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dancing-the-hellfire-rumba · 3 years

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I’ll Tell You My Sins (So You Can Sharpen Your Knife)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: angst! A lot! (ends in fluff tho), canon typical violence, briefly mentioned and very vaguely descried torture, blackmailing.

Word Count: eight fucking thousand words what the fuck

Summary: Reader hides important information about her past from both Steve and Bucky, causing serious damage to their relationships with her. When Bucky’s severely (likely fatally) hurt, the Reader tries to finally do what’s right.

Beta: @walkingaline and I genuinely couldn’t have done it without her. She’s the sweetest fuckin person.

A/N: I’ve dedicated my life to this for two weeks, and it’s positively the longest one-shot I’ve ever written. I’m rather proud of how it turned out, and the feelings I got to explore. Would really love to know what you think!

It’s- vines, climbing up her organs, endless, crawling, and overflowing, thorns stuck inside her skin, digging in, and the breaths come shorter, clipped, chest weighted. There’s no alleviating this pressure, this overwhelming whirlwind of emotions, chaotic, heavy and filthy, slimy and awful.

The rumble of her engine, a loud interruption to her vicious thoughts, digging their claws inside her eyes, filling them with tears. The world is blurry, but the vibration- it's a welcome distraction. Familiar and strong, her motorcycle drives her at this point, muscle memory leading to the Compound, tears flying off her face by the whipping wind.

She’s booking it. Time barely registers. It’s somewhere between lashing thoughts and trembling fingers that the off-white building rises between the trees, overwhelming and tall, glinting lights always on, no matter the time of night. Somewhere between gasping, fast breaths and stuttering heartbeats that she throws the bike to park and runs, fast passes every lock with her ID and forgoes the elevator, knowing full well that the adrenaline thrumming in her veins will carry her up the stairs faster.

Shoes as if weighed by rocks, she feels slow, stuck in mud almost, liquid cement, sinking, drowning in quicksand as she rounds the corner and- Steve’s there, arms crossed over his chest, busted bottom lip pursed with his top one, a deep sigh swelling his chest. His hair is longer than the last time she saw him, he looks battered and bruised, and she’s known him for years- she can read his face clear as day. And as situations like this always have him, she knows, in the clench of his jaw, the statue-still set of his eyebrows, in his stony posture; he’s as worried as he is determined.

The phone call had been rushed.

She shouldn’t have heard it, about to jump in her shower, had she not forgotten her towel on her bed. Naked, feet padding on her plush rug, she digs in her bedside table for her usually silent device. It’s Steve, and she hasn’t heard from him in nearly a month and a half. Instantly she knows something isn’t right.

There’s only so many seconds it takes for the words to sink in, words like “mission went wrong”, and “hurt”, and “won’t make it”, and “Bucky”. Soon she’s pulling on clothes at lightning speed like the universe depends on it, shower be damned. Keys, jacket, helmet forgone, tears stream down her face as if she’s already lost him, bike kick-started because what else is there to do but be there.

And now? She’s here. And she feels foreign and bizarre, stepping in a space that she barely belongs in anymore. It’s sorta how she imagines entering an old house that’s now inhabited by new residents feels like- it feels the same, but in the same way it feels all too different, strange and foreign; revisiting an old life that’s been made into a new one for someone else.

It really doesn’t matter though, does it? Because she’s not here for herself- not for Fury, not Steve, not for the Avengers, or the missions. She’s here- she’s here for him.

Steps even slower now, approaching the Captain himself, very much aware of her knotted shoulders, her shaking hands. It’s evident, suddenly, in his posture that he knows she’s there. His shoulders stiffen just this bit more, and with a breath with which his chin raises a notch, he turns to see her. One foot behind the other, and he moves out the way, letting her in his spot in front of the window of the room Bucky is in-

A gasp.

Time finally stops.

Unrecognizable. Buried under wounds and bruises, endless tubes- her lost boy, James, Bucky. Tears fall at a new speed, and she allows this moment of vulnerability in front of Steve, allows herself to cover her mouth, her expression crumples, her tears flow freely, and- despite being mad at her, despite having patches to mend (if they can even be mended anymore), Steve is there, solid as always, with a hand on her shoulder, urging her in his arms. Old friendships die slowly, she thinks bitterly, and sinks in the comfort, eyes unable to be torn from the sight before her.

It takes some time, a good chunk of it, to compose herself, to part from Steve’s warmth and wipe the wetness off her cheeks. She wraps her arms around her front and shakes.

“We got ambushed,” he murmurs, and the statement is heavy. There’s guilt, sorrow, she’s sure it’s not fun to recall. “My fault. Didn’t know they were that many, must’ve had false info. Barely got to get him out of there.” She shudders. The image is loud and clear in her mind; Steve limping with the leg he’s currently not leaning on, busted and bleeding, carrying an unconscious Bucky, blood dripping from his mouth. She flinches.

“Can I-“ hesitation. A deep breath, shoulders squaring, remembering she no longer asks, she states. “I want to go in.” Steve stares for a second, calculating, thinking, looks back at Bucky, limp on the bed. He nods.

“Go.”

Before she knows it, the door shuts behind her slowly, an industrial, metal click, signifying a sealed door, nearly impenetrable if it was locked. She tries to be calm, but there’s no way, no reason to look composed either, so she flings herself to Bucky’s side, fingers twitching, hands hovering over him, afraid to touch him in case he frails like a burnt paper, in case he turns to dust and disappears before her very eyes.

Tears, once again, fall freely on her cheeks, tracing paths already carved by the previous breakdown, and the prospect of never seeing his wonderful crystal eyes, blue and loving, tears her apart. Worse so, the idea that the last time she saw them, they were red, hateful, betrayed, staring at her as if she was a monster, nothing more than the true scum of the earth, and he was right, and she will likely never be able to make everything right again.

It feels like claws are tearing at her chest like it’s low quality linen, destroying every tiny piece of her into infinitesimal other pieces and then tearing those too. There she is, now, nothing but rubble and ash, on the floor, limp and bleeding. Heart far too heavy for her chest, breaking again and again, her temples feel like they’re about to burst from the pressure.

Sitting on the chair next to his hospital bed, her fingers tremble, carefully sliding under Bucky’s still ones, holding his hand between hers gently, like a lifeline, leaning her forehead on it. She sits there, folded, crumpled, and she cries.

Y/n’s palms are red and kind of stingy, but she pulls her sleeves over them and keeps holding the scalding cup of coffee between her hands anyways. Eyes closed, she lets the steam warm her nose, lets the scent comfort her, and she imagines, with her headphones plugged in her ears, that she is elsewhere, in her apartment with Bucky, on the fire escape, watching the sun descend beneath the skyline of New York City. She imagines his arms around her waist, sitting between his legs with her own dangling off the metal landing and over the street. His voice, vibrating through his chest, onto her back, murmuring teasingly in her ear, nose buried in her hair and his warmth all around her. It’s peaceful, it’s soft and warm and everything she has ever wanted.

When her eyes open, she’s met with sky blue ones, not the ones she was just dreaming of, and she flinches, suddenly very happy her coffee cup has a lid over it.

Steve.

With a sigh, she takes a calming breath, and pulls her headphones out of her ears, tugged by the wire pinched between her fingers. She places them gently on the table in the cafeteria for guests and low-level agents in the compound. It’s nighttime, and the lights in the cafe make Steve’s hair look golden and glimmering.

“How’re you holding up?” She’s not sure how much he means that, and she knows he’s still very much mad at her for everything that’s happened between them. She knows, however, he’s also the one that called her to let her know about Bucky. She feels heavy.

“I can’t stop fuckin’ crying, if that’s what you’re asking,” she tells him, no care to maintain a strong persona, not in front of the person she used to consider her best friend until not so long ago. She flicks the edge of the lid of her beverage with the tip of her nail and looks up at him. Steve looks better than she does for sure. Not because he cares less, or because he’s slept at all, but because the serum gives him more stamina than her. He’s not as tired as she is, despite the hours he’s been awake for. Still, despite his enhanced powers, there’s purple bags under his eyes. “You?”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at her with a small shake of his head, sighing deeply. She takes that as her answer. Despite wanting to fiddle with something, a way to prevent her hands from shaking, a nervous habit, she pushes her coffee cup towards him, a peace offering, something to hopefully bring him the comfort it brings her. Steve doesn’t touch it. She fiddles with her sleeves instead.

The cafeteria, despite being open twenty-four seven, is quiet. A blanket of silence falls over them and Y/n crosses one leg under the other just to have something to do, something instead of opening her mouth and ruining the temporary civility between them. The words bubble, climb over one another like beasts, up her throat, and threaten to spill- and there’s just so much of them. So many apologies to make, so many explanations to offer, so many please let’s just go back to how we were ’s, so many this is killing me ’s, so many I can’t bear the thought of losing him without at least saying I’m sorry one last time. I don’t want that to happen with you too ’s. It’s all clogging the back of her throat like a spoonful of thick syrup that just won’t go down.

The idea that this might happen with Steve one day too overwhelms her. Two of the people she had found family in now hate her. She can’t let this happen with him, can’t lose him without telling him all of it. The realization; it’s the drop that makes the glass overflow. What if- what if tomorrow, or a month from now it’s Steve on that bed, Steve dying, what if she doesn’t get to tell him all of it? Never gets to apologize? How will she ever forgive herself for the things she didn’t say?

Her eyes well again. Her tongue feels like lead. It’s time.

“I…” She can’t bear to look at him. “Steve, I’m…” a shiver runs violently through her spine. “I’m so sorry. For all of it. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not Bucky, Y/n.” It’s like a kick in the stomach. She hears what he’s saying. I can’t forgive you for both of us. It almost sounds like your apology is useless.

“Well it’s not just Bucky I need to apologize to.” She looks up at him, and she wills the tears to be held at bay, matching his intensity with her gaze. She clenches her fists, fingernails digging in her skin just to distract part of her brain, to feel less numb. “Do you want to hear the truth?” Steve watches her. His irises bounce between hers, they do a once over of her stance, and she knows how small she looks in her seat, in contrast to him, who, despite his frame of mind, always makes a room smaller just by being in it.

His expression is grim, as he nods seriously. She takes a deep breath.

“This is the truth.”

The older she grows, Y/n keeps thinking that she’s experienced everything there is to. But it truly feels to her like she’s never experienced this kind of cold before. And it’s not- it’s not just external temperature. It’s icicles, lodged under her skin, brutally freezing, causing her to endlessly shudder, tremble like a leaf out in the winter, causing her jaw to lock, her limbs to knot up.

She walks and walks, a woman with a purpose, head held high, as high as a prisoner can hold it and- something really isn’t right with this morning. Something isn’t right, and she can tell because this morning she- she felt something she hasn’t felt in years, something she thought she’d never again feel, a bubble of emotion she truly believed they had snuffed out in her. But it becomes an itch, an itch she can’t seem to scratch, something she can’t exactly put words to, can’t name.

The more she walks, the more the feeling of dread climbs up her throat. This she’s familiar with; fear. Cold and fear, clouding her senses, paralyzing her, as Müller’s door raises in front of her, and she struggles to remind herself to keep walking, keep breathing, one foot in front of the other, inhale, exhale, calm down. There’s no way to escape this anyways.

Director Müller was as tall as his voice was shrill and loud. His features were sharp, glass-cutting cheekbones and dimples that showed far too often. His hair was strawberry blonde and his eyes sunken, as if he was seventy years old with one foot in his grave. His skin looked taught over his bones. Always sharply dressed and always hiding about a dozen knives and pistols somewhere in his office. He liked Japanese jazz, had an affinity for yelling, and drank his whiskey straight. The only affection he’d ever had was reserved for his two small birds, Friedrich and Brigitta, whose singing he adored and who roamed in his office freely.

When he’d first kidnapped her and her older brother, Y/n sat doe eyed and watched as they beat her only sibling, her last relative left alive, to a pulp right in front of her. They didn’t know she had things to offer then. They did it for fun, a show of their capabilities, power play. They did it to break her into submission. When they found out, though, about her knowledge of science, her love for technology… That’s when her life truly ended.

She walks, now, down the freezing corridors, and knocks on Müller’s door three times. Status report straight to me every four days, he’d muttered in sharp German way back when he’d first assigned her missions, back in the beginning, and true to his word, every four days, Y/n was forced to see the skin around his bony face tighten and stretch with another chilling smile.

“Come in,” he yells, and his awful voice bounces in the empty, concrete walls of the corridor. She hears his birds. The door creaks open loudly, metal as it is, and she quickly closes it behind her so that Friedrich and Brigitta won’t escape, something she’s learned to do over the years, after one particular incident no one likes to remember, never mind speak of. He calls her last name with lewd, slimy confidence, supposedly happy to see her, his rotten dimples making an appearance. She sits on one of his chairs, upon his prompting “How’s your assignment progressing?”

“Nicely, sir. I’ve reprogrammed the Chair and fixed previous faults.”

“See, Y/n…” He sits on the plush leather chair behind his desk, hands wringing together and as he says her name, he sits up, elbows on the arm rests. His long lashes and abyssal brown eyes examine her. “I think you’re not telling me the truth.”

“Uh…” Stance maintained, but lips pursed and hands just slightly trembling, she keeps his gaze. She can’t displease him. There’s no room for her failure. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, sir. There’s… surely ways to improve, b-but the chair- it works well.”

“Ah, but that is not what I hear.” Müller stands up dramatically, rounds his desk with slow steps, and Friedrich starts chirping consistently, sensing the sudden tension in the room, loud, high pitch hurting her ears. She dares not flinch. The cold returns fiercely, heart climbing up to her throat, choking her. This won’t end well. “As a matter of fact,” he leans, rests on his desk, right in front of her, loving his height difference and accentuating it by standing while she sits, a reminder to both of them that he’s superior. Y/n wants to melt into a puddle on the floor, never to be seen again. “I hear that Smith, your test subject… he has almost already recovered.”

Referring, of course, to the poor boy whom they snatched and have provided her as a sick guinea pig, a way for her to test the torture chair they have forced her to make. It’s a requirement, of course, that she tests it on him herself.

“Sir, I don’t think-“

“DON’T LIE TO ME!” In the flash of a blink, he’s pulled a knife from his belt and he’s pushing her back in her seat, by pressing his blade on her throat. “You know what HAPPENS,” a tilt of his head, “when you LIE.” Friedrich is joined by Brigitta, as well as the echo of Müller’s voice, and Y/n’s heartbeat accelerates, her breath is caught in her throat. She feels like her ears are about to burst.

“He was unconscious when-“

“What did I just say?” Lips purse, scared of making any sound that’ll piss him off further. “Seems to me like you’ve forgotten,” he murmurs, flicking his knife shut and narrowing his eyes. He takes a deep breath, straightens up and she doesn’t dare to move an inch, but it feels like her heart has plummeted to the center of the earth, and she wishes it could drag her too, as far away from this as possible. She’s well aware of what’s to come.

A chilling half hour later she finds herself sucking up tears that’ll only make her situation worse if someone were to see them. The cold, plastic, remote controller is in her hands, and it’s heavy as it’s ever been. She deems herself desensitized of the emotional toll forcefully inflicting torture on innocent people used to take. However, nothing, nothing, could possibly prepare her for what it feels like watching two HYDRA soldiers dragging her bleeding, thrashing brother from his armpits, and forcefully shoving him into the chair Y/n’s made. Director Müller watches her press the appropriate buttons with a sickly smile on his face.

She begs. For the first time in years, she begs God, the universe, something, to save her, to make her disappear. When this doesn’t work, when pleading for somebody to take mercy goes unheard, when the remote feels like the heaviest thing she’s ever lifted, her eyes draw to Müller, who’s watching her intently, waiting for her to carry on with her new assignment.

The millimeters her thumb has to cross feel endless. The process takes eons. The button is nearly unmoving.

Y/n will never forget her brother’s screams.

In the hours that follow, she’s trapped inside her chamber, a tiny room of blank four walls with a hard bed and an open toilet, looking more like a prison cell than anything, the only difference being that in the daytime she’s allowed to come and go as she pleases within the unrestricted areas.

Tears streak her cheeks for yet another night, and the despair has never felt like this before. She thought she’d escape it one day, the guilt, the weight, but it seems she’s trapped, like an ant under a boot, seconds before she bursts to pieces, with the pressure of the entire world on her chest.

The itch grows louder. It’s right there, in the bottom of her heart, something to pay attention to, in her state of absolute isolation and despair. She’s alone, has been alone for so many years, and she wonders, still, why she hasn’t killed herself yet, but the idea that if she does, they’ll probably also kill her brother comes and slaps her in the face. However, what else is there to do? How much torture can she make her brother go through because of her mistakes, how much guilt can she shoulder?

She sits on the bed, counts the bolts that are screwing the vent door on the ceiling, listens to footsteps pass by every so often, and ponders. Silent tears crawl down the curves of her face. She’s lost so much. She hasn’t spoken her native language in years, and sometimes she wonders if she’s forgotten how to.

A pair of heavy duty boots leisurely walk down the hallway, and she recognizes the voices of two guards. Conversation easily flows between them, and Y/n has no choice but to listen.

“Did you hear about the new chair the American has made?” one of them says. Her ears perk.

“The American? No, what about it?”

“They say it’s one of the most painful things they’ve ever used in HYDRA.” Y/n winces.

“Are you serious?”

“It’s what I heard. Wouldn’t wanna find out myself.” The soldiers share a chuckle. “Müller made the American do it on her brother. I hear he died about twenty minutes later.”

Y/n’s heart drops.

He- he’s- he’s dead?

“No kidding. The bastard survived six years. ‘S a wonder he’s lived this long” And as the soldiers pass by, Y/n’s left in her chamber. The silence grows deafening, but the echo of her heart splitting and falling apart, shattering on the hard concrete floor is ear-splittingly loud. All that she’s done, all the sacrifices, all the sheer, iron will she’s had to muster to maintain her sanity, all the awful things she’s done, the blood on her hands, the guilt, the pain she’s caused and- and in the end… he died by her own hand.

Chaos and confusion, an ocean of lashing thoughts violently crashing and pulling her under. It feels like the crescendo of the longest song that’s ever been written, six years of constant playing, and the orchestra’s hands are bleeding on the strings and buttons, coating everything with their own pain, worked down to the bone, and this is it- the minutes before it’s finally over. The roof is about to be blown off its hinges.

The itch is no longer underlying. It consumes her, and she knows, finally. She recognizes it. Escapism. Revenge.

Steve’s silent. He hasn’t looked away from her, hasn’t changed stance, still with his arms crossed over his chest and bulging underneath his dark green sweater. He’s staring at her, patiently as ever, with a set to his jaw that she knows isn’t there out of anger, but because he, too, is overwhelmed with emotion. His shoulders are no longer stiff, and he now has a cup of coffee too, finished in front of him. The bags under both their eyes are darker.

“I didn’t get to kill Müller. But I managed to run away. Barely. I disappeared, travelled to the States. I found Fury and sold all the information I knew about HYDRA and the department I had been held in, in return for protection. Fury took me in.” It’s a lifeless shrug, weighted and tired, and it’s then that Steve glances at his feet, then back at her. “I trained, learned how to fight properly. Used my knowledge for good. Made it to the Avengers in a desperate attempt to make up for all that I had done. ‘S when I met you.”

Steve seems to remember. He recognizes himself entering the story. It’s almost like he’s reliving the time they first met, back on that Helicarrier. A good memory, all things considered.

“There’s little excuse for me lying to you. I know. But please, you have to understand. The burden of getting to know the best friend of the person you’d been forced to help torture for years… becoming close friends with you? How could I ever say anything about anything and have you actually trust me?” She shook her head.

“What do you mean…?”

“They forced me to make weapons, new torture methods, even tried to make me refine Zola’s formula. A way to get a better grip on Bucky’s mind. I didn’t know much about all of it, nor who it was for, wasn’t my field anyways, and Zola’s formula was successful as it was, there wasn’t much for me to add. They later left me to the torture part, not the brainwashing. Even if I had known, though, I wouldn’t really have had a choice in the matter. I did anything I had to do to protect the only family I had left.” He nods seriously.

“We grew closer and closer and I wanted to tell you, to share my guilt with someone finally, but… the prospect of losing you was… too much. I didn’t want to lose the person that had reminded me for the first time in decades what it was like to be cared for. You were-“ a gulp “are like a brother to me.” Steve looks down. “I couldn’t see the betrayal on your face. It- it paralyzed me.

“I didn’t think you’d ever find out, honestly, how was I supposed to know you’d find my file? But don’t think I never felt guilty. It was always there, like everything could crumble at any moment, like a cloud looming over my head, but… I guess I kind of learnt to ignore it. I had found a family, Steve. After years of pain, pain received and pain caused, after so much darkness, I had finally found people who understood what guilt felt like, what it meant to be composed on surface level. I found people that loved me for what I was then and there. The idea of losing that crushed me.

“I know I can’t take it back, but for whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Steve.”

Steve stays tight-lipped, pondering, staring at the table, then at her, then at the table again. He’s carefully controlling his expressions, clearly analyzing the information he’s been given, and she holds her breath. Whatever his reaction is, she thinks, nothing compares to the breath of fresh air she can allow herself to take, free of this awful, lengthy story. Finally, clear honesty, a sort of vulnerability with her best friend that’s different and new. True, down to its core.

It’s the sigh that does it for her. Resigned. Her eyes snap up at him. “You should’ve told me” He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose before looking up at her, and shaking his head. “I would’ve understood. Nothing would’ve changed.” He looks right at her, very much like a discouraged parent. “What am I gonna do with you?”

And it’s- it’s the way he says it, as if everything makes sense now, shoulders dropping all the way down. The way he just- like he says you absolute moron, but in their own, loving, sibling-like way. As if he can’t stay mad for too long. Looking at her with the tiniest sympathetic curl of his lip.

It’s relief, because it’s in that half a smile that she sees it all. She sees the forgiveness, the understanding. She sees the love. It’s as if he’s looking at her, saying family, am I right? Despite her situation, for the first time in years, so, so many years, she breathes deeply, breathes oxygen that feels nurturing to her lungs, that makes her think she’s floating, and smiles, apologetically, trying to telepathically communicate I’m sorry for being an idiot. Sorry for not trusting you. Sorry for fucking up this badly. I promise to be better.

She knows, he’ll always be there to give her another chance.

It’s moments, a handful of them, in which time and space seem to stop existing, to warp into something else entirely, a world that’s so confused, nobody knows how to put it back. It seems, in those moments, one forgets where they are, how they got there, their brain has not yet escaped from the liquefied dreamland it’s manifested, can’t seem to fit in the strict, square rigidness of reality.

Bucky finds himself in that place. His eyelids seem to weigh about twelve tons, barely feeling his fingertips. It takes a great deal of effort to have thoughts, to- to maintain them, and as his mind slowly starts running a little faster, he remembers faintly, cloudy memories barely registering, that the last thing he saw was three soldiers, that had sneaked up on him, he remembers the gun being aimed at him, instinctively moving and getting nailed in the stomach multiple times.

Wherever he is now, it’s quiet. He worries for a second that he’s been left for dead in the HYDRA base, worries that he’s either dying on the floor or a vague prison cell, resembling something he’s been in already, but he’s comforted by the fact that the surface he’s on seems soft, the lights behind his eyes bright. Whatever the case, he should wake up now, he might need to get up and defend himself.

And as his eyes open, heavy and tired, he meets another pair of gorgeous ones, familiar and soft, and he feels warm all over. He’s- he’s safe. He’s safe because she’s here, and he loves her, with all of his being he loves her, and she’s holding his right hand close to her chest, he feels everything, her warmth, and he knows it’ll all be okay, it’ll all fix itself. He doesn’t have to try.

There’s something lingering just beneath his skin though, a need to recoil. Like a small bucket of icy water thrown over him, because, yes, he loves her, but she betrayed him. She could be out to get him right now, could be working with HYDRA still, and he might be trapped somewhere, and his heartbeat accelerates, because he has to escape and he can’t trust her anymore- until he sees the tears. The tears streaking her cheeks, over old salty marks, and a smile, broken but whole. This isn’t the behavior of a captor, he decides, deems himself, if not safe, then entirely incapable of fighting back, should he need to anyways. Why worry now? Let his future self do the work.

His eyes move around the room, blue-ish gray walls vaguely familiar, and- there’s another figure, another pair of eyes- blue, happy. It’s Steve.

Bucky feels safe. He knows he’s alive. He knows he’s home.

Like any other free afternoon, Y/n finds herself on her couch, curled up as much as she can with a book in her lap. There’s a short lamp on the side table, and she leans on the armrest comfortably with her toes curled, flying through pages and pages of words. Her hair is down, she wears comfortable clothes, and has a blanket over her legs. The weather’s been getting colder lately.

A warm sound, four soft knocks on her wooden door, are enough to pull her out of her novel, enough to make her eyebrows stitch together. She’s not expecting anyone.

Her feet are bare and she’s well aware of how close her knives are to the front door, just in case she has to fling herself over and grab one. She presses her eye against the little peephole, but it’s old and foggy and the workers who had once repainted the building managed to cover part of it with small drops of paint and she hasn’t gotten around to trying cleaning it. Doorknob cold under her palm, she tilts and-

Oh.

The first thing she notices is his shirt, a maroon Henley, buried under two more layers of clothes, a brown hoodie and a darker brown leather winter jacket. The buttons on the collar of his Henley are open, giving her a cheeky peak of the skin of his chest. She loves this shirt on him. It feels like someone tugged at her heart from every direction. Longing.

The second thing she notices is that this- it’s Bucky. Bucky standing in front of her door with an expression she’s rarely, if ever, seen on his face before. Her favorite, gorgeous light blue eyes staring straight at her after briefly scanning her down, as if he, too, is making sure she’s actually there. She is. And so is he. Here. Now. In front of her. Looking at her. Her feet are on the floor, she’s not dreaming, the world is round and Bucky is here.

Oh God. He’s really at her door.

“James…”

He seems to shiver. A shake of his head, something she recognizes as him convincing himself this is happening, then eyes meeting hers again. He shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. She holds the door less tensely.

“I think…” squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, looking at the floor. “Steve said to talk to you.” A heavy breath. Shoulders awkwardly, tensely shrugging, sorta like a kid forced to apologize by their parent. She doesn’t know how, but her head manages a nod, gulping. She pulls away from the doorframe, makes way for him to pass.

“Come in.”

New York sounds as alive as it ever does, even at eleven at night, and Y/n wishes she was sitting, because her legs are unsteady. It makes tears well in her eyes, seeing him here again, in her kitchen, looking around absently. The world feels different, much like it did in the Compound when she’d gone to visit him, even if nothing has changed in it apart from them.

Despite the passing cars outside, and people yelling, heard through the open window, it feels quiet. As if they’re the only ones in the world, being here with him feels like a cosmic event. She remembers what it was like sitting here and being so overwhelmed by the love in her heart, remembers what it was like to be surrounded by his arms and held so impossibly close to his chest. She remembers what it was like to look in his eyes and see them so affectionately looking at her, as if she’s everything he could ever ask for, as if she’s the light in his world. The cold of the night and of the space between them feels very much like a slap in the face.

“I know you no longer work for them,” and it truly breaks her heart how part of that statement feels like he’s trying to convince himself, or as if it’s difficult for him to process. How awful, the shift between being someone’s favorite person and being someone who’s trustworthiness is little over questionable. The weight of being responsible for fucking up the most important relationships in her life suffocates her. “Steve told me.”

There’s nothing to do but nod numbly. She looks at him, watches the warm, glimmering lights of her kitchen fall on the curves and edges of his face, admires the yellow-ish hue outlining his features, making his eyes look iridescent.

She mustn’t cry.

“He told me everything, actually.”

She must not cry.

Bucky doesn’t say a lot of words, but they’re there, at the tip of his tongue, floating in the air like dust particles. In this, there’s a lingering question, a large Why. Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you hide all this from me? Why did it have to be this way?

Y/n looks down. What to say, really?

“I just- I can’t believe-“ she jumps at his loud tone, Bucky never one to have vocal outbursts. She sees the tears in his eyes, gaze lingering away from her, towards the living room for a second before looking up at the ceiling momentarily, then straight at her. His hands are shaking, and she sees it all then. The betrayal, the hurt, despair, the- the loss. There’s no alleviating this pain that overwhelms both of them. She hates herself for this, can’t believe she caused all of it.

“I- I did what I thought would be best for us-“

“No, don’t pull that shit with me.” He glares now and points at her, and she never, ever wanted to be in the receiving end of such an intimidating look. Venom is laced in his tone, harsh and biting, and it feels like the temperature in the room dropped below zero, her spine rigid. “You did what you thought was best for you,” said as calmly as the tears that slowly leak from the corners of his eyes and over the apples of his cheeks are. “In fact, I doubt you thought at all”

That’s not true though. The amount of times she’d sit in her bed, with his arms around her while he slept, weighed down by the lies and the guilt; the guilt of all the terrible things she’d done, and the guilt of hiding them from the most important people in her life. She’d scale the pros and cons of confessing everything, for hours she’d make lists in her head, extensively long, but the cons were always destructively larger and would always win. She’d choose to stay as she was, with them oblivious and happy, until they would finally see her for what she truly was, and she’d convince herself, it would all be worth it for the time spent with them.

“I couldn’t tell you- I couldn’t face the idea of losing you I-“

“So you’d rather lie to me? You’d rather hide your past from me? I trusted you, Y/n.” He hasn’t called her by her first name in so long, and it feels like he just took one of her knives on her kitchen counter and stabbed her straight in her chest with it. “I gave you all of me, I told you every single little thing about myself, everything I hated, everything I’ve done, and I trusted you to have it and- and you couldn’t even trust me to listen to you? To- to understand you?”

She deserves this, she does, but she can’t- can’t deal with him yelling at her and, reflexively, she lashes out- “I was scared, Buck,” –and it’s a pitiful excuse, she knows, but it’s the bitter truth and the reason behind everything. “You have to understand- this isn’t some black and white situation, I thought you’d hate me for everything, I didn’t wanna lose you, or Steve!”

“Scared?” he seethes, walking towards her with angry steps, and she starts stepping back too, entering the living room. She realizes how large he looks, how his anger fills every corner of the room. “You were scared?!” She can practically taste the condescension on her tongue. “And you think I wasn’t?! You think I wasn’t paralyzed you’d run away after everything I’d done? You think I wasn’t terrified of my feelings for you and how fast they came to be?” She wishes she could answer that, but part of her is terrified to know what he used to feel for her and how much of it she actually ruined.

“But I’m a fucking adult, and I dealt with it. You… you lied about everything. Did you even give a shit about how badly you were gonna fuck me over, if I ever found out?”

“Does it look like I fucking like it? You know how sorry I am, how much I hate myself for everything I’ve done to ruin both yours and Steve’s trust in me!”

“I don’t know shit,” her legs bump on the back of her navy couch. “You hurt me- hurt us. We gave you everything, I put my heart on the line for you, and you couldn’t even have a little faith in me to believe in you, and what you truly are.” A monster rings in Y/n’s brain. Nothing but a monster.

“Please, stop.” Submission. That’s all she has left, by now, because his words ring nothing but true. Because she can’t bear to hear everything she feels about herself being told back to her in his voice, it would literally be a nightmare come true. Everything drains in her body, and it all comes down to this. She just wants all of this to stop, the pain in both of them to stop.

“No,” he hisses, and she can’t really blame him. He’s close to her, about two feet away, and she’s trapped between him and the couch. “I’m not gonna stop just because things got uncomfortable for you, just because you had to come back because I was dying in a gurney. You barely tried to make everything right before that. Do you even care?”

“Don’t you see that I did everything because I love you?!”

Silence. Bucky nearly staggers back, as if the words that have never, before, been said came out and punched him in the face.

“Why the fuck do you think I didn’t tell you anything? Because I wanted to break your heart? No, you clueless asshole, I’m in fucking love with you!” His expression is stunned, eyes wide at her outburst, watching as she takes the steps she needs to close the gap between them. Her finger is jabbing at his chest, which is raising and falling with panted breaths. “I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you, couldn’t take to watch your trust break, couldn’t bear the thought of you finally seeing I’m a monster!” And she breaks down, a sobbing mess now, the tears that once trailed down her face, now endless. She covers her mouth, face crumpled and red.

“I j-j-just wanted us t-to be okay, bec-cause I love you t-too much to fuck-king lose y-you”, As her eyes shut, crying relentlessly in her hand, throat feeling like it’s gonna burst, she feels so eternally cold, as if showered by a bucket of icy water. The idea that she might once again be left alone in the world while someone she loves is taken away, all because of her actions- it’s too much. It takes her back to the worst day of her life, brings back a kind of cold so furious, it knots her joints and sends shudders down her spine- her hands tremble at the thought. She can’t believe how colossally she’s managed to screw things up with him, how much he hates her and genuinely believes she did anything less than care about him. .

Like a tidal wave, the emotions overwhelm her, the self-hate like a boulder that smacked her in the face and threw her down a cliff and now everything hurts, and her stomach feels like it’s climbing up her throat. Her heart tears through her chest, painful and slow, and it’s all her fault, everything, and there’s nothing there to fix it all, to make it better- except, all of a sudden, warm, strong arms curl around her. She breaks down harder, curling in his chest because she fucking missed this, missed his affection, his protective embrace, his comforting smell.

Fists clutching his shirt, she sobs, acutely aware of her tears wetting the material of that maroon Henley she loves so much. The arms around her curl tighter, one hand dipping under her hair to hold the nape of her neck gingerly, keeping her against him, thumb rubbing gentle circles. And it’s then that she hears it, his own sniffling, his chest shaking. He’s crying too. The need to provide the comfort she seeks is overwhelming, and she lets his shirt go, wrapping her arms around his waist and holding him together too. “I’m so sorry,” she cries, shoulders shaking, and Bucky shushes her, shaking his head slightly. His arms tighten briefly.

In her crying, she vaguely registers him moving them to the couch, both sitting down, and her curling up into him instinctively. For a while, until she calms down slightly, she lets herself be held and holds him back just as fiercely. It feels like she’s finally letting go, an outburst that frees her of part of the weight she’d been shouldering for years on end. It feels like release, a dam that broke and is spilling every last drop of water that’s been pushing at it for so long.

When she quiets down, when her sobs no longer hurt, no longer feel like they’ll split her ribcage to splinters, when her breathing sort of evens out, she pulls one of her hands to rest on Bucky’s chest, and pulls away to look at him. Bucky’s arms tighten to keep her close.

She’s well aware she must look like a mess, what with all the crying, but this is Bucky after all, her James, the love of her life. He’s seen her under all kinds of light now, and there’s no need to hide. Like he wants, if he is to care for her, after all this, he should care for her for all the things she is, not the things she pretends to be.

Bucky’s eyes are a little less bloodshot than hers. She cups his chin gently and watches his eyelashes flutter, his eyelids softly shut. With her thumb she gently strokes his cheek and notices the way he seems to lean into her palm, lips parting with heavy breaths. He missed her too.

He opens his eyes again to look at her and leans his forehead down to touch hers, holds her closely and brushes the tip of his nose on the bridge of hers so lightly she almost misses it. She sighs. “You have every right to be angry at me,” she whispers to him, pulling her hand back and tucking it in her chest. “I lied, and I didn’t trust you, and I acted the complete opposite way of how I should have. For all of that,” a breath sucked, almost clogged at the center of her chest, “for all of that, I’m sorry.”

Bucky, still infinitely close to her, shakes his head gently. He takes one arm from around her, and she thinks this is it; this is where he says goodbye-

But, gentle as always, he places his right hand on the side of her neck, softly nudges her head up to his and drops his lips on her own, a ghost of a kiss, short and unexpected, before he pulls back and looks at her. “I love you.” He whispers, breath hitting her lips, and her eyes well with tears once again, as she looks up at him. She never thought she’d hear those words, not after everything. Bucky kisses her single fallen tear away, noses at her temple.

“I don’t think you’re a monster, the same way you didn’t think I am one. You helped me heal, helped me learn that those things I did, they weren’t me. I didn’t have a choice.”

“B-but-“

“No, you listen to me.” He tells her, his grip around her body tightening, giving emphasis to his words. “You did what you had to do to protect your brother. What you did… The blood isn’t on your hands.” He has not let her gaze go for a second, and she’s transfixed, tears still overflowing- she wonders when she’ll finally run out of them. “I love you.” Her bottom lip trembles. “I love you more than I thought I was ever capable of. Thinking you betrayed me completely incapacitated me, but I understand you. I see you. I forgive you.”

She gasps, shudders, and in the spur of a single waking moment, lunges at him, kisses him fiercely, holds him tightly. Their lips mold together, and the last pieces of the universal puzzle of the cosmos click to place. Everything settles, mouths moving in sync, desperate, hungry, all the emotions tumbling out all at once, and it’s like the slingshot snapped, and the missile hit the target. She bites his bottom lip, and the groan he lets out comes from deep within his chest, tongues tangling together. His metal arm crushes her against him, hand buries in his hair, their noses smush together, breaths strangled, air shared, and…This- this feels like belonging. No- more like, this feels like coming home.

Inevitably, they part, trying to suck in much needed air, foreheads knocking together gently and chests heaving. It seems like they feed off each other’s personal space, like they hold each other in one piece, while also completing one another. To Y/n it feels like a breath of fresh air.

“This doesn’t mean we’re perfect yet,” Bucky utters gently, not in a menacing way, but as a soft clarification, a request even. “I- I’m gonna need some time.” She’s grateful he even chose to give her a chance at all. Y/n smiles up at him affectionately and nods.

“Of course, Buck. All the time you need.” She caresses the side of his face with gentle fingers, traces his features with a feather-light touch, then cups his jaw. “Thank you.” And it’s weighted, hangs low in the air. She looks at him intensely to make sure he knows she means it. Bucky closes his eyes and leans into her touch, then blinks them open, brilliant, sky blue irises staring right at her. “I love you so much.” He breathes out heavily.

“Say that again,” he whispers. She grins at him as if he’s all good things in the world, because he is.

“I love you, Sergeant Barnes.” A kiss pressed to his cheek. “I love you with all of my being.” A kiss gently tucked on each of his eyelids. “I love you for all that you are.” And she kisses him on his lips sweetly, and he responds like she’s made out of glass, like she’s fragile. He sighs out. They breathe close to each other for a while.

“I know you said you need some time. Do you… wanna go out with me? Coffee? At Michelle’s?” Bucky grins. Their spot. He nods.

“I’d really love that.”

It’s not much, but it’s something. An olive branch. The first step to gain his trust back. There’s nothing Y/n deems more important. With a deep breath, she knows. She’s ready to do anything, to work her hardest to earn a place in his life, the one he’s so graciously offered her. To get to build a future with him, on steady foundation this time.

Their life begins now. Y/n can’t wait to live it. With him.

A/N 2: please tell me what you thought!

#mcu #marvel #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky x fem!reader #steve rogers #sebastian stan #chris evans #bucky fluff #bucky angst #bucky fanfiction #bucky fanfic #mcu fanfiction

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alittlebitmaybe · 3 years

Text

with a fated touch

For @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: reunion

Pairing: Geralt/Yennefer

Rating: E

Warnings: None

Additional Tags: PWP, Canon-Typical Mind Reading, Inappropriate Use of Magic, Cunnilingus, Facefucking/riding, Light D/S dynamics, Dirty Talk, Mild Praise Kink

Summary: (2.6k)

“Presumptuous,” she murmurs, running her forefinger over his bottom lip.

“Sorry,” Geralt says, not sounding so at all. His tongue comes out briefly to meet her touch. “I’ve missed this. You.”

Or: The first time they meet after the dragon hunt, Yennefer puts Geralt on his knees.

Read more on AO3 or below the cut!

Geralt’s hands slide up her thigh, pushing her dress higher, and gooseflesh erupts over her skin when cool air hits it. His other hand brushes her hair back from her shoulder while his mouth moves along the line of her collarbone, desperate open-mouthed kisses a counterpoint to the burn of his stubble as it drags against her.

He’s beginning to harden against her stomach. She fists her fingers through his loose hair, lets her nails scrape his scalp. He groans as she pulls him back.

“Are we doing this?” she asks him. He tries to lean in again, unfocused and helpless, but she channels chaos to hold him in place. “Geralt. Answer me.”

“Yen,” he says, gruff. She withholds a shiver. “I am trying to do this. If you’ll let me continue.”

His hand, without permit, continues its journey up her leg. She allows this for an inch, two, his thumb brushing the hem of her smallclothes, before reaching out with her magic and halting that too. His palm spans the width of her thigh—he looms over her—yet she can control him with a spell, a touch, a word. It never fails to send a thrill through her. He has no real power over her. He wants to be hers. He craves it.

“Don’t you want it?” he asks. That thumb sweeps back and forth at the crease of her hip, though it can move no higher. His other hand has settled around the back of her neck, tilting her up to meet his gaze. A wall of lust smashes into her from his thoughts, impossible to ignore. He projects it at her nevertheless. It rushes through her, slips hot down her spine. She could block it, but she doesn’t.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Always.” A betrayal, perhaps—she shouldn’t want him, it’s not real. But it’s not in her nature to deprive herself. Not when images are pushing into her mind, memories, fantasies, spreading the heat through her belly.

Geralt must know she’s attuned to him, because he says, “How do you want it?” An image of him on his back, her on top. Using him. “Like this?” Yennefer perched on her vanity with him before her, both of them fully clothed. “Or this?” Both of them on their sides on the bed, him curled behind her, her leg held high to make room for him. “I’m full of ideas. Say the word.”

“Presumptuous,” she murmurs, running her forefinger over his bottom lip.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding so at all. His tongue comes out briefly to meet her touch. “I’ve missed this. You.”

All at once she releases the magical restraints and yanks his mouth down to her own, kissing him with the same urgent passion that had driven them together all the way back in Rinde. She wants to mount him above her mantle. To sink her teeth in and rip him open. She does away with kindness—she hates him for what he’s done to her. For her own failure to resist him. For the longing that radiates from him under the lust. He has yearned for her. He tells her this with his mind, with the way he yields control of the kiss to her without a second’s hesitation, with the way he presses them together sternum-to-stomach as though even a hint of space between them is too far. More than yearning, he thinks, and she realizes she has been pushing her own thoughts back to him unintentionally.

“Enough,” she says in the gasp separating one kiss from the next. He steals another peck before awaiting her judgment. He is hot all over, so close, his breath, his chest, his straining cock. She’s doing this to him. It’s all for her, and she’s weak. She wants him again like she’s had him before. Like no one has ever—

She stops that seed of thought before it can grow wild. She says, “Undress me.”

It takes only a moment for him to pick out the knot of her corset and loosen the lacing. The straps of her dress droop down her shoulders.

“Anything else?” he asks, a faint smirk crossing his bitten lips. Too lucid. She’s going to undo him.

Yen smiles back despite herself. “You’ll put yourself to good use. On your knees, Witcher.”

He kisses the corner of her mouth one last time, lingering, and says, “As m’lady wishes.”

Her retort is lost somewhere in her throat when he begins tracing a slow path down her body with hands and mouth, following the dress as he guides it down. Gods, he knows how to touch her—knows where to bite to send sparks up her spine, knows that her right breast is much more sensitive than the left, knows that fingertips swept down her side will toe the line between enticing and ticklish. Her dress puddles to the ground at last when he lowers himself to kneeling and puts his teeth to her hipbone, lightly, before nuzzling at the rise of her belly.

Only her smallclothes are left now. “Well? Finish the job,” she orders, voice thin and higher-pitched but thankfully even. He hooks two fingers in the waistband, tugs, and leaves her bare. She steps out of the pile of clothing, kicking it to the side.

He looks up at her with widened pupils, trusting. Her Geralt. For he is hers, isn’t he? He treats her as if she’s the answer he’s always sought; she knows he’d do anything she wanted at the barest suggestion. She’s tested those limits, and not even the godsforsaken unicorn shook him. Is that truly him, or simply the wish? How can she ever know?

Not the time. Not with him waiting on the floor where she’d put him, and her naked in the drafty air.

“Light the fire,” she tells him.

He forms Igni at the dying hearth, which catches in a blaze. She spreads her legs, runs her fingers over the backs of his scarred hands to urge them under the curve of her ass.

“Brace me,” she says, and his grip tightens to take her weight. “You’re not to let go.”

He stares up at her, taking her commands in stride, patient even though he’s still untouched. Even though he must smell her arousal. In his position even an unenhanced man would be able to tell how slick she’s gotten.

The stream of his thoughts continues to flow thick with want but otherwise remains calm and steady. She’d like to see how long he can wait before the current turns turbulent. How long he can await instruction without moving a muscle, and all the while she gets wetter until her cunt threatens to drip on the rug.

Geralt’s chin bumps the inside of her thigh. “You’re testing me,” he rumbles.

“Yes, quite,” replies Yennefer. To up the ante, she reaches down and circles her clit slowly. When she presses harder, she moans softly at the relief. He watches the movement, jaw tensing, before flicking his gaze back to her face.

“Is this a punishment?”

“Perhaps.” Her breath hitches and she fights to keep still as she teases herself, just this side of not what she really needs. She aches to get it but can’t give in yet. “What do you want, Geralt? Do you want to taste me?”

He nods.

“Speak when you’re spoken to.”

“Yes,” he says. “Please.”

“Good boy, remembering your manners.” She rocks into her touch just a little, slipping two fingers inside herself before she removes her hand. “Open up.” When he obediently parts his lips, she withdraws her fingers and places them on his tongue, pressing down. “Clean them for me, Witcher, and maybe you can have more.”

He groans as he sucks the wetness from her skin, his eyes dropping shut as if he could get drunk on her. She gathers another fistful of his hair, cards it back out of his face. Holds it tight.

She sends him a question. What would you do for me?

Geralt shifts on the floor, his breeches taut over his cock and thighs when he leans back on his heels. A damp spot spreads near his waistband—already, the needy bastard. She’s barely begun.

What would you let me do to you?

It takes a few moments and even then a flurry of vivid images is his only answer. She takes them to mean Everything.

Her fingers leave his mouth with a pop, and she cups his cheek, tugging on his hair. He chases after them—so easy. So easy to have him like this, but only for her. Only with her does he stop checking his blind spots. Gods, she could burst from the disappointment of living in a reality that would keep her from him. Of a destiny that would force them together.

“Yen,” he starts, voice like gravel. “Here? Wouldn’t you rather we—”

“Don’t presume to know what I would rather,” she snaps, and grips him under the chin. “We do this my way or no way at all.”

He quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t argue.

She says, “I’ll tell you what I would rather. I’d rather come on your face and then leave you here as a toy for my personal use. I could immobilize you, but I wouldn’t have to. You’d stay right here on your knees until I told you otherwise. Tell me you would.”

“I would,” he rasps.

“I’d leave you hard and unsatisfied, drooling with how much you want it. Like a dog for a bone. I’d go over to my bed and get a full night of peaceful sleep, and you would have to stay here and hope I’d come back in the morning to take mercy on you.”

“Yen, fuck.”

“Should I, Geralt? Do you deserve my mercy?”

Reaching out with her magic, trailing it over his nipples and down his abdomen under his clothes, she finally wraps it around the base of his cock. He inhales sharply but does not reply.

She leans more fully into his support, spreads her legs as wide as she can manage to open herself to him.

“Don’t take all night,” she says, releasing his chin and urging him forward by the back of the head.

He buries his nose into dark hair, lips kissing along her vulva and the crease of her thighs. Building anticipation that doesn’t need to be built. She’s already clenching around nothing from his proximity, from the way she can feel his hips pushing against the tight hold of her magic for some semblance of friction. At last he goes where she wants him, licking broadly up her cunt. She bites her lip as he flicks his tongue over her clit. Swears when he sucks, and lifts herself towards the wet heat of his mouth.

His fingers flex and dig into her the skin of her ass. If he had his way, she knows he’d have them inside her by now. He loves to rub over that spot that makes her eyes roll back while he works her clit with his mouth, bringing her to ruin inside and out. One time he had lain her out and made her come over and over again on his mouth and fingers until she could no longer tell how many hours had passed. Gods, she’d nearly screamed for him that day. She had let him get her there. She’d wanted to.

Without the use of his fingers, Geralt makes do. His mind simmers with frustration and determination and need.

Yen eases the phantom touch up his shaft as he licks down toward her entrance, and his teeth catch against her on his gasp. She can’t quiet the whine that tumbles out of her throat. “You like that, don’t you?” He makes his way back to her clit, circles it with just the right pressure. “You like—oh—you like feeling my magic on your cock. I bet you want more. I bet you’d beg for it after long enough, with my taste on your lips and nothing in return.”

He pulls her tighter to his face, and she yanks on his hair to make him groan. At the same time, she forms the magic into a fist around him. It begins stroking him at a moderate pace, not how he wants it, quick and hard and now, but enough to keep him on the edge of desperate. It squeezes around the head how she’s seen him do to himself—how she has done to him—and he pauses his work to pant harshly against her skin.

When he stops, so does the magic. He growls.

“Now you know the rules,” Yen says breathlessly. “I come, then you come. Not before.”

“Fucking—” he curses quietly, hips rutting uselessly into the stilled touch. He settles for biting down on her inner thigh. Her legs tremble.

With renewed vigor he licks into her once more, doing away with technique and strategy. He centers his energy on her clit, clearly not aiming for anything other than to make her fall apart above him—her shoulders curve in and her mouth falls open on a cry.

“Yes, like that. Good boy,” she tells him again when he lets off enough for her to find the words. “Can you do that while I ride you? Hold still for me?”

He makes eye contact with her, irises nearly swallowed by pupil. Nods.

“Perfect,” she whispers, and grinds her cunt into his face.

He meets her rhythm with some guiding from the hand still in his hair, alternating his flicks from his tongue with firm suction that shoots sparks through her nerves. By the gods, she’s not going to last long. He knows her too well, knows how to put himself where she needs him most. The higher he sends her the more of her weight he must support, until it’s nearly only him holding her up to his mouth while she shakes and fucks herself on him with rolling hips.

The magic on his cock speeds as she ascends; she can feel the tension climbing through his muscles with the effort to hold back. A flick of her wrist sends the touch to engulf him as if he is sunk deep in a warm throat. He moans, and one of his hands slaps against her ass.

“Careful, just—almost—”

She thrusts forward and he sucks hard and she comes, convulsing in his grip, keeping him there by his hair while he works her through it. Until he must be running out of air, even with the mutations, and his eyelids flutter with the effort. The throat around him tightens, swallows.

Yen says, chest heaving, “Go on, Geralt. You can come now.”

He does, his forehead pressed snug into the soft give of her stomach, breathing her name so quiet that she might not hear it.

She combs her fingers through his hair and stands fully on her own, though her legs are still weak and her spine aches. The pins in her hair are poking at her scalp, so she pulls them out and tosses them on the vanity on her way to the bed, stepping over the discarded dress. It can be hung in the wardrobe in the morning.

Yennefer has one knee on the mattress before she realizes Geralt is still where she left him on the rug by the fire, gazing after her with a question in his eyes, like she might actually leave him there in his soaking breeches to be used at her whim.

Maybe next time.

She throws back the blankets and pats the space beside her. “Are you joining me or not, Witcher?”

He grins.

#my fic #the witcher #the witcher fic #yenralt #geralt x yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #geralt of rivia #lmao i tried to edit the post last night and broke it and i just decided to post it today instead bc it was a weird time anyway #writing 2600 words of pwp took like 2 years off my life <3

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undertalethingems · 4 years

Text

Bark at the Moon Chapter Seventeen: At a Loss for Words

Or read on my Ao3>

Rating, Setting: Gen, Pre-canon

Chapter Warnings: None

Chapter Summary: Papyrus doesn’t miss his brother’s jokes or pranks or anything, no, of course not...

"Sans! Do you know where my copy of 'Puzzles for Inquiring Minds' went? I can't find it but it must be here somewhere!" Papyrus called, digging through the pile of papers on his bedroom floor. He was finally sorting through the mess he'd left, organizing the scattered blueprints and sketches into much neater piles to be filed away later. But he couldn't imagine where that book had gotten to.

"Sans! Did you hear me? ...Are you even home?"

He sighed, and got up to peer into the living room. Ever since Sans had remembered his shortcut ability, he'd been making good use of it, and Papyrus was never sure where he went. Sans never told him. Not that he could. But, to his mild surprise, Sans was dozing on the couch.

"Sans!"

His brother jolted awake, then looked up at him blearily.

"I need your help finding--wait is that it under the couch?" Papyrus leapt down and slid his hand under, withdrawing the battered puzzle book. "Well, I have no idea how that got there, but I suppose, in a way, you still helped me find it. So. Thank? You?"

Sans merely huffed before settling down to sleep again. Papyrus eyed him, then headed upstairs with his book to file it properly. He slid it into place on the shelf, then sat back with brows furrowed. Something was missing... No, there weren't any empty spots left, so it wasn't a book... He looked over to his table and quickly assessed his action figures--they all seemed to be in place too. His things were in order, so why did he expect something more...?

It was quiet.

Sans would've had a joke about the misplaced book. Papyrus curled his tail around his feet, and shut his eyes. It was fine if Sans didn't want to talk! His various warbles and hoots often got the point across well enough, and it still sounded like him, and he still found ways to joke around even if it wasn't wordplay. It was fine--Papyrus wasn't even sure why he missed hearing his brother's dumb jokes and trolling so much. He'd heard them all, seen that spark in Sans' eye as he thought of them, groaned at the most inane reaches of wordplay countless times. He didn't need to hear them again. But... No, Sans would get his voice back in time, there was no point dwelling on it. He took a deep breath, and went back to organizing the rest of his things, humming to himself to break up the silence.

He surveyed his work, and nodded with satisfaction--his books had been fully rearranged, divided by subject and ordered alphabetically. He'd sorted all his blueprints and schematics into folders, and his action figures were aligned into their current teams. He'd moved the rug to cover the spot he'd burnt--he'd see about getting it replaced soon, but for now it was the best he could do. Everything was clean and orderly, just as it should be. He trotted out and headed downstairs.

"Sans! With my bedroom completely refreshed, we should go out! I want to see if I can find any good carpet in the dump, but who knows what else could be there? It's been so long since we looked, there's bound to be something incredible!"

Sans blinked an eye open to study him, but otherwise made no effort to move.

"Come on! It'll be fun!" Papyrus beamed at him, bouncing in place. It seemed to work, because Sans studied him a moment longer, then got up with a yawn, stretched, then hopped to the floor and looked at him expectantly. Well, he wasn't about to let him down. He led the charge out, and glanced back to see Sans was trotting after him dutifully. It was almost like old times, and he took solace in that.

Sans walked closer to him as they passed through Waterfall, and Papyrus noted how he seemed to be scanning every shadow and crevice, eyelights darting. Sans was... nervous? Papyrus slowed his own pace--truth be told, the bottomless chasms and roaring water were setting his instincts off too, but he knew they'd be safe--they'd traveled through here dozens of times, nothing would hurt them. Besides, they were coming up to the wishing room, and Sans had always liked that spot. That would brighten his day--literally.

"Sans! Look up! The stars are especially bright today, look!" he exclaimed when they entered, and darted ahead to take in the sight--a million twinkling crystals embedded in the stone all around them. Their pale light washed everything in a soft blue glow, and he sat to appreciate the atmosphere and give his brother a chance to catch up.

Sans padded up slowly, occasionally glancing at the stars but still looking over his shoulders more until he reached him. Only then did he allow himself to look at the stars for any length of time, but something still made him scan their surroundings every few moments, staring at shadows as if to make sure they wouldn't move. And even when he did glance upwards, he didn't so much look at the stars as look for something--that look of calm, wistful wonder Sans usually wore when he contemplated the universe never appeared.

"Sans? Is something wrong?" Papyrus asked, glancing around himself and wondering if there was something he wasn't picking up on. Nothing looked out of place, nothing smelled wrong--but Sans was acting like they were in danger.

Sans looked up at him briefly, before turning away and uttering a low growl. Heart sinking, Papyrus realized his brother might have slipped--it tracked with how he'd been acting all day. Well, he'd have to get him back on track. What did he usually like to talk about here in the star room? It'd been so long, Papyrus couldn't quite remember... but he had to try!

"Not to worry, brother! We're safe here, and besides, how can you ignore all this? Do you remember when we found that human book about constellations, and we spent all day here trying to find them? We also decided to make our own since humans didn't have any skeleton constellations... Let's see... oh! There it is, the Big Skull! Shining brightly as ever!"

Sans followed his finger, then looked around--he couldn't see the constellation, but at least he was really looking at the stars now.

"You used to tell me about what real stars are, too. These are very pretty, but, you said the real stars are huge burning balls of fire or something, right? And, they're so far away, not even the humans have ever been to one. Um... there's different colors... yellow, white, red, even blue! I wonder if they come in other colors, but I don't remember. There was other cool stuff too, wasn't there?"

Sans looked up at him, then back to the stars. He'd calmed enough to lie down next to him, and seemed to be content just watching as waves of ambient magic flowed through the crystals, making their light waver. It really was amazing, and Papyrus was sure that even if the real stars couldn't be beat, this was a natural wonder all on its own. Who knew how long monsters had been wishing on these, filling them with their hopes and dreams...

He picked one--a bright, steady light that made one of the eyes in the Big Skull--and made a wish of his own.

"Okay Sans, though I'm sure we could stay here stargazing forever, we did have a mission today!" he prompted, standing up. "If you thought that was fun, just wait until we get to the dump!"

Sans crooned, then got up to follow him. He wasn't sure he'd managed to engage him enough, but there'd be plenty more chances, and perhaps he'd set the ball rolling. They continued to weave through the passages and wind down halls, splashing through cold, clear water until finally--they came to a small landing, and a rank smell informed them they'd made it to the dump.

Bad as the smell was, the piles of debris held endless possibilities, and Papyrus darted for the first one he saw. He circled it, sniffing at anything that looked interesting, clawing at pieces that caught his eye. Most of it was truly garbage--old food wrappers, filthy rags, broken plastic shells of electronics well beyond repair. But he found a deflated rubber ball that after some rinsing was fun to toss and shake in his jaws. This excursion was already looking like a success! He tucked it into his satchel and turned to see what luck his brother was having.

Sans was sitting in the middle of the room near where they'd entered, unmoving. He was soaked--in many places the water had come up to his chest, and here it was no different--but he didn't seem to care. Papyrus wasn't sure he would have normally--but seeing him like this didn't ease his worry.

"Sans! Don't just sit there! Come help me find cool garbage!"

Sans started, but didn't move. Papyrus sighed.

"Okay, well, if you just want to sit in the mud that's fine. I'm still going to look around!"

He continued his search, overturning sodden boxes and digging into moldering clothes; his heart leapt with excitement when he found a box of discarded books--but they'd been soaked, and the first one he opened fell apart, its pages illegible. Maybe someone else could take the time or had the skill to salvage them, but he had to move on. The next heap looked quite promising! He leapt onto it, sending a few things sliding, but it already looked lopsided so he wasn't messing up whoever liked to come by and sort the piles into some semblance of order. He could appreciate their devotion to cleanliness in the face of chaos--but there were treasures to find.

He began to dig his claws in, hoping to find such treasure, but something sent up an alert in his mind--a smell? He sniffed again, blocking out the damp stench of the regular garbage to hone in on it. It was faint--old. But somehow familiar, and he dug again to stir it up. It smelled... it smelled...

Like bone.

But there was something else. It was stronger--coming from nearby. Grassy, but withered--he dug more, and uncovered a dried-up stem. He clawed at it, refreshing the scent. Was this the grass smell? Yes, but not regular grass--it smelled just like... golden flowers. Papyrus jerked his head back. He pawed cautiously at the withered vegetation, mind churning. Bone, and golden flower. He stuck his nose back in, just to be sure. Bone, and flower, and old grease and the brand of ketchup Sans liked.

There was no mistaking it. The scents were weeks--maybe months--old, but they lingered. Papyrus looked back up at his brother, who still sat in the cold, swirling water. He remembered how Flowey had lied to Undyne about knowing where Sans was. He remembered how furious Sans had been at the mere mention of a golden flower. He turned the bit of plant--the tip of a vine--over with his claw, noting how the end was torn, and had no doubt. This was where his brother had met Flowey, and it hadn't been the friendly connection Papyrus had hoped.

Papyrus sighed. At least it meant Sans hadn't chosen to leave him all that time ago...

"Okay Sans, we can go home." He hopped from the garbage, splashing down. "I don't think there's much here after all, and, you don't seem to be having fun, so, let's get cleaned up. Why don't we take the ferry? Or, if you really want to get going, we, um, could... just take a shortcut."

Papyrus could hardly believe himself for making the suggestion. But if this place brought back bad memories--ones fresher than their days as experiments--then they didn't need to stay any longer. He trotted to where the water was clear, kicked his hands and feet free of mud and debris, then dunked his snout in to wash the smell of garbage out. Sans merely watched him, and once Papyrus had finished snorting water out of his nose he turned to him.

"Okay, brother! If you were waiting to take us home, you may now do it!"

Sans tilted his head, and Papyrus blinked.

"Don't give me that look! Using a shortcut, naturally. Even if I don't approve, they are quite handy for getting somewhere fast. I know you've cut home from farther away, so this should be easy!"

Sans only continued to give him a confused look. He raised a paw as if to step, but set it back down, uncertain.

"Sans... you can't have slipped this far again, can you?" Papyrus said sadly. He knew it could be a struggle--he'd gone through it himself--but it hadn't been so long ago that Sans had encouraged him to tell Alphys and Undyne their story. He'd been joking, albeit wordlessly, only a few days ago. Papyrus had thought he'd been getting enough stimulation, but... "Maybe today's just a bad day. That's okay! They happen! We can just take the ferry if shortcuts are too much right now."

The journey home was quiet; even the Riverperson only hummed softly as they navigated towards Snowdin. Once they got home, Sans clambered back onto the couch to doze once more, and Papyrus headed up to occupy himself with puzzle design. He needed to keep himself sharp too--if only to figure out how to help his brother. He got out his paper and pencils, and began sketching.

"Sans I think I've done it!" he cheered, bursting from his room some hours later. "This puzzle is going to stump any human who dares attempt it. Look!

He charged down to lay the blueprints out in front of Sans, who was still blinking wearily after being startled awake by his brother for the second time that day.

"I realized I could combine the challenge of a pressure plate lock with those steam vents Hotland is so irritatingly fond of, only I'll use spring-loaded levers instead because I have class--but, anyway, here's the pattern! Isn't is brilliant?"

Sans looked from the paper in front of him to his brother, then back to the paper--but only to nibble playfully at it. Papyrus yanked it away.

"No! You can't eat it!! Ugh! As always, my efforts go unappreciated," he sighed dramatically. "I'll refine the design and present it to Undyne tomorrow. She'll have something to say!"

He ignored the sinking feeling. At least Sans had done something silly. But he couldn't help wishing he'd said something instead.

To Papyrus' relief, it had just been a bad day after all. Sans woke up the next morning, stared at his hands for a bit, then shook himself out before shortcutting out, presumably for breakfast. When he returned, Papyrus was ready with a bag slung over his spines.

"Sans! You should come with me--I'm going to scout out the location for my new puzzle, and I'll need an assistant to hold my things. Surely you can manage that?"

Sans studied him, then uttered a hoot as he shrugged. That was good enough.

"Fantastic! Let's be off then!"

He charged out, kicking up snow, and wasn't shocked to find Sans waiting for him along the way. But he trotted after him once they'd met up, and Papyrus slowed his pace just enough that his brother could keep close. They reached the clearing Papyrus had in mind, and he set the bag down before turning to Sans to relay his brilliant plan.

"We've arrived! It doesn't look like much now... but this field is merely the canvas upon which I, premier puzzle architect, shall paint my latest masterpiece!"

He paused, and Sans opened his mouth--but as usual, the only sound he could make was an odd warble. He seemed disappointed, and Papyrus hoped his own concern wasn't obvious as he continued his monologue

"A-and! So, what I need you to do is hold the map while I survey the area and make sure my build zone is clear. Got it?"

Sans huffed and dipped his head.

"Good! Alright, here's the map. Let's get surveying!"

Sans took the map in his jaws and sat while Papyrus inspected the field. That tree was just barely in the way; whoops, there was a rock there, that was no good--hey, someone had already started a puzzle here ages ago. He'd have to tear that out. He reached into a snow poff and pulled out a little white dog--it yipped at him, and he lowered it back in. He couldn't build his puzzle anywhere near that. He finished his inspection, and headed back to his brother to see how the map looked.

"Alright, let's see... Sans!"

His brother tilted his head.

"You didn't mark any of the obstacles!"

Sans tilted his head the other way, doing his best to look innocent. Papyrus blinked, realization dawning on him. He'd only told Sans to hold the map, not mark it too, and groaned as he smacked a palm across his face.

"Ugh, of course!! Okay. This time, I'll hold the map, and you go find all the stuff that's in my way. It should be easy, since I already found all of them. Give me the map."

Sans passed it back, then laid down.

"No! Sans!! You have to tell me where the old puzzles and tree roots and dogs are so I can avoid them!"

Sans waved a claw in the general direction of the field, grumbling something.

"Saaaans!" Papyrus cried, stomping his foot and earning low, hissing chuckles from his brother. "Oh, I see! This is a game to you! Well, I'll have you know I take my games very seriously! And! I've never been beaten yet! Nyeheheheh!"

He ended up marking the map himself while Sans watched with amusement. He didn't mind--he was just happy Sans was playing with him like he always would. He missed the banter that would usually accompany it, but... after yesterday, he'd take what he could get.

"There, the map has been marked, no thanks to you," he said when he'd finished. "Now I can plot my setup properly. But first, this snow has to go!"

He found himself expecting a pun, but none came, so he instead focused on his magic and summoned long horizontal bones to sweep the field, clearing a wide swath. He summoned another set, and sent them the other way, pushing even more snow away and leaving only a thin dusting over the ground. Time for the final step. He concentrated, and summoned a trio of his special attacks. They fired simultaneously, melting the remaining snow away and leaving the ground steaming.

"Perfect. All set for the site of a truly excellent puzzle. Wouldn't you agree, Sans?"

Sans hooted his approval, and Papyrus recognized the look in his eyes. He must've thought his snow-clearing technique was really cool--he looked proud of him. He'd probably have made some dumb joke about it to hide how he really felt, but he only watched and waited for what he'd do next.

"Okay, I think that's all for today. Help me put up this caution tape so passers-by don't accidentally set foot on the site and mess it up."

The 'caution tape' was just toilet paper with 'CAUTION: BRILLIANT PUZZLE ARCHITECT (PAPYRUS) AT WORK' written on it in marker, but Papyrus was nothing if not resourceful. He set up a perimeter of bones, slotted the paper tube between a pair of his brother's upper and lower fangs, then ran with the free end around his setup a few times and tied it off.

"Well, a job well done, mostly by me," he congratulated as he surveyed his work. "But, it was nice to have you here too, brother."

Sans rumbled in apparent agreement.

"Tomorrow, I'll begin laying everything out. I think I spotted some scrap metal at the dump yesterday that should work quite well... You don't have to come with to get it, I know that'd... be a lot for you..."

Sans just looked at him. Maybe he didn't remember how yesterday had gone.

"But! That's enough for now! Let's go home and have lunch, and then decide what the afternoon is for."

As they walked back, the quiet of Snowdin's forest settled in around them; it was hard to believe they'd once fled into the surrounding woods with the intention of never coming back. Papyrus found himself feeling anxious at the memory, and momentarily quickened his pace before realizing he was leaving Sans behind. He looked back, and saw Sans looking at him curiously.

"Sorry Sans, I just.... We spent a long time out there in the woods, and, while Snowdin is definitely still my ideal location for our base of operations, it's... perhaps a little soon to be frolicking out here again. It won't bother me forever! Don't worry! But I'd like to get home."

Sans crooned sadly, and the next corner they rounded put them right in the living room.

"Oh! Sans! I didn't mean I didn't want to walk... Oh well, I suppose it's too late now..."

The room blinked, and they were back on the road. Sans was smiling at him mischievously.

"Oooh! Sans!!! Cut it out!" he howled, lunging at him to knock him over. Sans sprung out of the way, his true agility on rare display. Papyrus continued to chase after him, managing to succeed only because Sans was in even less shape than usual. He caught up with him quickly and pushed him into a snowbank.

"Now you'll chill out! Nyeh heh heh heh!" Papyrus teased as his brother rose from the drift and shook off.

Sans opened his jaws--but only a low hoot came out, and he paused a moment before giving a resigned shrug. Papyrus felt his heart sink yet again.

"Oh Sans, I know you'll get your voice back soon! You just have to keep trying... but, if you really don't want to talk, I suppose I can tell the jokes for both of us..."

Sans blinked, and uttered an inquiring hoot.

"It's fine, really! All your puns are very easy to replicate, so, I'll have no trouble filling in! It'll be 'snow' problem! Nyeh!"

Sans snorted, looking amused and concerned at the same time.

"What, you think I can't? I never expected I'd get such a cold reception, especially from my own brother!"

Okay, Sans was laughing now, good. He didn't want him to feel bad for not working as hard as he did, even if he did want him to work harder. Sans working hard recently had... not been good.

But it was lonely. Papyrus couldn't deny it anymore. He didn't remember the last time Sans had actually told him a joke even when he'd been able to. And now, sure, he still found ways to be obnoxious and clown around, but there wasn't the banter Papyrus loved. There wasn't the subtle encouragement or occasionally truly thoughtful musings. He was making progress on his new puzzle, but Sans wasn't there to double-check his work and point out oversights with brotherly ribbing.

Papyrus could easily fill the void with his own voice, but it just wasn't the same.

"Geez, and it seems like he still won't even try?" Undyne said when he'd shared his feelings during a sparring match.

"Well, he'll sometimes act like he wants to say something, but, when it doesn't come out right, he just kind of gives up," Papyrus sighed as he deflected a spear. "I've been telling puns in his place, but, I'm tired of the conversation being so one-sided. And I think maybe he is too."

"Aw man," Undyne uttered, finishing her volley. "So, what are you gonna do? Do I need to noogie some sense into him or what?"

"No, no!" Papyrus declined as he set up his attack and sent it at her, "I think he just needs some encouragement, which I am very good at. I'll figure something out! He's bounced back from this kind of thing before, I know he can do it again!"

"Hmm... Well, maybe you should just tell him what you told me," Undyne suggested, finishing an artful dodge around his attack, "and even though I know that's easier said than... said, how else is he supposed to know?"

Papyrus huffed. "That would cut to the chase, wouldn't it. I just have to hope he understands... I'm... not always sure what gets through...."

"He's still slipping sometimes?" Undyne asked sadly, and he nodded but smiled anyway.

"Not for very long! He has bad days and good days, and it's usually more good than bad, but, I can tell it... doesn't really... It's not a thing that worries him, so he doesn't do anything about it."

"Geez, well, sounds like you need to get encouraging him, huh?"

"Yes! Exactly!"

They finished their sparring match and retreated indoors for drinks, discussing the latest nonsense Mettaton had gotten up to and what their next cooking endeavor should be now that they knew about instructions over tea. Papyrus shared the blueprints for his new puzzle--which Undyne thought needed more spikes and fire pits. He'd normally agree, but that wasn't the tone he was going for so he politely disregarded her suggestions. He left her house that evening feeling revitalized; he'd forgotten how nice it was to have a full conversation.

He clattered in, and immediately bristled--he smelled the mess before he saw it. He dashed into the kitchen, where torn and broken containers littered the floor. Sans stood half in the fridge, the shelves askew as he'd forced his way in to scavenge.

"SANS!"

Sans startled, skittering backwards and knocking even more tubs of leftovers to the floor. Pulling free, he stared at Papyrus with eyes wide, his snout stained with the evidence of his crimes. He'd broken into the newly reopened food museum and destroyed it.

"Sans, I can't believe you!" Papyrus scolded, tail lashing. "I'd ask why, but not only do I already know why, it's not like you'd even answer! Ugh! You knew I was going to be back soon, you could have just waited! Or gone to Grillby's like you always do!"

Sans glanced away, then sat with a sorry whimper.

"Fine, but you're helping me clean this up! This is the worst mess of things you've made yet!"

Sans whimpered again, and tried to approach to give an appeasing nuzzle--but Papyrus pushed him away.

"Oh no, not until you clean yourself up too! I can't believe you're my brother sometimes, ugh!!"

Sans backed away, looking defeated. He cast about, then tried to gather up some of the wayward containers, sweeping them into a pile with his claws. He looked up and gave a questioning hoot, but Papyrus snorted.

"No, you can do better than that! Come on, let's get the shelves cleaned off and put back in first."

The whole process took longer than if Papyrus had just done it himself, but Sans had clearly slipped again--hard, this time. He struggled to use his hands instead of his jaws to manipulate the items he'd scattered, didn't understand the order they needed to do things in, and Papyrus kept having to get him back on task. He was so frustrated that when Sans tried to sneak a few more bites, he hissed at him--it stopped Sans on the spot, but he spent the rest of the time worried he'd begun slipping too.

They finally finished the fridge, and Papyrus grabbed a washcloth and his brother's skull to give it a proper scrub; Sans protested only weakly before quieting down and laying still until the ordeal was over. Papyrus tossed the washcloth in with the rest of the towels they'd used to wipe up the fridge, then trotted to the living room with a huff. It'd been a while since he'd been so genuinely frustrated with his brother.

Sans lay on the kitchen floor for a while before finally getting to his feet slowly. He plodded into the living room, saw Papyrus had taken the couch to watch TV, and settled to the floor nearby. Papyrus didn't want to talk to him. He hadn't even done anything that bad or surprising--the fridge was a beacon of temptation for a monster who liked food as much as Sans did. But he wasn't even trying to resist, or be more like his true self, even when everything had otherwise gone back to normal. It felt like he didn't care--about himself, or about him. And that was what had Papyrus upset.

The following day remained tense. Papyrus was still frustrated, and ignored his brother while he bustled around the house and got ready to continue working on his puzzle, paying no mind when he hooted an inquiry at him. He couldn't even tell if Sans was with it today or not, and didn't want his help anyway. He hurried out, and threw himself into puzzle construction.

At one point, he felt a presence--someone watching him. His instincts told him to look, it could be danger--but he refused, focused on digging the trench for an electrical line. He had work to do, and he wasn't going to let anyone distract him. He'd forgive his brother eventually--it wasn't really Sans' fault he was like this. But right now, Papyrus was tired of having a beast for a brother.

He finished digging out the placements for his pressure pads, and wiped his claws in the snow before picking up the tools he'd brought and heading for home. There were tracks in the fresh powder--so Sans had been out here at some point. Papyrus huffed. Who knew what he'd come back to this time.

But he opened the door and found everything in order. There were no new smells, and Sans was laying on the couch, watching TV. He got up when Papyrus entered, trilling a greeting--but Papyrus sighed and trotted past. Sans watched him go, and was quiet the rest of the evening, even as Papyrus went about making dinner. There was nothing to say.

Papyrus found the house empty when he got up the next morning.

"Sans?"

His room was empty, as were the living room and kitchen, and a pit of dread formed within Papyrus' ribs. Had he pushed him away? Had he fled, for the final time, to live as the beast he thought himself to be? Had he lost him for good...? He paced, and that's when he finally noticed the sheet of paper on the floor where Sans had laid the other night. For a brief moment Papyrus considered the possibility his brother had become stationery... then realized it was a pun, and had to choke back his own laughter. He'd have to tell Sans that joke at some point, provided they could get everything between them sorted out. He approached the paper, and studied it.

It was crudely drawn--Sans had never been artistically inclined like he was, and he hadn't been practicing his manual dexterity, so the rough, unsteady lines were to be expected. But the scene was clear--Sans had drawn stars along the top of the page, and a line at the bottom representing the ground. There was even a scribbled out attempt at an echo flower. It was the wishing room, and in the center of the page, he'd drawn a little stick figure of himself looking up. Was that where he'd gone...?

Papyrus set out at a brisk trot. The wishing room wasn't far, it'd be easy to find out what his brother was up to. He wove past other early risers and leapt over bridge seed puzzles before finally arriving at the cavern, eyes darting. It wasn't a large room, so his brother had to be close... There! The soft light reflecting off his bones almost made Sans appear to glow. He was sitting near the far end of the passage, looking up at the stars just as he'd drawn. Papyrus approached slowly, unsure what his brother was planning--it was just as likely a prank as it was something genuine.

Sans saw him approaching, and the relief that crossed his face was clear. Maybe this wasn't a prank. He stood as Papyrus drew near, and for a moment, they simply faced one another. Sans opened his mouth.

"hhhheya brro," he rasped.

Papyrus tackled him.

"SANS!" Papyrus yelled, but this time it was out of joy. "You--you did it! You're talking again! I'm so--it's--Sans!!!"

Sans chuckled, not even trying to fight the pile he'd been wrapped up in. "ssstill hard, but, tryin'. wanted to. sssay sorry. for letting you down."

Papyrus extracted himself enough to look his brother in the eyes. "Oh Sans, I'm--I'm sorry for being so cross with you. It, just... I missed you! A lot! But it was like you didn't even want to try..."

Sans thudded his skull against his brother's chest. "sssorry. did want to sometimmmess. didn't want to... a lot. hard to choose. easy to... not think about it. but. like i ssaid. couldn't let you down."

"Oh Sans... I'm very, very glad that you tried! And! Succeeded!! In only one night? Normally you'd be sound asleep!"

"couldn't," Sans replied, his smile seeming bittersweet. "not with you mad. so, went out, howled, made noises i didn't know i could. glad i didn't sleep."

"W-well, I'm glad too. And, um... will you keep trying?"

"listen, i, uhhh, think i better. maybe it's easier to... not deal with everything, but... it's leaving you hanging, and, i can't do that to my bro."

"And you made me come all the way out here just to tell me this?"

Sans shrugged, finally pulling free to shake himself out. "dunno. felt right. think you tried to talk to me here a little bit ago or ssssomething?"

"I did! I'm glad you remember!"

"yeah. stars. i remember you talking about the stars, and how it was the calmest i felt that day. so, coming back here... just made sense."

"Wowie. That's very poetic, Sans."

"hey, i'm good for more than just puns sometimes," Sans said with a wink, and for the first time in ages, Papyrus felt like he really had his bother back

"Hard to believe as it is, it's true," Papyrus agreed, standing as well. "What may also be hard to believe is how much I've missed said puns."

"well, i'll do my best to make up for lost time," Sans replied lightly as they started to walk back. "just might take me a bit to get... star-ted."

"Oh my god," Papyrus said, but couldn't stop smiling. "Clearly, it will not."

#undertalethingem writes #bark at the moon fic #gaster blaster au #sans (undertale)#papyrus (undertale)#Undyne (undertale)#heads up that this is the last chapter i had done ahead of time! i'll try to get the next done in time but i can't promise anything ^^;#in any case i hope you've enjoyed what i've written so far ^^

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

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But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 10: Premonitions]

Several weeks and depressive episodes later...I’m BACK! 😃

And guess what: we’re officially approximately halfway done with BYCNL! (There will probably be nineteen chapters total.)

The Queen/BoRhap fandom is feeling extra quiet lately, so if you’re still out there I’d LOVE it if you dropped me a comment/message/etc to let me know! I appreciate you all so much and hope you are finding things that bring you happiness, fulfillment, and peace. 💜

Chapter summary: Roger makes a purchase, Freddie makes a friend, Y/N makes an unsettling discovery, John makes a bewildering request.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, babies (but not your babies...or are they?!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @bookandband @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 😊

“Roger, this is too much.” Your sandals click on the marble tile floor, a sandy gold like the beaches of Ostia. You peer up at the winding staircase, the Tudor-style diamond windows, the chandelier dripping with crystals. “This is way, way, way too much.”

“There’s no such thing as too much,” he parries merrily. “And look!” He pulls back an armful of sheer white curtains that had obscured the backyard. “The pool has a slide!”

You smile because you have to; he’s so elated, so young. “Roger, baby, unless you’re planning to acquire a literal harem of women we will never have a use for six bedrooms.”

“Sure we will!” He counts on his rugged fingers. “There’s one for us, and one can be the guest bedroom for when my mother or your parents visit, and then there’s one for if Chrissie ever wises up and leaves that wanker Brian and requires a place to stay between husbands, and one for when John needs an escape from that mind-numbing domestic purgatory of his, and one for Freddie’s overflow cats...” Roger trails off. He’s lost track.

“That still leaves one unnecessary bedroom.”

He grins. “One for Roger Junior.”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s a wonderful home for children,” the real estate agent chimes, flitting around rearranging pillows and dusting off tabletops. “Plenty of space to spread out in, lots of bedrooms, fenced-in yard, security gate, spectacular school district...and such a lovely garden to explore! Does your wife garden?” she asks Roger.

“Girlfriend,” he corrects. “And no, she’s thoroughly useless in the agricultural department.”

You laugh and shove him away. “I have other talents.”

“You certainly do.” He growls as he grips your waist, inhales you, bites playfully down your neck and collarbones. The real estate agent raises her eyebrows, but politely averts her gaze and pretends to check if an artificial fern needs watering.

It’s the downturn of August, 1976. The sun is glaring and hot and spills in through the windows, setting the metallic flecks in the marble floor alight. It makes you think of the Yellow Brick Road, of fantasies built piece by piece into truth. John and Veronica bought a house in Putney, Brian and Chrissie a far larger one in Chelsea, Freddie and Mary a posh flat in West Kensington. Roger has his heart set on nothing less than a Surrey mansion. On the rare occasion that Queen has been home since the start of the A Night At The Opera Tour, you and Roger stay in his shabby—dodgy, you remind yourself—old apartment and pack boxes late into the evening, giggling over all the random and ancient relics you stumble across, sticks of Freddie’s eyeliner and dust bunnies tangled in strands of Brian’s spiraled hair, crumpled up spheres of paper with excerpts of songs scrawled on them, fossilized crusts of grilled cheese sandwiches beneath the couch. Queen is preparing for a brief UK tour at the start of September, including a free concert in Hyde Park organized by entrepreneur Richard Branson. Then it’ll be back to the studio to record their next album, a highly anticipated album, an album that will make millions regardless of what’s on it; and what’s on it, in your humble and musically unlearned opinion, is pretty goddamn great.

“Seriously,” Roger prompts, quietly now. “Do you like it?”

“Of course I like it. I love it. I just don’t need it.”

He grins. “I know you don’t need it. But I do.”

“That list of yours is getting awfully long.”

“You have no idea. We haven’t even started on the exotic pet collection yet.”

“There’s a marvelous koi pond out in the backyard,” the real estate agent says. “You could add turtles, and frogs, and all different types of fish. I can recommend sturgeon, they have such an alluring primeval sort of look to them, and the shimmer on shubunkins is just delightful...”

“You heard the lady.” Rog stretches his right hand like he does when his arm bothers him, when the bone that will never fully heal aches like something ancient and irredeemable, like hunger, like unrequited love: fingertips sprayed outwards, then folded into his palm, then outwards again.

“Rog...I don’t know.”

“Come on, baby! It has everything. Roman-style master bath. Bedrooms with mirrors on the ceiling. Space for my own studio. Land. Enormous refrigerators. You’ll have abundant room for John’s drawings.”

“Ohhh, now that’s true.” John is always adding to your collection, slipping you sketches as the boys scurry around getting ready before a show, during songwriting sessions that last long after midnight, when the band and its expanding circle of friends and family gather for birthdays and holidays. You don’t ask him about You’re My Best Friend, or, come to think of it, any of his other songs. You don’t ask him how he feels about his new life as a husband and father. And in return, John doesn’t ask whether you’re ever going to marry Roger, if you even want to, if you worry about what the future holds. It’s a loaded peace, but a comfortable one. A safe one.

“It doesn’t bother you, does it?” Roger asks suddenly. “The girlfriend thing. The not-wife thing.”

“No,” you reply, smiling. “Of course not.” Roger isn’t someone who pens love letters, recites all the reasons why he cannot live without you, sings love songs. He rarely speaks of love at all. Roger is as he always is: all action, all energy, eyes forever looking forward. But he does love you; you’re sure he does. Everything he does bleeds with love.

“Good. Because there’s no one I’d rather acquire a harem and zoological park with.”

“Okay,” you relent. “But no lions or tigers or bears. I’m quite attached to your limbs, and you’ve come close enough to ruining them already.”

“Deal.” He taps the Canon that hangs from your shoulder by its strap. “We should document this momentous juncture. One day we can pull out the photo album and show Roger Junior. ‘Hey look kid, this was the day Mum and Dad bought the house you were conceived in.’”

You laugh, almost positive that Roger isn’t serious. “I can guarantee you that precisely zero percent of children would ever want to hear that.” Nevertheless, you ready the camera and hold it as far away as you can, the lens aimed towards you.

“Don’t forget to smile!” Roger trills in his high, victorious voice as he rests his chin in the dip of your collarbone.

You snap the photo. The flash bursts through the kitchen of the Surrey mansion, blinding you both. The artificial bluish light dissipates like smoke.

~~~~~~~~~~

His name is Laszlo, and he’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen...even when he’s not especially well-mannered.

Currently, Laszlo—an Eastern European moniker from somewhere in his mother’s comically vast family tree—is whimpering and squirming against Veronica’s chest as she pats his tiny back and sighs wearily. Veronica, ever the good Polish Catholic wife, is already pregnant again. Chrissie smirks triumphantly and puffs on a cigarette, her rings glimmering on her left hand, her dress violet and new and very expensive. Brian is lost in some deep intellectual conversation with Richard Branson, gesturing with his long nimble hands and nodding empathetically, his dark curls rustling in the breeze like the lithe branches of a willow tree.

“Thank god you’re here,” John calls as you and Roger approach. “Freddie is about to get this concert cancelled.”

“I’m about to make this concert fabulous, darling,” Freddie objects. “We need pyrotechnics, we need sparklers and explosions and fireworks!”

Mr. Branson shakes his head. “Can’t do it, Fred. The embers could travel and set the trees on fire.”

Freddie groans. “Tell him, Roger!”

Roger shrugs, grinning, resting his elbow on John’s shoulder. “I don’t know, maybe we shouldn’t burn down Hyde Park.”

“You’ll be under a huge orange canopy, right over there.” Mr. Branson motions with a sweep of his arm. “You can’t do anything aerial. Flashing lights, sure. Fog, sure. But no fire. No explosions. Oh, and there’s technically a noise ordinance, but we’re working out a deal so the city won’t enforce it on the day of the show.”

“Orange?!” Freddie squeals.

“How will the acoustics be in a tent?” Brian asks, troubled.

John smiles mischievously. “Yes, how dreadful if no one could hear the extraneous guitar solos.”

“I have a gong, Rich,” Roger says. “Everyone will be able to hear my gong, right?”

“Your gong?” Freddie whines. “What about my voice?!”

“I miss stadiums,” Roger grumbles. You exchange a knowing glance with Mary and Chris and Veronica, who is imploring Laszlo to take a bottle. Our boys are difficult, aren’t they?

“The acoustics will be fine,” Mr. Branson snaps. “The tent color will be fine. Everything will be fine. You don’t need any fucking fireworks. Please for the love of god just tell me what kind of sandwiches you want.”

“That’ll be an ordeal as well,” Chrissie quips, and you all laugh; even Laszlo perks up, stops wriggling, glimpses around the open green space with curious greyish eyes like John’s.

Some teenage employee carrying a tangle of cables trots over, sweat dripping down his flushed freckled cheeks. “Mr. Branson? There’s someone from the city here to see you.”

Richard Branson smacks his forehead. “Jesus christ. Okay, I’ll be right there. Hey, Steve, hey, have you seen Dom? Go find Dom and tell her to come over here, okay? Thanks.”

The teenage employee nods and disappears into a sea of bustling people ferrying equipment, fliers, chairs, messages.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Mr. Branson says. “These city bastards are out to crucify me. You’d think they’d be a little more grateful that Queen of all bands is willing to put on a free concert in their backyard, but alas. Hey, Dom, over here!”

He waves to a petite young woman with a glossy shock of black hair and olive Mediterranean skin. She’s wearing all yellow: shorts patterned with daffodils, a tank top the color of butter, a headband like a sunbeam. One of her trim arms is cradling a notebook; the other reaches out so she can shake hands with everyone. The gesture is courteous but somewhat unnatural.

“This,” Mr. Branson begins, “is my personal assistant Dominique. She’s wonderful, she’ll listen to all your pretentious tales of woe and do it with a smile, because she’s a true professional. Better yet, she’s going to ask you the tedious questions I was supposed to so you don’t have to wait for me to finish sparring with the city council. Okay? Okay. Have fun. I’ll be back.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Dom says placidly in a heavy French accent. So that’s why her handshake was off somehow, stilted and weak; the French usually kiss as a greeting. You choke back a snort as you imagine Veronica’s reaction to that. Mr. Branson stalks away muttering about litigious twats.

“Oh, aren’t you just darling!” Freddie circles Dom, admiring her outfit, her hair, her gold hoop earrings. He wafts his cigarette around flamboyantly, completely forgetting to smoke it. “The French are so tasteful, aren’t they? You simply must connect me with your stylist.”

“I would be happy to, Mr. Mercury. But regrettably, I am my own stylist.”

“Ahh!” Freddie exhales, enamored. Mary lifts Laszlo from Veronica’s tired arms and cradles him, tickles his nose, beams down into his fresh and inquisitive face.

Dom pulls a pen from her shirt pocket. “May I ask your sandwich preferences for the day of the show?”

She immediately receives four very different answers, and she raises an eyebrow, her pen hovering over the lined paper of her notebook.

“I’m so sorry about them,” Chrissie says, and Dom chuckles civilly.

“Ham and cheddar,” Freddie tells her, synthesizing the responses. “Bacon, fried fish, steak and onion jam...and something for Brian. Cucumber maybe. Could we get some cucumber sandwiches, dear?”

“You’re a vegetarian?” Dom asks Brian, jotting down notes.

“He’s morally superior to us in every way,” John sighs dreamily, and Rog and Freddie cackle.

“I’m not a strict vegetarian,” Bri clarifies. “But for the sake of the animals and the planet, I try to limit meat when I can.”

Roger adds: “And I order twice as much of it, just to spite him.”

Dominique leads Queen around the portion of Hyde Park where the concert will be held, runs through the itinerary, fields a litany of questions and complaints. And you decide that you like Dom; she’s professional and reserved, yes, but she’s also patient with Freddie, smiles at his jokes, compliments his black-and-yellow striped shirt (“We match, and you remind me of a...oh, what’s the word in English? That bug...it flies around buzzing...buzz buzz...a bee!”), asks him what he’s planning to wear to the show. She assuages Brian, listens to John, takes the time to chat with the women about children, makeup, homes, what it’s like to be in love with rock stars. But Dom mostly ignores Roger, dodges his grins, remains staunchly undazzled. And that would worry you—because Roger loves the chase, you know that firsthand—if he hadn’t already taught you how to trust him, how addictively flawless and exhilarating life with Roger Taylor could be.

When Laszlo begins to fuss in Mary’s grasp, you take your turn holding him; and he blinks up at you with eyes that are wide and clear and seeking, and you find yourself feeling like you always do when you’re around your godson: like maybe you have a stronger opinion about wanting children than you thought you did, like you can’t stop envisioning a baby with Roger’s eyes instead of John’s.

That evening—after leaving Hyde Park, after dinner, after drinks mixed out by the koi pond—as you doze in a sweltering bubble bath and steam curls through the air, you hear Roger’s voice floating from the kitchen downstairs. You rise out of the tub, towel yourself off, slip into a white silk robe as rivulets of bathwater slink down the back of your neck. You tread gingerly towards the kitchen, keep silent so you can hear, lurk in the shadows of the hallway with your palms pressed flat against the wallpaper.

“Hello, is Dominique Beyrand in?” Roger says into the kitchen phone. “I’ve been trying to track her down. Sure, I’ll wait. Thanks.” After a pause, he continues. “Hi, Dom! It’s Roger Taylor, from Queen. The irritating blond one. I was just wondering if you’d happened to stumble across my wallet since this afternoon, I seem to have misplaced it. Oh, you haven’t? Bloody hell. Well, thank you for taking my call. Aw, that’s so kind of you, I’m sure I’ll locate it eventually. I’ve got a terrible habit of losing things. Okay, thanks so much. Goodnight to you too. See you soon. Cheers.” He hangs the phone up as you step into the kitchen. His smile is bright and innocuous. “Hey, baby!”

“Who was that?” Your tone is similarly casual; or so you hope.

“Just Richard Branson’s assistant. That French woman Dominique. I can’t find my wallet and thought I might have left it at Hyde Park, but no dice. Oh well.”

Roger begins rummaging through the drawer full of business cards and address books, tapping his foot, humming to himself. And surely he isn’t trying to avoid my eyes. Your gaze skates over the marble countertop. There, by the refrigerator, just a few feet—a meter, you correct yourself to be properly British—from where Roger stands, is his black leather wallet.

“It’s right there, Rog,” you say, pointing. And now your voice isn’t so nonchalant.

Roger spins to check. “Oh my god, I completely missed it!” He snatches up the wallet with a celebratory chuckle. “I’m such a twit sometimes. You’re too fucking smart, you know that? You’re making me look bad.”

He rushes to you, takes your left hand, bites your knuckles lightly like he did outside Massachusetts General Hospital under dawn skies over two years ago. And then Roger whispers to you, nuzzling your neck scented with lavender soap and doubt.

“Let’s go to bed.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a knock at the door. John is standing on the front porch of the Surrey house with his hands in his pockets and a vague sort of smile on his face. He’s in a black suit.

“Get ready,” he says. “Do your hair, throw on some earrings. Maybe the pearls Roger got you last Christmas. We’re going shopping.”

“Why do I need to look fancy to go shopping?”

John shrugs, feigning indifference; but the puckish glint in his eyes gives him away. Yet there’s something a little sad and weighty in them too, isn’t there?

Your own eyes narrow. “I’m onto you, bassist.”

He laughs as you tug teasingly at a lock of his downy hair. “You always are.”

John takes you to a dress shop on Bond Street where the corsets trickle with gemstones and the designers all have Italian names: Armani, Prada, Abate, Cerruti, Valentino, Biagiotti. He sinks into a leather chair just outside the fitting room and lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, points to you with the lit end.

“Go ahead. Go wild. It’s a blank check.”

“Really?!” You glance around the shop, your pulse racing. “But I don’t know the occasion. I don’t want to be underdressed or overdressed or whatever. Although I don’t think I’ve ever been overdressed in my life.”

“Yes, you can’t seem to shake those pragmatic service industry roots, can you?” Another drag. “You need a dress and matching shoes. Formal, but not too formal. Think a record company party. Elegant but exciting. Lots of sparkle. Slightly slutty, if you’re so inclined.”

“This is an unconventional bonding activity,” you tell John, trying to conceal your nerves.

“Love, this isn’t something you can fail at,” he says, gently now. “You’re going to look amazing no matter what. So just have fun with it. This isn’t a test. This is one of those adventures you’re always searching for.”

I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage; that’s what Roger once told you. But maybe you don’t always want to be quite so free, so unmoored. “Okay. But you have to swear to give honest opinions. I don’t want to show up looking like a wombat because you were too nice to say anything.”

John just chuckles to himself, shakes his head, devours cigarette after cigarette.

With the assistance of one of the shop employees, you climb into a pastel pink dress with a full ruffled skirt, an emerald green dress with an empire waist and loose sheer sleeves, a shimmering metallic silvery dress with a form-fitting silhouette. John nods at all of them, wholeheartedly approves, defers to your judgment. He periodically consults his wristwatch as he taps his cigarettes on the rim of an ashtray, and deflects your questions when you ask him why. Then you step out of the fitting room—balanced on gold heels—in a white dress with a hem that hits just above your knees, a halter neckline, a slim keyhole down the center of your chest; and John’s cigarette tumbles out of his fingers.

“That’s the one,” he breathes, soaking it in. Then he asks the employee to cut off all the tags and whips out his wallet. “Toss your old clothes and shoes in a bag. We gotta catch a cab.”

“We’re going straight to the party?”

“We certainly are.”

“What the hell kind of ridiculously lame party starts at 3 p.m.?”

John smirks craftily. “The kind of party we’re going to. Let’s rock and roll, Florence Nightingale.”

John gives the taxi driver an address and you sail through the streets of London, splashing through shallow evaporating puddles, squinting when sunlight ricochets glaringly off the slick pavement. The taxi rolls to a stop outside of a grand stone building with columns and intricate carvings of leaves and flowers. The sign outside reads: Kensington and Chelsea Register Office.

You turn to John. “Who’s getting married?!”

He just smiles, a deep harbor of secrets.

“It’s Fred and Mary, right? Jesus christ, John, you can’t wear white to someone else’s wedding, Mary’s going to strangle me—”

“It’s not Mary’s wedding.”

Slowly, your jaw falls open. “No,” you whisper in disbelief.

John darts out of the taxi, jogs around to your side, and opens the door for you. You gape up at him senselessly, struggling to remember how to form sentences.

“John...this...this is some bizarre and elaborate joke, right?”

“Nope.” He offers his hand, helps you out of the taxi, leads you up the front steps of the Register Office. Inside, everyone is waiting: Freddie and Mary, Brian and Chrissie, Veronica with babbling baby Laszlo, Roger’s mother and sister...and Roger, of course, in his best black suit and bleached blond hair and trademark guaranteed-to-dazzle (unless of course you’re Dominique Beyrand) grin. He flies to you and takes your hands in his.

“You look incredible, baby.”

“Roger, what’s going on...?”

“Don’t freak out,” he commands, and instantly your panic vanishes. There’s a pink rose pinned to his lapel. “I know we don’t feel like we need to get married. I know we agree it doesn’t mean anything.” Is that still true? “So don’t think that this is about trying to trap you or control you or bullshit white picket fences or anything. And of course you can say no, I won’t be mad, no one will hold that against you, we can find some other reason to party. But the simple facts are that I’m a British national with a mansion and a plethora of perpetual royalties and you’re an American here on a work visa, and the law gets a bit thorny in this situation. And I want to make sure you’re taken care of if something happens to me. That you can carry out my wishes. That you can stay here with the band as long as you want to. So, I’ve got your passport and birth certificate and everything else we need...and some overly-enthusiastic witnesses. Are you cool with signing a piece of paper today?”

“Of course she bloody well is!” Freddie exclaims, and everyone laughs. Mary is carrying a basket full of champagne flutes, Chrissie several bottles of pink champagne, Roger’s sister a tub of ice. Brian has been entrusted to chronicle the event with your Canon. Veronica is more giddy than you’ve ever seen her, even more animated than she was at her own wedding. Well, I suppose she doesn’t have to worry about any illicit pregnancies or condemnatory great aunts this time around.

“Okay,” you tell Roger. And you wish you weren’t beaming so broadly your cheeks ache, because it feels a little pathetic to be this happy about an admittedly meaningless wedding. But it does make you happy, your general aversion towards conventionality be damned.

You sign papers and you toast glasses and you giggle uproariously in the lobby of the Register Office with the best friends you’ve ever had, guzzle pink champagne, pose for photos, take your turn holding Laszlo, kiss Roger beneath the stone arch of the centuries-old building.

It doesn’t mean anything, you remind yourself, suddenly very aware of the missing weight of a ring on your left hand. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything.

But you catch a few furtive glances between Chrissie and Bri, the twist of a frown on Freddie’s face when he thinks no one is watching, the distance in John’s shadowy eyes as he inhales champagne like air.

It doesn’t mean anything.

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blackevermore · 3 years

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x Secrets of The Lake: The Company of Misery and Pain

{ Chapter 10 }

Summary: Vladimir Masters’ family tree has always been tainted by secrets swept under the rug. From generation to generation there have been countless reasons the Masters’ family had seemed to keep private from the public. Even to this day, Vladimir was no exception. But what was one to do when a restless spirit from the settlement years finally breaks free from restraints and demands you answer for your ancestor’s crimes? Vladimir doesn’t know. However, Clockworks does.

Notes: We just having fun, rewriting some of the canon, new adventure new characters. I will apologize now for any grammar, spelling, weird sentence structuring in advance. My brain writes faster than my fingers and even when I go back through to reread it I still miss things. Sorry about that!

Word Count: 5086

P.s: I feel like this chapter is shit :/ but we honestly have to keep going!!

Danny could feel it, Sam could feel it because Danny could feel it, and Tucker could only feel it because Sam told him via passing a note. Something was wrong or something was going to be wrong. Danny had kept it to himself all morning up until lunch. The annoying feeling like he should probably skip class and fly around to make sure everything was okay itched away at the back of his head.

“Okay so lemme get this straight, Vlad is currently keeping a ghost at his house that Clockwork told him was coming to haunt him from the past. He has to deal with it or something bad will happen in the future?” Sam recapped and Danny only nodded as he bit into his sandwich.

“Not gonna lie Vlad did give off that energy his family owned slaves,” Tucker muttered and Sam kicked him under the table. “What?! Come on I mean....come on.”

“I said the same thing Tuck,” Danny chuckled and rested his face in his palm. “But he insisted they didn’t and this ghost was purely a paid-ish servant. But whatever, she’s here and lemme tell ya she’s got this crazy power that changes your emotions. Yesterday after finally getting her down I almost punched Vlad for breathing.”

“You should have done it anyway and played it off.” Sam smirked and poked at her salad. “I still don’t like the guy.” She sighed and pushed her food away, not really feeling hungry.

“I don’t blame you, but I assure you he’s not the same person anymore. Same antics but now in an Addams family uncle way. Plus Dani and him playhouse and I think that actually made him become better. We haven’t fought in almost two years so I say that adds up to something.” Danny smiled and Sam only nodded along and shrugged. Danny knew it would take Sam a few more years to wrap her head around Vlad actually laying off and doing something else with his life. Hell, it took Danny by surprise when everything suddenly took a turn and both of them were outed out as halfas.

Danny actually felt like he had a friend to help take the blow with when it came to explaining to his parents about everything. Vlad had stood as his rock and that was enough for Danny to consider Vlad really was changing. Guess he finally grew up. Danny chuckled at his own joke then turned to Tucker. Tucker was a lot more laid back about the whole thing, of course, he was also ready to throw down if Vlad tried his shit, but if Danny felt safe, so did he. But it’s always been like that and that's why they got in trouble the most and Sam was the brains of the group.

“I just have a bad feeling.” Danny turned away from his friends and looked around them. Danny tried to single out if the feeling was coming from any of his peers. High school was filled to the brim with overly emotional teenage hormones that rubbed off on each other. Maybe Danny picked up some cheerleaders' manic panic feelings when he walked past them this morning. Or maybe it was the game club’s mourning from their loss last week, Danny understood that especially when he and his friends lost their games. “But it's not a ‘Vlad’s planning something dangerous’ bad, just an ‘oh no’ bad.” Danny sighed and ruffled his own hair to distract himself. He was tired and stressed out about school and life in general, he didn’t need anything else, mudding up the last of his managing teenage mind. Sam was quick to change the topic to something more fun and Tucker quickly took the chance to show off a new feature he tweaked on his phone.

Danny only half listened as he continued to watch people and drown out from the rest of the world. That was quickly cut short when a fire truck raced quickly past the school and busted left down an avenue and headed off into the distance.

“Who sets stuff on fire at 11:30 in the morning?” Sam snickered.

“It’s almost 12, they waited long enough,” Tucker added which made the girl laugh and Danny nodded with a smile. Danny was about to make the following joke but his phone dinged with a message. He pulled it out and his face nearly turned white as he saw it was Dani.

Phantom 2: Fire Truck just shot past me and their heading towards dad’s

Phantom 1: Shouldn’t you be in class...

Phantom 2: Wrong response…...FIRETRUCK HEADING TO MASTERS HOUSE!

Danny slammed his phone down and grabbed the sides of his head. His friend's small conversation was brought to a halt and they looked at him. Danny groaned and stood up and one command so did Sam and Tucker to do what they did best and cover Danny so he could transform and take off. They were seniors and yet the ol’ ‘cover me guys’ was still strong in their blood.

“Be back before last period or Lancer will be on your ass.” Tucker winked and Danny rolled his eyes before turning invisible and taking off. His friends couldn’t see him but they could take a guess which way he was going. Tucker turned to Sam and hummed before putting his hands on his hips.

“Should we follow him?” The geek asked the goth.

“You just don’t wanna present in Econ next period.” Sam rolled her eyes and sat back down at the table, now feeling the urge to finish her salad.

“You do most of the talking anyway, I’m just there to flip the slides.” Tucker shot Sam finger guns and the girl only smirked and shook her head.

It took Danny no time to make it to Vlad’s home and see two windows had been blown out on the top floor and pink and purple smoke mixed together piling high into the air. Neighbours on either side of Vlad were out of their house and watching in worry. Danny could hear the firetruck getting close. Danny began to cough as the smoke got into his lung, he lowered himself and quickly shot inside the house to see what was going on. When he landed in the bedroom hallway and quickly started to check the rooms. When he got to the end of the hallway he saw the anti ghost bars were turned off and Tayonna was gone. There was a fire in her room and busted windows.

“Oh shit,” Danny whispered then felt the floor rumble from below. He sank through the floor and was almost hit with a pink blast. Danny barely missed it as it flew past his head and quickly dove down to the floor. He turned visible and made cover as another blast flew over his head. Danny looked up from the floor and saw Plasmius dodging another attack and Tayonna still in her human form standing firm on the ground. Tayonna held purple flames in the palm of her hands and a giant ring of flames surrounding her.

“Tayonna stand down!” Plasmius yelled and fired a fireball towards Tayonna who reflected it with one of her own.

“You no longer tell me what to do Vladan!” Tayonna rose her hands towards the air and conquered three ectoblast that was set ablaze

“For the last time, my name isn’t Vladan!” Plasmius yelled and blasted one of the fireballs Tayonna held steady. Danny could tell Vlad was slowly reaching his limit of tolerance. It was likely Tayonna tried her mind junk on the man and it backfired terribly. Tayonna threw down her hands to send off the last two she had. Plamsius shot down the second one then took hold of the last one and threw it back. Tayonna wasn’t prepared for the returning attack and it hit her in the chest, sending her falling to the floor. The girl groaned and tried to push herself to the side to get back up but Plasmius shot at her again.

Tayonna must have sensed it and threw her arm back to create a line of fire around her to stop the blow. She slowly stood up and stepped back before doing a digging motion that created lines of electricity to shoot across the floor and upward to where Plasmius stood. Being as fast as the older ghost was, he simply teleported away before any of the bolts could hit him. He teleported right in front of the girl ready to shoot her back but Tayonna was faster and like a glitch she was inches away from him, placing both of her hands on his chest and with full strength shot him back with purple static.

The cry of plain Plasmius let out told Danny that the attack was more than he was ready for. Plasmius was slammed against the door and Dany was happy he didn’t go through it. Tayonna began to float into the air doing the blurry ghostly movements Danny saw at the pond. Danny thought quickly and reached for the thermos, he was so happy he always kept that bad boy strapped, and unclasped it and sucked Tayonna in. The girl turned at the feeling of being pulled and let out a horrendous scream as she was dragged into the dark void. Within seconds she was sucked in and Danny was making sure the lid was on as tight as it could go. Danny quickly hurried over to Plasmius as the older halfa pulled himself from the door and rolled to his knees. The same creepy red mist fell out of Vlad’s mouth and the man let out an ugly fit of coughs.

“What the hell happened?!” Danny didn’t mean to raise his voice but in a fit of panic it did and Plasmius only groaned and pushed himself up by a knee. Once standing Plasmius turned back into Vlad and the older man couldn’t help but clench his chest. “How did she get out? Who let her out? Vlad, you didn’t let her out, did you? Why would you-”

“Shut up!” Vlad yelled and pushed the boy away in annoyance. “Get out of here before they break down my door and see you.” Vlad turned away from Danny and tried to look less in pain than he already was. Danny frowned and grumbled about Vlad being a dick and shoved the thermos towards Vlad. At first, the man was confused but took it anyway before turning another cold shoulder to Danny.

“You have to answer me later!” Danny yelled before shooting through the roof and up into the sky. The firefighters had just broken down the door and neighbours were gasping as they saw Vlad being pulled out of the house. Danny stayed a while to make sure nothing else crazy happened before he heard the sound of his phone ding. It was Sam telling him to hurry up, last period was in 20 minutes. Danny shoved his phone in his pocket and rocketed back towards his school. He knew he would have to come up with some other ghost fighting excuse for why he missed two periods when he got home. Danny told himself he needed a break. He needed a break so he could make it to graduation and to sweet sweet summer break.

Danny was already checking his phone for a news update for the incident at Vlad’s house. But there was nothing. Surely the people of Amity would know if their former mayor’s house went up in flames. It surely knew when Vlad’s ass was all over the news. Danny told Sam and Tucker he wouldn’t be walking home with them but to make sure Dani got home safe. When he got out of school he still had to serve a hour long detention from Lancer for something he already forgot about. Danny made his way through the air to Vlad’s to check up and see what happened after he left.

Danny stood right outside the house invisible, everything was quiet, the smoke from the upstairs windows was gone. When Danny made it up to the front door he noticed it was no longer busted off the lock. It was fixed as if the events of today didn’t even happen. Danny ghosted inside and gasped, the whole foyer was cleaned and just as fancy as it was when Vlad first moved to town. Danny could see his reflection in the marble floor which he couldn’t the day before. Danny flew upstairs and even the stairs had been clean.

“Vlad?” Danny called out hoping that maybe the older halfa would be lurking around. Danny poked his head through a few doors and saw no sign that Vlad could even be home. He got to the bedrooms and checked those and still no Vlad to be found. Danny did notice however the guest room Tayonna was in was cleaned and the windows were brand new. Danny poked his head into the room but didn’t sense anything, not even Tayonna’s ungodly emotional pulls.

Danny looked around once more just to double check himself but no one seemed to be home. He was about to give up and fly home until he heard the sound of stuff slamming coming from below. Danny moved with caution as he went to Vlad's basement. Down below Vlad sat at a worn down chair tapping away at a computer with the thermos next to him. Ghost scattered around the place rebuilding screens and some of the portal that was broken by Tayonna. Danny landed on his feet and quickly ducked as a ghost flew over him with a monitor in hand.

“Good to see you back, little badger,” Vlad called over his shoulder as he continued to type away.

“How did you-”

“Simple,” Vlad spun around and leaned back in his chair. Danny’s face turned to confusion before he narrowed his eyes and shook his head. As long as it wasn’t actually hurting anyone Danny could turn a blind eye to it. “After I got everyone to leave and nearly all the news anchors to pretend they never had a story. I had to get the place fixed up and I really didn’t feel like calling anyone. Besides, we have wonderful handymen in the Ghost Zone.” Vlad didn’t seem to be in the ugly mood he was in earlier, Danny could see in his eyes there were still traces of annoyance and maybe the typical Vladness, but not anger. It almost seemed like Vlad was in a better mood and Danny wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or if he could quickly punch the man to double check.

“Has she been in there the whole time?” Danny pointed over to his thermos and Vlad sighed and nodded.

“I wasn’t letting her out again.” The man grumbled and spun back around towards the computer.

“Again? So you did let her out.” Danny walked closer and picked up the thermos making sure Vlad hadn’t started poking at it. Vlad ran a hand over his hair and nodded looking almost ashamed he had to admit he caused the problem.

“I was curious of how far her mimicking powers could go and as soon as I asked-”

“Seems more like you to command than ask.” Danny corrected.

“As I asked her to do it again she refused, then the red mist showed up and jumped down my throat and before I knew it I was reaching out towards her and grabbed her arm. Then of course you showed up and saw where that led us.” Vlad rubbed his throat a bit then cleared it. A bit more of the mist flew from his mouth and Vlad waved it away angrily. “Blasted thing.”

“Is this mist also a ghost?” Danny tried to sense if the mist was around or not. It seemed like it was gone at the moment and Danny sighed. Danny knew whatever it was that now clung to Vlad like Tayonna had an important role in this mess as well.

“I don’t believe it’s a ghost. It’s more so like dead ghost memories that follow her. It could be what makes her restless and has manifested into a physical form.” Vlad rubbed his chin and held out his hand for the thermos. Danny was slow on handing it over but finally caved. Vlad was about to untwist the top but Danny quickly shot out his hands and stopped him.

“Whoa, what are you doing?! She almost set your place on fire and now you're gonna let her out, again?” Vlad quickly snatched the gadget away from the boy and pointed behind him. Danny turned his head and saw a ghost trap on the floor already set up and ready to go. Danny hadn’t realized that he almost stepped in it. Would have been great if Vlad had just said to move out the way or something.

“She’s not going to cause any more trouble once I get this on her.” Vlad reached over and pulled the drawer open and pulled out a collar.

“So you’re gonna do the collar thing again, that’s totally gonna get her on your side.” Danny crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. He couldn’t help the faint sting and itch around his neck as memories of being in the collar himself flashed through his head. Danny should have known Vlad would keep the damn thing even after Danny broke it.

“I defused the shocking system, all it will do is make her as powerless as possible. That means even her emotional mind games. She will be as human as she’s pretending to be.” Vlad handed Danny the collar to hold as he fiddled with the thermos to get it open. Danny eyed the thing and repeated Vlad’s words in his head. And with three easy seconds, he had a monkey brain moment and snapped the thing around his neck. Danny felt his powers get pulled back inside his body and his core shut down as he collapsed to the ground and turned human. Vlad snapped towards the boy and palmed his face in disbelief. Vlad quickly gave the command for the collar to release and Danny shot back up holding his breath. The teen tried to play it off like he wasn’t caught red handed playing around.

“I’m good...we gucci.” Danny shrugged and blushed from embarrassment. Vlad rolled his eyes and picked up the collar once more and handed it to Danny with a silent ‘stop playing’ and turned back to the anti ghost circle. Vlad popped off the lip and flipped the switch to release and pressed down on the button. A bright blue glow sprung to life from within the container and Tayonna was shot out to the ground. She was discombobulated as she held her head, slowly blinking and looking around. When she turned and saw Vlad and Danny she got to her feet and flicked her wrist to activate her powers.

When she didn’t see the glow of purple she looked down at her hands and back up to Vlad with anger. Vlad tried not to meet her in the eyes but there was something alluring about them and he couldn’t pull away. He strongly regretted it when he saw how angry she was and how angry he became suddenly. His anger rose as he thought about the years he spent in the hospital alone. The anger he still held against Jack and the fact he himself didn’t have the honour of marrying Maddie.

Vlad almost lost himself in the anger until he felt Danny nudge him. He snapped his neck towards Danny and the poor boy jumped back as Vlad’s eyes faded from blue to a red void and back again. Vlad blinked a few times then covered his face to get away from Tayonna’s sight. When he felt himself calm down with the help of counting down from ten he turned back towards the boy and pointed towards the collar.

“Yeah well, how are we supposed to get it on?” Danny whispered and Vlad groaned as he hadn’t thought about that.

“Fudge muffins.” Vlad closed his eyes and sat back down in his chair. He knew he couldn’t simply ask her to wear it without having to wrestle her down to the floor. Which threatens the chance of them rolling out of the circle and her being able to use her ghost powers. Vlad didn’t have time for his lab to be ruined all over again as it was nearly finished. Vlad had to think of something that could possibly trick the ghost into wearing it.

“Tayonna,” Vlad called out to her calmly and that seemed to confuse not only her but Danny. “Let’s make a deal.” Vlad didn’t wait for a yes or a no as he stood up and crossed his arms behind his back and walked to stand right in front of the girl. He left himself open as he locked eyes with her again. Either he would end up yanking the collar from Danny and getting it around her neck while dealing with false emotions. Or in the low chance he managed to get her to back off and be compliant he would simply snap the thing around her. It seemed that the former would be the winner until she started to breathe heavily, her brows turned upward in sadness and she finally backed away from him. She lowered her head and turned away. Vlad fought the smirk that laced itself across his lips and kept them pressed tight.

“What do you want?” Tayonna asked, not above a broken whisper. Vlad held out his hand to Danny and the boy handed him the collar.

“You will wear this collar and we can actually speak like civilized people. Or you will stay down here in the basement in this small circle until you can be civilized.” Vlad held up the collar with an open hand and waited for the ghost to turn towards him. It wasn’t much of a deal and he knew it but whatever had to be done would be done. He could see the way her hand slowly inched up her dress and he tsked a few times. “If you try that again I will not hesitate to rip you apart molecule by molecule. I don’t take playing with my core lightly.” Vlad’s voice dropped to a growl and that worked to get the ghost to move her hand away from her chest. She turned towards him qualmy, eyeing the collar then up to his eyes, she scrunched her nose at the idea of having to wear it.

“You’ve never put me in a collar.” She said.

“And I wish I didn’t have to,” Vlad didn’t know why he said that nor where it came from. When he saw the way her face dropped again he felt it in his heart and it made him take a deep breath before letting it out. “If you wear it, it won't hurt you, I promise you this.” It will never hurt again. Vlad was sure these were just her false emotions projecting but deep down he could actually feel that he meant it. Somewhere inside him he truly didn’t want to collar her or hurt her, and that bothered him. Tayonna looked lost in thought as she looked between the two males in front of her. Danny looked confused by Vlad’s sudden calm demeanor and ready to stop the whole thing. The boy held his wrist and just stood there. Tayonna looked back towards Vlad and her eyes went wide. Vlad could see it in her eyes she looked at him as if he was someone she was looking for and it pained her. Then her brows fell in knots and she shook her head before walking closer to the edge of the circle.

“I promise,” Vlad whispered to her once more than brought the collar up to snap around her neck. Tayonna flinched a bit at how tight it was then brought her hands up to touch it. Vlad held out his hand and she hesitantly took it as he led her out of the circle. Vlad almost felt happy to have the girl calm and willing. He watched her face closely as she looked around her. She was beautiful. What? Vlad winced at the small voice in his head but continued to stare at her. She’s always been so beautiful. Vlad’s eyes went soft like the way they did when he looked at Maddie, but in his mind, there was no Maddie, just Tayonna. Tayonna quickly took her hand back and held onto herself when she noticed Vlad’s hard stare. She wavered on if this was a good idea or if she had just handed herself over to the wrong person. Vlad snapped out of whatever fix he was in and cleared his voice before turning towards a very baffled Danny.

Vlad held up a hand, he didn’t have the answers himself, “It seems we might be getting somewhere, Daniel.” Vlad walked past the boy and lifted up his jaw. Vlad walked towards his portal just as the last monitor was fixed in place. He forgot all about the work being done during that whole thing. Vlad thought it was best now that he got the girl out of the circle to put space between them. He didn’t need any more little voices in his ear telling him things he didn’t believe.

“All done, boss!” The ghost workers all called off and Vlad thanked them before turning on the portal to allow them to leave. Vlad sighed in pure happiness as the soft green glow of the Ghost Zone illuminated his face. It was comforting since Vlad spent a lot of time there when he wasn’t taking care of his companies. It felt like he needed to take a quick flight through the zone to refresh himself before stepping foot in his house ever again. But that will have to wait as Vlad now has to get Tayonna to talk. Vlad turned back to the others and the default smile he normally wore. Danny only gave him a slightly worried expression while Tayonna turned completely away from the portal.

“Well, Daniel I think it’s best if you made it home.” Vlad stepped to the side and held out a hand ushering Danny. The boy bit his lip and looked back towards Tayonna who hadn’t moved an inch since getting out of the circle.

“Is this a good idea?” Danny walked over and going ghost.

“I can assure you it will,” Vlad gave him his best smile and nodded.

“You’re not gonna do anything...dangerous to her are you?” Danny leaned in towards Vlad with narrowed eyes and a finger pointed towards his face.

“Daniel, have I done anything to warrant your concern, as of recently?” Vlad’s smile dropped and he cocked a brow towards the teen. Seriously if Vlad wanted to cause trouble he honestly wouldn’t wait for the opportunity, he would go out and do it. Danny seemed to back down from that and rubbed his neck.

“No but old habits die hard. Keep me updated, fruitloop.” Danny shot through the portal and off into the Ghost Zone. Vlad sighed and rolled his eyes and closed the portal before turning on his heels and walking back towards Tayonna. When he got close she flinched away from him and shot him a glare.

‘The constant mood swings are rather annoying’ Vlad thought but kept his face neutral. “Miss Tayonna, it would be better if we went upstairs. Unless you wish to stay down here.” Vlad held out his hand but she refused to take it, with a shrug he dropped it.

“I don’t.” She responded and Vlad nodded then started towards the basement stairs to head back towards the first floor. Tayonna silently followed behind him.

Vlad kept an eye on Tayonna as he ventured around his house. She continued to follow him without complaint. At first Vlad found it endearing, she seemed so lost and followed him everywhere, but when he forgot she was there from how quiet she was and tried to go to the bathroom he quickly had to set rules of sorts.

“You don’t have to follow me, you could go sit somewhere until I come for you.” Vlad turned around and faced her and she seemed embarrassed for a moment. She turned her head from him and huffed.

“I have no idea where I am.” She mumbled.

“You’ve been in my house for almost a week and you don’t know your way around?” He tried to not sound condescending but it was a bit hard when the ghost that’s been haunting you acted like a puppy.

“I stayed by your side the whole time.” Tayonna looked back up to him and Vlad felt his heart skip a beat and his mouth run dry. He thought it was oddly flattering until he remembered she did it in ill will. Then there was something that caught his eye that really made him choke up. On the right side of her neck in the small dip before her shoulder were bite marks. That’s when he noticed the way she tended to only stand towards him on her left. Tayonna noticed his eyes staring towards her right and she turned away. Vlad didn’t have to say anything to confirm that that one particular dream she had actually infiltrated. ‘Dream manipulation, emotional manipulation, and mimicking...interesting’ Vlad blushed a bit and cleared his throat. Even with the stab in the back, he couldn’t help but still enjoy it for what it was. But he wouldn’t rub that in her face, yet.

Vlad turned away and motioned for her to follow him towards his downstairs office. He opened the door and allowed her to walk in first, he offered her a seat and Tayonna took it. Vlad walked over to his desk just as the phone began to ring. Ahh yes, what a wonderful time to receive a personal call. Vlad frowned and let out a heavy sigh before answering.

“Masters speaking.” Vlad gave his professional voice and the voice on the other side sighed and for once Vlad felt at ease by the rude welcoming.

“Hello Sir, you have got to be shitting me.”

#📖Ghost Stories👻#vlad masters #danny phantom #dp fanfic #my writing #Secrets of The Lake

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ghost1643 · 4 years

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Saiki k trans headcanon-(warning head canons about period)

(This is mainly b/c I don't read many fics about trans people on their monthly. So I figured I would write a head cannon board on this idea but, warning I am not trans. And many of these experiences are mixes between my issues and a few friends issues. If this monthly cycle grosses you out, this is not the headcanons board for you.)

-Saiki was can only born a girl and changed his gender but, for this I'm gonna share my personal head canon he still has lower female séx organs.

-because if this he still has periods which he started getting all the way back in middle school. And when it did happen it was hellish.

-before he had never really been bothered much by what gender he was born as after all he could change it at will but, the second this happened, he felt waves of dysmorphia and shame.

-he doesn't know why he feels shame but, something about the whole process makes him feel ashamed. Almost as if this was a dirty thing to have since no one ever talked about it like at all.

-this is also when his third school change happens. The first two were because of his psychic abilities. As for this one, well let's just say they weren't very accepting of Saiki having this issue.

-Thus results in Saiki being beaten up for the first time in his life, having been in so much pain from cramps that he couldn't use his powers right. So he comes home bruised and bloody hoping not to run into his mom, which thankfully he doesn't. Instead he runs into his dad. So he figured this will all just be swept under the rug.

-His dad had been talking and getting soemthing before looking at his son. He took one look at his son and freaked out. He began bandaging all his wounds and asking what happened. Saiki told him everything and was just so surprised when his father marched down to the school demanding those boys be expelled and when they refused, he pulled Saiki out of school.

-It was one of the only things Saiki can remember his dad doing by himself to help his son out. He can also remember the ice cream they got for him being such a good boy afterwards.

-this keeps happening however. By the happening, I mean the ice cream trips or snack runs. When Saiki is on his monthly his dad will take him out one night and buy him whatever snacks he wants without telling his mom. Granted he's seen him do the same thing for his mom, but he is grateful for it none the less.

-for some reason feels shame when going to by sanitary products so steals some free ones from school every now and again to keep his pers from knowing.

-this also results in a 5th school change when the beating up incident occurs again just as he goes into high school, where he meets all his friends that we know from the show.

How Nendo finds out:

-the numb skull never caught in for four years which Saiki was happy about. This meant Nēndo would often find Saiki snapping at him more commonly once a month than other weeks. Not like he seemed to mind much though. To Saiki it almost seemed like he liked being yelled at or something.

-of maybe he just didn't deserve a good friend like him.

-All these thoughts are swept away one day in gym class. It's at the end of the day and he feels the cramps begin as he feels warmth on his legs. So needless to say Saiki is a bit grossed out and distracted. He doesn't notice Nēndo watch him run into the bathroom. Instead he's more nervous about a stain on his clothes.

-He gets in a stall and sees the mess. And let me tell you it's bad. Everything is wrecked and he definitely can't use toliet paper to clean it that fast.

-Saiki tries to focus in teleporting or doing anything but, the cramps are so painful that he can't focus on anything except the pain. It's so bad he actually whimpers. After all this is the one time a month Saiki feels anything human and mainly all he can feel is pain.

-how unfortunate for him Nendo walks in just to heat his whimpers of pain.

-by then his friend is in a panic asking what he needs. Saiki just yells at him to leave hoping to sneak out soon. Yet, his friend just stays demanding to know if he's hurt whish Saiki refuses to tell him. So Nendo does the smartest thing his mind can come up with.

-HE KICKS IN THE FRIGGEN DOOR SEEING SIAMI IN ALL HIS MESSY GOLODY AT THE MOMENT

-when he does the room is silent for a second. Just one before Saiki kicks him out and locks himself back in. He can hear Nendo rush off as he just cries. He can't help it, this is when he's the most human and the most powerless. If Nendo wanted tom he couldn't probably hurt him really bad.

-so he expects boys breaking in to beat him up. Or you know make fun of him. Or maybe worse. It scares him to think to much about it but, what he doesn't expect is what looks like a fresh pair of big clothes and some sanitary products sliding under his door.

-he also definitely doesn't expect Nendo to explain he told the teachers he was sick so he could go home an extra few minutes early. Heck he even offers to go get him pain meds if it hurts that bad. The bit is just a saint and all Saiki needs.

-Nendo walks him home that night and brings him any snack he wants after school for the rest of that week.

-from then on Nendo brings any snack Saiki wants, that is a reasonable price, to his house if he needs it. He even picks him up sanitary products if he needs them to.

Shun has no brains:

-shin find out in the oddest way.

-he and Saiki are hanging out on a weekend and he noticed he is a but more grumpy than normal. Yet, he ignored it and keeps trying to have fun.

-or at least he did until Saiki doubled over in pain in the middle of their walk. Shun helps him up only to see a blood stain on the back of his pants. Saiki realizes it at the same time too and before he can even get a word out shun is panicking. Why?

-because he thinks dark reunion has just shôt his friend in the private's.

-Saiki actually has to calm him down and explain it slowly. Then again. And again. Eventually the fifth time around Shun understand that Saiki isn't in moral danger and is just in a lot of pain.

-Saiki doesn't expect much for him. After all he doesn't have to put up with Saiki when Nendo isn't around.

-Yet, Shun shows up with everything his mother said helped her on her monthly. He brings like 7 heating pads to the house and so many comfort pillows. It's sweet but, it's obvious he had no clue what he is doing but, at least he's trying.

Reito's kinda sweet:

-Reito gets told about Saiki's is she in class one day by a ghost. One who burst in to beg him to help Saiki.

-why?

-Well he's stuck in class and can't find an excused to get up. If he doesn't get help soon his secret will be exposed to the entire school and the poor ghost doesn't snag him to live through so much embarrassment.

-Reito at first is shocked but agrees to help. He had no plan really and asks to go to the bathroom only to stop at Saikis class, and convince toy fall outside it. He pretends o be injured and gets Saiki to take him out of class.

-once they get far away enough Reito explains what is happening and Saiki is mortified. He just wants to curl up into a ball and die, but Reito refuses to let him do so. Instead he stays by his side like a puppy dog all week to make sure he's okay. And if Saiki so much as flinches, he's on his toes helping him do whatever he needs to.

Aren is a guard dog:

-aren finds out about Saiki's monthly problem in a different way.

-Saiki is walking home for once in a day his monthly starts. Things have gone well for once. So nothing could go wrong..until it does.

-he runs into the people from his old school. You know the ones who beat him up for who he was. They start shoving him around, bursting him up a bit before pushing him to the ground. Before he can even react a cramp hits him the same time the main bully's foot connects with his gut.

-the other bits join in and they get 7 good kicks in befoee Aren goes full guard dog on them.

-He beats them all to a bloody pulp before chasing them off. Once they're gone he helps his friend walk home. Where he refuses to leave Saiki when he eveals he's all alone for the next two hours. Instead he helps wrap his wounds and tells him to change.

-Saiki is touched. We all know he wouldn't admit he gets attached to people easily but, well he feels close to Aren in thta Moment. So before he goes to change he just blurted out he's trans to Aren, who reacts pretty well.

-In fact, when Saiki explains his current body issues, Aren washed his clothes for him and even offers to let him borrow his.

-from then on when his cycle starts, Aren will come over and wash clothes for him like he's a king for everything he's done for him since Aren got to the school.

Hairo feels guilty:

-it does not click why Saiki brings his bookbag with him to the bathroom so often. So he asks him in front of all their friends at lunch one day.

- yeah Saiki runs off crying and Aren almost beats the crap out of him.

-Nendo breaks them up and explains the situation tohim before going to help his best buddy.

-Hairo feels so guilty that he gifts Saiki anything he thinks he might like every month for the rest of his high school career, even after Saiki forgives him.

Teruhashi calms him down well

-one month his cycle is later and he freaks. Saiki knows he can't get pregnant if he is still a virgin but, with his powers anything is a possibility. And with his body wishing it didn't happen, maybe it found a way for it to stop happening. Yet, he knows he couldn't live with the dysphoria if that happened.

-he's to scared to tell his mom so he just freaks out to himself for a bit until he finally breaks down after school one day.

-like he's in the mall with his guys friends and Teruhashi (who randomly showed up). They're looking at some stuff around, he chat remembers what but, he suddenly sees a young women being overwhelmed watching her son. Saiki can't help but start to freak out wondeirng if that is his future when Aren asks what's he's looking at and jokes aboyt him having kids.

-yeah Saiki burst out crying at a food court freaking out to his friends aboyt his issue. (Aren feels guilty for weeks by the way.)

-no one knows what to do until Teruhashi reaches over and holds his hand. She rubs circles on it telling him to breath before slowly asking him to explain everything to her. He eventually calms down and tells her everything including how his period is late.

-she slowly explains to him many things can cause that since he's a virgin the likelihood of this is very rare. Like one in a million and it's more likely he might be sinking with her since they hang out so much. In fact her's is due to start in tow days and if he wants he can stay with her until it happens just to make sure that's what's happening.

-Saiki gets her number, and a week Lated he is relieved to call her and tell her that she was right.

-from then on the two become monthly buddies and eat chocolate and watch films together.

Mera is subtle-

-she finds out when a sanitary product falls out of Saiki's school bag. She doesn't say anything at all until after class. And when she does, she offers that Saiki and her can go buy more after school if he wants or she can get them for him.

-she just acts like a big sister to him when he gets his monthly and honestly is the sweetest thing ever.

-So it's no wonder why she joins the monthly buds group so well.

Chiyo hears a slip up-

-she, Saiki, and Teruhashi are talking one day about issues of their lives. That is when Teruhashi slips up being up Saiki’s periods being the worst she has ever heard of or seen in her life.

-Saiki freezes up but, Chiyo just groans hearing how painful they are. She explains she doesn’t care much if he’s trans he’s still her friend but, god those cramps sound worse then hers.

-so her and Saiki become cramp buddies while the other two girls mentioned here are lucky enough to not get cramps that bad.

(Another thing I would like to imagine happened at one point was Nendo became convinced Saiki was knocked up. No one knows why but, he got all excited and planned a whole baby shower and everything. Of course it wasn’t true, but Saiki promised him that no matter how he had kids in the future Nendo would be the good father which always makes Nendo smile when he thinks about it, no matter where he is, evacuee one day he’s gonna have god son to spoil from his best buddy).

#reblogs welcome #trans headcanon #saiki kusuo no ψ nan #saiki k trans #trans #pride #fanfic #saiki kusuo #nendou riki #tw periods #friendship?#i need this #lol

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fourdaysofrain · 5 years

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A Symphony of Color

Summary: Peter wakes up with synesthesia after a fight.

(Before Infinity War, but they know Dr. Strange. What are canon timelines, anyway?)

Read on AO3

He hears a voice (cinnamon brown) cut through his ebbing and flowing state of sleep.

He frowns. (Or, at least, he thinks he does. To be honest, he isn’t sure if he’s attached to his body currently.) Brown? Weird. He’s not used to hearing that.

There’s something rubbing circles on the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger. It comes with another voice (old rose) murmuring somewhere above his head. The sound comes towards him as petals in a spring breeze. He thinks he reaches to grab them.

(Peter’s hand twitches against May’s as he lays against the stiff sheets of the hospital bed. Tony sees it from the corner of his eye as May quickly straightens against the uncomfortable hospital chair.)

“Kid, are you waking up?” someone says (cinnamon brown again), and the question zings slowly around his head like an electrical current in slow motion. The words get lost somewhere on the journey from his ears to his brain.

Something in him knows that he should pay attention to the colorful voices. They float lazily around him, fat bees leaving a dotted-line trail in their wake. The colors are an impression. When he tries to look at them directly they vanish, but if he unfocuses his eyes (an easy feat currently) they dance easily on the back of his eyelids.

The pillowcase slides against his cheek as he turns his head to the side. He might be drooling. He hears a groan. He thinks it might have been his own. He’s tired of moving his eyes to see colors. Being awake, in whatever capacity he is right now, is exhausting. There’s a pair of scissors in front of him, and they make their way to the black threads twisted together in a rope that is coming from his chest. The scissors cut through them with one great snip, and he falls blissfully backward into the inky black silence.

---

Peter deftly dodges the beam of orange light that came from the sorcerer on the other side of the rooftop as it briefly cut through the night.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish here, but I’m gonna guess it’s something bad,” he says, trying to elicit a response from the sorcerer. Nothing comes in return besides a sneer and another beam of light to avoid.

“Alright, more of a strong and silent type. I get that. We can’t all be endearingly snarky.” He avoids the next shot with a flip, landing too close to the edge of the roof. He teeters dangerously, and that’s the only window the sorcerer needs.

A beam of light straight to the chest.

Falling.

Fal--

---

A woman’s voice (violet) says something as Peter slowly drags himself to consciousness. Again.

(“I lowered his dosage an hour or so ago. He should be coming to any minute now, but don’t worry if he still isn’t lucid,” Helen Cho tells the small group of people waiting in Peter’s hospital room.)

He tries to move first. It takes a herculean effort to stretch his fingers against whatever he’s laying on.

Next, he stretches his senses out towards the room like laying out a picnic blanket on a grassy field.

The first sound to reach his ears is the harsh beeping of a heart monitor to his left. Then he tries to tune into the voices he hears (violet and cinnamon brown and silver and old rose) coming from around the room. Still not quite able to decipher exact words, he just sees an undefined colorful cloud floating on the back of his eyelids.

He peels open his eyes, each small action a little easier than the one before it. His vision slowly focuses on Tony, who’s standing at the foot of his bed next to a woman in a lab coat. His eyes light up like a lamp behind frosted glass when Peter makes foggy eye contact with him. Peter slides his eyes to the right to see May and Pepper looking at him expectantly.

He tries to croak out a greeting, but all that comes is a series of colorless garbled consonants hitting against the roof of his mouth.

“May and I will get you some ice chips, Peter,” Pepper says (silver), helping May out of her chair. They both glance knowingly at Tony and the doctor before leaving the room. Peter’s forehead crinkles in confusion. He swears he just saw something in front of him, a flash of a silver chain, when Pepper spoke.

“Pete, you’ve met Dr. Cho, our resident Spider-Doctor. Among other things, I’m sure,” Tony says (cinnamon brown) as he motions to the woman on his left. She rolls her eyes. He forces his eyes to focus on her, looking through the strange screen of color. His slowed brain finally puts the puzzle pieces together before his eyes light up in recognition. He’s only seen her when he’s injured, but he knows who she is. He tries to move his eyebrows in what he hopes is the equivalent of a wave. She gives him an amused smile in return.

“Mr. Parker, you feel off a building last night,” Dr. Cho explains, and purple blooms in front of Peter’s eyes like grapes falling off a vine. He tries to track it with his eyes as he listens to her. “Thankfully it was only a few stories, but you landed on your right leg, breaking it in two places. We had to put you under while we worked on setting and casting it. You’ll have to use crutches for a week or so, even with your enhanced healing factor.”

He nodded slowly, eyes still bouncing around the room as he wonders where the color came from.

“Eyes here, kiddo,” Tony motions to his face as a soft red-tinged brown appears in Peter’s vision like ground cinnamon sprinkled on top of hot chocolate in the winter. He ignores it to the best of his ability as he makes eye contact with Tony but eventually gives in to trying to look directly at the colors.

“What are you looking at, Peter?” Purple grapes dance in his vision, joining the cinnamon sprinkles as they wax and wane with the voices around him. It takes him a moment to understand the question posed, and another moment to decide what to say.

“Fireworks,” he croaks (denim blue) through a hoarse throat. He wishes that May and Pepper could come back with the ice chips soon. Blue joins the show of colors as the cinnamon and purple begin to fade. His eyes close without him thinking about it, still not quite there enough to keep up with other people. He watches the purple and brown reappear and swirl behind his eyelids as he slowly dips back into sleep.

(“He’s still high as a kite,” Tony sighs in disbelief. Helen Cho places a hand on his arm in comfort.

“He’ll be okay, Tony.”

“He better be,” he responds, rubbing a hand across his face, “I’m going to go get Pep and May.”)

---

The next time Peter opens his eyes, he is lucid. His head still feels like there might be bits of cotton stuck between a few neurons, but he’s finally able to comprehend the scene around him. There’s light from the late afternoon sun filtering through the window blinds, giving the cast on his leg a set of stripes. He looks over to see Tony dozing in one of the hospital chairs to his right. It’s far from the first time he’s woken up in situations like this. He’s glad that the only injury he has this time is whatever’s up with his leg.

Peter debates the pros and cons of waking Tony up, but just as he’s about to say something, his eyes blink open. They look at each other for a beat before Tony breaks the silence.

“How’re you feeling, bud?” His sleep-rugged cinnamon voice falls lightly across Peter’s vision, causing him to frown in confusion.

“Fine, I--” Peter cuts himself off as a blue that matches his comfiest pair of jeans rises in front of him like oil in a lava lamp. His eyes track it subconsciously; It’s hard to look at directly.

“Kid, what are you looking at? Is there something Cho missed?” The red-brown in his vision gets more saturated as Tony’s volume increases.

“No, it’s--” the blue returns “--ah. Give me a second.” He scrunches his eyes shut against the colors, only to see them remain as if painted on the back of his eyelids. After a few beats of silence, they fade into nothing.

He opens his eyes again to see that Tony moved his chair closer to where he’s lying. His face is masked with worry.

“I’m fine,” he knows to stop Tony’s anxiety before it starts. The blue appears again, but he ignores it this time. “There’s just... “

“Just what?” Cinnamon lines of lightning shoot across his eyes.

“Colors? Brown and blue right now. They go away when no one’s talking.” He tries to keep his sentences short, unsure of what the colors mean.

“Cho said it was just the leg,” Tony mutters, and it’s unclear whether it’s to himself or to Peter. “Do you remember what happened?” The brown lightning bolts zip faster around him as if compensating for Tony’s growing anxiety.

“I… I think I was fighting some sorcerer guy, and he hit me with a beam of light like Dr. Strange’s, and then I fell off the roof?”

“Great. I love it when wizards meddle in our business. I’ll have to go through the baby monitor.” He rests his head in his hands as his elbow rests on the metal bar of the bed. The sentence gives way to a companionable silence for a moment.

“I got an alert,” Tony cuts in sharply, the edges of the cinnamon splashes focusing to become almost like blades, “at 12:30 am. A little robot birdie said my #1 intern fell off a building. I flew over to find him crumpled in the alley like an old oil rag.” He pointedly looks towards the window, avoiding Peter’s gaze.

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter starts, the blue lava lamp reappearing and upping in speed to match time with his heartbeat. Tony stops him before he can continue, the sharp edge to his voice softening.

“You don’t need to apologize for getting hurt, Pete. I- We’ve learned that we can’t stop you from doing the right thing. We were just worried. You should get some more rest, you’ve still got a bit of drugs to burn through. Enjoy it while it lasts, because May and I will lecture your ear off when she gets back from work. Until then, I’ve got a magician to call.” Tony starts to move as if preparing to leave, and Peter jolts up a bit.

“You can call him in here,” he blurts out without thinking. He quickly starts to backtrack, “I mean, if you want to. You can leave if it’s private. But I don’t mind the noise.” He smiles sheepishly up at Tony, who returns a small, knowing smile.

“I’ll be quiet,” he says, punctuating it with a soft pat on Peter’s shoulder. He leans back in the chair, already fiddling with his phone.

Peter closes his eyes and relaxes into the hospital bed as much as he can.

Most people count sheep when they try to fall asleep. Peter, on the other hand, imagines himself swinging down an endless city street. He breathes in as he swings upwards, and exhales as the ground rushes toward him. He makes it a few blocks before he can’t keep track anymore, a cloud of subtle cinnamon dust settling over his eyes as Tony murmurs into his phone a few feet away.

The lecture from May and Tony never comes.

---

“He’s waking up,” Peter hears a deep scarlet voice announce, entering his vision like the main curtain of a play.

He groans. He’s starting to hate waking up in a hospital bed. With lucidity comes a dull throb from his leg. He opens his eyes to see a small group of people in the room. Dr. Strange is at the foot of his bed, while May and Tony are to the side. He gives them all a shy smile.

“Morning everyone,” he says with a small, awkward wave. His words cause little blue bubbles to pop up around him as the red fades away. He gets a smirk from May which tells him it is decidedly not morning.

“How are you feeling, honey?” May’s question brings with it soft, dusty rose-colored spots in his vision, floating softly like clouds.

“My leg aches a bit,” he ignores a colored remark from Tony, “and I keep seeing colors when people talk to me.” He expects some sort of reaction from that, but May just nods and glances towards Dr. Strange.

“That’s what I’m here to talk about,” he starts, more red blooming on the sides of Peter’s vision, “we believe that the sorcerer you fought somehow gave you a mild form of synesthesia. Chromesthesia, to be specific-- the instant association of sounds with various visual stimuli. Yours is limited to the association of voices with colors.” He ends his explanation with a flourish of his hands that causes the ring of a bell, and Peter nods. He doesn’t see anything new.

“That’s kind of--” Peter gets interrupted by Tony before he can finish.

“If you say ‘cool,’ I’m kicking you out of the medbay and you’re healing on your own.” Tony’s cinnamon-colored threat makes Peter stumble on his words.

“Kind of interesting, I was going to say. Did he do anything harmful?”

“Besides causing you to fall three stories?” May says sourly, her tone contrasted by her voice washing pink over the room. Peter scratches his eyebrow and grimaces a bit.

“Yeah, besides... that.”

Dr. Strange clears his throat and continues with his scarlet monologue, “As far as we can tell, there are no other side effects. There’s no way of knowing if this is permanent or how it will act in the future, but rest assured, I’ll be looking for the spell he used to figure out the reversal. Have a nice day.” He does his hand thing and walks into a portal, causing May to startle and Tony to roll his eyes.

Peter starts to laugh.

“I just realized, the color of his voice matches his cape.”

Tony and May don’t laugh with him.

“Peter, what did we say about putting yourself in danger?”

“...Did we say we liked it?”

He spoke too soon about avoiding their lecture.

---

The first thing Peter does once he can effectively maneuver the compound with his crutches is find a notebook that can fit in his pocket. He grabs a pen from one of the many junk drawers and starts a list of everyone he’s talked to so far.

Mr. Stark - Brown, the filling in cinnamon buns, the teddy bear in the baby photo hanging on the fridge.

Aunt May - Dusty pink, Grandma Parker’s old couch.

Pepper - Silver, fancy necklace chains, handcuffs.

Dr. Cho - Violet, purple grapes.

Dr. Strange - Scarlet, his cape, May’s date night lipstick.

He taps the end of the pen against his chin. He needs to talk to more people.

---

Peter starts to get a new appreciation for classical music. He has his Spotify sorted into playlists by activity, but since he started seeing voices as colors, it was easier for him to just stick to his Study or Die playlist no matter the occasion, which doesn’t have a single word to share among the 50+ songs included. And when it’s quiet around him, whether he’s in his room or on the rooftop at night, and he closes his eyes, he swears he can see the colors of the individual notes waltz under his eyelids.

He keeps eyeing the fancy piano in the common area, wondering if anyone would be mad if he tried to play it. He’s just so bored with his broken leg. He can’t even get his suit on to try to go patrolling, and he’s on compound-arrest before he gets his cast off so no one from his school can ask why he only had it for a week.

Well, Peter thinks, glancing around the room, ask for forgiveness, not permission.

He slowly stalks over to the piano and sits at the bench. There’s always sheet music laying in the stand, and he still has a rudimentary sight-reading ability from his years in the school band. He opens the cover, surprised to find a distinct lack of dust on the keys. But then again, there’s never dust in the compound. He figures that Pepper probably plays it, or something like that.

He straightens the sheet music and then starts to play. It’s slow work, but he can close his eyes and see the beginnings of a watercolor painting. He’s just starting to put more energy into it when he hears someone come into the room. He quickly pokes his head out above the sheet music to see Tony leaning against the entryway.

“If you wanted to learn how to play the piano, you should have asked me.” His cinnamon-colored voice is already a comfort to see. Peter gives him an easy smile.

“Do you play?” His blue question floats over to Tony lazily as he walks over to the piano.

“My mom did. She taught me a few things and I taught myself a few more. Shove over.” Peter obediently scoots so Tony can sit beside him on the bench. “Any requests?”

Peter shakes his head. Tony just hums in response as he shuffles through the sheet music and pulls out a slightly-yellowed page.

“This one’s a duet. Follow this--” he taps on one of the two parts “--it’s the easier one.”

Tony counts them in, and they start to play. Peter can’t quite keep up, but Tony slows to match his pace.

Eventually, Peter takes his hands from the keys, choosing to simply close his eyes and listen to Tony’s music. Tony continued playing the melody alone as Peter leaned his head on his shoulder.

The notes danced in a fireworks show just for him, full of vibrant color.

---

Tony tells FRIDAY to let Happy know they’re on their way down and when FRIDAY responds, Peter just laughs and laughs.

FRIDAY - Turquoise, sea glass.

Happy - Slate gray, medieval castles, cement blocks.

---

Peter finally gets the all-clear to go patrolling again. He wonders how human something has to be before he sees a color for its voice.

Karen - Green, emerald, the ocean.

---

It’s a quiet evening in the Parker apartment. Peter and May already had dinner, and are now winding down by working on homework and reading a book, respectively.

Peter can’t pay attention to his homework. He’s had something on his mind ever since he thought about it on patrol earlier that day. He chews his lip in frustration before deciding to just say something.

“Hey May?” Peter’s words bubble out of him, mirroring the blue that shows up in his vision.

“Yeah, sweetie?” She looks up from her book, shrouded in soft pink.

“Do you have… any recordings of Ben?” Peter hates how weak his voice sounds. May doesn’t respond immediately. She smiles at him softly, her eyes already misty.

“Let me get something from the closet.”

May leaves to go to her bedroom and returns a few minutes later, holding an old shoebox. She sits next to Peter on the couch and opens it. It’s filled with pictures and CDs. It’s like the sun, Peter can’t look at it directly for too long before his eyes start to water.

May cards her hand through his hair and they go through the memories together.

As the night goes on it gets harder to tell if the blue he sees is from Ben’s recorded voice coming from the TV or his own choked sobs.

---

May gives him a long hug before he goes to bed that night.

Ben - Navy blue, overripe blueberries, the sky after the sun sets but before it’s night.

Dad - Barn red, the suitcase gathering dust in the closet, a worn-out Iron Man shirt.

Mom - Pale yellow, banana smoothies, the paint in the hallway bathroom.

---

Ned and Peter rope MJ into watching a Star Wars movie with them after school.

Ned - Orange, tangerine, really old traffic cones.

MJ - Lilac, May’s dress in her prom photo.

Harrison Ford - Rusted orange, tabby cats.

(Ned is delighted to have a similar color.)

---

Tony, Pepper, and Peter are eating dinner at the compound together on a brisk Wednesday evening. Peter got picked up by Happy right after school for a surprise mid-week trip while May had to work late to cover for a coworker. She had thanked Tony and Pepper profusely, just barely believing them when they told her it was their pleasure.

Peter has his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the chair as Tony and Pepper talk about Stark Industries, soaking in the colors of their conversation. Pepper’s silver and Tony’s cinnamon brown mesh nicely together. When they start to banter off each other, the brown almost looks like polished bronze.

The first couple of times Peter did this, people thought he was asleep. With time, they realized that it’s just a new quirk. Whenever he can’t think of anything to contribute to a conversation, or he feels overwhelmed, he likes to close his eyes as people talk around him so he can watch the colors. Peter wishes he had a video of the time he listened to Tony and FRIDAY’s conversation while hanging from a web in the lab. The noise that came out of Tony when he noticed him there was unreal.

Peter’s neck prickles as their relaxing meal is interrupted by the sound of sparks and an open portal across the table from him. Dr. Strange steps through it, his wine-red voice demanding attention.

“I found a cure for Peter.”

Peter snaps to attention, taking in the sight of Tony and Pepper frozen in their discussion, a fork still hanging limply from Pepper’s hand. To their credit, they recover in record time. Dr. Strange barely gives them a moment to gather themselves before continuing in his monologue. Peter wonders if he has to practice what he’s going to say in front of a mirror before he portals somewhere; he goes through his speeches like a trained actor.

“The attacker was just a novice. He intended for the original spell to act as an amplifier, eventually causing you to go blind and deaf. He didn’t take into account your enhanced nature, so it ended up being harmless.” Everyone lets out a breath they didn’t realize they were holding.

No one brought it up, but Peter could tell everyone was walking on eggshells around him the past couple of weeks. They were all just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to drop to the ground convulsing because of some time-delayed aspect of the spell. He’s glad he can finally relax.

“Harmless besides the three-story fall,” Pepper adds, her silver chaining up the red in Peter’s vision. Dr. Strange looks sufficiently cowed, while Peter is just glad May isn’t there to chew him out.

“Sorry, metaphysically harmless,” he pauses, giving a small apologetic smile to the table. “Either way, the cure is quick and painless. I can do it right now if you’re ready.” Pepper and Tony turn to look at Peter expectantly.

“Wow, okay,” Peter bites the inside of his cheek as he figures out what to say, “I’m glad you figured it out, but I actually kind of… like it. Do I have to get the cure?” He looks around the table to gauge reactions, but everyone has their face carefully blank.

“You’re sure there’s no chance of Peter being hurt by this?” Pepper’s silver voice strikes through his view.

“To the extent of my knowledge, which I assure you extends quite far, he has a clean bill of health,” Dr. Strange confirms. There are a few beats of silence as his scarlet remark hangs in the air.

“In that case, I think we were in the middle of dinner, Criss Angel,” Tony says dismissively, and Peter has to stifle a snort as the reddish-brown dust from Tony’s voice returns.

“Very well,” Dr. Strange’s face is unreadable, “Let me know if there are any new developments.” There’s another fizzling sound, and he’s gone as quickly as he arrived.

There are a few moments of silence after his departure, which is eventually broken by Tony complimenting Pepper’s cooking. Something about the entire situation breaks something in Peter, and he starts to laugh.

“You alright there, kid?” Tony’s cinnamon voice is tinged with barely hidden concern.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. You guys are just--” he laughs again, not sure why his eyes are starting to water “--You guys are great.”

Tony stammers, probably trying to think of a joke to deflect with. Pepper just smiles softly and pats Peter’s hand.

“We love you too, Peter.”

---

Tony and Peter work in the lab until late at night, listening to Tony’s dad-rock blaring through the speakers.

Brian Johnson - Bright red, fire, roses.

Ozzy Osbourne - Neon purple, tie-dye before it’s washed, Barney the Dinosaur.

---

Peter gets detention… again. At least he gets time to pass notes with MJ.

Captain America - Forest green, pears.

---

Peter supposes it was only a matter of time before people started to ask him more about what he sees when someone talks. It’s hard to explain, but he is able to share a basic understanding of it to Tony and May as they sit around their slightly cramped dining room table in Queens. The weekly dinners at May and Peter’s apartment every Friday were May’s idea. It was part of her post-figuring out Spider-Man’s identity plan to be on the same page as Tony. At some point, the tone of them changed from strictly business to almost familial.

“Does it get in the way during patrol? I don’t want you to get hurt because someone’s voice blocked your sight while you were fighting them.” May’s faint pink floating into Peter’s line of sight is a comfort.

“I can ignore it pretty easily. It’s not actually there, so I can look through it when I need to. It’s nice to just watch sometimes, though.” The blue that appears moves more erratically than normal to compensate for his rambling. Tony nods to himself, and Peter knows that if it was an issue, he’d invent a way to get around it.

“So kid,” Tony says, his voice in the same soft register that it always changes to when he visits the apartment, “What color am I?” Peter watches it appear around him for a moment before responding.

“Brown. Like cinnamon, or… wait a second.” Peter excuses himself from the table and goes to grab a photo from the fridge in the kitchen. It's a picture of himself, around two years old, holding a teddy bear close to his chest as he sleeps. He walks back over to the table and offers it to Tony.

“The same color as this,” he says, pointing to the bear captured in baby Peter’s tiny arms. Tony laughs loudly.

“May, I’m going to need a copy of this for the lab. Something to humble the kid when he starts to get too many ideas.” Peter makes an indignant noise and looks to May, who just smiles and winks before taking the picture and returning it to the fridge. They eat in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds are the soft clink of silverware.

“Brown... Why couldn’t I be something more exciting?” Tony says, successfully getting a laugh from the two Parkers.

“Actually, remember last week when you helped me with the gang? When you talked through the suit, you were bright red.” Tony puffs up with pride as Peter and May continue to smile at him.

“That’s not going to help his ego, Peter.” May ruffles his hair as she starts to gather the empty dishes.

“May, let me help with those,” Tony offers, also getting up from his chair.

“No, you’re a guest here. Hire dishwashers in your own house,” May responds with a smirk, “You and Peter can go to the living room while I clean up so I don’t get distracted by your science-talk.” She gives Peter a pat on the arm as she passes by him getting out of his chair on her way to the kitchen sink.

“No use arguing with her, kid. Let’s vamoose.” Tony puts a hesitant hand on Peter’s shoulder as he leads him to the living room.

As soon as Peter sits on the couch, he feels the weight of this week’s stress press on him. He spreads out over the cushions, looking up at the ceiling. Tony quirks a brow at him.

“Long week?” Peter likes to imagine that he hears genuine concern underneath the sarcasm in his voice.

“Yeah. I had like a million tests and assignments, MJ scheduled two meetings for Decathalon this week instead of one, and Ned and I were supposed to hang out on Wednesday but I canceled on him so now he must hate me--” He cuts himself off, not wanting to annoy Tony with his teenage drama.

“If best friends start to hate you after one rain-check, Rhodey and I wouldn’t have lasted past the first week of classes. Also, you’re Ned’s only connection to the Avengers. I doubt he’d give that up easily.”

Peter snorts. He slides his eyes over to meet Tony’s and sees a comforting look on his face.

“Anything I can do to help?” Peter hums, idly watching the shades of Tony’s voice float around him before he gets an idea.

“Actually, can you-- uh, nevermind.” Peter ignores the nervous ripple in the blue that shows up in the corner of his eye. He looks back to the ceiling.

“C’mon Pete, I thought we were over the whole ‘not telling me when something is wrong’ thing. I’m just a guy, you don’t have to be embarrassed.”

Peter flicks his eyes back to where Tony’s sitting. He really does look… normal. He’s just wearing a worn band tee with jeans, his new norm for the weekly dinners after an unfortunate incident involving pasta sauce, an expensive suit, and a very apologetic May. His hair is less gelled, he’s not wearing any of his sunglasses, and underneath the shoes that May made him take off at the door, he just has some store-brand socks on. If Peter ignores the finely groomed goatee and faint glow of the nanoparticle housing unit, he could just be another tenant in the building. It’s strangely comforting to see him like this, with all of his hard edges and metallic finish smoothed and sanded out. Peter comes out of his reverie to see Tony looking at him expectantly.

“Can you… read to me? If not, that’s totally okay! I just like watching your voice, especially when I’m feeling stressed out, because it’s comforting to me, and I’m definitely kind of stressing out right now, so I could--” Tony cuts him off with a look.

“Kid, all you had to do was ask. I do, despite what you may have heard, know how to read,” Tony successfully gets Peter to let out a small laugh, his shoulders relaxed a bit. “Any requests?”

Peter shakes his head, leaning back further into the couch.

“Work emails it is. Pepper would actually be proud of me right now--” he pulls out his phone, “--Alright. This one’s from Charles Healey. He says, ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Stark…”

Peter sighs and closes his eyes as Tony continues to read aloud. He watches Tony’s voice appear like cinnamon snow. As he relaxes, the walls he puts around his senses slowly come down. He can hear May’s pink voice singing to herself in the kitchen as the sink runs. He starts to hear the murmurs of people walking on the street below. The colors mix and swirl in front of him, each individual person adding their own unique shade. His vision becomes an impressionist painting, one that pulsates to the beat of his heart. It belongs in a museum, but it lives solely in his eyes. Something the world made specifically for him.

His very own symphony of colors.

Tag List: @ironfamjam

#this one was a wild ride #its kinda weird? but i kinda like it?#let me know if you want to be on the tag list!#anyways lets tag this thang #spiderman #spider-man #iron man #irondad #irondad and spiderson #mcu #marvel #avengers #art writes #wahoo

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vannahfanfics · 5 years

Text

The Fated Reunion

Word Count: 3,080

Fluff, Reunions, Canon Divergent

Summary: Luffy and Nami are thrown off the ship during a storm. They wash up on an island, and who do they stumble upon but Red-Haired Shanks himself?!

Nami gasped as the Thousand Sunny abruptly heaved, and she was thrown from her bed in her navigator’s quarters in a tangle of sheets. Fumbling in the dark as she attempted to disentangle herself from her bedsheets and stagger over the door, she could hear the drumming of the rain against the wooden ship and the sloshing of the waves against the wooden hull. She twisted the doorknob, and that was all it took for the wild wind whirling outside to wrench it open, nearly throwing it off its hinges and sending Nami tumbling onto her behind in the room. Rain sprayed across the dry wooden boards and soaked into the pretty rugs she had purchased for her humble home, and the papers on her desk went swirling through the air as the wind whisked them about. She crawled across the floor, unable to stand under the force of the gale, and pulled herself to her feet using the balustrade of the ship. As the lightning flashed overhead, it illuminated the sky above swirling with thick black clouds and the sea below frothing with foam as the waves writhed. The sails snapped in the wind, wrenched from their holdings in several places by its sharp fingers, and water was sloshing all over the deck as it spilled over the banisters. She moved to scream for the rest of the crew, but the words were ripped from her as the boat heaved again and she went sliding across the slick wood, landing roughly against the other side of the boat. If she had been fully standing, she no doubt would have gone overboard.

“What's goin—Whoa! What a storm!” Luffy cried as he stormed out from below decks, holding his hat to his head as the wind tried desperately to carry it away. He dipped his head back down to yell into the bowels of the ship and rouse his crew before hopping over the banister and landing next to Nami. “Nami! How are we gonna get outta here?”

“I’m working on it!” she grunted, pulling herself up once more to peer off into the horizon. It was dark, and hard to tell where the edge of the storm was; as she attempted to calculate their escape, the boat tipped precariously once more, and she and Luffy went flailing head-over-heels towards the opposite side. Nami once again landed securely against the thick wood, but Luffy had been standing upright, sending him careening over the edge. She felt her heart stop when she heard the splash below, and without even thinking she vaulted herself over the side of the boat to dive into the water. It felt like knives pricking her skin as she met the cold water, but she swam through it nonetheless, grabbing her captain by the front of his shirt to drag him back up to the surface. He was impossibly heavy, and with the waves constantly swelling above her, she was afraid she would not make it. Just as her lungs had begun to burn, her head broke the surface, and she sucked in as much air as she could before she focused on getting his head above the water. He coughed and hacked, still stubbornly holding onto his hat.

“This isn't good,” he frowned as they floundered alongside the Thousand Sunny. Nami groped at the side of the boat, trying to find a hold, then screamed as a wave crashed down upon them and pushed them back beneath the surface. She fought her way back with Luffy in tow. When her tangerine head popped above the water she was alarmed to find that the ship was now several yards away, and the current of the swells was carrying them further away by the minute. She tried screaming for her crewmates, but the wind tore the words from her throat, filling it instead with the bitter saltwater. All she could do was helplessly cling to Luffy as the rocking ship grew rapidly farther away, and they were carried into the storm and into the night…

When Nami awoke, she thought for a moment that she may be dead. She was lying on her back on a beach, the gentle waves playfully lapping at her feet while the hot sand warmed her chilled body. The sky above her was brilliantly blue, the only remainder of the violent storm fluffy white clouds moseying along peacefully. The sun was bright, spilling its rays over the near-drowned navigator. However, she knew she was not dead from the pulsing in her muscles and the dryness in her throat. She blinked a few times, trying to find the will to sit herself up, and gradually became aware of the fact that she was not alone. She turned her head to see Luffy sprawled out beside her, and her arm was slung over his chest with her fingers still tightly clutching the fabric of his shirt. She instantly panicked, afraid that he might not have made it, but was quickly cooled by the cold flush of relief when she saw the rise and fall of his chest.

His sleeping habit nearly gave me a heart attack! She thought with a slight groan, and she finally forced herself to sit up. It hurt, as her muscles were stiff from a night being soaked in cold seawater and fighting the fierce waves.

“Luffy. Wake up,” she said as she leaned down to shake his shoulders. Her voice was hoarse from her raw throat, likely from swallowing a healthy amount of saltwater. She coughed, trying to clear her throat, and her voice was much stronger when she repeated the statement. He groaned as she shook him, and lazily swatted at her hand.

“I don't wanna,” he muttered and rolled onto his side. At the very least, he's not hurt, she thought wryly before wrenching him back over and shaking him more violently. “Okay! Okay! I’m up! Leave me alone!” he cried and bolted upright, glaring at her grumpily. He was none too happy to be woken up from his nap. After a minute, his drowsiness was gone and he hopped to his feet to look out at the ocean. “Whoa! The storm carried us to this island, huh? I wonder if the Thousand Sunny can find us,” he snickered.

As always, joyful despite the completely hopeless situation, she thought and rolled her eyes. Luffy whirled on his heel, throwing sand as he marched up the beach.

“C'mon, Nami, let's go find some food! I’m starving!”

Nami could argue that they needed to try to signal their comrades somehow, but she knew that once he had food on his mind there was going to be no stopping him until he was satiated, so instead she got up and marched after him. The island was covered in a dense jungle, no doubt containing some sort of beast or another that Luffy would grapple with, and she groaned.

“Man, this sucks,” she muttered as she plunged into the green with her captain. Luffy flitted about like a little bird, poking sticks into bushes and holes and overturning rocks to see what sort of critters were about. Nami was looking for more practical things, like berries and nuts, and wasn't really paying attention to him. She walked along the path, eyes swiveling about. She gasped lightly as she bumped into his back. Luffy had planted himself right in front of her and was staring resolutely into the jungle with his hands coiled into fists. “Luffy…?”

“There’s someone with a really strong Haki headed this way. Just stay behind me.”

Nami’s heart rate accelerated, not only from the threat of danger but the idea that he was so intent on protecting her. Nervously, she peered over his shoulder, listening to the rustling of bushes and snapping of twigs that were rapidly approaching. Luffy went stiff and she unconsciously grabbed onto his arm, as the stranger stepped out into the open. It was a red-haired man with three parallel scars across his face and one of his arms missing. “Shanks!” Luffy gasped in shock.

This is Red-Haired Shanks? Nami thought, raising her eyebrows at the equally surprised pirate lord.

“Luffy? What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” he shot back, ignoring his question completely and pointing an accusing finger at him. “I’ve been sailing all over the Grand Line, and you’re holed up on some hole-in-the-wall island? What gives?” he whined, obviously disappointed that the man he looked up to was not out on the seas plundering and making even more of a name for himself.

Shanks laughed heartily, his shoulders shaking as he regarded Luffy happily.

“I’m too old for all that tomfoolery. I prefer to just sit and watch as the younger kids go at it. Speaking of which, I’ve heard you've amassed yourself quite a bounty,” he mused, dark eyes glittering with happiness and pride.

Luffy snickered and sheepishly rubbed the back of his head. Nami could feel his body shaking, and she realized with a small gasp that she was still clinging to him. She hastily let go and scurried out from behind him, bringing herself to Shanks' attention.

“Oh? Who is this?”

“This is my navigator, Nami! We got swept off our ship during a storm and wound up here,” he grinned and grabbed her around the shoulders to pull her close to him.

Nami blushed, suddenly put on the spot, and waved sheepishly at Luffy's idol.

“That so? Well, it looks like you've had a rough time of it, haven't you? You still haven't lost your magnet for trouble, Luffy!” he chuckled before turning around and waving for them to follow. “Come on. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

“Fooooood!” Luffy crowed and threw his hands in the air, then dove into the underbrush after the pirate captain.

Nami hurried after them, clambering through the knee-high grasses and bushes and brambles. Shanks and Luffy were embroiled in a fervent conversation about his adventures, and his laughter echoed through the empty forest. She had to smile despite their circumstances. He seems so happy. She had never seen such a bright smile on his face; it was practically blinding, and his eyes sparkled with joy as he conversed with the legendary man. Suddenly, the jungle fell away to reveal a large clearing, which was stuffed to capacity with brawny men gathered around a roaring fire, over which a large boat was roasting. Luffy's mouth dropped to the loamy forest floor when he saw the meat, and he squealed with delight, catching the attention of all the pirates gathered around.

“Look sharp, lads, I brought ya a present!” Shanks chortled, and all the men erupted into shouts and cheers when they realized just who was standing there. Nami hung back as Luffy was bombarded by the men he knew from childhood, and they clapped him on the back and dragged him into the center of the campsite to shower him in affection and ale. Nami watched with a warm smile, but part of her felt in pain. I feel… Out of place. She didn't know these men or this part of Luffy's life, and that slightly hurt, though she didn't know why. She watched with a bittersweet feeling as they gushed over the up-and-coming pirate captain until suddenly Luffy shouted at them all to be quiet.

“I wanna introduce you to my navigator! Nami, come here!” he smiled and beckoned her over, and her cheeks took on a pink haze as he suddenly addressed her. Shyly, she walked over to the pirate crew and introduced herself while Luffy sang her praises. It made her feel nice, to be appreciated, but also that Luffy was including her.

The day deepened, the sun traveling across the sky, and the two Straw Hats settled into Shanks' crew, listening to Luffy relate his various adventures. Of course, when lunchtime came, Luffy fell onto the meat with gusto, and they became more enamored with how much food he could put away. Nami watched in amusement from a log, nibbling at her own, much more human-sized piece of meat. She glanced up as Shanks suddenly stretched out beside her with a long sigh, a tankard of ale in his hand and a smile on his face as he watched Luffy interacting with his men.

“So, how did you and Luffy meet? More importantly, how'd he rope in a smart girl like you?”

“Right, he hasn't told that particular story yet,” she mused. “It's kind of a long story.”

“Well, time is something I happen to have in abundance,” he smirked up at her. “Come on, tell me, I wanna know!” Listening to him childishly plead with her, she could tell where Luffy had acquired some of his quirks. She slipped down from the log to settle into the soft grass, getting herself comfortable.

“Well, it all started with Captain Buggy.”

“Whoa! You guys tangled with Buggy? Man, me and him go way back!” he interrupted with a stupid grin. “Sorry, it's just a name I haven’t heard in a while. We were apprentices on a ship together! We got into all sorts of trouble together!” Nami giggled, amused by his enthusiasm.

“That's all right.”

She told him about her first encounter with Luffy, how they had defeated Buggy together and moved on to recruit Sanji and Usopp. By the time she got around to her abandoning them at the Baratie to head back to Arlong, the crew had become aware that she was telling the tale and gathered around to listen. Luffy was still stuffing his face. She became a little self-conscious with the large audience but continued nonetheless. She proceeded on, telling them of her servitude to Arlong and his ruthless hold on her village, and how Luffy and the others had fought valiantly to free her and her village. “After that, I just couldn't let him go, now could I?” she chuckled. “I knew he was going to get into all sorts of trouble, and he needed a good navigator to steer him in the right direction!”

“And a damn good navigator she is!” Luffy suddenly crowed, and his foot came down on the log right between herself and Shanks. She had been so involved in the story that she had not noticed he had stopped eating, finally, and had circled around to sit behind them and listen. “Nami's a lifesaver! Ya know, she’s the one who fixes my hat when it gets torn,” he beamed as he pulled it off and flipped it in his hands.

“Oh! So you're Luffy's girlfriend?” Shanks grinned

Nami short-circuited for a second, bright red and sputtering.

“No! Why the hell would you ask something like that?” she shrieked.

“Well, that’s something a girlfriend would do.”

“That’s something anyone would do!” she shot back and crossed her arms, fuming and embarrassed. It didn't help that everyone in the clearing started laughing, even Luffy, who probably didn't even get what was going on.

“Hehe, Luffy, Nami sure is cute,” Shanks mused.

“Yeah, I guess she is,” he responded nonchalantly and plopped his hat back on his head, and while Nami’s heart stopped and all the blood rushed to her face, he looked around with a frown. “Is there any more food?”

After another hour or so, one of the scouts Shanks had posted around came to report that a ship was nearing the island. Luffy and Nami reasoned that it was their crew finally coming to collect them, and bade their farewells to their host and his merry companions. Shanks accompanied them to the beach, and Luffy suddenly stopped and pulled off his hat to hold it out to him. “You said the next time we met that I could return this.”

Nami stared at him in shock, completely floored that he would so willingly give up his prized possession; Shanks was equally shocked, and he stared at the hat for a moment before smiling warmly.

“No. It's not time for that yet, Luffy,” he asserted. Luffy blinked in confusion, but obediently replaced the hat back on top of his head. Shanks looked him up and down for a moment, then smiled warmly and plopped his hand on top of his head. “You've really grown strong, Luffy.”

“Hehe!” he grinned cheekily. “I’m gonna get even stronger until I’m the King of the Pirates!” He then looked to Nami beside him. “Though, I'm only as strong as I am because of all my friends! Right, Nami?”

“Mhmm!” she nodded encouragingly, then blinked when Shanks gave her the same treatment, ruffling her tangerine hair.

“You take care of Luffy now, you hear?” Nami nodded vigorously. Luffy was a handful, but she felt up to the task. They both turned when they heard Sanji shouting at them over the crashing of the waves. They had pulled out the rowboat to come claim them since there was no dock of any kind. “Well, there's your cue. Next time, Luffy, I hope I can meet your whole crew!” he smiled at his young protégé.

“Me too! You'll really like ‘em!” he snickered. Shanks gave them a dip of his head before whirling about, his black cloak billowing in the sea breeze as he plunged back into the jungle. As he vanished, Luffy's shoulders slumped slightly. “Man… I was hoping that Shanks could meet everybody. I’ve been looking forward to seeing him again for so long, and I didn't even give the hat back,” he moped.

“You’ll see each other again! Next time, you'll be Pirate King!” she told him encouragingly, and he turned to grin at her.

“Hehe! You're right, Nami!” he smiled and then whipped about to shout at Sanji. “Row faster, slowpoke! I’m hungry!”

Nami chuckled as Sanji yelled back some curse. Well, I guess everything turned out all right after all, she thought as she gazed out at the glittering waves and the ship beyond. It was the ship that bore them all toward the future, to grand adventures laced with triumphs and struggles, to things unknown. Though it was frightening, it was exciting, too. She looked out of the corner of her eyes at Luffy, who was waving and grinning.

I can face a lot of things now, thanks to you. You make me brave. You make me strong… she thought with a small smile.

I’m not scared of the future, because I know you'll be by my side…

Did you enjoy this oneshot? Consider requesting from me by visiting my rules, then either commenting on this story, submitting an ask, or contacting me via DM!

#one piece #nami #monkey d. luffy #red-haired shanks #akagami no shanks #castaways #lost at sea #oneshot #oneshot collection #fluff #mild romance #cutesy #lunami

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qitn-sansasnow · 7 years

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Your fave is a undeserving

Under the cut is a long ass story/post about how I feel about D*ny and this show and in my eye a large portion of the fandom who chooses to ignore canon and hold her accountable. It also compares her to El*na Gilbert from TVD so if you liked either one of them don’t bother reading this.

So today one of my coworkers asked me about Game of Thrones and I told her how I'd stopped watching. And of course, she wanted to know why so I warned her that I have unpopular opinions about the show but she still wanted to hear. So I told her that I don't like D*ny and instead of her asking why she said, "Oh is it because she thinks that she deserves to rule the Seven Kingdoms even though she's done nothing to earn them and how this season is all about her even though there are much more important and just as interesting things happening but they don't care because it doesn't involve her. Or is it how she ‘freed’ slaves only to leave them in economic turmoil and hasn’t worried about them since." When I tell you my eyes bulged out of my head and then I smugly nodded like yeah, you got it. I was flabbergasted, I've never heard her say anything bad about D*ny at all and she just recently started watching the show, she’s actually watching from season 1 and this current season at the same time (she's been asked to live tweet for my job). But I was so happy not because she didn’t like D*ny, because she does like her but because she acknowledged how bad and undeserving D*ny’s character is but D&D and people in the fandom/viewers let her slide for no deserving reason.

I've had people tell me that the reason I don't like her is b/c she's white or they'll tell me about all the great things she's done but then I'll tell them how she took those things by force, how she freed slaves but did nothing to improve their lives or create stability in their home country. How she doesn’t work with people, she tells them what she wants, takes it by force and the D&D sweeps it under the rug and the fandom stands around like her shit doesn’t stink. She’s a problem, D&D are a problem and people that don’t acknowledge how fucked up she is are also the problem. I have characters that I like who have done bad things or are problematic and I NEVER try to make excuses for them (there’s another post to come about that).

I’ve made a post about this in the past about ‘Disrespected women in GoT’ and a few people reblogged and said D*ny should be included and after reading what they wrote I agreed but not anymore. D*ny is held to a completely different standard than the other female characters of this show. She should be held accountable for the things she's done as an adult the same way people hold Sansa accountable for things she's done as a child. But we'd never see that happen, we’d never see her loudly condemned either. When I used to watch TVD this was my exact problem with El*na Gilbert. She was the main character who at the beginning of the show went through terrible things, had her world turned upside down but was able to look to her family and friends for love and supported because she gave them the same. But halfway through the series (I think around season 4), she was a completely different character. She was rude, selfish, made EVERY situation about her and her problems and then walked into the sunset with the character who raped her bestfriend, murdered her brother, force-fed her his blood without her consent and a host of other things. The character I loved in season 1 would have never have done that. And there were people in the fandom who called out these issues, but they were dismissed because of their ships (does that sound familiar) or told they were haters or some other bullshit. Honestly, I’m really excited for this season to end so I can stop hearing people talk about it and make excuses for their problematic and undeserving favorite.

#your fave is shit and you're an enabler if you dont realize that #writing this post has made me feel so great tbh #I feel justified in not watching got anymore and not giving a fuck about her outcome #tbh im reclaiming my damn time #game of thrones #got #got negativity

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liaragaming · 7 years

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Flecks of Gold

Leliana x femTabris. Features my canon Tabris, Liara, who is on the ace spectrum.Takes place after Inquisition. NSFW

Tagging: @sorshania @adventuresinastrangeworld @enchanted-phoenix @princessdreadwolf @empresstress13 @zanidragon

Liara Tabris has never been happier to let her armor drop to the floor, the weight of it falling from her shoulders like all the years she's been away. Leliana helps her with the rest of her clothing, tugging and pulling at her Warden uniform until nothing remains and she stands naked in the bed chambers of the Divine.

Leliana ushers her to a large claw foot tub, and she sinks into it, the hot water offering instant relief to her tight muscles and tired joints. The bath oils smell wonderfully of eucalyptus and vanilla, and she breaths them in.

"Now you just relax and enjoy yourself." Leliana picks up a sponge, takes her lover's hand, and begins to wash her.

"You're not getting in?" Liara asks.

Leliana shakes her head. "This is for you. This is your bath."

"My bath would be more enjoyable if you were in it."

The corners of Leliana's lips twitch as she holds back a smile. "I suppose..." Without further debate, she strips, discarding her religious robes.

The water surrounding Liara seems to dissolve. She is weightless, floating on air as she watches Leliana's clothing fall to floor. It has been too long since she was privileged with a view of her lover's body. She is struck with the urge to crawl out of the tub and worship her there on her knees with her lips on her skin.

But she doesn't move, distracted by the sway of her lover's hips as she walks toward her. Leliana climbs into the tub delicately, testing the water with a toe before stepping in. She sinks into the bath with her eyes half closed, head tilted back, her mouth open in a satisfied sigh, almost a moan.

Liara lunges forward, sloshing water over the sides of the tub. She takes her lover into her arms and kisses her thoroughly. Leliana answers back just as eager. Their past hours were spent in useless posturing. The Hero of Ferelden and the Divine keeping up appearances, smiling, waving, never touching, withholding wanting glaces. But here and now they are just Leliana and Liara. There are no demands of the world upon them. They are together again after being apart for far too long.

"We are neglecting your bath," Leliana says, breathless when she pulls away.

Liara shrugs. She doesn't feel she needs a bath any longer.

But Leliana picks up the sponge again. "Let me wash you, love."

She does, lifting her limbs as Leliana instructs. She scrubs her skin until it's pink and new, shedding layers of grime and calluses that hurried bathing out in the field could never attend to. When Leliana has scoured every inch and tended to every crook and fold, the water has turned murky.

"Not that I'm not enjoying our bath," Liara says. "But this water is a little..."

Leliana smiles. "We'll have another bath drawn."

They dress in loose fitting robes, and Leliana pulls a string by her large four-poster bed. Attendants enter, their eyes downcast. She requests the bath redrawn and food brought. The attendants go about their duties, never lifting their gaze.

Liara doesn't know if they refuse to look at Leliana because they are not allowed to gaze upon her in anything other than her holy garments or if it's because of her. The Divine is not supposed to have romantic relationships. Do they avert their eyes because her presence is a sin against the Maker? Is this a game of pretending she doesn't exist?

She does not ask Leliana. She would rather not know.

Instead they lounge on her bed, feeding each other from a plate of cheese, crackers, and fruit. The attendants ignore them, emptying, cleaning, and refilling the tub. They leave the room, each one bowing as they go.

They return to the bath, and Leliana insists on giving Liara a massage.

"What if I wanted to wash you?" Liara asks.

Leliana shakes her head. "I am already clean. Turn around."

She does begrudgingly, though her mood changes the instant Leliana's fingers touch her back. She leans against the wall of the tub with a moan.

She'd forgotten the expertise of her lover's hands. Leliana finds every knot, every tight muscle, and they surrender under her touch. Liara grips the rim of the tub for dear life. Every prod of Leliana's fingers, every pinch at tight ligaments, the grinding of her knuckles into stubborn muscles – pain so intense Liara nearly cries out, but the release afterward is so incredible she's left nearly sobbing into her own arms.

Tears are running down her face when Leliana finishes, but her body has never felt so relaxed and relieved of the burdens it's been forced to carry. Her lover comes up from behind, wrapping her arms around her and resting against her back.

"Are you alright, love?"

Liara nods, "Yes."

Leliana kisses her beneath her ear, trailing down her neck. Liara closes her eyes.

One of Leliana's hands slides from her thigh, around to her backside, then toward her front where she slips two fingers inside.

Liara's eyes snap open. "Leliana," she breathes.

"Do you want me to stop?" She presses another kiss into her skin.

"No."

Leliana pumps her fingers in slow gentle thrusts. She brings her other hand around to circle her lover's clit, using a light pressure. Liara drops her head to her arms again.

Leliana keeps her movements steady, never changing pressure or speed. Her lips continue to kiss her lover's shoulders. Soft, soothing pleasure washes over Liara like a balm to her tortured body, like this is a common final step to any properly administered massage.

When she's had enough, she turns around, forcing Leliana to remove her fingers. She wraps an arm around her lover, pulling her closer. She slides her free hand in front of her to rub between her lover's thighs.

Leliana's hands grip Liara's shoulders. “This was,” she gasps. “Supposed to be for you.”

Liara smiles. “What part of making you squirm isn't for me?”

Leliana whimpers but gives no further protest. Liara slips two fingers inside her and rubs outside with her thumb. Leliana throws back her head with a groan, spreading her arms to grip the sides of the tub. She bounces is time to Liara's thrusting fingers, soft murmurs escaping her.

It eventually becomes clear remaining in the tub is not an option. The water is oppressive, too warm against their heated bodies. And Liara worries moving too fast or too hard with the water may hurt. They climb out, rather ungracefully, trying to maintain momentum and tripping over each other onto the fur rug in front of the bed.

But it turns out as good a spot as any, Leliana clinging to Liara, bidding her to stay. She trusts faster, and Leliana writhes under her, her breathing hitching. Liara kisses her, traveling up her body to her lips where she captures her mouth. Leliana whimpers against her and rolls her hips, demanding more.

Liara leaves her lover's mouth and replaces her thumb with her tongue, lapping at her, still thrusting her fingers. Leliana's nails dig into her shoulder.

She comes in a heavy cry, her back arching as she clutches the fur rug. Liara holds on to her lover's thigh, keeping her tongue moving in slow strokes until the wave ends and Leliana is squirming under her, making tiny shrieks of protest.

She lets go with a chuckle, returning to her lover's mouth for a kiss.

“Do you want me to do anything for you?” Leliana pants.

“That was for me.” She kisses her again. “Your rug is soaked.”

Leliana laughs. “I suppose it is.” She groans. “The attendants are going to hate me.”

“At least it wasn't the bed.” She's suddenly very aware of the cold water dripping down her back from her shoulder length hair. “What do you say to getting dry?”

Leliana sighs wistfully. “If you insist.”

They towel dry. Leliana steps to a closet and throws a silken thing at her. It's a short gown, falling to mid-thigh with a deep neckline and thin straps over the shoulders.

Liara raises her eyebrows. How does the Divine have this in her closest?

But Leliana simply smiles and dons her own gown (pale orange to Liara's light blue) picks up the food tray, and steps out onto the balcony.

They sit in reclined chairs gazing over the city of Val Royaux, the deep blue of the Waking Sea just visible over the rooftops. For a time, they simply feed each other from the tray, taking in the view.

Liara becomes distracted, turning her attention to her lover. Wisps of Leliana's still-damp red hair waft in the warm breeze. The sun lights up her skin, making it glisten. She is beautiful.

Leliana notices her lover looking at her, and a smile graces her lips. “I have something for you.”

She hurries back into her room and returns with a small round glass bottle filled with a golden liquid.

“It's paint,” She explains. “It's the current craze in fashion. People are using it to paint their hair and their clothes. I had a different idea."

She removes the stopper from the vial and sits on the edge of her lover's chair. "Give me your hand."

Liara does as she says, laying her left hand into Leliana's. Her lover removes a paint brush hiding behind her ear and places it in her mouth, wetting it to make a fine tip.

She paints over every one of Liara's scars, as numerous as Leliana's freckles, starting at her finger tips and growing fewer as she travels over her wrist and toward her elbow. Each mark glistens in gold, dazzling in a way Liara has never seen them before. When she's finished, Leliana blows on the wet paint, sending shivers over her skin.

She does the second hand, then takes a ribbon, the same color of her dress, and wraps it with expert fingers. Twisting, knotting, crossing, wrapping her lover's arm up to her elbow. Once she's finished with the second arm, Liara turns them over, admiring them, as beautiful as if she were wearing a fancy pair of gloves.

"Do you like it?" Leliana asks.

Liara doesn't answer. Instead, she pulls Leliana onto her lap and kisses her.

"You are beautiful, love," Leliana says when they part, leaning her forehead against Liara's.

She isn't beautiful. She knows this, despite Leliana's words. There are dark veins under her skin that serve as a constant reminder of the taint within her. There are bags under her eyes from long nights and nightmares that will not let her sleep.

Her scars may be painted gold, but that doesn't hide their origin, her life in the alienage, the death of her mother, the night she slaughtered everyone in the Arl of Denerim's estate. To many in Val Royoux, she will never be anything more than a knife ear.

And as a Warden, her life will never truly be hers. She'll never be free to travel wherever or visit whomever she wishes. But this woman on her lap makes a point every day they are together to make her forget all of that, to let it just be the two of them and to ignore the world knocking at their door.

And for that she is more grateful than she can find words to say.

"What is it?" Leliana asks, holding her face.

She takes her lover's hands in hers. "Come to bed with me?"

Leliana smiles. "Always."

They make the evening last as long as they can. Kisses and grasping fingers serve as promises that there will be other evenings just like this one. Sweat from their bodies causes flecks of gold to rub off on the sheets, their skin, and their hair. Liara removes the ribbons around her arms and, with Leliana's help, binds their hands together, making their impassioned activities all the sweeter.

They fall asleep wearing them.

And days later, when Liara has to leave, she laces one of the ribbons into her boots and ties the other around Leliana's wrist, leaving the excess hanging.

Leliana wipes at a steady stream of tears. "I never should have accepted," she sobs. "If I hadn't-"

"You're needed here." Liara tells her.

She shakes her head. "What Divine carries on romantic relationships? And with you..." She doesn't finish the sentence, doesn't need to. "They'll have my election annulled within weeks."

Liara takes her lover's face in her hands. "You are the Chantry, Leliana. What they say is wrong that you view as right, is so. What they allow and you condemn, is law." She kisses her forehead. "From the night you told me your view of the Maker, you became my religion. And now you are theirs. You just have to show them."

Leliana stares at her, blinks, and pulls her lover to her to cover her in salty kisses.

Weeks later it's with a blue ribbon tied around her wrist and gold flecks on her skin that she returns the Canticle of Shartan to the Chant.

And when the months pass and Liara returns to her once again, she declares all members of the Chantry, from initiate to Divine, should be allowed to engage in romantic relationships.

For love is one the Maker's greatest gifts and should not be withheld.

[buy me a coffee]

#fanfic #my fanfic #dragon age #leliana x warden #liara tabris

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sundcwns-blog · 7 years

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heey, hello, it’s a meme. i’m maze ( she/her ) & hailing from one of the oh so lovely coughs gmt tzs aka gmt+2. besides being trash on the daily i’m literally always listening to music aka if u ever need something new in that department .. hello, or browsing through netflix without any intent on watching smth. living that wild life ik .. DKAMS. but you’re here for my two kids aka basil & saint so here we go ! if you’d like to plot like this and i’ll slide into ur ims or look under the read more for my disc*rd ! also as a warning i unintentionally was v vain and made both muses scorpios .....

☾ — ·˚ » BASIL CRATES is in saint tropez !! they often get mistaken as KIAN LAWLEY. apparently, HE/THEY is/are the JOCULAR of the group. they’re a TWENTY-ONE year old PANSEXUAL DEMIMALE. i hear they’re known as ALTRUISTIC and DOGMATIC. they also make their living as ART STUDENT / BARTENDER / COMIC BOOK ARTIST but you’d have to ask them a bit more.

BACKGROUND + PERSONALITY.

born and raised in berlin, germany until his mother decided to move to the us when basil was twelve.

despite growing up bilingual, he had difficulties adjusting to the new surroundings and rather spent his free time drawing, eventually building up universes without needing any context and instead having the designs speak for themselves.

after finishing high school at age sixteen basil took a gap year to travel through europe with money they earned from several jobs during school times. bas was v very introverted back then, so it served as a challenge which once again they had difficulties with at first. but ofc you can’t get around without trying, so bas did. he’s still more of an ambivalent than an extrovert, but this journey made him see the beauty of uncertainty and they loved it.

also ik i used he & they in that last paragraph instead of just one bc basil honestly truly doesn’t care which one others use as long as they acknowledge bas isn’t cis bc he’s v open about his gender along with being pan .. but that’s another thing.

basil has a very high iq, but always prevented others from knowing about it. he basically failed tests on purpose back in germany and in the us he always made sure others don’t feel bad about their results and said his were worse even though he probably always got an a+, thus resulting in bas being able to skip two grades.

his mother had to carry two jobs to make a living for the two of them, which was one of the reasons why bas sold his art from a young age. thankfully it was actually decent ( coughs and looks @ ryan reynolds’ twitter ) and ppl actually wanted to pay good money for it. this was also one of the key moments in which bas realized they wanted to have their profession somewhere in the art department.

married his high school sweetheart in las vegas as soon as they both turned eighteen, but divorced just three weeks later. this is just one of their impulsive decisions as bas isn’t much of a planner, they rather have a few good laughs when telling the story ( even for the 10th time ) instead of asking what if. the only thing bas ever truly planned was becoming a comic book artist. they’re still at the very beginning as basil’s v young, but they’re just as determined to make it in the industry.

basil’s mother was always into greek mythology and even gave her child the middle name cerberus, which literally is the most dangerous thing about him and while he’s into mythology himself, he doesn’t really tell anyone his middle name as he’d rather not be compared to a three-headed dog .. but if he ever ends up drunk u can bet he’d insist on being called cerberus and nothing else.

being a comic book artist basil’s an avid comic reader as well, but mostly prefers indie comics as they’re more his kind of humor. speaking of, basil’s more of a morbid humor kind of pal ? but he’ll also immediately apologize if he takes it too far bc he values comfort even more than getting a laugh out of others and himself.

huge fan of dogs, literally the person that points at a dog and says “aw.” and definitely wants to pet them.

the least scorpio-like scorpio you will ever meet, and trust me this is coming from a Real Scorpio™.

ends up in a lot of weird scenarios while just trying their best, but always tries to take it with humor especially if someone’s with them.

most of his friends wouldn’t expect it, but basil’s very romantic, like going all out even for a first date and is probably doing waay too much for his opposite.

not really into the whole sex, drugs n rock ‘n’ roll as he prefers to maybe drink a few beers with his closest friends due to seeing what alcohol can do to people on an almost daily basis as a bartender. however, all of kian’s tattoos are canon for bas except for the native american and butterfly ones.

WANTED PLOTS.

literally everything but to be basic .. a best friend ( who might even know about his high iq bc he truly doesn’t tell anyone ), bad influence ( basil’s not exactly innocent or good himself but there’s always worse am i right ), childhood friend ( someone he considered a friend after moving to a completely new country ), enemy ( maybe they’re of the opposite group or even in the same and they had some fight that led to it or just disliking each other for apparently no reason at all just .. pls give me smth negative ), ex on good/bad terms ( as basil’s pretty romantic it could’ve been too much for the other or literally any other reason k thanks ), someone who hates his jokes ( plain n simple .. kewl ), my brain is scattered bc it’s almost 2am rn so i Def missed 820397 plots i’d love but u know what .. i’m a plot pro so shrugs. also i nearly wrote pro plot so u get me now .. pls killme KMDSX.

☾ — ·˚ » SAINT DEVERAUX is in saint tropez !! they often get mistaken as ALISSA VIOLET. apparently, SHE arrived from THE USA. they’re a TWENTY-ONE year old UNLABELED CIS FEMALE. i hear they’re known as VIGOROUS and DETACHED. they also make their living as an ACTRESS but you’d have to ask them a bit more.

BACKGROUND + PERSONALITY.

just as a small disclaimer: if anyone read girls on fire by robin wasserman, saint’s personality is heavily inspired by one of the characters in it aka lacey. and if u haven’t read it .. pls do it if you’re even just remotely into ya literature.

born and raised in los angeles, us, saint was practially thrown into the lives of the rich and famous. her parents were big in hollywood back in the 80s & 90s and gave those legacies to her.

being practially raised by nannies, saint didn’t really have a connection to her parents till they retired when she was fourteen. from there it was basically always good which is .. v weird but they somehow made it work.

as soon as saint turned eighteen she decided to change her last name to her mother’s maiden name, as she’s never been a fan of women having to give up their names just for being married even if it’s voluntary. this also resulted in her imdb page ( she truly made it huh. ) being “divived” into saint bartowski ( also shoutout @ anyone who gets this ref ) and saint deveraux.

at age eighteen saint also let out her true self, at least towards her parents. she admitted to worshipping lucifer just to piss them off and see how they’d react, it was just a game for her. but to be as convincing as possible, she did the most, even though she would’ve already had them just with her words, but saint always wanted to know just how far she could take it.

to the public she’s seen as this socialite turned actress who never did anything wrong, but just due to her parents and herself keeping everything under a neat little rug.

saint’s a very passionate person and loves to be surrounded or admired by people, but at the same time she doesn’t really care about anyone, no matter how many i love yous she’s going to whisper into someone’s ear or no broken promises ever.

as a result of the press putting labels onto her 24/7 she resents them. the only one she’ll ever claim is being in the lgbtq+ com as it’s basically the only thing in her life she truly cares about besides acting and her cats. however saint also makes a lot of fun of men and highly prefers females and nb pals for .. u know what.

she can also be extra af as she literally bought an old vw t1 bus in st. tropez for the short amount of time she’s there and have it look exactly like the one she has back in la with the pride flag sprayed on its roof and every little sticker/detail on its doors, etc.

getting to her job .. she currently stars in a made up netflix show that’s somewhere between veronica mars, twin peaks and 21 jump street ( the movie version ). i actually made a whole filmography for her but i’m too lazy for graphics and i’m not even sure whether i can use real movies/shows so oo. but if u want a list i can tots send it via disc*rd ( btw mine is artcmis#4377 ). and just know that she admires amber heard and mostly chooses roles like her aka not the damsel in distress. tho she would def love to save that kind of character one day .. js.

this is getting soo messy already omg. but to put her in a nutshell, saint’s a callous, manipulative, control loving, determined scorpio who also happens to be an actress, cat lover and feminist putting up a facade daily. also she can’t handle relationships for shhhit.

and what would these bullet points be if i didn’t start and finish them with a disclaimer ? still a mess yeah ik .. MXKAJD. but even tho most probs don’t even know who alissa is i just wanted to say that saint will have green eyes bc .. #aesthetic.

WANTED PLOTS.

once again any plot goes except for romantic stylez kind of plots bc yk not her kind of thing. catfish ( either someone used to catfish someone else using her pics or even better someone got catfished with her photos n now they’re meeting and she’s .. acting v different. plS. ), fwb ( so yeah saint hates relationships but u know what she doesn’t hate wink wink ;) KMSLASK also probs won’t work with males bc she’s all like [ cher horowitz vc ] as if ! ), fan ( someone who likes her movies or show idk ?? let her be all chill with them pls ), smoke bud ( she loves to party & smoke soo .. maybe even in an all-in-one with the fan plot ), enemy ( probs one of the other sec charas bc maybe they’ve met before or even wanted the same role ?? ), once again my brain is a mess sooo .. good bi !

this got longer than my biography ever could so if u read it all .. u truly are the mvp and deserve an award.

#stropez:intro #≻ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ ɪ'ᴍ ɢᴀʏ ┊ ooc.#i feel like i'm the only one not in the gc yet sooo excuse me if i roll in there Very awkwardly later SKAKDJ #also i don't know a proofreading so .. smiles.

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ayankun · 7 years

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the second hand unwinds

Fandom: The Flash Type: Drama with a side of angst and a dash of humor Characters: Eobard Thawne/Barry Allen, also featuring Sara Lance, Ray Palmer, Nate Heywood, Martin Stein, Cisco Ramon, H.R. Wells, Harrison Wells, and Barry Allen :| (and Jefferson “Jax” Jackson) Warnings: Super spoilers for past and current seasons, as usual; canon-typical violence, canon-typical spurious pseudo-science, canon-atypical sexualities Word Count: 17562 Tag: This is just one of those stories that leads with an unexpected twist, ends in the way everyone saw coming, and leaves its beginning unwritten. In that order.

Note: I have to say that this feels less like a sequel to the ostentatiously titled Barry Allen and Eobard Thawne Walk into a Bar (or, He'll Have the Temporal Mobius Strip, on the Rocks) than Temporal Mobius Strip feels like a preface to this If you have a few minutes, I'd recommend checking that out before starting this one. But I'm not your real dad so do as you like. Also all poetry reproduced in this work belongs to Maya Angelou, as credited.

the second hand unwinds

WE THIEVES OF TIME

Your skin like dawn

Mine like musk

One paints the beginning

of a certain end.

The other, the end of a

sure beginning.

Passing Time - Maya Angelou

PART I.a

Canyon City, Yukon Territory - 1902 - Winter

It's cold. Cold enough almost to stop a speedster in his tracks. Even so, it's not the sub-zero conditions that stall Eobard's pace. The natural contrarian in him refuses to rush this, preferring to take the long way round to meet fate -- a fate, at long last, of his own choosing.

Ever since he dropped out of the time stream into this frozen frontier wilderness, a perverse sense of pleasure has been crackling across his nerve endings, every inch of him a livewire. It's not unlike the high-octane punch of the speed force firing through his veins. Not better than, not by a long shot, but it's intoxicating and heady and powerful all the same.

For the first time in a long, long time, Eobard Thawne has no idea what's about to happen. For the first time in his entire life, perhaps, he is acting on a decision he has made for himself, without the guiding hand of destiny pointing the way. Can he be faulted for wanting to savor such a precious novelty?

He turns inland from the whitewater rapids of Miles Canyon and follows the trail south through a copse of thin, bare aspens, which stretch skeletal towards a slate gray sky. They stand solemn and still like pallbearers to the hollowed-out carcass of the gutted township ahead, all sunken roofs and gaping windows, the wind whistling a funeral dirge through the bones of this ghost town.

The implacable forward motion of the industrial revolution will overrun countless frontier towns such as this before all is said and done. The arrival of the railroad signed Canyon City's death warrant, siphoning the life force out of what had otherwise been a bustling settlement and diverting human history a tad north to what will become the Yukon's capital (and only city), leaving this one to wither right off the map.

Eobard's not one to judge; as a seasoned time traveler, he's learned to remain objective about events that take place centuries before his own timeline begins. Besides, the town, abandoned, and the climate, extremely unforgiving, provide a lonesome environment suited exactly to their needs.

His heart absolutely and completely does not jump into his throat when he crunches down onto the frost-crusted main street and sees the warm lamplight streaming out from the windows of the former Canyon City Hotel farther on up the road.

Eobard keeps his boots moving forward through the snow at an even pace, using all his self-control to do so, relishing the final few minutes of uncertainty and freedom before he opens that door and discovers what Barry Allen -- and not fate, for a change -- has in store for him.

(Also, he's fairly certain these borrowed period clothes would be reduced to smoldering scraps if he attempted to run flat out to the door. The dawning 20th century does not have the technology; they cannot rebuild them.

For a brief, insane second, he imagines Barry's reaction to a naked Eobard Thawne gracing his doorstep. He's lucky he has the subzero temperatures to blame for his ruddy cheeks.)

Taking a moment more under the wind-shredded hotel awning to revel in the luxury of second first impressions, cocooned in a winter silence only disturbed by the murmur of the White Horse rapids and an icy gale slicing overhead, Eobard calmly wraps his hand around the rusted door latch and lets himself into the hotel.

A welcome warmth greets him as he quickly slides into the small front room and closes the door firmly behind him. From the look of it, the hotel's lobby had also served as a saloon, complete with a short counter running down the length of the left-hand wall and a pair of rustic plank booths set into the wall opposite. Presumably, these booths had sported table tops in the saloon's heyday, but these have been roughly torn out by scavengers most likely, and the warped stock shelves behind the bar are dusty and bare.

He doesn't see Barry at first. But there are snow-damp boots by the door, and a painfully anachronistic S.T.A.R. Labs branded space heater humming away atop the counter's peeling lacquer.

In the back right corner, beside a door that leads deeper into the hotel, there's a much more period-appropriate fire crackling inside the sooty black belly of a cast iron parlor stove. In the space between the stove and the farthest booth, a bonafide grizzly bear skin rug hugs the floorboards, and sprawled out on this monstrosity, cuddled up in a CCPD hoodie and using his balled up parka as a pillow, is the one and only Barry Allen.

Barry's got a thin paperback held aloft, but this sinks to his chest when Eobard spots him. Neither man says a word, and Eobard's excuse is the way his throat has closed up at the sight of idol-rival-frenemy tipping his head back to peer across the room with firelight in his eyes. By everything that is holy, he was not ready for this.

"Eobard," Barry says, and the name rolls almost too casually from his lips in a way that is painfully perfect, "You're late."

He says it like it's his favorite joke, like it means more than it does. Those upside-down eyes squeeze to joyous crevasses deep and dark with fathomless humor. The room feels suddenly far too warm.

Eobard responds to this with the harsh sound of him clearing his throat, and follows that up with the self-conscious business of divesting himself of top hat and gloves and fur-lined overcoat and the like.

"The train from White Horse was delayed due to difficult weather conditions and the rail company almost postponed the return trip until next week. You're lucky I'm here at all." He detects a note of petulant defensiveness in his own voice that he's not proud of, but he chalks it up to the combative nature of their relationship to date. He leans into the curve and presses the offensive. "Of course, I could have just run straight here, if only preserving the sanctity of the timeline didn't happen to be chief among my concerns."

Eobard side-eyes the space heater's sunburst logo hard to make his point, but Barry just laughs.

"It's not like I can't clean up after myself," Barry retorts, waving the paperback as if it were a suitable piece of evidence to support his argument. "Last thing I want is a time wraith showing up to crash the party."

Meddling with the timeline is fraught with such sobering and unpleasant considerations, and Eobard's flickering hope about the immediate future gutters at the prospect. He licks his dry lips and watches the dust pile up as he sweeps a finger down the bar top's pitted surface.

"What are you reading?" he changes the subject, his voice low.

Something of a cagey look supplants Barry's easy grin. He rolls fluidly upwards into a seated position, shifting around on the grizzly skin to face Eobard the right way up for the first time. His thumb never leaves the crook of yellowed pages, like he's loath to lose his place. The hood of his sweatshirt falls to his shoulders and he paws a bit at his cowlicks with his free hand before leaning back to prop himself up with his fingers tangled deep in the thick fur.

"Seeing as you know so much about me from the history books, I might have taken the liberty of some future-reconnaissance of my own."

Eobard's lips twitch. "I'm flattered," he says wryly but meaning it all the same. "And the sordid details you uncovered lead you to a little light reading?"

Barry squints, that crooked sunbeam smile breaking across his face like the dawn. "You made the front page once by publishing a white paper outlining how the Aristotelian concept of poetic diction could be applied to quantum theory."

"And you believe everything you read in newspapers?" Eobard asks, adjusting the high, starchy collar of his gentleman's costume. His ascot seems to be suffocating him all of a sudden. "You of all people, I suppose you would."

"They even printed the white paper itself as a special addition," Barry continues, brow going stern with mock gravitas, "Riveting stuff. Your propositions were very compelling."

Eobard sighs, ducking his head and flourishing a hand in equally affected acceptance of the complement. "The product of sheer boredom and rebellious teenage spirit. Ms. Cotsis' Advanced English class was not nearly as challenging as she believed. I hope you didn't waste your time on any more of my erstwhile endeavors."

His eyes are sharp on the small motions Barry is making as a clear preamble to inviting him to a seat on the bear skin. As the parka-pillow is shoved aside, Barry tilts the cover of the book towards Eobard, his handy bookmark still firmly wedged between the pages.

"Just a second-hand poetry book my mom picked up at a thrift store once," he explains, "I was afraid of looking uncultured next to a bonafide student of literature such as yourself, Professor."

There's now an Eobard-shaped vacancy on the rug in front of the fire and Eobard knows how to capitalize on an opportunity when he sees one.

With a mix of suave confidence and endorphin-rich recklessness, the same kind of tantalizing what-if electricity thrumming through him as he had experienced on the cold lonely walk into town, Eobard drops himself to Barry's side and indulges in his wildest dreams.

"As if anything could ever make me think less of you, Barry Allen," he all but purrs, laying a hand on Barry's narrow chin in a way that would have been impossible in any prior context. When Eobard kisses him, it feels exactly as though all the time in the universe is at his command, infinite possibility distilled down into this singular golden moment.

The subarctic wind shrieks over the splintered roofs and the fire sputters from the draft down the stove pipe. Eobard almost misses the quiet, helpless noise Barry makes in the back of his throat.

Instantly the gilt tarnishes over and Eobard goes as cold as the abandoned winter wasteland and his heart seems to stop beating in his chest.

One of the benefits of super-speed is the extended time frame a speedster has to think and react to the relatively sluggish goings-on occurring around them in real time. That's why even though it's probably only a span of seconds, to Eobard it feels like an eternal nightmare; how horrifyingly slowly he seems to detach himself from Barry, how chilling it is to spend a lifetime staring at Barry's blank, neutral expression.

His heart hasn't stopped at all, it's just slowed to a comic ice age crawl, the bone-shaking pound of it reverberating in his ears only once an eon. A billion galaxies are born in flame and wink out in the frozen, silent void in the time it takes him to fully consider the depth of his mistake.

"Eobard," Barry says, and time resumes with all the finesse of a smoking locomotive barreling down a mountain pass.

Barry hasn't moved a muscle since Eobard invited himself into his personal space, but now a cloudy concern has settled on his face, though perhaps that's an improvement over the utter non-reaction he'd had to Eobard's advance.

"I obviously misread the situation," Eobard says tightly, "I'm only meta-human, after all." He shifts to get his feet under him -- and look at him, farcical in spats and waistcoat, some kind of gentleman clown all dressed up and ready for his pie in the face -- but Barry's quick hand on his arm stays him from running straight out of this century.

"No, it's my bad," Barry insists, his hand dropping back to the bear skin when Eobard's knee-jerk grasp on the Speed Force diminishes, "It's been a while since I had to explain to anybody, and I didn't want to assume that it was something I needed to state up front."

His one eye scrunches up into an apologetic grin and he palms the back of his neck in that endearing (infuriating) way of his. "One of the things you probably didn't learn about me from the history books is that I'm asexual?"

Eobard Thawne, celebrated genius and criminal mastermind, blinks at Barry like a dullard. "Ah."

"Yeah," Barry nods. "Surprise."

A thin smile plays on Eobard's lips as he tries to tuck this new information into the matrix of Things He Knows About The Flash. "So you're comfortable meeting me in a romantic fire-lit greeting card of a setting, but you're not comfortable with me kissing you."

Barry's hand falls Freudianly to his mouth and Eobard finds enough common decency within him to tear his eyes away. "Well. It's not that it makes me uncomfortable -- I can see where we are, and you didn't misread anything -- I just don't have the natural instincts to respond to that kind of … thing ... the way someone else might."

For a moment Eobard doesn't have a response to this revelation. Then something slightly caustic rises and drips bitterly from his tongue. "So it doesn't count as cheating on Mrs. West-Allen if there's no sex, is that it?"

He naturally expects Barry to take the defensive or to be riled into meeting this confrontation head-on, and they share an unnaturally long second observing the glint of firelight off his wedding band, but the surprises don't stop coming as Barry relaxes with a carefree laugh.

"Dude," he says, side-eyeing Eobard with gentle disapproval, "isn't polyamory a thing in the twenty-second century?"

Eobard closes his eyes and runs his teeth over his bottom lip, staving off the lingering panic and disappointment in exchange for acceptance of this sudden swerve off the tracks. He tries to anchor himself with perspective; this is what he wanted, wasn't it? To experience the novelty of the unexpected?

"I suppose I should have expected as much from a Millennial," he finishes his thought aloud. "The Flash: polyamorous asexual."

Eobard cracks an eye open and catches Barry shaking his head with a relieved smile. "For real though, don't you have these things in your time?"

Eobard shrugs, uncoiling his restless legs towards the fire and leaning back on both his hands. Settling in. "The concepts, sure. Your era's incessant need for labels, I'm happy to report, went the way of the dodo a while back."

"Huh," Barry rejoins, considering. He matches Eobard's sprawl, although his right hand is still faithfully entwined with that beautifully archaic paperback that won't be printed for another hundred years.

"So we're good though, right?" Barry's question isn't even half-formed before Eobard starts nodding his head slowly, definitively.

"My previously imparted sentiment remains intact," he says, ignoring the little flip his heart gives. Funny how the admission, stripped of its red-blooded ulterior motive of the moment, now makes him feel vulnerable, like he's a little kid again, peering up at his hero from the cool and vast expanse of his shadow.

Only this hero isn't some unreachable myth anymore -- this is the one and only Barry Allen, alive and warm and real and boldly scooting closer so that they sit shoulder to shoulder the way equals might. The way lovers (or, at the very least, frenemies with open-for-discussion benefits) might.

Eobard clears his throat and grabs onto the here and now with both hands. "The way I see it, Barry Allen, we have a fire, we have a beast of a rug, and we have all the time in the world. I think you're going to have to start reading me poetry before I embarrass myself again."

Barry's eyes twinkle with a special kind of light. Beyond the walls of their hideaway, the wind blows relentlessly through the frozen canyons, and the river tumbles headlong over the rapids, but time itself crystallizes, silent and glacial, on behalf of two speedsters and however many moments they can together conspire to steal.

PART I.b

Canyon City, Yukon Territory - 1903 - Summer

With the Waverider nestled within the safety of the deserted alpine foothills, the intrepid away team picked their way cautiously down the weedy main street of the ghost town, peering into dark broken windows and ignoring the wind's ominous whispers rustling through the aspens guarding the trail behind them.

"This is the right time and place, boys," Sara said, looking up from the blipping chronograph to squint through the pale northern sunlight at the sagging skeletons of the ruins. It was hard to tell what they might be hiding under all the moss and rot.

A sudden banging clatter drew her suspicious attention over to one of the larger buildings, but it was just Ray heaving a fallen weather-bleached sign up against the side of what was now identified as the town's hotel-slash-saloon.

"Are we sure?" Ray was squinting as well, stepping back and brushing off his hands. "Seems a little rustic for Thawne's tastes."

Stein sniffed, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to ward off the rising dust. "You'll remember, Raymond, that Eobard Thawne was -- or is, I unfortunately must say -- a man of many hidden facets. For all we know, he might have found such a setting, er … quaint."

"He must have been one hell of a chameleon," Nate interjected, idly testing the latch of the hotel door. The whole thing broke off in his hand. "If he was able to keep his cover as Harrison Wells for as long as he did, what with a half dozen geniuses watching his every move from over his shoulder."

"You have a knack for making compliments difficult to accept, Dr. Heywood," Stein murmured to himself behind his handkerchief. Nate didn't hear him, too busy off-loading the rusted door latch into a clump of wild flowers pushing sunnily up through the boards of the sidewalk.

Ray came around the side of the hotel, shrugging like a defensive toddler. "They don't put out PSAs about how to spot the tell-tale signs of a time-traveling body-snatching mad scientist or anything, you know."

Sara cocked an eye at the chronograph and then gave the dusty road another once-over. Nothing to be seen hiding in the shadows -- so far.

"Settle down, kids. Let's just find whatever it is Future-Cisco sent us here to find so we can get back to tracking our version of Thawne before he gets his hands on the Spear." She stepped lightly up to the boardwalk between Ray and Nate, while Stein shuffled after her as though wary of straying too far from the group.

"Ray, Martin, you're looking for anything that strikes you as something that Thawne could have left behind. Nate, you're looking for anything that doesn't fit the time period. Future-Cisco said there were twenty-second century energy signatures coming from this location, so it's probably tech, but we won't know for sure until we find it." She glanced over her shoulder. "Nice work, He-Man. You plan on deconstructing the whole place?"

This last piece was said in response to Nate's discovery of the hotel door's equally dilapidated hinges. He grunted as he set the newly liberated door off to one side.

"Ladies first," he said as if he hadn't just ripped the door bodily from the frame.

"Question," Ray piped up, ducking through the doorway after Sara as she disappeared into the dingy remains of the hotel, "How do we know Future-Cisco is right? Or even that he's telling the truth, for that matter? What if we're walking into a trap?"

Sara spun on him in the dusty darkness -- most of the room's light came from the cracks in the roof -- jabbing the center of his broad chest with the chronograph. "You really think now is a good time to be having these questions, Ray?"

He rubbed at the spot where she poked him, frowning. "Well, yeah, I guess. No one else had brought it up yet."

Sara held back a sigh. "Just assume, at all times, that you're walking into a trap, and then you won't have to wonder about it, okay?" She flicked a finger around the room. "Now spread out and help me look for whatever it is Thawne left here."

Ray's frown melted into something of a pout, and he raised a stiff hand in a small salute of acknowledgement. Sara turned to move deeper into the dim space, partially to let the guys filter in behind, but mostly to hide her fond smile.

The light from the street dimmed as Nate and then Stein, the latter still breathing through his hanky, passed through the gaping entryway. Ray turned and edged back behind the bar, looking dutifully under shelves for the boogeyman's hidden treasure.

"My question is," Nate said, crossing the length of the room towards Sara, "if Thawne was erased from reality -- his current existence notwithstanding -- then how was he able to leave anything behind at all? Shouldn't it never have happened in this timeline?"

Sara stepped back into the corner as he leaned past her to try his luck with the inner door. It didn't disintegrate at his touch this time and he poked his head into the far room for a moment.

"Well we're talking about the Thawne that originally traveled back in time and altered the course of history to begin with," Ray was saying when Nate ducked back into the main room, "Thawne-prime, as it were. All of the things he did or had happen to him before that juncture would remain intact in that original timeline. Or am I wrong, Dr. Stein?"

He leaned over the dusty countertop, scratching his head. The uncertain wood shifted under his weight.

Stein cleared his throat, tentatively dropping the handkerchief an inch or two. "Yes, I believe you're on the right track, Raymond. Cisco and I discussed the matter briefly some time ago and we came to the loose conclusion that there must exist a sort of temporal graft that occurs when objects -- or people, in practice -- move between time periods."

Sara, crouched beside the rat-eaten bearskin rug, shook her head at the three slackers and continued the search for the twenty-second century item. It wasn't under the rug. No, of course not, that'd be too easy.

"How do you mean, 'graft'?" Nate asked, stepping back to the end of the bar and crossing his arms.

Stein wet his lips in preparation of the symposium he was about to give. "Think of the timeline as a trunk, of a tree, with every infinite variation of the timeline as its branches. To keep it simple, let's look at a tree with only two such branches forking from the trunk. Imagine that a person -- in this case Eobard Thawne -- experiences time as movement along one of the branches. As a speedster, he then doubles back to a point along the trunk, makes his way to the fork and travels up the second branch, as we know, for fifteen years. Even though he originated in the first branch, he has now 'grafted' himself onto the second. Remove the second branch from the tree and you excise Eobard Thawne from that section of the timeline -- but the removal of that section alone does not invalidate the path he traveled along the trunk, which is a constant and immutable past for both timelines."

Ray nodded as he followed along. "So it's like this point in 1903 is somewhere on the trunk, and the timeline we're protecting from aberrations is actually the one he created in the year 2000, which includes the trunk, and even though Eobard Thawne will never be born in the 22nd century in this timeline, we can still find evidence of the one who was born in that timeline….right?"

"Something like that," Stein agreed.

Nate sucked on his lip, considering. "Sounds like one of the side effects of staying too long in an alternate or altered timeline is having time catch up to you. Like, the way we see changes in time start to set if an aberration hasn't been corrected quickly enough. Otherwise why would the death of Thawne's ancestor in this timeline have any effect on him if that other timeline still exists separately from ours?"

"Quite," Stein agreed, a touch more reluctantly. "As I said, this theory was the product of a brief discussion. A very brief discussion, really. More of a casual chat, now that I think of it."

Ray leaned his elbow on the countertop and the wood groaned a warning note. "Taking what Barry said about his months in the Flashpoint timeline into account, it makes sense. His memories from this timeline were being overwritten by the ones that belonged to the him that should have experienced natural time between 2000 and 2016. That does make sense, right?"

"Or how memories of having a daughter can oust memories of not having one, once the change has been made and time has set," Stein added quietly.

"Sure, sure," Nate said, drawing attention off that sore subject, "The era Thawne ended up grafting into, the early twenty-first century, he had no existing self to merge with. He must have fused into the timeline of his future self, while still retaining his individuality."

Ray tipped his head to the side, his brow knit in amicable consideration. "It's a working theory, at least."

"Hate to interrupt the egghead convention," Sara called, rising fluidly from her crouch. She stepped around the crumbling saloon furniture to Nate's side, clapping a thin rectangular object to his chest and her dusty ashy hand to his back. "Found this lodged behind the stove, something tells me it didn't belong there."

Nate briefly tried to eye over his shoulder at the cosmetic damage done to his shirt, but the pressing mystery of the object in his arms very quickly commandeered his attention. It was, the geek squad were surprised to see, the unassuming and familiar shape of a worn paperback book.

"They had books in 1903," Ray said, craning dangerously over the rickety countertop to get a better look at the thing. His statement sounded suspiciously like a question.

"While it's true that the paperback book dates back to the early 1800s," Nate said thoughtfully, "this one was published in 1994. Also, there's an inscription: 'Henry, you are the verse in my heart, happy anniversary - Nora.' Dated 2004."

He held up the book to show them the title page. A small white envelope slipped from between pages yellowed and warped with exposure to the elements, and fell to the floor with a small clatter.

Ray instantly reared back from his slouch, the foundations of the bar cracking under the force of his recoil. "Is that the trap?!"

"Could be," Sara replied, cavalier. She grinned up at Nate. "Why d'you think I palmed it off on the iron man?"

"I see how it is," Nate grumbled, steeling up his arm to the elbow and stooping to retrieve the fallen item. "I thought you brought me along for my wealth of experience as a time detective, but really I'm just here to do all your heavy lifting."

"Literally!" Ray chimed in, his self-appreciative chuckle a little on the nervous side as he warily ogled what was most certainly a trap.

Said trap, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a plain white envelope, the unsealed flap tucked in along one of the narrow ends. "That's weird," Nate mused, turning it over in his metallic hand, "It's addressed to Barry."

The crew exchanged concerned looks. "That would seem to weigh in on the side of trap, wouldn't you think?" Stein proposed. If he edged a little closer to the bright gap of the doorway, nobody blamed him.

"Wait a minute," Ray said, "Are we one hundred percent sure that Thawne left this? Wasn't Nora Barry's mom's name?"

"Nora and Henry Allen," Stein said thoughtfully, "Why yes, yes those were their names. May I see the book, Nathaniel?"

Nate passed the book over the counter to Ray, who leaned the remaining distance to pass the book obligingly to Stein. Then Nate thumbed open the envelope and dropped its contents into his palm. The futuristic round data chip plinked into his hand, metal on metal.

Sara passed the chronograph over the chip, and the device pinged a series of assertive tones. "Unless Mrs. Allen had a secret supplier of twenty-second century tech, my money's still on Thawne."

"So, what does this mean?" Ray asked the room. "Barry -- Barry-Prime from the timeline where his mom lived -- brings the book back in time to here, and Thawne-Prime brings this tech back in time and ... leaves it in the book for Barry to find?"

Sara narrowed her eyes, sweeping her considering gaze between Stein's book and Nate's chip. "Yeah, I'm not seeing the angle here, either."

"One man's aberration is another man's book of poems," Stein said absently, flicking through the pages.

Nate cleared his throat, an obvious attention-grabber. When he proceeded to say nothing at all, Sara humored him with a short, "Yes, Nate?"

"Well," he started, slowly, uncommonly shy or characteristically dramatic, "I have to admit I've seen this sort of thing before."

Ray and Sara exchanged a quick look. She crossed her arms, squaring her stance. "Out with it."

"You know the way I found you guys in 1942, right? I collected data on the past and noticed the inconsistencies -- inconsistencies exactly like finding a book out in the middle of nowhere, a hundred years before it's been published. Some of those inconsistencies led me to the Legends; but the rest of them, well, let's just say they painted a very specific picture of two time-travelers meeting up in various out of the way places. Places and times where they wouldn't draw attention to themselves."

"Two time-travelers, you mean two speedsters."

"Guess so."

"Barry- and Thawne-Prime."

"Looks like."

"And you didn't feel like sharing this information because…?" Sara flipped a hand outward in an irritated shrug.

Again Nate hemmed and hawed, stubbing the toe of his boot into a warped knot in one of the floor boards. "Ok, well I wasn't sure, until just now, that the evidence pointed to the Flash and the Reverse-Flash. And anyway, I always assumed these things were left by a man and a woman, on account of said evidence only ever showing up in these secret ... love nests."

Sara snorted. "Some love nest."

Nate waved her off. "Sure, it's nothing but a derelict ghost town now, but that book wasn't left here yesterday. Picture it, I don't know, six months ago, the dead of winter, a remote little hideaway where they won't be disturbed. There's a bearskin rug in front of the fireplace, for crying out loud. It's not hard to imagine that a little poetry would go a long way in that scenario."

"Are you saying that the Flash and the Reverse-Flash...." Ray trailed off, groping visibly for a phrase he was comfortable using in public, not finding it, and eventually settling on the all but unintelligible pantomime of tapping the tips of his two pointer fingers together.

Sara's eyes narrowed to a bright, considering gleam, her leer one of quiet astonishment as she beheld the miracle that was Dr. Raymond Palmer, actual adult.

"I'm not saying anything, but it all makes sense now that I've met Thawne in person. You can't tell me you haven't seen those leather pants of his," Nate intoned, ducking his chin to look knowingly up at Ray. He swung this look around on Sara to get her confirmation. "Sara, back me up on this."

Sara's leer deepened, even as she wagged a finger at him. "Normally I wouldn't condone your use of stereotypes, but I feel you on this one. Our boy rocks his leather and doesn't care who knows it."

As this strand of conversation spun on, Stein looked more and more like he was going to be sick. Finally he snapped the book shut as if continued exposure to it might reveal something too risque for his sensibilities, and rounded on the other three with a stuffy flap of his handkerchief.

"Please let me remind you that this is Eobard Thawne we're talking about, none other than the Reverse-Flash and founder of the so-called Legion of Doom -- a man who has ruined countless innocent lives and will continue to do so unless we stop him from getting the Spear of Destiny. Forgive me if I don't feel like gossiping about his romantic inclinations while reality itself hangs in the balance." He balled up his handkerchief and returned it roughly to his pocket as if to make a point.

The others cast sheepish looks at one another. Sara tucked the chronograph into a back pocket and held out a hand to take the envelope and chip back from Nate. He powered down and handed it over without a word.

"Martin's right," Sara said, securing the chip in a jacket pocket. "Whatever happened in the other timeline, all that's out of our hands. Let's get back to the Waverider so we can deliver this to Future-Cisco and then get back to stopping our Thawne from messing up our timestream."

IN MEDIA RES

PART II.a

Central City, Missouri - 2024 - SPRING

So this is what the collapse of reality itself looks like.

He can feel it in the periphery of his senses, this supernatural gravitational force that softly yet insistently tugs at his bones to join it in infinite oblivion. Running back towards it, back to 2024 at Barry's urgent summons, it had loomed ahead of him like a cold dark spot in the Speed Force, foreboding with all the the grim surety of a brick wall and cut brakes. He hasn't even seen it yet but he doesn't particularly feel the need to; he's well aware of the old adage about staring into the abyss. He's afraid he'll recognize himself in the void.

It hangs up there over his head like a guillotine blade, silent, impossible, unforgiving: Eobard Thawne's long overdue date with destiny.

The pinprick singularity, a rapidly unraveling rip in the fabric of space-time, is up there, too.

The midnight sky he can see as he dashes through ground zero, downtown Central City, is a vicious blood red. No stars, no moon, just the blood of a thousand trillion lifetimes being syphoned out of the past-present-future and funneling into the bottomless nothingness like so much dirty water circling the drain.

For some reason, Eobard can't stop laughing.

That is, until Barry banks up the side of a pedestrian overpass to circle back around and punch him in the face at mach speeds.

(In a dim, semi-rational corner of his brain, he realizes how this will look to the history books. The Reverse-Flash chasing the city's very own Scarlet Speedster until something gives and the two hated rivals come to blows. He can see the headline now -- but maybe that's because it's a headline he's had seared into his memory for the last thirty-five years.)

"You do have quite the fondness for a dramatic gesture," he drawls through his bloodied smile once he's extracted himself from the overturned tanker truck which had so kindly broken his fall. "It's one of the things I've always loved about you."

Barry stalks forward and shoves a hand down to help him up. Eobard readily takes him up on the offer, clasping Barry's arm in his own and flowing to his feet to stand toe to toe and eye to eye with the Flash. He won't have many chances to get this close again. He's out of time. They're out of time.

"This is not a joke, Eobard," Barry growls. He tries to pull his arm away but Eobard just comes with it, silent, intent, smiling blood. Barry has to tear out of his grip, leaving them both reeling.

"What about this is funny to you?" Oh no, Barry's mad. He's got lightning in his eyes. Bits of the city are crumbling around them, distorted into nothingness as the periphery of the singularity's event horizon laps outwards in rolling waves. Like footprints washed away in the surf. Like they never even existed.

The humor drops off Eobard's face in a heartbeat. The blood is rushing in his ears and he swears he can hear the nothing-nowhen drone of the void calling to him, a voice that wicks under his skin like oil, urging him up and up into the gentle cradling arms of perdition.

"Funny? I can't think of anything about this that's funny." He can't even hear himself. He doesn't know if he's whispering or if he's shouting. There's lightning in Barry's eyes and his world is falling down around him and there's a speck of pure non-existence growing in the sky that wants to invite him home. If he can't laugh about it, he's not sure what he could do to relieve the suffocating pressure of the situation.

Barry's lightning arcs from his eyes into the air around him as he flickers forward a step to grab a fistful of Eobard's suit front. He rocks him, attempting to shake Eobard out of his nihilistic trance. "I get it, you're angry. You think I'm not? I'm leaving everything behind -- Iris, my family, the city, my entire life. Iris," he repeats, his head and shoulders drooping. The fist on Eobard's suit clenches tight. "I didn't say goodbye."

Eobard wraps a hand around Barry's wrist, clinging to this lifeline while it lasts. He should shove Barry off, should face fate with dignity and tell him that he's right, tell him that what the universe is asking of them is righteous. Noble, even. He should lie and tell Barry that whatever happens, they didn't have a choice. That their sacrifice will mean something -- everything, even -- to those left to carry on in their wake.

Righteous? Noble? No, he's Eobard Thawne. He's the Reverse-Flash. If this is actually the promised end to life as he knows it, then he's going to claw every last shred of Barry Allen out of this existence until all that remains is a hollowed-out husk -- that's all a life without Barry Allen has ever been, or could ever hope to be.

The rumble of existential chaos spins down to a muted background whine as he holds on to Barry. This time, when he speaks, it feels as though his words travel through rarified air, crystal clear and sharp as daggers.

"We don't have to go through with it," he whispers. It's a useless, selfish plea. He can't imagine a world where the Flash forsakes his heroic duties, but Eobard's never held himself to such limitations. He can freely give voice to blasphemous thoughts. Still, he doesn't want to see Barry's inevitable look of betrayal, so he pulls the Flash close and breathes words of cosmic treason into his ear.

"There's nothing keeping us from staying right here," he's saying, and he suddenly feels a crazed conviction in the errant thought. A punch-drunk fervor to damn the world a million times over in exchange for a few more moments with Barry. "Just the two of us. Nobody will know once it's all over."

Crushed tight against him, Barry shudders. Eobard wonders -- horrified -- if Barry could possibly consider taking him up on the offer.

It takes an unnaturally long moment to realize that Barry's shaking his head against his shoulder. Then, before he can react, Barry's shoving violently out of the cage of Eobard's arms. Electricity still dances along the long lithe line of him, but his stormy eyes are dulled now by impotent remorse and fury. Eobard suspects he mirrors the emotion, dutifully playing his assigned role as Barry's foil until the very end.

The full weight of this unfolding moment lays squarely on Eobard's shoulders. He looks up, craning his head back slowly as though the action costs him more than he's willing to give. Finally, achingly, he acknowledges the infinite pitmark in the blood-red sky that winks down on him like a inverse star.

"I've been such a fool," Eobard admits to the End of All Things, "thinking I could make deals with destiny."

He tears his eyes away from the singularity and drops his gaze to Barry. His Barry. "I should have known I would never be able to pay this debt, when it came time to settle."

"Thawne," Barry warns, and it's exactly the right move in all the wrong ways. "Do what you have to do."

Eobard rolls his neck, almost a drunken, unhinged maneuver. In answer, whether he's aware of it or not, Barry starts shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Eobard thinks it's like being thrown into a long-forgotten dream. He knows, as he has always known, exactly how this ends.

"Maybe I will," Eobard tells him, his eyes sharp and his smile wicked. "Maybe I won't. Maybe thinking you could trust me all these years was your greatest mistake, Barry Allen."

Too quick for the average observer to catch, the Flash and the Reverse-Flash fly for each other's throats.

This is probably right, Eobard thinks. This is probably poetic. Ending this in violence, same as it began all those years from now. As it still must begin so many years ago.

This old dance is nostalgic, nothing like the show fights they'd endeavored to stage whenever Eobard came to town, a playful attempt to keep the wool over the eyes of history. The steps are familiar and bittersweet, each bloodthirsty blow a reminder to each of what it was like to live back-to-front with his rival, trembling in the other's shadow until the day the tables turned and their roles reversed. Only this time they're both meeting at the peak of their ability, with unfathomable reservoirs of skill and endurance, and both with everything left to lose.

Eobard feels each passing second slip away from him forever as he forces himself on the Flash in the only way he's ever felt entitled to, with fists and lightning and an unspoken understanding that he fills a niche in Barry's life that no one else in all of the multiverse ever could. His old tired anger at his scripted destiny flares up hotter and hotter as he confirms with a leaden certainty that the reverse has also always been true.

He'd always known this day would come. Only, he had naively envisioned his part in doomsday as limited to walking Barry to the door and waving him off with a tear in his eye. (And somehow this whole time he thought that scenario would be simple, easy? That he could just walk away from Barry Allen?) How hilariously mistaken he's been to think that fate would ever release him from its grand production. The role might have changed, but the script remains the same.

Be Barry Allen's undertaker, the multiverse keeps insisting, be the tool of the Flash's final and complete destruction.

A world without the Flash -- unimaginable. Incomprehensible. He'd rather no world at all.

Hadn't he always wanted the choice? Wasn't his deepest desire to choose the course of his own destiny? To believe, even for a second, that Eobard Thawne lived for himself?

Silently, the singularity whispers the kind of sweet nothings that reverberate through the darkest chambers of his heart. It would be so easy to refuse his marching orders, to play the mutineer for the first and last time, and choose to let the eternal and infinite swallow him up. The alternative --

Eobard realizes he's stopped running. Under the all-seeing eye of absolute undoing, he's got the Flash hoisted by the throat against the plate glass window of an evacuated Jitters. The brick wall on either side, the lamp post on the corner, the boxed shrubberies in the corner of his vision are all wavering in and out of existence, tenuous as a candle about to burn itself out. It won't be long now.

Barry looks down on him with unreadable eyes. He reaches -- not to pry Eobard off, not to claw for his release -- a gloved hand coming to rest tenderly on the exposed skin of Eobard's cheek below the cowl.

"Please," Barry gasps, "Eobard, please."

Eobard curses everyone and everything he's ever known, but none more fiercely than Barry Allen. He sets Barry back on his feet, every fiber of him livid as he submits unwillingly to this angelic avatar of virtue. He never had a choice. Not with Barry Allen.

And now his time has run out.

"See if you can keep up, Flash," he sneers, wild and heartsick and furious beyond reason. He doesn't wait to see if Barry's fit to follow as he tears his own hole in space and time with the sole purpose of murdering the mother of the man he loves, the result of which will be his personally authoring an infinite number of destinies; excluding, of course, his own.

PART II.b

Central City, Missouri - 2024 - SPRING

"Hit it, H.R."

Cisco rolled his shoulders, shaking out his arms and legs, the segmented lenses of his shades lighting up in preparation of the temporal shift.

H.R., stationed at the back of the breach room at one of the consoles, winked at an un-cowled Barry, who stood observing with his arms crossed at the bottom of the steps. "I'm hitting it. If you know what I mean."

Barry obliged him with a wan smile and a brief lift of his eyebrows. Cisco froze and then looked stiffly over shoulder, his eyes hidden from view but the line of his mouth more than adequately expressing his irritation. "H.R., mi amado, I'm about to vibe across timelines in a way that's going to tear a hole in the multiverse -- and that's only if we're lucky. A little focus, please?"

"Of course, of course," H.R. said, ducking his head apologetically. "I am also hitting the switch. I'm hitting the switch now." He waved his drumstick with a imperious flourish. "Once more, into the breach!"

"Thank y--ou," Cisco started to say. Before he could finish voicing the thought, reality warped itself around him and he scrabbled to wring the correct chronographic coordinates from the totem he held. He sank in a stomach-turning freefall of infinite potentiality until the psychic line he cast out into the cosmic roil caught something solid and pulled tight.

With an effect like an elastic band stretched to its limits and then being violently released, Cisco snapped out of the temporal corridor back into real fluid time. Back into S.T.A.R. Labs, too, the homey Cortex by the look of it, although the Team Flash he found there was the bizarro kind of familiar.

Dr. Wells threw a handful of papers over his head and swore fluently at Cisco's unannounced arrival. Barry took his appearing out of thin air with a modicum of grace, although he had his cowl back on in a flash. They stared at him from behind the Cortex's main computer bay.

"Thanks but no thanks, H.R.," Cisco grumbled to himself. He slid the shades off his face, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible off the tail end of that entrance.

"Mr. Ramon?" this Barry asked, recognizing the face at least, tentative relief coloring his surprise.

Dr. Wells had a hand to his forehead, sharp eyes behind his glasses darting all over Cisco's vibing gear, probing for answers without deigning to ask the questions. "My first guess would be that Ramon Industries is breaking new ground in teleportation technology."

Barry -- or, more appropriately, the Flash -- wheeled on Dr. Wells, "What, for real?"

Dr. Wells didn't hear the question. "But something tells me our visitor has nothing to do with Ramon Industries." His steely blue eyes hadn't flickered off Cisco for even a second.

Cisco smiled, a little tightly. "Sharp as ever, Dr. Wells. Let me get this out of the way because I have a lot of crazy stuff to explain and not a lot of time to do it -- I know that you're Barry Allen, because in my timeline Barry Allen aka the Flash is my best friend. And also, yeah, I'm Cisco Ramon from another timeline. A divergent timeline that I need your help to create."

Upon hearing this last bit, Dr. Wells removed his studious gaze from Cisco and turned it on the Flash. Something unspoken passed between them, and Barry carefully pushed his cowl off his face.

"This is about the singularity, then," Barry guessed, visible tension gathering in his shoulders as he crossed his arms.

Cisco sighed in relief. "Okay, so you've been tracking the singularity. Great, but, you know, also not great. Just leaves me less to explain."

"You still have plenty to explain, Mr. Ramon," Dr. Wells said shortly. He sifted some of the disarrayed papers on the desk and waved a handful at Cisco with deliberate meaning. "By what means could you possibly have been able to detect a singularity from an alternate timeline, and why, for instance, does it fall to us to create said timeline?"

Raising his hands -- one holding his shades and the other the totem he'd used to vibe this timeline -- Cisco was about to answer to the best of his ability when Barry pointed and snapped, "That book, where did you get it?"

All eyes went to the unassuming and fairly decrepit paperback. Cisco's brow furrowed. "Is that the question you want me to answer first?"

Dr. Wells looked quietly over at Barry, as if waiting for his confirmation. After a moment Barry dropped his arm and shook his head once.

"Proceed as you wish, Mr. Ramon," Dr. Wells allowed. He kept his watchful eye on Barry for a heartbeat longer, only directing his attention back to Cisco when he began to speak.

"It's like this," Cisco started, tucking a stem of his shades behind his jacket collar, "in the year 2000, Eobard Thawne aka the Reverse-Flash, murdered Nora Allen."

Barry barked an overly loud scoff. "Never happened. Never gonna happen."

"I hear you on that, I really do, Barry, and I'm sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am to have to lay this on you." Cisco's tone rode a line between sympathetic and persuasive, moving increasingly towards the latter as he went on. "But for the sake of reality itself -- both our realities -- it has to happen. You and the Reverse-Flash have a huge street fight tonight. It ends with him going back in time to kill you, but you stop him, so he kills your mother instead. This is fact in the timeline I'm from."

"Eobard would never--" Barry cut himself off, biting back the rest of the thought. He looked to Dr. Wells for assistance. "That's crazy, right?"

Dr. Wells' voice was low, somber. "Hear the man out, Barry. We know the cause of the singularity is a temporal paradox; this Mr. Ramon may very well be presenting us with the resolution we have heretofore been unable to identify."

Cisco looked around the Cortex and spotted the glass diagram board. "Some things never change," he muttered. Addressing Dr. Wells, he pointed to it. "Do you mind if I…?"

Dr. Wells waved a hand. "Be my guest."

Barry had an agitated hand worrying his jaw, and Dr. Wells put a calming hand on his shoulder as they watched Cisco squeak a cap off one of the pens and sketched a horizontal line that stretched from one end of the board to the other.

"You know the theory of temporal grafting, right?" Cisco looked over his shoulder to see Dr. Wells' small nod. "Okay. So we know that if you travel in time and spend a significant duration in another era, then you eventually merge with the you that already existed in that timeline. If this graft doesn't take, then you experience the multiverse's immune system response, which manifests as time quakes and time wraiths and so on."

He exemplified the act of traveling back in time and altering it by drawing a loop that lifted off the right-hand side of the line, connecting it to a point at the far left and continuing through in a slant that forked down and away from the trunk line

"Antibodies that reject and attack the grafted individual," Dr. Wells agreed. "You've had some luck avoiding those, haven't you, Barry?"

Barry just ground his teeth and threw a hand angrily at Cisco. "So the singularity is the next level defense response from the multiverse. Now you're trying to tell me that screwing up the timeline -- killing my mom -- is going to make it go away?"

Cisco dipped his head placatingly, his hands held up to bid them to wait a moment longer. "That's where it gets tricky, I understand. But creating a timeline where your mom is killed when you're a little kid isn't screwing anything up. It has to happen. It has happened. I couldn't be here if it didn't. But I'm here, aren't I?"

Barry balled his fists on his hips, shaking his head with a barely concealed sound of disdain. He half turned away, unready and unwilling to believe any of this.

"If you'll allow me to make a supposition," Dr. Wells said, letting Barry step out of the conversation for the time being, "if this singularity we've detected is the collapse of all realities due to a temporal paradox, then your belief is the murder of Nora Allen in 2000 by Eobard Thawne from this timeline's future will close the open loop, averting the paradox. Now, granting that, how did you conclude that the relevant parties originated in this particular timeline?"

"Ah, that," Cisco started, "It's all very timey-wimey, if I'm being honest."

Barry shot him a dirty look at his use of less than scientific language, but Cisco quickly continued. "It has to do with the flat timeline theory, which I was getting to," he explained.

Dr. Wells winced, a faint deepening of his crow's feet. "I'm afraid you'll have to enlighten me, Mr. Ramon."

"Okay, so if you think of each separate timeline as a strict linear progression of cause and effect," Cisco gestured with the pen along the length of the trunk and then again along the branching line, "then you run into some wild scenarios in the case that these discrete cause-effect strings start forming closed loops between timelines."

He pointed to the fork off the main line. "This is Eobard Thawne from your future traveling to both our pasts and directly creating this divergent timeline. Now this is today--" he drew a vertical line that cut down through both the trunk and the branch, "--April 24th, 2024."

On each of the points where the vertical line intersected the other two, he scribbled a messy dot.

"And this is the singularity. One in your timeline, one in mine."

"Very artistic, Mr. Ramon," Dr. Wells interjected, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Cisco took it in stride. "So now if we look at the cause-effect structure of the alpha timeline and the divergent beta timeline, we can say that this conversation we're having right now is Event A, Eobard Thawne in the year 2000 is Event B, and the singularity in my timeline is Event C." He wrote the letters in the appropriate places before capping the pen.

"To answer your question, getting from C to A involved a little time excavation to dig up this book, which had Thawne's temporal fingerprints all over it, and a little of my own personal mojo to trace its origin back to your timeline. But that's all academic. Now get ready for this."

Cisco held the pen against the board, along the vertical line between that ran between A and C, and carefully swung the bottom of the glass up so that the pen rested on the flat surface with only its bright red cap visible.

"In the flat timeline theory," he said, tracing the bottom frame of the board that faced the room, "this is your timeline. A view of time-space where the only thing that matters is the linear cause-effect structure; any self-contained loops are compressed into 1-D."

Cisco motioned to the pen's red cap. "And this is your singularity. Our singularity, I should say. Just one, located at the point where the consolidated timeline reaches lethal levels of quantum flux due to the unclosed loop."

"The result of the unstable paradox," Dr. Wells hummed appreciatively. "Each one of these events cause the next, A causing B, and B causing C, and C causing A. If any of these links break, the whole chain breaks."

"And you get a temporal paradox with a side of reality-dissolving singularity," Cisco finished with a shrug.

"And you brought the singularity from your timeline, didn't you?" Dr. Wells' eyes flashed with serene accusation behind his glasses, his hands folded carefully under his chin. "You ruptured time-space just by coming here."

"I had to," Cisco said simply. "The singularity in your timeline is a point of fact. They'll call it the Crisis. It has happened, and it will always happen and it's happening right now."

Dr. Wells only nodded, crunching the numbers and finding them sound. "And the only way to keep both our realities from collapsing like a house of cards is for Eobard Thawne to run back to the year 2000 and murder Nora Allen. If he's not already on his way, you can bring him here, can't you, Barry?"

Barry dropped a startled look on Dr. Wells, who met it evenly. "Why are you talking about this like it's a done deal? Don't we need to, you know, verify this claim?"

Cisco stepped towards him, a hand outstretched to placate, to plead. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry that I dropped this on you out of the blue, but you don't have a lot of time. As we speak, both our timelines are in a state of elevated quantum flux that will continue to wreck space-time until the loop is closed. It's going to be bad. The city's going to take a hit. You're going to need to call for backup, because on top of evacuating the city, you're going to have your hands full with Thawne."

Dr. Wells arched one eyebrow. "You're right about that, Mr. Ramon. I'll send a blast out to the JLA to let them know what we're in for."

Barry's eyes went to the ceiling, and he chewed his lip while shaking his head in tiny motions as he remained unconvinced.

"I have a feeling the Green Arrow, Hawkgirl, and the Atom are free," Cisco suggested helpfully. "But again, I hate to sound like a broken record, you need to act fast. We all have until midnight tonight, then it's game over, man."

"I just -- I need a second." Barry threw a dark look in Cisco's direction, not even seeing him, and stalked from the room.

Dr. Wells, already tapping away at the screens in front of him, glanced up at Cisco and then back down at his work. "Forgive him. He knows what he has to do, and he'll do it. You'll agree that this is an upsetting turn of events for him."

Cisco chewed the inside of his cheek, digging a flashdrive from his pocket. He wagged it in his fingertips for a second, then reached over the back of the console desk to drop it near Dr. Wells' keyboard.

"It gets worse," Cisco told him, his voice flat. "Barry -- the Flash -- doesn't come back from this. Not to your timeline, anyway."

Dr. Wells met his solemn gaze, slowly straightening up from the desk and crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm sure you're aware that you are asking a lot of us, Mr. Ramon."

Cisco broke the stare first, dropping his eyes, guilty. He motioned to the flashdrive. "There's more information on that. Everything about the Crisis we could transfer from Thawne's twenty-second century copy of Gideon."

"Evidence that the Thawne with whom we're familiar did indeed wind up in your timeline," Dr. Wells mused. He put a hand over the flashdrive, slipping it off the desk and into his pocket. "I'll make sure Barry sees it. It won't make it any easier for him, but it may speed things along."

"Thank you, Dr. Wells. This won't … mean anything to you, but I've always wanted to thank you in person." Cisco shrugged, self-conscious, and a crooked smile wound its way across his face. He lifted a hand over the back of the desk, offering it to Dr. Wells.

Dr. Wells' sharp blue eyes fixed on it for a long second. Then he raised his own hand and firmly accepted Cisco's handshake. "Goodbye, Mr. Ramon."

Cisco nodded, letting go of Dr. Wells' hand and the alpha timeline with the same motion. The bright lights of the Cortex swirled away into the chaotic always-everywhere of the time stream, and then Cisco was staggering back into the cavern of the breach room.

"Cisco, how was it, did you make it?" This was Barry, his best friend, reaching out with a steadying hand on his shoulder.

Blinking hard at the transition, Cisco allowed himself to be lead a few steps towards the console platform. His bearings returned after a handful of moments, and he very nearly leapt away from Barry and up the steps, careening around the railing to crash into the computers there.

"Alpha Barry wasn't too thrilled by the news," he said, glancing down at Barry with something like apology in his eyes, "But Dr. Wells was pretty certain that they'd be able to grab Thawne and prevent the singularity."

"That's great -- Cisco, you did it," Barry clapped his hands to the back of his head, relieved and impressed.

Cisco kept working away at the computer, focus glued to the information scrolling down the screens. "Checking on the state of our singularity now. But yeah. I think we did it."

H.R., slouching over the other console, scratched his temple with the end of his drumstick. "You met Dr. Wells, then."

"Yep."

"The real Dr. Harrison Wells from this Earth."

"A version of Earth-1 Harrison Wells, yes."

"I bet he isn't as much as a silver fox as me," H.R. supposed, frowning.

Cisco's hands froze in midair over the keyboard, and he cocked his head, as if considering. "Don't be too sure of that, he had this kind of sweater-vest headmaster vibe that was working for him. You know, not too soft, not too stern."

H.R. stepped away from his console, squaring his shoulders like a man about to face a firing squad.

"I could -- I could wear a sweater-vest."

Barry hid his grin behind his hand, and Cisco didn't even look up. "Uh-huh. You look like you stole your entire wardrobe from a hipster indie band roadie that's half your age. Yahtzee, baby, quantum flux has reached negligible levels; not getting any readings on the singularity. It's almost like it never happened, which, in a sense, it didn't."

Cisco dropped his head back with a wild shout that reverberated around the breach room. "I can't believe that actually worked. I need an aspirin and a handle of tequila."

"You did good, Cisco," Barry applauded. He started to come up the steps but he paused with his hand on the rail. A heartbeat, and then, behind him, the familiar blue whirlpool of causality swirled open over the breach pad.

"I had to go and jinx it, didn't I," Cisco groaned.

Barry turned back towards the breach, holding up a cautioning hand. "I think --" he said, haltingly, "I'm coming."

H.R.'s jaw dropped. He furiously stabbed his drumstick towards Barry and glared across at Cisco. "How come he gets to make rude jokes and I don't?"

His question was ignored. Out from the wormhole came the Flash, weary and worn. His suit was ripped and bloodied, smelling faintly of diesel and smoke. His feet hit the floor and he stumbled, nearly going over if it weren't for Barry's quick blink forward to catch him.

"Hey, easy," Barry said, helping the Flash right himself. "You did it, we got you."

The Flash looked at Barry, staring through him. Then recognition visibly set in, and he pushed Barry off roughly. "I didn't do anything," he spat. "He did. He really killed her."

"Yeah, yeah he did," Barry said, glancing back to Cisco and H.R. for backup. They stared down at the two Barrys from the platform, stock still, utterly out of their depth. Barry turned back to the Flash, his hands up to settle, to soothe. "And I've had to live with that every day for the last twenty-four years. But it's okay. Really, it's okay. He only did what he had to do."

The Flash waved off Barry's consoling reach, turning to pace around the empty space in front of the breach pad. His hands went to his face, and the other three pretended not to see him wipe away his tears. After a minute of this, the Flash turned searching eyes on the room, stopping at last on Cisco.

"Mr. Ramon--"

Two voices answered him: "Yes?" Cisco shot H.R. a dirty look.

"Please, call me Cisco. Mr. Ramon is my husband." He made a dismissive gesture towards the man in question.

"We don't hyphenate on my Earth," H.R. told the Flash, as if any explanation had been asked for or needed.

Cisco snapped his fingers several times to get H.R.'s attention. "Sweetheart, how about you let the grown-ups talk now, alright?"

This trivial exchange washed on over the Flash, completely unheeded. "Cisco," he said earnestly, stalking past Barry and up to the console platform, "The Reverse-Flash -- Eobard Thawne -- what happened to him, is he here?"

It was Cisco's turn to look to Barry for guidance. At Barry's small helpless shrug, Cisco spread his hands and offered the Flash a reassuring smile. "No worries there, my friend. We took care of him ages ago."

A thunderstorm of emotion passed over the Flash's face. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice low and cold.

Again Cisco looked to Barry, a trifle started this time around. "We … it's complicated because we didn't know who we were dealing with until it was too late. But to make a long story short, we fought him, and we won."

Barry shuffled forward and put a foot on the bottom step, looking up at his alternate timeline doppelganger. "He lost his speed in the Crisis so he built the particle accelerator and created me, the Flash, just so I could open a wormhole and send him back to the future."

The Flash ducked his head down and to the side, putting Barry in his peripheral vision without really looking at him. "And you stopped him from going back?"

Barry rolled his shoulders, defensive and a little proud. "He gave me a choice, he wanted me to choose between saving my mother or stopping him. Obviously I had to stop him."

A heavy silence filled the breach room as the Flash processed this information. "He's dead?" A flat monotone question.

Cisco sucked both his lips in and let them go with a pop. "Functionally, yes. If you want to get specific, due to temporal grafting we were able to erase Eobard Thawne from this timeline entirely."

The Flash startled everyone present by attempting to put his fist through the console's steel desktop. The force of it knocked the book, Cisco's alpha timeline totem, to the floor. In the shocked silence that followed, the Flash calmly bent and retrieved it, thumbing the yellowed pages with infinite tenderness.

"I took his speed," the Flash said after a moment. He didn't look up from the book he held. "Most of it. The second she died, the exact instant the divergent timeline was created, I felt myself start to merge with that version of me. I didn't know if I would stay connected to the Speed Force long enough to make it out. I took his speed, thinking he'd find another way back."

While Cisco and Barry exchanged another volley of nonverbal communicaes, H.R. raised his hand. "Forgive me for interrupting, but I think I must be missing something. I never met the guy, but I always understood that the Reverse-Flash was nasty business. I'm H.R., by the way. Originally Earth-19 Harrison Wells, although don't be alarmed if you don't see the resemblance. Facial transmogrification and all that."

H.R. extended his hand to the Flash, who just looked at it dully without moving.

"You were wrong about him." The Flash slowly lifted his eyes to look at H.R., Cisco, and finally Barry in turn. "He played his part in the Crisis because I asked him to, and in return for saving the multiverse, he gets erased from it?"

In the uneasy silence that followed, only one man was brave enough to speak.

"I lobbied hard to call it the 'Alpha-Beta-Crisis' because then it spells A-B-C," H.R. said brightly. "Nifty, right? Like that alphabet soup you have here, gosh I love that soup; on my Earth all we had was Roman numeral soup -- can you say booooring."

Cisco shook his head, eyes locked on the floor. "H.R., love of my life, shut your mouth before I divorce you again," he warned quietly.

H.R. just chuckled nervously. "You're joking -- he's just joking. What a jokester, my Francesco. Really keen on his jokes, this one. Always with the jokes!"

"Keep flappin' that trap and we'll see if I'm joking, won't we?" When Cisco looked up at him, there was fire in his eyes.

H.R. paled. He twiddled his drumstick and edged towards the exit. "Why don't I just go grab us a couple of coffees? You still a decaf man, A.B.A? The first A stands for--"

"H.R.!"

In the wake of the echoes of Cisco's outburst dying down around them in the cavernous stillness of the breach room, H.R. effected his escape. "Right, I'll let you unpack that one on your own time. H.R. out."

Barry stirred, making to follow him. "Nate was right," he said, bitterly, enigmatically, to Cisco as he passed the Flash on the way to the door. "Nate was right all along."

Cisco was left alone with the grieving Flash, who stood there holding that book like a ghost of a man. He cleared his throat. "Look. I don't know who Eobard Thawne was before he got here, other than what he told us about his rivalry with you. But while he was here, lying to us every day, he did a lot of terrible things. Hurt a lot of people. I'm sorry if we got it wrong, but he didn't leave us a choice."

Very, very slowly, Barry lifted his head.

"Didn't he?"

A Last love,

proper in conclusion,

should snip the wings

forbidding further flight.

But I, now,

reft of that confusion,

am lifted up

and speeding toward the light.

Recovery - Maya Angelou

MAN OUT OF TIME

PART III.b

Central City, Missouri - 2015 - SPRING

Harrison Wells leaned back in his chair, slid his glasses back off his face, and became Eobard Thawne.

"While we're on the subject of confessions," he told the blank glassy lens of the holo-recorder, "I'll admit that sometimes I've wondered if you were ever real."

Eobard chewed over the admission, irritable, shifting in his chair like he might stand up and turn the recorder off. He looked down at the glasses in his hands, and when he looked up, there was something rueful twisting in his lips, some dark humor glinting in his borrowed eyes. He leaned forward, towards the lens.

"There was one--" here he stopped for a barking laugh, little more than a scoff, one elbow on the table and Wells' glasses dangling from his fingers, "--one truly chilling moment I remember, just a few years back, just after construction of the pipeline had broken ground. The days -- and most, if not all, of the nights -- were bleeding together with the crush of meetings and inspections and deadlines and what have you; in the thick of it one would think that the place was operating on snap decisions and caffeine alone. It wasn't, obviously. A decade of carefully laid plans were being executed by the most proficient workforce money could buy, but I remember it felt like the whole thing could come spinning off the axle at any moment."

Eobard's grin threatened to bend towards nostalgic. Catching it in time, he narrowed his eyes and tipped the scales of his expression in favor of bitter and away from sweet.

"Well. One of these endlessly late nights I'm walking through the corridors, alone, and because there's a brief turnover of the crews working below, for a moment everything's silent. A real, haunting silence. Now me, I hardly notice. I've got a hundred and one issues rumbling in my head, you know, the sort of overwhelming minutia that keeps the average industrialist up at night. Nothing new there, to be honest," he shrugs, "But here I am, Dr. Harrison Wells, completely lost in the business of setting up S.T.A.R Labs, and that's when it hits me."

Eobard settled evenly on his elbows, shoulders hunched, staring down at the plastic frames he held. Positioning these in view of the lens, he shook his head. His voice, when he continued, held an anger that ran quiet and deep like the ocean.

"In that moment, I am Dr. Harrison Wells. I am the inspired mind responsible for all this -- for everything S.T.A.R Labs could and will be, I, Dr. Harrison Wells, will be recognized and held responsible. I hadn't noticed when it had become such a natural and effortless feeling to be wearing this man's name and to be standing in his place, forging his legacy. So natural, in fact, that I had to stop and seriously consider the possibility that Eobard Thawne didn't exist."

He set the glasses on the table with infinite care, looking as though all he wanted in the world was to smash them into splinters with his fists.

Eobard looked back up, staring dead at the lens, and tersely wet his lips. "And if he didn't exist, what guarantee did I have of your being real?"

He exhaled, another scornful almost-laugh, devoid of anything approaching humor. He stared into the lens for a long stretch, unblinking. Then he clicked his tongue and sat back in his chair again.

"Having come to the conclusion that none of this would mean a damn thing if you weren't out there, I soldiered on. Every day since our last … meeting, I have done, as you so rightly insisted, what I had to do. Every day spent working towards …." Here Eobard shook his head with his fingers pressed to his lips, musing for a thought that either wouldn't come or he couldn't voice.

He left that sentence unfinished, moving his hand up to scrub his forehead and eyes. Resetting his train of thought.

"I am a man out of time, Barry," he told the middle distance to the left of the recorder, somewhere off to his right. "In every delicate and calculated nuance of the phrase. I am out of time."

Eobard swung his head back around to fix the lens with a half-manic grin, his shoulders twitching with jumpy shrug that was echoed in the lift of his brows.

"'So what?' I suppose. I was never deluded enough to believe this story had a happy ending. Not any story that involves you and me. Not ours."

He shook his head, the mania hardening into a grim sobriety. "Our narrative is built on spite and is written in blood and there can be no plausible ending where both you and I find the salvation promised to all good and faithful servants. There is no clockwork deus ex machina waiting to swoop down from the wings and deliver us from our tragedy. That's not the kind of story we are, and I've accepted that. I've known from the start that there was no looking you in the eye when all was said and done. I wouldn't be recording this if I didn't know, for a fact, that this is the only chance I have to…."

Eobard grimaced, a thinning of the lips and a deepening of the crow's feet at the sides of his eyes. Maybe Harrison Wells was a man who could apologize. This man was not Harrison Wells.

"Maybe I got ahead of myself. Clearly, if you're watching this, then I managed to get myself killed." He paused to let this sink in, an ironic smile directed at the lens. "I can't be too upset about it, because if you're watching this, then I also managed to close the last loop in making this message available to you. Playing Russian Roulette against the multiverse is a thrilling prospect, I assure you." He winked while saying this.

"In any case, since this is a message from a dead man, I want to ask you not to blame these people for what they've done. In this reality it's not too egotistical to say that each one of them is a masterpiece sculpted by yours truly, so in the end, if they were able to outwit me and orchestrate my death, then the appropriate response should be pride. Forgive them, if you can. And as for this timeline's Barry Allen, I wonder if you can forgive me."

Eobard spoke these last words directly to the lens, and as they faded from his lips he dropped his gaze as if to study the lab table a while. At last he sighed and lifted his head to address the the invisible future recipient of the message.

"Barry Allen." He said the name like a prayer, resonant with awe and holy fervor. "Words alone cannot express the width and depth of the many varied sentiments I carry for you. I face my destiny with the assumption that my actions have been eloquent enough."

His gaze went soft, turned inward, focused on something he couldn't share with the lens. The flicker of a real smile danced across his face, there and gone in a heartbeat, easy to miss. "See you around, Flash. When the time is right, I'll be there."

Eobard Thawne leaned forward and switched the recording off.

The events that unfolded before the end went more or less according to plan.

First, the truth about Harrison Wells was uncovered (exhumed might be a better word, given the circumstances), exposing Eobard as the charlatan he had been since the inception of this timeline. He was ready for this. He had more than a few trump cards hidden up his sleeve. Fifteen years of preparation and a genius intellect weren't so easily bested.

"Then face me now!" an impotent Barry shouted, just a voice in his ear, all bark and no bite.

"Oh," Eobard breathed, "We will face each other again, I promise you. Soon. Very, very soon." Whether he addressed a ghost or a what-if or a never-was, or even the wounded Barry Allen to whom he currently spoke, he couldn't be certain.

Second, Eobard collected his insurance, stealing Eddie Thawne away until the final key to restoring the particle accelerator could be completed. It didn't surprise him that Team Flash took their sweet time mounting a rescue for this relative (that's a pun) waste of space, but then again they were preoccupied with monkeying around and booking rogue international flights.

"I'm impressed you went to such great lengths to keep those people from harm. Ever the hero, huh, Barry?" The sentiment came out far less sarcastic than the situation required.

Barry didn't notice. He stood there with his shoulders squared and his brow set, full indignant tantrum mode. "You've hurt enough people."

"I know, you see me as the villain. But Barry, if you were to look back -- look back carefully -- at everything I've done, every wheel I have set in motion, you would realize I have only done what I had to do. Nothing more. Nothing less." Only what another Barry Allen, from another time and place, had asked him to do. Not that he expected this Barry Allen to ever understand.

Then he was outgunned by a trio of kids who looked like they'd be more comfortable at a Halloween party than on a battlefield, and thrown into a dungeon of his own creation. The proverbial key, he presumed, was thrown away. It stung, the indignity of his capture, but imprisonment wasn't all bad; his request for Big Belly Burgers was respected for some reason, and even if he didn't have much room to stretch his legs, he'd had plenty of time as Harrison Wells to get used to that restless tingle.

Furthermore, Eobard had resumed his position of power, effortlessly continuing the manipulation of his team from the safety of his cell. Caitlin Snow, Cisco Ramon. Joe West. Barry Allen. Children unable to take care of themselves, craving his direction, his attention, even as they despised and distrusted him. He was more than willing to cater to their bad habits.

Barry, of course, came to him armed with a lifetime of thorny questions, the answers to which would only drive the barbs deeper. Eobard didn't mind watching his would-be-once-was rival buckle under the words Eobard had ready for him. This, too, was all part of the plan.

"Why were we enemies?"

"It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter -- anymore." Eobard spun some villainous lies, suited to the part. The myth of the Flash-Reverse-Flash feud, as dictated by fate, had always been destined to outlive them both. "I'm giving you a chance to undo all the evil I've done."

Then there was Joe, coming to reprise his performance of Bad Cop slash Overly Protective Father, having no idea that Eobard had already been subjected to a very similar lecture in another lifetime, albeit under a wholly different context.

"There are people you care about. Isn't there." The phrasing of the question was a formality, rhetorical almost, an answer unnecessary to confirm what Joe already knew. Eobard wouldn't lie to him at this juncture anyway. "In the future I mean. I don't think you'd be this eager, go as far as you have, to get back to your time unless there were people there that you held dear. As dear as I hold Barry, and Iris."

"I do." Eobard wouldn't lie, but he felt free to omit. This Joe, with his finely honed detective instincts, had hit the nail square on the head, although he could never have guessed the exact nature of Eobard's relationship with his daughter and son-in-law in that other life. Probably for the best not to mention it now.

And Cisco. Oh, Cisco, Cisco, Cisco.

Cisco came, with anger and betrayal eating gaping holes in his own defenses, walls built against the boogeyman too cheaply and too late, just to confirm for Eobard that the future was as yet on the right track. A to B to C to A, blood begetting blood and violence begetting violence, the Vicious Cycle in its purest form.

"Don't be afraid, Cisco. A great and …. honorable… destiny awaits you now. I only hope that as you're living your great adventure, that you remember who gave you that life, and that it was given out of love."

Soon he had them wrapped around his finger, working like the well oiled machine he had built them to be, propelling his plans headlong into their final stages. There was a wormhole to create and a time sphere to construct. There were choices to make, and Barry made them, as only Barry knew how -- with blistering spontaneity and a staggering minimum of forethought that made Eobard want to scream.

And that was as far as Eobard's plans took him, in this series of events. A lifetime of work, fifteen years in the making, crumbled into dust because favorite son Barry Allen willed it to be so. It was like Eobard had bet his entire fortune on black, and the House -- that two-faced siren called Destiny -- had spun the wheel and laughed when it landed on red.

In the end, there would be no grand homecoming for Eobard Thawne. (Bummer.)

Finally, a stray coincidence beyond all reckoning, like the trivial and all-important flap of a butterfly's wing, and, incidentally, part of no one's plan whatsoever: a choice made, unasked, by a nobody named Eddie Thawne.

Well. That's how this iteration of cause-and-effect played out, anyway. But you'd embarrass yourself in underestimating Eobard Thawne if you believed for a second that his plan ended along with him.

Beloved,

In what other lives or lands

Have I known your lips

Your Hands

Your Laughter brave

Irreverent.

Those sweet excesses that

I do adore.

What surety is there

That we will meet again,

On other worlds some

Future time undated.

I defy my body's haste.

Without the promise

Of one more sweet encounter

I will not deign to die.

Refusal - Maya Angelou

PART III.a

Central City, Missouri - 2025 - Winter

It's cold.

Cold enough to stop a speedster in his tracks? The man jingling keys out of the pocket of his genuine leather overcoat wouldn't know. He's not the right guy to ask. Not anymore.

It's cold enough to make him impatient, at the very least. He fumbles the key into the padlock on the second try, the frozen metal sticking, and the padlock arm springs open with a click. He reclaims the key and hooks the open arm of the padlock on one of the links of the security gate that keeps the hoodlums from smashing the plate glass windows. Pulling the loose end of the chain from the frame set into the wall, he checks his footing for ice before heaving the gate to one side with the shredding screech of metal on concrete.

Keys in hand again, he unlocks the door handle and the deadbolt above it. He looks over his shoulder before depressing the latch and letting himself in -- the twilit street is grayscale with muddy asphalt and smog-stained piles of snow lumped up around the streetlights. The frost-crusted sidewalks are empty and the motor traffic rumbles down roads more attractive than this one.

Maybe he suffers from a touch of paranoia, always watching his back for unseen agents spying from the shadows. Then again, maybe he wants to be followed; maybe he's waiting for someone to catch up.

You could ask him which one it is, but he won't answer. Nobody appears out of the evening gloom, anyhow, and he pushes his way on inside. The door closes. The neon signs in the windows sputter to life. They depict the colorful logos of major beer brands, mostly. Front and center, though, in a curving script that glows a vivid red, is the word "Joe's."

Inside the bar, the man occupies himself with the minutiae that comes with opening up shop. He may not be the fastest man alive, but he gets through all this in time. He is methodical and diligent, and a place like this affords him precious few distractions.

Whether it should be considered lucky or not, he isn't bothered by a single customer for most of the night.

He's finished organizing the display bottles behind the bar by relative opaqueness and is about to re-order them by label size when the annoying little bell over the door jingles brightly. It's probably one of his greatest regrets, sticking with the period (contemporary, he reminds himself) theme for the bar. But something had warned him that it wouldn't do any good to negotiate with fate; it certainly hadn't gone his way last time he had tried.

He turns towards the counter with a bottle of what happens to be a single malt whiskey in his hand, and his heart clambers up into his throat to see a blood-red windbreaker thrown carelessly over the bar.

The face it belongs to, though, leaves much to be desired. Sandy-haired, round in the cheeks, a little soft when it comes to the chin. Just some guy. Just some guy with eyes that glow with a secret he obviously wants to share.

The cost of owning a bar would be the drunks, wouldn't it, he reminds himself.

The guy's voice matches the face, plain, unexciting, nothing to write home about. "Been out of town a while," he says, like it's the funniest joke in the world. "Last time I was here this was a coffee shop or something."

"Jitters, sure," he nods, setting the whiskey down on the lower counter on his side of the bar, "Place closed up after the Crisis, been empty ever since. Landlady says she doesn't know whatever happened to the previous owners. Leased it for a song."

"Lotta people went missing after the Crisis." Red-windbreaker guy says. His mouth does this half-hearted shrug which manages to be both infuriating and charming. He gives the empty interior of the bar a lazy once-over. "Business hasn't picked up, yet, huh? How long you been open?"

The answer is a laugh, a single "Ha." To better explain this answer, he adds, "All told, about three hours. You're my first customer, in fact."

The guy's eyebrows raise slowly, an out of place look of disappointment glancing from his wide eyes. "For real? This is your grand opening? It's supposed to be a party."

"The last time I arranged for a grand unveiling, the whole thing blew up in my face." He wonders how long it'll take him to shake this incessant need to couch trivial statements in private riddles. Maybe it's just a part of him now, like so many things from that other lifetime are. "Tell you what. How about my first customer's first round is half off, is that more in the spirit of things?"

"I'll drink to that," the guy smiles. He's got a sunburst smile that looks like it comes easy. "To Joe's."

"To Joe's. What are you having?" He inclines his head slightly. "I'll beg your pardon for not asking sooner -- it's my first day on the job, you see."

The guy magnanimously shrugs it off, and then, in a move that's flat-out audacious, winks. "I'll take a shot of that whiskey you were fondling when I came in."

A shot glass is procured and the whiskey is uncapped without a word. His hand steady, he pours the guy his discounted drink. He sets it in front of his customer, but the guy just grins that foolhardy grin at him and ups the ante.

"Now I'm going to be all self-conscious, sitting at the bar by myself. Bad form to drink alone, after all. Let me buy you a drink," the guy says, cheerful, "You know, since we're catering to the spirit of things? To celebrate your un-grand opening and all."

"I think you had one too many sales pitches in there," he says in response, dry as ice. Still, it isn't like he can get drunk on the job. "But a sale's a sale."

A second shot glass procured and filled, he raises his glass towards his customer, who mirrors the gesture. "To Joe's," they say, one as bright as the other is dark, and then together they drink.

"Don't take this the wrong way," the guy says, slamming his glass back onto the counter and wincing around the burn in his throat, "but you don't exactly look like a Joe." He leans a round cheek against his fist, his eyes watery from the sting of the alcohol. Not a man well-versed in his liquor, this one.

In the other corner, fifteen years of business lunches and industry meet-and-greets and charitable cocktail galas have forged him into a veritable master in the art of drinking. His shot glass meets the counter with a demure click of glass on wood. "That would probably be because I'm not a Joe. Though some people have told me I bear a passing resemblance to one Harrison Wells."

The guy squints, coy. "I don't see it."

"It's something about the eyes," he offers, deadpan. "The other guy wears glasses. The smug old bastard thinks they make him look smarter than he is."

The other guy snorts and says under his breath, "I'm going to tell him you said that." Raising his voice to directly address his not-Joe bartender, he asks, "If not Joe, then…?"

He crosses his arms, chewing on the question briefly. "Haven't decided yet," he replies, just as brief, still deadpan. There's a hard line burrowed in his brow.

"Ok, well," the guy laughs, flopping his hand to the countertop and leaning forward curiously, "Why call it Joe's, then?"

His eyes narrow a fraction, surveying this nosy Chatty Kathy with a hint of something that might soon become annoyance. "I thought it was the bartender who was supposed to listen to boring life stories," he drawls, his voice gravel. The other guy just waves a hand flippantly to indicate that he's not bothered by this role reversal, so he grabs the shot glasses and turns towards the small sink basin set under the far end of the counter.

"I knew a Joe once," he explains, running the glasses under the tap. "Long time ago. Owed the guy a drink and unfortunately had trouble getting around to delivering on that promise."

From the other end of the bar comes a set of words that hit him the wrong way. "That's a recurring problem for you."

"What--" he turns, slowly. He slides the green-checked dish towel from his shoulder automatically, drying his hands by rote. His mind is elsewhere, churning, "--would you know about that?"

He walks mechanically back to stand across the counter from his one and only customer, glaring into this sunny round face and not seeing it at all. "Who are you?"

The guy obligingly proffers his hand over the bar. "Call me Bart."

He reaches forward to accept the handshake against his better judgement. It's like he's suddenly been knocked underwater and he's not certain which way it is to the surface, the light wavy and the sound distorted and the unyielding pressure squeezing in on all sides.

The second their hands meet, Eobard feels like a drowned man who has had his life breathed back into his lungs. Like a man on his deathbed who has been told it's all been a mistake and he's fine, he can go home now. Hell, he feels like goddamn Sleeping Beauty herself, roused from her eternal sleep by true love's kiss.

The Speed Force arcs into him -- floods into him -- sparking along his dusty nerve endings and eddying into long-dry reservoirs. The heat of it is astounding, raw electricity charging through this human conduit at an impossible amperage, and the experience of taking it in all at once is almost as terrifying as that first lightning strike had been all those years from now.

It probably only takes a few scant seconds, jumping his dead battery like this, but when Eobard snaps back into his surroundings with a gasp, it feels like he's been gone a lifetime. (In the grand scheme of things, he's not wrong.)

"I'm sorry," he says, light-headed, shaking, holding onto this familiar-unfamiliar hand for dear life, "What did you say your name was."

"Bart," Barry says, that stupid beautiful grin plastered ear to ear on his stupid fake face, "Bart Allen. I've got family in town, you may know them."

"I may -- ha, your family," Eobard mutters incoherently. He's still holding Barry's hand and when he notices this he very nearly throws it out of his grasp. He can feel the lightning in his eyes and he's afraid what he might do with all this newfound power.

"Barry Allen," he growls, planting both hands firmly on the counter top. "You're late."

Barry puts his head back and laughs.

"And where on earth did you acquire that face?" Eobard roars over the laughter, "I thought being stuck with this pruney mug until the end of time was as bad as it gets, but then you come waltzing in here looking like that. You're never happy unless you're proving me wrong, aren't you?"

"Oh that, I've got a -- hold on a second," Barry says, flicking a mirthful tear from the corner of his eye. He rummages through the pockets of his windbreaker for a moment, ultimately retrieving a brass stylus of some sort. "A gift from a little place called Earth-19, to answer your question."

Barry activates the stylus, casting a flash of blue light onto his round face. There's a flicker of visual tearing, which, in three dimensions, is hard on the eyes -- but then there he is, the one and only Barry Allen. He looks about ten years older than he should be, but that would be due to Eobard's memory being topped off with fresh memories of the wrong Barry Allen.

"Smoke and mirrors, then," Eobard nods. "Lucky you've got options."

Barry shrugs. "Light refraction technology, actually. I know the face will take some getting used to, but the newspaper says the CCPD's CSI director's been missing since the crisis, and, as far as anybody knows, the Flash has vanished for good. Bart Allen won't raise too many questions if he's moved back to town to be closer to his bereaved family in these troubled times."

"I knew a guy who believed everything he read in the newspaper," Eobard says, tossing Barry his top-shelf side-eye.

"It's a bias, I'll admit to that," Barry grins.

Eobard drops his attention to the spotless counter top below the bar, running the dishrag over it in a ploy to appear unconcerned. "And how is Iris? I shudder to think you came straight here without stopping home first."

Barry shifts and rustles with his jacket again, and Eobard glances up to see him tugging a thin rectangular object from another of his pockets. The weather-stained book goes onto the bar top between them, and they both ignore it after that.

"She's good, Iris is fine," Barry tells him, a series of bobbing nods accenting his words. "Happy I'm not dead, or not trapped in an alternate timeline, at least."

Barry stops himself, ducking his head with an embarrassed huff. He squints back up at Eobard, a hand anxiously smoothing down the already-smooth hair on the back of his head. "Which reminds me I owe you an apology for both of those things happening to you."

Eobard laughs, a single silent exhale that rocks his upper body with its force. His eyelids flutter closed for a heartbeat and he's shaking his head without intending to move at all. "You don't owe me a goddamn thing, Barry Allen. You saw him there, didn't you? I told him he could save her, even knowing the multiverse wouldn't allow him to. He ran all the way back there just to listen to her die."

That narrow chin wobbles while Barry's jaw works, and Eobard knows the effect won't be at all the same on the droll soft face he's chosen to wear for the rest of his life. "You only did what you had to do. I won't be your judge. You know I can't."

Eyes narrowed still, Eobard tosses his head to indicate the battered relic on the bar. "You watched it, then?"

"Nah," Barry says.

It's not at all the answer Eobard was expecting, so it doesn't quite take the first time. "No?"

Barry spreads his hands. "I have a good enough guess what it says. But as far as I'm concerned, whatever's on that disc is the last message of a dead man. Wouldn't be right to watch it while the man's still alive."

"You're too smart for your own good, you know that." It's not even a question. A hesitant smile is threatening to break out over Eobard's face and he wonders if, in fighting it, he doesn't just end up looking twice as undignified. "Here I thought I'd leave you a trail of breadcrumbs to follow -- that is, if you so chose. Looks like I couldn't stop you from showing up on my doorstep even if I tried."

Barry leans his angular cheek against his fist again, looking up at Eobard with a hint of dreaminess in his partially lidded eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about breadcrumbs for. You left the hugest 'this way to Eobard' sign possible. When I saw Cisco had this book, and when he'd gotten it from, I knew instantly you'd found a way back here."

Eobard rolls one shoulder. "Like I said, I told him he could save her. I gave him that choice."

"Counting on that one-in-infinity chance that the timeline created as a result of his choice would be the one to take you home." Barry shakes his head. "Those are some odds to play against. If it were me, I wouldn't take 'em."

Eobard leans forward onto the bar. "An infinite number of Eobards were destined not to make it out of there," he says, the familiar existential ache settling over him, "The only risk was in being one of them."

"But you're you," Barry says, voice low, eyes bright. "Behind that face -- which I don't mind at all, I have to say -- you're still you. And here you are."

"Here we are," Eobard agrees. He's not sure what there is left to say.

Barry taps the warped cover of his mother's book with a thoughtful fingertip. "All that stuff they found that we have to leave behind -- we've got our work cut out for us, don't we? If you've got the holo-recording on you, we can run back home and get my copy of this," he drums his fingers on the book, "out of the den. I know Iris would be thrilled to see you."

He's suddenly bashful, unable to lift his eyes from where they rest on the book cover. Their work's cut out for them indeed. They both have some battle scars that will need to mend before everything's back to the way it was before fate took them down two very different paths.

Eobard licks his lips. He reaches out and puts his hand on Barry's, on top of the book. He waits until Barry looks up.

"I intend to take you up on your offer at some point, so don't take this the wrong way: there's no rush. Now that I've got my speed back -- by the way I'm not angry with you for taking it and I'll have to find some really creative and probably filthy way of thanking you properly for returning it -- I'll close these last loops when I get to them. If I've learned anything from this life of mine, it's that everything happens in its own time. Whether you want it to or not."

Barry just nods, silent. Eobard slips his hand off and bends to pull two more shot glasses from the shelf below the counter. Barry watches him pour the whiskey, and flicks his eyes up to Eobard when one of the full glasses is placed in front of him.

"Besides," Eobard says, lifting his glass. "You can't just casually mention an 'Earth-19' and leave it at that. I've been away for fifteen years, remember, I believe we have some catching up to do."

The corner of Barry's mouth screws up into a chewed-on smile. He takes his glass in his thin fingers and lifts it in kind. "It's a long story, you sure you've got the time?"

Eobard's smile flashes brighter than lightning. "Barry Allen, who do you think I am? I've got all the time in the world."

in the infinite multiverse theory, this happens at least once

Checking the corridor was clear before he entered, Nate slipped into the study, loot in hand.

"Gideon, open a log for me, will ya? I've got to record the details of this alpha timeline artifact before we ship it off to Cisco." He squeezed himself behind the curved desk in the center of the room, setting the small worn paperback reverently on the table top between a carved stone bowl and the little magnetic globe.

"Certainly, Dr. Heywood," Gideon's ephemeral voice replied. "Will this be an addition to your series of speculations on the possible events that lead these artifacts to be strewn about the timeline?"

"You got it, Gideon," Nate told the room, his focus already scoping in towards the book and the mystery it contained.

"Very well. You may begin recording at any time."

Nate pulled the thin white envelope from its place nestled between the pages, and settled back in his chair, running a thumb over the inked letters. He cleared his throat.

"Canyon City, Yukon Territory. Nineteen-oh-two. Winter."

Here he paused, abruptly leaning forward over the desk to peer out through the door and into what he could see of the corridor beyond. All clear. He sat back again and resumed his "log."

"It's cold. Cold enough to stop a speedster in his tracks…."

Elsewhere on the Waverider, Jax put his hand on the bulkhead and poked his head into the kitchen. Empty. "Yo Gideon."

"Yes, Mr. Jackson?"

"You seen Nate anywhere? We're gonna hit up 1943 Chicago for the invention of the deep dish, wanna see if he's in."

There was a pause before Gideon answered. "Dr. Heywood is currently in the study recording a log of the artifact the team recovered from 1903. I can notify him of your plans, if you wish."

Jax crossed his arms, leaning back against the bulkhead in the kitchen doorway. "A log, huh? More of his sappy time traveler fanfiction?"

There was an even longer pause. Long enough to cause concern about Gideon's continued operation. But her voice eventually echoed down an answer. "Yes."

"That's cool," Jax shrugged. "Don't bother him on account of me. Just let me know when he's done, alright? I'm dying to see what happens next.

#the flash #fanfiction #eobarry #barry allen #eobard thawne #the reverse-flash #legends of tomorrow #sara lance #ray palmer #nate heywood #martin stein #cisco ramon #h.r. wells #harrison wells #jax #jefferson jackson #slash #words

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