, and Brock pretended to do his own.) 

You don't know when you fell in love with Brock Boeser, either, just that you did.

Brock dated a few people while at UND, like most of the hockey players did. They stuck around for a few weeks or months before disappearing. Brock never bothered to introduce you to any of them. You tried to not let it bother you. 

“You should move to Vancouver, "Brock said suddenly one summer day. He'd signed his ELC just a few months prior—instead of returning to UND with you in the fall, he’d be off to Vancouver for training camp with the Canucks. 

You were both tanning by the lake, and you lowered your sunglasses to look sideways at Brock. He wouldn't meet your eyes.

"Brock, some of us have to actually finish college before getting a job," you said. You still had 2 years before graduation. "And why the hell should I move to Vancouver?"

Brock shrugged, all forced nonchalance. "Well, I'll be there."

You scoffed. "Sure, from October to April." You didn't know anyone in Vancouver, excluding Brock, who only counted during hockey season anyway.

"But I'll miss you," Brock argued. "What am I supposed to do without you?"

"I think you'll manage just fine, Boes," you told him. "You survived this long without me before we met, didn't you? You can keep surviving now, too."

Brock pouts at you, but doesn't argue the point further, so you think that's the end of it. You put your sunglasses back in place on the bridge of your nose and settle back against your chair. You can’t deny that it leaves a nice fuzzy feeling in your chest that Brock thinks he’ll miss you so much that he’s begging you to join him in Vancouver.

Brock doesn’t bring it up again that summer, or for the next two years as you’re finishing up college, and you forget about the whole thing. The years pass; you graduate. 

Brock comes to your graduation party, kisses you on the cheek, and spends the afternoon charming your parents and your friends from high school and from UND. Brock always manages to stay within your orbit, never more than arm’s reach away from you. It’s nice, to have him back at your side like this. 

It's only when the party is over and Brock is helping clean up that he springs the question on you again.

"Have you thought about it at all?" he asks, apropos of absolutely fucking nothing.

You've had a few drinks, and it takes your brain a few seconds to catch up. "What?" you ask. "Thought about what?"

“Moving to Vancouver with me."

You already have a job lined up in your hometown. You haven't thought even once of moving to Vancouver instead.

"Brock, I can't just move to another country."

"What if I want you to?“

"Oh, sure, that will go over well on a visa application. ‘Because my bestfriend wants me to.’"

Brock sticks his tongue out at you.

"You should at least come and visit me," he pleads, "I really think you'll love it."

You roll your eyes at Brock. "I guess I can make time to visit,” you say, ignoring Brock's exaggerated cheer before he squishes you into a hug.

Brock manages to talk you into visiting him in June, because—in his words— "It's prettier in the summer."

He's not exactly wrong, you have to admit, after a week of traipsing around the city with Brock. You're watching a firework show with your head on Brock's shoulder when you realize you're starting to picture yourself in Vancouver, starting a real life here.

"D'you really think I could get a job here?” you murmur to Brock during a pause in the fireworks.

"What?” Brock asks. He turns to you. His blond hair glows in the light of the fireworks overhead. "Never mind,” you whisper back.

You begin searching for jobs in Vancouver that night, in the quiet darkness of Brock's spare bedroom.

Before you know it, you've lined up the perfect job—even better than the one you'd originally found back home, not that you'll ever tell Brock that—and Brock has helped you find an apartment in the city. 

"It's not far from me,” Brock had told you when he was helping you move in, "so you can come over and walk Milo and Coolie whenever."

"Oh, is that the real reason you wanted me to move out here?” you tease. "Free dog walking?"

Brock shrugs innocently but chuckles. "Well, I need someone to watch them when we're on road trips and stuff.”

You throw a wad of bubble wrap at him.

Later, while you and Brock are eating pizza on your living room floor, Brock flops into his back and sighs. You poke him in the head with your foot.

"You good, buddy?” you ask.

"What do you think of dating apps?” Brock says, which isn't really an answer.

You've always been too scared to try dating apps yourself. Instead of telling Brock that, you say, "You're a professional athlete.” And a very attractive one, but you don’t say that part. "What do you need dating apps for?”

Brock looks up at you from his sprawl on your floor. "Because I'm tired of being single?” he asks.

You flip him off. You don't say, I'm single, too, you could always date me. You got used to putting aside your feelings for Brock a long time ago.

"And you think dating apps are the solution? You didn't have any issues getting people to date you in North Dakota.”

Brock rolls his eyes. "I didn't play for the Canucks, then. It's all people I meet now seem to care about.”

You're still not sure how dating apps will solve that problem.

As if he hears your unspoken question, Brock continues. "At least this way, I can weed out puck bunnies or whatever a lot faster, instead of wasting my time.” He cranes his neck around so he can look at you directly. "So will you help me or not?” 

You think you'd rather get stabbed directly in the heart than to help Brock date someone else, but you never could say no to him.

"Fine, whatever,” you say. "Gimme your phone.” 

You're already regretting your decision less than ten minutes later as you watch Brock scroll through his camera roll to add pictures to his profile.

"You can't use your official headshot!” you tell him, trying to snatch his phone. "People are going to think they're getting catfished.”

"I don't have a lot of good pictures of myself!” Brock protests.

You've nixed three more photos—all pictures Brock has evidently stolen from the team's social media—("Why the hell do you save all these, anyway?”)—when Brock throws his hands up and passes you his phone.

"You do it then,” he tells you.

Brock's own camera roll is obviously useless, so you pull out your own phone. It only takes a few minutes of scrolling for you to pluck a handful of good photos out of your camera roll and Airdrop them to Brock. He's looking at you a little strangely when you hand his phone back.

"What?” you ask.

"I didn't know you took so many pictures of me,” he says. 

"I don't take that many,” you defend weakly. It's not like you have an entire album on your phone of pictures of him, or anything. 

Brock drops the subject, but you still feel uneasy as you continue helping him finish his profile. The two of you spend almost an hour bickering over which prompts to choose or the answers Brock writes for them before Brock deems his profile "good enough”.

"'Good enough?'” you argue. “This profile is a masterpiece,” you declare. "We'll get you cuffed in time for Christmas.”

Brock snorts at you. "All thanks to you,” he says, smacking a kiss to your cheek.

You try not to feel any particular way about it.

Brock spends the next few weeks bringing you his dating app matches to "approve.” He even shows you some of the funny ones—mostly girls tripping over themselves for the chance to sleep with The Brock Boeser of the Vancouver Canucks. He gets a lot of matches. 

You try to muster the appropriate enthusiasm for Brock, as he seems to be throwing himself into this endeavor with all the energy he throws into hockey.

It's hard, though, when all you can do is compare yourself to them. You wonder what Brock sees in them that he’s never seen in you.

Brock never seems to notice if your encouragement is lackluster.

Matches turn into a revolving door of first dates for Brock. A few times, first dates turn into second dates, and even into a third date or two. 

You force yourself to stop obsessively keeping track of his dates, and to pretend like each date he goes on doesn't drive the knife even deeper into your heart.

Brock's in the middle of telling you about his latest date—you think he’s been seeing this person for nearly a month—when he stops abruptly in the middle of a sentence.

"Are you okay?” he asks.

"Yeah? Why wouldn't I be?” you say. It doesn’t sound very confident, even to your ears. 

"You've got that look on your face, the one where you're mad at me, but trying to pretend that you're not.”

You try to arrange your face into something more neutral.

"I'm not mad at you, Brock,” you say. You don't think he believes you. 

"So why do you always get all—” Brock gestures vaguely at your face. “—pissy whenever I talk about my dates?”

"I do not! And besides, I didn't know moving to Vancouver meant a front row seat to your dating life! Don't you have teammates to talk about this shit with?”

Brock scoffs. "They don't care about my dating life, and, apparently, neither do you.” 

"Brock, it's not that I don't care—” 

Brock cuts you off. "Then what is it?”

"I care too much!”

"What?” he says.

"Dammit, Brock, why don't you want to date me?” you snap.

Brock shakes his head. You probably shouldn't have said that.

"What do you mean?” he asks slowly.

"You heard me the first time, Boeser. Why are you searching all over Vancouver for someone to date when I've been here the whole time?” 

Brock takes a step closer to you. You take a step backwards; your kitchen is small, and you end up trapped against the counter.

"The whole time? "Brock repeats dumbly.

You could slap him. "Yes, Brock. Boy, it's a good thing you're pretty and good at hockey, because you can be really stupid sometimes.”

"Hang on,” Brock says. He's moved even closer. "How was I supposed to know?”

"Do you think I'd more to another country for anyone?” you ask.

"Oh,” Brock says. Then he says, "For how long?”

"Huh?”

“How long have you been in love with me?” Brock asks.

“I don't know, sometime freshman year, I guess.” There was never really a lightbulb moment for you; your feelings for Brock grew and morphed so slowly you almost didn't notice until it was too late.

Brock kisses you then, crushing you up against the cabinets with the force of it. His hands are warm on your hips, his lips gentle and firm against yours.

You pull away, a little breathless.

Brock grins at you. “If I had known this was an option, I would have kissed you a long time ago.”

"So, can we delete that dating app now?” you ask, forehead resting on Brock's shoulder.

"We can do whatever you want,” Brock says, leaning in to kiss you again.

You suppose deleting his dating profile can wait a little while.

[lovinlikeloki]

The Lone Wolf

Masterlist // 01

Warnings: Swearing

Word Count: 2.7k

Orlaith and I get off the bus and start walking down the road.

"Where are ye going?" Orlaith asks me.

"I'm away de Saint Marie's, ye wanny join me?" I tell her.

"Aye, sure why not?"

"I finished a job last night and didn't get de give Eoghan the card," I say, brandishing a gold colored card, "I need to get paid and get me next one."

"Why do you do this?" Orlaith asks, shaking her head at me.

"Eoghan's letting me stay in one of the rooms at Saint M's. I'm earning my keep, besides, the money's good."

"If you say so," she shrugs.

We keep walking and then I pull her sleeve, to show her the alley we need to walk down. We reach the end and I pull off my school blazer, shoving it in my school bag and exchanging it for my green and grey striped hoodie. I push open the door to the old Catholic school, I see that people are already in, clearly people like to start drinking early, well, if 5 in the afternoon is early to you.

I pull Orlaith to the bar and I slam the gold card on the bar, making Eoghan look at me. He takes the card and puts it in the out box, he then lifts a wad of cash and gives it to me. He begins to tell me that someone called for me, someone who called me 'Malen'kaya Volchitsa.' Only two people have ever called me that...and one's... not here anymore, so I know exactly who's after me. And just in case I didn't, the name she left, 'Cáileach,' was a nice hint. The witch is a smart one, I'll tell you that much.

(Little she-wolf) (Witch)

I take the number she left and smirk at the gold card.

"We'll take two cokes Eoghan," I tell him before going to the corner table by the door, my table.

Orlaith follows me to the table and sits across from me, "Why's a witch looking for you?"

"Because after leaving me for two years she's finally reaching out," I reply.

"Okay...and what the fuck does that mean?"

"What it means is that I'm gonny be leaving for a bit. My sister needs me, and I can't leave her hanging, 'sides, I owe her."

"You have a sister? Since when?" my confused friend asks.

"Not by blood, not by law she's... emotionally? my sister. Yeah, let's go with that. Basically when I went missing two years ago she was there, we bonded, and she saved me. That's all you need to know," I finish.

Eoghan brings us our drinks and we thank him, I hand him back a tenner, he tells me that he'll be behind the bar if I need him and that we'll talk about this job later.

Orlaith and I stay at the table for a bit while we finish our drinks, talking about our day and how much we hate our math teacher. Then Orlaith gets a text from her mam saying that she needs to head home to do homework and have some family time, whatever that is. I wouldn't know, it's been a while since I was at 'home'. It doesn't matter though, this, Saint Marie's the mercenary job fair of a bar, this is my home now.

When Orlaith leaves I head up to the bar and sit on a stool. I look up at the dead pool to see who's been picked this week, the dead pool is fun for me because as a minor I'm not allowed to get picked, I can just sit and watch the chaos. Only downside is that I can't pick anyone, so... I mean it's a two-way street, so I guess that's fair.

"So, what's this witch after?" Eoghan questions.

"Not sure," I reply honestly, "But whatever it is, it must be important. We haven't spoken in two years, and last time we spoke, he was still alive."

"Him as in-" Eoghan begins.

"Yes, he as in my grá cáilte. She didn't even call me then, so whatever this is has de be big. It better be, or I might just hang up."

(Lost love)

"You won't. The stories you've told me- you wouldn't leave her. If you did you'd hate yourself. You can't bring do stóirín back, he's gone, but you can still help her."

(Your darling)

"You're right, it just breaks my heart, I had to find out they escaped from rumors and stories, but I found out that he died by watching it, live on tv. We had so much potential, he had so much potential, but now I'll never know. Glac siad a anam ró-ghasta."

(They took his soul too soon)

"You're right. But now she needs you. So go find out what the witch wants, and try your damndest to deliver," he says.

"I will," I say, smiling at him sadly, "Thanks, E."

"Not a bother," he assures me, smirking, "Mactíre."

(Wolf)

° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ ° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ °

I dial the number, she picks up after a single ring.

"Wanda, it's been a while," I say, trying to stay happy even though I know hearing her voice again will probably bring tears.

"Fianna, it has," she says, and I inhale sharply. No tears, not now, not yet at least.

"So, what do you need me for so urgently?" I begin to cut the shit.

"I need help. I need a friend, I need a soldier. Are you available for some last-minute travelling?" she says hesitantly. Clearly I'm a last resort, a "break glass in case of emergency" type help.

"Of course, when and where?" I ask.

"I need you to get to Leipzig-Altenburg Airport asap. We'll get you where you need to be from there," Wanda explains.

"Yeah, uh, when exactly do you mean by asap?"

"I mean, like literally buy a last-minute flight and get on it, within the next two hours. It'll be a two-hour flight, I'll pick you up and we'll get where we need to go."

"Alright, fine. I just need to know, what I'm up against. You said you needed a soldier? I need to know what I'm fighting for before starting a war."

"This is... the fight of a lifetime. You'll be fighting for truth and... safety. Who you'll be up against? Some of my closest friends and some of the deadliest assassins in the last thirty years. Now are you in or are you out? I don't blame you if you're out, but it would really help."

Wanda sounds... more than desperate, she's hopeless, she needs me, more than she ever has. I've fought many's a fierce foe in my time, but Avengers? Deadly assassins? That's usually more than a smidge above my paygrade. But she needs me, she's calling in her last favor, she clearly thinks I'm up for it. I hesitate for a second, weighing my options before making a life-changing decision.

"I'm in. I'll be there in four hours, max," and with that I hang up.

Guess I'm going to Germany.

I walk back into the bar and go through the side door that brings me to the lodging. I go to my room at sit on my bed. I'm leaving. I begin to pack my shit, I pull my kitbag out from under my bed and begin filling it with clothes. Leggings, t-shirts, hoodies, leather jackets, everything I might need. I pack all the essentials and then begin to think of how I'll smuggle my brass knuckles through security. I lift my mattress and take out a couple hundred pounds in cash, shove it in my wallet and keep packing.

When I'm all packed I begin to forge a note from my 'mother' for the school so that I can get time off without them calling up people who haven't seen me in over a year and a half. I make a simple excuse of appendicitis, was rushed to hospital late tonight blah blah, they won't really care, the school year's nearly over. I just need something for show so that I don't get called out.

I text Orlaith, letting her know I'm being called out of the country. She questions me at first, but when I explain that Wanda needs me, and I can't let her down she lets me be. She says she'll drop in and pick up the note tomorrow morning before getting on the 212 to Coláiste Feirste.

(Belfast College {It's an Irish speaking high school})

Now I've just got to talk to Eoghan. I tell him to come to the lodging hall, behind the bar. He serves the last couple of drinks that were ordered and joins me in the back.

"I have de go de Germany," I tell him, "It seems above my paygrade, but she needs me and I gotta be there for her."

"Okay... do ye have enough for the flight?" he simply asks.

"Aye, I've got all I need, me kitbag's packed an' everythin'."

"Ye said above yer paygrade. What'd ye mean by that?"

"I'm not just fighting with Wanda's friends. I'm also fighting against a couple o' them."

"What? Naw- What the fuck Fianna!"

"Look, she needs me, Eoghan, I can't just leave her."

"You're not fighting them assholes."

"Yeah, I am, Eoghan."

"Naw you're not."

"You can't stop me. I tol' her I'm in, and I'm going," I say, standing up and throwing the strap of my kitbag over my shoulder.

"Fianna, ye can't just leave to fight those dickheads," he stands up.

"I'm away," I say firmly, walking out the door.

"Get your arse back here, now!"

"You're not my da, Eoghan. You can't make me stay."

"I might not be your da, but I'm the closest thing to a father you've had these past years. You better treat me with a bit more respect."

"Maybe," I shrug, "But I'll stick with this for now," I say, throwing up my middle finger before leaving the bar. The taxi I called beforehand pulled up and I got in.

"The airport," I tell the driver.

"Right," is the simple reply he gives me.

I get a text when we're about halfway to the airport.

I click my phone off and look out the window at the familiar city I've grown up in. All my life except a year was spent here. When I wasn't here I was with the twins, me becoming who I am, them becoming who they are... or were, and then I left them. Not by choice. Not on purpose. But I still left them.

But now I've got Wanda back, and while I don't know how long I'll be with her for, it will be good to see her. If only I could've seen him one last time before I left, spoke to him one last time, made sure nothing was left unsaid. Instead I'm here, he's gone, and I'll never know how things could've gone if perhaps I never left.

The driver stops at the airport entrance and lets me out, I pay him the fare and he takes it with a smile. I grab my bag, close the door, and go into the airport. I go to the desk and ask if there are any last-minute tickets to Leipzig-Altenburg I could get on. While there was a seat I could take, it cost a little more than a pretty penny. Luckily I had enough to buy it and went through security immediately. I opted for a pat-down rather than the metal detector and thanks to my damn good hiding spots the woman didn't find my brass knuckles.

I wait for the half hour before my flight and board along with the others. I get to my seat and sigh. A two-hour flight isn't long, it's just boring to sit through, no one to talk to and not long enough to sleep through. I just sit there messing on my phone for a bit, making faces at the baby looking through the gap between the chairs a couple rows in front of me.

When the plane finally lands I prepare myself. This is it. I have to fight Avengers. I have to fight deadly psycho assassins. But first. I have to see Wanda. For the first time in two years. For the first time since he died.

° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ ° ∆ -------- ••• ------- ∆ °

When I leave the airport I scan my surroundings and all the cars parked there. I stop when I come across a van that could be owned by no other, a white panel van with what I'd consider an iconic license plate: L: T34MC4P, I know that it's gotta be my ride. I go to the passenger side and knock on the window, the door opens, and I'm promptly enveloped in a hug.

"Someone order a conriocht?" I sat into my sister's shoulder.

(Werewolf)

She laughs and hugs me tighter, "I did, you little volk."

(Wolf)

I look at her with tears in my eyes, smiling sadly. She looks back at me with a similar expression and we just stay there in the embrace for a moment.

"Okay," I say, finally pulling away and wiping my tears away, "So who's ass do I have to kick?"

She laughs, wiping away her own tears, "No one's just yet. We gotta get there first, so get in the back."

"Back of a van?" I quirk an eyebrow, "Are there seats of does this look like a kidnapping?"

"There are seats, but they're laid down. Scott is sleeping on them, and I thought you'd want to stretch before we get there, human or not."

"That's fair, but the second I shift I'm gonna be stuck with Lu, you know that."

"I can get her to ease up, but you're stuck with her, you have to learn how to get along with her, okay?"

"Yes mom," I mock, "I'll see you on the other side."

I salute her before opening the back door, seeing a middle-aged man sleeping on the seats. Must be Scott. I climb behind the seats and lay down, shifting to the Mactíre, and as expected I hear Lu.

Lu is like a voice in my head, she's the canine and lupine instincts that got transferred during the experiments. She talks to me, mostly degrades me for my logic and emotions, planning things out rather than acting on instinct and figuring it out on the fly.

"So, she returns," Lu mocks.

"Yes, I've returned. Wanda needs help, she needs me, needs us to work together," I reply.

"Wanda? Wanda needs us?"

"Yes. And we're gonna work together. Right?"

"Yes. Of course. Anything for Wanda."

"Good. Now we're gonna be driving for a bit, so what do you suggest we do?"

"Sleep. Sleep is good. Sleep builds energy."

"Okay Lu, we'll sleep. But when we're fighting I need to take control, okay? I need to be able to focus."

"Okay Fi, you take control."

"Thank you."

And with that I begin to drift out of consciousness.