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wen-kexing-apologist · 3 years

Text

Some Semblance of a Man

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31716874

Kaz

Kaz Brekker was always looking for a challenge, for the next rival to ruin, for the next near death experience. He’d learned quickly that sitting idle in The Barrel got you killed and he’d been running ever since. But with Pekka gone, Inej and her parents reunited, and the Council of Tides temporarily abated, Kaz was beginning to realize there was nothing else for him to do but wait.

Of course, there were the day to day activities, he still had The Crow Club to run, he still had slavers to gather information on. But after everything he and the Dregs had been through recently, those tasks seemed trivial. He didn’t want his crew to think that just because he’d come into a bit of money that he had gone soft, and he didn’t want rumor spreading throughout the Barrel that Kaz Brekker was getting bored. Without his crew around the Slat, Kaz had to find other ways to pass the time, and for the sake of maintaining appearances, Kaz would walk the streets at night, pretending to look at his watch, pretending to trail a random person, or spreading rumors. Sometimes he would walk to The Menagerie and think of what it would look like burned to the ground.

That’s where he’d been tonight, with a gentle mist of rain turning the cobblestone to mirrors, pools of colored lights spilling out across the street. There were few people out, the rain enough of a nuisance to make them think twice about spending their coin in gambling halls and pleasure houses. Despite the hour growing ever later, the Slat was teaming with life when Kaz returned, the air smelled like alcohol and sweat, the newer additions to the crew were trying to have a conversation, which had mostly devolved into shouting over the out of tune cacophony of voices singing drunkenly across the bar. Kaz bought a round for everyone, though he knew the chance of anyone here betraying him in favor of another gang was slim, keeping his crew happy with a bit of booze usually made his job a little easier. Besides, the longer the crowd was down here, the longer he had for some quiet of his own, in his room on the fourth floor, where the voices did not carry.

Kaz held his breath as he started his climb up the stairs, it was never easy, but Kaz valued the privacy and protection afforded by his room more than he worried about the pain. He bolted the door behind him, leaning his head against its frame and biting his lip as he massaged the twitching muscle of his thigh. He stretched, rubbed a knot from his neck, and reached for his hat.

He paused, the pattering of raindrops puncturing the peace. “Won’t Jesper and Wylan be missing their Wraith?” Kaz asked his empty room, his back to the window, hiding his smirk. He moved slowly, hanging his hat on the doorknob and turning around just in time to watch Inej swing gracefully from the rafters of his ceiling and drop down to his bed.

“No, they’re going over the books tonight, so they’ll be busy for a few hours at least,”

“Wylan’s books take hours to go over?” Kaz asked, leaning against the wall to take the weight off his bad leg.

“No,” Inej replied “But the boys tend to get distracted by...paperwork and usually have to start over,”

It took Kaz longer than he’d ever admit to understand her meaning, but once he had he merely quirked a single, bemused eyebrow at her. Something hungry and desperate twisted its way through Kaz’s stomach when Inej smiled wryly back at him, her eyes flitting to his collar. “What business?”

“I’ve been reading up on cannons.” Inej began, her face a picture of concentration. “Specht and I are going to be taking a few people we’ve been eyeing for our crew out on the water sometime in the next few weeks to practice. We aren’t going far, just far enough to where the cannon fodder won’t send other ships into a panic. We want to see if they can work well as a team before we commit to hiring them.”

“A wise decision,” Kaz agreed, ignoring the way his heart seized within his chest. It made him happy she would have her freedom, but the thought of losing her to the sea always left an ache.

“I wanted to extend an invitation to you,” the confidence Kaz had grown so used to seeing in Inej’s shoulders melted away, she pulled out a knife, turning it over in her hand. “to join us on that trip. I thought you might want to be there to ensure your...investment is taking form the way you’d hoped it would,”

“It wasn’t an in-” Kaz swallowed the rest of the sentence. It wasn’t an investment. He thought, don’t you know this was all for you? “How long will you be gone?”

“Not long, a day, maybe two.”

“When you have the dates secured, let me know, I’ll see if I can make the time,” He knew already he would make the time.

Inej nodded, a glint of something in her eye “And you? What business?”

“I have a job for you,” Kaz took this as an excuse to get closer to Inej, moving toward his desk and stretching out his leg. “I recently came into the possession of some ledgers,”

“You can use the word ‘stole’ Kaz, I’m not the stadwatch ,”

“They have the names of all the ships that have docked in the harbor, the captain, and their cargo,” Kaz continued, “I was looking through it for leads on slavers when I noticed something,” Inej untangled her limbs, and pushed herself upward, walking over to Kaz’s desk. Kaz had forgotten how comfortable it felt to have her by his side. “There’s a ship that keeps appearing, but it never stays for long. It docks at last light, and it departs first thing in the morning. I’ve looked at the dates of it’s arrival,” Kaz handed Inej the first of the ledgers, she took it from him without a word, scanning the pages in search of the same patterns he had found.

“The Sankta ?” Inej hissed and Kaz could hear the disgust on her tongue.

“I thought that might catch your eye,” he opened another ledger, pointing to the name of the ship and the dates it had docked in Ketterdam. “It comes in every six months or so, and when it does the population in the Barrel always seems to increase. The clubs start advertising more heavily, the pleasure houses start getting more traffic,”

“You think they’re smuggling people into the city?”

“I don’t know for certain what they’re trading, the ledger has different cargo listed every time. And the Captain...I’ve never heard of them before.” Inej placed the ledger in her hand back down on the desk, leaning in closer. Her braid fell down across her shoulder, barely an inch from Kaz’ face. Focus . “If the pattern holds they should be docking here in-”

“Three days?” Inej finished for him, reaching for the second ledger. Her fingers brushed against his gloves, her forearm against his jacket. Kaz lost all sense of time and place, despite the warmth of the room and the floor beneath his feet. One second he was in the Slat and the next he was cold and drowning. Inej was saying something, something like “tell him”, maybe? But he wasn’t quite sure, there was cotton in his ears, his heart was in his throat. There was water rising around his ankles.

“Kaz?” He heard her voice, far off, like a siren calling him to shore. He did not trust himself to speak, as it was he struggled to find breath “Kaz!”

He slammed back into himself, pressing one hand flat against his desk, wrapping the other around the head of his cane so tightly his knuckles went white beneath his gloves. Solid wood and solid metal, no flesh or water in sight, this was always how it went. The place beside him where Inej had been was empty, she had retreated, pressed herself up against the wall, her hands behind her back.

“I’m sorry, I-,” Kaz would have done anything to wipe away her guilt. “I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t mean to-”

“I wasn’t prepared,” he said, unable to look her in the eye, to admit to the weakness they both knew that he carried.

“I know,”

“I didn’t expect-”

“I know,” Inej interrupted. “Does the Sankta change the Berth it docks on?”

“No,” Kaz would never have the words to express the gratitude he felt at her diversion. He turned slightly in his seat, pretending to study the documents in front of him. Pretending like every cell in his body wasn’t honed in on Inej. On the way she was looking at him, distracting him once again with talk of plots and schemes, intangible actions that would let him fly high above the harbor he was drowning in. “It uses the same Berth every time.”

“Do we know who that dock belongs to?”

“It’s paid for by the Council, it’s designated for public use,”

“I’ll see what information I can gather,” Inej said and Kaz nodded, trying to force the image of Jordie out of his head. “Goodnight, Kaz,” Inej whispered after a moment, and though he did not hear her footsteps, he felt her absence immediately.

Where the water had been, regret replaced it. He balled his hand into a fist and closed his eyes. “Wait!” he called out after her, turning around slowly to not seem overeager. Inej was frozen, partway out his window. He felt picked apart with the way her gaze fell upon him, her eyebrows knit together, her face desperate and searching. Whatever unease still lingered in the center of his stomach, whatever terror still wrapped around his ankles, it fell away at the sight of Inej, sitting here on his window sill, backlit by moonlight and held up by hope.

At some point the fear of what her touch would bring him was dampened by his need to hold her close. He was broken and crooked and the most unworthy man, but he needed Inej to know it wasn’t her fault. Wanted her to know that he was trying to push the pieces of himself back together, into someone, something she would not be ashamed to love.

When Kaz and Nina had broken into the morgue all those months ago, he had powered through his fear with thoughts of Inej; the warmth of her skin, the sound of her voice. But as every second in that room of corpses passed them by, Kaz had forced Inej from his mind, not wanting to taint his memories of her with the scent of death. Kaz had believed for so long that the foolish little boy he had been had died in the harbor, but as his eyes fell upon Inej now, he knew he had been wrong. He had carried Kaz Rietveld with him every day of his life, and had pulled that doe eyed little fool to the surface on the back of his brother’s bloated body with every touch since then.

He’d learned very quickly what it meant to be weak in The Barrel. The Barrel starved, and beat, and stole all the kindness and compassion and love out of those unlucky enough to build a life inside it. Weakness got you killed, so Kaz had buried his weaknesses so deep they had turned themselves into shadows. He had kept them there in the dark for so long they had grown claws and teeth, they had become so rabid, so feral that Kaz was finding it harder and harder to keep them locked away.

But maybe he didn’t have to anymore. Because now he had the Wraith, he had Inej, and Inej made him strong. Inej made him wish for things he had convinced himself he could never have. Perhaps if he tried it, if he tried it enough, to touch her, to put her hand in his, to let her rest her head against his shoulder, to...to kiss her, he could finally put the little boy in the harbor to rest. Yes, he would drown his fear beneath the tidal wave that was Inej, he would burn away the memories of corpses against his flesh with the warmth of her skin against his.

“I want to try again,” it pained him to admit to it, it thrilled him to have said it. Kaz failed to keep his heart beat steady when Inej planted her feet firmly back into his room, and closed the window.

“Try what again?” she asked, stalking forward until there was nothing more than breath between them. Kaz studied the head of his cane, his skin prickled with the thought of what she’d feel like in his hands.

“I-” He dared a glance at her, she was ethereal, she was calculating, she was Inej and the rest of Kaz’s wish was lost with his nerve.

“Kaz, tell me,” Inej leaned forward, Kaz leaned back. He clenched his jaw, locked himself away behind his mask. “Tell me what you want,” He could feel the way she looked at him, like she’d created her own gravity and he’d collapsed beneath it. But he couldn’t make himself form words, it had taken everything he’d had to say something the first time, to show her such weakness again would surely break him. When Inej spoke there was an edge to her voice that was sharper than her knives. “Say it, Kaz. For once in your life just...say what you’re thinking. There is no one else here but us. There’s no one else to see you, to hear you treat me like you actually care.”

Kaz hung his head in shame, it was a fair blow, but that didn’t stop him from shattering into a million pieces at the acknowledgement of all the times he’d failed her. “I want to take my armor off.” He forced himself to meet her eye. “I want to beat this, I will beat this. Will you help me?”

They’d done this little dance for months now, the day on the docks, when he’d shown Inej her ship, he’d managed to hold her hand for a whole five minutes without sinking below the waves. He’d tried a couple times since then, with various levels of success. Some days he’d managed to throw his arm around her, others just the thought of her face caused him to tug on his gloves.

“Of course I’ll help you, Kaz, you only had to ask,” Kaz committed that smile of hers to memory. “Are you ready?” Inej asked.

No. Kaz steadied himself and straightened his posture “Yes,”

They started slowly, Inej resting her palm on the back of his gloved hand, Kaz took a deep breath, he could do this, he was fine. Inej’s fingers curled around his hand, she pressed their palms together. Kaz pushed the water away. She laced their fingers together, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“You okay?”

“Fine,”

“Do you want to keep going?”

“Yes,”

Kaz wasn’t sure what kind of sound he made when Inej began to tug the gloves from his hands. She froze, looking up at him, reading him the way only she could. She dropped her hand, Kaz wanted to reach for it, but he let it fall away. “I’m sorry, did you want to do it?”

“No, it’s- no one else ever has,” Kaz cleared his throat, biting back a smile at the way Inej’s cheeks flushed. Tentatively, Inej continued, it took a lifetime to complete her task, it took a second. The metal of his cane was cold against his fingertips, for the first time in a long time it no longer felt comforting. He reached out with his other hand, and gently Inej took it, her palm against the top of his bare hand. It felt like fire, but Kaz preferred the burn to the icy harbor he had always known. His breath caught in his throat, Inej continued until their hands were pressed palm to palm.

“Breathe,” Inej whispered, Kaz exhaled and peace rushed in to fill his lungs. She interlaced their fingers, the water started in. Think of her . Kaz clenched his jaw. Think of that day at the docks . Kaz faltered when Inej wrapped her other hand around his wrist, the one that held his cane. He thought that she might pull their hands away, and though he was not a man of faith, he thanked every Saint he knew that she kept her hold on him.

She repeated the pattern, gripping his wrist, his elbow, his shoulder with all his layers on. He kept his breathing purposeful, controlled, his eyes trained on the wall for fear he would look at Inej and see a corpse standing in her place. She slid her hand from his shoulder to his chest, he hoped she could not feel his heartbeat. He nearly lost his footing when her arm went to his waist. He was impossibly warm, sweat had started beading at his temples, he gripped his cane a little tighter.

Inej released his hand and a weight Kaz hadn’t realized was upon him disintegrated in his chest. But it returned in a flash when Inej began to pull off his coat. “Saints,” he whispered. “Why won’t it stop ?” he hadn’t meant to say it, he hadn’t meant for it to send Inej shuffling backward, too far away for him to grasp.

“It takes time, Kaz,” Inej replied, tossing his coat on the bed, taking a tentative step forward, then another when Kaz responded in kind. She brushed her fingers against his shirt sleeve at the wrist, it was an apology and a question. “You can’t kill this kind of monster in a day,” she traced a line up to his elbow. “It took me months,” Inej said, so simply that it knocked his world out of alignment and he had to take a step backward to right himself. Inej reacted on instinct, clutched his shoulders to make sure he did not fall.

“I’m not strong enough,” Kaz blurted out, hoping that if he spoke, he could force the feeling of rotting flesh out of his mind. “I’m not as strong as you,”

“That’s not true,” Inej ran her fingers across his chest and down to his waist. “My weakness just wasn’t visible, yours is,” she unbuttoned his vest, Kaz hadn’t even noticed and the implication of that made his stomach do a somersault. “When someone touches you, you are present, aware.” She continued her pattern, hands going back to his wrist, making sure he could anticipate where her next move was going to be. “Me? I disappeared,” Kaz caught her eye, and threw his thought away. He refused to pity her, he knew she wouldn’t want that. “I looked calm and collected, but no one knew what it was doing to me, to shake their hand or have their arms around me,”

She smiled at him, unrestrained and brilliant, and he looked down to realize he had his hand upon her waist, her arms wrapped around his in kind. This felt like a victory, it felt like a curse. Against the roughness of her jacket, his hand began to tremble. She stepped away, he didn’t want her to, but it was exactly what he needed.

“Your tie,” Inej stated, and Kaz could have worshipped her right then, for understanding that if she had brought her hand up to his neck, he might not survive the evening. He undid his tie, though the tightness in his throat did not relent. He unbuttoned his shirt, hoping that the action would steady his hand. He was feeling light-headed but he wasn’t drowning...yet. He wiped the sweat from his brow, ran a hand through his hair, forced his anxiety out with a breath. He had never gotten this far with her before.

Inej repeated the rhythm: wrist, elbow, shoulders. Her hand was Jordie’s hand, her flesh was Jordie’s flesh. His chest, his waist. The waters started rising, coming in with the strength of a flood. Inej could sense the change in him immediately, “Tell me about the tattoo,” Inej said, he did not want her hand on him anymore, he needed it to stay so he could keep trying. He knew why she was asking, she knew he needed a distraction, and he chuckled darkly because she did not know that this particular question serveed an opposite purpose.

“Not tonight,” But someday .

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,”

Her hand has been in his for seconds, minutes, days, long enough that Kaz let himself hope that one day he could be rid of this. This ghost of his brother, the phantom of his skin, slipping underneath his hand, his chest, his face. Carefully, never breaking eye contact, Inej brought his hand up to her lips, Kaz focused on his breathing, on the moonlight spilling across Inej’s plait. Kaz tasted salt on his tongue, no not salt, iron. His vision went blurry, and he lost the shape of Inej as a result. This was unbearable, but he was desperate for more, it was easier this way. Feeling her lips against his skin, instead of her skin beneath his lips. She pressed another kiss to the creases of his palm, to his wrist. This felt nothing like a corpse, but the traces of her lips burned like ice, like water.

“I never asked you,” Kaz began, relaxing the tension in his jaw “Are you okay with this?”

“I’m not doing anything I don’t want to be doing,” she whispered against his forearm, lips brushing the dark ink of his Dregs tattoo. He flexed the hand that held his cane, releasing some of the stiffness in his knuckles. She continued her familiar path across his body, through the smoke of Reaper’s Barge Kaz noticed she took care to avoid the R tattooed to his bicep when she kissed him there.

His whole body was alight, electrified, dying. He could smell death in his nose, he could feel the warmth of Inej’s body wash over him. He was tired, he was treading water, knowing any minute he could drown. He saw Jordie’s face, swollen, purple, eyes cloudy, No. He thought of Inej, of her laughter, her smile, of her voice whispering his name. Kaz Rietveld and Kaz Brekker were at war with one another, and right now, he wasn’t sure who would win. He should tell her to stop, but he didn’t want her to.

Inej took another step in, her hands balling into fists. I’m not doing anything I don’t want to be doing . She had just told him that, but he saw her now, saw how tightly she carried herself. He’d been so caught up in his own head, he hadn’t realized she’d been trying to shed her armor too. She leaned in, and Kaz was back in a hotel bathroom, she paused mere inches from his chest, sucked in one shaking breath, and ran her lips against his collar bone.

The current pulled him under; Kaz Rietveld had won again. Sudden, uncontrollable panic seized within his chest, snapping the leash to which he tied his weaknesses. They ran him over, all snarls and teeth and claws, turning him into something wild and furious. Before he could control himself, before he was even fully conscious of what was happening, he had flung his arms outward, pushing Inej away from him. “Stop,”

Inej, working to quiet her own demons had not been expecting this outburst from Kaz, she lost her footing, stumbling backward, and though she did not fall, Ghafa’s never fall , she did slam the back of her knee into the hard metal of Kaz’s bed frame. Inej cried out, more out of shock than out of pain. Desperation, horror, fury, regret pulled Kaz further under, the room was spinning, the moonlight hurt his eyes. Kaz caught himself on the edge of his desk, fumbling frantically for the waste basket he kept there, the cold metal of it in his hands bringing the briefest moment of comfort before he was vomiting up his dinner.

“Kaz?” Inej’s voice was sturdy, grounding, calm, but he could not turn to face her.

Inej

Kaz Brekker had gone by many names, and Inej had heard them all, whispered fearfully through the streets of Ketterdam by cowardly men. Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, the Bastard of the Barrel. Inej had spent so many nights on this city’s rooftops, seen only by the stars, listening in on the conversations that twisted up to her like crow feathers in the wind. She knew what people thought of him, he held a place amongst the most dangerous and feared of men. To some he was a bogeyman, to all he was a threat. And though she had seen him do terrible, violent things it still sent a sharp bolt of surprise crackling through her body whenever she heard the word “monster” following his name.

That monster stood before her now, leaning against his desk. Trusting her enough to turn away, to leave himself defenseless in her presence. Not trusting her enough to show his face. He was sweating, and in the light that spilled from the lamp upon his desk, Inej could see his hands twitching with the slightest tremor. She knew he was slipping, knew he was trying desperately to pull his armor on. But she was not here for Dirtyhands, and she had no time tonight for bastards. She thought about those names, the truths they carried with them. Could they really be titles for the man she was watching now? A boy who could not look her in the eye? No, the person that stood, half naked and shaking in this tiny little room, was neither of those things. This, she realized, this was simply

“Kaz,” she tried again.

“Leave,” and if she had known him any less she would have thought that he was serious.

“No,”

“Inej,” She was never sure how he could do that, how he could make her feel coveted and worshipped just by saying her name “ please ?” and his voice became a quiet, broken thing.

“No.” She said again, gentle as the breeze “I will not leave you, not like this,”

“I don’t want to see you,” it wasn’t a lie,

“You did great, Kaz, you’re making progress, ” and so was she, though she wasn’t sure Kaz realized it.

“Inej, get out,” he hissed, as if it hurt him to say the words.

“Why?”

He stiffened, and she bit back a smirk he hadn’t been expecting that . “I-” he hung his head.

She knew he didn’t have a reason, not one that he would admit to anyway “Is it because you don’t want me to see you like this? Because you’re worried you can’t give me what I want?” She tried to dampen the delight that bubbled in her chest, when she watched blotches of red blush paint the back of Kaz’s neck and spill down across his shoulder blades. “Is it because you feel ashamed?”

Kaz screamed with a rage she had seen up close only twice, a wild, guttural thing. When he got like this, destruction usually followed in his wake. As if on cue, Kaz slammed his hands down on the table, sweeping everything that rested there- every half drawn blueprint, ledger, and plan -onto the floor. His lantern tumbled with it as did a small wind up dog toy Kaz always kept sitting at his desk. The force of their impact caused both to shatter, sending pieces of glass and metal skidding across the hard wood floors. The paperwork took longer to fall, floating gently in the air around him like snow.

Kaz finally turned to face her, fury exploding behind his eyes. He wanted a fight, but Inej would never give him that satisfaction. When the dust settled, the anger that had possessed him had begun to burn low, confusion taking control of his posture and his brow when he finally saw Inej.

She had crossed her arms and tried her best to look bored. Based on his reaction it may have been working. “You can’t scare me away, Kaz,” It was the wrong thing to say, but it’s what he needed to hear.

The fire that flickered behind his eyes turned to ice, “I am the Bastard of the Barrel,” Kaz spit, stalking toward her, making sure to punctuate his words with the tapping of his cane against the wood. “I brought down Pekka Rollins, I conned Jan Van Eck, I broke into the Ice Court and made it out alive. Men run when they see me coming, parents tell their children I’ll steal them away in the night if they do not behave.” Kaz only stopped when her back was to a wall. He wanted her to feel cornered, he wanted her to feel trapped. On any other night, that may have worked, but she knew this was an act, and she had maneuvered herself so she was near the window, and he hadn’t seemed to notice. “I scare who I damn well please,”

Inej could not hold back anymore, she hadn’t meant to do it, but she started to laugh. “That’s good,” Kaz blinked in surprise, his posture shifting, his grip loosening on his cane. She took a step forward, he took a step back. “I can see how that would work on most people. But I know you Kaz. Sure, you took down Pekka and Jan Van Eck...with help,” she took another step forward, reveling in Kaz’s retreat. “But you’ve also fainted in a carriage, nearly drowned in Djel’s river, and got embarrassed when Jesper’s Dad caught you two in a fist fight.” Kaz ducked his head to hide the redness rushing to his cheeks. She took another step forward, he ceded his territory. “You got good at palming cards and picking pockets not because you planned for a life of crime, but because you like magic tricks . You’ve lost a hat in every corner of Ketterdam,” Kaz lost his footing, his knees buckled beneath him, sending him tumbling onto his bed. With nowhere left for him to go, Inej smirked, and leaned in just far enough so he could hear her whisper. “And, when you wake up in the morning, your hair sticks up to one side. Jesper and I pretend not to notice, but we both think it’s adorable,”

Inej spun gracefully on her heel, gliding back towards the window, because she was not cruel and did not want Kaz to suffer...she didn’t want Kaz to suffer much . Kaz glowered at her, but seemed to otherwise have calmed. “You know,” Inej said when the silence grew too heavy. “I’ve been afraid of a lot of people since I came to Ketterdam,”

“Even Jesper?” Kaz asked eventually, she could tell from the cadence of his voice he was exhausted.

“Especially Jesper” Inej trusted Jesper with her life, he had brought so much chaos and joy into her world. But he was kind and charming in a way that sent shivers down her spine. Inej had had too many clients come to her, all smiles and compassion. Jesper scared her because she knew what kind and charming men could do. Kaz flinched and looked away.

“But not me?”

“No,” Inej wanted to touch his cheek, to smooth the worry that lined his forehead “Never you,”

Slowly, deliberately, Kaz stood. Inej’s breath caught in her throat when her eyes met his. He looked paler than usual, and maybe a little green, but his hands were still, his stance was steadier. He had locked his thoughts away, no emotion showing on his face, but there was a shine in his eyes Inej had seen before, when Kaz was trying to let go of hope. He quirked a single eyebrow at her, a challenge.

“I’ve been scared for you,” she admitted. “I’ve been scared to disappoint you, I’ve been scared of what it would do to me to lose you.” Inej stepped forward, already knowing what would happen, knowing that Kaz, having slipped away once already, would take a step back. But instead he stood rooted in place, his grip tightening ever so slightly on his cane.

“Why?”

“Because you’ve never looked at me the way everyone else does.” She considered the weight of the words on her tongue. “One day at The Menagare would have been enough to show me what kind of place Ketterdam truly was, and I spent a year inside it’s walls. I’ve collapsed beneath a million broken promises, but never yours. I’ve heard a million gentle lies, but never from you. I have felt a million….unwanted hands,” Inej wanted to shrink away into the shadows, but she refused to show her weakness, she refused to look away. Like magnets they were pulling toward each other until they were sharing the same air, until they were standing as each other’s equals in the center of the room. Inej held out her hand, not a demand, not a question, but a wish. Her heart threatened to burst out of her chest when Kaz, without a moment’s hesitation, took her hand. He clenched his jaw, and drew a soft line across her palm with his thumb, it was a certainty, it was a promise. “But never yours,”

Kaz cleared his throat “I haven’t been scared of anyone since Jordie died,”

“Not even Jesper?” Inej teased, because she didn’t know what else to say.

Kaz bit back a smile “Never Jesper,”

“Not even me?” It was another joke, because she’d wanted to see more of that smile.

His face fell into something powerful and serious “I’ve always been scared of you, Inej,” she knew how much it must have taken for him to have admitted it. “From the moment you snuck up on me with bells on,”

“Really?” she could not hold the joy she felt at bay, it spread throughout her body, warming her all the way down to her toes.

Kaz nodded.

“But I was nothing then,”

“You have always been something.” Kaz corrected. “Back then you were Silence,”

“And now?” her eyes kept falling to his lips.

“You…” Kaz continued, leaning down, sending Inej’s heart into a frenzy she was worried she could never tame “should be going home,”

Inej scoffed, Kaz’s walls slipped down just long enough to let a small chuckle pass his lips. She would tuck that away in her memory, a look into the boy he could have been, a minute of vulnerability all for her. “That’s not fair! I told you mine!” If it had been Jesper standing in front of her, Inej would have backhanded his shoulder. But this was Kaz and he had done a lot tonight, she didn’t want to push her luck. Especially when she was enjoying this feeling of his hand in hers, she wasn’t looking to ruin it. “Come on Kaz,” she whispered, “why are you scared of me?”

He chewed his lip, and she could see the gears turning in his head, the debate he was conducting. Should he tell her the truth? Or keep his feelings a mystery and send her away. She was getting tired of being sent away. “Because I trust you.” Kaz said. “Because, you make me want to tell you everything. We deal in secrets, Inej, because we know that information can be more valuable than money. You’ve learned my patterns, you know my mind, you could unravel everything I have built with a single word to the right person,”

It was true, but it hurt. She pulled her hand from his, and regretted it. “You think that I would?”

“No,” he said it so fast, so sure that it knocked the air out of her lungs, it tore her voice from her throat. “And that is why you scare me. Because I know that thought has never crossed your mind.” He tugged gently at the bottom of her braid, twisting it around in his fingers. This was a system they had worked out months ago, for when Kaz wanted to be physical but the feeling of her skin was too much. “You are kinder and stronger than I will ever be and I am scared that-” he dropped her braid, placed both his hands atop his cane, and broke eye contact. “I am scared that you will finally see yourself for everything you are and know I am not worthy of your time or loyalty.”

“Kaz,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say. Because she couldn’t say I love you . The tension in the room, the cord that pulled the two of them together, was severed by the tolling of a clock.

Kaz broke first, eyes skirting to the city stretched out below them. “Goodnight, Inej,” he whispered, his voice rougher than usual.

“Goodnight,” she managed, slipping out of his window and vanishing into the night. Kaz watched her go until he could not feel her presence any longer, then he turned, and started picking up his mess. When Kaz woke the next morning, his heart stuttered in his chest. Sitting in the middle of his desk was a brand new wind up dog toy and laying next to it, reflecting the early morning sun was a geranium made out of glass.

#kanej fanfiction #kanej #kanej fic #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #the crows #six of crows #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #crooked kingdom #shadow and bone #kaz x inej #kaz brekker x inej ghafa #six of crows fanfiction

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shootybangbang · 3 years

Text

[Talking Bird] Ch 16: In which the plot finally makes an appearance

[Ao3 Link]

[Content Warning]: suicidal ideation, mild gore

[Note]: this fic has gone through some serious revisions — mostly expanded scenes/dialogue. The chapters most heavily affected are 1, 2, 3, and 7, but I’ve added a changelog to the end notes of each previous chapter detailing the edits that have been made. To save you some time though, here are the three main things to note:

The reader character does not have the bonds

The reader character refers to Arthur by his last name due to unfamiliarity

The horniness from last chapter has been moved to a future chapter. sorry!

This chapter is also pretty long in comparison to the others. From here on out, the chapters will probably be 2000+ words.

———

You look out into the plains, at the last pale band of light disappearing beneath a horizon of prairie grass and dark, looming buttes. The shadows of the scant trees stretch long and thin, their branches like a thousand spindly fingers grasping, searching. The landscape is dimmed to a tableau of reds and blacks, anything not illuminated by the fire slowly sinking into the featureless canvas of night. All of it blurred and indistinct behind a curtain of rain.

It’s a prettier sight by far than any you’ve had in St Denis. Or San Francisco. Or anywhere else you’ve lived, really.

And yet it hangs like featureless gauze behind the endless reel playing out over and over behind your eyes, spinning round like the printed images on a zoetrope.

The O’Driscoll’s hands wet with blood and mud. His eyes wide and uncomprehending. Trying to put himself back together the way one might a broken toy, sieving his viscera between his fingers and scooping it into the cavity of his chest. That initial, stunned bemusement giving way at last to the dawning horror of his own end.

And accompanying it, the numb realization that what bothered you more was the bare abstraction of the act. The burden of this sin weighing heavy with all the others, its addition tipping some moral scale, and —

“Hey.”

Morgan’s voice, jarringly brusque against the murmurings of your own private judge and jury, is almost mercifully irritating.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“Get up,” he says. “Start strippin’ the wet bark off the firewood.”

“For chrissakes, at least give me a second to catch my breath.”

“Why, so you can keep sittin’ there feeling sorry for yourself?” He leans one hand against the stone wall of the outcrop and drags himself back to his feet. The barest shadow of a grimace flits across his face as he straightens his back. “C’mon. Sooner we get set up proper, the sooner we can get back to ignorin’ each other. Then you can sulk all night in peace.”

The cottonwood branches are covered in cracked, ash brown bark that scrapes rough against your palms and fingers, rasping the skin raw as you hold the wood firm for carving. One of the downsides of living easy for so many years, you suppose — all the protective calluses atrophy to nothing, and what remains becomes susceptible to old and familiar hurts. But habits run deeper than skin, and what the mind forgets the body keeps.

As you work your way through the firewood, Boadicea nickers and paws impatiently at the dirt.

“I’m sorry girl,” you hear Morgan say. “Been a hard day for us both.”

You snort contemptuously. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he unhooks the horse’s bridle and lifts away the saddle, then starts grooming her with a battered looking brush, brushing with quick, circular motions, going against the grain and fluffing up her coat to dry out her fur with a solicitous measure of care that seems wholly unfitting of a man of his temperament and occupation.

Boadicea makes a low, rumbly noise in the back of her throat that sounds almost like a purr. She dips her head down and chomps at the yellowed prairie grass lining the floor of the outcrop, tearing up mouthfuls with a sedate contentedness that makes you sorely wish you could share in her circumstances.

A sense of fatigue more complete than any you’ve ever felt before settles over you like heavy snow. For the moment, you feel blank and washed out, stripped bare of all pretense.

“Morgan,” you admit. “I don’t have the bonds.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.” He unpacks his canvas roll and yanks free from it the saddle blanket of coarse, undyed wool, then unfurls it over the horse’s back, pulling it over her flank and adjusting the fit. “Figured as much before we left Strawberry.”

“Oh.” At this point, you haven’t even the energy to be surprised. “Huh.”

For a long while, the only sound is that of the knife scraping against bark and the intensifying patter of rain, fat droplets coming down hard and fast.

In a small voice, you ask him, “You’re not really gonna sell me to a brothel, are you?”

He scoffs. “What makes y’think that ?”

“Thought you seemed too… too decent to do something like that.”

“Me? Decent?” Morgan lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. “Thought you’d know better by now.”

He turns partway to face you. In the dim light of the fire only half of him is lit bright enough to see, the rest tapering sharp into dark silhouette. For the lapse of a heartbeat it’s as if all the irreverence and bravado has been ripped away like a sheet of paper, and underneath a viciousness, a suppressed violence that you’ve been too blind to see.

This whole time you’ve been treating him like a dog, when the teeth at your throat are those of a wolf.

Your mouth goes dry and your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand. You stare up at him like a deer caught in his sights — blind panic rising up in your chest and throat like cold water. You swallow hard and try to force it down so you can maintain at least a semblance of control.

“Mr. Morgan…?”

“You ain’t been half as scared of me as you should be,” he says. “holed up with a wanted man, nobody around for miles. Some of the men I’ve run with, they…”

He lets the sentence trail off, the implications clear enough without him saying so. Then he shakes his head, and there is a weariness in him, a kind of cynical exhaustion that ages him far beyond his years. “Girl,” he says. “You keep at this line of work, I guarantee you’ll be dead in a year.”

Morgan slicks his fingers through his wet hair to keep rainwater from dripping into his eyes, and you can see that the hangdog look is back on his face, all his suggested cruelty vanished like smoke. He shifts his attention back to the saddlebags. “No, I ain’t decent,” he continues. He pulls out a tin cup and the individual components of what looks to be a collapsible grill. “But I ain’t so far gone that I’d hurt a woman. Or sell one.”

“But you’d ransom one.”

“Figured it out, did you?” he says. “Thought you might.”

He sits back beside the fire and pieces the grill together, twists its winch tight and positions it over the fire. Then he fills the tin cup with water from the canteen and sets it atop to heat.

“If you don’t hurt women,” you say slowly, your right hand still holding the knife tight as a vise. “Then what’re you going to do to me when you find out I’m not worth ransoming?”

“Doubt that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Why not?”

“Had a brand new Mauser on ya. You know how much those things cost?”

Mentally, you kick yourself. Looks like begging the gunsmith to lend you the best pistol he had in stock has come back to bite you in the ass.

“The gun’s not mine,” you say quickly. “It’s a loan.”

“Those bloomers in your room were real silk. You gonna tell me those were a loan too?”

“You — my bloomers?! Why were you going through my bloomers, you fucking degen—”

Of all the things you’ve accused him of today, somehow this is the one that actually rankles him. “You think I like rummaging through women’s underwear? Had to go through ‘em to get to your billfold.”

You flush hard enough that even the tips of your ears feel hot. “I… I saved up for those bloomers. Not that I’d expect you to understand the importance of—

“That shirt’s custom tailored, ain’t it? Those boots, too. And that’s good leather right there. Far too good for your typical drug mule. Either you come from money, or you got rich friends.”

There’s not much you can rebut here. All you can manage is a lame, “You don’t even know who I am .”

“Got a friend not too far from here who’s plenty familiar with St Denis. He’ll know.” Morgan holds his hand out towards you. “Gimme that knife a second.”

The knife is the only scrap of protection you’ve managed to grab hold of through this entire ordeal. You squeeze its handle tight.

He lets out a short, impatient sigh. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. So c’mere and hand it over.”

You’ve known men who take a certain vicious pleasure in abusing women. Merchants with cringing wives. Clients with kind faces who’d leave working girls battered and bruised. There’s usually a certain mien about them that sets you on edge and that Morgan, brusque as he is, thoroughly lacks.

You brush the wood shavings off your lap and approach him. When you reach his place beside the fire, he tilts his head upwards to meet your eyes, the look on his face calm and expectant. A self-assured confidence that you’ve seen many times before, in the guises of many different men. It sends a familiar shiver of resentment down your spine.

You could cut out his eye right now. You could sink the blade into the thick cord of his neck. And he’d shoot you dead just for trying it — oh, you’ve no doubt of that — but it’d be quick and it’d be painless, and here comes that pathetic urge again, that little whisper coaxing you deeper, deeper towards the welcoming dark —

But equally pathetic is the nagging insistence that always stays your hand, that strident, desperate plea born from bodily instinct. The shared fear of all life from the inevitable. Cowardice — that’s what it is. A cowardice you’ve never been able to shake, a resentful, stubborn tether that you’ve bitten and clawed at over the years, but that still stays looped firm around your neck.

( And what about Mei? What about her son? )

You hand him the knife, and he receives it without incident.

The water in the tin cup is boiling. Morgan slips the point of the knife through the cup’s metal handle, and delicately removes it from the grate to cool. As you stand there, wet and cold and resentful, but not sure what else to do, he saws the top off a can of beans and sets it on the grill to warm, then pulls something out of his satchel and tosses it in your direction.

Somehow, you manage to not fumble the catch. It’s a can of peaches.

“Don’t eat ‘em yet,” he says. “I wanna take a look at your arm first. Roll up your sleeve for me.”

You grimace. One of the pros of tailored shirts is having sleeves that actually fit. “It doesn’t roll up that far.”

“Then I’ll cut it off for you,” he says, putting the knife to the shoulder seam.

“Like hell you will. This is my last decent shirt.”

Morgan shrugs. “No way around it, unless you wanna take it off.”

A shirt nice enough to present a veneer of respectability costs at least $4. Your usual tailor’s fee runs about $2, plus tip. That’s $6 total: the equivalent of two week’s worth of food for Mei and her son. Good food — white rice and cabbage, maybe even a bit of pork belly. Not the bits of offal scrounged from the butcher and wilted produce she’d resort to otherwise.

You hold out your hand and say, “Give me something to cover myself with.”

Your time spent reading Ovid in college would have probably been better served learning to dress like him, you think to yourself as you try and try again to wrap Morgan’s blanket around yourself like a toga.

“I said I’d give you a minute to yourself,” he says. “It’s been more than three now. I’m gonna turn around.”

“Just ten more seconds,” you respond, hastily tucking the corner of the blanket into the horizontal swathe pulled taut across your torso.

The sheer amount of irritation he manages to convey in the sigh he lets out is really quite impressive. In it, you can somehow hear him rolling his eyes.

When you finally let him know you’re ready, he takes one look at you and has to stifle a laugh. “You could’ve just wrapped it around your chest. Woulda been more practical.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to preserve what’s left of my dignity,” you snap, keeping one arm pressed against your chest to keep the whole improvised garment from falling apart.

“Alright Caesar, c’mere. Let me see.”

The cut looks like an angry red furrow ploughed through the field of your skin. Its edges are ragged and torn, separated like poorly cut cloth. In between, the wound itself gleams red and raw, with particles and fibers mixed in with blood and indeterminate tissue.

Earlier, when you’d gingerly untied the makeshift bandage and taken off your shirt, you’d taken a silent moment to survey the damage, wondering with horrified fascination if it was perhaps your own muscle you were glimpsing, that particular facet of your body surfacing through its dermal barrier for the first time.

“I’m gonna hold your arm,” Morgan says. “That ok with you?”

You nod, a little dumbfounded that he of all people would have the foresight to ask for permission.

He lifts your arm towards the firelight so he can better examine the wound, and in doing so handles you with more care than you can remember any lover ever giving you. You tell yourself that it’s a rebuke of your own terrible taste than an indication of any extraordinary kindness on his part, then forcibly dredge up the memory of his gun at your back for good measure.

“You’re gonna have a hell of a scar after this,” he says, running his thumb along the unbroken skin below the cut. “No inflammation, which is good. I’ll patch you up the best I can, but we’re still gonna want to check on it every couple hours to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He gets up to rummage through his saddlebags and returns holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of clear liquid. “You’ll be wanting this,” he says, handing over the latter. “This’ll hurt.”

You take a swig and nearly choke on it. “What the hell is this?”

“Grain alcohol.”

Grimacing, you bring it to your lips again and take in two more mouthfuls of the stuff before handing it back, gulping it down quick to get the burn of it down your throat and off of your tongue.

Morgan hovers his hand over the tin cup to test its temperature. “This needs to cool down first. Gives you some time for that liquor to set in too.”

“I think it’s going to my head already,” you admit.

Heat is spreading from the warm pit of your stomach to your neck and face, branching through your veins as sure as blood. The thud of your heart, previously an imperceptible thing, now asserts itself like a metronome.

He glances over at you and whistles low. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”

“Not usually.” You press your palm against your cheek. “Am I turning red?”

“Gettin’ there.”

It’s strange, settling into this oddly comfortable limbo between cordiality and aggression. Your sustained caution of him is beginning to wane so steadily that you have to consciously remind yourself the only reason he hasn’t shot you dead or at least seriously injured you is due to the fact that you’re worth more intact than otherwise.

“So,” Morgan says. “What’s someone with silk bloomers doin’ all the way out here runnin’ opium to Strawberry?”

“It’s a very long and stupid story.”

“Then give me the short version.”

You stare at the ground as though it’ll offer you some way to condense the sordid affair of your life into a couple easy sentences. He’d asked the question with what sounded like genuine curiosity instead of interrogation, and for once you feel inclined to blurt out the whole of it, like a girl in confession.

You want to tell him about how small the missionaries had seemed when you’d waved at them through the train’s grime-smudged window, not knowing it’d be the last time. The tweed jacket tossed carelessly onto the floor, and the cool, smooth sheen of mahogany against your skin. Feng fishing you out from the dark water lapping at the docks. The money, the opium, the blood.

The sight of the Heartlands for the first time, its blue horizon impossibly vast.

“I owe someone a lot of money,” you say finally, fiddling with a piece of grass between your fingers, tearing into halves and halves and halves. “He said it was either this or the brothel.”

“And you chose this. Runnin’ dope to those poor bastards working the railroads.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard this particular tone of voice. The kind that implies its speaker’s higher moral ground as it categorically condemns you. But coming from him makes its sting especially hard.

“I don’t force them to buy it,” you say hotly. “It’s not just me that’s at fault here.”

“You ever seen a dope addict? They ain’t got a goddamn choice —”

“Well, d’you know what the average lifespan of a Chinatown whore is?” You don’t bother waiting for a response before plummeting to the answer. “Two years. After that she’s either dead from syphilis or suicide. At least with the opium I’ll die out here in the open and not in some squalid closet of a room that smells like piss and men.”

The liquor is starting to hit hard , and a part of you is fiercely grateful for it. It’s been a long time since you’ve been given an excuse to scream out the inequities of your life to someone, and a man who’s holding you for ransom seems as good a target for your vitriol as any.

“You think that just ‘cause it’d be better for the greater good or some shit, they should get to fuck me over? Is that what you think?”

Morgan seems a little taken aback. “I didn’t say th—”

“I don’t give a shit about the addicts. I don’t give a shit who’s life I’m ruining, as long as it isn’t mine. I don’t… I don’t care about anyone else because I’m a terrible excuse for a human being. That’s what you want to hear me say, right?” At this point, you realize that you’ve transitioned into a hysterical rant, that you don’t properly mean half the things you’re saying, but saying it out loud feels good nonetheless, like sucking venom from a festering wound. “But people like you don’t get to tell me so. Because at least I don’t hold people at fucking gunpoint . I don’t rob banks or kidnap women or beat debtors. I’m not a fucking murderer like you—”

The last statement barely clears the air before the image of the dead O’Driscoll, sprawled across the ground with his belly torn open, flashes through your head. You immediately clap your hand over your mouth, as if doing so will let you swallow back your words.

“No,” Morgan says, “You ain’t a murderer. And that’s why you won’t last long.”

“Good,” you seethe. The hot sting of tears begins prickling again at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t want to.”

He raises his eyebrows and regards you with a vague, detached kind of pity that makes you almost wish he’d just outright condemn you instead, then touches his fingers to the tin cup. “Water’s cool enough now, I think.”

You feel like a petulant child who’s just thrown an ineffectual tantrum. Rendered self-conscious and obedient for the time being, you allow him to secure your elbow with his hand and begin irrigating the wound with warm water.

“Jesus fucking god,” you hiss. You reflexively try and jerk away, but he holds you still and tells you to stop squirming, his grip firm as iron.

It’s the worst pain you’ve felt in years. Like a lick of flame passing over your skin, echoing its progenitor again and again as he washes the cut with a series of short, measured trickles of water, flushing away the combined grime of dried blood, dust, and lint.

“You think this is bad,” he says, unscrewing the bottle of grain alcohol. “Wait’ll I sterilize it.”

If the water was flame, then the alcohol is a streak of molten lava, wet fire soaking through the wound in a rush of white-hot burning pain. You don’t scream — you let out a weak, choking sob so pathetic that you cover your mouth again in an attempt to stifle it.

But you’re a little drunk and your subconscious recognizes this as an excellent excuse to cry, and so it lets flood the tears you’ve kept stoppered up for hours now. You whimper, meet his eyes briefly, then start bawling.

Your crying before hadn’t seemed to bother him, but now he looks almost comically alarmed. He must think it’s the physical pain sending you into hysterics, because he starts trying to comfort you the same way he did Boadicea when he’d led her into the river.

“You’re doin’ good,” he says, cajoling you in a soft, affectionate voice. He sets the bottle of alcohol on the ground and pats you awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just a little more to go, and we’ll be done.”

Another agonizing, scorching splash of fire. He doesn’t chide you this time when you try to pull away.

“Shhhh… I know, I know. Hurts like a bitch, don’t it? I’m gonna give it one more rinse, and — yeah, there we go. You’re alright.”

Morgan wraps the bandage over your arm with deft, practiced fingers, and you wonder briefly how many times he’s had to do this for himself, with no one to soothe him. Though better that than the shoddy job you’d done on him six weeks ago, frantically patching him up with just the barest idea of what you were doing.

He ties off the bandage, then picks the can of peaches off the ground, pops open its metal lid with the tip of his knife and proffers it to you like a peace offering. “Here. You’re hungry, right?”

It’s very hard to cry and eat at the same time. You decide to concentrate on the latter.

After tapering your sobs down to a series of quiet, resentful sniffles, you begin gulping down mouthful after messy mouthful of sliced peach. It’s the first morsel of food you’ve had in over ten hours, and you wolf it down so quickly you hardly taste it. Just an impression of cloying sweetness mixed with something faintly aromatic (cinnamon, you think) lingering as an aftertaste.

The old instincts of hunger are hard to shake off. All decorum thoroughly discarded, you raise the can to your lips and drink down what syrup remains, tilting it nearly perpendicular to the ground to get at the last few drops.

“My god,” Morgan says. “I seen dogs with better manners.”

“If you’d fed me earlier, then I— what’re you doing.”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he asks. He holds his bandolier in one hand. The other is working at his shirtcollar. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta these wet clothes.”

You clutch at the empty can of peaches as his union suit reveals itself in a revelation of blue. A blue which, you admit to yourself with an uncomfortable surge of appreciation, suits the shade of his eyes extremely well. But when he begins unbuckling his belt, you quickly avert your eyes. “Really?” you ask. The scandalization you probably ought to have felt from the very moment he’d begun undressing finally begins to surface. “Your pants, too?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m keepin’ the union suit on.”

“Are you usually this brazen with the women you kidnap?”

“D’you usually sit around half-naked with the men who kidnap you?” he asks, jabbing his thumb towards your own discarded shirt, which you’d spread out neatly beside the fire to dry.

“That’s different,” you hiss, knowing very well that it isn’t. “I had a medical reason.”

“Yeah, and so do I. I don’t wanna get pneumonia.”

He has a point. You look down at your own sodden trousers, which cling to your skin in a cold, wet embrace, and your internal scale of comfort versus propriety tips decidedly towards the former.

“Turn your back again,” you tell him.

“What for?”

“I’m gonna take my pants off too, and I don’t want you trying to sneak a peek at my bloomers.”

He laughs, then winces and gingerly splays his fingers across his ribs. It’s the first sign of real levity you’ve seen from him. “Oh, that is the last thing on my mind right now, girl.” There’s a tired grin on his face, and were it not for the events of the day, you might have almost found it endearing. “Besides, you ain’t hardly my type.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” you reply, a little offended. “Because I’m not interested in men with terrible taste.”

But he does as he’s told, and when you’re satisfied with the oblique angle of his range of sight, you let the borrowed blanket fall from your shoulders and pull the ribbon securing your braid free. You rake your fingers through your hair until it hangs loose, then gather the ends of it in one hand and twist it tight to wring out the rainwater. Only then do you pull the blanket back over your shoulders and begin to undress.

First, your boots. Then the knee-length woolen socks, which have left their cable-knit weave as an imprint on your skin. After glancing at him one more time to make sure his face is turned discreetly away, you unbuckle your belt and wriggle your way out of your trousers. It takes some maneuvering, and some thoroughly indecent posturing, to finally get them off. You leave your cotton bloomers on, figuring that the warmth of the fire will dry the thin material soon enough.

When you look back at Morgan, you find that he’s since turned back towards you. Not to gawk, but to get a better look at his own wounds in the firelight.

His union suit is half-unbuttoned. Most of his bare chest is visible, and along with it, the bruises from the ricocheted bullet. A mottle of blue and violet, like a spill of ink that radiates from the negative imprint of the flask that took the impact in his place. And right below it, a glimpse of your own handiwork.

When you’d first found him, the cut had spanned diagonal across his torso, trailing shallow from his chest and biting deep near the ridge of his hip. Most of it’s healed over since, but the edges are angry and inflamed still, and you can see the fading marks of your inexpert stitches laid like railroad tracks over the land of his skin.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t looked at you,” Morgan says. He probes gently at an indigo patch and inhales sharply. “Too busy lickin’ my own wounds.”

If you look closer, you can see the remnants of multiple scuffs and scratches. A history of violence storied across his body, told in the pale lettering of scars, many of them recent. An unwelcome pang of guilt settles itself low in your belly. It looks like he’s been on the road for a while, healing sporadically through long stretches of hard journeying. Hard journeying made worse, no doubt, by your theft of his bonds.

“You… uh. You want me to keep carving off wet bark?”

“Nah,” he says distractedly, still trying to determine the depth of the damage left behind. “Should be fine leavin’ the rest of it to dry out by the fire.”

You draw the blanket tighter around your shoulders, then root around your head for something, anything to talk about. Anything to get this burgeoning sympathy for Arthur Morgan out of your head.

“Your friend in St Denis,” you say finally. “He’s not gonna know much about me if he doesn’t speak Chinese.”

Morgan absentmindedly scratches his chin as he begins buttoning his union suit back up. “Wouldn’t put it past him. I know he’s had dealings with ‘em in the past.”

Something clicks in the back of your head. Long overdue recognition like puzzle pieces fitting together. “What’s his name?”

“Josiah,” he says.

“Josiah,” you echo. The spark of some fit of emotion is beginning to rise in your throat. “Josiah… Trelawney?”

His bewildered face is enough to confirm your suspicions. Relief, anger, confusion — all of them flood you at once with such intensity that you have to take a moment to squeeze your eyes shut. When you open them, you take a deep breath and swallow hard. “Josiah Trelawney’s the son of a bitch I sold your bonds to.”

———

Massive thanks to @reddeaddufus for editing not only this chapter, but the entirety of this fic. This whole thing would be a lot more disjointed if it weren't for her.

Definitely give her fic Red Dead Pursuit a look. The main character is extremely compelling, the plot is fast-paced, and the porn is A+. Her writing style is also a delight to read.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #my work #talking bird

11 notes · View notes

athelari · 4 years

Text

6. one foot across

Day 6/7 of the Mass Effect Trilogy Week : Alternate Universe. 1.8k words; gen; timeskip post-ME3; ‘modded playthrough’ timeline (JAM and ThaneMod); Thane/Shepard + Garrus; cw: hospitals.

Her knee wobbles, and her palms are flat against the window-pane, only just stopping her from knocking face-first into it. A breath escapes her mouth, halfway between a laugh and a sigh of relief, and she pulls back again, steadying her footing before scanning the view outside.

“Looks like it'll be clear skies today. Finally. There has to be a limit to how much snow this place can dish at you.”

Thane looks up from his book, glancing at the other window near him with a critical eye. Reflected sunlight brings a soft backlight to his features, a gentle glow to his scales. “I can see a dark cloud on this side, but the wind seems to be pushing it away from us. You're right. We may see a fine day yet.”

“Trust Noveria to have blizzards every other day.” She takes a wary turning step, one hand reaching for a nearby table just in case. But the leg holds up admirably. “Think we’ll see snow in Kahje, this time of the year?”

“Near the poles, perhaps, where ice is plenteous and the temperatures are far cooler. But the hanar built most of our domed cities in the warmer regions.” He lowers his book—an honest-to-God paper-filled and leather-bound book, one of a dozen that had suddenly arrived at her hospital room a week ago—and rises to approach her, before suddenly stopping in his tracks. “Did you hear that?”

She, too, pauses to listen. Immediately, the first thing to come forward is the distant shore, the muted but ever-present sound of waves crashing and roaring and swishing in her ear. It's not so bad most of the time, and the doctors told her something convoluted that boils down to it being caused by some head injury or other when she was ragdolled by the Catalyst's big explosion, but deep down, she thinks otherwise.

(When she's lying on her bed, wide-awake despite the hour, the silent room bringing out the subtle sounds in her ear, she knows it's because she has one foot across that sea already.)

But then she hears it. The sound Thane mentioned. It's persistent and plodding, multiple footfalls in the corridor headed in their direction, accompanied by a woman's urgent protestations: “Sir! You shouldn't be here! Sir! Sir, back off, this is a restricted—”

In a second, Thane has slipped next to the door, ready for when it opens. Shepard stumbles, staggers until she is partway behind the low couch, still visibly standing but ready to bunker down in case of gunfire.

Then, the door buzzes open, and in spills Garrus Vakarian, an irate nurse at his heels. “Shepard!” he throws his arms wide, one of them just barely missing Thane, who instantly steps back. “And Thane! Almost didn't see you there, old friend. Still skulking around the edges, I see.”

“Garrus?” she squawks, incredulous. “What're you doing here?”

“Is that how you greet all your visitors? You hurt my feelings, Shepard,” he tilts his head towards the large window. “I was just in the neighbourhood. Y'know, doing business for the Primarch. Thought I'd drop by and check on you, have a few minutes to talk, the usual.”

Meanwhile, the nurse next to him is turning a deeper shade of purplish-blue, one Shepard never thought asari are even capable of. She holds up a placating hand. “It's all right, let him stay. He won't cause any trouble, won't he, Garrus?”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he chuckles. But there is something in his eyes, an undercurrent to his joviality, that gives her pause. They've known each other for years now, and she knows him like she knows her own mind. Something is bothering him. Something must be, to propel him through the cold he notoriously detests just to drop by unannounced in her hospital room.

Something, she specifies to herself, other than the agitated nurse. The apoplectic asari narrows her eyes suspiciously, but Shepard waves her away, perhaps just a hint of impatience running through her veins and into her fingertips. “It's all right, Daryna, he can stay. Spectre authorisation.” There it is; Garrus flinches, just a little. “I am still a Spectre, right?” she asks, half-joking.

“Very well,” Daryna concedes. “But only for half an hour at most. The Commander needs to rest.” She withdraws from the room, footfalls light and airy, and the door swishes shut behind her again.

“How are you, Garrus?” Thane's voice is easy, calm. He motions towards the couch, and Garrus makes himself at home there, limbs stretching in all directions like a cat just roused from a long nap.

“Busy like you won't believe it. Mostly on Palaven, helping the rebuilding, but the Primarch likes to make me run errands to Earth. Said something about me being a familiar face to the humans. Hah. Can't say anything to that, I suppose,” he starts to speak again, but catches sight of Shepard's leg and visibly startles in his seat. “Is that a—”

Shepard laughs, taking a few uncertain steps towards them. “Yep. A sapper platform spare part. You gotta hand it to the geth,” she flexes the synthetic leg, its joints softy whirring just at the edge of hearing, “this thing works better than my old leg. Now if only I can convince them to donate me the right one too.”

“What, and mess up with your dance moves? Wouldn't we need those to scare away any other potential threats to the galaxy?”

“You're just jealous you don't have a geth body part,” Shepard grins, dropping onto the other end of the couch. “Honestly? I can get used to this.”

“She's making excellent progress with her prostheses,” Thane tells him. He perches at the edge of her presently unoccupied bed, hands folded in his lap. “The medical staff here took the suggestion very professionally. I understand this place was once attacked by the geth heretics two years ago?”

“That's right,” Garrus nods. “Of course, we were there to stop it. Just another moment in our brilliant careers.”

A lull in the conversation. Thane sits still, quiet as a mouse; he exudes patience, the air of someone waiting for the right moment, a chessmaster watching his opponent dither over the next move. Garrus shifts position again, both feet flat on the floor as if expecting to rise soon.

The phantom ocean roars, hisses at the back of her mind.

“Garrus. Is everything all right?” she leans forward, elbows resting on her knees.

“Yeah. Yeah, it's all good,” his gaze drops momentarily, his fringe casting sharp shadows on the wall behind him. He takes a deep breath, and then his words rush along with it like water from a broken dam. “That's part of the problem, actually. Councillor Sparatus contacted me yesterday. The Council had some news for me. They…” he trails off, eyes wandering. “Damn. I still can't believe it.”

“Take your time,” Thane murmurs, reassuring.

Garrus nods, evidently following his suggestion and taking a moment to arrange his words. “They—Sparatus asked me if I'd want to be a Spectre.”

He stops, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest. Thane sucks in a deep breath.

“And? What did you say?” she urges him on.

“That I'll get back to them about it. I—I don't know if I can take it. Frankly, I don't know why they even bothered to ask me. A failed C-Sec officer who took justice into his own hands to shoot down mercs on Omega… sure, I'm supposedly the turian Reaper expert, but what good's that gonna be now that the Reapers are gone?” he shakes his head. “And why would the Council even need a new Spectre now? Right now it's all just rebuilding and sending assets and logistics from one end of the galaxy to another. What am I supposed to do?”

“The same things you've always done,” She cuts in. “You find any snags that need moving on, you get them moving on. Anyone making stupid rules or out for their own gain, point them the right way. Anyone preying on the weak, stand up against them. Same things you did throughout our time together. Isn't this what you've always wanted, ever since we first met on the Presidium? A chance to do what's right, without any red tape getting in the way?”

He lets out a short sniff. “That. Yeah, I suppose there's that.” A beat passes. He glances at her, ice-blue eyes tentative, flickering. “You think I should take it, then?”

“Should you take it?” Shepard laughs. “I think it's about damn time they asked you. Imagine what we could've accomplished if they made you Spectre two years ago.” He makes another sniff, and she adds, a touch more soberly: “C'mon, Garrus. You remember what I tell people who ask about the job? It's basically just like C-Sec—”

“—with a bigger Ward. Yeah, I know.”

“You got this, Vakarian,” she leans across and slaps his shoulder. “It's in your blood, always has been. And look, we both know I'm not going to be functional as a Spectre while I'm like this—”

“Hey, don't talk like that—”

”—but someone's gotta step up to the plate while I'm out, don't you say? I think the Council had one hell of an idea, asking you to be that someone. I know I can rest easy knowing the galaxy is in good hands,” she grins, leaning back against the couch.

“Shepard is right,” Thane slips in, smooth as rain trickling over rock. “You are a very capable man, one with principles, who knows the value of both justice and mercy. You will make an excellent Spectre, Garrus.”

“Damn right you will,” she adds. “You can ask anyone you want. I know they’ll say the same thing. Way I see it, you’ve one foot across the edge already. Accepting just makes it official.”

Garrus remains silent for another moment. Then he flexes his mandibles and takes a deep breath. “Thanks. Both of you. That's—I'll think about it some more.” But his tone is steady, and from the way he finally lets his shoulders drop tells her he has already made up his mind.

Then they change tacks, discussing all sorts of news from over the galaxy, reminiscing like veterans and gossiping like fresh cadets, until inevitably Daryna reappears to insist that impromptu visiting hours are up. Then they trade goodbyes, promises to keep each other updated, and any last-minute jibes they have left.

Finally, after the door has closed behind Garrus' retreating back, Thane moves to sit on the couch and motions for Shepard to join him. “It's wonderful news.”

“It sure is,” she agrees, sidling down next to him and allowing the warmth of his presence to seep through his skin.

“An excellent suggestion, no doubt. Though I do wonder…” Thane's voice trails off, and he casts a sidelong glance at her; one she pretends not to notice.

“Hm?”

“Spectre candidates can only be suggested by those currently holding Spectre status themselves. Did you put his name forward?”

He awaits her reply. Shepard looks at him, an irrepressible smile forming on her lips. The distant sea rumbles peacefully in her ear.

“From all the way here, stuck in this room? Nah, of course not,” she murmurs. “I asked Kaidan to do it.”

#mass effect #trilogyweek #commander shepard #thane krios #garrus vakarian #mikaela shepard #it's mika #athelari writes #guess what?? another rework #i tried writing something new but am unsure if i like it #and i like this old thing so

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ashtonsgotteeth · 5 years

Text

Dilapidated Sunshine

Word count: 4.6k+

Genre: angst with some fluff

Warning: death, detailed car accident, blood, alcohol

Authors Notes: Hi guys! I used to write all the time when I was a teenager and stopped after some life happened. I did make this gender neutral, so it should be able to be read from any perspective. @maluminspace inspired me to write this piece after reading her Spooky!SOS fic that I requested. Please note, I did draw inspiration from her story so there are some details that are similar. I hope you all this it!

-❧-

You remember it all as if it were a string of photographs. Just shots of images. Maybe it had been due to your eyes closing? Maybe it had been the fear, the adrenaline rushing to your brain? The doctors had said that memory loss was typical in trauma, especially in those that had a such physical component as your own.

You do remember the minute before, though. The night had been crisp but warm enough to take the convertible. A sweet lullaby of a song whispered through the speakers of the car. You remember him glancing at you with his large dimpled smile, taking your hand in his as he sang along.

Ashton.

A long note was slipping from his mouth, exaggerated to make you laugh. Of course, it did. It always did. Your head was lulled back, laughing, eyes closed. You could smell his citrus Sunshine cologne, a scent of home, circulating the air.

Ashton.

As soon as they had opened, lights as big as the moon had silhouetted his figure. Then it happened.

Shot 1.

Impact. Shock. Metal scraping. Tires squealing.

Shot 2.

Flying. Flailing. Fear.

Shot 3.

Horns blaring. Hand empty. Smoke.

Shot 4.

Screaming. You screaming. Blood.

Shot 5.

Ashton. Not moving. So much blood.

Shot 6.

Hands shaking. Screaming. Ashton. Please. Move!

Then nothing.

-❧-

He never made it out of the car. He never had a moment to say goodbye. You never had the chance to tell him how much you loved him again. There was never going to be any kind of chance.

Your injuries were rather minor, but your head had hit the dash. After getting stitches for the glass impact, you had been diagnosed with a concussion and some trauma to your spine from the whiplash. The doctors chose to keep you inpatient for a few days to watch over the injuries. You vaguely remember your family crowding around you, whispering and restraining tears. Even more vaguely, you remember Ashton’s best friends coming in.

Luke caressing your hand. Calum at the door, pacing. Michael looking up at you, sitting towards your feet. They had brought flowers. You could tell they’d been crying. Who had called them, you weren’t sure. After being told by the doctor on call of Ashton’s passing, things had been hazy.

The first thing on your mind when you gained consciousness in the nippy hospital room had been Ashton and the accident. Your heart monitor had begun beep erratically as you attempted to get up and find him. Nurses held you back, questions falling one after the other. Where’s Ashton? What happened? Who hit us? Where is he? No one was answering.

The doctor had come in a bit later, waiting for your parents to arrive, to tell you the hard news. Ashton had died on immediate impact. They tried to get a pulse on him, but not even the defibrillators could bring a peak to his plateaued heart line. The young man who had hit the convertible had survived and was tested with a .18, nearly double the legal limit. He had run through a red light, sealing the fate for you and the love of your life.

It has been three in the morning, barely two days after the crash. Fortunately, you had the room to yourself, but the lights coming from the nurse’s station spilled in. The chatter was soft, but mixed with the beeping of the machines it was enough to be disruptive. You had been sleeping on and off all day, so this wasn’t atypical.

You attempted to shift, careful to not alert the nurses of a possible fall. The machines around you were trigger happy, waiting to scream out at any possible movement. You turned to face the windows, hoping to look out to see the night sky you had just been admiring before the accident when you spotted a flash of something from the corner of your eye. Perhaps a figure, sitting at the lounger in the corner of your room.

You suspected it had been a piece of dust in your eye as you rubbed at them furiously. There hadn’t been anyone or anything there. You disregarded the notion and looked to the stars. Though you were restricted, you could see the bottom of Cancer, the constellation that ruled over Ashton’s zodiac sign. You remember the mindless late-night talks under the sky, him pointing out all the major ones and retelling the tales that inspired them.

Tears filled your eyes at the memories filling your mind. The day you first met at a small music festival. The evening of your first kiss at your door, right after your first date. The night he told you he loved you, under those very same stars. You could still smell his citrus cologne.

Wait. You actually could. It had been a birthday gift from you that year. Your eyes shot open, blinking away the tears, as you again saw the figure at the recliner. You blinked again. It was still there. A foggy like apparition, hidden by any light from the hallway, but partway visible in the pure dark areas.

It was a man. Sad eyes. Dark, slightly damp hair. It was hard to focus on any feature, as he was like a whisper. There, but barely. When his eyes connected with yours, you knew immediately.

Ashton.

You muffled out a sob, one that you didn’t know you were holding back. He couldn’t be there. He was gone, and you knew that.

In the shock, he was gone again. Only momentarily, as he appeared at the side of your bed, opposite of the recliner. His hand slowly reached out to yours, as it had been resting over your heart. You expected a connection. A touch, but there was none when his hand laid on top your own, visibly going through it. No, you didn’t feel the touch of skin. Nothing warm, nor cold. But for a moment, you felt peace.

And he was gone once again.

He didn’t reappear to you for the rest of the night, which caused doubt and denial to arise. You not only had a concussion, but you were decently sedated and in and out of sleep. It was obvious that you could have dreamed of seeing your deceased lover. Who wouldn’t? You were grieving. It made sense.

-❧-

The following morning you were notified that you were on schedule for discharge for early the next day. It was appropriately timed, as Ashton’s funeral would be held shortly after. Your parents had advised against going to the funeral, that you were still recovering. You disregarded the suggestion, as the concept of missing the burial of the love of your life was out of the question. You felt as if you were floating in the room, disconnected to the reality of your new life.

How could you talk about the funeral when you had just seen Ashton last night? You looked into his eyes, didn't you? Maybe there was a mistake and Ash was very much alive?

You had decided not to disclose your late-night encounter, for fear that you would be moved to the psychiatric wing and miss the burial. It wasn’t out of the question that you maybe were suffering delusions, but that could wait. And what if he came to visit again? Would he know where you were? Would he be able to find you?

When the night finally came again, you desperately attempted to keep your eyes open. It was so hard to though. Your blinking came closer and closer together, for longer stretches, before your eyelids suddenly rested.

“You’re going to be okay.”

Your eyes shot open, the hair on your arms raised due to the sudden cold chill. Citrus in the air.

“Ashton,” you cried out, “come back!”

Tears were rolling down your face again. How would you be okay? How would you ever be okay?

-❧-

When discharge came, you were quiet. More so that the last few days. This wasn’t an onset of the confusion, but more the dead weight of what came next. Your mom had brought you new clothes, as what you’d been wearing the night of the accident had been ruined. The nurse that had mainly been with you for your three-night stay had a ziplock bag that she was handing to your mother, going over some of your discharge instructions. It was filled with what looked like your personal belongings, but there was something you didn't recognize.

“What's that,” your voice rang out for the first time that morning?

“What’s wha-“

“The box.”

The nurse’s eyes widened, quickly glancing at your mother. You could tell there was immediate discomfort in the air. It was small, a velvet blue.

“Mom. What’s that box?”

She quietly opened the bag, pulling it out to rest in your hands. Her hands slid to your shoulder, a tight grip that didn’t feel promising. You knew immediately what it was. Your mouth felt dry as your fingers played with the soft material. It almost felt better to leave it unopened. It felt somewhat rude to open something that wasn’t yours.

“You don’t have to,” your mother offered.

“But I do.”

You slowly opened the box with a shaky hand, your breath stilted. Inside was the ring you had been dreaming of for most of your adult life. An engagement ring. You didn’t know when you started crying, but there was no dam to stop it. Your fingers clutched onto the box, not even removing the gold ring.

“Mom, please tell me this isn’t real.”

“I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

The kind nurse in the maroon scrubs offered you tissues, a strong but sad smile spread across her face. When you already thought that you hit the rock bottom, it caved in and you hit harder. You delicately took the ring out, examining it as much as you could with the tears. It was prettier than you could have ever imagined in real life.

Ashton had insisted that night to go out to look at the stars. It had been raining for the last few weeks and he was antsy to be out. When he had seen the clear sky, he was rushing you to get ready. You hadn’t thought much of it, as you two frequently went the park that you had shared your first proclamations of love.

It made sense now. The excitement and restlessness you had seen in him. He was taking you out to propose.

-❧-

The drive home was silent. Your father was driving while your mother caressed your head in the back seat. This being your first time in a car since the accident, your parents were educated on the possible symptoms of PTSD and how they could best help you through it.

Your father broke the silence first.

“Honey,” he paused to clear this throat, “I just want you to know that we love you. You’re not alone, we’re going to miss him.”

Your mother hummed in agreement. You didn’t find it in yourself to respond, but he didn't expect you to. Frankly, you were numb. The tears had long dried, but there was a hole where your heart should have been.

After arriving at the home you had grown up in — but long ago moved out of — you found yourself alone in your old room. It had been since converted to a guest bedroom, but it still held the same cherry wood furniture from your youth.

You sat at your vanity, carefully examining the reflection in the mirror. Same eyes, same nose, same lips — yet you didn’t recognize yourself. A fresh wound crossed slightly over your left eyebrow, stitches glistening in the low incoming sunlight. The eye below was a deep violet, going as far down as your cheekbone. You had substantial bruising and burns across the entirety of your body. Considering that, you weren’t in too much pain.

As the sun began to set, you felt the temperature begin to substantially drop. Typically, you would have put on one of Ashton’s jackets, but a blanket from the foot of the bed worked as best as it could. Reaching out to light the vanilla-scented candle on the vanity, another scent filled your nostrils: oranges.

Ashton.

You immediately looked into the mirror, the hazy figure of your departed boyfriend leaned back into the column at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed. Your heart began to race, this was the clearest you had seen him. You feared to look away, for him to leave you as quickly as he did before.

“Ash?”

He smiled at you solemnly. You returned it, tears beginning to fill your eyes.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. I love you so much, you know that?”

He crossed to you, placing his hands lightly on your shoulders. There was no contact, but you knew they were there. It was like a light chill that didn’t go away.

“Shh. I know. It’s not your fault, nor do I blame you. It was my time, I see that clearly now.”

His words were strong, but they delicately reached your ears. His voice seemed distant as if they came from a different plane.

“I don’t belong here anymore, but I need to make sure you know some things,” he stated, not breaking eye contact.

“You can’t leave! Not again, Ashton, please-”

“Darling, I wish I could. One day — years and years from now — you’ll understand. For now, I need you to please listen.

“Don’t forget about my mom, sister, and brother. Please go see them once in a while. We weren’t the closest, but this is going to destroy them.” He paused, his brows furrowing. “Keep an eye out on the boys, will ya? Luke has a tendency to isolate himself, even when he knows to reach out. Mikey, he’s gotta remember that it’s okay to stand out. He used to. Now Cal, make sure he speaks up. He’s so reserved nowadays, but his opinions are valid.”

You nodded as he spoke, accepting his tasks. Ashton didn’t inherently look dead to you, rather more hollowed out than you remembered. There’s was no visible sign of the aftermath of the accident. While you didn’t remember anything of how he looked after it happened, you were thankful that it didn’t present itself on his spirit.

“Now, doll, I need you to especially remember this,” his tone and face now softer. “You will always have my love, my heart. But even with that, you don’t have to always return those feelings.

“No! Ash-“

“Listen. I know how much you love me. That’s how I was able to be here and see you. But I’m dead. You have the rest of your life and I don’t. I want you to love again. I want you to rise from my ashes and live again.”

You were quietly sobbing as your mind was racing to process everything. He was there, right there. Honey curls, dimples, and all. His hands were literally on you and couldn’t feel him. You couldn’t reach out and hold him ever again. The feeling of his lips on yours would never be more than a distant memory.

“How can you say that?” your voice demanded through resilient tears. You brought your hand up, still clutching onto the blue velvet box. “We were supposed to get married! We were supposed to grow old together! How can I simply just move on when a part of my heart died in that car accident?”

Your head now rested in your arms, hunched over the vanity as the tears continued to roll. Whether the spirit of Ashton Irwin occupied your childhood home or not, you felt truly alone at that moment. When he finally did speak up, you were surprised that he was still there.

“I loved you until the day I died. I was lucky enough to have your selfless love until there were no more breaths left in my lungs. That made me the luckiest man alive. It would be selfish of me to take that from some fine gentleman that needs your unconditional love. Someone that will appreciate the way you look when you're half-asleep in the early morning. Someone that will truly laugh at your dry and smart remarks. Someone that will listen when the skies inside your head are storming.

“I need you to live on for me and follow through on our dreams. I may not be by your side, but I will always be watching over you. If you ever forget, look at the inscription on the ring.”

You brought your head up equivocally, eyes dancing to find understanding in the gold band.

“My forever,” he whispered as you read-along. When you looked up to meet his eyes, he was gone once again.

You stayed alone in your room for many more hours after he left. Gripping each word he said, trying to heed his requests despite your combative opinions. You would honor his wishes, but that didn’t mean you had to right then. So you slipped the ring of broken dreams onto your finger and cried until your voice gave out.

-❧-

Ashton’s funeral was scheduled for the following day. Due to the manner of his death, a closed casket was required. You were lucky to be spared images of his body, unlike his three best friends. Ash didn’t have any family in America, so the next best people were his nonbiological brothers.

You were only told of it in passing, but they had apparently known immediately. The six moons that had been showcased on his arms were immediate indicators. Neither Luke, Michael, or Calum doubted that their best friend rested in the morgue. It had been his car in the accident, and you were being treated in the higher levels of the hospital. There was no room for doubt.

It was impossible for you to get your thoughts truly together to speak later on that day. What could you say about the man that loved you so completely and unconditionally? Would you even be able to speak at all? You gravitated towards bullet notes. Short sentences that represented your ever-changing, unending thoughts.

Time passed quickly and you were forced to step away from your pen to focus on your appearance. Your mother had reminded you that no one was expecting you to look perfect and to just come as you were. This may have been true, but it felt inappropriate to come looking as disheveled as you felt.

You chose a simple, black business casual outfit, nothing that would draw any more attention to yourself. You knew that people would stare, whether it be from your relationship with the deceased or the bruising and scars on your face. This event wasn't about you, or how you survived, this was about how he didn't.

When you appeared downstairs, your father gave you a gentle embrace and your mother took your hand and squeezed it. No matter what, they made sure you knew you weren't alone. Especially today.

You and your parents arrived moderately early, with a few guests scattered around the funeral home. There wasn't a single one that you didn't recognize. From the family that had flown in from Australia to the mere acquaintances he had made from his time in America. Ashton was easily beloved and now greatly missed.

His three best friends stood near his casket at the front of the room, glasses of what looked like scotch in their hands. Their backs were to you, crowding a large canvas of that hosted Ashton's picture. It had been taken earlier that year when he still sported a red dye. There was nothing characteristically spectacular about the photo; there was a heavy shadow on him and he wore a simple tank top and jacket. That's not why he chose it. It was the huge grin on his face, his dimples on full display. It was if he had been caught laughing at one of the boy's jokes. It was that emotion that made it one of the most valuable photos you had of him.

"So which one of you did that?" you interrupted them, standing to the left of Luke. He smiled, tossing one of his arms around your shoulder.

"Luke, didn't you take that? I'm trying to remember what was so funny," Michael added, his drink raising to point towards the canvas.

"I think we were messing about, we'd had a little too much to drink," Calum responded coolly despite the large grin.

"Yeah, I did. I pulled out the camera, trying to be goofy when I got this. Really captured who he was, I think."

There was a pause of silence, each young man looking down, trying to find the words to fill the void that Ash left.

"I really miss 'em," Michael said quietly.

"We all do," Calum paused, "who‘s going to be the dad of the group, now?"

This brought a laugh to all of us, individually reminding us of all the times in which Ashton acted like both the helicopter dad and even the cool dad in just the same conversation.

"How're you doing? You look better since we saw you a couple days ago in the hospital," Luke smiled softly, Mikey and Cal nodding along in agreement.

"I'm as good as I can be, you know? I'm here, that's all that matters I think."

The boys all nodded again, giving you a quick embrace before leaving to take their seats in the front. The room had filled now, soft voices scattered amongst the crowd. You made eye contact with his mother, her eyes red and clearly wet. It had been months since you’d last spoken, but there weren't any hard feelings either way. Once this was all over, you'd make sure to get with her before she flew back out. But right there, right then, it was too much to ask for. You just wanted to get through your eulogy without breaking down completely.

A gentleman in a nice suit came to the front of the room, standing behind a large podium with a live microphone. He began his introduction, going over where we were and who this viewing was for, before opening the microphone up to those that would be reciting a eulogy. Ashton's mother was the first to go up, speaking lovingly of his childhood and how proud she was of him when he moved across the ocean to The States with his best friends. Luke followed, recounting their first interaction and how much that defined the kind of person Ashton was and the man he would become. Michael spoke of the times they laughed and how he got him into their little band as teenagers, concreting their brotherhood.

Calum recounted of the more recent years, and the countless adventures they had gone on together.

Suddenly, it was your turn to go. You felt a lump in your throat as you trekked to the podium, your breath clearly visible. Immediately looking up to the crowd, you saw Ashton standing to the back towards the doors. He looked clearer, more natural now. Even though you looked straight into his hazel eyes, you knew that no one else would be able to. He motioned for you to relax, as he leaned back with his arms crossed.

Still wearing the diamond ring on your left hand, you adjusted it mindlessly, clearing your throat away from the mike.

"From what I'm told, Ashton Fletcher Irwin was born with wings on his back and a big dimpled smile across his face. As someone who was there, I can say that he left the Earth in the same style. With his infamous black candor tattoo on his neck and his beautiful laughter, those are the last solid memories I have of him.

"Ashton was and still is the absolute love of my life. I didn't know it then, but that night he was taking me out to propose. Even though we never made it there, I wear the ring with joy and sadness today.

“Ash and I met three years ago at a little music festival, by complete accident. He had been friends with some of the bands and came excitedly to support them, while I skipped my evening philosophy class to see a few of the performances. He was headed to the stage when he bumped into me and spilled nearly all of his iced coffee down my shirt. It wasn’t a good first impression, but as soon as he began his apology, insisting to pay for any dry cleaning, I was hooked. That’s just how he is... he was. Helpful, caring, and sweet.

“On our first date following the iced coffee incident, he spoke so fondly of his family and best friends: Luke, Michael, and Calum. In a drop of the hat, even if we were in the middle of a date, Ash would be there for his friends. Whether it was Calum needing a ride home in the middle of the night, Luke needing support through a past break up, or even helping watch Southy and MooseMoose for Michael. Success for Ashton wasn’t valuable unless his friends were there by his side.

“Ashton wanted to experience everything life had to offer. Whether it was to travel, play his old drum kit, or even go to any concerts he could; Ash was a yes man. He saw the goodness in life and never wanted to turn down something that the world offered. While he didn’t get to do everything he dreamed of, I can comfortably say that he would be proud of the life and relationships he had during his short 25 years on this Earth. And though he’s gone, we need to remember the wonderful, happy, loving man he was and live on in his honor.”

Everyone stood and began to clap, but you didn’t notice. Your eyes had been focused on the ghost of the man that inspired your speech. He had smiled softly, nodding his head in approval before fading away.

The funeral director took to the podium, announcing the end of the viewing and instructing the pallbearers to come to the front to take Ashton’s casket to his plot. Your father, Michael, Calum, Luke, and the two older Hemming’s brothers gripped onto the wooden casket and lifted it to their hips, taking Ash away. You trailed close behind, leaving the funeral home and walking towards the cemetery to the left of the parlor.

The sky was a striking gray, white clouds covering any blue that tried to peak through. The chilly temperature matched, with a slight wind meeting you at your exit. There was a freshly dug plot awaiting them, a headstone already detailing the short life of Ashton Irwin. Guests crowded the hole, as the men began to lower the casket.

“The sun shined brighter because he was here. I like that.”

You felt a brush of cold air from your left as Ashton appeared before you, reading the epigraph below his name.

“I’m proud of you,” he stated, looking straight onto the casket, “I know you’re going to be okay, yeah?”

You nodded, avoiding being caught speaking to yourself.

“I love you, doll. I always will. I need you to follow your own words and live your life - for me - okay? Enjoy your life, love again, and know you’re never alone.”

“I love you, Ash. I’ll try,” you discretely whispered.

And with that, he walked away, fading into the light. The clouds opened, and the sun shined once again.

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firesoulstuff · 4 years

Note

Hey I’ve seen a bunch of fics where Captain Canary are married even read one where Leonard was proposing!! But I don’t think I’ve ever seen a fic about the Captain Canary wedding !! I was wondering how you would write it !!

anon there are many ways in which I would consider writing this, so I decided to go with the fluffiest I could think of!

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12378978/chapters/54508477

They don’t do a lot of things traditionally.

This, they agreed, would be the exception. Mostly.

Nothing about their relationship has been normal. They got together after Leonard nearly died in a time bomb. He had tried proposing in a normal fashion under the guise of taking her out for a romantic dinner for once, but instead their dinner was cut short by the team’s inability to behave themselves for one night and he ended up proposing later in her office.

Maybe that’s why Sara didn’t have any trouble getting him on board for a semi-traditional wedding.

They planned it on a timeline with their own present. They worked on details in-between missions, sent out invitations, and somehow they managed to pull it all together.

As far as Sara is concerned, it’s perfect.

She is in a back room with her bridesmaids: Sin, Amaya, and Zari, as well as Lisa, her maid of honor. Not a single one of them is accustomed to trying to not mess up their hair, or their make-up, it’s a wonder they’ve gotten this far. It’s nice though, this break from their normally chaotic realities into a day that feels more like a little girl’s fantasy.

There’s a knock at the door that breaks through her haze of thoughts.

“Everybody decent?” Jax calls, opening the door crack, but his head is turned away and his hand is covering his eyes.

“Yes.” Amaya confirms, rolling her eyes.

Jax laughs as he comes fully into the room, closing the door behind him.

“Wow.” He says appreciatively. “You guys look beautiful. Sara, especially you.”

She blushes, and doesn’t even bother trying to hide it.

“Anyway.” He says, jerking his thumb back to the door behind him. “They’re about ready to start, if you guys want to get into places.”

At his words the others all file out and leave her there with Jax.

“You sure you don’t want me to go get your dad?”

She smirks. After her father died she had asked Jax if he would give her away today. He had agreed, quickly, stunned, and then just a few weeks ago the impossible happened. Crisis was over, and her father came back.

“I’m sure.” She answers, stepping forward.

Jax had been more than willing to hand his role in the wedding back over to her father but, after some discussion, they decided to keep with this arrangement. Giving a bride away doesn’t have the same meaning these days as it used to, at least not in Sara’s mind. She likes to think of it as someone who always has her back entrusting that to someone else.

Her father had been onboard with the idea right away, which admittedly had been a bit of a surprise. But he reasoned that her definition of this was a good one, and he gave his trust to her team to have her back a long time ago.

“Besides.” Her father had said, “I’m gonna be a blubbering mess when I see you. I’d rather not be worrying about walking down that aisle myself.”

“Well then,” Jax says, beaming at her and then offering her his arm. “Shall we?”

Leonard has been told that on your wedding day it is normal to feel nervous.

Now, he doesn’t like to admit to feeling nervous, but today he will make an exception, if only in his own mind.

He is nervous.

Not for marrying Sara, of course. He can’t wait to get to that part. He’s nervous for everything that can go wrong between now and then.

He’s not talking about Mick could lose the rings, or Joe West’s toddler could throw a tantrum in the middle of scattering flower petals. He isn’t worried about what might happen if his sister has a flask hidden in her bouquet and drops it in the middle of the ceremony.

No, he is nervous for the Dominators making a return. Or the Nazis. Or some new threat who wants to make a grand entrance. He is legitimately concerned those things won’t stay away during the ceremony.

“Boss?” Mick announces his arrival with a grin, stepping into the back room of the Synagogue they’ve been in all morning. “It’s time.”

He nods, and please just let no one die today.

He had opted to not walk down the aisle, as people staring at him and only him is quite literally at the top of a long list of his greatest nightmares. Technically the Rabbi is supposed to walk down the aisle ahead of the groom but, after some pleading and reasoning (bribing) they managed to convince Stein to step onto the altar via a hidden door normally used in services.

Stein - thankfully no longer holding any ill will against him for breaking one tiny tradition - smiles at him when he arrives at the door.

“Congratulations Leonard.” He says, and Leonard is almost taken back by the use of his first name.

“Thank you.” He returns, and then they hear the first note of the music; the signal that it is time to start.

The room is already quiet when he follows Stein out to the altar. They take their places and the music plays again, not stopping this time, and the doors at the end of the aisle open up.

Sara’s parents start the procession, since they won’t be the ones giving her away. Following them is Raymond and Zari, after them comes Amaya and Cisco, then Sin and Barry (he had to pick three groomsmen, ok? And Sara took Jax from him.) Finally Mick comes out with Lisa as the maid of honor and best man, and then Iris comes leading along her little sister, coaching her gently to throw the flower petals in her basket.

The entire room awes when they see the little girl, and not even Leonard can suppress a chuckle. She is cute. They had debated not having a flower girl but now he’s glad Cecile had jokingly offered up her daughter, and then gone with it when they decided to take her up on it.

Miraculously Jenna doesn’t cry, even if she does lose focus less than partway through and Iris has to carry her down the rest of the aisle.

As soon as Iris and Jenna are rounding the corner at the end and making their way back to Joe and Cecile the music, though he doesn’t think it actually changes, seems to.

He feels his breath catch when Sara appears in the aisle.

Despite their attempt at a semi-traditional wedding, she had strayed a bit from tradition with her dress.

Instead of white her dress is a blush pink, with glittering threads woven in and out of it in such a way that is looks like glistening rain falling down on her. It fits her perfect. Strapless and hugging every curve at the top, while the skirt fans out just enough that should anything disastrous arise she would still be able to move, but not fight.

“Anything specific you want me to look at?” She’d asked the morning she was set to go dress shopping, and he’d thought on it for a minute.

“Something you can’t fight in.” She had raised a skeptical eyebrow at him; he had met her gaze firmly. “We are not getting wrapped up in a mission on our wedding day.”

He’s sure she isn’t totally unprepared for a fight; this is Sara he’s talking about. It’s more than likely Lisa has a knife in her flowers in place of the flask and she’s prepared to cut the skirt to a more adaptable length.

He’s fairly certain that he still isn’t breathing by the time she reaches the step in front of the alter, Jax stepping off her arm gracefully and wiping his eyes as he takes his seat next to her parents.

As Sara walks up the alter to him he is vaguely aware of Stein speaking, vaguely aware of all their friends sitting down, but all he is really focused on is her hands sliding into his.

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astrodances · 5 years

Link

Power Couple

I’m baaaaaaaack! And I come bearing words AND a drawing based on a fluffy little idea I’ve had for a while! 💜

––––––

The click of a metal door opening, followed by another of its closing.

“Well well well. I was told I would find you here, but this isn’t quite what I was expecting to find.”

Goldie has to shout her greeting a little above the melody of big band jazz music playing from a nearby radio. It’s lively, but not obnoxiously so. Scrooge’s current appearance, on the other hand...

He gives her a sheepish half-wave after having been caught in the act, with the photographer’s wave coming a bit more hesitantly over his shoulder, unsure of who she is or why she’s here. Scrooge stands against a green canvas backdrop, a handful of dollar bills stuffed into the band of his top hat, with more in each hand and a mess of them scattered at his feet. Beneath the harsh glare of the lights surrounding him, and with a perpetual grin still playing across his face, he looks as every bit the overconfident trillionaire that he is.

Goldie smirks while wishing she had a camera of her own to capture the scene as potential blackmail. But she knows how these things are and asks, “Magazine cover?”

Loosening up, Scrooge shakes his head. “Try board game cover.”

That gets a rise of genuine surprise out of her, and she waddles over to the card table holding the photographer’s computer and more stacks of money at the ready, picking up a clipboard with a list of needed camera shots. “$CROOGEOPOLY: The thrilling game of finance and property acquisition” is written across the top, and she can’t help but snort as she looks up at him. “Was this your idea?”

“Well, not exactly. Glomgold...inspired it, you could say,” Scrooge recalls, eyes traveling over the room, before landing on her again. “Long story. But enough of that. Something I can help you with?” He’s happy to see her, but last he heard, she was in Australia on personal business.

The photographer clears his throat, reminding them of his presence and, for Scrooge, his still-in-progress photo shoot.

“Oh, right. Uhh...”

Goldie looks between them and an idea strikes her. She gathers up a stack of money from the table, causing Scrooge to flinch and instinctively reach out, before pointing at the photographer. “You, camera boy. Keep shooting,” she instructs, walking over to the edge of the backdrop.

He glances towards his model in question of whether he should actually proceed or call security to escort this intruder out, and the latter shrugs in amused resignation, gesturing towards the camera.

“You heard the lady, Tuomas,” Scrooge agrees, eyes sliding over to Goldie with an adoring, mischievous smirk. “After all, she is the inspiration for ‘Dawson Drive’ on the board. You can bill me for the extra shots.”

Tuomas perks up at that and immediately gets into stance behind the tripod to adjust some settings, calling out, “Whatever you say, Mr. McDuck!”

That settled, Scrooge steps closer to Goldie, who’s still blushing over being incorporated into the game, and takes her hands to guide her through the surrounding lighting fixtures and over the slippery surface of greenbacks underfoot. Despite their earlier banter, he leans in to give her a brief peck as a true greeting before they turn partway towards the camera.

“Ready to make it rain?” he asks, hands poised to toss money into the air.

“Hang on.” Goldie takes a few bills and slides them deep within her neckline, with a few more folded-up ones in the rolls of her sleeves for good measure, making Scrooge lose all rational thought momentarily. When she looks back up to nod, urging him on with an eager “let’s do this,” he snaps his gaze back to her own.

“You’re a minx, ye know that?”

Her eyes glitter with devious intention. “I know.”

The cadence of saxophones and drums permeates their senses once more, and on three, they toss thousands of dollars into the air, prompting Tuomas to capture their magic. This time, Goldie takes Scrooge’s hands and they shuffle back and forth in a delightful dance of laughter and cheers, letting the music guide them into various poses.

During one shot that has them standing back-to-back with arms crossed, a king and queen ready to rule the world, Scrooge relays over his shoulder, so only she can hear, “So, what brings you into town?” He’s certain he knows the answer already, but he’s curious to see if she’ll be honest with him.

“Business meeting,” she responds simply, innocently. At this point the camera flashes no longer faze her.

“Uh huh.” He rolls his eyes. “And so this ‘meeting’ has nothing to do with the Eye of Vishnu that was just brought in for display at the Duckburg Museum?”

Goldie‘s voice drips smoothly like sweet honey, and she spares him an assessing glance. “Oh, is that what all those billboards are for? Huh, I’ll have to go buy a ticket.”

He shakes his head in disbelief, and bends down for a second to collect some dollar bills to shower over them again. “How about I buy you that ticket instead, and take you out to dinner afterwards?” So I can keep an eye on you, he can’t help but add in his head.

“It’s gonna take more than that to keep me in check, Scroogie,” she says, picking up the implication. “But why not? I could use the challenge.”

A thrill runs through him as they turn towards each other again, and her playful yet ever-so-dangerous grin reminds him of why he loves her. The photo shoot might be for a pastime based on his likeness, but not even that can overpower the truth that Goldie, and all the excitement that she brings, is his favorite game. She’s the wildcard that he never wants to lose.

The tune switches to something steadier, sensual yet still zestful. The camera’s already filled with dozens of images of them together, but neither of them are in any rush to have it end, so Tuomas keeps snapping away.

Scrooge lifts Goldie up bridal-style and twirls her around, eliciting a shriek of breathless joy from her before he leans in to chase her into a kiss. She pulls him in deeper by the collar, and with what little coherency he has left, he makes a mental note that this shot is definitely a keeper for his wallet.

Minds properly left in a euphoric tizzy, he sets her down and they continue to dance around with each other for a bit.

They make quite a charming duo, their lone audience member notices. Every step, every dip, is a testament to their chemistry. Every shared laugh and every teasing quip make him both want to give the lovebirds the privacy they so clearly deserve and yet set up another photo shoot dedicated exclusively to them. He briefly wonders if he should mention his rates for engagement announcement shoots, judging by the lack of rings adorning their fingers.

At some point, Scrooge grabs Goldie’s hands and crosses an arm over her head to flip her around so her back is to him. He pulls her in, willing himself to stay strong as she gladly takes the opportunity to wriggle her tail feathers against him before relaxing into his embrace. The scent of tropical flowers and adventure tickles his senses, leaving him with a heady feeling of desire as he breathes it in.

As one arm crosses over her chest to hold her closer, the other rests over hers on her waist. Fingers overlay and intertwine, squeezing together in some unspoken promise.

A perfect fit. The Yukon’s greatest power couple, together once more.

“I’ve missed you,” Scrooge rumbles into her ear, pressing a kiss to her golden locks.

Goldie cranes her neck towards him to nuzzle his beak in return. “Mmm, I’ve missed you, too, Moneybags.”

His eyes fall closed with hers, and as their foreheads touch, his hat gets displaced ever so. They sway as one with the music, hips rocking together.

It’s only when she lets out a dreamy hum, the reverberation traveling through him down to his core, that Scrooge dares to peek an eye open, and his heart nearly bursts at what he sees.

Goldie looks utterly lovely, with a blissful grin quirking at the corners of her beak. A strand of hair untucked and brushing against her face just so, her chest rising and falling in a rhythmic peace under his arm, the warmth of her body sending him to cloud nine...

He’s holding a paragon of enrapturing beauty and splendid wonder in his arms, one that he never wants to let go. It’s enough to make him want to believe in luck so he can thank his stars.

Scrooge settles his eyes shut again, but not before Tuomas manages to capture the tender sparkle in his gaze.

Another keeper.

#DuckTales #scroldie #Scrooge McDuck #Goldie O'Gilt #my fanfics

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rose-of-pollux · 4 years

Text

Inktober for Writers, Day 31

Prompt: Ripe Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Title: The Forbidden Fruit Affair Summary: On the run, Napoleon and Illya seek shelter in an abandoned mansion that houses a dark secret from a century ago.

Notes: this fic serves as my annual MFU Halloween fic. Like the others, it does contain some otherworldly elements.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Being an agent on the run from THRUSH meant that any shelter was to be appreciated and accepted, regardless of how comfortable it looked. This included sketchy, abandoned mansions in the middle of nowhere, such as the one that Napoleon and Illya happened upon one in the middle of a stormy night.

“I really don’t like the looks of that,” Napoleon said, not wanting to admit how it made his skin crawl just by looking at it.

“Nor do I, but either we stay out here in the rain and risk being found by THRUSH, or we seek shelter there,” Illya returned.

The rusted front gates of the old mansion had long since fallen off of their hinges, allowing the duo to slip inside into the sprawling front garden, which seemed to be a cherry orchard. Bizarrely, the cherries on the trees looked perfectly ripe, as though they had been maintained and tended do, despite no one having been here in years—if the state of the house was any indication.

“Illya…?”

“I noticed it, too,” he agreed, for once, not interested in the prospect of food, despite not having had a chance to eat much during their escape. “Something is very odd, Napoleon. This fruit is pristine and untouched.”

“Are we really the first ones to come by here?”

“Whether we are or not, fruit as inviting as this should have had flocks of birds coming here to partake in it. There are no birds, not even ones taking shelter from the storm in the cherry trees.”

“This has to be the first time I’ve ever seen you turn down food, but you make excellent points as to why.” Napoleon regarded the house with suspicion. “I’m beginning to wonder if we should take our chances with THRUSH.”

“We are unarmed…”

“…Right,” Napoleon sighed. “Guess our best bet is with the house.”

Illya nodded, though he had gone slightly pale; this had all the signs of another otherworldly happening—something he despised. He didn’t want to believe in such things, but he couldn’t deny them when they happened—and around this time each year, they seemed to happen without fail.

The front doors of the mansion were also off of their hinges, allowing Napoleon and Illya to slip inside. There was rainwater everywhere, blowing in from broken windows. Inside, it was eerily silent.

“It doesn’t look too bad in here,” Napoleon commented. “Just years and years’ worth of dust. Not even a cobweb.”

“No birds in the trees, no spiders in the house…” Illya commented.

Napoleon blinked.

“What are you getting at?”

“This place should be overrun with pests,” Illya said. “It should be a haven for insects, spiders, mice, raccoons, and bats. But there is no smell to suggest that there are mammals here, and no cobwebs, as you say. I doubt there are any insects, even if proof of their presence is harder to tell.”

“So, let’s see; we have an orchard of cherries that no animal wants to touch, and we have a cozy, warm interior that the local wildlife is also choosing to ignore,” Napoleon assessed.

“Da. And I do not like it. Something is driving the animals away; they are far more in tune to things than us—you have seen the way Baba Yaga reacts to things before we can even see them, like the time she knew there was a mouse in our apartment before we did.”

“Yeah, I just wish she hadn’t left it on my pillow,” Napoleon said, with a wince.

“She was gifting it to you.”

“I understand that it was of great personal worth to her, but finding a dead mouse on my pillow isn’t my idea of starting the night off great.” Napoleon sighed. “Well, if your prediction is correct, there won’t be any mice on any pillows here. I say we try to rest for a while—one at a time, in case THRUSH ends up catching up with us.”

Illya nodded.

“I’m not feeling very tired; you can rest first.”

“Thanks, Tovarisch.”

They found a bedroom, with dusty sheets and pillows; they stripped the bed of the sheets and pillows, lying on just the mattress. It had a musty smell to it, but it would do for the time being; they wouldn’t be staying here long.

Napoleon was soon asleep, and Illya assessed the room. There wasn’t much else to it—a framed painting hung over the bed—what looked like a wedding party in the cherry orchard out front. The wallpaper was typical of an old mansion, though peeling and having signs of years of dampness. And beside them on the bedside table was a bottle of cherry wine…

Illya did a double take as he stared at the wine bottle beside them.

That had not been there when they had entered the room.

He sat up, bolt upright in the bed as a lightning flash illuminated the room. There was no sign of anyone having come in or out, aside from them—only their footprints were on the dusty floor.

He laid back down, wide-awake now, searching his gaze all around the room. Some more time passed, and when the lightning flashed again, Illya looked up above him, and froze. The bride from the painting had, somehow, emerged from the painting partway—more alarming than that, she was completely skeletal—her leering, empty face was visible behind her veil, and her boney hands were holding another bottle of cherry wine and two glasses.

Illya didn’t look away as he furiously shook Napoleon’s shoulder.

“Napoleon!”

“Hmm…?”

“Look up—now!”

“What is it…?” Napoleon trailed off as he looked up and saw the skeleton bride. “…Coffee… I need coffee…”

“No such luck,” Illya said. “Judging by her insistence, cherry wine appears to be the only drink on the menu.”

As if to prove his point, she pushed the wine and glasses even closer towards them.

“Well, we’ve got ourselves a bit of a dilemma here,” Napoleon said, quietly. “Drinking that wine would be a terrible idea.”

“Truly the worst possible idea,” Illya agreed, recalling how the birds had avoided the fruit like the plague.

“But I feel we’re also asking for trouble if we insult a skeleton bride,” Napoleon added. He winced. “Please tell me I didn’t just say that sentence.”

“You have no idea how much I wish I could,” Illya said. “As for the problem itself, perhaps a tactical retreat from the skeleton bride will help us avoid her wrath.”

“If this is you saying that you’d rather we take our chances in the storm with the THRUSHies, I’m all for it,” Napoleon said.

Without another word, they leaped out of the bed simultaneously and ran out of the bedroom; they were heading down the stairs and into the entrance hall when they froze again. Bowls and baskets of cherries lined the hall. And sticking out of a portrait here was a skeletal groom, holding up another bottle of cherry wine and two glasses.

“…Let’s see if there’s a back way,” Napoleon said, grabbing Illya’s hand.

They made their way through the foyer, the sitting room, the dining room, and the kitchen. Each room had the same painting of the wedding party in the cherry orchard, and each painting had a skeletal member of the wedding party sticking out of it, offering them cherries or wine.

There was no back way out; it appeared to have been covered over by construction done long ago, when the house was in its heyday.

“I sense a negative energy in this house,” Illya murmured.

“The wine-toting skeletons give that away?” Napoleon deadpanned, as they fled to a corridor.

“I mean, in addition to them; I sense that this house was the sight of great cruelty and greed.”

“Well, let’s go here to the study and see what we can find out…” Napoleon trailed off as they entered the study to see the same portrait on the wall. Without hesitation, Napoleon glanced at one of the barred windows and stuck the painting through the bars just as another skeleton was beginning to exit through it; there was the sound of glass breaking as the wine bottle hit the ground outside.

“Did you just…?”

“I’m sleep-deprived and haunted; forgive me if I fail to reach the usual levels of charm and finesse that I normally have,” Napoleon intoned. He gave a start as a drenched and rather upset skeleton rose just outside the window, and Napoleon responded by closing the drapes on the curtain.

Sighing in relief, he sat on the old chair in front of the desk, and he paused as he found himself glancing at an old diary.

“Well, maybe we can get some answers in here…” he said, and he began to page through it. “I think this belonged to the groom—this was his house.”

“It makes sense that he would want to get married in his sprawling estate with its numerous cherry trees, sitting upon his wealth while ignoring the plight of his less fortunate neighbors…” Illya scoffed.

“…Actually, you’re pretty much right—listen to this… ‘April, 1861—they say war is upon us, but I will not let something as foolish as that ruin the wedding I have planned with my beautiful Magnolia. We will throw the grandest wedding, grander than any that our neighbors have done, and still manage to keep out the rabble that will, no doubt, be vying for a free meal from us. No peasants will ruin our special day with their unwanted presence.’ It keeps going about everything he had planned—obsessed with outdoing anything his neighbors had done in recent memory.”

“So, not only are we being haunted by ambulatory skeletons that pop in and out of paintings, but we are being haunted by the ambulatory skeletons of greedy capitalists!?” Illya exclaimed. “…If I believed in fate, I would suggest she is laughing at me now.”

“Well, whatever they are, we need to find a way to stop them; if they end up following us back, we’ll find ourselves surrounded by this crowd of skeletons once we make it him,” Napoleon said.

“But there is one thing I do not understand,” Illya said. “Why are they offering us wine? Well, rather—why are they offering me wine? You are just the sort of upper-class guest they would have approved of, whereas I am part of the rabble they would be trying to keep out.”

“For one thing, you’re with me, and secondly, you’re not part of the rabble—”

“We can argue about that later,” Illya said.

He was cut off by a skeletal hand sticking through the curtain with a new bottle of wine.

“Will you give it a rest already!?” Napoleon fumed. “We don’t want your wine!”

“…Napoleon, the diary,” Illya said, wondering if they could get their answers there. “Keep reading it.”

Napoleon nodded and resumed flipping through it.

“Well, well…” he said. “It seems the wedding was interrupted by a Northern invasion. The couple were incensed at all of their plans having been in vain—no one saw their grand wedding after all since the entire area had fled; it was just them being wedded by a local preacher who bolted soon after.”

“But that makes no sense; the painting is of a large wedding party, and it isn’t just for show; look at this…” Illya indicated the skeletal hand, still holding out the wine. “This isn’t the bride or groom—it’s a different person.”

“…Wearing a Rolex watch…” Napoleon said. His eyes widened.

“What is it?”

“This wedding was held in 1861. Rolex didn’t exist until 1915. How is a 20th-century person in a wedding party from the 19th century!?” Napoleon asked. Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed Illya’s hand in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other, running to another room and investigating the painting—for there was another copy here. “Illya, look…!”

“…The wedding party, aside from the bride and groom, all have styles of dress from varying periods of this century,” Illya realized. “Somehow, they were forced to join the wedding party…” They both backed away as a skeleton in a 1950s-era bridesmaid’s gown emerged from the painting, holding out more wine to them.

“…The wine,” Napoleon realized. “The cherries on this property are probably all cursed with the malice of the bride and groom—they didn’t get the grand wedding party they wanted when they were alive, so they’re getting it now, when they’re dead.”

“That would explain why the animals are avoiding this place,” Illya realized. “Whoever eats the cherries or drinks the wine is cursed and joins the wedding party. Napoleon, we must get out of here at once!”

“We could do that. We probably should do that…” Napoleon said. “But…”

“Nyet…” Illya groaned, knowing exactly where Napoleon was going with this. “Napoleon, breaking the curse on this place is not our business!”

“I know, but how is it any different from us going out of our way to stop THRUSH? If it saves the next innocent person who comes by here, thinking nothing about picking a cherry from that orchard, it’ll be worth it.”

Illya groaned, but knew he would find it impossible to argue that point.

“What do you suggest we do about it?”

“Find the source of the curse,” Napoleon said. “We both felt the negative energy when we came in here—let’s follow it.”

Illya groaned, but followed Napoleon. They found a secret passageway to the back of the manor’s sprawling grounds, hesitating as they found themselves at the edge of a small, family cemetery.

In the center of the plots were two large tombstones—no doubt those of the bride and groom. Judging from the dates, they hadn’t lived long after the wedding—the dates of death were only a year after the wedding in 1862.

But what caused the duo to pause was a large cherry tree growing over the two graves, the roots sinking deep into the plot and twisting around the gravestones as the tree rose up from them. The tree was full of fruit like the ones in the front orchard, ripe for the picking. But a shadowy aura also surrounded the tree, drawing up from the roots and spreading it from the tree, permeating the property.

“…Bozhe moy…” Illya murmured.

“I’m, ah… willing to guess that this is the source of the malice,” Napoleon said. He looked to the right and saw a gardening shed, and took Illya’s hand again, leading them there.

“What are you looking for in here?” Illya queried.

“Well, for one thing, this is the one place that stupid painting isn’t hanging,” Napoleon pointed. “Secondly… this is what I wanted!” He pulled an axe from the wall.

Illya’s eyes widened.

“You aren’t considering…?”

“You have a better idea?”

“Yes, we leave this place this instant,” Illya said. “But I know you are insistent upon this, so, by all means, fell the tree and let us be done with this.”

Napoleon grinned and opened the garden shed door—and then promptly closed it, his grin vanished.

“Don’t tell me…” Illya groaned.

“Yeah, that skeleton with the Rolex I threw out the window? He opened the passageway and let the others out. We’re surrounded, Illya.”

Illya responded by grabbing a garden rake from the wall.

“Know that I would not do this for anyone other than you,” he said, firmly.

“I know it. And there’s never been a moment that I haven’t been grateful for it.”

They kicked the door of the shed open, Napoleon wielding the axe, but Illya was using the rake as an impromptu bo staff, knocking the wine-bearing skeletons out of the way first.

“Napoleon, go—I’ll hold them off!”

Napoleon did not like this idea; it was written all over his face. But he also knew that if felling the cursed tree would solve everything, then the skeletons would also stop attacking.

As the storm continued to rage, Illya kept the skeletons at bay, and Napoleon hacked away at the tree. The aura around the tree surged with each strike of the axe, and though the majority of the skeletons did not react to this (most of them standing dumbly—perhaps they were slowly regaining their free will as the cursed tree grew more and more damaged?), the bride and the groom did, becoming seemingly infuriated.

No longer focused on trying to push the cherry wine on Illya, they made their way towards Napoleon now. Illya, naturally, did not stand for this, and he broke away from the other skeletons and ran ahead to block the bride and groom’s path, shaking his head at them.

“You will not touch him,” he quietly vowed.

He jabbed at the groom, and the bride chose the opportunity to slip past Illya and head for Napoleon.

“Nyet!” Illya snarled, hurling the rake at her like a javelin. It struck her on the back of the head, knocking her over.

But as Illya went to retrieve the rake, she got up, lunging at him; now the groom was slipping past towards Napoleon, but before Illya could go after him, the bride had seized his throat with her skeletal hands.

“Napoleon!” he gasped. “Behind you…!”

He shouldn’t have been loud enough for Napoleon to hear him over the wind and rain—but Napoleon did, his eyes widening in horror as he saw not the groom heading for him, but the bride trying to strangle his partner.

“Illya!”

He ran towards them, knocking the groom aside with an offhand swing of the axe and arrived in time to remove the bride’s hands from Illya’s neck—then swinging at her with the axe, as well.

“You don’t get it, do you!?” he snarled at the bride and groom, as Illya massaged his neck. “The reason you’re cursed to this afterlife is because you got married for the wrong reasons—not because you loved each other, but because you wanted to show off how rich you were! I love Illya—and that’s what I want to show off!”

He stood back-to-back with Illya, who had recovered the garden rake; as Napoleon stared down the advancing bride, Illya stared down the groom. The other skeletons in the wedding party stood and watched, realizing that their fate rested in the outcome of what transpired.

“On ‘three?’” Napoleon asked.

“Da.”

They quietly counted down and then both attacked, simultaneously knocking the bride and groom off of their feet. At the precise moment they landed, a bolt of lightning struck the cursed tree. Already weakened from Napoleon’s hacking, it fell over with a resounding CRACK.

The skeletal bride and groom, who had been attempting to get up again, now fell back, limply; as Napoleon and Illya watched, the lifeless bones sunk into the solid ground.

The other skeletons also collapsed, disappearing into the Earth, taking their bottles of cherry wine with them.

The property seemed to change before their eyes; the grand manor looked more and more dilapidated, and as Napoleon and Illya ran to the front orchard, all of the cherry trees withered away before their eyes, the fruit disappearing.

“Napoleon…?”

“…I think we should forget resting and keep going until we find civilization,” Napoleon said. “Suddenly, I’m not so tired anymore—adrenaline really works wonders, you know?”

“…Agreed.”

There was no way to explain how or what they had just experienced; it would be left off of the mission report—it would save everyone’s sanity that way. And Illya would be content to forgot the whole affair, as well—except, deep down, he knew he wouldn’t. For it was because of his beloved partner that they had both made it through this otherworldly encounter.

That would be something they would never forget.

#Napoleon Solo #Illya Kuryakin #the man from uncle #mfu fic #napollya #inktober for writers

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ghostheadcanons · 5 years

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Papas + Copia: Weddings!

Anonymous said: I really love your writing omg! It has heavily influenced me to starting writing headcanons again and I cannot thank you enough!!! ANYWAYS! I'm quite curious on this subject so what would the Papa's and Cardinal's wedding with their s/o be like?

Words can’t describe how thrilled I am to hear that!! A lot of my love for Ghost and my knowledge of the lore came from headcanon blogs, to the point where I started getting headcanons of my own!

Remember when I said the weddings were coming after the proposals, guys? Here they are! LET’S GO!

Papa Nihil:

It would be a mostly-private ceremony, planned by Sister Imperator. Family and friends only!

The decorations and food are both lavish and decadent--reds and golds everywhere.

Cardinal Copia would be the one to officiate the marriage, and Sister Imperator is Nihil’s ‘best man’. Imperator swept you away almost immediately and instructed you on the proper way to behave at this ceremony ages before it actually took place--you’ve hardly seen your husband-to-be.

It’s weird being told how to act for your own wedding, but it’s worth it when you see Nihil and how stunned he looks on seeing you again.

He’s dressed to the nines in papal robes made specially for the occasion, and you’re in a brand new golden wedding outfit, with red accents.

“Sei bello, cara mia,” he whispers, squeezing your hand encouragingly.

Papa I ends up falling asleep partway through, Papa II pays attention (though he looks bored), and Papa III has his phone out.

Papa III ends up calling Copia’s number, grinning at the look on Copia’s face when his phone starts vibrating and ringing in his pocket right in the middle of Nihil’s vows. The death glare Papa Nihil gives the poor Cardinal is enough to kill someone.

You two exchange rings, and you kiss. He takes your hand and eagerly leads you off. No time for the reception! You have a boat to Italy to catch, with a bridal suite waiting!

Nihil wants to start this honeymoon off right. ;)

Papa I:

Your wedding is more of a ritual, technically speaking.

You are cleansed and properly prepared (separately of course), as is tradition.

You two are then brought together in front of the entire congregation. Dark, mystical, mysterious...there is plenty of chanting, singing, and the bowing of heads in worship.

Your souls are bound together, so that not even God can break your union.

Papa I would take you right there on the altar as the other members engage in a delicious orgy...if you were open to it. If not, the two of you can consummate later. It’s entirely up to you.

Now you truly are one.

Papa II:

His wedding would be the darkest, gothiest wedding of them all. It will take place in the church, with the rain pouring down and lightning flashing outside, with everyone in the congregation + important members of the other, international branches of the church.

Papa II takes care of most of the planning. You don’t envy him one bit; planning a normal wedding is bad enough, but a wedding for a satanist church where there are a lot of very delicate politics going on between people? That’s a minefield you don’t need.

But he allows you to pick your outfit.

Whether it’s an elegant black suit with a billowing cape, or a massive black ballgown with a bouquet of skulls, you will look stunning.

He, of course, is in new papal robes with skull facepaint. When he sees you walk through the massive doors to the aisle, he beckons you to come closer.

Papa Nihil would be the one to give you away, should you allow it. He’s absolutely thrilled to see his son get married!

The kiss that seals the marriage is intoxicating. Unfortunately, the pair of you can’t consummate right away--there are customs he has to follow, people to greet, so on and so forth.

But you can look forward to one kickass reception party with him at your side.

Papa III:

He wants a classic horror-movie themed wedding. He’s adamant on it. He wants to be Dracula. Let him be Dracula!

Sister Imperator shoots him down almost immediately. Nobody ever thought III of all people would actually get married, so a lot of people are going to be coming--and it won’t do to look weak or ‘silly’ during such an occasion. There are sure to be people there who will be looking for an opportunity to usurp him.

He’ll be sulking for weeks. That was something really important to him (and you thought it would be fun, too!). But after awhile, he accepts it.

He fights Sister Imperator tooth and nail for creative control over this wedding. He even lets you have input on what you want!

You two end up getting married on Halloween--so he has an excuse to goth it up, at least. And so do you. Black and purple!

Little do you know that there’s a nasty surprise waiting for you....

Throughout the ceremony, the ghouls are restless. Something is wrong, but nobody knows what. But at the moment when the priest says “Should anyone object to this union, speak now or forever hold your piece...” the doors come crashing open.

Looks like your parents decided to show up after all! Along with the rest of their church! And they brought weapons! Some Papa III’s hateful ex’s decided to help sabotage the wedding.

It’s a brawl like nobody’s ever seen before. The ghouls are ripping people apart, the audience is screaming, it’s pandemonium!

Papa III is quick to get you away from the carnage and upstairs to safety. You can tell by his slumped shoulders and defeated expression that he’s disappointed. “...I’m sorry, tesoro. This was not the wedding I wanted.”

Luckily, you prepared for this.

You tell him to meet you in his room in about ten minutes. He’s confused, but would show up, open the doors....

...and gape.

There you stand in the special Bride of Dracula costume you got, makeup applied, smiling demurely at him. “Ah, Count. You have returned at last.” You hold your arms out to him, adoration in your eyes. “I ache to be one with you. May we commence the ceremony?”

His face lights up. With a predatory grin, he lets the doors slam locked behind him and stalk closer. “Si, mia sposa. Your Count has something special in mind for you....”

You’ve made him the happiest man in the world.

Cardinal Copia:

Nothing as grand in scale as the Papa’s, and honestly? He prefers it that way. He wants a small, private ceremony, no huge party, nothing like that.

At the very least, the two of you can plan it together without Sister Imperator watching the two of you like a hawk.

All of his rats are watching. All of them. He has provided plenty of snacks and refreshments for them. They all have nice little outfits on. That was something the two of you did together.

Since neither of you has family able to attend, or an obligation to invite people, it can just be you, him, the priest, and the rats, if you want.

When he reads you his vows, his voice is clear and ringing, and he doesn’t stutter once--though he did bring them up so he could read them.

Your marriage kiss is sweet, and the rats all squeak their approval as the two of you walk out the doors.

The both of you are ready to consummate the hell out of this union.

#ghost #ghost bc #papa iii #copia #cardinal copia #papa ii #papa i #ghost headcanons #ghost bc headcanons #love #marriage #weddings #relationships #iii's kind of ran a little long but i had to get it out!!#headcanons

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weaverlings · 5 years

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gucci, it was not

because I just really needed to do something after episode 145?? really. really

sometimes love is about becoming co-conspirators. maybe. possibly. who knows!!!

Cecil pushed open the door to the radio station. Someone caught the edge, and pulled it out of his hand. They held the door open for him, which was nice, so he smiled at them, and said, “Aww, thank you.”

And then he saw the hair, which was just perfect. He saw a white lab coat, bright against the sunset sky behind them. He heard Carlos say, “Cecil! I was just going to see you!”

“Hey there, handsome,” Cecil said, and smiled at his husband. Cecil stepped forward to join Carlos, through the doorway. Almost. Carlos was still in the doorway. Carlos hadn’t moved, except to place a hand on Cecil’s upper arm. Since Carlos was still standing there, hair perfect, Cecil couldn’t go any further. He touched lifted a hand to those gorgeous locks and hummed appreciatively. “Hey. Heeey. Did you know that you’re beautiful?”

“Yes…” Carlos bit his lip, and then smiled a slight, nervous smile around the teeth. “Okay. Well. You’re you. That’s good to know. Like, really good. I don’t know if I could overstate that.” He slipped his hand up, onto Cecil’s shoulder, squeezed. “But with that established, are you alright?”

“Hmm? Yeah, I’m fine. Great! Just finished up the show and got out a little early, because someone wiped the tapes, so it wasn’t like there was filing to do. And you know what, they even cleaned out my email, which was a little… Oh, I don’t know…” He waved a hand dismissively. “Well, it’s no big deal, right? It means I got out early, and that means I get to see you now, so of course, I’m great. Just… peachy-keen. That’s the scientific term, right?”

“It is, yes. But I’m not sure that-”

“And with you here, how could I ever be anything else?”

Cecil’s smile had melted at the edges into something languid and mild and it was in fact a familiar expression, but this relief was counterweighed by context: Carlos normally saw this specific type of smile after on average two and a half glasses of wine. This data, combined with other recent observation, and what Carlos had collected in his lab before deciding he would leave the radio to turn itself off and head down to the station immediately, supported his hypothesis.

“Okay. Well. I’m glad you are, in scientific terms, peachy-keen… Hey, sweetie?”

“Mhmm?”

“I was thinking I would drive you home tonight. I don’t think, scientifically speaking, that you should be operating a vehicle or heavy machinery right now.”

“Oh. Oh, aw, so…”

“Don’t worry, Ceec, we’ll just have to take a rain check on going to ride the abandoned construction equipment at the waterfront recreation area.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I know how much you were looking forward to it, and to cancel it for… for… No reason? I mean, I feel great. Like I said! So, come on, baby, let’s run the night, you and I…”

He lifted their hands, inviting Carlos to twirl under his arm, but his husband only caught his other hand and kissed it. Carlos murmured, “Cecil. You forgot to take your hat off.”

“And? It’s a cool hat! ”

Carlos brought their hands together over his chest. “Just… trust me, okay? And please take that thing off. Sweetheart, if you’re too… tired, or out of it, or, I’m sorry, I can’t say what the scientific name for this state is because I know you aren’t actually drunk… if you’re too ‘whatever,’ is the scientific placeholder, to tell that that was not Gucci, then you’re too 'whatever’ for the waterfront recreation area. Let’s go home, okay? Get some rest? At least get out of the doorway?”

They were both still standing in the doorway. Carlos could see Lance watching them as he tapped some papers on his desk. Cecil listened, in a thin, glassy sense of the word, but partway through something did seem to connect - if only the fact that he wasn’t quite connected.

The sales tarantulas lived at the station; one of them in particular had taken to sleeping in Cecil’s then-coffee mug, which had been a fun surprise and now he had an even more scientific coffee mug that changed color when he poured hot liquid into it, so really, it was fine. But soon enough, the marketing team and possibly an intern would be heading out for the night.

“Mmm, oh, right. A quick look at traffic… there might be a pedestrian jam at Night Vale Community Radio, if a certain radio host and his stunning husband do not move out of the threshold?”

“Exactly.”

But even having said that, Cecil did not move. So, Carlos took his hand again, and he followed the scientist down the steps without resisting. Until, just before the parking lot, he stopped suddenly, catching Carlos in front of him. Cecil lifted the helmet off, and hung it absently over the end of the railing; it slid down over the nose of a snarling stone figure, and he frowned and nudged it back.

He laughed, and patted the creature’s helmeted head. “Totally saved from the sphere.”

Carlos made a sound, a gasp, maybe a laugh that didn’t make it all the way out. “Okay.”

He smiled, and ran his hand through the back of Cecil’s hair, now that he could, and Cecil leaned into the movement for a kiss.

Carlos said, “I think I’ll be able to move some science around, so we should make it to the waterfront before the end of the week.”

“Oh, that sounds perfect! God, I’m sorry about tonight, it… It was just so slow, I can hardly stay awake… Sometimes, I just need a good, juicy news story to get the blood pumping… Something. Tonight was just. Nothing, really.”

They reached the car, and Carlos stepped away from Cecil, but his husband’s hand tightened. Carlos turned back, and Cecil said, in a low voice, “Hold on. So, you were listening, right?”

“Of course,” said Carlos. “I listen to you every time you’re on.”

“Right. Well, listen. I mean.” Cecil laughed anxiously, and he was looking only at their joined hands, flexing his fingers and brushing the tips on Carlos’ knuckles. “You always do. But right now, what I’m trying to say is… I’m not worried about what the news was tonight. I’m sure. Sure it was no big deal. No news is good news. Yeah… Mhm…”

He trailed off.

“Ceec?”

“We should be getting home, right?” He pecked Carlos on the cheek, and moved past the trunk, but this time, Carlos stopped him.

“Cecil. You were saying something.”

“Oh. No, no, I don’t think…”

Carlos leaned in, and spoke into Cecil’s chest, so close that he could feel the warmth of his breath through the cool night settling around them. So close and so pleasant as to be distracting, but perhaps, if the words had been sharp and clear, if they had invited focus, he wouldn’t have understood.

“Yes, you were. You were asking about tonight’s show. Which, you know, just from a scientific perspective… Because you spoke words which were interpreted into electrical signals - presumably, presuming your microphone was plugged in to anything tonight - which were then once again formed into sound waves through the radio in my office, where I was, I heard what you said tonight.”

“Right. So I was thinking, maybe… You know, it’s really nothing, I mean, not a big deal, but…”

“No, I understand! You were talking about-”

“Whoa - Uh, no!” Cecil shook his head, once, and then tipped his cheek into his hand, and sighed. “Sorry, bunny. Wait. It can wait. Right now’s not a good time, you know? But later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe over coffee. Maybe while I’m pounding it.”

“Ah. I see.” Carlos gave him a thumbs-up. “I understand the scientific principles of sound, so, what you’re saying makes sense.”

And they were silent, by a certain definition, making only sound that was incidental to living and breathing and climbing into a car to drive home.

#wtnv #welcome to night vale #wtnv spoilers #spoilers #my fanfic

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meatymidnightmultiverse · 5 years

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Chapter 4

The trek back home was a relatively quiet one, both of them stuck in an awkward silence and sifting through their individual thoughts. That is, until a flash of lightning came from overhead chased by mere seconds by the crackling boom of thunder. The sudden noise made Chie jump and bury her face into Yosuke’s shoulder, a rather adorable squeak coming from the pudgy Persona user. Tightening her grip around his waist, he looses a noise of his own in surprise. “W-whoa, Chie, what the hell?” The sudden shock caused him to jerk slightly but he was able to right them before anything bad happened.

Rain soon starts to pour down on the pair, forcing him to pull off to the side, reaching a little rest spot with an awning and vending machines. Switching off his scooter, he cranes his neck to see the girl shivering, out of fear and a little bit from the heat being sapped by the rain that had drenched the both of them in a short period of time. Even with it being in the warmer months, a quick shower like this can really cool things off. Loosing a sigh, he works the both of them off of his scooter and onto the bench, her grip hardly loosening as another bolt screeches across the skies.

“You’re still terrified of storms?” He asks, a concerned look on his face. The only reply he earns his a nod as she keeps her face buried in his shoulder. He can feel her shaking like a leaf in the wind and there’s a bit of warm liquid seeping through his shirt. An awkward arm reaches around her shoulders as he pulls her into an embrace he hopes is comforting, his hand rubbing circles on her upper back. A quick thought springs to mind as he reaches into his bag and pulls out his old headphones, the same pair he always wore in the television. “Chie, put these on. It’ll help drown out the storms.” Her head moves just enough to see what he was referring to and she allows him to put them on her head, her arms still firmly coiled around him as her still full gut pressed into his lithe frame.

Clicking the jack into his phone, he starts up some music from a movie soundtrack... Trial of the Dragon to be specific. Sure, it wasn’t his usual wheelhouse, but he still enjoyed the movie and the music from it. Plus, he thought it better to put something on he knew she loved. It seemed to work, her hold on him becoming a little bit more comfortable, allowing him to breathe a little easier. It helped a little bit that the strikes of lightning seemed to let up a little bit, but the downpour certainly didn’t. Looks like they’d be stuck here for a little while.

Partway into the soundtrack, Chie moves the headphones and takes a look out to the skies, her eyes a mite puffy from the tears she shed. Deeming it safe for the moment, she removes them outright and hands them over to Yosuke. “Th-thanks.” Her voice was still a little shaky, not to mention the proximity made her a little bit shy. “Uh, sure thing.” He nods, taking his headphones and exiting out of his music player. “‘s not like I could let ya sit there and suffer. I mean, I know I made jokes about it before, but... I didn’t mean anything bad about it.” A soft smile was on his face, brightening the mood just a little bit. “Still, I knew it was supposed to rain, but I thought it’d come later. Mariko’s usually good about her forecast...” Little did they know, she shifted a few things around just in case as a favor to Yu. They’d either be stranded in Okina for a little while or this exact scenario would’ve played out, either way, they’d have been forced to spend some extra time together due to the plan of the fool.

“Yeah... oh well. It’s not all bad, I guess.” Which was true in her opinion. While things might be a little weird between them at the moment, she’s glad that they’re hanging out. Yosuke’s a good guy in her books, overall. Someone she’s had a great deal of fun with, someone she’s been able to rely on in both battle and as friends. Sure, he’s a bit of a klutz and sometimes says the wrong thing or might perv on the girls a bit, but she knows he’s a good person at heart, trying to add a bit of light and humor to the world in his own way. Plus, when he’s not tripping over his feet, he’s actually a pretty good fighter and dancer and kinda hot... huh, where did that thought come from? And also why did it make her feel so warm and giddy when he was staring at her and even when he complimented her legs and... her pudgy gut. It wasn’t like she was oblivious to the weight she put on, and it’s not entirely slowing her down in her training either, just a few kilos she can’t seem to lose. Oh, and let’s not forget that spark that ran up her spine from the accidental poke to her squishy center along with how great he is to cuddle... Geez, now she’s even more confused.

“Earth to Chie... hellooooo?” Waving a hand in front of her face, she blinks a couple of times before realizing he was talking to her. “Huh, wha? What is it?” Her voice didn’t even remotely hide that she was in a daze. “I asked if you wanted something to drink while we’re stuck here.” Jerking a thumb to the vending machines next to them, his grin grew a little bigger as he caught her unaware. “Oh... sure.” Loosening her arms, he is able to escape her grasp for a moment to grab a bottle. A thought runs through the both of their heads about missing that warmth they shared in those few moments apart and he’s quickly planted himself next to her with bottle in hand. “Aaaaand it looks like they only had the one thing left. Guess my luck still isn’t too great, huh?” He jokes, handing it over to her. It’s enough to make her chuckle as she popped it open and took a swig, her nerves jumping around still as she hands the bottle back to him. With him taking a drink and handing it back, they sat and listened to the rain, sharing indirect kisses through their beverage without even realizing it.

“S-so... you, uh... you like fat chicks, huh?” Smooth Chie... “What brought that up?!” Voice cracking as he turns to her, face dyed red once again. “Well, if we’re stuck here for a bit, we might as well talk about it. So, yes or no?” Even with her being a bit embarrassed about it, not to mention admitting that she’s gotten a bit fat, she needs to know so they can work things out.

“I... w-well, yeah, I do, but it’s more than that with you, Chie!” With them out in the middle of nowhere like this, he’s not as worried about being looked at funny for shouting. “You’re such a fun, kickass person to be around! You don’t mind my jokes, it’s really easy to talk to you, and I don’t ever feel like I need to hide who I am around you. You put me at ease just about as much as you put me on edge, not to mention you’re way hotter than you give yourself credit for!”

She’s taken aback by this sudden spilling of his guts. It’s still odd to her that someone thinks she’s that attractive or that she’s really that fun to be around. Her self confidence might be a bit higher and less of an act than it was a year and a half ago, but she still had her issues. But rather than staying on the backpedal, she’s going to take the offense back at him. “You know, you’re a pretty great person to hang out with too. While you might make jokes, I know you don’t really judge me about what I like... and... it’s nice to know that you think I’m... w-well, that. But you should know that you’re pretty hot in your own right. I’ve seen the way you move... you have this weird sense of fluidness to your actions when you’re not tripping over your own feet, not to mention how calm and happy you make me feel normally, even when you also happen to piss me off. I just... I dunno, I thought you liked Rise and Yukiko more than me...” She hated feeling jealous of her friends like that, especially when it came to boys like Yu and Yosuke. Maybe she’s been harbouring feelings for the lanky lad for a bit longer than she realized before.

Hearing her tirade sent him reeling. “Chie... I do like Rise and Yukiko, they’re our friends. But... don’t think of yourself as a consolation prize. You’re amazing in your own right, and anyone lucky enough to be with you is the luckiest person in the world.” Holy shit, when did he get so smooth. Looks like some of those charm lessons from Narukami paid off, even if he’s genuinely speaking from the heart. “Yosuke... I...” With a deep breath, Chie pulls him into another embrace, a much more tender, heartfelt one this time around. Her neck craned, she looks up into his eyes and stares deep into them, him replying in kind as their lips hover near each other. Mere millimeters apart as the rain around them ceases and time seems to slow. “The rain stopped...” He idly says before she musters the confidence and closes the gap. It was light, but fiery, a hidden passion shared between the two that built up over the course of time that they spent together finally being released in this short moment before they pulled away slowly. “I really like you.” They tell each other in unison, unsure if it was safe to say the ‘L’ word at this time. But, it seemed like this sufficed for the both of them at the moment as waves of joy flew through the pair, grins growing on both of their faces before a fit of laughs filled them both. It looks like they’ve figured out at least a little bit about what they mean to each other.

#Yosuke #Chie #(ahhhh)#(It's crap but I needed to get it out)

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bestfriendforhire · 5 years

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Entry 380

I took a seat, watching as Jarod, Maxine, Aurora, and Mila worked. Maxine was arguing with Mila over the merits of a new type of resistor to be used in Aurora’s car, unaware that Mila was simply helping her to bounce ideas. The technology Mila could access was vastly beyond Earth, so she was heavily restricted in what she could admit to knowing. Her mother did allow her to help others toward ideas.

Jarod, Mila, and Aurora were currently assembling the revised prototype. By most standards, I was quite certain the original prototype would have garnered tremendous acclaim for its innovations, but these four were always looking for improvements. Maxine actually helped redesign Portentia’s headset for the superhero suit recently, increasing Portentia’s effective hearing range again and updating the display to the latest specs.

Jarod hadn’t admitted it yet, but I believed he was enjoying having Maxine around. She debated with him on his level, came up with brilliant designs on her own, and surpassed his hectic work schedule to keep herself entertained, since she didn’t need sleep. Mila did tell me that the twins have grown a bit jealous at times lately when Jarod was discussing his work, but Maxine hadn’t actually tried anything… yet. I was certain she would eventually, given that she probably found his brilliance attractive as well. He’d handle things well.

Aurora was doing incredibly well. I’d had some misgivings when we first met, but the girl had proven herself to be born for engineering. Her ability to understand schematics at a glance surpassed even Jarod, from what he and Mila had told me. There were times that Jarod would present her with a new idea, and she’d instantly point to flaws or things that excited her about it. Even if her ability to communicate would barely improve, she was an asset to the world, though I had faith that she’d make significant progress in communication.

“James? When did you get here?” questioned Jarod after he turned around.

“Several minutes ago.” replied Maxine.

Speaking over her, Mila said, “Three minutes and twenty-two seconds.”

Aurora ignored them, still assembling part of the car.

“Sorry to interrupt. I’m scheduled to chat with Jarod about an upcoming project, but I didn’t want to rush you.” I explained.

He seemed to think for a second before saying, “Oh! That’s right. Mila had mentioned that a few days ago. Let me clean up, and we can go…” He hesitated as he looked around.

“Let’s go for a drive.” I suggested.

“Sure! Yeah. Meet you up top after I clean up.”

“He can wait. He should look at the upgrades.” argued Maxine.

“Sounds good, assuming we can keep Jarod from getting too distracted.” I teased.

He pushed my comment away with his hand, smiling as he walked away.

I listened as Mila and Maxine walked me through the changes they had made since last time. I didn’t bother telling Maxine that Mila tends to give me briefings as work progresses, since she seemed rather happy about her contributions. Scaring her into giving up crime had worked better than I expected, but Aaliyah has whatever effect she wants on people.

When Jarod was ready, we took the lift up and hopped in his Mustang, though little of the original car was left under the exterior. He let Mila take over driving at my suggestion. “So what’s up?”

“Well, we hadn’t really sat down and talked by ourselves for a while, but let’s get to business first.”

He looked slightly concerned as he asked “Is something wrong?”

“No, other than my desire to appropriate parts of your latest car design.” I explained with a smile.

He blinked and stared at me. “Wait. What? You know there’s typically no discussion when something’s appropriated, right?”

My smile widened as I said, “Thought you might get hung up on that part, but Aaliyah suggested an automated taxi service a while ago. She’s been getting things prepared with the local governments for use in the city and suburbs. After glancing through your current work, she modified things slightly to a design we could present for the general public.” Mila put the display on the windshield. “With your consent, this will be Best Friend For Hire’s taxi design for the next ten-ish years.”

“Taxis, eh? Mila driving them all?” he asked.

“Of course. Don’t worry. This won’t stretch my processing power. This section”—a section of the screen highlighted—”will give me an unnecessary boost for a small portion of myself to control the vehicle even in the event of a power outage disconnecting the Wi-Fi.” she explained.

“You’ll also get a percentage from the Wi-Fi network.” I told him.

“What about Maxine, Mila, and Aurora?”

“Maxine’s not officially doing the work, but her family’s accounts are being compensated. Don’t tell her. She’s still on community service in her mind.”

‘Yeah, I guess. She’s… surprised me.” he replied with a shrug. “For the first month, I was triple checking everything she did out of paranoia, but something changed in her. She’s really trying to help out as far as I can see.”

“I concur.” stated Mila, though she sounded amused.

“Fine, she still picks fights with Portentia whenever Portentia comes through the garage, but she’s helped Portentia too.”

“I’ve heard. That doesn’t make up for all the damage she’s done… or the lives lost.” I pointed out.

“No, but I’m glad she’s trying.”

I nodded in agreement and then asked Mila to bring up the details of how the profits would be distributed.

Jarod looked through the terms and asked a few questions as I went through them. Shaking his head and smiling, he said, “The other cab companies are going to hate you.”

“One won’t. I bought it already.”

“What about their employees?” he questioned.

“They’ll each be driving the version you saw with a steering wheel until they retire. Unfortunately, a few were retired early due to unsavory habits, but the drivers will drive, the office people will keep busy.”

Jarod looked at me in surprise. “You had them killed!?”

“Not how I’d put it, but there were a few whose information was given to the Slayer family. Most who were retired early have been compensated, probably too generously, and fired. Of those, I have to admit that a few won’t actually receive their full compensation due to current legal predicaments, but I didn’t make them break the law. The drug dealer had quite a surprised expression when the police took him away.”

As I talked, Jarod seemed to be appraising me. When I finished, he said, “James, you’ve really changed, man.” Holding up a hand, he quickly assured me “Not in a bad way, really, but… wow. I never thought I’d hear you talk about people dying or being arrested so casually. When did you get used to all this?”

“When I got married to someone who could aptly be described as a living weapon and adopted a former slave.” I admitted.

“Whoa. What? Dani was enslaved!?”

“When she was quite young. Luckily, that situation was rectified before too much harm came to her. Best not to mention that part to anyone. Hate for bad memories to be brought up if she hears them.” I explained, dancing around the truth.

“I knew slavery still existed in the world, but wow… She’s so cheerful and energetic. I’d never have guessed. I don’t understand how you three grew so close in two weeks.”

“You will one day.” I promised. “Unfortunately, I can’t explain. My honeymoon seemed rather long and was extremely busy, but good things came of it.”

He nodded. “I get the secrecy. With Ai and Mai, I’ve learned a great deal, but I can’t even begin to guess at the secrets Alma must keep. Our new relatives are something else.”

Smiling, I said, “They really are, but things will work out. I won’t let them cause us trouble.”

Jarod laughed. “I still can’t believe you had Raine deliver Godric home. Ai and Mai were horrified, but Mila showed me the look on his face. I couldn’t stop laughing!”

“Well, she’s more than a match for his whole family together. Imagine if she had formed that keep in midair and let it drop.”

“That thing’s amazing! I still can’t believe she called that an ‘oops’.” Catching my glance, he said, “Mila told me. I wish I could ‘oops’ things into existence. You’ve got to get her to help me in the lab occasionally.”

“She’s a best friend for hire.” I replied with a shrug.

“Fine-fine, but can you imagine the possibilities with power like that? I’ve been wanting to tie Ariadne down and get her to help me, but I think we both know the odds of that ever happening. Mila thinks Raine might be even stronger, which I can’t doubt after seeing that keep.”

“Ariadne wouldn’t struggle too much with creating a keep, but I agree that Raine could do far more. She’s practicing. Ariadne will be visiting soon to help provide some encouragement, so I’ll try to get them both into the lab during the visit.”

“Really!?” he exclaimed, excited before I could get another word out. “Dude, I’m going to start planning for it. With their help, we could have things created spontaneously inside a vacuum. Then there’s this energy idea I had where…” he started going deeper and deeper into his thoughts on low-energy nuclear reactions.

I stopped him partway through. “When you do those experiments, please let me be present, just in case.”

“Sure! You’re always welcome.”

“I’m planning on acting as a safety net, in case things get out of hand. I’ve actually studied control of radiation through magic and have faith that I could handle a small nuclear blast, if containment were to fail.”

“What!? That’s amazing! If I had known that, I’d have tried this other idea I had much sooner.” he stated, looking at me as if I should have told him months ago.

“Sorry, but you could’ve asked my thoughts on it.” I argued.

He laughed and nodded. “Life’s just so busy for both of us these days.”

“Really is. I know we just celebrated the triplets’ birthday before the baseball game, but we’ll be having another celebration soon.” The triplets’ party was small by my company’s standards, but they just wanted to visit France and spend time with a few people they knew there. I covered the expenses, at least the legal ones.

“Whose?”

“Raine’s on the fourth, and then Jemal’s on the twenty-third. I was thinking we could do something cat themed for Raine and make use of her fort. This will be her first birthday since her mother died.”

“Yeah… that’s rough, but she seems happier these days. I wonder if she can hear us this far out.” he commented, looking around.

“If she’s paying attention, probably, but I doubt she is. Being able to hear everything in a city and wanting to are completely different.”

“Oh, master. Just one city isn’t bad at all.” argued Mila.

“Well, you have certain advantages in that regard.” I argued, knowing that Aaliyah had expanded Mila well beyond the technologies of any world.

“Maybe a few…” she agreed.

Laughing again, Jarod said, “I’d be happy to keep up with a single room. There’s just so much happening all the time.”

I wished I could tell him what my day was like off-world, but Aaliyah didn’t want me to spoil the surprise. There would eventually be a day where Jarod and I could discuss aliens, but I had quite a wait. Still, I enjoyed spending some time cruising around with my best friend.

#Best #Friend #For #Hire #Jovial #Times #Fantasy #Fiction #Story

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johnhardinsawyer · 3 years

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So. . . Where Were We?

John Sawyer

Bedford Presbyterian Church

6 / 20 / 21 – Father’s Day[1]

Mark 4:35-41

Job 38:1-11

“So. . . Where Were We?”

(Peace After the Storm)

So. . . where were we, again? Oh yes. . . that’s right. . . A year ago, last March, before we were so rudely interrupted by events beyond our control, we were partway through the season of Lent – a couple of months after Pastor Karen Hagy retired, about a week before the Mission Trip to Puerto Rico, a couple weeks before Easter. . .

Where were we, again? Oh yes. . . that’s right. . . A year ago, last March, there was still plenty of toilet paper on the shelves at the grocery store (but it would soon be all gone, along with just about everything else), we had rarely ever seen anyone wearing face mask for protection in public, and maybe we had been on Zoom for an occasional meeting but we couldn’t imagine it being an every week (or every day!) thing.

Where were we, again? Oh yes. . . that’s right. . . Sixty-six Sundays ago, on March 15, 2020, after news of everything shutting down from restaurants to theaters to churches, and after a sparsely-attended worship service at which I said, “I’m not sure when we will see one another again,” the Session and Deacons met in a joint meeting – some in-person and some over the phone from home, and we decided to close our church building until Easter.

Nobody knew that the storm known as Covid-19 would keep us apart for sixty-six Sundays – that’s two months of Sundays plus some Sundays (just in case you’re wondering). And yet, for most of these sixty-six Sundays, the comforting sounds of Barb Flocco at the piano and organ, along with talented singers and instrumentalists have spoken good news to us through music, members of our Session and Deacons have offered their amazing gifts of leadership and care, Marc Murai and Michael Chen have cheerfully and willingly offered their expertise to make our worship livestream an essential part of our ministry at BPC, and Marcia Morgan and the IT Committee have ensured that we will be livestreaming our services for years to come. And you – wherever you have been over these past fifteen months – have given of your time and energy and finances and your very presence from afar to ensure not just our survival as a congregation, but a renewed sense of commitment and hope for what God is doing here.

We are not just here, together, by our own efforts, though. We are here, together, because God has kept us together and has drawn us together once more. And as your pastor, I could not be more thankful and more proud.

So. . . where were we, again? Oh, yes. Jesus and his disciples are in a boat. . . on the Sea of Galilee – a large lake, about the size of Lake Winnipesaukee. Jesus has been speaking to crowds of people in the towns and along the roads beside the Sea. Just so you know, the Sea of Galilee is a very scenic spot. You can find stretches of shoreline that are quite peaceful. But there is no peace for Jesus. Just a few weeks ago, we heard about how there were so many people surrounding his home that he and his newly appointed disciples were unable to eat a meal together because there were so many interruptions.

In today’s story, we see Jesus telling his friends, the disciples – some of whom were fishermen, born and raised – to get in a boat (maybe one of their own boats) and go “to the other side” of the lake. Just so you know, “the other side” was like a foreign country – a place where the Gerasenes lived – people who, were a mixture of Greeks and Romans and some Jews – a place of conflicting cultures and conflicted people. To go “to the other side” was to journey into the unknown. And, in order to get there, they had to cross the big lake.

If you ever go to the Sea of Galilee, you need to know that there is something about the geography and climate and weather systems of that place that cause storms to blow in quickly. You can see them approaching across the water and, if you’re in a little boat, there is nothing that you can do but try to steer clear and hold on – or, in Jesus’ case in today’s story, take a nap. Now, I’m not surprised that Jesus is a little tired. Dealing with crowds of people is tiring work.

But then the storm rolls in.

The disciples can see it coming – thick dark clouds and wind sweeping over the face of the waters.[2] The waves start to splash into the boat, nearly swamping it. And the disciples run to wake Jesus up, “Teacher,” they shout above the sound of the wind and rain, “do you not care that we are perishing?” (Mark 4:38) Or, as Eugene Peterson translates, “Teacher, is it nothing to you that we’re going down?”[3]

If we were to back away from this question that is being asked in the heat of the moment in a boat in a lake in a storm, I wonder how this question might speak to our own lives. How many of you have ever wondered if God cares. . . for you. . . for the world? You see, storms can come in many forms – when the clouds roll in and rain falls, yes, but also when a cancer diagnosis comes, when there is another miscarriage, when the job is lost, when record temperatures bring record wildfires, when politicians and neighbors and families can’t agree on what seem to be basic truths, when yet another person is killed by someone who uses a gun. Does God care? In the stormy wake of the worldwide hurricane known as Covid-19 with 600,000 people dead in our own country because of the pandemic, I wonder how many people are asking if God cares about any of this. . . any of us. Jesus, do you not care that we are perishing. . . that we’re going down? Or, are you just going to sleep through it?

This question is not a new one. In the ancient words of the Book of Job, we find people asking just this very thing – Job, Job’s wife, Job’s friends. Does God care that we are suffering? Is God paying attention at all? And then, in today’s reading from Job, we find God turning the tables and asking a bunch of questions that leave Job speechless:

“Where were you, Job, when I made the heavens and the earth, laying their foundations in ways and places that cannot be measured? Where were you, Job, when I put the seas in their place and made the waves stop whenever I wanted to?”[4]

To which Job says the ancient equivalent of, “Ummmmm. . . I wasn’t there, God. You are so much greater than I’ll ever be. You are God and I am not, and yet here you are, God, talking with little old me.” This is the beautiful thing about the Triune God. There is no one who is more powerful, more loving, and more present in any given moment than the One who made us, and saves us, and is with little old us. . . always. This is the beautiful thing about Jesus, who, in the midst of the storms of life, is always right here with us, saying, “Peace! Be still! . . . Why are you afraid?” (Mark 4:39, 40)

Does God care? Of course, God does! And yet, if we were to ask why we are so afraid when storms do come – and they do come, don’t they? – there is this fear that whatever storm comes our way will be difficult and nobody likes it when things get difficult. There is the fear that whatever storm comes our way will change our way of life – impact our health, cause grief and sadness, maybe even bring about our own death. So, it’s no wonder we’re so afraid.

And yet, Jesus is always saying “Peace! Be still!” to all of this. There is no one who is more able to offer a peace that passes understanding – than the One who stands up with us and for us and says “Peace! Be still!” to the storms that are whirling around us and raging inside of us, “Peace! Be still! . . . Why are you afraid? Do not be afraid,” Jesus says. “I am here in the boat with you. I am with you always.”

Sixty-six Sundays ago, I don’t know how many of you were feeling too confident about any of this. I know that I had my moments. I still do. Having a good therapist helps. The anti-anxiety medication helps. The music I’m able to play and sing helps. The support of the leaders of this church and my colleagues and friends helps. The love of my wife and son helps. The prayer helps. And, because of the Holy Spirit, the loving presence of Jesus – through all-of-the-above – helps.

To say that I have experienced the peace of Christ in these last months is an understatement. I don’t think I would have made it through without Jesus and without others being the hands, and feet, and heart, and calming voice of Jesus to me and for me.

You see, very often, the best peace that God offers comes through people like you and me – people who often fumble for words or get scared, ourselves. And yet, through fragile and fallible people like us who are willing to get into someone else’s boat and offer them our very presence as a reminder of the presence of the Holy, God’s peace is shared through the storm, through the night.

So. . . where are we, again? The storm of the pandemic is passing over. But the world is in no less need of the peace that comes through Jesus Christ.

So, as we gather back together after sixty-six Sundays apart, clinging to the wooden pews of this place for reassurance like the disciples clinging to their wooden boat after the storm, I hope that we can start to set our sights on the other side of the lake – set our sights on the unknown future into which God is leading us. We do not go alone. We are never alone – in stormy or in clear weather.

May the knowledge of Christ’s presence in our lives be imprinted on our minds, and hearts, and souls. And may we always hear the voice of the One who is saying to us and to all the world, “Peace! Be still!”

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

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[1] Today marks “Reopening Sunday” for BPC after fifteen long months of being “closed” during the Covid-19 Pandemic.

[2] See Genesis 1.

[3] Eugene Peterson, The Message – Numbered Edition (Colorado Springs: NAV Press, 2002) 1382.

[4] Job 38:4-11 – Paraphrased, JHS.

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ginger-and-mint · 6 years

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A Terrible End to a Terrible Evening

a.k.a. Ginger & Mint: Chapter 6 Bonus Scene

So where did Elliott run off to, anyway?

kink shit content: emeto; post-stuffing; basically a guy pukes after eating and drinking too much non-kink shit content: ominous shadowy figures; vague political intrigue; one grumpy boi WARNINGS: vomiting; drunkenness / implied alcoholism

Full fic is here: [x]

Elliott was so fucking glad to be out of that horrible place.

The streets of Oppendorff were dark and drizzly. Elliott hated being out in damp weather, but it was better than listening to those imbecilic first-years carry on like they knew a damn thing, and much better than watching his classmates awkwardly pretend they didn’t hate him. Plus, the cool air was helping him feel slightly less desperately nauseated.

He’d really overeaten. The meals at that stupid pub were enormous. Eating two of them had been overkill, even with a capacity like his. He’d gotten stomach pains halfway through the second portion, but when you were Elliott Vale, you couldn’t just leave food. So now his belly was swollen and groaning. That wouldn’t have been so bad, but he’d been drunk since three o’clock that afternoon, and he could feel the last few beers churning inside him, poison that his body wanted out.

He longed to get home and crawl into bed.

The walk back to the school wasn’t far, but it was all uphill, and he was so very full and drunk and sick. His belly sloshed with every step, sending horrible little burps into his throat. He slid his hands into the pockets of his coat so that he could hold its throbbing sides underneath.

Halfway up the hill, his stomach cramped sharply. He barely managed to suppress a retch, and staggered over to lean on the railing at the side of the path. Fuck, it was just too much…

He took a few slow, deep breaths, listening to the sickly gurgling of his stomach and trying not to think about how much better he’d feel if he just let himself puke. This area of town wasn’t busy, but there were houses just behind him, and Elliott was very much against throwing up where there was even slightest chance that people could see him.

But he wasn’t sure he had a choice. He felt absolutely wretched.

It was dark. Nobody would recognize him anyway.

He hunched over the railing and let the foulness in the pit of his stomach fill him up….

Over the quiet patter of the rain came sudden footsteps. Then a clear, crisp voice spoke: “Elliott? Is that you?”

Elliott swallowed hard, forcing back burning saliva. Slowly, he turned around.

“Oh, hello, sir,” he said.

Agent Smythe was standing a good ten feet away, in the puddle of light beneath a lamppost. His RAMA badge gleamed subtly.

“Heading home, are you?” he asked. “Is the gathering over already?”

The sour taste in Elliott’s mouth grew sharper. He would never have shown up to that stupid gathering at all had he not spoken with his mother that afternoon. The agent will be making an appearance. You must let him see you participating. It’s absolutely imperative. She had not told him that he had to stay for the whole thing, so he hadn’t.

“The others will be out for awhile yet, I’m sure.” He enuciated each word carefully, drawing on his long years of experience of pretending to be sober when he really, really wasn’t. “But I excused myself. Must get a good night of sleep for a fresh start tomorrow.”

“Ah yes, your proving exam nears! Such a dedicated student. But I would expect no less from Camilla’s son.”

Before Elliott could reply, a wave of nausea hit him. He bit hard on the inside of his lip and struggled to breathe normally. Cold sweat broke out all over his body. His heartbeat raced.

Agent Smythe came closer, moving forward into the shadows. “My, how much you’ve grown! The last time I saw you, you were perhaps… fourteen?”

Elliott did not remember ever having met this man before. Then again, it was hard to get a good look at his face with his vision blurring so terribly. He could not believe he was having to speak to this man now. He was too indisposed for this, stomach roiling with too much food and brain clouded with too much alcohol.

He’d known that he had to look presentable tonight! Why the fuck had he let himself get this bad?

“Your mother has told me so much about you,” said Agent Smythe. “In particular, I’ve heard a good deal about a little trial you conducted at the end of last year.”

The clamminess in Elliott’s hands worsened tenfold. “The spell was from an authorized notebook,” he said quickly. “I broke no laws in casting it.”

“Oh, I was not accusing you of that.” Agent Smythe’s teeth flashed white in the gloom. “In fact, the story impressed me greatly. Nobody has managed that spell in many decades.”

“Neither did I. My mother” —Elliott paused to stifle a bile-tinged burp— “…surely she mentioned that? I was not successful.”

“Still, you shouldn’t sell yourself short. For a young mage, with no specialized training, to attempt such a feat and survive to cast again—well, that is something truly special.”

“You flatter me, sir.” Elliott dipped his chin, hoping it looked modest rather than like he was trying desperately not to retch. Fuck, he felt so sick….

“I did hear that you suffered for it,” the RAMA agent continued. “But you’re recovered now? Back in top form?”

Elliott nodded. He was afriad to open his mouth.

“That is good to hear. Perhaps we can speak further some other time, in a more appropriate location.”

With a great effort of will, Elliott unclenched his teeth long enough to squeak, “Of course.”

“Wonderful. I shall be in touch. In the meantime, keep up the hard work. The kingdom needs more young mages like you, Elliott.” Agent Smythe’s smile made a brief reapperance. “Good evening.”

The agent turned and walked back down towards town. His footsteps echoed along the empty street long after he’d vanished around a corner

Elliott remained frozen in place. He could not move. He was so nauseous that his eyes were watering and his fingertips were numb. But he couldn’t get sick here, out in the open. Not after that encounter.

He waited, agonized, until the waves of sickness had reached a trough. Then he wrapped an arm around his stomach and broke into an awkward, painful run. There was an alley just across the street, and a little strip of forest behind the houses where he could do what he needed to do without risk of being seen.

He didn’t make it. Partway down the alley, he tripped on a broken cobble. He hit the ground hard on his knees and started heaving.

Elliott was quite desensitized to throwing up. The prospect didn’t fill him with dread, the way it used to when he was young. But he’d never quite gotten over how revolting it was to experience things you’d previously eaten in a horrible but totally recognizable form. He could taste the seasoning from the meat sauce, now corrupted and acidic. Even worse, he could feel the chunks of potato as they came back up.

When it was over, he sat back on his heels, panting with relief. His stomach wasn’t stuffed anymore, but it wasn’t empty either. He wasn’t yet sure if it wanted to be.

Roughly ten seconds later, he had his answer.

Fuck, he hated potatoes.

By the time his insides settled, he was damp and shivering and spitting nothing but foul saliva. It had been a long time since he’d puked so damn much. His stomach ached badly. Whether it was the organ, the muscles, or both, he wasn’t sure. All in all, it had been a terrible end to a terrible evening.

He would’ve felt sorry for himself, but truth be told, it was mostly his own fault.

Elliott wiped the sweat and tears from his face and stood up with a heavy groan. He was going to go home, stand under a scalding shower until the cold sweat with which he was currently drenched was nothing but a distant memory, and then perhaps have a little nightcap before bed. If there was one thing he had learned during his time as a student, it was that the best way to stave off a morning hangover was to wake up still drunk.

#I wasn't really planning to demystify Elliott yet #but here u go watch him suffer #emeto #nausea #vomiting #stuffing #ginger and mint #I made this

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araliyaintheskywithdiamonds · 6 years

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A Million Eyes You Are The Brightest Blue - A CrissColfer Fic

Loosely based on this prompt: “You broke into my apartment drunk thinking it was your friend’s house and I should call the cops but my cat kinda likes you so we’re good” AU

Bc I can’t seem to stop writing, and was suddenly inspired to write a NYE fic.

Word Count: 2215 AO3

*Title from A Great Big World’s This Is The New Year

This is the third New Year’s Eve Chris has spent alone. He’s actually gotten so used to it that he no longer feels that sorry for himself. Living in downtown LA should’ve meant that he’d have made at least some friends, but clearly that hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s a struggling college student slash writer who holes himself up in his too-small apartment, and gets his groceries delivered to his doorstep.

Maybe. Probably.

Chris has already set himself up for the night- several cans of diet coke are set out on the coffee table, along with some boxes of Thai takeout and all three Lord of the Rings movies lined up on Netflix. He’s about to settle himself on the couch, from where he probably won’t move for at least four or five hours, when there is an almighty crash in the hallway.

Chris’ heart almost stops, and in a flash of panic, he grabs the television remote, wielding it like like a weapon. He sits as still as he can, keeping his ears out for any more noises. This is it. This is totally the night he dies. He can almost imagine the headlines- Innocent Man Brutally Murdered By Thugs On New Year’s Eve: A Tragic Ending To The Year-

An excited yelp and a hiccup startle Chris out of thoughts of his imminent obituary, and he frowns in disbelief when he hears someone cooing animatedly, as if to a baby.

“Oh my god, you’re adorable- Jules totally didn’t say she had a cat- who are you, my lovely-”

Whoever it is, sounds either raving mad or incredibly drunk, and seems to have found Brian. Oh god. Brian. Brian, who must now be in the hands of a cold-blooded killer. Brian, who could just as well be about to join Chris in his fast-approaching grave.

Scrambling to the kitchen, he fumbles for a knife from the drawer, and picks up his phone, fingers already on the number 9. Pointing the knife away from him, he tiptoes over to the opening to the hallway.

Heart thudding in his throat, breathing shallow and fast, Chris is totally prepared to use the knife against a ferocious attack, but what greets him is not a psychotic serial killer who gets distracted with house pets before a murder. Instead, it’s a completely harmless looking man, sitting cross-legged on the ground, with a purring Brian in his lap.

Chris drops the knife.

It makes a clattering noise against the wood, and the burglar slash murderer slash cat whisperer looks up at him. Chris is immediately greeted with a blindingly enthusiastic smile.

“Heyy, man! You a friend of Jules?” he slurs, Brian falling out of his lap with a disgruntled yelp when he makes a move to get up and greet Chris.

Chris immediately backs away, brandishing his phone as a warning. “I am going to call the cops right now, if you don’t get out of this apartment.”

The man’s face falls almost comically, and for some reason Chris feels bad. The guy looks genuinely heartbroken.

“Wait, why? I know Jules, she’s like one of my best friends!”

Chris would probably feel like he was talking to a toddler were this guy not clearly a grown man in at least his early 20s, and also a very hot grown man at that. Which is totally an inappropriate thought to think about a felon, since breaking and entering is a felony in California, but Chris really can’t help himself.

He shakes himself out of rather un-PG thoughts of those dark curls and stubble, and brings his mind back to what the guy just said. “Who is Jules? Why would you think Jules lives here?”

The man’s (weirdly shaped yet insanely attractive) eyebrows furrow in confusion. “This isn’t Jules’ house?”

Chris groans exasperatedly. “No, this isn’t Jules’ house. Clearly, in your inebriated state, you’ve come to the wrong apartment. Broken and entered, actually.”

The man leans heavily against the wall. “I didn’t break anything. The door was open.”

Oh. Shit. Chris must’ve left the door open when he got his food from the delivery boy. Maybe not a felon, then.

“I’m Darren.”

He’s introducing himself, why is he introducing himself? Chris just wants to get back to his warm blankets and thai food, not make friends with a drunk stranger, no matter how hot he is.

“You also need to leave.” Chris means it in a firm way, but it just ends up sounding mean. Darren pouts and Chris winces. He looks like a puppy left out in the rain.

“Why?” Darren whines, and then his eyes flicker with recognition. “Oooh- are you with someone? Am I interrupting something?”

Chris flushes. “No, I’m not with anyone right now-”

“Wait, you’re alone? On New Year’s Eve?”

Chris stomps towards Darren, ignoring the fact that he could very well be walking straight to his death (what if he was just a really good actor?), and holds the door open wide. “Yes, I’m alone. And that’s not actually a bad thing. Maybe I want to be alone!”

Chris tries to make it sound confident and assured, but it ends up sounding painfully defensive.

Darren pouts again, and Chris almost melts. “Don’t you want company? I could be your company!”

Chris raises his eyebrows. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Jules or someone?”

Darren waves his hand airily, thereby removing his anchoring on the wall, leading him to stumble precariously. Chris grabs his waist on instinct, ignoring how well it fits under his arm.

“Nah, I won’t miss much. Everyone’ll be smashed anyway.”

“Like you are?”

“I could sober up!”

Darren sounds almost hopeful, and Chris wonders why on earth he would be. In his ninja turtles t-shirt and shapeless pajama bottoms, Chris doesn’t really look like the most interesting person on the planet.

“I should be calling the cops.”

Darren waggles his eyebrows. “But you haven’t, even when you could have.” His grin is like the cheshire cat’s.

Chris can already feel himself caving. “Won’t your friends miss you?”

“Nah, they saw me yesterday. They’ll live.”

“You’re still drunk. I don’t want to have to babysit you.”

“Then catch up. We’ll both be drunk, and then you won’t have to babysit anyone.”

Chris narrows his eyes and lets go of Darren’s waist, wincing when he falls against the wall with a thud. “Why are you doing this?”

Darren looks confused. “Why am I doing what?”

“Why are you offering to hang out with me when you don’t even know me?”

“That’s how you get to know people. By hanging out?” Darren says it like he’s telling Chris that water is wet.

“But why me?”

“Well, I feel like you’d be more interesting than my drunk friends that I see like, every day, and plus you’re like, beautiful- in a surreal, elfin way.”

He’s drunk, Chris tries to assure himself. He’s drunk and he probably didn’t mean that.

“How are you still able to use words like that?” he asks instead.

Darren shrugs, and leans his arm against the door so that it falls shut with a soft click. “I’m not that drunk.” As soon as he says it, his arm gives way, and he’s falling to the floor in a heap.

Chris rolls his eyes. “Clearly, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

He tries to ignore the swooping sensation in his stomach when Darren whoops with glee.

***

“That is a lie.”

Darren’s sprawled over his couch, legs tangled with Chris’, while Chris watches from the other end. It’s probably weird, because they’ve literally only just met, but Chris is ready to start doing weird things. He’s also partway drunk, so it helps.

“There is no way you haven’t ever had a boyfriend.”

Chris raises his eyebrow and downs the rest of his glass of rum and diet coke. “Not a lie. No one wants to date me, and even if they did, I wouldn’t know. I barely ever go out.”

“But you’re like-” Darren gestures wildly. “Gorgeous.”

A pink blush joins the alcohol-induced redness on Chris’ face. There cannot be any way he looks gorgeous right now.

Darren however, is on a roll. “You’re also super fucking smart- you write for fuck’s sake, and you’re funny, and kind, and you let me into your house without even knowing who I was.”

“I’m also stupid, then.”

Darren’s gasps indignantly. “That was like the best decision ever! I am so glad you actually let me stay! I’ve never spent a New Year’s with someone like you.”

Chris suddenly feels sick. He sets down his empty glass, and curls up under the blankets. “I think I’ve drunk enough for one night.”

Darren seems to notice the change in the atmosphere. “Okay, then. I think you’re sufficiently caught up anyway.”

Chris suddenly feels bad, and decides to ask about Darren’s family. Darren’s eyes light up and it’s enough to ward away images of Darren with other people on New Year’s Eves, doing things that make Chris heart ache to think of.

***

“Do you have sparklers?”

Darren’s looking through Chris’ cupboards, and Chris is hoping that there’s a sufficient amount of healthy food in there so that he won’t be judged.

“Why do you want sparklers?”

“It’s New Year’s!”

“And?”

Darren stares at Chris like he’s sprouted two heads. “You light sparklers during New Years.”

“I know that, Darren.”

“Don’t you want to?”

Oh, and it’s back. The lost puppy face.

“Is it safe to light them inside?”

“We’ll go out on the balcony! Please?” Darren looks so excited that Chris finds himself caving, once again.

“I might have some left over from Hannah’s birthday party.”

Darren squeals like a little girl, and Chris tries not to think about how he’s already told him all about Hannah, and their relationship. He also tries to ignore the fact that no one he knows in LA has ever been close enough to him for him to even mention his sister.

Chris retrieves the sparklers, and suddenly Darren’s grabbing his hand, leading him out to the open balcony. The air is cooler that he expects, and sends a pleasant shiver up his spine.

“Seven minutes to midnight,” Darren whispers, and Chris startles.

Oh yeah. This is happening. He’s on a balcony with a gorgeous stranger (not a stranger anymore, Chris reminds himself), and they’re about to count down to the New Year. Said stranger also swings both ways, a useful tidbit of information Chris garnered when he told Darren he was gay, fully ready to kick him out if he even got the slightest whiff of homophobia.

They’ve got the sparklers and matches at the ready.

The mood is suddenly serious, standing out here in the open, wind whistling in their ears. There’s a distant pulse of music from one of the other apartments.

“Are you wishing for anything?” Chris asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t tell me, or it won’t come true.”

Darren’s eyes glow amber in the moonlight. “Can I tell you if it does come true?”

“Are you that confident?”

Darren holds his gaze, lifting up Chris’ unlit sparkler to light it with a match. It fizzles to life immediately, bright and brilliant between them.

“More like hopeful,” he replies, using Chris’ sparkler to light his own. They’re one of the long ones that go on for several minutes instead of several seconds. They take turns drawing patterns in the sky, until Darren’s phone pings to let them know it’s almost midnight.

“I’ve never had a New Year’s kiss,” Chris whispers into the darkness. He doesn’t know why he says it.

“Neither have I.”

Chris turns to look at Darren in surprise. “That’s impossible.”

“Really. I always clear out as soon as they start the countdown.”

“Why?”

Their sparklers glitter closer to the ends of the sticks, and Darren gently takes Chris’ hand in his own to hold them away from their bodies.

“I guess I’ve never really wanted to have a New Year’s kiss that’s meaningless. They say the person who you kiss at New Years is the person you’ll spend the rest of the year with.”

“And you’ve never met someone you’d want to stay a year with?”

“I have.”

“And?��

They’ve somehow moved closer together, so that they’re sparklers are touching and there’s barely a hair’s breadth between their bodies.

“And I really don’t think a year’s enough.”

Fireworks explode out from behind them. Chris recognises them as the ones that are lit at Grand Park, in downtown LA.

“We missed the countdown-” Chris starts, and suddenly Darren’s kissing him, one hand cupping his jaw, and the other twined with Chris’ where their sparklers share a flame.

Darren’s kissing him, and it feels like the world just stopped turning.

Darren’s kissing him and all he knows is how soft his lips are and the feel of his hair under his fingers and the smell of sparkler smoke.

Darren’s kissing him, and Chris really just needs to know. He pulls away to rest his forehead on Darren’s, gasping slightly. His lips still tingle from the memory of Darren’s touch.

“Who was that someone you said that a year wouldn’t be enough with?”

Darren’s lashes brush Chris’ cheeks as he steals another kiss.

“You.”

#crisscolfer #crisscolfer fanfiction #IT'S 2018 YALL #MAY THIS YEAR BE FABULOUS #MAY IT ALSO BE THE YEAR THAT OUR BOYS CAN BE FREE

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unicyclehippo · 7 years

Note

oh gosh PLEASE expand the accidental marriage AU PLEASE. it's so good PLS

they say that rao created the suns and stars and planets to keep him company, that he loved his creations for their beauty and order so much that he made krypton, and its people, to delight in it with him. they said—they said—he was so pleased with his children that he gave to them everything he had: wisdom, and passion, and strength, and intelligence, and within all of these gifts, his love.

she knows rao made order. a delicate, incredible dance. that rao set the rules of it all and made the music and the room to dance in, and the costumes, and the decorations, and the love and rhythm of their heartbeats—all of that, everything that exists, and somehow he couldn’t account for his tiny children running amok. couldn’t account for them making up their own rules, or for their countless missteps.

there was a stretch of time—a considerable stretch indeed—when kara hated him. because if rao had brought order to the universe, he missed a step. didn’t look far enough ahead to consider the end of his jewel, his love, his krypton.

kara read a lot when she came to earth, about religions and gods, both the divine and the fallible, but mostly she read about people. she was only thirteen when krypton—when it happened—but she remembers the quick thrum of her mothers pulse, fearful, and the way her father smiled at her with so much love in his eyes it burned, like he knew it was the last thing he would ever get to do and he wanted it to leave some kind of mark. well, it was, and it did. and she thinks a lot about choice and self and people and how it might have been easier for her if she hadn’t seen them right there. right next to her. how it still felt cruel to have seen them, and to have been made to leave them.

and the what ifs, that loud, endless wave of what ifs: what if one of them had gone with baby kal, what if they had made those stupid, stupid pods with room for two, what if her mother had never sent astra to the phantom zone, if non had never killed a guard, if kara had never called astra home, if someone had spoken up sooner, louder, more insistently, if her mother had just agreed to try, if generations ago the house of el had never even been formed—and everything stacks up on everything that came before and kara gets lost in it.

but there’s no point. there’s no point, because krypton is dead and left far behind, and that’s where it will stay.

all that remains of krypton is a fortress of toy relics, a man with her blood but the heart of a human, and shards of her dead planet. and her, still her. and there is no point in hating a god who died with the rest of her world.

years later, standing on the roof of national city’s tallest building—which isn’t catco, as much as cat might like to think it is—she hates him again.

the rain is so cold even she is shivering. head tilted up to the sky, she doesn’t both wiping away the torrent drenching her face, her hair. her cape drags heavy on her shoulders, a sopping weight, and she whips it to the side when it tangles around her ankle. the move flicks water off it like a spray of diamonds, shattering against the concrete where the rest of the water, the rest of the world, trembles at her step. she paces the roof of the building, eyes fixed on some distant point, the heart of the storm.

there comes a sound that only she can hear, and she pauses at the corner of the building. poised there, lightning cracks and illuminates her against the backdrop of a broiling, immense storm. it cloaks the whole city in shadow, clings to everything with its misted tendrils, and she is no exception. she would be engulfed in it, but for the power gathered behind her eyes—white-hot and furious.

and when the thunder drums again, like a call to war, kara’s edges are sharp enough to be a war all by herself.

lightning cracks the sky wide open. thunder follows it instantly in a boom. the wind that comes tearing flings back kara’s hair, her cape, shudders against the windows stories far below her feet.

kara clenches her jaw, braces herself against it. her eyes flash hotter.

she saw diana catch lightning in her hands once, knows better than most that many things in the world are more than they are given credit for. this storm is more than crashing particles—this is her challenge, her fight, and by everything that exists in this world, rao will hear her!

“DUAHZ VOIEHD KRYPTAHNIUM,” she yells up to the clouds.

the thunder rolls. grumbles, shatters into itself.

“TA-RRIV RRAOP-RAO RAOGRYHS PAHDH IRSTUN OSH KHAP!”

she gets no answer save the lightning that zips down toward her and kara’s eyes flash. she grits her teeth around a scream and launches herself right at it, catches it on the bands diana gifted her and doesn’t stop, punches right up through the clouds to the heart of the storm. she winds the lightning around her, grips it tight.

“rao,” she yells, voice dragged raw.

the wind is stronger here and it whips her hair across her face, stinging, and everything tastes like hot metal and salt water. she holds tight to the lightning just to feel it burn. feels the answering sting in a line down her chest, sternum to navel. “rao, ta-rriv rraop-rao pahdh voiehd? khap eiahm,” she whispers. the words are tugged from her, ripped from her lips. she wills it out, up, to the right ears. the right heart. “khap eiahm, ewuhsh gehd.”

1. a formal introduction; or, skulir: verb, the active form: to look, to examine.

kara is six years old when she finds out that she will have a husband. she considers it for two days, silently, before bringing it up to anyone.

a tall figure in blue—that’s all kara can see under her thin blanket—stands in the doorway of her bedroom. “your mother says you’re not well. do you want to come out from under that blanket?”

“no.”

“no?” the bed creaks as she sits on kara’s bed. “then perhaps i shall sit here with you. is that alright?” kara murmurs her assent, scoots over a little to make space in the bed. “i brought your stars, little one. are you sure you don’t want to see them? we were only partway through the primaries.” astra waits a moment for kara’s response. when it doesn’t come immediately, she offers, “you may hold the star jar, if you wish.”

kara kicks her feet under the blanket as she considers that.

finally, she pulls down the covers. “just the stars?” she asks, fixing her aunt with a suspicious look.

astra leans over, presses a kiss to her forehead. “just the stars,” she promises, and kara rolls around in her bed, bundles the blankets around herself, and thumps down into astra’s lap. her aunt pulls her close, strokes her hair back from her forehead.

“there is my darling star,” she murmurs. she activates the holo-reader—kara’s ‘star jar’—and scatters the stars across the ceiling. once it’s active, she allows kara to hold it in her little hands.

kara stays there, tucked up into astra, listening to her explaining the primary stars and astra cards her fingers down her long hair until kara’s nervous gut unclenches and she asks what has been bothering her.

“does everyone get married?”

astra��s voice falters, and then stops. she looks down at her niece, bemused by the topic change. “married?”

“fardhogh-cheh says that everyone gets married. that parents pick someone and then you have to spend your whole life with them.”

“did he put it like that?” astra crooks a finger under kara’s chin, tilts it up to look at her. “hmm, little one?” she tickles under kara’s chin and astra’s eyes, so clear and fond, are brighter than rao’s midday light. kara cuddles into her, ducks her head again. “have you been concerned about this?”

“...no.”

astra tickles at kara’s shoulder, makes her squirm. “for how long?”

“…two days.”

“i see. you do like to keep things to yourself, don’t you, little one?” kara shrugs. “well, it is nothing to be concerned about. marriage is a union between families.”

“who will it be?”

“he will be of good standing—”

“will he be nice?” kara asks, and with it comes the flood of questions that have blinded her for the last few days. “do i know them? how long do i have? what happens? do i have to get married? do i get to choose him? why do i have to get married? what does it do? is it scary?”

“these are a lot of questions.”

“i have a lot of questions,” kara agrees quietly.

“a curious mind can be dangerous, little one,”

“questions are good!” she argues, struggles to sit up and away, and astra nods. she helps kara, tries not to laugh at the bundle of a girl who wriggles away, irate at the suggestion that questions might not be a good thing.

“always. but you should share them with your family or else you may get lost in them.” astra strokes down her cheek. “and i would not like that.”

“oh.” kara waits a moment. “so?”

astra glances away, tries not to smile. “your betrothed,” she tells her niece, “will be chosen by your family, we who love you. we will not let you be bonded to someone unworthy, not when you are more precious to us than all else.”

“but what’s the point?”

“marriage is a union. do you know of shokh?”

“truth,” kara nods impatiently. “the first virtue.”

“the primary virtue, yes, on which we base all dealings. shokh is the virtue all unions are based on. a family would never agree to a union without first knowing who their beloved shall be bonded to, just as one would never agree to an alliance or business without knowing who extends their hand. it is a virtue that persists throughout a union—shokh is constant. unwavering. it is about learning and knowledge and discovery. sharing.” she hugs kara to her, strokes her hair again, out of her thoughtful eyes. “does that make sense, little one?”

“yes. but,” kara smiles, a little shy, when astra laughs. “i have more questions.”

“of course you do. share them with me,” she encourages, sets the star field aside for another night.

alura joins them later, knocking gently on kara’s bedroom door. she peeks in, relaxes against the door when she sees them curled there.

“you are feeling better then, kara?” kara nods—sheepish, small in her aunt’s arms, but she nods. “i’m so glad. you’ve had us worried. we had to call in reinforcements.”

“reinforcements?” kara sits up quickly, looks back over her shoulder at her aunt. “you’re reinforcements?”

astra laughs, throws her head back. “your parents were worried.” she lets kara go when she wriggles away from her, goes to stand defiant in the centre of the room, her little frown stern and her little arms crossed. “do not be displeased with me, little one.”

kara considers the request for a time, before she flicks her hair back over her shoulders and walks out of the room. she makes her way out of their home and down the long corridor before loud steps follow her and she breaks into a run before zor-el plucks her clean off the ground and carries her home.

“i’m mad at you.”

“it was your mother’s idea,” he tells her, in that low rumble of a voice she loves so much. she leans back into his chest—but keeps her arms folded to show her displeasure.

“zor-el!” alura is waiting for them at the doorway to their quarters and she shoots him an unamused look before she cups kara’s face, drags her thumbs over her cheeks. “we were worried,” she tells kara. when her daughter just pouts, she nods for zor-el to take her to the table. they sit her at the table and kara swings her little feet, plops her chin down on the edge. alura turns to her sister. “astra, will you join us?”

“if the little one will have me,” she agrees, and kara huffs but doesn’t disagree. she’s pretty sure she doesn’t get to disagree—astra sounds far too amused for kara to have any real say in the matter.

it’s alura’s night to cook and kara waits to be served. her little feet swing under the chair and she holds her cutlery in a clumsy fist, prods at the food in front of her.

finally, she heaves a great sigh.

“who will you choose for me?”

her father looks up from his comms, peers across at her. “choose for what?”

“to be my husband.” she pouts a little, bottom lip jutting out with a stubborn, stubborn chin. “if he’s not nice, i’m not gonna say yes.”

“he’ll be nice, my sweet,” her mother laughs. kara frowns over at her and alura reaches out, draws a finger down the crinkle in her forehead. “why are you so distraught? he will be your companion, your most trusted friend.”

“because of truth?” kara rolls her eyes, plops her fork in her food, swirls it around. “what about…love?” she stumbles over the word a little. it’s not said often. she’s only heard it twice before; her aunt and uncle, in love, and once by her tutor when kara asked him to explain it.

“love?” zor-el blinks twice before he smiles at his wife, and astra. “you have a few years before we’ll start looking. at least two.”

“zor-el!”

“i’m joking, i’m joking!” to kara, whose pouting has doubled, he smiles, leans down to press a kiss against her soft, sweet-smelling hair. “if you find someone,” he tells her, “let us know.”

she wears her outfit like armour, black and red, and her smile is like a serpent—quick and striking.

kara knows who she is—she wasn’t allowed out of the house the day alex found out that lena luthor had moved to national city—but it’s not the same as standing in front of her. which she only gets to do for a split second because lena luthor moves surprisingly quickly in her heels.

“i won’t ask how you got to this level without an escort,” she says with that smile again, “if you promise to make this quick. i’ve a meeting in fifteen minutes, one i really can not miss.”

her eyes linger on kara longer than clark.

“i know what you’re here for,” she says, and she flicks her hair back over her shoulders with a quick gesture. strides into her office—kara glances around at the sleek modern lines, the white, the small touches of any life. this isn’t an office to relax in, this isn’t a place to hide in. she follows the lines back to lena. “you’re here to find out why i wasn’t aboard the venture yesterday.”

she doesn’t give an inch the entire conversation—only stumbles over her words once when she looks at kara again, curious, and this time kara is able to catch the look, to hold her gaze, and then kara gets to introduce herself.

it’s…clumsy.

clumsy is really the only word for it. she stumbles over her words and it’s not polished or smart—and it makes probably the worst impression for catco not to mention herself—but lena listens before throwing out a little tidbit clark’s way.

kara can’t get a firm idea on who she is though—clark thinks he knows, clark always thinks he knows, but kara waits and waits and then lena is looking right at her and that’s the moment. she looks her dead in the eyes and it’s the chink in the armour: “i’m just a woman trying to make a name for herself outside her family”, lena tells her, and when she asks if they can understand, kara says yes. before even thinking about it. it was just a glimpse but...she’s seen her.

she can’t stop seeing her.

she’s dynamic, and brilliant, and quick, and she’s built herself up again and kara isn’t able to recapture that moment—that moment when she’s sure, absolutely, of who she is seeing—but each time she gets close enough to open another door, it confirms what kara has already seen.

lena, who builds hospitals for children. who defies her mother. who works late into the night, who says she will change her company for good and follows through, who dares and pushes and fights, who has something sharp and fierce and dangerous inside her and keeps it locked up tight. someone who fills her office with flowers, who crosses into kara’s life briefly, gently, like she’s afraid she’ll be overstepping should she stay too long. someone who leans in and admits with a quirk of a laugh that she only has one friend, and kara wants to take her hand when lena’s eyes tell her not only that it’s true, but that she’s not sure she even has that many.

“oh my god,” lena whispers, and kara buckles under the weight of a truck for a split second before she stands—it’s not that it’s heavy, it’s really not at all, it’s just that she’s holding a truck in her hands and lena is standing two feet away and staring. “oh m-you’re her,” she breathes, and there’s something small and pained and shaky in her voice, in her eyes, and kara is afraid.

she’s afraid, standing in jeans and flats and her favourite bright yellow sweater and holding a truck over her head. her glasses are sitting askew on her nose, the woman she thinks is her best friend looks like she doesn’t recognise her, and the box of donuts she’d been holding is on the road. splattered.

she’ll hate you for it, lillian had said, and the words spread like ice from her sternum and out, freezing her chest and making her breath come brittle and sharp.

“lena,” she starts, and it snaps them both out of the frozen moment.

lena glances quickly around, hisses at kara to put the truck down.

kara catches it before it hits the ground, lowers it gently. she checks on the driver, who is unconscious, and with a nervous look lena’s way, kara lowers her glasses to check him over. because, what the hell, right? lena knows. lena knows. lena already knows so kara can use her x-ray vision around her and free him from the crumpled cabin where he had crashed before the truck careened toward them.

she lays him out on the pavement, calls the ambulance for him and, when she looks over at lena to decide on their next move, lena takes her by the hand and kara follows.

“lena,”

“don’t.”

kara bites down on her tongue all the way back to her apartment. her hands are shaking badly when she tries to unlock the door so lena does it for her, and kara opens and closes her hands but they still feel cold right to the tips.

lena shrugs out of her coat, hangs it on the hook. she drops her bag on the floor.

kara stands in the centre of her living room and closes her teeth around her tongue and- “look at me,” lena requests, and kara shakes all the way down her spine but lifts her chin and opens herself up for lena to see. to see her.

“lena,”

“it’s too late to say it was adrenaline,” lena tells her, voice thick. “or a doppelgänger. or whatever it is you’re about to say so just save it.”

“i wasn’t—i wasn’t going to make an excuse,” kara whispers. “i was just going to say t-that i’m sorry.”

lena purses her lips, pulls her brows into a harsh frown, but what makes it so, so bad is that kara can still see her. see how she’s doing it—letting herself get angry, get cold and harsh, because this whole thing is hurting her and it’s easier, better, less shitty to be cold, to be angry, than have someone you trust hurt you.

“what was it?” lena asks. kara makes a tiny sound of incomprehension. “what convinced you,” lena clarifies, voice so clear and steady, “of who i am? that i couldn’t be trusted?” kara blinks. “shall i guess?” she slaps her phone down on the counter, stalks over to closer to the door. she faces away from kara for a moment before spinning back around, a parody of a smile in place. “it was beth, wasn’t it? see, i thought that was too good to be true. you listening to me, holding me. i should have known you were hearing how easily i could become a true luthor.”

“lena, no,”

“or did i have no chance at all? dear lex,” she sneers, top lip curling. “my dear brother. he didn’t stand a chance, you know. not with lillian for a mother. that’s how it goes, isn’t it? we all become our parents? it’ll be me next, i suppose,” she laughs.

“stop it,” kara whispers. lena’s words are too prepared to be new. she’s showing more of herself to kara now than maybe she even knows. or maybe there’s no reason now to hold back these fears. or maybe it’s better to say them when lena knows they’ll hurt kara the most.

“stop?” she laughs, a brittle sound. “why? why should i? i saved the world with you!”

“i know.”

“but it doesn’t matter what i do, only what i become. and everyone’s made their mind up about that already.”

“no,” kara tells her, steps toward her.

lena steps quicker away, toward the kitchen to put the island between them. kara stops.

“i refuse to believe that is true,” she insists. “i see you, lena,”

“you and everyone else,”

“i see you! not your parents. not your brother. i see you.” lena scoffs. kara reaches out, not to lena since she won’t allow it, but presses her fingers to the hard wood of the counter. “we are not our parents. and you are not this cold, hard person you pretend to be! i won’t let you use that excuse!”

“excuse?” lena’s eyebrows shoot up.

“to leave! to give in, give up. whatever you want to do! i won’t let you, i will fight for you,”

“right,” she scoffs.

“you are my friend and i am not losing you over this,” kara insists, nods firmly.

“friends. a super and a luthor,”

“kara and lena,”

“oh please,”

“you please,” kara snaps, tries to mimic lena’s scoffing tone. she flings her hands up, frustrated. “stop making this into that.”

“we can’t escape it that easily, kara,” lena says, forcing more of that drawling edge into her tone in a way kara knows is supposed to make her feel stupid and childish and little. “we are what we are made to be—”

“then guess what,” kara bites out, narrows her eyes. “i’m a soldier. i’m a warrior, made only to follow orders. i was built. i was chosen specifically to be fast, and strong, and smart. the perfect soldier. that’s who i was made to be. or, or if i’m to become my parents like you think then guess what. my parents lied to their entire planet. my father built a bomb to kill everyone except for people like him. the one your mother found?” kara smiles, humourless.

lena stares, eyes dipping to that smile.

“he made that. and my mother? she cast judgement on her own sister and put her in the depths of space. it’s an awful place.” her voice dips, wavers. “there is no light there, and no hope. and my mother put her there to let her rot. my parents were proud and stupid and selfish,” kara tells her, and her voice shakes. she’s distantly aware that she’s crying but lena…lena can never let herself be soft, kara knows that about her, so she’ll do it for her. she’ll melt, she’ll cry, she’ll be soft, and give and give and give. she’ll do that, if that’s what needs to be done.

kara pulls on every scrap of el courage to push her shoulders back and do just that. keeps her eyes steadily on lena, open. she sniffs, wipes at her cheek, but doesn’t look away.

“they built a spaceship in secret and they saved me, but they lied to everyone there and let them all die. just to save me and my cousin.”

lena blinks.

her lipstick is a dark plum today. kara watches her hesitate, pull a corner of her bottom lip into her mouth and suck away some of the colour.

“and, and maybe i am going to be like them. but i want to believe that i will be their best qualities. we, kryptonians, we came from people who had forgotten how to love so much so that my cousin was the first natural born child in generations. i don’t understand how that can be,” she says quietly. her gaze goes a little fuzzy and, for a moment, she thinks she can see them standing there with lena in her kitchen. “they loved me so much that they did everything they could. every selfish, horrible, secret thing they had to do to save me. and my father was proud and protective and he made an awful ting in the defence of his planet and i won’t do what he did. but his decisions? i am the only one left who knows them, and i will bear that. because if i don’t, then maybe one day i will become that alien your mother is so afraid of. i am my parents child, but i will be me first. and i,” kara swallows. her eyelashes flutter and she finally closes her eyes, leans in against the corner of the kitchen island. presses the blunt edge of it against her palm. “i just wanted you to see her. me. not telling you was never, ever about you not being good enough, lena,” she insists. “i just wanted to be me.”

she thinks she hears lena sigh, hears the faintest “oh” escaping on the back of that breath, but when she opens her eyes lena still looks cold and unmoved. the longer lena stares, the more kara wants to pull away.

but she doesn’t. or can’t. not when she remembers lena curled into that couch telling her about a woman in prison she wants to kill, and about how afraid she is, and about the paths laid out ahead of her and how she’s paralysed. because down each path is more fear, or madness, or death, and she wants so desperately to pick the right path.

and kara remembers how lena had let kara hold her.

she sees her.

and lena stares right back. it hits her, in a lurching way that feels like falling without powers, that lena sees her too. sees someone.

kara desperately wants to know what lena sees, who she is to this woman. feels herself crack a little when she realises what she’s done. what she’s tried to hide, the secrets she’s laid out, whatever hope there was behind them, to pretend to be a person lena could like.

lena, who has had to live with artifice and secrets her whole life.

“i’m sorry,” she says into the silence, and lena jerks her chin up slightly. kara sags. lifts an exhausted hand up to her glasses, apparently still sitting askew. huh. she hadn’t noticed. “i’m so sorry. i just, i wanted,”

“what were their names?”

lena looks as surprised about the question as kara feels, if the way she plucks at her fingers means anything.

“names?”

“your parents.”

“oh. i,” kara blinks a few times, quickly. “alura, my mother. and zor-el, my father. and me, kara zor-el.”

lena nods. folds her arms over her stomach, nervous fingers clenching around her arms. “you took your fathers name.”

“we aren’t so different,” kara jokes, and lena’s lips quirk upward very, very slightly. “they would have liked you. intelligence was one of our most admired traits.”

lena doesn’t seem to know what to do with that, and kara doesn’t know what to do at all.

all the tension has seeped out of the moment, leaving the corners of the room hollow and making each breath and nervous step sound louder than they are. finally kara reaches up, shakes her hair out of its plait. tosses her glasses onto the couch. after a moment, she goes after the glasses and places them instead on the coffee table because she has twelve pairs of broken glasses as historical evidence that she’s going to forget they’re there and sit on them.

she runs her hands through her hair, plucking out the bobby pins.

“can i see?”

kara yelps, bobby pin yanking at her hair, surprised by the question. “huh?”

“the,” lena unfolds an arm, gestures toward kara who stands frozen. “the…i mean,” she laughs quick, nervous, eyes flick over kara like she’s suddenly realising she’s been fighting with a superpowered alien. “you held up a truck.”

“it was going to hit you.”

“you can fly.” there’s the slightest edge of hesitation, like lena is about to say screw this, it was adrenaline after all, and kara steps up into the air before she can. touches her fingers to the ceiling. floats back down. she’s not going back, she’s not running away from this. she can’t. not anymore.

“i can.”

“you saved my life.”

“you’ve saved mine too.”

“that’s true enough,” lena agrees, lips snaking into a satisfied smirk. kara is enraptured by the way her eyes soften, though. she feels her jaw drop open a little, can’t help it, and something shifts and settles in her chest.

kara shivers.

lena knows, finally. everything is out in the open.

lena sees her too. what she does with it now, kara doesn’t know, but after all this time...it’s a beginning.

#tagging my stories #accidental marriage fic #supergirl #supercorp #i know i said it was going to be a oneshot but it was getting out of control #& its silly to keep from posting the complete bits #anyway whatever pls enjoy #Anonymous

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