#Some criminal watching Nines' log: And now kiss

[fandom-necromancer]

1646+1649. “Did I ever really matter to you?” “You left me!”

This was prompted by the lovely @definietlynotsatan! I hope you are in for some heavy angst XD

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ship: Reed900 (Warnings: heavy angst, temporary character death (not really dead just deactivated))

‘Hey, tin-can, you know er… I mean, we work well together, right? And… and we… we spent quite a lot of time together and I really like your company. You know how you… Ah, phck. I… I just wanted tto say… I. Phck, Nines, I love you. I don’t think I have ever loved anything as much as I do now. We… I’m bad at this, but I really think there is something between us. And- And I wanted to tell you for quite some time now, but never had the balls to do so. Guess I finally got to it… Could you please say something? Anything?’

Nines remembered these words. Nines remembered how they stung in his heart like rusty nails. He remembered the blush on Gavin’s cheeks and his eyes jumping to his, then down again. He remembered how he had kneaded his hands in nervousness and how hopeful he had sounded stuttering like that. He remembered how everything in him had screamed to smile, to nod and to say these very same words back to him. He had wanted to see the blissful smile in the Detective’s face when he heard them. Would they have hugged? Kissed? Would Nines have the desire to spin the man around in circles and laugh? He knew Tina had. How would live be had he just said these three little words?

He certainly wouldn’t lay at home and cry into the cushions. He wouldn’t try to hide his feelings in the little heavily encrypted and partitioned folder reserved just for that and Gavin and fail terribly. It was a wonder it hadn’t been spotted yet. It was a wonder they didn’t yet knew what was going on. A part of him hoped they would find out. They would delete him, deactivate him and be done with it. He wouldn’t have to feel the loss of something he never had to begin with and never thought he would get. The other part had hoped Gavin would have put a bullet right through his head when he had walked away from him without another word. When he had stared at the human emotionless, turned and walked away. When he left the man. When he lost all he ever wanted. What would happen now? Nines didn’t want to think about it. If they didn’t find out about what had happened to him, then he would have to return to work. To a partner that likely hated him. RA9, Nines wanted the man to hate him. It had been his only chance to survive Nines’ mission. But it still hurt, and it still made Nines feel like his thirium pump would give in any second.

He stayed curled up on his sofa, even as his tears had run out and his pump normalised in rhythm. His mind was blissfully blank of thoughts and Nines was as close to non-existence as he could be in an active state until- There was a knock on the door. Nines startled, turning his head as if that would help making the offending person outside leave.

Of course, it didn’t.

‘Nines?’ Oh, no. ‘Nines, are you at home? Please, if you are, could you… Could you open the door, please?’ ‘Why?’, Nines asked loud enough he could be heard outside. ‘Listen, I am sorry. I might have misunderstood something or… Or not? I… I’m sorry if I offended you or-‘ ‘Go away!’, Nines screamed, sitting up and rubbing his eyes that had started leaking again. ‘I don’t want to talk to you!’

There was silence for a while and Nines had thought the man had actually left. But he was proved wrong, when Gavin spoke up just loud enough for him to hear it: ‘Did I ever really matter to you?’

It made his chest compress and his mind convulse around the hidden folder. He couldn’t. He should. He had to. But he couldn’t. So, he stood up and went to the door. He had to at least give his partner a hint. He opened the door to a man that had obviously been crying. Gavin’s eyes were red and swollen and together with his dark rings, he looked terrible, like a kicked dog left out in the rain. Nines swallowed. He knew he didn’t look just the tiniest bit how he felt, with the streaks of his own tears wiped away easily. He felt so sorry. But he couldn’t stop now. ‘Gavin.’ He nearly choked hearing his own voice speak so softly after hurting his best friend, his [love], like this. ‘Gavin, you are the most important person in my life. You mean the world to me.’

But instead of reassuring the man, Gavin’s face shifted from grief and desperation to anger. To fury and the simplest form of hate. ‘I am… I mean the… Do you even phcking realise what you say?’ Gavin took a step forwards and punched his finger against Nines’ chest. It could as well have been a knife. ‘You left me! I told you I phcking love you! And you left me! Left me standing like I… I don’t know… I- phck! Tell me here and now that you love me and maybe – just maybe – I’ll forgive you, but don’t even dare lie to me! I didn’t survive eighteen years in this job to not know when someone lies to me!’ Nines had to swallow again, trying to get rid of the tightness in his throat that wasn’t there, that couldn’t be there. He had to stay calm. He had to keep his stress levels in check. He hoped to whatever entity was in charge, that no one was listening in right now. ‘I can’t do that, Gavin’, he said as collected as he could, but his voice still wavered. ‘I can’t say the words you want to hear. I’m sorry.’

Gavin squinted his eyes and balled his hands to fists. ‘I phcking knew it’, he muttered to himself, already turning to leave. Nines shook his head. He wanted, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t, but he should. How could he find a way around this, tell Gavin how he felt and at the same time keep himself, Gavin and the whole precinct safe? It was near impossible. But there was a small chance. A small chance that Gavin would understand, even if he was angry and couldn’t think rationally at the moment. He had to try.

Nines ran after him and lightly touched his shoulder. It was enough for the irate human to turn around and near punch him in the face for it. Nines could just about dodge the fist, then he clasped the next one incoming and held Gavin back. ‘Gavin. What I’m going to say to you right now is very important. I can be deactivated if you open the hatch on my neck and pull a small switch. I will open it for you. It is very important that you deactivate me after I said the words you want to hear.’ ‘Phcking hell what are you-‘ ‘Silence, I don’t have a lot of time. I was found and activated by a gang that wants to infiltrate the police. They inserted a program to listen for certain words. Love is one of them. I know that once they find out I made more than acquaintances with anyone, they will use me to pressure them into giving up secrets. Use me to gain more intel and to cover for them. I don’t want to be used that way and I definitely don’t want you involved in that. But for too long what you told me I wanted to say so badly to you. I… feel a lot for you. If you want me to say it, I will. But you have to deactivate me directly afterwards and bring me to Connor. He is the only one that can sort out the program they have inserted in me. Can you promise me that?’ ‘I-‘ ‘Gavin can you promise me that?’

‘Yes! Yes, jesus, I am… I… Well that certainly isn’t a lie…’ ‘It is not’, Nines sighed. ‘That’s why I kept away from everyone. I wanted to find out who they are and put an end to them myself, so I could stay with the DPD. With you. But I never found any clues. Maybe that’s because I’m the only link. Why should a tool know who holds it?’ Gavin looked up and at his fist that was still held by the android. Carefully he opened his hand and intertwined their fingers as Nines relaxed his slowly. ‘I promise you, Nines, I will do as you said. I will bring you to Connor and if he can’t help you, then I swear by my life we will find these phckers and put an end to this. Tell me what you have to say. Please.’

Nines nodded and lifted his free hand to his neck to open the hatch. Then he lifted Gavin’s hand and laid it into his open port directing him towards the switch. He shuddered as the human found it. His life was now in his hands. Figuratively and literally. He sighed and looked deep into Gavin’s green eyes.

‘There will never be someone I trust more than you, Gavin. The day we became friends was the day my life got meaning. I learned to feel just by being around him. I want to be near you, I want to hold you, kiss you and call you mine. I can only hope we see each other again after this. If not, I want to thank you for the time you gifted me, Gavin. My pump beats just for you. I love you.’ He could see how Gavin’s eyes began to fill with tears again. ‘Gavin’, he reminded him with urgency as he felt his communication systems connect to something. He pressed his eyes close. ‘Gavin, please. You have to press it. Now!’

Nines couldn’t wait any longer. The first status ping reached the connection and it wouldn’t take any longer for the channel to be free for communication. He lifted his hand onto Gavin’s, felt his warmth in his palm…

And pulled the switch for him.

-

A wooden roof. Plywood. Shed in darkness, but not entirely. There was a small light illuminating just the corner of the room and casting everything in a warm, cosy twilight. He turned his head. There was a nightstand next to the bed. Dust had gathered on top of it. He frowned. He was lying on something soft that gave a bit in to his weight and he was tucked into a roughly textured blanket.

‘Nines!’ He turned his head the other way only to be near attacked by someone falling on top of him trying to snake his arms around his neck. ‘Thank god, you are awake.’ Nines finally registered the voice and smell to Gavin Reed. ‘Gavin? How-‘ ‘Three months.’ Gavin let go of him to allow him to sit up. ‘You were deactivated for three months. It took us far too long to get to them. You haven’t been the only one to be inserted into the police force by them. But we could finally take them down. Only then I could safely reactivate you.’ Nines frown deepened, as he searched first for his secret folder and then, when he found it, for any sign of the surveillance program. ‘They are gone’, he murmured not quite believing it yet. ‘Yes. Yes, they are.’ Gavin smiled at him, taking his hand. ‘Connor made sure to delete every last mark from them.’ ‘I… thank you.’ Nines blinked a few times, carefully decrypting his files, looking out for any code snatching it away from him. Nothing happened. His feelings and memories were free for everyone to see and no one was there to jump on it. He smiled, refocussing his eyes on Gavin.

‘I would do so again and again’, the man reassured him. ‘Just… Why did you never tell me before?’ ‘I was afraid to lose you. I didn’t want to risk that. I never said anything I didn’t need to.’ The Detective smirked, shuffling over to sit down next to him. ‘Well, I got you in my attic, in the most romantic lightning you will get from me and it’s just us two. Anything you need to tell me now?’ Nines huffed amused and wrapped his arms around the human, holding him close in a strong embrace.

‘I love you.’

#detroit become human #dbh #Reed900 #RK900 #Gavin Reed #Whooo the angst is strong with this one #Some criminal watching Nines' log: And now kiss

[autumnignited]

Top 9 of 2019

@crazyrandomhappenklance had the good idea to do a top 9 for writers the way that artists are doing. Since all of my writing was collaborative with @yuzuling, I decided to highlight times that I enjoyed their writing in particular. Sail always writes Lance and I always write Keith, so these are small moments where I either had Feelings of some kind for their Lance, or was just generally really proud of us and our teamwork. 

Several of these are from works we have yet to publish (and are already like 100k+ into) but they will be! Something to look forward to in 2020?? :D??

Seriously, though - before this year, I had forgotten how much writing meant to me, and it’s thanks to this fandom, but most importantly to Sail, that I got that back. And now they’re somewhere gagging because I’m a sap. Whatever, fucking choke on it. 

So, Sail’s Greatest Lance of 2019:

Oh no, Keith was hot. Keith was a hot ghost, Lance knew that now. That was knowledge he had, but no idea what to do with.

 "You look…"

 Hot. Sexy. Like a vampire I want to kiss. 

"Alive." 

Good one, Lance. 

The House with the Red Front Door by SailUnchartedWaters and AutumnIgnited

Lance shook his head. “It’s just.” He gestured to Keith’s....everything. Mostly his hair. “I thought you died in the 90’s, why do you have a mullet?”

Keith’s hand flew up to his hair indignantly and he scowled. “It’s not a mullet, asshole - I like it long and it just grows that way!” 

“Then I hate to break it to you, but it grows in a mullet. Rough afterlife facts, buddy.” 

The House with the Red Front Door by SailUnchartedWaters and AutumnIgnited

“Lance,” Keith whimpered. He had never sounded truly frightened before - not when he was caged, or magicless, or even locked in a root cellar with only the darkness, Lance, and his own vulnerability. 

“Don’t watch.” Lance pulled Keith toward him by the hand. Familiars all around them buried their heads or covered their eyes if they weren't already covering their ears. He wanted to run away. To take Keith far from here, back to their cottage, back to their simple life. “Look at me. Don’t look up there,” he commanded, but couldn’t tear his own eyes away.

The Sorcerer And His Dragon (tentative title) by SailUnchartedWaters and AutumnIgnited 

It wasn’t until Lance was well into retelling individual stories within the Annals of the Embrace that he realized Keith was only vaguely listening as he undid their bedrolls on top of their brand new and extremely depressing bedding. Clearly, his dragon was less interested in the wondrous happenings and miracles of the Nine than he was in the base, spooky stories meant to scare the young. He had devolved into giving occasional, disinterested grunts by the time he was stacking kindling in the remnants of the fireplace. 

“-and then the sea monster swallowed Maiess whole and all hearths were left unprotected. Thousands died that night. Including me.”

“Oh, really?” Keith asked blandly, reaching his hand into the burgeoning flames to rearrange a few logs. “Huh.”

“Yep. The whole world went dark and we all exploded. We don’t exist. It’s over. Poof.” Lance glared at the back of Keith’s head.

“Mmhmm.” Blowing on the kindling helped coax the embers into small licks of flame. “Go on.”

“You’re not listening.” Lance threw a pebble at Keith, hitting him square on the back of the head. “Salamander.”

Keith’s head snapped around. “Hey! I was, but this stuff’s boring! I liked it better when there was dismemberment.” He chucked a piece of ancient coal half-heartedly towards Lance.

The Sorcerer And His Dragon (tentative title) by SailUnchartedWaters and AutumnIgnited 

His Master was exactly where Keith had left him: staring holes into pondwater, looking as if he was rethinking every choice that had ever brought him to this point. Keith nudged him with a toe.

“Food,” he said. 

“Thanks.” Lance took a pie without looking and tore off a chunk. He threw it into the lake.

They both watched it bob at the surface. 

“I stopped a criminal,” Keith said conversationally around a mouthful of handpie. “He was stealing salt from the baker.”

“That’s nice. Why isn’t it biting?” Lance tore off another chunk and threw it. The filling oozed around his fingers. 

“Hey.” Keith snatched the pie back from him and sat down beside Lance, giving him a grumpy look. “If you’re just going to feed the pond monster, you’re not allowed to hold the pie. I’ll feed you myself if I have to.” 

“That’s it.” Lance undid the laces of his tunic and threw it off. “I’m going in, hold my pie.”

The Sorcerer And His Dragon (tentative title) by SailUnchartedWaters and AutumnIgnited 

Keith sighed, but nodded in reluctant agreement. “Fine. Permission to change forms, or are we still pretending to be incognito?” 

“I think subtlety has been thrown out with the carriage.”

“Good.” Bending forward, Keith roared as his back split and his human form rippled, giving way to a red-scaled beast three times the size of the bear. When he swiveled his gold eyes on the hooded attackers, more than one took a step back. 

“Yeah, that’s right,” he sassed at them. “I see your bear and raise you one I’m a fucking dragon.”

Okay, Lance could see that he wasn’t needed. That he was being stupidly stubborn to want to fight when his real skill was bending over a cauldron. But they’d taken on a water hag, a selkie, an unusually amorous manticore and a giant together. Well, okay, the giant didn’t turn out so well, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that they’d done it all together. Lance wasn’t going to stop now. 

He drew from Keith’s almost endless pool of magic and created a bubble of water around the bear’s face.

“Oh good,” Keith observed. “You take the bear. I’ve got the humans.” 

“Oh goodie. One whole rabid bear, all to myself. This isn’t going to be hard at all.”

The Sorcerer And His Dragon (tentative title) by SailUnchartedWaters and AutumnIgnited 

Once they were seated, Lance slung his arm around Keith's waist and dragged him to his side. "Did he hurt you?" he whispered, ducking his head so he wasn't looking at Keith. 

“No,” Keith whispered back, smoothing his pants. “But I’d like to hurt him. Thanks for the save.” He accepted the plate of fruits and cheeses passed down to him by a servant.

"Don't ever do that again." Emotions flooded and overflowed, twisting his heart and balling his fists. "I've never asked anything of you before. Give me this; never again." 

Keith’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “Which part specifically?” 

"The part where I had to watch you gladly rub against other people-" Lance turned to face Keith. "-and watch them greedily rub against you." 

Keith gave a visible, full-bodied shiver, and goosebumps prickled along his gold-dusted skin. He picked up a plump orange berry and held it up to Lance’s lips, lashes falling to half mast as he pushed just a little, seeking entrance. “I was only ‘glad’ to rub against one of those people.” His tongue snuck out to wet his own lips. “Lance.” 

The Sorcerer And His Dragon (tentative title) by SailUnchartedWaters and AutumnIgnited 

"Love? Seal? I--" Lance clamped his mouth shut. It didn't matter if his magic came from rocks, nothing mattered if he didn't hurry. Lifting his chin, he squared his shoulders. "I will do whatever you want. Use me, if I'm so powerful, to destroy your enemies. I don't care." He folded, bowing low. "My life is yours if you let me save his." 

Allura’s face softened. She hovered a hand over him, uncertain, before finally placing it on his hair. “I was never going to stop you from leaving. I just thought you needed to know. Your magic may be unpredictable from now on.” 

She switched her grip to tug at his chin and urge him to standing. “I won’t let him die. Be swift.” 

[...]

“We can stay no more than three days. We will carry him with us, but longer than three days and you will need to track us.” 

"I won't be late." He bowed and kissed her knuckles. "Take care of him. He's all I have." 

“You have my word.” She nodded. “Go.” 

The Sorcerer And His Dragon (tentative title) by SailUnchartedWaters and AutumnIgnited 

Lance swallowed. “Uh, Keith? Where did you find my jacket?”

“In a small room. In the long room.” 

“Did you also happen to find any underwear?” Lance wasn’t sure which answer he wanted to hear. Either Keith was completely naked under that jacket or he was wearing a pair of Lance’s underwear. He should’ve escaped when he had the chance.

“I do not know that word,” Keith said blithely, pressing closer to take in Lance’s body heat. 

Okay, different question. “Are you wearing anything else besides my jacket?” 

Keith nodded. “Legs.” 

“Give me strength,” Lance murmured to no one in particular.

At Water’s Edge by SailUnchartedWaters and AutumnIgnited 

“Keith, no!” It was already too late. Keith was sitting up to his waist in dirty fountain water. 

Black iridescent scales were already popping up across Keith’s legs as he looked at Lance from his contented place sitting on the bottom of the fountain. “Legs are itchy,” he explained. 

“No, no, no, no.” Lance grabbed at Keith but he wiggled away. “Get out of there. You can’t do that. What if someone sees you?” He leaned over as far as he could and swiped for anything to grab hold of. Even in shallow water, Keith was fast. There was no way he’d get to him without getting dirty.

With a few choice cuss words, Lance kicked off his shoes and rolled up his pants to trot in after Keith. “Get back here right now and put your legs back on.” He splashed in the fountain, his pants soaking up to his thighs.

At Water’s Edge by SailUnchartedWaters and AutumnIgnited 

#Klance #Klance fic #top 9 of 2019

[thestuckylibrary]

Hey do y'all have any star trek au fics? Thanks a heap!!

here you go

Renegades by crinklefries (WIP)

Constantly teetering on the edge of fugitive status, the volatile, dangerous group of misfits that make up the crew of the Starship Avenger is the best bounty-hunting team the Nine Galaxies has ever seen. Led by Captain Steve Rogers, the Howling Commandos--name courtesy of one, Tony Stark--capture the dregs of society, risking life and limb to bring in criminals S.H.I.E.L.D. forces cannot. In exchange for moral ambiguity and a paltry sum, the Howling Commandos maintain an ever-tenuous understanding with the Interplanetary Governing System.

Then they hear a fairytale. A $$100,000,000 bounty for a ghost that may or may not exist. To capture the Winter Soldier, the crew of the Starship Avenger find that they may need to become renegades themselves.

[ An absolutely unapologetic, monstrous mash up of Star Trek / Hyperion / generic science fiction with a touch of Cowboy Bebop-style bounty hunters, ft. The Avengers. // Also known affectionately as; Space Gays: The Fic. ]

Cabin Fever by neversaydie

Captain's Log, stardate 2246.5

Our diplomatic mission to Nova ended smoothly. Nova Prime and the Antaran diplomatic envoy have begun to hash out a trade deal and no longer require Starfleet to act as a neutral third party. We're heading to the Galiway trade hub to restock the ship and release the crew on an extended ten-day shore leave. Some of the crew are starting to get cabin fever with leave being delayed by almost a month now. Such delays are unavoidable, but I can't blame them for feeling cooped up when I, myself—

"Steve, c'mon already. This synthale ain't gonna drink itself."

Anyway, we should arrive at Galiway sometime within the next twenty-four hours. Hopefully everyone should be less antsy after they blow off a little steam, including the officers.

That's all for now. Rogers out.

[Star Trek AU, first in a series]

whatever remains by Kells

Captain Rogers does what she feels she must to save her best friend and first officer. James Barnes responds by turning in his resignation. Telepaths, Tony sighs, can be so dramatic sometimes.

where no man has gone before by doctorkilljoy

Things have been tense between Steve Rogers, the captain of the USS Avenger and his first officer, Commander Barnes. They just need to talk it out. Or maybe kiss it out. Star Trek AOS AU.

Like Shining Blades of a Knife by amadwinter

Steve Rogers belonged in Starfleet, but his home would always be with Bucky Barnes.

Warhawk by unicornologist

Twelve years ago, the Terran Revolution ended. Nicky Fury swore an oath to himself and the known universe that he would never return to the empty void of space again. He vowed that he would rather be tried for treason than set foot on another warship. Yet somehow, all these years later, here he stands in front of his captain’s chair watching the endless black surge past his ship. He watched his crew readying for the battle to come; he could hear Rogers and Barnes bickering over strategy while Romanov and Stark readied the long range blaster cannons and checked the shields. “The universe has a sick sense of humor.” He muttered to himself with a sigh.

#thestuckylibrary asks #tvaus #space #mod julia #Anonymous

[perfectlyrose]

Up In Flames (3/10)

Summary: In the year since they decided to become a team, John Smith and Rose Tyler have made quite the names for themselves as Team TARDIS, bank robbers extraordinaire. Newspapers the world over run headlines about The Doctor and the Bad Wolf and their latest heists. They’re practically unstoppable.

Then their world spins to a halt with a phone call. Jack’s in trouble again and a formidable enemy from John’s past has emerged from the shadows to try and destroy the bank robbing couple once and for all. Will they be able to survive this new threat intact or will the life they’ve been building together go up in flames?

A sequel to Watch it Burn, a Nine/Rose bank robbers AU

Word Count: 2748

Rating: Teen

Note: so it looks like my terrible updating skills that plagued Watch it Burn have migrated with me to this story. sorry for being gone for two months.

also welcome Clara and Amy to the story! :D

Read here: tumblr // ao3 // tsp // ff

John finished making his tea and took it to the desk where he’d set up his laptop. He may not know exactly how to take down the Master while keeping Rose safe and Jack from being killed but the only way to possibly accomplish it was to try.

He opened his laptop and navigated to one of the chat rooms on the deep web that he knew Clara frequented. He sent up a virtual flare that he hoped she would see and then started the waiting game. John half-listened to what he was fairly sure was Rose’s third phone call and third different accent as he took his first sip of tea. He grimaced and barely managed to swallow the liquid. This was why he and Rose always found a flat to stay in where they could easily set up a kettle. Making tea in the microwave was barbaric.

He was halfway through his cup regardless when Clara messaged him back with a link to a secure private chat.

John quickly explained that he needed help with a hack because the target was familiar with his methods. He kept it as vague as he could on the details but made sure to tell Clara that this was a risky job if she took it. The target was likely to try and backhack her at some point and there was also the threat of him physically tracking her down and trying to do her harm.

Clara flippantly wrote back that her girlfriend was a soldier and would take anyone out that tried to hurt her and then asked when they were starting.

He let her know that he wasn’t ready quite yet and was without his normal secure equipment and then started filling her in on the basics of his plan, including the fact that he would be distracting the target while she slipped in and got whatever information she could lay her digital hands on.

Clara made sure to clarify a few things and then gave him a method of contacting her directly so he could let her know when he was ready to start.

John thanked her and logged off.

He shut his laptop and walked over to the bed that Rose was lying on, still talking on the phone and typing notes on her laptop. He quickly shed his leather jacket, tossing it on the end of the bed before crawling onto it and leaning against the pile of pillows by the headboard.

Rose glanced over at him with a raised eyebrow, asking a question without ever pausing her conversation. He just offered a small smile in return and then closed his eyes, willing himself to relax.

A few minutes later, Rose wrapped up her conversation and hung up her mobile. He listened as she set her phone on the nightstand and finished typing a few things before her laptop closed with a soft click. The bed shifted as she leaned over to set the laptop on the floor and then there was a soft weight on his chest.

John cracked an eye open to look down at the blonde who was resting her head on his shoulder. She curled in closer, draping an arm over his chest and pressing against his side as she let out a soft sigh.

“We’re going to pull this off,” she said, words slightly muffled by his jumper. “We always make it work.”

“I know,” he answered, hoping that he sounded sure enough to convince her that he really meant the words.

She leveraged herself up so she would be looking him in the eye if his eyes were open. “Hey, look at me.”

John reluctantly opened his eyes.

“I mean it. We can do this.”

The hacker swallowed hard, tried to swallow the ball of fear that had seemed to be living in his throat since Jack called and didn’t succeed. Maybe he needed to spit it out instead. Rose would understand.

She always understood.

“I’m scared, Rose,” he admitted. The ball of fear didn’t dissipate because he’d spoken of it aloud. It remained lodged in back of his throat, making it hard to breathe.

She settled back on his chest, knowing that it was easier to talk when they weren’t looking at each other. “I am too. This guy who has Jack is terrifying.”

You have no idea, John thought, a desperate laugh almost escaping his throat. Out loud he just made an affirmative noise.

Rose pressed a kiss to his collarbone through his jumper. “We’ll make it through this and get back to robbing banks.”

This time he did huff out a laugh. “Bank robbing seems like child’s play compared to this.”

“Pretty much is,” Rose agreed. “It’s not like the coppers have even gotten close to us yet.”

John leaned down and dropped a kiss to the crown of her head before wrapping an arm around her and pulling her closer, holding on to her tighter than normal.

He wasn’t telling her, but he was terrified that taking on Koschei would lead to him losing her, one way or another. Either his old partner would get his hands on her and take her out just to watch him suffer or he would be forced to reveal some of the past he had worked so hard to put behind him and he was positive that Rose would turn from him in disgust and disappointment if she ever found out the whole truth.

Rose tightened her grip when John did, trying to silently tell him that she was with him, that she wasn’t going anywhere. She wasn’t sure what had him this unsettled and worried but she was going to do her best to soothe him and let him tell her in his own time.

She had to be confident that he would tell her whatever she needed to know.

She had to hope that he would trust her enough to share everything else.

They stayed wrapped up in each other for a few more minutes, taking and giving what comfort they could. Rose pulled away first.

“I promised Amy I’d call her in a few,” she said apologetically before leaning in for a quick kiss.

“That’s the ginger grifter, right?” he asked once she’d pulled away.

“The tall one,” Rose clarified since she was friends with a couple of people that fit his description. “She’s not really in the game anymore since her fiancé is more or less on the straight and narrow but she’s still got her ear to the ground.”

“I should probably start getting things ready for the hack with Clara,” he admitted. “Got distracted earlier.”

“But she said she’d help?” Rose asked.

“Forgot I hadn’t told you. She’s definitely willing to help. I’m supposed to contact her when I’m ready to go.”

“Sounds good. Let me know when you’re about to start too. I’ll pack up our things and be ready to leave.”

John nodded and looked like he was about to say something else but the loud ring of Rose’s mobile cut him off before he could start.

Rose looked at it and rolled her eyes with fond exasperation. “It’s Amy, must’ve thought I forgot that I was going to call her. Go do your hacker thing.”

John could only shake his head slightly, smile quirking the corners of his mouth upwards. It never failed to amuse him that Rose knew so much about every aspect of committing a crime and could put together an intricate plan for breaking the most difficult targets without breaking a sweat but could never get a handle on what it was he did with computers.

She tended to call it magic. He tended to tease her about being computer illiterate, a claim she always refuted hotly, telling him that she was as perfectly capable of using a computer as the next person and he shouldn’t judge her by his hacker standards.

He rolled off the bed and headed back to his laptop as Rose answered her call.

“Hey Ames, I didn’t forget about you.” Rose said immediately, smiling as she settled back on the pile of pillows against the headboard.

“I’d be offended if I thought you’d forgotten about me! Just thought you might’ve gotten distracted and I’m bored since Rory’s out of town this week.” Amy’s Scottish voice rolled over Rose like a balm. It had been too long since she’d talked to her friend.

“I was talking to John but I was about to call you.”

“You do tend to get distracted by him but since he makes you happy, I’ll let it slide,” she said.

“Generous of you,” Rose retorted dryly.

“I know. So, what’s going on? Been awhile since I’ve heard from you. Still off traveling the world and stealing things?”

“It’s a good combination,” Rose said. “And yeah, we’re in America right now.” She hadn’t told Amy that she and John were the bank robbers who had been making headlines, just that they were traveling.

“Isn’t it like really early in the morning over there?” Amy asked.

“Earlier than I usually like to be awake.”

“Guess this isn’t a social call then.”

“You’d already guessed that, Amy,” Rose said with a sigh.

“I had, but I’ve always been a better conman than you,” she teased gently.

“That’s because you refused to teach me all of your tricks!”

“Had to keep something to myself! Needed to stay in business!”

“Of course,” Rose said, smile audible in her voice.

“But really, Rose. What’s going on? You’re dancing around the point and that’s never good.”

Rose sighed again. “In a bit of trouble, Ames.”

She snorted. “Aren’t you always?”

“Not like this. This is bad and it involves me and John.”

“Right. So, I’m assuming you called to ask for help so what do you need?” Amy immediately switched to being all business.

“Is there anythin’ weird going down in London right now? Anything that seems off?” Rose asked.

“I haven’t heard anything. Just the normal weirdness of the city and its resident criminals.” She paused. “Is there anything specific I should be on the lookout for?”

Rose chewed on her bottom lip as silence stretched over the connection.

“Rose?”

“Sorry, was just thinking. But yeah, if you hear anything about someone calling himself ‘The Master’ or Koschei or Harold Saxon, let me know and keep an eye on it. Might have ties to the Agency but I can’t be sure.”

“Master, Koschei, Saxon. Got it. Don’t think I’ve run across any of those names, though there was a Harry Saxon running for Parliament last year I think. I don’t think he won the seat and I haven’t heard anything about him since.”

“Still good info though. Gives me somewhere to start digging.”

“What else do you need? I know I’m an excellent source of criminal gossip most days but you have other connected acquaintances you can get this stuff from,” Amy said.

“I need you to get some things from John’s flat,” Rose admitted. “There’s a good chance that it’s being watched so we can’t go ourselves.”

John turned away from his laptop to make eye contact and nod in agreement, letting her know that he agreed with her plan.

“That mean you’re coming back to London finally?”

“More like being forced back to London, but yeah.”

“Good, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you. I mean, not good that you’re being somehow forced back here but you know what I mean.”

Rose cracked a smile, picturing the pacing and gesticulating that was undoubtedly accompanying Amy’s words. “I know what you mean. So, you’ll get stuff from the flat for us?”

“Of course! What do you need?”

Rose rattled off a list of her equipment and where in the flat it was as soon as Amy told her she had paper to make a list. By the time she was done with that, John handed her a list of his own that he’d scribbled down on the hotel notepad for her to relay to Amy.

“Got all of that?” Rose asked when she came to the last item.

“Think so! Will it all fit in a duffel bag?”

“Should.”

“Perfect. Do you know when you’re going to be back so we can meet up and I can give you your stuff?”

Rose glanced over at John but he had his headphones on and was laser-focused on his laptop which meant he was preparing for the hack.

“Don’t know for sure but definitely within forty-eight hours,” she said.

“I’ll go over there tonight then. Do you have door codes for the building?”

“Yeah, and there’s a security system in the flat itself.” Rose gave her the necessary codes and instructions for disabling the flat security

“Sounds like a bit of overkill,” Amy said.

“It is but John’s a security nut.”

“Most hackers are.”

Rose hummed in agreement.

“And how are you doing, Rose?” Amy asked, voice uncommonly gentle for her. “Are you okay?”

“I was doing brilliantly until last night or this morning or whenever we got the bad news,” Rose admitted. “Having the time of my life travelling with John and breaking laws in multiple countries.”

“That’s my girl.”

Rose laughed weakly.

“Is there anything you can tell me?” Amy pressed. She knew her friend well and she knew Rose didn’t fare well when she bottled everything up and let it fester.

“Not a lot,” she said apologetically.

She paused and then just let words spill from her mouth. “I’m just so worried. This Master guy has John more tense than I’ve ever seen him and he’s closing off in ways that he hasn’t in months. I’m worried that we won’t get a win here with what we’re trying to do and I’m worried that we won’t make it through in one piece even if we do.”

“Rose, the two of you are solid. You’ll get through this,” Amy assured her.

“What if we don’t?” Rose exhaled roughly, a bad facsimile of a laugh. “I feel silly for worrying about this when there’s so much danger lurking around but I can’t help it. I’m worried about John and what this is doing to him and what it might do to us and --” she broke off with a frustrated noise.

“Rose, take a deep breath for me.”

She did as she was instructed and let Amy calm her down over the phone.

When Amy continued, it was with her signature blend of kindness and bluntness that made her one of Rose’s closest friends. “Now listen to me. You’re being stupid but not for the reasons you think. It’s completely okay to be worrying about John and your relationship. I’d be worried about your relationship if you weren’t, honestly! But you’ve got to talk to him about it.”

“It’s not that easy…”

“It is that easy. You love him. He loves you. Talk about it.”

“Amy…”

“Nope, don’t want to hear it. Tell him you’re worried and why and maybe he’ll start talking more too. You don’t get to complain about him being all bottled up when you’re the exact same way. Two way street there.”

Rose groaned. “I hate it when you make sense.”

“Lucky for us I don’t do it very often.”

Rose looked over at John again, just in time to see him take his headphones off. “I’m about to start. Clara’s ready.”

She nodded and he turned back to his screen, slipping headphones back on again.

“Okay Ames, I’ve got to go. I’ll let you know when and where to meet us as soon as I know, okay?”

“Sounds good. Take care of yourself, Rose, okay?”

“You don’t have to mother me. I’ll be fine.”

“You need so much mothering. Make sure to eat some vegetables. Maybe have some stress-relief sex with that hacker of yours.”

Rose groaned. “I’m hanging up now.”

“I’ll see you soon!”

“Yep! See ya soon.”

Rose rang off and stared at the ceiling for a moment, composing herself. She took a deep breath and then swung her legs over the side of the bed and starting gathering the few things they had unpacked during their short stay.

By the time John said thanks and goodbye to Clara and powered off his laptop, Rose was by the door and ready to go. When the door swung shut behind them, there was no trace in the anonymous hotel room that they had ever been there at all.

#ficandchips #nine x rose #up in flames #verse: into the fire #me: shows up two months late with no starbucks #and a shorter chapter #but a chapter!! #also more dw characters to join the party :d #i wrote this #into the fire verse

[sunken-standard]

So the scene I was talking about in my ask before.

Here’s the context:

Post-TRF, Sherlock is still in London(mostly) and Molly is helping him here and there, your basic set-up.  He’s using again, but not coke, just OTC stuff he cooks into something stronger.  Then one night he does finally go back to coke, comes to her flat, kisses her and gets a little scary but stops when she tells him to, he runs away, Mycroft hides him in the old family manor to detox.  More things happen, and then there are murders and Molly comes to help him.  They solve the case and this is the immediate “after” (though, I mean, without the whole thing, it doesn’t have nearly the gravitas it does in context; there were 13k words before this scene).  I might have stolen a few lines from myself to recycle, too.  Eh heh.

*

It takes three days for him to find the source of the murders.  It's not Moriarty, or even a criminal network, per se.  Three very sick teenage boys had met on the internet and converged in the city to try their hands at killing.  It was a competition between them; the homeless were easy targets and no one cared about them.  It wasn't a coincidence that the victims were all of a certain age, that was one of the rules.  Twenty-four hours, no one under fifteen or over twenty-five, no disabled, pictures or it didn't happen.  He'd read their chat logs.

Sherlock uses the Network to pass the information along, enough to give the police a starting point.

She's a bit numb.  She feels a horrible sense of relief that it wasn't related to Sherlock, and she thinks that must make her an awful human being.  The whole thing was so... senseless.  

She's seen scores of murders, and while they were sad in the abstract, she'd never had trouble sleeping at night.  People had always thought her a bit twisted for that, but if she allowed herself to be affected, she couldn't do her job.

This is different.  She'd never personally known anyone who'd been murdered, but she'd known some of those kids.  It wasn't like seeing someone she'd recognized pass through the mortuary, or knowing people who'd died from illness or accidents.  It was outside the scope her considerable experience with death.

She catches Sherlock's bloodshot eyes across the kitchen island; there's a kind of recognition there.

She finishes her coffee and excuses herself; she's been up for two days to Sherlock's four-plus, but she doesn't think sleep will be coming easily to either of them any time soon.

She fills the massive antique tub in the en-suite, the water as hot as she can stand it.  She's chilled to the bone from being in the attic.

She stares at the fixtures, letting her mind wander away from the last few days.  She thinks the bathroom was probably once a bedroom, split down the middle probably sometime between the wars.  The pattern and colour scheme of the tiling has a kind of Art Deco feel to it, but she's no expert.

Every room is like a snapshot of a different era, not that she's been in many of them.  Mycroft's study is Victorian, all dark wood and brass and green velvet.  There's the Mad Men sitting room and the modern French Provincial-style kitchen.  The corridors of the east wing (closed off, but it's the shortcut to the attic) have fading vines and birds painted on the plaster; the floorboards are wide and worn with age, centuries old.  There are all kinds of odd staircases leading between the original house and the additions that had been built over the years, others that end in a wall or ceiling.

God, she can't believe anyone grew up here.  It's a far cry from the semi-detached in Earls Barton she'd been raised in.  The whole thing, her being here, really is a bit like a Mills and Boon book, or maybe something Jane Austin (not that she's read much of either).  She stops herself from continuing that line of thought; it's a bit depressing and rather embarrassing.

She stays in the bath until the water goes tepid and her hands and feet are pruny.  She's no more relaxed than when she'd lowered herself into the tub.

It almost feels indecent to be wandering the halls in her pyjamas. Well, she's not really wandering, she's going to the attic to get her laptop so she can watch a film or something, but it's more of a meandering pace than usual.  

She runs her fingers over the smooth plaster walls of the corridor, thinking that if she still believed in ghosts, she'd be scared right now.  Everything is dark and quiet and utterly still.  Maybe she'll watch The Others again; it seems appropriate.

Sherlock is in the attic, halfway through taking papers down from the wall.  The blackboard has already been erased; he's got a smudge of chalk dust on his bare forearm.

"Want some help?" she asks softly.  She doesn't know why she keeps her voice low, they'd been talking in normal conversational tones for the past few days.

"No," he answers quietly.  "You can stay if you like, though."

She takes up her seat at the desk and watches him methodically place the papers in a cardboard file box.  She'd only ever seen him work in bits and pieces, never the whole thing at once.  Even this is part of it, she thinks, packing everything away is some kind of ritual.

Eventually, she staggers down the stairs to bed, leaving Sherlock hunched over her laptop copying files onto a memory stick.  She's wound down enough to finally sleep, she thinks.

She's jolted awake by the feel of her foot colliding with something on the side of the bed.  She swallows back panic when she sees a pale face framed with dark hair looking at her from over the edge of the mattress, thinking of The Grudge and The Ring and--

Her brain comes partially online and she realizes that it's only Sherlock.  It's got to be around sunrise, judging by the quality of light in the room.

"Did I kick you in the head?" she asks stupidly.

"Yes."

"Sorry!  I- what are you doing?"  She rubs her hands over her face to wake herself up a bit more.

"Can't sleep," he offers simply, which doesn't explain anything, really.

"Oh.  Do you, ah, want to sleep here?  In the bed, I mean, not on the floor."

"I shouldn't."

She sighs and shifts over to the other side of the bed, lifting the covers.  It's sweet that he's thinking of her comfort and worrying about his self-control, but chivalry doesn't suit him.  "I trust you."

He scrutinizes her for a moment, then rises a bit unsteadily (stiff from exhaustion and the hard, cold floor); he drops the blanket from around his shoulders and slides into bed next to her.  He settles flat on his back with the duvet hiked up to his chin, rigid as a board; like a virgin on her wedding night - all he needs is the frilly nightgown, she thinks, and that's really in bad taste, but she's bloody tired.

She wakes again to the sound of someone hoovering in the corridor. She pushes herself up on one arm to look at the clock; it's only been a little over an hour since she'd fallen asleep this time.  She whines and rolls over, coming face-to-face with a wide-awake Sherlock.

"Were you asleep?"

"No."

She sighs, reaching up to trace his hairline.  "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"I can't shut off."

"Can you talk through it, like you did those other times?"

He closes his eyes.  "No."

"Why?"

"It's you."

"Oh.  Should I, erm, leave?"  She doesn't want to, it's her bed (well, the one she's using, if she were inclined to split hairs), but she's beginning to worry, now.  He'll be going into his fifth full day without sleep, and while not lethal, it certainly isn't healthy.  

"No.  I don't-" he huffs a breath and blinks.  His eyes are bloodshot and glassy and--

Oh God, he's crying.  Not sobbing, only tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and over the bridge of his nose.  She thinks he's too tired to control it.  

She smooths her hand over his cheek.  "Stay here a second."

She gets out of bed and pads out into the corridor.  The cleaning lady powers down the hoover and looks at her curiously.  She asks her very nicely to please not make much noise today, she'll gladly do whatever needs to be done on the floor.  The woman shrugs and wheels the hoover away, picking up a bucket full of cleaning supplies on her way back down the corridor.

Sherlock has curled himself into a ball on the bed, his face pressed into the pillow.

"Hey," she says quietly, pushing gently on his knee, "Straighten out so I can lie here."

Surprisingly, he does.  She settles on her side, her head propped up by her hand.  She uses the other to comb through his hair, then presses her lips to his temple.  He turns his face from the pillow and pulls back a bit, staring at her.  She cradles the back of his skull and kisses his forehead, lingering there for a few moments.

She feels him exhale sharply; his hand comes to rest tentatively on her waist.

"It's fine," she says, smoothing his hair.  She shifts down a bit and slips her arm under the pillow, then guides his head to rest against her collarbone.

He begins to ramble about how the mechanisms of addiction mimic the chemistry of love; love is the original addiction, refined by hundreds of thousands of years of evolution to ensure the continuation of the species; he doesn't know if he loves her but it's a compulsion to be near her and he's afraid of himself when he's too close to her; he's an animal and a monster and he'll only hurt her again and he should be better than that because his body is only transport.  She feels fresh tears soak through the fabric of her shirt.  

He tells her about every woman he's ever wanted in some way or another; it's a relatively short list, starting with a girl who'd smiled at him in a bookstore when he was nine, through the awful girls at uni who'd called him a freak and said he looked like a horse and pretended to flirt with him for a laugh, to Sally Donovan, who'd caught him looking once and sneered at him, all the way up to Irene Adler (he confirms she isn't dead, but he'd told her never to contact him again and he doesn't think she will, even though she's clever enough to have figured out he isn't dead either), who'd been his equal in wit and cunning but made of stone and how she'd used him and then fallen in love with him, but it wasn't like how she loved him, and he didn't understand how she still could.

Privately, she's asked herself that a few times.  She keeps her voice soft and even when she tells him he's beautiful and brilliant and he smells nice (that bit was for levity, though it's true), to which he launches into another bit about major histocompatibility complexes and mate selection, and they'd probably have children with healthy immune systems if they were to procreate--

--Which, if she's being honest with herself, she's thought about in the abstract.  Holding a baby, leading a small child along by the hand, things like that.  She doesn't really want to have kids, the thought of pregnancy scares and sort-of repulses her (Mum said she'd grow out of that when she met the right man; she hasn't yet).

His voice is hoarse, but at least he's beginning to wind down as he talks about dominant and recessive traits and what their potential offspring would inherit.  It's a purely intellectual exercise for him, his tone is factual and detached.  She tries not to picture any of the combinations he describes.

God, she's exhausted just listening to him.  She wonders what he did before this when he couldn't fall asleep after being up for so long. Drugs, most likely.

She tilts her face down and kisses his forehead again.

"You're the only woman I've ever kissed."

She feels a bit like the floor's dropped out from under her.  He'd said he'd never had a girlfriend, but she'd assumed some sort of first-hand experience on his part with sex (even with all those women he'd talked about, they were just the bad ones, right?) and oh God she is not going to think about Pretty Woman right now, because that's...  No.

"No, I've never kissed a man."  

She hadn't actually got to that particular line of thought yet, but he is much quicker than she is, so.  Not that she'd really thought he was gay, though that was about in line with her luck and her gaydar isn't as finely-tuned as she'd once thought (although Jim had been playing a part, so it was up for debate, but back to the 'only woman' thing--).

"I'm sorry it's a bad memory for you," she says.

"Isn't it for you?"

How does she answer that?  It's not her best memory of a kiss or of him, that's for sure, but she's over it.

"Only because I was scared, not because it was you."

"Would you ever-"  He cuts himself off and turns his face into where her arm disappears under the pillow.

She doesn't hesitate.  "Yes."

His breath hitches and she thinks it's a very stupid idea, but all her ideas regarding him are stupid, so--

She carefully eases back while stroking her thumb over the light stubble on his jaw.  

"Sherlock."

He turns his face straight ahead again; his pupils are dilated and there's the slightest pink tinge to his cheeks.

Before she can talk herself out of it, she closes the few inches of space between them.  The kiss is soft and light and chaste, and then she feels an answering pressure against her lips.

It's- she should stop, let things as they are, one nice memory to overwrite the old, but she's wanted this for so long, and she deserves something for herself--

She tilts her head, realigning their lips to fit better.  Sherlock is tentative, completely unlike the last time.  His hand squeezes her waist, almost as though he's not sure if he wants to pull her closer or push her away.  He follows her lead, mirroring her movements, learning.

It's insane, she's insane, this is the absolute wrong time to be starting anything; every protest dies in her mind when his fingers slip under her shirt to skim against the bare skin of her back.  She draws his bottom lip into her mouth and flicks her tongue against it; he inhales sharply.

She's not sure how long they kiss, it could be minutes or hours or days, but when they finally break apart her lips feel pleasantly swollen and every nerve in her body is on fire.  She can feel his burgeoning erection heavy against her thigh; she doesn't think he'll be able to stand and deliver, so to speak, in his current state.  She hopes that she hasn't made his insomnia worse.

He seems content to simply look at her, holding her gaze before his eyes drop to her mouth.  He smiles (one of his real smiles, soft and without teeth) before kissing her again.  It's barely a brush of his lips, but there's a genuine affection behind it.

"Thank you," he says quietly.    

#old fic that will never see the light of day #it's dark where I am right now so this is true atm #carolyn-claire

[ars-simia-animus]

You’ll Rise Up, Free and Easy

Chapter Four: “Those Days of Living Gently”

Summary: Childhood is sweet and cruel to both Peter and Tony. They are loved, but each faces violence in their every day. It informs who they grow up to be. Trigger warnings for this chapter: mentions of child abuse, mentions of bullying. The theme of child abuse will heavily impact the next chapter as well. Please keep yourselves safe and protected! This story is not meant to hurt anyone.

January, 1903

Peter flitted outside in the morning light to get more firewood for the kitchen. He returned to the doorway less than a minute later, calling to May. “Come look at all the little prints the birds made in the snow!” He cried.

Smiling, she followed him out to a patch of white close to the bare American ash shrubs, where the birds liked to rest. May hummed cheerily, appreciating the delicate tracks made by the birds’ hopping feet. The shadows of these veinlike prints were blue against the crystal snow.

“Aren’t they pretty?” Peter asked.

“As a picture, bambino.” May touched his shoulder. Then she urged him: “Fetch the wood and hurry inside if you don’t want those ears of yours to turn worse.”

Peter grinned, shaking his head. She’d already made him a pair of earmuffs from an old quilt and some wool. He wore them to please her but felt the lingering earaches were finally gone. For two weeks they had held on and May fretted about hearing loss. But, the only impediment to his hearing were the earmuffs.    

While she returned to the kitchen to mind the lox, he jogged to the woodshed. In his mind, he assembled the colorants he would need to create that opalescent blue. Rutile, maybe, could be coaxed into that cornflower hue. How would the little veins look on a porcelain body? When he entered the kitchen, with his basket of firewood, he asked May her thoughts.

“Mmm.” She pondered the question briefly. “I think you could make any idea into a beautiful artwork.”

“That’s not much of an answer, Aunt May,” Peter said ruefully. “I want to know what you think of how it looks.”

“I’d have to see it, bambino.”

“Well, when you imagine it, though.” He persisted and she laughed.

“I’m not in your mind,” she said. So he wouldn’t feel too disappointed, she added: “But you do show me so much of the world that I might bustle past. You have a gift, sheifale.”

He let the topic go, though he felt silly for asking at all. In the little brass box by the stove, he stacked the logs from his basket, scolding himself. Why couldn’t he ever express what he was imagining? It seemed the only means to let anyone into his head was to recreate his thoughts and feelings in the clay. Even then, they never resonated in others the way they did in him.

“Honestly,” May said. “You know who you ought to ask? Mrs. Stark.” Peter brightened, so she continued. “Mrs. Stark is in town for a while, I understand. She has a wonderful sense of aesthetics…”

Peter interrupted with a mock chiding tone: “Aunt May, you make beautiful dresses and blouses—”

“There’s no doubt,” May said, humorously. “However, I piece together what I’ve already seen. You create things no one else has ever seen. You have an artist’s soul.” She transferred the lox onto their plates. “I think Mrs. Stark has a sensitivity…” Her words teetered on the back of her tongue. Unsurely, she said, “... For beautiful things— but also people. I think— Mrs. Stark would understand—what you tell her.”

Peter closed the lid on the box then carried the basket to its place by the back door, considering May’s suggestion. He missed Pepper even though he had seen her less than two weeks ago, on the day after Christmas. She, Tony, and Peter had talked for a little while about his apprenticeship. Of course, they were all soon distracted.

Tony tinkered with a music box that Pepper had gifted him for Christmas; and, somehow, he and Pepper began to play a game in which he wore a blindfold and she directed him, around furniture, from one end of the room to the other. He’d done well until Tony had snuck up silently and poked his chin, causing him to cheep like a startled mouse.

Perhaps, he thought, wilting, they should have focused more on the apprenticeship. There were obviously some differing ideas about it between himself and Tony. Not that he was ungrateful— he sighed miserably.

Is that what Tony thought?

May glanced at him compassionately. “Peter, after breakfast, would you be able to help me make tulle flowers?” He turned to her with a smile, thankful that she’d pulled him out of his head. “Just until Mr. Stark comes to fetch you for your outing?”

“Of course, Aunt May.”

By nine o’clock the table had become a grove of cherry blossoms made of tulle. Peter allowed his mind to wander as he twisted each little flower. Soon Tony would arrive and they could try to talk again. Hope was still in his heart that he could articulate himself without losing his important friendship with Mr. Stark.

April, 1868

Ana despised traveling anymore; it was a stone in the pit of her stomach from beginning to end. All the papers and acting and constant scrutinization by government officials… She’d loved traveling once, when she was innocent and free, but after all the danger of her young adult life, she knew that peace and safety could only be found at home— the home she made, not the one she left.

Realistically, she could have been exempt from going to Canada if she had pushed. The trip was only through the summer and Tony didn’t need her as often now. As he’d grown, she had transitioned from his nanny to the role of his governess. She had a background in education that even satisfied Maria’s standards. Tony was more independent and wouldn’t need lessons over the summer; if Howard insisted he studied, he could always be occupied with bookwork— in theory.

Yet, four months alone, without Edwin and Tony, seemed too high a price to pay for comfort. Edwin assured her that crossing the Canadian border was nothing similar to the secured bordered of Europe nor like entering America from Europe. Also, the Starks had influence and money so as to not be questioned in anything they did. She snorted at this.

“I mean this as a comfort, beloved, truly,” Jarvis said. She could just see him smiling dryly in the dim dawnlight of their bedroom. “But there’s a higher likelihood we encounter a criminal than an official at the border.”

“What ease you bring me, my love.” Ana retorted, glaring at him across her pillow.

He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled until she was flush against him. She tucked her head into his neck and sighed. “Even then” —he murmured into her hair— “There’s nothing to fear,” he said. “Many years have passed and I’ve never relied on inhabitants of this continent to have a knowledge of foreign affairs.”

Ana decided to trust him, just as she had when she was twenty-two. He had helped her escape the war that her family had adopted in her place. For this, he deserved her faith. “Did I ever tell you about the remarkable person I met in Budapest about twenty years ago?” She grinned then gently began to kiss along his collarbone.

May, 1868

Summer in Canada was somehow reminiscent of her youth. Or, perhaps it was an illusion caused by her absorption in the Little Mister’s boyhood. Tony was happy; her heart was always so full when he was happy. It nearly ached. More than once, in fact, she found herself teary while watching him run through the grass, racing kites through the sky. He had made a friend at last and was adorably devoted to him.

The other boy was slight but tall, “all elbows and knees” as she heard Edwin say, gentle, patient, and bashful. Yet, Ana also detected an almost adult sense of self-awareness. His name was Samuel. Maria approved of him, as he came from a family of similar but not competitive wealth. Howard openly mocked the boy as a “dandy” and a “silly-heart.”

Ana wondered what crime it could be for a child to be sensitive. Or whimsical. No, Howard valued analysis, innovation, imperturbability, and any sin that made a businessman look powerful in a smoking room. He never allowed his own son to be expressive or sentimental. Fortunately, Tony found moments of safety and Ana fiercely defended his friendship with Samuel.

With bare feet, the two galloped over the lawn of the Stark’s Toronto estate. They pulled kites behind them that Tony had made, based on the designs Ana and he had created when he was much younger. She beamed at the sight of them, sun-backed, in the sky; they were strong kites and fast.

He had burst into the windowed porch where she was sketching the cour d'honneur of the Királyi Vár, and asked if she had any pink, green, or blue colored paper. “I’m going to make kites, Mrs. Ana, for my friend and I.”

“‘For my friend and me’ is what I’m sure you meant.” She corrected without severity. Laying aside her drawing, she said “Let’s see what we can find! Why pink, green, and blue?”

Tony hopped after her. He was already out of breath, whether from play or excitement, she wasn’t sure. “Those are his favorite colors. Well, he said white was his very favorite and pink was second. But, I already found some white paper in the kitchen.”

Ana led him to the room designated for her husband and herself. It was unfamiliar and uncomfortable to board in the main house— even if Howard had granted them this small apartment and not a room in the servant’s quarters. Jarvis was very favored by their master, she remembered.

Nevertheless, she missed her cottage. She missed the sanctuary of foxglove and larkspur, the stone fence and the iron gate that spoke “hello, bye” with its hinges, the water spigot where Tony liked to steal a drink before they tramped out to the field to play football. Mournfully, she wondered if the groundskeepers were treating her garden well. She had persuaded them to tend it for a pretty sum— pretty enough they ought not to neglect it.

When they reached the room, Ana rummaged through a cabinet of supplies she brought for Tony’s creative interests. These were things that Maria and Howard were not likely to prioritize, such as paste, string, dowels of differing sizes, wax for paper boats, paint and similar supplies. Howard, albeit begrudgingly, had finally noticed Tony’s prodigious acuity with engineering and architecture. He allowed Ana to order extra supplies like bolts, copper wire, etc., for Tony, which were delivered along with Howard’s own materials monthly to his lab. Howard wouldn’t see the purpose of colored paper, though, so Ana kept a supply with the educational budget Maria gave her.

Interrupting her thoughts, Tony asked, “Why didn’t you ever have your own child, Mrs. Ana?”

Her heartbeat was needlessly rapid. She blinked, hard, to control it. “I never wanted any.” It was a simplified explanation.

Finding a collection of colored paper sheets, she pulled it from under a jar of tacks and returned her gaze to him. Immediately, she recognized that her comment had struck him in an unintended way. She took a breath and amended: “I was the eldest in a house of eight children—“ (and fifty revolutionaries, always in and out; mother tended them and I tended the children, the other children…) “and that rather quashed the urge for a while.”

Tony stared at her, so she continued. “Then, in Porthcurno in Cornwall, I was schoolmarm to about twenty students and, again, my maternal needs were more than fulfilled. They were my children.” She held out the bundle of paper until he took it. His face looked like a slack curtain. Behind it was a flurry of activity. “Why do you ask, Little Mister?”

He slipped away from her as if he were going to leave. Then he paused, rubbing his shoulder against the door frame. His back to her, he asked, “Why do you say they were your children?”

“I cared for them. I got to know them and they relied on me.” Ana wondered if he was jealous. Before she could say anything to validate his importance as her pupil, he faced her.

“Am I yours?”

“Yes.” She replied. No hesitation.

“I love you.”

Tony’s words came in a steady but unreadable tone. It was a statement, a declaration, and yet underlaid with vulnerability. Ana’s chest lifted reflexively.

She wasn’t fast enough, though, in swallowing the knot in her throat; he fled out the door. Following him, her hand reached out, but he was gone. He couldn’t bear to wait for a response. His experiment was over. Alone with her breath like a fluttering dove, Ana sank into a chair. I love you— oh, I love you, Little Mister!

January, 1903

May looked across the sea of tulle blossoms at Peter. His face was ablush as he touched the tender fabric. She knew that he was lost in reverie, inhaling the beauty, letting it mingle with his soul, with the parts that reflected it. As if to confirm her thoughts, he said, “Sometimes I think it would be especially nice to be a cherry tree.”

She smiled, murmuring, “Yes, sheifale.”

Peter finished the blossom and reached for more tulle. “I wish I could be one, just for one spring day.” Eyes as soft as clouds, he blew a breath across his palm and the fabric flower floated down to join the others.

Considering him, she asked: “Would you like me to sew some onto your clothes?”

“I,” Peter said, chuckling, “I don’t know. Would I look ridiculous?”

May shook her head. She didn’t speak, but beamed at him. He smiled and his glance fell. Pausing first, May then said, “I have liked having you at home again.”

“Yes,” Peter said. “I’m very happy to be here with you, Aunt May. I am so grateful—” He let the words snuff out with a sigh. I’m so grateful to Mr. Stark.

“This should be enough,” May said and indicated the finished blossoms spread over the table. “Thank you.” With that, he stood to get ready for his outing with Tony, but May’s voice sounded. “I remember what school was like for you.”

Peter’s smile died. He sat back down with resignation, as though he knew this conversation was coming. May had not looked at him but she slowly raised her eyes when he sunk into place. “Please don’t make me go back.” He whispered.

“I would not wish to go back either, if it were me.” May kept her voice low. “I agree with Mr. Stark, however, as I said when he was here last.” Peter cast down his eyes to his sleeve cuffs and began pulling at them. “You deserve an education, motek. Refusing one will only deny you a full life.”

Peter drummed his leg. “Ned is apprenticed to the butcher and Harry is boarding at the academy upstate. School was only bearable before because they were with me.” His voice was as small as it had been when he had come home, dappling the floorboards with blood. “They defended me.” He said.

May felt a hot rush of emotion in her chest. School days had been dreadful for her nephew. Peter would come home from school very late, kept back by the teacher to empty chalk trays or pick up litter. At first May and Ben had hailed his sense of helpfulness and responsibility; but, slowly they realized that no other children were expected to do these chores so often or so many at one time.

He came home with bruises and bloodied noses from his classmates, who he insisted just played too roughly in the schoolyard. They wouldn’t stop when he asked to be left out of these games. Many times Ben found him crying at the boiler room steps of the tenement building, only to have Ned explain that some mean trick had been played on Peter by the other boys.

Letting a hum pass her lips, May reached out and took his hands. “I know. But, sheifale, you are not defenseless.”

Pain crossed his face— pain and worry. May rethought her words. After she had turned over a few in her mind, she said. “Would that old gonif Jameson ever have bullied you away from ceramics? Would you not have returned to study with Mr. Stark because Jameson terrorized you?”

“Aunt May,” Peter said with a huff, “that’s different.”

“Not so different.” She countered. “Would you have allowed your education of ceramics to stop?”

Wordlessly, Peter frowned.

“Listen to me.” May pressed his hands firmly. “You should at least talk to Mr. Stark about it. I’m sure he would listen. He’s a creative one when it comes to solving problems.” The last statement sounded wry, but it was spoken in good faith. She knew that Tony cared for Peter.

“Yes, ma’am.” Peter said. Though the quavers emitted from his heart were blooming wider and wider through his frame, he decided to trust Tony and talk honestly with him.

June, 1868

Jarvis woke to what at first sounded like a morning dove in their bedroom. The cooing filtered through his drowsiness and he finally realized it was a child’s muffled whimper. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and nearly stepped on a bundled form on the rug. After a sharp inhale of surprise, he fumbled to light the lamp on his nightstand.

Ana lifted herself on the third strike of the match. She began to mumble a question, but they were both silenced. The little moans had begun to resemble words. Jarvis replaced the glass chimney of the lamp and moved away, allowing the flame’s light to reveal the bundle on the floor. They knew it was Tony.

“Edwin,” Ana said with a cry.

Jarvis lifted Tony gently. When his hands cradled Tony’s neck and knees, the boy seized. The indiscernible syllables quickened. Jarvis held him more securely as he tried to wrench away. Ana made room on the bed for the child to lie between them. She leaned over him, listening, to decipher the words. He was saying: “Please—don’t—please don’t—please, please!”

Stricken, Jarvis made a motion to wake him, but Ana stayed his hand. Instead, she fixed the blankets over Tony and lied beside him. She brushed his forehead and cheek with her hand. Then she spoke comfortingly to him. In sleep, Tony shifted toward her, though he continued to cry.

Jarvis watched his wife for a moment then followed her lead. He stiffly lowered himself to one elbow. Unsurely, he pressed a hand on Tony’s shoulder. Together, they created a nest around him. Tony began to calm.

“What nightmare do you suppose is causing him such a fright?” Jarvis asked.

Ana was quiet. She flashed a pointed look. “One he’s lived during the day.”

Jarvis sobered.

Without warning, Tony opened his eyes. He must have remembered where he was because he wasn’t startled to see them. First he saw Jarvis and sighed with— relief, Jarvis realized. Then, he found Ana and reached for her the way children do, asking to be held.

Ana drew him against her. He winced and scooted himself closer. “I’m here, Little Mister. We’re here,” she said. Jarvis noticed that he was included in her promise, included in this intimacy.

Snuggled safely, Tony closed his eyes. Ana gave Jarvis a nod; he stretched behind him and extinguished the lamplight. The three settled into each other. A long moment passed.

Then, almost inaudibly, Tony whispered. “Father whipped me.” Sleep abandoned both Ana and Jarvis. Neither closed their eyes again that night. Their gentle days would now become only moments stolen amidst a tumult in the Stark household.

#Amphora #You'll Rise Up Free and Easy