#This is safe though because none of you know my actual ptsd triggers and even if you did I can literally just log off | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cuckoo-on-a-string · 2 years

Text

Younger Gods: Chapter VII

Master List Chapter 6

Morpheus x fem!reader

The chaos of younger gods brings old horrors to the Dreaming.

Warnings: suggested PTSD triggers, the most awkward beans alive, Taliesin and Matthew being little shits

A/N: Getting this chapter on the page was like getting the last of the ketchup out of an old glass bottle - holy SHIT. I know the readership for this fic has dropped sharply, but I love each and every one of you (especially when you take the time to comment/reblog <3). Much love as we move towards the final chapter!

Chapter 7: Dangerous Thoughts

“Lucienne.”

She knew his voice, and she opened her eyes to see her lord returned, whole and hale. Alive. She could not remember being so happy to see him, not even after his imprisonment over the past century. While he was gone she had hope, but in the horror of the last hours her fears overtook all sense. Panic stole her reason and informed her the Dreaming had fallen, and she’d known it to be true – because she’d seen it. Heard it. Tasted it.

Her friends had abandoned all they held dear. Her king had perished.

A sob caught in her throat as she seized Lord Morpheus’s proffered hand, and though she’d come back to herself just enough to feel humiliated by her behavior, she hadn’t rediscovered enough pride to stop it. She needed that hand – alive, alive, alive – to anchor her.

“I am sorry, my lord.”

“There is nothing for which you need apologize.” Both of his hands closed over hers, hiding her trembling from the world. His aspect turned dark, and only that grip assured her his wrath had other targets. “You were attacked. Can you tell me what happened?”

“The Dreaming fell. My lord – you were – everyone had deserted the palace, and the gates had fallen.” She rambled, failing to stop for breath until Lord Morpheus set a hand on her shoulder, hushing the lingering panic with his touch, his clear and very real presence.

“How did it begin?”

He looked at her like she’d grown fragile in the hours since they last spoke, and she finally felt enough hurt pride to clear her throat and sit up. When she reached instinctively to straighten her spectacles, she found her face bare. That couldn’t be right. Had they fallen off? Were they broken? What would she do –

Merv – standing at her elbow – cleared his throat. “Got your glasses here, Luce.”

She cleared her own throat, banishing the sticky tears fogging her tongue, and swept the pair up to their right and proper position. The instant they framed her face, she felt better. The world looked correct, and she – and all she cared for – was well.

One deep breath banished the fading screams from her lungs. It brought balance, awareness, focus. A safe, important pattern. She was herself. She was Lord Morpheus’s royal librarian. There was a threat to her library, and she must inform her lord.

“I thought I saw dreamfolk entering the palace after an attack.” She glanced at Mervyn, who’d been in the library when she first heard their guests. “Was that illusion or fact?”

“No one came in that I saw,” the pumpkinhead said. His sounded contrite, apologetic even. “The guardians didn’t see anything, either, but a couple a’ dreams said the sky went weird.”

Morpheus’s frown creased his entire face. “How so? What did they see?”

“More like what the didn’t see, boss.” Merv scratched the back of his orange head. “They said it moved, like they knew they should see somethin’ that wasn’t there. Kinda the way a mirror plays tricks on you. Sorry, like I said, I didn’t actually see anything.”

The King of Dreams sat back in his chair, going cold and still as his fury mounted. The tenderness in his eyes sank below a marble mask as his rage swelled like the tide. The nuisance had become a threat. The trespassers had drawn blood. Lucienne’s cuticles were ringed red, though someone had already bandaged her scalp.

“None of you are at fault.” Morpheus’s eyes flicked to the nearest window, a long slit in the wall offering a splendid view of the green hills and flowering fields rising behind the palace. But the bright sun did not warm his face. “They ride their father’s chariot. Even Aries hopes to see the Dreaming at war, even if it is only with itself.”

Merv grumbled under his breath, fidgeting, expressing all the anxiety his master could not. “What do we do?”

“Watch. Wait. They pile evidence against themselves by the day, and once I have seen them meddle in the affairs of my realm with my own eyes, I will have just cause to retaliate.” The lord of the Dreaming closed his eyes, resigning himself to an unpleasant decision. “The strategy remains. I must let them build their own gallows, though they grow more daring.” Outside, the sky turned dark, and the grey sky growled with the king’s displeasure. “To strike at my librarian within the palace… rest assured, Lucienne, they will be punished.”

He met her eyes as he made the promise, and she wondered if the world would soon be short two gods.

“I have no doubt, lord.”

Never a fan of tension, but still reluctant to leave the room, Mervyn crossed his arms and asked, “Where’s the new kid?”

Morpheus rose from his seat beside Lucienne, offering a final, reassuring touch to her shoulder, and turned away, summoned by all the chaos he must arbitrate, the defenses he must build.

“Matthew is with the bard and his storm god. There have been complications.”

“If I may be of any assistance –” Lucienne rushed to offer.

“You have more than enough work to consume your time.” The king made to leave the room. The burden of his title and crown giving weight to every resounding step. “And I would rather you rest. Recover, Lucienne.”

It wasn’t up for debate. He was learning to listen, yes, but he did not take threats well. He did not take loss well, and this came close. If she hadn’t collapsed, if she’d run into the waves instead, they might’ve never had this conversation. And in addition to all that, she couldn’t help suspecting he’d nearly lost something else. He would not leave Matthew to watch over the storm god in her own home if he wasn’t concerned, and Lord Morpheus rarely showed concern without great reason.

She wanted to ask, but she didn’t.

Once their liege had left earshot, however, Mervyn turned with squinted, hollow eyes. “Think something’s up with that?”

Lucienne tsked, brushing herself down as she swung her legs over the edge of the narrow bed. She would recover best on her feet. In the library. Surrounded by her books with a task or twelve in hand.

“It isn’t our business to ask.” It was never their business when their master lost his perfect control. It wasn’t their business when the stars glowed like proper suns or – later – when the clouds turned noon dark as night. Safer that way. Tidier, at least for his librarian. “If the situation with Matthew’s savior were to impact us in any way, I’m sure our king would tell us.”

“Yeah?” Merv’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How sure?”

----------------------------------------------

After her flight from her home, the torturous months without sleep, and everything that happened with Dream while she slept, she found herself becalmed.

She’d been racing towards something – death and freedom sat shoulder to shoulder in her world – and now? Nothing.

The attacks on the Dreaming kept Dream busy in his own realm, and until he and Taliesin found a new approach to her problem, there was nothing to do.

Nothing to do, and nowhere she could run from her troubles.

So, she drifted. Picking up one project, then another, sometimes finishing a new scarf or improving on a potion before she moved on, sometimes leaving shawls half-knitted and cups of tea half-full around the cottage.

She felt adrift, caught in the vast nothingness between goals without a wind to propel her. Although she had a destination in mind, it was still much too far away to see, and nothing could close that distance unless forces outside her control made it so.

She hated it.

At least she wasn’t alone. Matthew stayed, and he got on alarming well with Taliesin. Thick as thieves, those two.

Minutes ago, the raven fluttered to the bard’s head and whispered in his ear. Then they both suddenly had somewhere else to be, and they rushed out the door like something was actually wrong. If it weren’t for the poorly-veiled smirk Taliesin worked too hard to wipe off his face, she might’ve been concerned.

She was still concerned, just for different reasons. Apart, each one was trouble. Together? The world wasn’t ready.

By pairing off, the two also made her a third wheel in her own home. Besides the uncomfortable stirring of unwelcome jealousy – Taliesin was her friend, damn it – their partnership gave her entirely too much time alone to think. And she mulled entirely too much about things she shouldn’t, things she’d never wrestled with before. If Taliesin wasn’t so busy conspiring with Matthew, and if Matthew wasn’t really Dream’s mobile spy cam, she might confide in him. But no. Not when someone might overhear. Especially him.

Sticky little visions and insidious questions spun through her head, and she found herself helpless to stop them as they hooked into interesting places where they could grow and blossom into something painful to ignore.

When she thought of their conversations, her imagination wandered to his pink lips, wondering they were soft, what they might feel like if she dared to brush over them with the tips of her fingers, whether they’d welcome her own lips – which she suddenly realized were NOT soft after all her nervous chewing and went hunting for balm.

Even memories of their early acquaintance took on new shades. He’d been frightening, but beautiful, too. Statuesque, a monument to things beyond desire. He contained worlds. Impossible and untouchable.

And yet.

He sat with her in the rain.

That night when things went so wrong, when she’d been so vulnerable she couldn’t stand her own skin, he showed her tender patience she could never have asked for.

When he might’ve handed the duty to someone else, given her orders, or simply left her to come back on her own, he chose to wait. He lowered himself and showed he was vulnerable, too. The Endless empathized with her suffering because he’d lived through his own, and in the tangle of wind and wet loam, he’d shared it.

There were few understandings so potent as showing each other your scars and discovering they matched.

He accidentally propped open a door that evening, and she stayed vulnerable ever since, against her wishes and better sense.

At least she didn’t dream. She shuddered at the imaginary horror of the Dream King sensing – or even seeing – the warm sparks glowing in new and strange places when she thought of his hands hold up her hair, brushing her neck, carrying her home.

Yeah.

No.

Taliesin was talking about brewing a milder version of the potion she took to avoid Dream in the waking world, and she was more than onboard with the plan. It was a temporary solution until they had time and opportunity to further investigate the curse, but she’d take it.

Dream must never know.

Never ever.

The kettle sang, and she lifted it away from the fire, muttering under her breath as she filled the two waiting mugs. She set it all up to share with Taliesin, and then he’d swanned off with the raven. Ungrateful shit. She could just put the tea bag back, but she was feeling left out and spiteful, so she set it to brew.

If he didn’t come back before it went cold, it could stand like a tepid modern art installation. She’d call it something melodramatic, like Forgotten Conversations or some such shit.

She was two sips into her own drink when a knock came at the door.

Her frustration popped like a bubble, and she sprang up in a swirl of skirt and shawl, mug clutched in one hand to let her friend back inside. Had the silly, over-protective thing tried locking it and forgotten his key?

She was safe here. He should know that by now.

Or maybe he was waiting on the other side with a funny face to try to scare her, or he had his hands full with a basket of blueberries he’d found growing in a swampy patch between the hills. Always a surprise, that man.

She yanked the door open, still trying to decide whether she wanted to chide or tease him more, and froze.

Dream stood there, eying the top of the doorframe, and every inappropriate thought she’d suffered in the past weeks crashed through her psyche at once, leaving no room for speech or movement or manners as his gaze dropped down to hers.

He had gorgeous eyes, even when he was pretending to be more human than he was.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, shit.

Had she even brushed her hair that morning? She’d gotten much too used to Taliesin’s relaxed approach to everything, and she was in full gremlin chic. Fucking hell.

And he was looking at her.

And there was no one else in the house.

Fuck.

What did one do when the object of their quiet fascination arrived unannounced?

“Would you like some tea?”

Yes. Tea was good.

Leaving the door open for him, she hurried back towards the table by the fire where the second mug stood in all its judgmental splendor. Still warm, too. Thank gods.

Having a task made it all better. She didn’t have to guess at what to say, how to behave. They’d officially reached a point in their acquaintance where her urge to be a good host outstripped any screaming anxieties by a mile. She would give him tea no matter what he said, and if he stayed too long, she’d start fussing over dinner, too.

“I was steeping this for Taliesin, but he wandered off with Matthew just a few minutes ago.”

“Thank you, but –”

She shoved the mug into his hands before he could refuse. Shrugging off the baffled eyebrow creeping up his face, she said, “It’ll just go to waste. Might as well warm your hands. If you don’t drink tea.”

He didn’t, she noted, immediately set the cup aside. He arranged his grip just so, long fingers arranging themselves to cradle the cheap porcelain like something that mattered, even if he clearly didn’t understand why. She could imagine him weaving a new dream like that, a small, shapeless thing held close as he spun it beat by beat from the first pulses of a warm heart.

She doubted he’d had much time for new dreams lately.

While he always looked a little gaunt by human standards, the Dream King looked haggard in the firelight, peering into his tea. Shadows hung in pockets under his cheek, ringing his eyes, even curling in little wisps along the fringes of his shadow. The pallor glowed at odds with his feverish eyes, and she wondered how long it had been since he had a chance to stop and breathe.

“You look tired.”

His gaze snapped to her, catching her watching, sending her rushing headlong into an apology before she could even process how the thought escaped her lips in the first place.

“I’m sorry.” She looked down into her brew, genuinely contrite. There were a thousand better ways to ask if she could lend a hand. This wasn’t something she knew how to do. It’d been ages since she developed any kind of relationship outside of her friendship with Taliesin.

And her traitorous tongue wasn’t through humiliating her yet. “Was that rude? I only meant – I mean, I know there’s nothing I can offer someone like you, but – The people you love are hurting. Someone attacked your home. If there’s anything I can do to… help? I’d like to. Help, I mean. I’d like to help.”

Her initial insult had startled the lingering frustration from his eyes, and she barely had time to notice how they warmed by inches throughout her stumbling explanation. He shook his head, nearly smiling through the faint haze of steam wafting from between his palms.

“Thank you.” He gave the words far more gravitas than she deserved, and the weight of his lordly gratitude dragged her low in her seat. “But I believe you’re right; there’s nothing you can do at this time.” Finally, he set the mug on the side table, still full and fairly warm. “I came to check on you. Has the collar caused any more problems in your waking hours?”

Ah, so it was a serious medical consultation. She couldn’t make it a social call even if she tried. At least she’d foisted the tea on him. Briefly. And with this clear purpose maybe she could keep all those dangerous dreams of hers safely locked down.

Setting her own cup aside, she traced the edge of her scarf. The bandages were long gone, but she had plenty of new scars. It was awful – to look at and to feel.

“My neck aches, but it’s healing, and Taliesin hasn’t found any fresh wounds, so… Looks like there’s nothing you can do at this time, either.”

He nodded slowly, a thousand tasks and anxieties rushing behind his glittering eyes.

“Then I will not disturb you.”

“You don’t disturb me.” She said it so fast she nearly yelped it, and he looked at her so sharply, so attentively, it was like he’d never been tired at all. A hint of burning stars flickered in his blue eyes, and she a jolt of fear interrupted the butterflies that had been so merrily swarming her gut. Her secrets weren’t safe at all. If she kept holding his gaze…

She looked down – coward – into her empty hands and wished she hadn’t given up her tea. Now she had nothing to fiddle with, no excuse to fill her mouth with drink and buy herself more time to think of a suitable, reasonable, and not at all embarrassing explanation.

He held the silence. She couldn’t even see if he was breathing, and in the end she had to keep wading across the river she’d so blindly jumped in.

“I’m glad to see you,” she said, oh so carefully as she met his eye, “and I wish there was something I could do. You’re always welcome here, just so you know. If you ever need a quiet moment, my home isn’t grand or inspiring, but it’s a good place to rest.”

This time, she saw when he smiled. Barely more than a smirk, it lifted his eyes as well as his lips, and the butterflies escaped her stomach to swarm her chest.

“Thank you, little storm god.”

A deep breath pulled in all the smells of home. Woodsmoke and drying herbs. Fresh tea and bread baked early in the morning. They told her more than anything that she was safe, no matter how embarrassed, and that confidence gave her a little power.

“I’m serious you know.” She pulled herself up straighter, wanting to be believed, not pitied. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to be what you are, to manage everything you shoulder, but I understand exhaustion. If all I can ever offer you is a quiet place to gather your thoughts, I’m happy to keep the door open.”

Ah – she’d nearly forgotten. She’d talked it over with both Matthew and Taliesin, and they’d enthusiastically agreed with her. Very enthusiastically. They almost made it weird.

“I even –” She wrestled through her pockets, remembering slipping it into one after she added a black ribbon the day before. Heaven help her if it fell out and the couch ate it. But – no – there it was. Cold metal touched her palm, and she triumphantly yanked out a delicate silver key strung on a long ribbon for safekeeping. It twinkled in the firelight, as she held it up for her guest to take. “I made you one, like Taliesin’s, so you can come and go with a little less effort. Consider it an official invitation. You’re always welcome, Dream.”

The Lord of the Dreaming accepted her gift, studying the craftsmanship. When he peered back at her, he looked through his lashes. She was sure he didn’t do it on purpose, but her stomach flipped, and she wondered if she hadn’t set herself up for trouble with this offering.

“An invitation from the master of one realm to another?”

The tension burst again, and she laughed in relief. “I’d hardly call this a realm.”

He tucked the key inside his coat, in some pocket or universe hiding behind the left side of the fabric, around the height of his heart. He finished his task with care before returning all his attention to their conversation.

“And yet, without you, it would cease to be. Perhaps you do not give yourself enough credit.”

She felt the heat bloom over her entire face, and looked desperately for an excuse to busy her hands. “I don’t know about that.”

No excuses presented themselves, and she was trapped in the full power of the Dream Lord’s stare as it wandered from her eyes to her neck. He couldn’t see through the scarf, but she was sure he remembered the damage he’d seen that night in the rain, when he sat beside her on the couch and helped Taliesin stitch her back into a single, functioning piece.

He was invested in her problems, but she wasn’t sure if he cared beyond that. She was careful with her life because she knew Taliesin would grieve if she lost it, and he’d lived so long, he’d lost enough. The Dream Lord was different. Would he be hurt if this went badly? Would he blame himself if he couldn’t fix her?

What, if anything, did he want from her? Did their connection begin and end in the collar?

She swallowed, and he met her eyes again. Something new hid there, but he masked his emotions so well she couldn’t read him. All she had were his words. His actions. Her choices were her own, and she knew her life hung by too fine a thread to let him even imagine he was responsible for them.

“You can’t save me, Dream of the Endless,” she murmured. “I saved myself a long time ago.”

His eyes flicked to the scarf. The barest glance. It spoke volumes. Regret and hope effused the concentrated frown his face fell into when he thought too deeply.

“Not entirely.”

His voice dropped into a rumble, and it nearly distracted her from her goal. But he was the focus of that goal for the moment, and her blooming affection for the Endless brooked no risks she could divert. She’d said she wanted to help, and despite his insistence, this was something she could do. Fresh resolve stiffened her spine.

He had enough burdens at the moment without trying to struggle under her own struggles. His guilt wouldn’t protect her, but it would sap his strength, pull his attention from critical matters of the Dreaming. That would hurt them both in the end.

She heaved a sigh big enough to lift her shoulders.

“I hope I escape the collar someday, but even if there’s no solution, even if I never dream peacefully, I’m content with my life. I might be miserable sometimes, but I learned to live with it before you decided to… what? Rescue me? If I’m content, why can’t you be?”

Dream took one step towards her. There wasn’t much space between them to begin with. Her home was cozy, not large. Celestial fires raged behind the thinnest scrim of blue, evidence of a struggle against passions he wouldn’t share, and his expression shifted like his sand. Determined and stiff, soft and nearly open.

He took another step, and she feared if she breathed too deeply, she’d touch him by accident. He was, by virtue of his nature, intimidating, but it felt like she’d grown a magnet in her chest that begged one of them to close the delicate gap, like it was the most natural thing in the world to plunge headfirst into danger.

Decisions yet to be made fluctuated in the pull of his lips, trembled along his tense jaw. His hands clenched and stretched open at his sides. But none of that was for her, only the starlight that called across endless miles and lifetimes with a song she’d echoed in a bower of saplings under the storm.

When he spoke, his voice was the softest she’d ever heard. It still filled the room, but the fire and the light from the open door dimmed so the shadows could swaddle his words, keep them for her and her alone.

“Maybe I am not content to see you miserable.”

The stars swept her face like searchlights, looking for something, or gathering a sacrifice she gave without knowing. The gap between them no longer mattered. It wasn’t there. Not really. He stood in her space, and she welcomed him, every dream and terror he possessed. She met him with hurricanes and gentlest showers under soft grey skies. They saw. They understood.

A thread stitched them together, the ties still loose, but undeniable.

This was more than pity. It wasn’t guilt or grief or the mere drive to cut out the foreign magic from her dreams.

It… he might –

“We’re back, darling! Why is the door open?”

The moment shattered, and they both turned to see Taliesin and Matthew sweep inside. The bard’s face lit up when he spied their guest, and he hurried to throw his wet coat on the rack as the raven shook himself dry.

“Hello, Lord Morpheus! We had no idea you were coming today.” A touch too excited. A little too loud. Projecting, like he was performing on stage.

Matthew croaked. “Hey, boss.”

Dream’s eyebrows crept up as he stepped back from the warm place in front of her. She mourned the loss, but schooled her features, because Taliesin was in the room, and he’d never let her hear the end of it.

“Did you not?” Dream asked. He addressed Matthew second. “Since all is well here, and you’re struggling to maintain your post, I think it best you return to the Dreaming.” He looked at his raven with the stern eye of a ruler. Or a disappointed parent.

Matthew ducked. “Of course, sir.” He only sounded a little ashamed.

Dream slipped his hands into his pocket as he circled the couch, his wry voice trailing after him like a cloud.

“Thank you again, little storm god, for the tea.”

He strode through the open door, into a misting rain, down the path, and through the gate with Matthew flying over his shoulder. The sand consumed him as he climbed the first hill, and both entities of the Dreaming were gone.

It took Taliesin less than a second afterward to pull her back, push her down in a chair, and set the kettle to boil again. He didn’t stop to refill it, and he didn’t give her time to warn him. With a clap of his hands, he squatted to her level and pinned her with a wild, delighted glare.

“Spill. I want to know everything. Right now. Spill the tea. Please. Or I may cry and it will be all your fault.”

She puffed out her cheeks, gripping the arms of the chair against his onslaught.

She didn’t know what to tell him. She didn’t really want to tell him anything. After all, it wasn’t like he knew her feelings, the little whispers of fantasy and possibility that plagued her, and he’d missed the rest of the show because he preferred the bird’s company.

Fine then. That’s what she’d say. Nothing.

“I think,” she said slowly, leaning into his desperately curious gaze, “that you’d better not burn my kettle, bard.”

----------------------------------------------

A month. Two.

But when the moment came, no one had to bring a report.

Dream knew.

Before the screams and the creeping shadow, he felt the two intruders descending over his palace. Their call to panic pricked over his skin like needles, pressing on his equilibrium with the unspoken demand that it crack, that he let his unrestrained essence flood his realm, drown it with every dread collected over eons of existence. But their flimsy hooks couldn’t pierce deep enough to draw more than his ire. They didn’t touch his mind or strike his heart. It would take power beyond their fantasies to lance his bones and make him scream.

He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and breathed in the rising stink of fear as his people’s terror curdled the light of his throne room. It was a terrible thing, but beneath his frustration and pain for his dreamfolk, an ember of satisfaction smoldered.

At last.

He rose from his throne, descending the twisting steps with dark intent.

Already, he could feel their suggestions, their subtle magic twining close, seeking open wounds and half-forgotten agonies. But he was King of Nightmares, and he’d long since tired of their games. He’d send Ares’ children crying back to their father. The Dreaming was no chessboard, no gaming green or bright field for challenges of skill, and they would regret mistaking it for such.

They would bleed for Lucienne’s tears and for every whimper they inspired from one of his creations.

Time to end this. And then to rest with the rain on the window and –

He quickly banished the thread of longing.

The little storm god had been right; he was tired. Remaining on guard over so many weeks, with so many of his creations in need of care and restoration wearied him. He had no doubt the invaders planned it that way. But they had grossly underestimated their opponent.

He must focus.

Stepping outside, he found the sky as Mervyn had described. A warped reflection of the clouds hung over the palace’s spires, and all the dreamfolk fled from it, all but the gatekeepers. Even as panic crackled into madness, they could not leave their posts. The Griffin tore at his own feathers, shrieking against something he imagined under his flesh. The hippogriff screamed and bucked, striking at imagined enemies with its hooves, and the wyvern mistook its master for an intruder. Dream pushed the snapping jaws aside, incandescent with rage.

They would not trick him into harming his own. He’d repay every broken wing, bruised face, and quiet limp the refugees had brought to his attention on Phobos’ hide. He’d gift Deimos with the cost of shattered hands and mangled bellies carried to his palace by weeping friends who blamed themselves for the horrors inflicted.

Beyond the gates, he saw baskets upended, a few dreams who’d fallen or stood in the way of giants pulling themselves to illusory safety behind trees and carts and houses. The gates stood fast, keeping the desperate crowd locked away from the greater danger of the seas beyond.

Matthew, shuddering but still sane, alighted on his shoulder.

“What now, boss?” The raven twitched, dodging something only he could see, and Dream ran a hand down his familiar’s back – from the crown of his head, between his wings, to the base of his tail. His loyal friend, determined to do his duty even in the face of his greatest fears. Matthew cawed, shuddering under the second pass of his master’s fingers, and Dream glowered at the ___ in the sky.

“Now, I give them reason to regret ever setting foot in my realm.”

But he would not risk his raven. Not again.

“I need you to stay here. Guard those who’ve lost themselves, and inform Lucienne that I have left for battle when you find her.”

Perhaps he said it too carefully, too gently. Matthew shook himself so every feather stood on end. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

“I will not leave the Dreaming for this fight.” He pet the tuft of feathers at the top of Matthew’s beak, assuring them both that the raven stood there in one piece, unbroken and breathing. “Do not fear, Matthew.”

A tall order, but the bird rallied to meet it. Dream’s request cut through the phantoms, sharp with purpose. Matthew scoffed, fluttering down from Dream’s shoulder only to stare up with every bit of force and determination a raven could contain. “Be careful, okay? Lucienne will turn me into a feather duster if anything happens to you on my watch.”

Dream did not smile, but Matthew’s faith swelled within him, a boon to arm him against the greatest terrors – which he would face alone.

“My brave raven.” Once again, he must order him to stay. Once again, everything that made Matthew a good and reliable aid also complicated Dream’s plan. He buried his affection deep, letting the cold authority of his office shade his next command: “Do not follow me.”

Matthew croaked, lifting his wings to emphasize an impending retort, but Dream didn’t wait for disobedience. He donned his helm, lifted a handful of sand, and left his subject cawing at thin air.

He saw the chariot, a shivering blight in the blue sky, eating up the sunlight with its invisible shadow. More realm than transport, it could house an army. Or a single room. Whatever a visiting mind feared, the space held. Once Deimos and Phobos knew a victim’s weakness, it became their world.

He moved into the stolen space over his palace where Aries’ chariot hovered. It came to his kingdom without invitation, and therefore he needed none to enter.

As his sand bore him across the short distance, he wondered what horrors the invaders might summon to save themselves. When the shimmering grains fell away, however, only darkness greeted him, a consuming silence echoing itself into infinity.

Terrifying for a mortal, perhaps, but he didn’t even need light to see within the bounds of the Dreaming. He, like the night sky, was as much depthless shadow as starlight.

Such a meager effort to unbalance their opponent. He must teach these younger gods the meaning of panic and fear.

Smirking, he strode into the emptiness, searching for the brothers who surely recognized their error now that he stood in their haven.

What had the King of Nightmares to dread?

He paced deeper into the hollow realm, empty hands closing into fists as he summoned to mind all the harm the feckless immortals brought to those in his care – to dreams and dreamers alike. This ended here. Now. They may delay their fate by minutes or hours with their games of hide and seek, but retribution came for them with the inevitable draw of the cosmic tide. The eyes of his helm glowed, and the dead air warmed in lurid shades of red.

“You cannot hide from me.” He watched simple shapes appear as from a black fog. Walls and ceilings manifested from the floor upon which he stood. Doors grew along them and empty arches promised new spaces beyond. “I am the Dreaming, and you intrude in my realm.”

He sensed them – waiting below. He must go to them. They would not be called.

One door, firmer and brighter than the rest, creaked open, inviting him down a flight of stairs. It had the grandiose showmanship of an obvious trap, but Morpheus had no fear of any surprise the two may spring, and he stepped through, pulsing with malicious intent.

He wouldn’t deny the fools his attention when they courted it so eagerly.

The steps led deep, past logic and into something more akin to nightmare than reality. Dreamers sometimes encountered stairs like these – an endless descent they followed in desperation and confusion. The ultimate liminal space they raced through en route to a destination they’d never reach.

At first, he didn’t notice his footfalls growing heavier. The echo and shock of his feet against stone crept over him like the daybreak, a rising and unwelcome awareness. More of his anthropomorphic body burdened his hunt than he’d intended, and he felt his power drawing in, wrapping close. It left him feeling strangely small as he lowered himself a step, a step, a step at a time. Though he could see far more than he had at the top of the stairs, some senses dimmed, went blind, and his waking sense of caution whispered in alarm.

But he continued.

He had faced far worse than this mild discomfort – his people had – and these invaders must be stopped.

Deeper still he trod, and then deeper again.

Cold, musty air enveloped him. He tasted the stale rot of forgotten centuries and smelled a blend of old candle wax and lingering mildew. Artificial light in a place that never escaped the damp.

A basement.

He hesitated. Only for a moment, but long enough. The waiting claws of Deimos’ and Phobos’ power pierced his defenses, hooking deep in his marrow with a surge of anxiety beyond fear. His corporeal body’s heart stuttered, and he fell to a knee as the stairs folded up into a familiar room. The walls feel back into endless pillars, studded with lights too dim to combat the shadows beyond the golden circle.

Collapsing, he felt his power drain away as the shackles of ancient magic bound him once again in his weakest state. A prisoner. Physical anguish warred with his distress, and he groaned, reached for the edge of the circle with a shaking hand.

A sandaled foot pinned his fingers to the stone, almost gently, and Dream looked up through the eyes of his helm to find Deimos and Phobos towering with sated grins. Deimos – easy to mistake for a human youth – crouched down, following the bidding of Dream’s fears. As his brother – Phobos, identical to his brother apart from his leonine head – kept their hostage from breaking through his terror, Deimos plucked his bag of sand out of his grip, tore away his cloak, and seized the helm with the same awkward malice Roderick Burgess employed.

He had no ruby to lose, but Deimos stole everything he had including…

Deimos lifted the key to the storm god’s cottage, examining it in the harsh white electric lights the younger Burgess installed many years after he failed to keep his promise. “What does this open, I wonder?”

A knot seized Dream’s stomach, and he curled in on himself, gasping against the wave of piercing terror conjured by the mere idea of the brothers using that key, slipping into the storm god’s home and taking her apart through the horrors of her past. As he once had. But worse. Without escape. Without a hand to pull her back out of the nightmare. It would destroy her.

He groaned, and the sound reverberated.

Flinching upright, he reached for the edge of the circle, frantic, only to crash against glass. The lights danced in his eyes, mockingly bright when the rest of the world was so dark.

They’d put him back in the glass cage. Or his fears had. It didn’t matter. Now as then, he was powerless. And this time his captors knew their work, had access to realm, and would not need any gift from him to achieve their aims.

It was everything he feared, the worst thing he could imagine.

Deimos moaned, pressing his hand flat to his belly as his eyes rolled back in his head. “The fear of an Endless truly is a potent thing. Bless the fool mortals who taught you such dread.”

Phobos rumbled, his lion’s voice filled with impressions and sensation rather than words. It rang in Dream’s ears like a chant.

Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

It wasn’t true. It wasn’t real. But he felt the cold, curved floor sapping heat from his bent legs, smelled the cheap coffee the guards used to wash down their damned pills. More solid than any nightmare. And he did not dream.

Sighing, like he’d finished a grand meal or enjoyed an orgasm, Deimos said, “Facts don’t change fears.” He looked around the room, eating it all with his gaze. Gloating. Sated. For the moment. “You are the Dreaming, but it’s taken so long to taste your fears, Lord Morpheus. Your creations only held whispers, full of their own worries and visions of darker days. But those tastes sustained us. Strengthened us. And they told us much in the end.”

They told his absence, of the slow rebuilding. Some of his own hopes and fears always went into his work, and his new creations sang of freedom, whispered of imprisonment.

He closed his eyes, trying to think, trying to call for help – from Lucienne, Matthew, Death, anyone. It would not, could not happen again. The Dreaming would not survive it. He would not survive it.

Phobos took the bundle of clothes and tools from his brother, rumbling the worst promises with the voices of the dead as he retreated from the illuminated circle.

Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

#morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x oc

245 notes · View notes

feretra · 4 months

Note

Please read all of this and don't just ignore what I write. And understand this comes from a place of concern for you AND Gig.

I understand that Gig did things that made you uncomfortable and forgot to tag certain kinks and I'm also sorry that you're sick to this extent and I hope you get better. I do feel as though you threw some exaggerated accusations out because you were hurt. Which, being hurt is valid and that's fine, but to try and completely ruin someone over your triggers is a little hurtful and makes me frightened to interact with you.

Then after you stopped being friends with Gig you accused them of sending themself anons (ones I sent them) and then you further claimed that they stalked you when YOU sought out THEIR private blogs and Twitter looking for vague posts about yourself.

Don't get me wrong. I understand wanting to look into previous friends and see what they're saying about you. But you can't blame them for venting and using their personal social media to vent. They didn't even mention you by name. Everyone on all sides is allowed to be sad and is allowed to vent.

I don't want to guilt you or tell you what to do, but you should consider deleting the post and making a public apology for your part in this. You both did wrong here. Bringing up the Georgie from IT cosplay was unnecessary and superfluous and being indigenous has nothing to do with gunplay. I'm sorry, but that's a common kink. I don't have it as I'm Ace, but many do.

Gig should be less guilt trippy and vague. And they should always tag triggers and kinks. But none of that should be cancellable.

Again. I'm sorry you were hurt and I'm very sorry you're sick. But taking responsibility is important. Please consider what I'm saying. Feel better soon.

“Frightened” to interact with me? Bullshit. You’ve sent me literal essays both on and off anonymous trying to do the same thing Gig has been, you just have different tactics and terrible comprehension skills. You don’t follow me, or interact with me, nor will you ever. My friends and I, we don’t have this kind of relationship. You’d know that if you did actually know me.

Regardless —

#1) This is a lot of text to tell me that, weeks later, that you still don’t understand what the actual crux of my issue with Sam was. So allow me to do my donation to charity services and hold your hand through it:

It was not just gunkink. Sam was not tagging graphic, life-altering violence against women. This was not just kink. It was horrific violence I have experienced and it results in death if executed correctly. So while you want to talk as if you are the final arbiter of the Indigenous experience? You do not get to decide that my experiences in my body were invalid. I have severe PTSD as a result of them. I have boundaries set in place to keep me safe when I have to skate near my triggers. And while it was a spat? I thought Sam and I solved this instance in what I thought was amicable terms.

Except that Sam encouraged her friends to engage me in fights. Just like, surprise, we’re now. Because Sam wants to be the victim. And when I found out, suddenly I was “so nice and sweet” and she couldn’t understand why they were attacking me. Except that Sam knew damn well why, because she had been the one to goad them in the first place, and then made them look the fool when Sam wouldn’t even defend them.

It is not the lack of tagging. It isn’t even the violence. It’s her manipulation of other people to guilt and victimize herself when someone is firm on their boundaries. I had them. @raphaeni had them. @laceratiio had them. These are things we will not write. These are topics we do not want to explore. Topics I do not want to see on my dash are these, so please do not follow me or engage me in writing if you want to do this sort of thing.

Sam blatantly lied and said she did not engage with any of these until she got close enough to feel comfortable. Then they come out. You can maturely tell her that you are not comfortable and are parting ways, but despite the fact she will seem very amicable? She will demonize and distort what was said, you’ll get a spike in crude anons, and then magically you have a ton of vague posting about how you crushed her spirit and did her dirty. There is no consideration for how she made you feel, or if there is, it is only in the context of how shitty of a friend she was and how it can be spun for pity.

I have the right to call out bad behaviour. Especially when it is a pattern and can be established as such. I have the right to warn people, especially when she all but proved the other callout true with her behaviour. Numerous people have showed me her attempting to imply I’d be the reason for her unaliving herself. If anything, I hope this sets a goddamn precedent for the help she clearly needs and isn’t getting.

She wants her boundaries respected but she never respected anyone else’s so long as we carried a pretty face she could write a problematic Neri ship with.

#2) Everyone wants non-screencapped proof, but manipulators wipe their evidence. I can give what I have, all collected in literally under a whole hour of my time over one day, but then I’m a bully and a stalker for playing into what you want, right? You can’t have both.

#3) If you respected my boundaries, you’d leave me alone after nearly two goddamn weeks. Knowing damn well I almost just had to be hospitalized. You don’t. You’re more concerned with getting the outcome you want.

You haven’t figured out yet that telling me to do shit is the most surefire way to make me never do it.

#ooc #[ and because you cannot help but send me anons ]#[ off goes the anon feature ]

7 notes · View notes

phoenixyfriend · 3 years

Text

Auntie ‘Soka and Little Leia (and Rex)

The counterpart to Uncle Ben and Little Luke (Original Post, Chrono)

Listen. You all knew this was coming.

This got... very long and detailed and I’m going to have to clean it up and post to AO3. As in, this was supposed to be 2-3k and is literally ten times that long. It crossed 25k. And the initial section actually glosses over a bunch, actual fic-style writing starts at “That, of course, is when things get interesting.”

Warnings: discussion of various canon traumas (most relating to being child soldiers), general PTSD, several scenes featuring dissociation or panic attacks upon being triggered, and canon-typical violence.

Rated T, gen.

I still want there to be de-aging nonsense involved so Ahsoka is physically a late teenager despite having a solid two decades of field experience behind her (we’re pulling her from Malachor).

Leia, much like Luke, is now six. She just came from being a rebellion general. She is not happy about being a child. She was already short, this is just mean. She’s a human espresso.

UNLIKE BEN, Ahsoka is not happy about this turn of events. Being seventeen-ish is not helpful in the outer rim. She’s a female togruta, young and healthy, and in the Outer Rim, caring for a small human child. Sure, she has her lightsabers and plenty of combat experience, and she can keep them safe, but she’s just one person, and a major target for those looking to make some quick cash. It doesn’t matter how good she is; she needs sleep at some point.

It makes my heart happy to treat Ahsoka and Rex as two halves of the same black ops specialist so you know what, he’s there too! He’s physically like... 10-12 in natborn, maybe. They’re not sure, because clones age weird. He’s moderately more useful than Leia (who is very competent but also physically six, and short for that age), but he’s still... very small.

Reminder that none of them have been born yet.

Ahsoka has a harder time explaining WHY she has children with her, since she's barely more than a kid herself, and clearly unrelated by species. She sometimes just says “Oh, my adoptive brother’s kids” since it’s kind of the truth for Leia and she’s not touching the actual truth about Rex with a ten foot pole.

Ahsoka definitely knows about Leia being a Skywalker, or at least has suspicions that Bail never outright confirmed but was conspicuously quiet about. She does tell Leia about it, but it’s not like that means anything, right? Just, you know, your dad was my teacher! I don’t have to tell you he became Va--oh shit, you already knew that part. Well, fuck. What do you mean he had a son? OH SHIT, PADME HAD TWINS.

Alt take for explaining why she’s got kids: She’s my foundling, I know her name as my child (Leia shut up!!!)

(Ahsoka can fake Mandalore. Sometimes.)

That said, there is... significantly less gambling and significantly more theft to get to Coruscant.

As previously stated, Ahsoka is a black ops kinda gal, and more importantly, she looks like a fairly attractive young woman in the Outer Rim, with two children in good health. She’s a target, and also not the kind of person one generally gambles with. If she does gamble, people get upset when she doesn’t lose, in ways they don’t get upset about Ben doing the same, because she’s, again, a cute teenage girl. It’s exhausting.

As things go, she largely ends up stealing from people who deserve it and/or smuggling herself and her charges into someone else’s ship. They’re small, they can hide. Sometimes she can get them all passage by working as a mechanic, she’s good at that.

Once they’ve got a handle on when they are, they have to decide on Names. None of them have been born yet, so technically they could use their own names without anyone Knowing. Rex and Leia might not even be born, depending on how successful they are at, you know, stopping the war and everything. Ahsoka, though, she’s going be born in two years, and there’s no reason to prevent it, so... she doesn’t want to steal baby-her’s name. That would be mean.

Leia is already calling her “Auntie ‘Soka” when she can for reasons like “selling the bit” and “manipulating adults” and “making us both feel better after we had a mutual breakdown about Anakin being Vader.” Ergo, she decides that whatever new name she picks better include that in some way, and decides on “Sokari” because it sounds pretty.

Overall, they don’t... they don’t actually make it very far before there’s an Incident. Again, teenager with small children. They spend a lot of time hiding out in space ports looking for an opportunity.

That, of course, is when things get interesting.

Specifically, Ahsoka spots a Mandalorian.

She doesn’t recognize the armor. She does recognize the sigil, and thinks ‘well, they’re more likely to help than some,’ because from what she’s heard, the Haat Mando’ade are Decent People Overall. Her view is a little biased, mostly on account of the sheer level of grudge she has against Kyr’tsad. It’s fine! The True Mandalorians have the same grudge, right? And Mandalorians like kids and Ahsoka hasn’t slept in five days and it’s fine. It’s fine! IT’S FINE.

“Oh shit,” Rex whispers, before she can suggest anything. “Oh fuck.”

“Stop cursing,” Leia hisses, elbowing him. “People are going to notice.”

“That’s the Prime,” Rex panics, mostly quiet. Ahsoka’s heart drops, because fuck is right. “That’s Fett.”

Leia isn’t impressed. Ahsoka just angles herself between Fett and Rex and hopes that he doesn’t see them. That’s just asking for trouble.

Unfortunately, Ahsoka is in fact running on none sleep with left trauma, and doesn’t notice Fett walking up and dropping into a seat across from them until he’s actually done so, removing his helmet to glare a little more efficiently.

“Wanna explain why your kid has my face?”

Ahsoka later tells herself that he’s killed Jedi and that’s why he can sneak up on her, and that she can be forgiven some slip-ups with the exhaustion being what it is, and that she’s obviously going to be dealing with some emotional instability in light of the sudden return of teenage hormones and new forms of anxiety that are markedly different from those she was dealing with a few weeks ago.

What Ahsoka wants to say is “that’s kind of a long story,” or “maybe he’s a cousin,” or “kriff off, I don’t know you,” or maybe even “he’s a clone.”

What Ahsoka actually does is burst into tears, which is embarrassing for her, for Fett, for the kids, and for the entire rest of the bar.

It really is the straw that broke the eopie’s back. Even when she was actually this age, she didn’t exactly cry much. Objectively, Fett quasi-aggressively asking a valid question shouldn’t send her into a panic. She’s been through torture and worse. She shouldn’t be crying.

But she is, sobbing her eyes out with no control, and he’s just sitting across from her and looking uncomfortable while Rex wraps his little arms--oh Force he’s so small--around her, and both ‘children’ glare at Fett.

“So, I’m going to take it she didn’t kidnap you from a loving family or do something illicit with a blood sample,” Fett says, after it becomes obvious that Ahsoka’s not going to be ready to talk any time soon.

“She didn’t,” Rex says stiffly, with just the right emphasis for Fett to catch what’s implied. Ahsoka just keeps her head down, eyes pressed against the heels of her palms, trying to get her body to stop rebelling against her.

Fett’s eyes dart to Leia, who folds her arms and draws herself up, every bit the unimpressed princess. “My father claimed her as a sister, so she’s my Auntie ‘Soka.”

The man dithers a bit, the conversation clearly not going where he’d expected. “Right,” he says. “You--you’re all kids. I thought she was a little older, at least, but I didn’t have a good look at her face before.”

She is older, but actually admitting that is only going to make this worse, both for her pride and for her chances of making it out alive.

“Where are you staying?”

“What?” Leia bites out.

“You’re kids, you’re alone, and you’re clearly not okay if you were trying to hide the one with my face as blatantly as you did, and then... whatever this is, when I confronted you,” Fett explains. Ahsoka lifts her head to glare at him, but it’s probably not doing much with the way her eyes are rimmed with red and still wet. “Don’t give me that look, ad’ika, your kids looked as confused and horrified by that as the bartender did. They obviously didn’t think it was normal either.”

Well, kriff you too, Ahsoka thinks.

“And what do you mean by ‘blatantly,’ here?” Leia challenges. It’s adorable, but Ahsoka watched this tiny girl shoot a man last week, and wonders when people are going to start taking that seriously.

“There’s a lot of people in this galaxy, and I don’t exactly have the clearest memory of what I looked like at that age,” Fett says, slow and careful like he thinks they’re dumb. Ahsoka decides to chalk it up as being because Leia’s visibly six. “I would have thought it was just a coincidence if you hadn’t put in effort to hide him.”

Leia huffs, and Rex glares harder. Fett just sighs, like they’re all going to give him grey hairs.

“You can explain whatever the hell’s going on,” Fett says. “I’ll let you stay on my ship, there’s a spare bunk and you’re small.”

“For free?” Rex demands.

“A night on a bunk in exchange for information,” Fett clarifies. “We can negotiate from there.”

Ahsoka takes a few moments, notes that both of the others are waiting on her for the decision, and cringes. She doesn’t feel steady enough to carry that. She has to anyway.

“Rex?” she asks, voice rasping after the breakdown of the past few minutes.

“Yeah?”

“How much?”

He looks up at her, eyes calculating, and grimaces. “We don’t want Order 66. A warning is better, even if we... share information.”

She nods, and turns to Leia. “Any premonitions, princess?”

Leia glowers, cute and furious. “No.”

“No, don’t tell, or no, you aren’t getting any vibes about sharing info one way or the other?”

“The latter,” Leia clarifies, huffy to the last.

“Right,” Ahsoka says, and then just... hesitates. “Fett...”

“You’ve got conditions,” he guesses.

She bares her teeth in what could have, through a squint and perhaps a few drinks, been called an apologetic smile. “Just one, really.”

“Yeah?”

“No hurting, killing, or turning us in for bounties,” she says. “Any of us.”

“You’re children, I wouldn’t.”

She blinks at him, slow and careful. She hesitates. She reaches down, out of sight, sees him stiffen.

She unclips her sabers from her belt and puts them on the table.

His eyes are fixed on the weapons the second they enter his line of sight, and don’t move as he clearly realizes why she made the condition she did.

“I left years ago, because I couldn’t stay without it ruining me,” she says. Still slow. Still careful. She’s so tired. “But if I want to keep Leia safe, I have to get back to Coruscant.”

His eyes finally lift from the sabers, expression blank. “Just her?”

“Rex doesn’t have the same monsters coming after him,” she says. “If it were just me and him, I’d worry less. Leia’s a different kind of target.”

“You’re putting a lot of faith on the table by telling me that,” Fett says, voice flat and toneless. “Considering my occupation.”

“She’s a child,” Ahsoka says, feeling heavy and boneless. “Even with what I was and will be, even with what money you would get from the right buyer, you wouldn’t.”

“There are other risks.”

“There are.”

They stare at each other for too long, probably, and then Fett jerks as Rex kicks him under the table. The boys glare for a moment, and then Rex says, “If she weren’t good, I’d still be a slave to those who grew me.”

Fett blinks, and then nearly growls the word, “What?”

“She freed me,” Rex reiterates. “While I was trying to shoot her.”

Ahsoka lifts a hand and puts it on his far shoulder, pulling him into her side. She doesn’t meet Fett’s eyes again, because part of her is back on Mandalore, dodging her own soldiers and crying out as her family dies across the galaxy.

Fett breathes in. Breathes out. He puts a hand to his head, visibly frustrated. “Fine. A good Jedi kid, and two smaller kids, one of which is apparently in some way mine.”

Rex makes a face, which is fair, but also not helping.

“To the ship,” Ahsoka says, putting her sabers back on her belt and sliding out of the seat. “I’m... I’m Sokari.”

“You already know my name.”

“I do.”

---------------------------

Fett watches her like she’s a predator, which has the benefit of being accurate and slightly flattering. She lets other two take care of most of talking, and then Fett tells her to sleep first, and talk in the morning.

“You’re dead on your feet, jetii,” he snorts. “And that crying jag didn’t do you any favors. Sleep.”

So she does, and Fett doesn’t even wake her. He just lets her sleep. He watches her in the way of a guard. She sees him when she gets up to use the ‘fresher in the middle of the night, but he doesn’t even comment when she collapses right back into the mediocre cot she’s borrowed for the cycle.

Rex and Leia are safe, her hindbrain tells her, even in the depths of sleep. Her mind curls around theirs in the Force, and she trusts that they are here. They are not happy, but they are alive and unharmed, and that has to be enough.

When she stumbles her way to true wakefulness, groggy and loose-limbed, Fett greets her with caf.

“The kids wouldn’t let me near you,” he tells her.

“They’re good,” she says, cupping her hands around the mug. She feels wobbly, in every sense. Her body, her mind, her emotions, her connection to the Force. Nothing is on-kilter right now. “Did they tell you anything?”

“They waited for you,” he says. “But the little miss needed a nap of her own. They’re down in the other bunk.”

“I didn’t notice,” she admits. She should have. She’s Fulcrum. She’s a veteran of the Clone Wars. She’s... she’s supposed to be better than this.

“How long?” he asks, and then when she squints up at him, he clarifies. “How long did you fight?”

“My last fight--”

“No, whatever war you came out of,” he says. Her chest twists cold. “I don’t know if the Jedi sent you into it or if you waded in yourself once you left, but you move like a soldier.”

“I was,” she confirms. “But... but I don’t want to talk about the details. Not until the other two are here.”

He frowns at her. “Is there anything you can talk about?”

She shrugs and looks away, trying to take solace in the warmth of the caff she holds above the table, as if it can hide her, guard her, from the disgraced Mand’alor across the table.

“Jedi?”

“I’m not officially a Jedi,” she says, voice quiet. “Not anymore.”

“Then what do I call you?” he asks. “We’re not exactly close enough for names.”

“Torrent,” she says. “It’s not--I can’t claim my family name anymore. But I can claim Torrent, so I will. And if you want a title, I was a commander.”

“Bit young for that.”

“I got the rank when I was fourteen,” she says, and watches his face do something complicated and unpleasant. “Don’t. I know your own culture puts children on the field that young.”

“Not in command.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, well... the soldiers were technically younger. Adults, but...”

Ahsoka can see the way he casts about to figure out what species grows at that rate. He guesses a few, and she shoots all of it down.

She won’t tell him. Not until Rex is awake.

This part of the story is his.

--------------------------

When Leia tries to sit alone, a foot away on the bench like a proper adult, Ahsoka refuses to let it happen. She pulls the younger girl to her side and quells protests with a glance. It’s a decent skill, but she’s not sure how long it’s going to work on her niece-in-spirit.

“Your body needs the chemical release of skinship,” she says, and Leia glares at her. “I spent way too much time with the boys to not know about this. Deal.”

Rex sits close enough to knock their knees together under the table, and his warmth is the old comfort she needs.

“Do you want the story you’ll believe, or the truth?” Ahsoka asks.

“What’s the difference?”

“One of them involves something so impossible that even most Jedi wouldn’t believe it,” she tells him.

Fett folds his arms and leans forward to rest them on the table, challenging but oddly open. “Try me.”

“Time travel.”

He blinks, just once, fully controlled. “That’s a tough one.”

“There were only three Jedi left alive when I died,” she says. “Or... whatever it is that happened to me. I think I died. All I know is that one moment, I was thirty-two and dying, and the next, I was... seventeen again, and had these two with me. All of us younger than we were. None of us have even been born yet.”

She refuses to look him in the eye. “They both outlived me by... six years, maybe. Got caught up while traveling instead of dying. Leia was twenty-two. Rex was thirty-five. I’m not technically the oldest anymore. I mean, physically I am, but that doesn’t mean anything, and it’s not exactly doing us any good, and--”

Rex bumps his shoulder to her arm. “I dunno, Commander. I’ve spent a long time looking older than I should. Nice to look younger for once.”

She shoots him a small, pained grin. “Could be worse, yeah.”

“Let’s say I believe you.”

Her attention snaps back to Fett, who’s looking damnably blank, and is showing even less in the Force.

He waits a second for her to relax back into her seat.

“Let’s say I believe you,” he repeats. “How’s ‘Rex’ connected to me? What’s so special about Leia there? And what war did you fight in that has you acting like a veteran?”

“Three years in the clone wars,” she whispers, glancing to Rex and forcing herself to not go for her sabers to defend against an attack that her paranoia says is coming and the Force says is not. “Then almost all the Jedi were wiped out at once, and I spent a year... drifting. Then black ops for the next fifteen.”

“Black ops,” he repeats, still damnably flat.

“There was a Sith Empire,” she says, and she can hear her own tone growing somehow emptier. “Glassing planets. Enslaving entire species. Committing genocides all over. Of course, there was a rebellion, and of course I joined it. I was one of the only people left with Jedi training. For all that I’d left the Order, I still had a duty to the universe.”

His eyes flit to Leia, who shrugs and tries to look prim. “I was adopted and raised by one of the founders of the rebellion, a movement built on the desire to instate freedom and democracy in a galaxy that had lost even the pretense.”

“That why you’re special?”

Leia smiles, thin and patronizing. It doesn’t fit on her little face. “I’m special because my biological father was one of the most powerful Force users in history, and his Fall to the dark side and choice to become a Sith is why the Emperor’s rise was nearly uncontested. I do not like power, but it’s in my veins and I can’t change that. Force users are... a lucrative trade, and I’m still the size of a child, so I can’t fight back. I’ll be safer in the Jedi Temple, even if I don’t want to be a Jedi.”

Fett looks to Ahsoka, makes to ask a question, and then shakes his head. Not the time, maybe.

“So, that’s all... very complicated and I don’t know how much of it I believe, but it doesn’t explain...” he trails off, and sighs. “My kid, or whatever you are. I heard you mention clones.”

Rex grins. It is not a kind expression.

“Let me tell you about Kamino.”

---------------------------

Ahsoka has no idea if Fett believes them. Either he thinks they’re telling the truth, or he thinks their delusional kids. Whatever the case, he offers to take them closer to the Core. Ahsoka quietly offers to take a look at his engine in return, and then pretends not to notice when Fett awkwardly drifts to and away from Rex.

“They put chips in our brains to make us kill the Jedi we respected, cared for, even loved. I tried to shoot ‘Soka, Fett. She was seventeen and risked her life to get that chip out of my head while I was trying to kill her. I have never hated myself more than when I woke up and realized what I’d almost done, and I was one of the few that were able to fight it. I heard the stories of dozens of brothers who woke with their chips having degraded and chose to eat their blaster rather than live with the guilt of the orders they’d followed without question because of a thrice-damned Sith slave chip in their head.”

“So no, I won’t call you father or acknowledge you as clan until you do something to prove you’re worth it, shared blood or not.”

What Ahsoka does get out of the arrangement, for all that Fett’s route mostly takes them on a meandering path that isn’t faster than their previous system, is sleep. She gets to rest. She gets to trust that Fett won’t kill Rex, out of guilt for something he hasn’t done, that he won’t kill Leia out of a worry that she’s just a delusional child, a real child, that he won’t kill ‘Sokari’ because it would ruin any chance of gaining Rex’s favor, ever.

She’s not safe, won’t believe she can be until she’s in the Temple and Sidious is dead dead dead, but she’s safer than she’s been in a long time.

Every night, Ahsoka wakes up and stumbles to the little galley, deaths and torture sparkling behind her eyes with the energy of a thousand lost Jedi, ten thousand mourned brothers and sisters.

She is not the only one of their little group to be a survivor of a near-total genocide, but Rex could not feel his brothers die in the Force, even if his nightmares featured what they heard of suicide missions by the emperor’s favored shock troopers, and Leia had... Alderaan had more off-world survivors than there had been Jedi at all.

It’s not worth comparing their pain. It’s stupid to even think it. Part of her can’t help but do it anyway.

“Caf?”

She feels a lek twitch in response to the voice of the only other person on board who can reach the top shelf. “I probably shouldn’t.”

“Whiskey?”

“That’s a definitely shouldn’t.”

“Hoth chocolate?”

“...please.”

She doesn’t lift her head from her arms until the mug clicks down in front of her, ceramic on plastisteel.

“Do I ask what it was this time?”

She shrugs. “It’s hard to explain to non-sensitives.”

“Try me anyway.”

Ahsoka twists the Hoth chocolate in her hands, takes a sip as she thinks. “The Force isn’t just one thing. It’s... energy and philosophy and spirit, a sense of being that ties the entire universe together. Sentient and inanimate and living and dead, empty space and lush forests and stifled cities. For those of us who are sensitive to it, it’s possible to feel the life of everyone around you, theoretically possible to feel entire systems. If you have a Force bond, like a master and padawan, that can stretch across planets, even systems if one or both are particularly powerful.

“So just... just imagine, for a moment, what it’s like to feel the screaming of all those Jedi in the Force as their trusted men shot them down.

“Some of them were close enough that I could feel them die,” she manages. “I... it’s horrible. It’s horrific. It’s not something I can ever forget, and I want to. I want to forget what that moment was like. Not that it happened, but...”

She can feel the tears. Fuck..

“You want to dull the edges.”

“Don’t we all?” she asks, scrubbing the back of her hand across her eyes. “Leia lost her entire planet, billions of people, and she was forced to watch. Rex... Force, I can barely imagine, and I was there for most of it.”

Fett watches her, measuring. “From what he said, they were as much your brothers as his, by the end.”

“No,” she immediately denies. “They could have been, maybe, but the ones I was closest to died earlier, and then I left, and by the time the Empire rose, all but a handful were... no. Rex, I will claim as a brother in all the ways that matter, but I don’t get to do that with the rest. I don’t have the right.”

“You’re hard on yourself.”

“Fate of the galaxy, my good bitch. Guess who’s got it on her shoulders.”

He snorts at her, and nods at the mug. “Drink your Hoth chocolate. We’re landing in eight hours, and you’ve got kids to look out for.”

---------------------------

There’s a twitch in the Force when they land, something pulling at her in a way she barely feels. She’s had her shields up so fully for so long that it’s natural to hide away what she is to the point where she can hardly tell what anyone else is, either. It takes more than a moment to remember how to let herself spread out across the world.

“Auntie ‘Soka? Why’d you stop?”

She doesn’t have an answer to Leia’s prodding question. “I don’t know.”

It’s almost familiar. Old and half-forgotten, not the same as what she remembers, but--

“This way,” she says, and wanders off into the crowd. Leia and Rex follow without question. Fett curses and rushes through the rest of his transaction with the docking attendant. The sound of him jogging after them is almost funny, with the armor, but she can’t focus on that.

Ahsoka slips between people with the ease of a career built on such a habit, children trailing like ducklings. She knows this feeling, she knows this person, what is she missi--

“Oh,” she breathes, going stock still. She knows that face. She knows those braids. She even knows the presence.

Younger than Ahsoka had ever seen her, but unmistakably Master Billaba.

“Torrent, what the hell?” Fett demands, finally catching up. “You can’t just run off like that!”

“It’s Depa,” she says, eyes still fixed on the woman parsing through a datapad with an irritated vendor. She has a padawan braid. It doesn’t feel like Master Windu is on-planet, so this might be a solo mission, a... oh. Senior Padawan, Knight Elect. This is the kind of mission taken to test if she’s ready to be promoted.

Ahsoka feels light-headed.

Fett waits for her to elaborate, but she can’t. This was Kanan’s master. This was a member of the High Council. This was a woman who died and--

“You need to sit down,” Fett says, not a touch gruff. He puts a hand on her shoulder and guides her off the main walkway. “I’m... going to talk to the woman in the Jedi robes. You three just stay there and don’t get kidnapped.”

Ahsoka nods, feeling like she’s not quite inhabiting her own body.

It’s Depa.

Her eyes track Fett without conscious control, and her montrals pick up the sound.

Depa looks up when the armor comes close enough, free hand tensed in a way that says she’s preventing herself from reaching for a saber in reaction to the heavily-armored individual standing several feet away.

“Mando,” the woman says. “May I help you?”

“Are you Depa?”

Depa doesn’t do anything so dramatic as gape or step back, but she does blink rapidly for a moment. She then folds her hands down in front of her, drawing her spine up ramrod straight. “I am Jedi Padawan Depa Billaba, yes. May I ask why it is that you need to know?”

Ahsoka imagines Fett grimacing, or rolling his eyes, or maybe dithering. She can’t tell from this angle, and he has a helmet on besides. It turns his awkward silences into judgmental ones.

“I’ve had some Jedi kids on my ship, hitching a ride,” he says at length. “One of them recognized you and then just... froze.”

“You have our younglings in your care,” Depa says, carefully not accusatory, but close enough to be a warning.

“Not quite,” he says. “The one that actually came from the temple is seventeen. One of ‘em isn’t Force Sensitive, and the last one is but hasn’t been to Coruscant before. They’re trying to get the little one to the Temple for her own safety.”

Depa considers that, and then passes the datapad to the vendor. “Lead on.”

It’s surprisingly simple, really. Fett did all the talking.

And then Depa is standing right in front of her.

“Like I said,” Fett sighs. “She froze up.”

“Hello,” Depa says, hands laced together inside her sleeves. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Ahsoka shakes her head. “I know of you. I’ve seen you spar. You’ve never spoken to me.”

All true. A little misleading, but it’s fine, it’s all fine.

Depa waits a moment, and then says, “You seem to have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Sokari T-Torrent,” she manages. The words feel clunky in her mouth, the sound abrasive for all that it’s just her own voice, no different from usual. A little shaky, maybe. She can feel a cool breeze on her upper arms. Shouldn’t she have armor? She should have armor. “It... it’s been a long time since I’ve seen another Jedi. I’m having a hard time believing you’re real.”

“I see,” Depa says. “Perhaps we should take this somewhere more private? You seem a little unsteady.”

Ahsoka lets herself be led back to the ship, in the company of Mand’alor Jango Fett, Jedi Padawan Depa Billaba, Princess-General Leia Organa, and good old Captain Rex.

It’s like the start of a sick joke.

---------------------------

Fett and Depa talk where she can hear, but they rarely address her directly. Both seem to realize that she’s not particularly useful right now. Leia and Rex are pressing up against her at the little table in the galley, and Ahsoka lets them.

This is real. She can feel Depa in the Force, recognizes her energy even if it’s not quite what it will-was-could-have-been. This is happening.

It’s a textbook Traumatic Stress Response case, one of them says.

Fett has his helmet off. Ahsoka’s sure that’s wrong for some reason. She thinks he might already be on wanted lists. Should she worry about Depa trying to arrest him?

Depa asks about Rex at one point. Fett tells her that someone cloned him without his knowing, but the kid is more comfortable with Ahsoka so they’re still working on what that means for him.

It’s more or less true. Rex squeezes her hand the one time someone suggests separating them. She’s not letting that happen unless Rex wants to leave for whatever reason. They’ve worked apart before. They can do it again.

“Auntie Soka? You’re shivering.”

Is she?

Leia cuddles in closer, and Ahsoka runs a hand over her hair. It’s an absentminded motion, and for all that she knows Leia’s hair is fine as silk, it feels like plastic in the moment.

“I don’t think I’m okay,” Ahsoka announces. The words hang in the air like lead balloons, and she can feel Depa staring at her. “I haven’t been for a very long time.”

“Yeah, we noticed,” Fett says. “Do you need to lay down, Torrent?”

Does she?

“No,” she says. “I... I don’t know what I need.”

“The spicy drink,” Rex tells them. “It’s grounding.”

Right. That.

Fett goes to grab it, and Depa continues to watch.

“How long ago did you leave your master?” Depa asks. “Or... did he die?”

Ahsoka closes her eyes and shakes her head. She can feel the shivers now, tremors in her biceps and a shudder she can’t control in the height of her ribcage. Her teeth grind together, jaw like stone.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Depa assures her. “I’m... going to recommend you see a mind healer on Coruscant.”

That was a forgone conclusion.

A cup clinks onto the table. Fett’s back. “Drink.”

She does.

Depa and Fett continue discussing it as “the adults” at the table. She’s older than both of them. Rex is older than all of them. Ahsoka follows about half of what they say. She agrees with most of it. Rex bullies his way into speaking when she doesn’t, without her even asking, because he knows her mind as well as she does. Fett rolls with it. Depa lets him.

She’s going to reach out to the Temple and see about getting them a ride back to Imperial Center Coruscant.

Fett makes Soka go to bed, taking Leia with her.

---------------------------

She feels more like a person come morning.

Depa’s sitting at the table, datapad in her hands and caff on the table in front of her.

“Good morning,” Ahsoka says, rough and croaking, and Depa’s eyes flick up to meet hers. She nods a shallow hello.

“Feeling better?”

“Much,” Ahsoka says, and goes about gathering a breakfast. There’s definitely some dried meat in here. She can get something fresh when they stop by the market later.

“I was hoping to speak with you about your options,” Depa tells her, once she’s sat at the table. “Fett and your friend Rex took care of most of the negotiation, and I feel like I have an idea of what would work best for you.”

Ahsoka nods slowly. “Okay.”

“There is a Master-Padawan pair a few planets away,” Depa says. “The Council informed me when I spoke with them about you and your wards. They’d be headed back to the Temple in a few days anyway, and the Council has agreed to extend an offer to Fett to handle the transportation. The presence of a Jedi Master on board will allow for him to get in and out of the Core unmolested, and we’d like for you and yours to have a Jedi escort, given what happened yesterday afternoon.”

Her complete spiral into nonbeing?

“I understand,” she says instead. “I suppose Fett agreed because he’s still trying to get Rex to like him?”

Depa shrugs. “That part isn’t my business.”

Of course it isn’t.

“Rex can stay with me for a while, right?” Ahsoka finally asks. “I know it’s not exactly protocol, but I’m...”

“In need of a support system until you’ve seen a mind healer, and against all odds, the child is part of it,” Depa summarizes. “Yes, I recognized as much. I think the Council will be able to allow some leeway there. I don’t know if he’ll enjoy it, given that all the others his age are Initiates, but we can adjust as necessary. On that note... Do you know Leia’s midichlorian count?”

“No,” Ahsoka says, and hesitantly adds, “But her biological father was my Jedi Master, and I’m told his count broke records even as a child. Given what Leia’s shown so far... it’s why I’ve been in a hurry to get her to the Temple.”

Depa frowns at her, clearly working through the implications of a Jedi having a daughter and still teaching... and then visibly dismisses the situation, eyes closing to breathe in the steam of her caff.

Biological father certainly implies a child that was raised by her mother or adopted out so the Jedi father could remain in their chosen career without a conflict of interest or duty.

She’ll tell the council the truth, or... at least Master Koon. Master Kenobi is still a padawan, but she can tell Master Koon.

She already told Jango Fett, of all people.

“Padawan Torrent?”

Her head snaps up. She hasn’t been a padawan in over fifteen years. It’s weird to hear. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked if you wanted some time to think it over before I presented the offer to Fett,” Depa says.

Ahsoka gets the distinct feeling that Depa is planning a report to the Council that has ‘needs a mind healer’ underlined at least three times.

“No, I’m--I’m fine. That sounds like a good plan.”

“I’ll speak with him, then. Would you like to come with?”

"No, thank you.”

---------------------------

Fett agrees. Ahsoka’s pretty sure it’s all to do with Rex and maybe Leia. It’s probably nothing to do with ‘Sokari.’ She’s a Jedi, an adult in mind and in body, or at least close enough to count. She’s a damn sight more ‘enemy’ to Fett than the other two are. Not as much as Depa, maybe, but Fett’s been playing nice with her for Leia’s sake.

He plays nice with Ahsoka for Rex’s. That’s all.

They’re only a few planets over from the meeting point, and they have a few days to hang around before the escort meets them. Depa hadn’t given them a name--apparently it could have compromised the opsec for the Jedi team--but Ahsoka’s pretty sure she’ll be able to identify almost anyone. She gets the feeling that the Force is going to send her a familiar face, just as it did Master Padawan Billaba.

Ahsoka lets herself feel the world around her. It’s dark and dreary, in the sense that the beaten-down port is full of petty crimes and less petty horrors, but it’s still lighter than most of the Empire had been. She sneaks away from the ship at night, ignoring Fett at her back, and performs a bit of vigilante justice while she can. She’ll be banned from doing so as soon as she’s reinstated as a Jedi, probably, but for now... for now, she can look at the drug cartels and ‘they’re not slaves, really’ workers and do something to help.

She doesn’t use her sabers. She doesn’t need to. It’s been a long time since she has, for small fry like these.

“What are you doing?” Fett asks her, landing heavily behind her back.

“Chip removal,” she says, hand pressed to the slave’s leg. Her eyes are closed, but she can hear him shifting. “Let me concentrate, I don’t have a meddroid for this.”

He’s silent until she finishes, and waits until the people she’s helped are on their way to the planet’s freedom routes. He doesn’t ask what she did with the owners.

“You’ve done this before.”

“Regularly,” she confirms. “You?”

He doesn’t answer that, just ambles over to the the chains and stares down at them.

“Fett?”

“You go through this like it’s as easy as breathing,” he says. “It’s... impressive.”

“I guess?” she hesitates to continue. “I’m... I don’t think of it that way. This is the easy stuff. A time-waster that helps people. If I wanted to help for real, I’d been going after Jabba or Sidious or--”

“How old were you?” he asks, turning on his heel to face her dead-on. The vocoder of his helmet pulls the emotion from his voice. “When did this... these missions, the slavery battles, when did that start for you?”

“Fourteen,” she says. She’s not entirely sure, really, what counted as a mission for ending slavery and what counted as just a part of war, but she can round down. “Maybe fifteen. It’s a bit of a blur.”

“And you just kept doing it.”

“Of course,” she says. “If I have the time and the energy, if I need to do something and there’s nothing official on my hands, why not?”

He doesn’t answer her.

---------------------------

Rex greets them before she does.

Ahsoka, in her defense, is asleep at the time. It’s a restless sleep, but it’s enough that she doesn’t sense the nearing Force signatures until they’re almost at the ship.

She recognizes one of them.

“Auntie ‘Soka?” Leia questions, when she lurches to her feet and starts pulling on her boots with all the energy of a zombie. “Where are you going?”

“Jedi,” Ahsoka grunts. “Here.”

“I see.”

Leia dresses to follow her, in a little coat that’ll withstand the chill of the outside air, and Ahsoka makes it to the cargo hold just in time to hear Rex saying, “I’m not shaking your hand until you put your gloves on, Vos.”

She laughs to herself, breathless with the knowledge of what she’s about to find. She jumps the railing of the upper walkway, drops down just in front of the Master-Padawan team, and keeps her back to Fett and Rex. “Hello, there.”

One human, one Kiffar. She knows the latter.

“Would you be Sokari Torrent?” the Master asks.

“I am,” she says, with a slight bow. She can tell there’s a bit of judgement for how she’s dressed, but they’re covering it well. A Shadow and his trainee know the value of armor better than most Jedi bother with. “I’m afraid Padawan Billaba didn’t inform me of your names before we met.”

“And yet your friend knew my padawan,” the Master says.

“By reputation,” she says, as smoothly as she can. “I’ve encountered Quinlan Vos before, though I doubt he remembers--”

“I’d remember someone like you,” Quinlan interrupts, with a grin she’s sure is meant to be charming and rogueish.

He’s... very young for her, and not her type. Mostly, she wants to pat him on the head, but that probably wouldn’t go over very well. She still looks like she’s younger than him.

“Anyway,” she says, turning back to the master, “I’m afraid I still don’t know who you are, Master.”

“I am Tholme,” he says, with the bow that a Master gives a Padawan. She feels a little slighted, but it’s fine. She looks the right age, it’s fine.

It’s not like they know.

“It’s nice to meet you, Master Tholme,” she says. “My charges are Rex Torrent, the young man behind me, and currently coming down the ladder is Leia Antilles. I’m sure you’re aware of Jango Fett.”

“The Mand’alor,” Quinlan volunteers, and Ahsoka can almost hear Fett’s teeth grinding.

“Don’t call me that,” he says. She’s sure he’s got a hand drifting for his blaster.

“There isn’t a whole lot of room on the ship,” she says before the men can get into whatever weird contest she’s sure someone might start. Her bet’s on Fett. “But Leia and Rex are small enough to share with me, so I’m sure we can make it work.”

“There’s spare rolls for anyone comfortable with sleeping in the hold,” Fett grunts. “Or on the floor in the passenger room.”

“Well, I guess I could ask for a little help fi--”

“Vos,” Ahsoka snaps, letting her voice take on the kind of ‘obey me or get fresher duty’ irritation that she’d perfected back when the rebellion still had her managing people, before they’d realized she was more use in the field. “Do not.”

There’s a moment’s pause, and Tholme looks unimpressed with that raised eyebrow, but the kind of unimpressed that’s split between his own padawan and the stranger before him.

“Um,” Quinlan says. “I just--”

“No,” she cuts him off. “No flirting.”

It’s weird and uncomfortable and she’d have maybe been okay with it if she was actually the seventeen-or-eighteen-ish(?) that she looked, but she’s not. She’s in her thirties and Vos is... what, twenty? Twenty-one? No.

He stares at her, and she wonders momentarily if she’d gone too far in the direction of judging his intentions in the Force and preempted actual flirtations.

“I’m sorry?” He offers, looking confused, but ashamed. “I, uh, I’ll keep that in mind.”

She definitely preempted the actual flirtation.

Fuck.

Ahsoka closes her eyes and breathes in. Breathes out. Opens her eyes. “Right. That was... I’m not sure how much Padawan Billaba told you about me.”

“Enough,” Tholme says. He moves forward and puts a hand on Quinlan’s shoulder. Ahsoka has no idea if it’s to comfort him or hold him back. “I didn’t share most of it with my padawan, but I have a general understanding of what’s going on.”

Quinlan darts a look at his teacher, but Ahsoka doesn’t acknowledge it. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

“Thank you for your understanding,” she says, and bows, and stiffly turns away to walk to the galley.

---------------------------

Leia squirms into the bench seat, shoving her way under Ahsoka’s arm like a particularly wriggly tooka.

“What was that?” Leia demands, the authority of a rebellion general rather useless in the squeaky voice of a child.

“What was what?”

“The whole thing with Padawan Vos,” Leia says. “You blew up at him before he even did anything.”

That’s pretty true.

“I felt the flirtation coming before it happened and reacted inappropriately because I panicked. I’m significantly older than him, but I can’t tell him that, so it’s just awkward and uncomfortable and... I’m not okay, Princess. I haven’t been for a long time.”

“Yeah, we can tell.”

“Leia.”

“What? I need therapy too! Captain Rex needs therapy! I’m pretty sure Fett needs therapy! You, Fulcrum, you really need therapy. None of us are okay.” She huffs, wiggling impossibly closer. “I don’t like it, but it’s true.”

“I know,” Ahsoka groans. “I just... I just need to hold out until the Temple.”

“Will you be able to hold it together if you see someone you actually care about?” Leia demands. “What are you going to do when you see Kenobi?”

“Stop.”

“I’m serious, you--”

“Leia, that’s enough,” she snaps. “I was fighting that war before you were even born, and I’ve dealt with the consequences since. I know the risks and I’ll thank you to remember who taught you to control your own mind.”

Leia stiffens, sucking in a sharp breath. “That was uncalled for.”

“You’re not the child you appear to be,” Ahsoka reminds her, not a little sharply. “You want to dish it out, be ready to take it. What will you do when we see Bail Organa? When we see the toddler that is Anakin Skywalker?”

“I get it.”

“I’m not sure you do,” Ahsoka mutters. She isn’t surprised when Leia ducks out of the embrace and leaves the galley. She lets the girl go, guilt warring with the memory of how Master Kenobi had more than once spoken that way to Anakin at the height of the war. The fact that she’s an adult in the body of a child isn’t an excuse for poking at Ahsoka’s open wounds. It was cruel and unnecessary, and unbecoming of a... not a Jedi. A princess. A politician.

She rests her head on her arms and zones out. She should meditate, but that seems like... too much effort.

She can feel Vos and Tholme setting up in the room they’ve been assigned. Neither seems particularly angry. Most likely, Tholme’s given the absolute shortest explanation of ‘child soldier, dead master, highly traumatized and emotionally unstable’ to Vos to smooth over the incident in the cargo hold. Rex is with Leia; he’s agitated, but less so than Leia herself. Fett’s annoyed, in the cockpit, but he seems annoyed as often as not. There’s a shudder at lift-off, and a few minutes later, they’re in hyperspace, headed for the Core.

Fett finds her, falls into the other bench in full armor, and drops his elbows onto the table. The helmet clunks down a moment later.

She doesn’t lift her head. “What do you want?”

“Do I need to keep Vos away from you?”

“What?”

“Vos. He made you uncomfortable. Was that him being someone that hurt you in the future, or just the interaction being awkward?”

She lifts her head. She stares at him. “What?”

He leans back and crosses his arms. “Do you need me to tell Vos to stay the hell away from you?”

She’s gaping. “You realize I’m thirty-two, right? I can handle my own battles.”

“You’re also traumatized as hell and everyone can see it,” Fett argues back. “If Vos himself is a trigger, I can handle it.”

“He’s not,” she tells him. This is strange. Fett’s being strange. “He was actually a friend of my grandmaster’s. I’m just uncomfortable with the flirting because I’m a lot older than he realizes, and I can’t tell him that.”

He nods sharply, and then looks away. The silence sits.

“Thanks for asking?” Ahsoka says, well aware of how her confusion over the offer turns it into a question. “I mean, thank you for... caring.”

I guess, she finishes in the privacy of her own head. Or at least pretending to.

Fett makes a face, still not facing her. He eyes the galley instead. She can guess where his thoughts are going. The galley is... not very big, especially with six people on board instead of one, but she’s sure they’ve stocked up enough. On the off chance they do go through more than expected, because of how many growing bodies are in residence, they can stop off and buy more. They have those resources now.

Jango never does ask what she did with the slavers.

“Who’s going to cry if I spice things properly?” he asks.

“Probably Leia,” she says immediately. “Vos will try to power through it even though he’s going to be overwhelmed. No idea about Tholme, but I think he’ll keep a straight face whether he likes it or not. Rex and I are fine, ‘hot’ was pretty much the only flavor of seasoning the GAR had.”

“GAR?”

“Grand Army of the Republic.”

He finally looks at her.

“You already knew I was a child soldier, Fett; don’t act surprised.”

“That doesn’t mean I like hearing about it.”

“I was fourteen. That’s old enough by Mando standards, Fett. Just think back, when did you get on the battlefield?”

“I take your point,” he says, lip curling unpleasantly. “It just hits different now that I’m old enough to look back and think of how damned young fourteen really is.”

Ahsoka shrugs. “Yeah, well--”

“You said the clones were ten.”

There’s the rub, isn’t it?

Of course it was about the clones.

“...closer to seven, by the end. Kamino was just making speedies at that point. Triple growth on the average instead of double, but averages in that case meant they’d been growing at double rates for six years and then got forced through four growth cycles in a single year to beef up the army when we kept losing men.” She looks down at the table, picking at a scratch in the plastipaint with her nail. “Rex and the rest of the ones from the beginning were basically twenty in mind and body, even if they’d only been decanted ten years earlier. The speedies... I always wondered. They’d gone from functionally twelve to functionally twenty in a year. That’s not... even in Kamino, that can’t have been normal. They didn’t act like adults, not the way the originals did.”

Fett rubs at his face, groaning. He swears under his breath in three different languages.

She pities him, if only because he hasn’t actually done any of this yet. He’s paying for the crimes of a man he likely won’t ever become.

She kicks him under the table. “Wanna make tiingilar and see how long it takes Vos to start crying while he insists it’s fine?”

---------------------------

Dinner is when the questions start. Some are relatively easy. Others, not so much.

“My Master was Leia’s biological father,” is an easy truth to share. “She inherited his power, so I need to get her to the temple for her own safety, because home no longer is.”

“Yes, her adoptive parents were unfortunately killed rather recently. We’d prefer not to talk about it.”

“Rex is with me. Where he goes, I go, and vice versa.”

That one gets her an odd look.

“I thought...” Quinlan trails off, gesturing between Rex and Fett.

Fett keeps his face impassive, but his discomfort and guilt leak into the Force. “I didn’t know Rex existed until I ran into these three in a spaceport cantina a few weeks ago.”

Quinlan blinks at him, looks at Rex again, and then turns back to Fett with a grin that might have been described as ‘saucy’ if he were less smug about it. “Wild oats, huh?”

“Are you shitting me right now,” Leia whispers, and Ahsoka elbows her.

“That was inappropriate, padawan.”

Quinlan’s grin fades as Fett just continues to eye him.

“Um, so--”

“How old is the kid?” Fett interrupts.

Darting eyes answer him, as Quinlan tries to gauge Rex. “Ten? Maybe twelve?”

“And how old am I?”

“...early thirties?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

Quinlan’s grin fades further as he does the math.

“I’d have been between fifteen and seventeen when he was born,” Fett says, tone flat. “Between fourteen and sixteen at conception. I know damn well I wasn’t doing anything that could have resulted in a kid at that age.”

Quinlan rallies. “So, brothers?”

Tholme sighs loudly, hand over his eyes.

“I’m a clone,” Rex says, and Ahsoka can feel the amusement he gets out of Quinlan’s confused shock. They’d both had plenty of respect for Master Vos, but Padawan Vos was nothing but trouble. “Harvested genetic material, grown in a tube, inconsistent aging meaning I don’t even know how old I am for sure.”

“I broke him out,” Ahsoka adds, which is half true.

“There was a chip in my head,” Rex adds, with a bright smile. Quinlan’s discomfort grows. “She got it out. Also, lots of brothers. None of them are... around anymore. The creators were trying to make an army.”

Vos and Tholme have no response. Fett looks like he’s been carved out of stone. Leia’s just ignoring them and picking at her food.

Ahsoka lifts a hand and, without looking, Rex high-fives her.

---------------------------

“Drop your elbow.”

Ahsoka tries to cover her smile at the dirty look that Leia shoots Fett. Fett remains unimpressed by the glare of royalty, just gestures for the girl to do as he said.

“I know how to fight,” Leia grumbles. “I took lessons. I was good at them.”

“And I’m better,” Fett says, leaving no room for argument. “You want the Torrents to take over?”

The Torrents. Rex and Soka. She likes being referred to that way. Like they’re a team that never got split up.

Force, she wished they’d never gotten split up.

“Again,” Fett orders, and Leia moves through the Mandalorian kata with ill grace in her emotions and all grace in her sweeping limbs.

Well, as much grace as an undersized six-year-old can, at any rate.

“Think he’ll ask me to spar her again?” Rex asks, dropping down into the seat next to Ahsoka and passing her a drink.

“Maybe,” she acknowledges. “I think he’s wondering if it’s worth asking Vos to spar with her, so she gets more experience with size differences.”

“Hm?”

“She flinched at his face again,” she tells him. “The whole... thing with Boba, I guess. She still won’t tell me why Fett triggers her sometimes, but he’s not pressing her to spar with him, and there’s only so much she can get out of fighting me. Asking Tholme would be presumptuous, but Vos is just a padawan. I think it’d work out.”

“And you?”

She looks at him, already feeling a cresting wave of bullshit she doesn’t want to deal with. “What about me?”

“Are you going to spar with the Jedi?”

She should. She hasn’t sparred with a saber since she got tossed back into a body only half-familiar to her. She’s let Leia borrow the shorter one to learn some basic blocking moves, Shii-Cho and then, with hesitance, the first Soresu form. Another time, she loaned it to Rex to practice some attacks; they both know that the next time he picks up her saber in battle, having lost his weapons or she her grip, it will be neither the first or last time he wields a sword of light. None of that, however, is... sparring.

None of that is against someone who knows what they’re doing.

How long has it been since she sparred with anyone other than Kanan and Ezra?

How long has it been since she sparred without the looming specter of Darth Vader in the back of her mind, without fear of the Inquisitors, without the knowledge that any saber held by someone other than her two friends would be red as blood and twice as drenched.

Would she be able to hold back as she fought?

“I should,” she acknowledges, eyes on where Fett is nudging Leia’s feet into position for some kind of leveraging flip. She’s so small. “It would probably be a good idea to spar against a master at some point.”

“Do you think you can?” Rex asks.

“I never knew him,” she says. “And he isn’t Dark. It should be fine.”

Rex nods, taking her word for it. They watch as Leia stumbles on a final move, and Fett gestures for her to sit down and get a drink.

“That man is a terror,” she informs them.

(She’d once described him as a slave-driver. She had not made that mistake twice.)

“Least it’s not Kamino!” Rex tells her cheerfully. When Leia refuses to look impressed, he laughs at her.

Ahsoka has a half-second’s warning before heavy boots thud to the ground next to her. “What’s Kamino?”

“Hello, Vos, it’s nice to see you too,” she drawls. “I’m good, thanks for asking, and yourself?”

The boy-not-quite-man rolls his eyes. “Hi, Torrents; hi, tiny one.”

Leia glares at him next.

“So, Kamino?”

“Planet by Rishi,” Rex says.

“Why were you there?”

“They specialize in cloning.”

Ahsoka covers her mouth as the conversation drops into the same awkward gap that always happens when Quinlan stumbles into a subject he didn’t know to avoid.

“Like... you were made there, or you were researching how it works for your own--”

Ahsoka slaps a hand over his mouth. “Now’s a great time to stop talking.”

He licks her palm.

She bares her teeth and arches her fingers just enough to press nails into his cheek.

He bites at her palm, and she yanks her hand away.

“You’re all children,” Leia accuses, conveniently forgetting that Ahsoka and Rex are both over a decade older than her.

“I can throw you the length of a swimming pool,” Ahsoka tells her. “One of the fancy competition-ready ones that would make a Tatooinian cry. You are absolutely the child here.”

“Using the Force is cheating, sir,” Rex informs her.

“Only if there’s a competition,” Ahsoka shoots back. “And proving that a certain princess is a small child is not a competition. It’s a declarative fact.”

“I’m going to rip open the seams on all your tops except the ugliest one,” Leia decides.

“Try me,” Ahsoka challenges. “Adi’ka.”

A low, rough cough interrupts them. “Are you done?”

Fett has his arms crossed, and an eyebrow raised. He knows they’re all adults here, and is entirely unamused. As the silence drags, the eyebrow climbs a little higher.

“Done with what?” Quinlan finally asks, thereby volunteering himself to spar in hand-to-hand with Jango Fett, as one does.

“Poor, poor Vos,” Rex laughs, watching as Fett barks out orders at Quinlan every five seconds to fix his footwork, to stop dropping his guard, to stop wasting energy on flips instead of just dodging the easy way.

“Throw him!” Ahsoka calls. To her delight, Fett obliges.

The thing is, Quinlan isn’t bad at brawling. He’s got training, endurance, skill. The man knows what he’s doing, objectively. He’s just not a match for Fett, and is used enough to relying on his saber that his hand-to-hand skills are rusty. They are perhaps less rusty than those Jedi who don’t take questionable jobs in the Mid-Outer Rim, and Ahsoka’s got a suspicion that Vos regularly gets into bar fights in his downtime, but none of that is enough for him to actually do more than survive against Fett without his saber.

Even the saber wouldn’t help, if Fett had his armor.

“Whose idea was this?”

Ahsoka cranes her head back and smiles. “Hello, Master Tholme. Vos... volunteered.”

“Did he know he was volunteering?”

“No comment.”

Tholme snorts, crossing his arms and eyeing the spar in front of him. “I thought Fett hated Jedi. Giving us a ride for the sake of you three is one thing, but why is he teaching my padawan?”

Ahsoka shrugs. “Constructive bullying?”

There’s a small twitch of a smile, quickly gone. “He said something wrong, I’m guessing?”

“There was no way he could have known,” she dismisses. “We’re just, like, ninety-percent tragic backstories.”

“You’d think the Force would warn him,” Rex notes.

“That’s not how the Force works,” Leia chides.

“No, no, he’s right,” Ahsoka corrects. “The Force does sometimes step in to stop a person from saying something stupid. However, Padawan Vos is at an age where people think they are very rational while being more irrational than they likely ever will be again.”

“Do I want to ask what you were doing at that age?” Tholme asks.

“Running bla...” she trails off, then whips around to gape at him.

He smiles, bland and unassuming. “Does Fett know?”

“Know... what?” Ahsoka asks.

“That you’re significantly older than you look,” he says, voice just low enough that the sparring duo can’t hear him. “All three of you.”

Ahsoka turns back to the spar, only catching Tholme out of the corner of her eye. “He knows.”

“Mm. Were you planning on telling the Council?”

“Yes.” That part was never in question. “How did you figure it out?”

“I am a good investigator,” he says. “And you rely a little too heavily on your physical forms to obfuscate. Were it just one of you, that wouldn’t be a problem, but the pattern repeated across three is a little easier to discern.”

“I hoped the whole ‘child soldiers’ thing would be a bigger distraction,” Ahsoka mutters. She glances at Leia and Rex. Both of them are used to being in charge to some degree, giving orders and making contingency plans, but in this... in this, Ahsoka is in charge. They’d decided that at the very start. It didn’t matter that Rex had lived longer and had more experience, or that Leia had held the highest Rebellion rank of the three of them. Ahsoka had been agreed as leader, and they were relying on her.

They’re waiting on her orders. Stiff and unhappy, in Leia’s case, but they trust her.

“Will you be telling Vos?” She asks.

“No,” Tholme says. “Your secrets remain your own unless they endanger us, and I’ve a feeling they won’t be.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Rex jokes, smile not reaching his eyes. “I’ve been working with this family for too long to trust that trouble won’t find them around the next corner.”

“This family?” Tholme repeats.

“Sokari was telling the truth about her master being Leia’s biological father,” Rex says. He shrugs. “I worked with him, with his wife, with both of his kids, with his master and his padawan. All of them, to a one, are trouble magnets.”

“Ah, but that’s not the secret that’s putting us in danger,” Tholme points out. “Simply existence as a Jedi.”

Rex shrugs. “Fair enough. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though.”

Ahsoka lurches to her feet, turning with a smile and dancing backward into the the stretch of empty cargo hold they used for such things. “A spar, Master Tholme?”

He looks past her, to Quinlan, and raises a brow. “Would you not prefer to spar with someone a little closer to your level first?”

She barks out a laugh. “Master Tholme, I’m afraid I’ve spent more of my life fighting to survive than having normal friendly spars. My style is more lethal than the average, and you’ve already seen what war’s done to my mind. I ask to spar with you because, if I lose control, if I slip in time or react on an instinct that isn’t appropriate, I trust that you’ll be more able to stop me than a senior padawan.”

He smiles. “Yes, I gathered as much. Still, better to ask. Shall we wait for them to finish up?”

Ahsoka shrugs, turns, and yells. “Clear the deck!”

Rex snorts behind her, and lowly mutters, “Sir, yes, sir.”

She smirks at him over her shoulder. “At ease, Captain.”

“That’s ‘Commander’ to you, I got promoted,” he sniffs, chin held high.

Heavy steps herald Fett’s arrival at their little group. “The hells are you doing?”

“I’m going to have a spar with a Jedi Master, and I want you and Vos to not get stabbed.”

“I’m not that easy to injure in an actual fight, let alone by accident,” Fett grouses. He looks up and over at Vos, who is already significantly taller, if a fair shot less built. “This one, on the other hand...”

“Hey!”

Ahsoka laughs and backs into the center of the cargo hold, drawing her sabers. “Don’t worry, Vos, I won’t play dirty. You’ll probably get your master back in one piece.”

He wrinkles his nose at her. “Getting a bit ahead of yourself there, aren’t you? He’s a Jedi Master and former Watchman. You’re... what, eighteen?”

Ahsoka raises a brow and activates her sabers, tapping the blades together and watching as more than one person winces. “Wanna bet on how long I last?”

“No,” he says immediately, stepping back to join Rex on the bench. “You’ve already blindsided me enough. I’m not dumb enough to fall for whatever you’ve got up your sleeve.”

“I don’t have sleeves.”

“Armwarmers-slash-greaves, then.”

“Greaves go on the legs, these are vambraces.”

He throws his hands up in the air. “I’m just going to stop talking now!”

“Good plan,” Leia snarks, and then literally hisses when Rex ruffles her hair.

Tholme lights his saber and sinks into an opening stance.

Ahsoka mirrors him.

---------------------------

She wins, but barely. She's had a few weeks to practice her forms, has sparred hands-only with Rex and Fett, but this is her first real try at using her sabers against a person, instead of a blaster or thin air, since she arrived in the past. She’s only mostly adjusted to her body.

But Tholme is a healer and a watchman, not a duelist. Ahsoka held her own against Ventress, against Grievous, against Maul when she was this age. Still adjusting to her body or not, her lineage is one of battle, and it bled true.

“You’re terrifying,” Quinlan tells her after they’re done, smiling like the sun as he hands her a towel. “Please never turn that on me.”

She laughs at him. “Would you believe that I’m out of practice?”

“Out of practice with what?” he asks, horrified and fascinated. “Fighting Sith Lords?”

“Among other things,” she says, and smirks when he chokes on his drink. “Multiple darkside users who claimed to be Sith, at least. One being a full Lord, one that was disowned by his master, and one that was apprenticed to a Banite apprentice, so she wasn’t technically allowed to be a Darth because of the rule of two.”

Tholme meets her eyes past Quinlan’s shoulder, head tilted and eyes half-shut in consideration. He’s taking her seriously. He knows what she’s not saying.

“How...” Quinlan trails off and shakes his head. “You know what, no. Asking you people questions never ends well.”

“Good plan,” Ahsoka says, clapping a hand down on his shoulder. “Also, you need to spar with Fett more. Your footwork is shit.”

“It is not,” Quinlan gripes. “You’re all just scary good at this stuff.”

“You mean surviving?” Leia pipes up, and smiles innocently when Quinlan turns to pout at her.

“You’re getting bullied by a six-year-old,” Rex informs him.

“Yeah,” Quinlan sighs. “I know.”

Ahsoka laughs, and it’s fine. It’s all fine. For a week, everything is honestly great. She trains, she laughs, she works through the nightmares.

Then fucking Denon happens.

---------------------------

Denon is a city-planet on the intersection of two major hyperlanes. It’s the kind of place where they stop for two things:

Fuel.

Paperwork.

Technically, there’s a whole mess of paperwork they have to fill out to continue along this specific hyperlane, since they aren’t official Republic ships, and don’t have the licenses to just pass along like ships that are pre-registered to the Trade Federation or the like. They could sneak past--literally all of them know smuggler’s routes--but it’s honestly less of a pain to do things legally. They have a Jedi Master. They have cash. Some of that cash wasn’t quite legally acquired, but nobody needs to know that.

It’s supposed to be a pit stop. That’s all.

It’s just a pit stop.

But no, the galaxy isn’t that kind and Ahsoka’s luck is currently being compounded with a Skywalker, two Fetts, and Vos, which means that of course they run into trouble. Of course they do. There was never any other option, was there?

“Motherfucker,” Ahsoka snaps, lifting her head up and slamming her drink on the table.

The glass is empty. That’s good. They’re in a restaurant right now, a little splurging after weeks with only each others’ company, and spilling the sugary child-friendly juice with that move would have drawn way too much attention from the servers.

“Language,” Tholme says, voice idly unconcerned.

“Sir?” Rex asks, kicking Ahsoka under the table. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wr--that jackass,” she hisses, getting to her feet. “Rex, grab a blaster, I’ve got shebs to kick.”

“Okay,” Rex says, grabbing one out of Fett’s holster and scooting out of the booth before anyone can tell him not to. “Whose?”

“I didn’t even know that he was... osik, I don’t have jurisdiction,” she realizes. “I don’t have any record of wrongdoing. I can’t arrest him since we don’t have evidence of criminal wrongdoing...”

“Are you two going to explain what’s going on?” Vos asks. “Or sit down, maybe?”

Ahsoka makes her decision. She eyes the window--the restaurant in question is a little dingy, but it’s also several dozen stories in the air. “Rex, remember the thing we did on Geonosis that you hated?”

He pauses, and then sighs heavily. “Yes, sir. I remember the... yeeting.”

Hah. That slang doesn’t even exist yet.

“Great. With me!”

It’s a good thing the windows are forcefields instead of transparisteel. A bit of a twist to the energy and they’re gone.

She only hears a little screaming before the wind tears all noises away while they plummet.

They land lightly--of course--and Ahsoka wraps them both in a don’t notice me aura. Nobody even notices that they’ve just come from above. It’s great that she can just Do These Things again, and get brushed off as Weird Jedi Shit, instead of worrying about the Empire. She’s missed being able to jump out of windows without fear.

Rex follows her as she starts running through the city. They don’t have comms, and he’s still so small, which means he can’t keep up with her even if she runs at normal speeds without Force enhancement.

“Should you carry me?” he asks, before she can figure out if it’s worth suggesting. She did it a few times before they joined up with Jango.

“It’s not... urgent, I think,” she says. She hesitates to speak, even as she keeps jogging with Rex at her heels. “Honestly, I’m trying to figure out if there’s anything I can ding him for so we can attack him. It’s all well and good that I can beat him right now, but all the crimes I know about haven’t happened yet, so it wouldn’t be legal...”

“Commander?”

“Hm?”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

She scrolls the conversation back mentally, considers, and says, “Oh.”

“Who’s getting steamrolled?”

“Uh, Maul’s here,” Ahsoka admits.

“Ah,” Rex says. He makes a face. “I understand the desire to jump out a window, now. I don’t agree with it, but I understand.”

Ahsoka laughs. “I mean, I just... every time I’ve seen him for almost twenty years, it’s been like... on sight, you know? We’ve never not attacked each other, except when I needed him to cause problems on Mandalore. But I always knew I was in the right, then.”

“So... what do we arrest him for?” Rex prompts.

“Um... carrying a lightsaber without a license?” she hazards. “We’ll need Tholme there. Hopefully I can just shout at him and he’ll attack me, but I think he only went full nutjob after Master Kenobi cut his legs off. He might be too controlled to try to kill me just for yelling at him.”

“...do we have to stalk him?” Rex asks, sounding like he’d most likely sigh if he weren’t mid-run.

She scoops him up and swings him around onto her back before she answers. “I think we have to stalk him, Rex’ika.”

“Don’t call me that.”

---------------------------

Maul is... exceptionally sneaky, actually. Either that, or he hasn’t done anything wrong yet. Ahsoka’s betting on the former, because she’s seen this particular skocha kung take over a planet before anyone realized he was the most dangerous person around.

Or maybe he’s just not committing crimes, and is in fact just here to buy groceries.

He’s examining a papaya.

She fantasizes about jumping across the market and greeting him with a heel to the cheekbone.

“Are you imagining a flying kick, Sir?”

“Yeah...”

“He’s examining a papaya, Sir.”

“I know...”

“Does he know we’re here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? Do you think I should go hit him?”

“No.”

“Should I hit on him?”

“No, Sir. I would not advise that.”

“He’s looking at the neloms.”

“I can see that.”

“Why does he have to be so bo--did he just fucking bite a nelom?”

“It appears so, Sir.”

“Like... like rind and all. Just bit the little fucker.”

“Seems it.”

A scuff of metal. “What the fuck are you two doing?”

Ahsoka tips her head around to peer through the grate. “We’re spying, Fett, what does it look like we’re doing?”

Rex cranes his head. “We’re hanging upside-down from a fire escape to get a look at a suspected Sith Apprentice that is currently shopping for various fruits, Mand’alor.”

Ahsoka waves. “Hi, Master Tholme.”

“Sokari,” the master greets. “This seems a very conspicuous way to spy.”

She shrugs as well as she can from this angle. “Yes, but you see, this way’s more fun.”

“Is it now.”

Rex shifted. “He’s on the move!”

“To kill someone?!”

“No, to the deli meats.”

“Kriff.”

---------------------------

Apparently, Tholme and Fett had told Quinlan to take care of Leia, as Leia had wanted to finish her juice and refused to get involved in the Torrents’ nonsense. According to her, if they couldn’t be bothered to explain the nonsense, they didn’t need her.

This was true and accurate.

Quinlan shows up while they’re still stalking Maul, having moved to a low rooftop for a decent vantage point with less likelihood of being spotted. He’s giving Leia an eopie-back ride, and the pout on her face at needing it is adorable. She pouts harder when she sees them.

“Are you even trying to hide?” Leia scoffs.

“Not really,” Ahsoka admits. She’s got Fett’s binoculars out. “I’m not sure he’s caught wind of the fact that we’re here yet.”

“Or he has and he’s just biding his time to escape while we’re distracted,” Tholme points out.

“Meh,” Ahsoka says, avidly devouring the visual that is a teenage Maul glaring at leafy vegetables. “I just want him to do something so I have an excuse to beat his ass.”

“Do I get to know who?” Quinlan asks, setting Leia down on the roof. “Or are we going to keep being completely unwilling to share information?”

“Baby Sith Lord,” Ahsoka says. “He’s fifteen. A child.”

“A baby,” Rex agrees.

“You’re... that’s... ugh,” Quinlan groans as loudly and as dramatically as he dares, flopping down to the rooftop. “Master Tholme, please tell me this isn’t a real Sith.”

“He’s Dark,” Tholme confirms. “Sith is... up for debate until we have evidence.”

“He’s a bitch is what he is,” Ahsoka mutters. She observes the teenager in question stop to poke at some pink tomatoes. “E chu ta, break the law, already!”

“Does he have a lightsaber?” Quinlan asks. “If he has a lightsaber and no Jedi ID or specialty license, we can probably arrest him.”

“Auntie Soka doesn’t have a license or ID,” Leia points out.

“She’s got a Jedi escort,” Tholme says. “And if our supposed Sith is polite and plays nice, we can probably escort him to the Temple as well.”

Rex snorts derisively.

“Do you know why he’s on Denon?” Fett asks.

“No clue,” Ahsoka admits. “Evil reasons, probably.”

“You’re useless,” Leia tells her.

“Thanks, princess, how’s that attempt to open the jam jar by yourself coming?”

Leia says something very inappropriate for a princess, for a child, and for a lady. It’s fairly appropriate for a soldier, which is admittedly what she’s been for a few years now. Ahsoka sticks her tongue out at the girl like the mature operative she is.

“I wish we could still get him to lose his osik by just showing up and insulting him,” Rex mutters, low enough that Quinlan probably can’t hear.

“I wanna punch him in the face,” Ahsoka confesses. “I want him to try to punch me in the face, and fail.”

“Don’t bully the baby Sith,” Rex admonishes.

“He’s a Sith.”

“He’s fifteen, it’s tacky.”

“But it’s Maul.”

“I know, but you’re tw--significantly older than him.”

“But... but it’s the motherfucker himself.”

“...you can bully him a little, but only because he’s a Sith.”

Fett steals the binoculars. “You can borrow them again when you stop acting like children.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Rex says, dry as Ryloth. “I’m ten.”

“Pretty tall for your age,” Ahsoka mutters, and then giggles.

“Don’t steal my jokes,” Rex says. He elbows her, hard.

“You know,” Quinlan says, slow and tired. “Master Tholme and I are trained investigators.”

Ahsoka and Rex look at each other, and then up at him.

“Okay?”

“...do you want me to find actual evidence of this guy doing something criminal?”

“Oh, yes please.”

---------------------------

Quinlan, as it turns out, is not overselling his skills. He does catch Maul doing something illegal later that day. It’s a little more ‘stealing corporate secrets in the dead of night’ and less ‘torturing people for kicks,’ but it’s still enough to legally arrest him. Quinlan attempts to do so.

Quinlan does not succeed, and is forced to jump out a window to avoid getting cut in half. Maul follows, steals a passing speeder by throwing out the driver, and takes off. Someone--looks like Tholme--drops back to save the driver, but the rest of them give chase. Ahsoka gleefully takes point on that, of course. She’s the best pilot.

(Rex looks bored, but someone is likely to puke by the end of the night. She hopes it’s not Leia, who insisted on coming for some fucking reason.)

“How the kriff is a teenager that good?!” Quinlan yells, clinging to the edge of the speeder to avoid getting tipped out as Ahsoka swerves around a corner with a wild laugh.

“He’s a Sith!” Leia shouts over the wind. “What do you think?”

Quinlan is not impressed by the claim of Sith.

Ahsoka screeches as she drifts across four lanes of traffic and into an alleyway to pursue Maul. He’s pretty good at dodging cross-building walkways, but she’s better. She bares her teeth, hissing, and tries to pick a plan.

“Vos, how’s your aim with Force throws?” She calls to the backseat.

“Uh, decent?”

“Great! Fett’s the projectile!”

Vos takes a second longer to process that than Jango does.

“I’m wh--”

He cuts off, screaming, and is flung forward by Quinlan to crash headfirst into a teenage Sith.

“Take the wheel!” Ahsoka commands, not waiting to see who follows the order, because Fett and Maul are both getting to their feet, the other speeder is about to crash, and she’s not sure who’s going to win that fight.

She jumps from the speeder they’ve been violently dragging around Denon, and lands feet-first on Maul’s... shoulder.

Hm.

That definitely dislocated something.

“You should wear armor!” she chirps at him, drawing both sabers and grinning as he whirls to face her, eyes wide with hate.

He’s utterly silent.

That’s disturbing. Expected, but disturbing.

“Did you just throw me?” Fett demands, higher pitched than she’d normally expect.

“No, Vos threw you.”

“Because you told him to!”

“Yeah, it’s a good strategy!”

“It is not!”

“Why not? Throwing people was standard practice in the GAR.”

She can’t see his face, but she’s pretty sure he’s about ready to strangle her.

Ahsoka cannot, at that point, continue snarking with the father of her best friend, because there’s a red lightsaber coming for her throat, and she should probably worry about that. Maul’s very good at killing people and she’d like to avoid becoming part of that statistic.

As she is quickly reminded, he is... fifteen. And shorter than she’s used to. And already injured.

It’s really, really easy to take him out, actually.

At some point, the other speeder was safely recovered before it caused property damage, and their own is landing a few meters away with Vos and the kids.

“You have Force-negating cuffs, right?” Ahsoka asks.

“No, Master Tholme has them.”

“Oh,” she says, and grimaces. “I guess I’ll just... keep sitting on him then.”

Maul snarls, and she raps him on the skull. “Stop that, it’s uncivilized.”

Rex snorts.

Jango makes a noise that is incredibly frustrated with the lot of them, and turns on Rex. “Was she telling the truth?”

“About?”

“Throwing people being standard practice for the GAR.”

Rex’s face goes pained. “It was in the five-oh-first. And a few others.”

“What’s the GAR?” Quinlan asks.

“None of your damn business,” Fett snaps.

Quinlan throws his hands up in the air again. “Come on! I just proved I know what I’m doing!”

“And their tragic backstory is none of your business, prudii!”

Quinlan blinks at him, and then glances at Ahsoka. “Um.”

“He called you a shadow since your training, um, seems to be pointing in that direction,” she says as carefully as she can. “We were theorizing.”

“Wh... you actually paid attention?” Quinlan asks, looking horribly confused. “I thought I was just annoying you.”

Ahsoka laughs at him. “Oh, Vos... I’ve been running black ops for... much longer than most would guess. Trust me, I know another spy when I see them.”

She smiles as kindly as she can, because she hadn’t actually meant to make him feel left out or unwanted or... well, she’d been pretty patronizing, especially for someone seemingly younger than him. The smile does not work. Quinlan just looks kind of horrified about how young she just implied she started spy work.

Granted, she’d been sixteen for Zygerria...

Deciding to ignore him for a bit, she shifts on Maul’s back and pats him on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Baby Sith. We’re going to get you lots of nice therapy. Mind healers, no Sith tortures, all that fun stuff. Maybe some plushies.”

“You’re also getting therapy, right?” Quinlan asks. “Please say you are. I’m required for the specifics of my training and if anything you’ve said is true, I feel like you really need it and I’m scared of what’ll happen if you don’t.”

Ahsoka laughs, knowing exactly how empty it sounds. “Oh hell, if I didn’t get therapy, I imagine Kix would rise from the grave to force me into it.”

The name means nothing to anyone except Rex, and... ah, yeah, she told Fett about Kix a few weeks ago.

“No more throwing me without warning,” Fett grumbles, dropping to sit on the ground next to her. “Especially not at baby Sith Lords.”

“I am not a child!” Maul spits.

“He speaks!” Ahsoka cheers. “Aw, I knew you could do it.”

“’Soka, I told you not to bully him,” Rex complains. “It’s tacky. You’re being tacky.”

“I’m allowed to be tacky,” Ahsoka declares. “I’ve died twice, that’s, like, permission from the universe.”

“You’ve died twice?” Quinlan asks, back in ‘fascinated horror’ territory. “Wait, no, I shouldn’t ask--”

“Too late! The first time was on a planet that doesn’t exist and my Master lost his mind, killed a god, and used the good favor of another god to have me brought back to life at her expense. Not in that order.”

“I--what? No, that’s--what?”

Ahsoka smiles brightly. “You asked.”

Tholme finally shows up with the cuffs.

---------------------------

“You should eat something.”

He glares at her.

“Baby Sith Lords need to eat.”

He keeps glaring at her.

“Maul, you’ll never get big and strong and ready to kill if you don’t eat your vegetables.”

He bares his teeth.

“No, I don’t eat my veggies, but I’m a Togruta, so if I eat too many vegetables I throw up.”

Rex kicks her thigh, right on the faulds. “What did I say about bullying the Sith Lord?”

“Not to.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Making him eat his vegetables.”

“Soka.”

“Rex’ika.”

He kicks at her again. “Get up, we’re swapping out the watch.”

“But I wanted to hang out with my favorite little criminal mastermind.”

Rex drops to the floor and presses his forehead to her shoulder. “How the hell is being around this guy the first thing to make you cheer up in weeks?”

“I’m allowed to be mean to him.”

“He’s going to bite you.”

“I’ll bite back.”

Rex jabs a finger into her ribs, and she squeaks. “Go get something to eat, Commander.”

“Fine,” she huffs, rolling to her feet and moseying along to the galley. She walks in on Tholme and Fett having an argument about the ways in which Jedi and Mandalorians differ. Quinlan’s on the side, watching with wide eyes, and little Leia’s drinking a juice box at his side, tucked up under his arm and occasionally saying things to fan the flames. Ahsoka assumes she’s enjoying herself.

She opens the cooling unit, looks over the contents, and pulls out a raw leg of eopie mutton. She leans against the counter, bites into the chilled-but-not-frozen meat, and uses the back of one hand to wipe the blood off her chin. The ‘real adults’ don’t notice.

“I’m like ninety percent sure you’re doing this to mess with me but also...” Quinlan trails off, staring at her with horror. “Why?”

“A girl’s gotta eat.”

“Yeah, but all the obligate carnivores I know are like... generally holding to basic rules of courtesy when it comes to not grossing people out,” Quinlan says. “Like, I don’t chew with my mouth open. You don’t... eat in the most intimidating--did you just crack the bone with your teeth?!”

Ahsoka smirks at him, using her free hand to take away the shard of bone so she can suck out the marrow without eating the bones themselves. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this isn’t polite society. We’re in a galley on a bounty hunter’s ship, and I’ve been living on the run or in an army for most of my life. Table manners are optional.”

“No, they’re not,” Leia orders. “Fett, it’s your ship, tell her to--”

“--and another thing!” Fett snaps at Tholme, clearly paying less than no attention to the food argument.

Ahsoka keeps on eating, trying to catch wind of where the discussion’s at. Mostly, it seems to be at ‘talking past each other.’ Neither of them seems to have fully grasped more than the absolute most basic parts of the other culture, and that’s only enough to insult each other, not actually have a constructive conversation. She’d have expected more out of Tholme, at least. He’s not exactly young.

“Hey, quick question,” she says, in a moment where both of them have paused for breath and the opportunity to seethe. “Fett, when’s the last time you worked with a Jedi, or any member of a Force-based religion, before I popped into your life?”

His nose scrunches up as he makes a face.

“And Tholme, when’s the last time you worked with anyone from the Mandalorian system?”

Tholme’s reaction isn’t any more gracious than Fett’s.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she says. “Vos, were either of them actually interested in that conversation, or just looking for an excuse to yell?”

“Now listen here, jetiika--”

“Fett,” she snaps. “I am not a child.”

“And neither am I,” he growls right back. “This is my ship, and I damn well don’t need you treating me like a misbehaving youngling. You’ve got a problem, you bring it to my face, not get all smug about people’s tempers blowing over.”

Well, then.

She smiles thinly. “Of course.”

He stands with his arms crossed, in full armor save for the helmet. She puts aside the eopie meat and wipes her hands, smiling until she can put her hands on her hips and let it drop to a challenge.

“You know, I’m just--I’m just gonna go,” Quinlan mutters, pulling Leia out with him, the girl hanging from under one of his arms. “This, uh, this looks like a problem for... you folks. Um. Yeah.”

He sidles out.

Tholme doesn’t.

Fett rubs at the bridge of his nose, and then gestures at the table. “Sit.”

“I’d prefer not to.”

He drops his hand and glares at her. “We have another week on this ship together. We are going to have this conversation. Sit.”

She sits, right on the warm spot left behind by Quinlan and Leia. She crosses her arms, lifts a brow, and waits.

Fett takes the seat across from her. Tholme leans against the counter.

“We all know you’re older than you look,” Fett says. “I heard Tholme mention it, I know that much has been shared. You’re acting like an actual teenager, and I’ve... I’ve put up with a lot. I am trying to keep things civil, particularly with you. I’ve tried to be friendly. You’ve been fucked up since we met, fine, everyone’s got trauma. The thing where you’ve started talking shit to our faces for what seems like your own amusement? That has to stop. You’re older than me, Torrent. Fucking act like it.”

She blinks at him, slow and not exactly happy, and turns to Tholme.

The man shrugs. “I was planning to put up with it until we arrived to the temple and handed you over to some mind healers. Fett doesn’t have that kind of time.”

There’s a curdle in her stomach, defensive and angry and guilty.

“You’ve been... a bitch,” Fett finally says. “You know that. I’m not going to mince words. You’ve been holier-than-thou and rude and condescending, and aiming that at Antilles is one thing, when you’ve apparently known her since she was a toddler and taught her things. Aiming at the rest of us isn’t going to fly. We’re all adults trying to share a space. Stop acting like... just like you have been.”

There is no defense to be made that they aren’t both already aware of.

She closes her eyes and tries to strangle the burst of irrational rage.

Their accusations aren’t unfounded.

They deserve an apology.

She is in the wrong.

She’s felt freer than she had in years, and in that freedom allowed herself too much rein, let herself lace her words with barbed wires and poison instead of sparks and spices, comments that were cruel instead of just joking. Too familiar. Too comfortable.

“My behavior’s been inappropriate,” she finally says, the words clumsy and too big in her mouth. “You’re right about that. I’m sorry, and I’ll endeavor to keep a tighter rein on my less pleasant behaviors in the future.”

At least she only lashes out with words. It could be worse.

She opens her eyes, fixes her gaze on the wall behind Fett, wrestles her expression into stiff neutrality. “Am I dismissed?”

“...uh, no, not after that,” Fett says, sounding just a little horrified. “What the hell was that?”

Tholme hisses out a breath. “Let her go.”

“No, this needs to be discussed, that’s not a healthy rea--”

“Fett, let her go,” Tholme insists, low and heavy.

Fett looks between the two for a moment, seems to come to a realization he doesn’t like, and then gestures almost violently towards the door. “Fine. Go.”

She walks out, doesn’t sprint. She’s stiff. She’s controlled. She’s the one that fucked up, so it’s fine if she doesn’t feel great right now. Getting called out on one’s own failings as a person isn’t something to get upset about if the failings are real. The feelings are real and normal, but this was her fault, and so it’s up to her to fix it, and she can’t let them know it hurt her, because this was her mistake.

She goes to the cargo hold.

---------------------------

Ahsoka works out her frustrations on Fett’s punching bag. She does not augment herself with the Force, just uses raw strength and technique, ignoring the tears that press at her eyes.

She’s fine.

It’s not weird. It’s not odd. It’s not strange to not notice she’s been kind of a bitch since her mood came up with the whole Depa thing, and then Maul. She’s been mean, mostly to Vos and Fett, and nobody’s confronted her about it until now. They let her have room for her trauma, and she hadn’t reined it in. She’s just gotten worse.

‘Snippy’ she’d always been, but age apparently hadn’t fucking tempered it.

“Um.”

She catches the punching bag, breathing heavily and covered in sweat. She hasn’t worked out all the twitchy, nervous energy yet.

“Vos,” she greets, once she’s caught herself enough that her voice won’t waver. He’s on the other side of the bag, but she knows his voice. “Do you need something?”

“You’re kind of... projecting,” he tells her, drifting to where she can actually see him. “Not self-loathing, but, um, recrimination? You just don’t feel very good and I was hoping to help”

Why in all the Sith hells does he have to be nice.

“I got called out on my behavior and wasn’t ready to face the fact that I’d kriffed up,” she tells him. “I’ll be fine. And I’m... sorry. I haven’t been fair to you and was using you as an easy target for some of my ruder comments.”

“I mean, I kind of figured,” he admits, coming closer. “I’ve been tutored by Shadows before, and a lot of them act like you. I just assumed it was more of that.”

“I still shouldn’t have let myself run loose like that,” she says. “I’m... it wasn’t appropriate. I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

He shrugs, not meeting her eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” she says. “Not with... not with you. Or anyone other than Rex and a mind healer, really. Most of it is...”

She trails off, distantly noticing that her eyes are tearing up enough to blur her vision, and her nails are digging into the bag in a way Fett won’t appreciate.

There’s so much that beat her down, never quite breaking her, that she doesn’t even know what made her act the way she does.

“Want to spar?”

She looks over at him, wonders what he sees that makes him want to fight her when she’s visibly unstable.

He smiles, kind and easy, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s genuine in intent, if not in energy. He wants to help. “You all keep saying I could work on my hand-to-hand. Just take off the armor so I don’t break a finger, maybe.”

“You’re serious.”

“No, I’m Quinlan.”

She’s going to wipe the floor with this boy. “You sure you wanna fight me?”

“You won’t be able to meditate until you do,” he says. He’s right, damn him. “The other option is that I go get your... vod, I think? I go get Rex and you two can talk it out since you trust him with more. I don’t want to do that, though, he’s still a kid.”

She eyes him, lips pressed together and mind awhirl with emotions and thoughts she’d tried to beat out of her head and into the bag. “Ever fought someone without the Force?”

“...yes?”

“Was it cuffs?”

“Oh, you meant me not having the Force,” he realizes. “Er, no. Is... is that something you’ve done a lot?”

She smiles at him. “You’re planning on Shadow work. That means getting captured and stripped of everything you are at some point, Force included. Unfortunately, the cuffs are in use on a very annoying Dathomirian right now, so we’ll have to make do with you shielding like your mind’s a Kessel Spice Mine.”

“...do I want to know how often you’ve been captured?”

“No, you don’t.”

When he comes at her, it’s easy to dodge. It’s easy to tap him on target points, little pokes that show she could take him out, but isn’t going to until he’s learned something. He stays grinning throughout, letting her take the lead, and he treats her like... like a knight. Like a teacher. He’s stepped back and gone from trying to impress her as a fellow padawan, to proving himself to a full knight.

She’s not sure when that change happened, or why or how, but it makes things much smoother. She wants to think that it would have even if she hadn’t gotten a wakeup call from Fett.

So she treats him the way she treated Ezra, for the year she’d spent traveling with Kanan. She treats him as a student that’s willing to learn, good but not yet great, competent but not yet ready to survive. She draws him into the kind of chest-heaving exhaustion that tells a fighter just how much energy they waste.

(Ahsoka may have had her own style, but her grandmaster had been the pinnacle of a Soresu user. She’d spent years on the frontlines of a war. She knew the worth of conserving energy, and she’d teach it to any who stepped in to challenge her.)

“Who taught you to fight like this?” He asks, when they’ve taken a handful of moments to circle each other. His steps are heavy, sure, planted. Her own are light and ready.

“Soldiers,” she says. It’s true enough.

“Not your Master?” he asks, just as he tries to kick for her upper arm. It’s a safe question. For anyone else, it would be a safe question.

But for Ahsoka, it’s another chink in the armor, after a maelstrom of emotion, a storm of self-loathing, a dervish of instability.

She doesn’t break right away.

She spirals. She fights Quinlan, but doesn’t quite see him. Her strikes get sloppy, her feet stumble. She can’t make herself meet Quinlan’s eyes, not when the scrape of his heel against the metal sounds like the rasp of a breathing machine. Her shields get fuzzy, she knows, and she leaks what she feels into the air, making it sour and thick. She doesn’t notice, because all she can see, all she can--all she can hear and feel and--

She drops to her knees and grabs at her head, trying to stop it.

“Sokari?”

She breathes. In and out, harsh and jagged but natural in a way that the damned respirator wasn’t.

Her master her teacher her brother the traitor the hound the executioner

Her face is hot. Something prickles. It might be tears.

She tries to say something, tries to say a name or a request, tries to make anything come out of her mouth that isn’t the broken wail of a woman who hasn’t let herself think about how she died.

She feels herself pulled into someone’s arms, and she can’t quite tell who, but they’re bigger than she is, and feel warm and worried. They care. They don’t understand, they’re scared, but they care.

Her hands shake, clutched to her chest and she can’t breathe she can’t make herself take in enough air to do a Force-damned thing the empire is going to feel her her shields are down and broken and her emotions are spilling and the empire is going to find HER ANAKIN IS GOING TO FIND HER AND--

“COMMANDER!”

Rex.

Rex is here.

Her breath is coming so fast that she’s hiccupping more than she’s actually inhaling. She feels small hands in gloves on either side of her face, and then her forehead presses to something warm.

Rex. A Keldabe kiss. Her brother, her partner, her other half. He’s here. He’s calm. If he’s calm, then things are fine.

“What happened?” Light voice, high voice, small and distant. Leia. Little Leia little princess Leia she’s in danger she’s in trouble Anakin will--

“Commander.”

No. Here and now. She needs to focus on here and now. Her throat feels cold. She breathes too fast, still. She can’t stop it.

“I don’t know.” That’s Vos. He was... they were doing something. He was here. Talking to her. “We were sparring, and she just--”

Right, sparring.

“I don’t know if I said something?” He offers, voice pitching up, unsure and worried. Is he the one holding her? He’s the one holding her. That’s embarrassing.

“Commander?” Rex prompts. “Commander, can you open your eyes?”

She tries. She can’t. She shakes her head.

“Soka?” he asks, voice quiet. “Where are you?”

“F-F-Fett,” she manages. It’s enough.

“And where were you?”

His voice is so soft. So worried. She held him the same way after Mandalore, after Order 66, after all his brothers, all her friends...

“Soka.”

Her mind is spinning, and suddenly all she can hear is Anakin Skywalker is dead. I destroyed him.

Her breath hitches, and she wails.

“Commander,” Rex tries again, but her head is a vortex of Then you will die and Perhaps this child and not the Jedi way.

Our long awaited meeting.

I destroyed him.

Then you will die.

She can’t breathe she can’t breathe she can only see that yellow eye that’s too familiar but belongs to a stranger can only hear a voice that shouldn’t exist can only mourn and break and--

“Soka?”

“Malachor,” she manages. “I--h-he--I died.”

“What did you say?” someone asks. A vod. It’s the right voice, almost, rough and business-like, not accusing anyone yet, and... and... no. No. Not one of her boys. It’s Fett.

“Um, right at the end? I asked her who taught her to fight like this,” Quinlan says, nervous. “And she said it was soldiers. And I joked, I asked that it wasn’t her Master, and she didn’t answer that. A couple minutes later, she just started...”

“Oh, Soka,” Rex whispers, pulling her closer. “Commander, just breathe with me.”

“H-h-he, he just--R-Rex, he j-just--and I c-c-couldn’t--”

“I know,” her captain whispers. “I know, just breathe with me.”

“He k-k-k-killed me,” she sobs, falling out of the Keldabe and into too-small arms. “I l-loved--he was my broth-ther and--and he just--he killed me, he didn’t even stop.”

“I know,” Rex whispers. “Soka, I know.”

Of course he does.

---------------------------

“It was just bad timing,” Rex says, once they’re in the room she’s been sharing with her little family, curled up under a blanket and watching the floor like it has all the secrets to how she lost her world three times over.

“Is there anything we need to keep in mind?” Fett asks, gruff and uncomfortable. She wonders if he’s angry that she took his necessary confrontation and turned it into this mess.

“Don’t bring up her Jedi Master,” Rex says, and pulls her in when she shivers. Her eyes squeeze shut before she can stop them, tears beading up again. “Just... don’t. It’s too soon.”

“He’s--”

“He Fell,” Ahsoka interrupts. “I thought he died, but he became a Sith. And fifteen years later, we ran into each other, and I refused to join him in the Dark, so he tried to kill me.”

Fett swears, low and muffled. She thinks he has a hand over his mouth.

Quin and Leia aren’t there. She thinks they’re keeping an eye on their Baby Sith prisoner. That’s good.

“Soka,” Rex whispers, and she buries her face in his shoulder. She’s too old to be this kind of mess. She’s thirty-two. She’s Fulcrum. She’s...

She’s in need of a lot of therapy.

“We can avoid the subject unless you bring it up,” Tholme promises. “Definitely until the Temple. Is there anything else we shouldn’t talk about?”

Ahsoka can practically feel Rex’s deadpan look. “Sir, we’re a trio of child soldiers ripped from everything we know. Every other sentence is a risk. We’re just... working our way through.”

There’s a knock at the door. Oh. Quin and Leia.

“Just figured we’d drop this off before we went down to visit Mr. Grumpy-Face,” Quinlan whispers. He still thinks Leia’s a child. He’s trying to make things less terrible for her. That’s nice. “We decided he’ll be less angry if he tries Hoth chocolate, and made some for everyone.”

They definitely made it for Ahsoka herself, and Maul was an afterthought. Still. It’s sweet.

“Commander?” Rex prompts, jostling her a little to try and get her to sit up.

“Gimme a sec,” she manages. It takes longer than it should to push herself away from him, to accept the mug that Leia gives her, too-serious worry in the furrow of her brow and the twist of her soul.

She doesn’t look six. She doesn’t even look twenty-two. This girl was always too old for her skin, forced to grow up in the hostile fear of the Empire.

“Thank you, Princess.”

She sips.

She can barely taste it beyond the ashes she imagines coating her tongue.

I destroyed him, her memory echoes. His slightest hesitation before he made the final move, it haunts her. She almost reached him. If only she’d tried harder, yelled louder, been better...

She shivers.

“Do you need help falling asleep?” Tholme asks. “I’m a regular healer, not a mind healer, but...”

She probably should.

She takes another sip of her drink, willing herself to taste it. It’s good. She likes it. She knows she does.

“Can you make it dreamless?” she whispers.

“It doesn’t always work, but I can try,” he tells her.

She nods. “When I finish the chocolate.”

“Of course.”

---------------------------

Everyone’s careful around her for days. The whole decision to be nicer doesn’t mean anything when she’s walking about in a daze of too few emotions, drained of everything she could feel in favor of a grey cloud of fluff in everything she does.

She does forms. Single saber and Jar’kai. Ataru and Djem so and Soresu. Reverse grip, regular grip, partial reverse on either side.

Again. Again. Again.

She loses herself in the motions, not meditating so much as just empty.

Rex worries. Fett worries. Vos worries.

Leia and Tholme keep their shields locked up tight, and she doesn’t know how they feel. She thinks Leia might be judging her. She think Tholme might be pitying.

Maul simply hates. It’s an old and familiar sensation to walk into, and she takes unthinking comfort in his rage. She’s silent instead of snippy, when she plays the role of guard, and they stare at each other in silence. His eyes burn, and she wonders how much he’s heard of her nightmares.

“You need to talk,” Rex tells her, when he finds her with a cold cup of caff, eyes fixed somewhere beyond it all. She lifts her head. “Soka.”

She just stares at him.

He sighs and pulls her into a hug. “Commander, please.”

She can’t.

Ahsoka stares at the wall behind him, resting her chin on his head. Her neck itches under the lek at the back of her head, a little tingle of a feeling that she can’t bring herself to do anything about. The pale light of the galley is sharp against the chipped paint of the metal that surrounds them. It hurts her eyes to look, but it’s not the deep and dark lit only by red--

Then you will die, her memory growls.

She flinches.

“Breathe,” Rex tells her, too-small hands clinging at her back. “Just breathe, ‘Soka.”

She curls in tighter and tries to just breathe.

---------------------------

“Tell me something good.”

Ahsoka blinks. She looks at Leia. She doesn’t have the energy to parse that.

Leia chances a look at Rex, who isn’t leaving Ahsoka’s side any more than he has to, and Fett on the other side. Tholme’s asleep and Quin’s on Baby Sith duty. It’s just people who know, right now.

The little girl across the table, the child senator, the spy, purses her lips and huffs in irritation. “You knew my biological father before he became one of the worst people in the galaxy. Both of you did. Tell me something good about him.”

Good things.

About Anakin.

“You fought a war as a Jedi,” Leia prompts. “Surely you must have done some good things with him, or at least thought you were.”

Did they?

Every mission ended in tragedy or was just a ploy of Palpatine’s. Every saved life was just...

Wait.

“He built Threepio,” she finally says. “Your father wi--I mean, Bail wiped Threepio’s memory after the Empire rose, for your safety, but Anakin was the one who built him.”

Leia sits up, eyes brighter. “I didn’t know that. I... was Artoo involved? Did he build R2D2, or...”

“No,” Rex says, “But Artoo was his favorite astromech, and they always pushed each other into stupid stunts. We risked a hell of a lot to save that droid, more than once, and I didn’t find out until you started working with the Rebellion full-time, but Artoo and Threepio were the witnesses for your bio-parents’ wedding.”

Leia gapes at him. So does Ahsoka. (Fett doesn’t know enough to care.)

Rex grins, and if it looks a little forced, that’s fine. “He had a holo recording. I was one of the few people left that knew about the marriage that might have wanted to see, so Artoo offered. It was... sweet.”

He waits, probably for Ahsoka to add something herself, but she has nothing.

“I think that’s when they swapped droids, since Threepio was more useful to a politician and Artoo did his best work when we set him loose on the enemy.”

“He never changed,” Leia muses. “Did he always swear that much?”

“Yes,” Ahsoka answers, as Rex laughs. “Always. All the binary I learned started with the best swears.”

She tries to think of another good memory, something else that Leia might appreciate. Her mind ticks back to saving Stinky, which is just a terrible option, because that mission started with Hutts and ended with the Battle of Teth. That massive loss of life, all for the son of the creature that had put Leia in chains.

She wonders if she has anything in her memory that doesn’t end in blood and graves.

“Soka.” Rex.

“Hm?”

“Remember that time Fives and Echo got lost in the undercity their first time on leave, and we had to get the General to help us find them?”

She does.

He’s right, that’s a good story.

“Okay, so what you have to understand,” Ahsoka says, already digging the faint details out and dusting them off, “is that these boys were ARC troopers, top-notch, terrifyingly competent once they got through specialty training, and loyal as hell. Echo had memorized the reg manuals front to back, and Fives was... well, Fives ended up being the only person to figure out the chips before they went into action. Point is, the Domino twins were good... eventually. Just like everyone else, though, they started out shiny.”

---------------------------

“Tholme’s hiding something.”

Ahsoka wonders if Leia will just leave if she ignores her enough. Probably not. This was the girl that got kicked out of boarding school for leading a sit-in at age seven. She’s got patience.

“His job requires him to hide a lot of things,” Ahsoka says instead. “Not as many as Vos will have to, eventually, but a lot.”

“He’s hiding something from us,” Leia insists, visibly frustrated that Ahsoka isn’t as upset about this as she is. “Something important.”

The way she says ‘important’ is clumsy and impacted by the missing baby tooth. She can’t say the r. It comes out as ‘im-poh-ten,’ which is adorable, and if Ahsoka comments on it, she’s probably going to get punched by a six-year-old.

“The Force doesn’t care,” Ahsoka says. “I trust his intentions, if not him as a person.”

“If you don’t trust him, then why trust his intentions?”

“Leia, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I trust one and a half people in the galaxy,” Ahsoka points out. “Me not trusting a person isn’t a sign of anything except my paranoia. The only person I trust fully and without reservation is Rex. Even you, I only mostly trust, because my brain starts screaming if I think too hard. That’s why you’re the half.”

“Okay, whatever, paranoia aside,” Leia barrels on, “He should tell us. Whatever it is that he’s hiding, we deserve to know. We’re not children that he can just hide things from for our own good.”

Ahsoka presses her lips together. “Leia. Princess. I know you’re used to holding all the cards--”

“This isn’t about me being a control freak!”

“It is, though,” Ahsoka soothes, and smiles. “Your mother--the bio one--was the same way. You spent years as one of the leaders of the Rebellion, so obviously you’re used to having all the information, and people reporting to you... but Tholme is a Jedi Master. He reports to the Council and the Republic. Do you know how many people I kept secrets from while I was a padawan? We’re an unknown, Leia. They have no proof that we’re on their side, especially since we’re traveling with Fett.”

Leia crosses her arms and glares as hard as she can.

“I’m not going to bother him,” Ahsoka says. “I’ve already had, like, five unrelated mental breakdowns. I’m putting this on hold until we get to the Temple and I can trust that there’s a healer on hand to sedate me or something.”

“You... want to be sedated?”

“Leia, this... really should be obvious, but a Force-Sensitive losing their osik the way I have been isn’t actually safe. I know I broke a weapons rack last week.” Ahsoka gestures vaguely. “If the Jedi Master isn’t telling me something for reasons that might relate to my clear and obvious mental instability, I’m going to assume he’s got a point.”

“So he should tell me or Rex.”

“We’ll be on Coruscant in four days,” Ahsoka soothes. “Just... let it be. They won’t hurt us.”

“You don’t know that.”

Ahsoka shrugs. “I don’t have to. The Force leads me in all things, including this.”

Leia isn’t impressed by that, but Leia isn’t impressed by much in the first place.

She strides off in a fit that is, perhaps, more influenced by her six-year-old emotional control than she’d like to admit. Ahsoka lets her. It’s not worth the argument.

It’s only a few minutes later that Fett strides in, takes the seat Leia was just in, and asks, “What would it take for you to teach me how to use a jetii’kad?”

She blinks at him. “You want to learn how to use a lightsaber?”

“Yes.”

“...why?”

“Viszla.”

“I see.”

She does.

Ahsoka taps her fingers against the table, eyeing him with the kind of interest she copied from Master Kenobi, years ago. Fett doesn’t fidget, but she thinks he might want to. He just looks back, waiting for her judgement.

“You’ll need to justify it,” she finally says. “It’s a significant difference from what you actually did, so I need to know your reasoning for doing it, and your plans for once it’s done.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s step one,” she corrects. She tilts her head, considering. “My standards for you aren’t built in a vacuum, and you know that. Explain to me what you plan to do and how you plan to do it, and if I approve...”

“You’ll help me achieve it.”

“Maybe,” she allows. “A lot of that depends on Rex.”

“I expected as much,” Fett says. “He is... an admittedly large part of the reason.”

“He would be,” she says. She gives the silence a few more seconds to sit awkwardly between them, and then stands up. “I’d guess you’ve been brainstorming already. Do you have it written down or is it mostly just in your head so far?”

“I’m still... debating options, so to speak.”

She grins, and the shape of the predator’s smile, the baring of teeth... that almost makes him step back. She can see it in the twitch of his muscles. Smart man.

“Follow me,” she says, and doesn’t wait for him to stand. She strides out with tooka-light steps, hears the heavy beskar tread behind her, and goes to the cargo hold. Fett’s confusion grows tangibly behind her, especially when she tosses him a wooden quarterstaff. She picks up the other and spins it in one hand.

“You’re going to fight me,” she tells him, stretching and letting the staff help with the process. “And while we fight, you’re going to tell me what your plans for Mandalore are.”

He mimics her, but there’s a frown on his face. “And why staffs?”

“You and I, we’ve only sparred bare-handed,” she says. “I need a feel for how you fight with a weapon anyway. These are a good start.”

“Not the beskad?”

She grins, and the twitch is back. “No. That can wait. We start with the staffs.”

He takes a stance, and she mirrors him. She lets him strike first with a weapon, but she’s the one that asks all the questions.

(He is the only one on the ship that can fight her one-on-one right now, and he can win. Still, she makes him work for every inch, and what she doesn’t win in bruises, she wins in words.)

(Fett might yet be a proper Mand’alor, but Ahsoka learned war from her brothers, negotiation at the knee of a general and in the shadow of a prince, and government at the side of duchesses and queens.)

(If he wants her help uniting his people, he needs to prove that he can hold them together once she’s gone.)

---------------------------

Ahsoka’s interrogation of Jango’s plans is thorough, and she’s not the only one involved. She brings Leia in, and has her join in on the grilling. She maybe laughs as the twenty-seven-year-old survivor of Galidraan, the Mand’alor, a man who has killed Master Jedi with his bare hands, gets lectured on various government structures by a tiny girl that's missing several teeth and needs to sit on books to see the table properly.

Still, Leia knows this better than any of the rest of them do. The girl might have grown up heir to a monarchy, but she got a classical education and was drilled on democracy and all associated forms of government. Where Ahsoka knows military protocol and law enforcement, intersystem relations and defensive measures, Leia knows agricultural subsidies and welfare programs, infrastructure and education.

Ahsoka may know how to find out if someone’s breaking a zoning law, but Leia knows why it exists in the first place.

“And I grew up in a cult,” Rex says, when an argument on that topic breaks out. Everyone that hasn’t heard the joke-that-isn’t-a-joke stares at him. “The Jedi grew up in a religious meritocracy; Leia grew up in a monarchy; and I grew up in a cult.”

Ahsoka elbows him. He’s not wrong, but still.

Unfortunately, Ahsoka is about forty-seven percent sure that Leia will put her foot in her mouth when it comes to Mandalorian culture, blunt as the girl is. That prefrontal cortex isn’t anywhere near as developed as it should be, either, so impulse control for the princess isn’t great. Ahsoka refuses to let Leia and Fett talk about ways to mend the breaks between tradition and the pacifism of the New Mandalorians without either Rex or Ahsoka herself as a mediating presence. Tholme sits in a few times, but while he knows that Leia isn’t really six--though not about the time-travel, yet--Quinlan doesn’t.

They admittedly end up doing this while he’s on Maul-sitting duty.

“It’s like he doesn’t even care about making nice with the people that, at this point, make up the majority of his people!” Leia grumbles one night, as Ahsoka kicks over a step stool so the girl can brush her teeth. “He may not like the New Mandalorians, but from what I understand, it’s still early enough to prevent the majority of the cultural bleaching you brought up. If he stays this stubborn--”

“Leia,” Ahsoka says, and the girl’s mouth snaps shut. “I’m aware of your reasons for not trusting his intentions. But if I may say? Chill.”

“He’s not even trying!”

“He’s trying a hell of a lot harder than he did in the original timeline,” Ahsoka reminds her. “Brush your teeth.”

“I’m not a--”

“Teeth.”

It’s a little worrying, how the child’s brain affects Leia, but... well. That’ll pass in time, hopefully. Until then, Ahsoka gets to be the aunt she should have been. This includes tucking Leia in, which the girl grumbles about despite the fond waves of comfort that enter the Force around her. Ahsoka doesn’t call her out on it, just brushes back wisps of hair to plant a kiss on Leia’s forehead, and then does the same once Rex stumbles in, grumbling about the limitations of a cadet’s body, but far more ready to follow the protocol that is bedtime.

Rex doesn’t pretend to not like getting tucked in, for all that he’s sharing with a grumbly, already-asleep princess. He smiles up at Ahsoka, lets her hug him, and pretends they can be a normal family for five seconds.

Quinlan’s making a late night snack for himself in the galley. Tholme is guarding the Baby Sith. Fett...

Ahsoka goes to the cockpit, takes the copilot’s seat, and watches hyperspace pass them by.

It takes long minutes before either of them say anything.

“Do Jedi believe in souls?”

His shields are up, locked up tighter than the innermost chambers of the Imperial Palace. She has no idea where he’s taking this question. She has to cast about for an answer.

“That depends on how you define a soul,” she finally says. “Leia told me about Force Ghosts. A Jedi Master who underwent the right meditations and training could pass into the Force upon their death without losing their sense of self. They could remain themselves, to an extent, and interact with force-sensitive individuals. I don’t know if they could last that way indefinitely, but depending on your definition, I could argue those ghosts were evidence of a form of soul.”

“So you believe that the dead pass into the Force, but that what passes could be a soul. Something must exist for a sense of self to disappear at death in a way that impacts the Force as you understand it, and many would use the word ‘soul’ for that something.”

“Mm,” Ahsoka considers it. “I’d say that’s pretty accurate. You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“What about those not yet born?”

Her fingers feel cold, and she finds herself no longer able to watch the passage of hyperspace as passively as she had, and her eyes catch on streaks and motes of what is not dust, her vision unable to keep any more still than her heart.

“Oh,” she hears herself say. “The clones.”

It’s a long time before he answers, but the walls come down. He carries a confused sort of grief with him, guilty and a mite resentful. His questions have been building for longer than she’d thought. His voice is rough. “I’ve taken plenty of lives, but I’ve never known the name of someone I erased from existence before they were even born.”

“The stories we told Leia about the brothers.”

There’s a grunt of agreement from Fett, so those dots at least connect.

“I take it my answer wasn’t helpful,” she manages to say.

“Will they still exist?” Fett asks. “Will they be born elsewhere? Or is... is a soul something that only comes into existence after the body does?”

“I have no idea,” Ahsoka admits. “I want... I want to think that I’d be able to find them eventually, to recognize them, if their souls are still born into this world elsewhere.”

“And if your Sith finds someone else to build his army out of?”

Ahsoka looks at him, sharp and pointed. “You wouldn’t.”

“They’ll be doing it anyway, if their plans are as ironclad as you say.”

“You’re already associating with Jedi,” Ahsoka says, fighting the urge to break his nose. “They wouldn’t approach you, not now. They can’t leverage your anger against you. They won’t know everything, but they’ll know that you have friends among the Jedi.”

“You think they can’t come up with better lies?”

He has a point. He has more than one point and she hate hate hates it.

A Jedi does not hate.

I am no Jedi.

“You’re going to have to convince me,” she says. “Especially if you want to somehow balance this with the darksaber thing. I won’t teach you how to fight with it if you’re not planning to retake Mandalore.”

“That’s how they’d sell it,” he says. “Retaking Mandalore. An army ostensibly for the Jedi, and ultimately...”

“You’d build an army of slaves.”

“No, I’d be the inside man for when they build that army anyway.”

She holds his gaze. She looks away first.

“Torrent?”

“I’m thinking.”

He lets her.

“I’ll need to talk to Rex. Probably Leia.”

“Understandable.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I’m only just considering it. It’s an idea, not a plan.”

“That’s the only reason I haven’t ripped your throat out with my teeth.”

“Hyperbole doesn’t suit you.”

She glares at him, and leaves, her mind chopping up and laying out every possible angle on Fett volunteering to do the exact same thing as last time, but somehow worse.

Great. Just what she needed.

---------------------------

Ahsoka isn’t there for the shouting match between Rex and Fett, but she doesn’t have to be. She can hear it form clear across the ship, and Rex comes to her afterwars. He’s been crying, which isn’t as surprising as it could be. These bodies are still prone to such things, and will be for years. She doesn’t comment.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“We need to take out Sidious before he starts anything on Kamino.”

“Agreed,” she says. “It’ll be hard, though.”

“I don’t care.”

“What did Fett say?”

“That if it wasn’t going to be my brothers, it would be someone else’s. Either we stopped the cloning from happening at all, or we mitigated damage by being there.”

“I don’t think Sidious is going to tap him for it,” Ahsoka admits. “Not unless you’re willing to stage that kind of fight publicly enough for Fett to claim the Jedi poisoned you, family, against him. It could work, but it’s a gamble.”

He knows all of this.

“I miss them,” he says, and she cards her fingers though the curls he’s managed to grow in the past weeks. “I just... even at the end, I had Wolffe. I knew Boba was out there; I wouldn’t be surprised if the beskar let him survive a Sarlacc. I had brothers. Not as many as I used to, but there was always someone. I miss them all, so much it hurts.”

“It wouldn’t be them,” she reminds him. She pulls him closer, puts her cheek to his head. “It would be the same process, the same faces, the same training, even, but the boys themselves...”

He clings to her and shudders.

“Rex?”

“I can’t force them to grow up the way I did. I want them back. Sidious is going to make the army no matter what. Someone’s going to suffer, and I don’t want it to be my brothers, but they won’t exist otherwise, and...”

“And it’s an impossible choice,” she summarizes. “And it sucks.”

“It’s sucks Gungan balls, ‘Soka.”

She laughs, and feels him smile against her shoulder. Good. He needs to smile more.

“He’s still trying to get me to like him,” Rex says. "He’s still making an effort, and he never did that for anyone except Boba, and it’s weird. I don’t know what to do with any of that.”

“Gain a brother,” Ahsoka whispers, and she feels him jerk against her. “If that’s what you want.”

“He’s not vod.”

“Same blood as all the rest, and you’re older than him, so he’s not really in a position to be a parent to you like he was to Boba,” she says carefully. “You don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to, but... I think he’s trying. I think this means a lot to him, and that he isn’t any more sure of what to do than you are. You don’t have to forgive him for what he did in the future, you don’t have to accept when he reaches out, you don’t have to ever talk to him again after we reach Coruscant if you don’t want, but I think... I think it’s worth at least considering what you have to gain. I think it’s worth looking at what he’s trying to give you.”

Rex huffs. “Why couldn’t he just be the shabuir I knew in training?”

“Something happened between now and then?” she offers. “I don’t know. I never met him in the original timeline. I just know the guy that keeps trying to get on my good side so you’ll like him.”

He outright scoffs. “Soka, that’s not the only reason he’s trying to get on your good side.”

“...I’m a former Jedi who talks trash to his face,” she says slowly. “And I cried on him. There is no reason for him to be nice to me, other than you.”

“He thinks you’re cool and a good person and wants you to be his friend.”

“Bantha poodoo.”

Rex grins in a way that goes straight to smirking. “Soka, I’m not joking. Jango Fett wants you to be his friend.”

“Kriffing why?” she asks, more than a little horrified. “I’m a mess, look like I’m ten years younger than him, have gleefully kicked his ass in front of an audience; I even told Vos to throw him at a baby Sith Lord. Putting up with me is one thing, but I’m... I’m only barely not a Jedi. I’m a historical enemy of Mandalore, and part of the community he hates more than anything, and--”

“And his reaction to you kicking his ass was pure Mando,” Rex says. “In that he now thinks you’re a badass, and thus worth being friends with.”

“I can’t believe that. I physically cannot.”

“Soka, just accept it. The Mand’alor wants to be friends with you.” He scratches at his scalp. “I mean, he met you while you were protecting what appeared to be children, and it’s apparently still early enough for him to care about that.”

She leans back in her seat, eyes on the wall ahead of her and back against the cool metal of the other side. Rex falls back with her. She wonders if Rex changed the subject so they didn’t have to talk about deciding how many of his brothers get to exist, and whether or not he can swallow the bitterness of his history to have a connection with at least one member of his blood. She doesn’t ask. If he wants to change the subject, that’s his right.

“I don’t... no.” She denies it as well as she can, and then the implications dig a little deeper. “Is this me accidentally signing up to be the Jedi Order’s official liaison to the Mand’alor?”

“I mean, this point in time... they’ve got Kenobi for the Duchess, yeah?” Rex shrugs. “Good relations with the system are probably a good thing, and you’ve got a stronger connection than Tholme and Vos.”

“Ugh,” she says. She rubs a hand against her head, and then lurches to her feet. “Fine! Fine. If it’ll get him to retake Mandalore before the Sith decide to bribe him with an army he doesn’t get to keep, I’ll teach him how to fight for the kriffin’ Darksaber.”

“That’s what makes the decision for you?”

“Well something had to!”

They only get one lesson in before Coruscant, but the lesson lasts a full day, and Ahsoka’s got his comm number. Fett’s a quick learner anyway, and Tholme was there to give pointers where Ahsoka couldn’t.

He won’t measure up to a Jedi in saber-to-saber combat, but he doesn’t need to. He just needs to learn enough to turn all those skills with a beskad to something that works with a jetii’kad.

(The balance of a saber is wrong to those used to a physical weapon. The inertia doesn’t work the way anyone expects. There’s no need to worry about damaging the blade.)

(Fett is good. Ahsoka is better. And, bless his heart, he knows it.)

(She will mold him into the shape of someone who not only can, but should rule a system with a history like that, and he damn well knows that too.)

---------------------------

“Dropping out of hyperspace in T-minus twenty seconds.”

The Slave I is not, in fact, a Venator-class starship, or anything else near the size and smoothness of the ships that Ahsoka grew up on. This is a bounty hunter’s vessel, and the drop to real space jolts like nothing else. Ahsoka’s in the copilot seat for the return, but Tholme’s going to swap with her as soon as they’ve got confirmation that there were no problems with exiting hyperspace, and nobody’s shooting at them.

“We’re not going to get shot at,” Tholme had assured her.

“I always get shot at,” she’d told him.

“I have our clearance,” he reminded her, seeming more amused than frustrated. “There’s no need to worry about getting shot at.”

“I also always get shot at,” Jango had thrown in.

“Okay,” Tholme had allowed, after several minutes of his trust in the Temple warring against Ahsoka and Jango’s learned paranoia. The looks Quinlan had darted around the room when Leia and Rex also claimed ‘chronic getting-shot-at disease’ had been a treat. The paranoia of a Watchman and a future Shadow was great, but the paranoia of three revolutionaries and a galaxy-wide criminal was greater. “You can take us in close enough to get in radio contact, but the second we have to ask for clearance and a vector, I’m in the seat.”

She’d agreed, of course. She was paranoid, not inexperienced.

“We’re much less likely to get shot down by ground control if you tell them we’re with you,” she’d said, to his hilariously apparent metaphysical exhaustion. “Obviously.”

“Good enough,” he’d sighed.

What that means is mostly just that Ahsoka gets to watch the distant star at the center of Coruscant’s system grow rapidly brighter. She can pick out the constellations she’d grown up with, the stars the creche had projected on the ceiling every night, the ones that she may not have seen from the surface, but had greeted her and then sent her on her way every time she left on yet another campaign that lost her men their lives for a Sith Lord's wretched plans. These were the shapes and stories she’d never seen again as Fulcrum, a woman so hunted that to come within a dozen subsectors of the planet was to court her death.

For sixteen years, she hadn’t ventured closer than Alderaan, save for a single trip to Chandrila.

And now, maybe twenty minutes away at this speed, was the Temple. It was home.

A home that didn’t know her, that had sentenced her to death, that had hosted the rampage of her former master... but home nonetheless.

“Stable?” Fett grunts.

“Thrusters are good,” she confirms.

“I meant you.”

Ah. “I’m... fine. As good as I could be, anyway.”

She hesitates, but manages to speak before he does. “You?”

“I’m not the one walking into an entire building of triggers.”

“Only because you’re not entering it,” she says. “It’s the home of your ancestral enemies who, bad info or no, killed off a whole lot of your friends.”

“I get to leave,” he says. “You don’t.”

She plans to needle him a bit more, maybe on something a little less based in both their traumas. She needs to talk, if only to fill up the silence and keep herself from reaching out to all the lights in the Force. It’ll be too much, she knows.

Tholme enters the cockpit. “Change of plans.”

“Better be a good reason,” Jango says, voice flat.

“Leia’s crying.”

Ahsoka’s unbuckling herself before she can process the words fully. “What?”

Leia doesn’t cry for no reason. Her emotional control is as difficult as the body makes it, but she doesn’t just cry. There’s always a cause.

“I don’t know. Rex said to get you,” Tholme explains. “She was saying a name. He seemed to recognize it.”

Not good not good not good. If Leia was feeling the Emper--No. She cuts the thought off there. No catastrophizing. Information first.

“What name.”

“Luke. Mean anything to--and she’s gone.”

Ahsoka ignores him, just sprints to where she knows the ‘young ones’ are. They’re all in Maul’s room, because nobody wants to be alone with him now, but it’s the worst time to leave him without supervision. It’s not the worst option; he mostly refuses to talk, still.

This holds true, because he definitely isn’t talking when she bursts in. He’s sitting on the bench, in a corner, hugging his knees and watching Quinlan try to calm Leia down.

“Captain, sitrep.”

“Vos and Tholme attempted to show Leia how to reach out to feel the Temple from a distance. They felt that it would be a good use of the time, and an interesting exercise at this distance. She attempted to do so, struggled for several minutes, and then reacted with shock. She has repeated the name ‘Luke’ several times since then, and we’ve been unable to fully calm her down. I asked Tholme to get you, as you are the only Force-Sensitive on board that understands the situation in full.”

“Understood.” She nods to him, and then goes to nudge at Quinlan. “Vos, move.”

“Torre--”

“You can sit behind her, hold her in your lap like you did when we had lunch the other day, but I need to get in her face.” She waits for him to comply, and then drops to her knees and takes Leia’s hands in her own. She radiates calm and assurance, even though she knows Quinlan’s probably been doing the same since this started. She dips her head enough to get in the girl’s line of sight, waits for her to meet eyes.

“Princess,” she says, and meets Leia’s eyes. “What did you feel?”

“Luke.”

From this distance... they’ve got half the system to go, at least, and Leia’s training shouldn’t reach that far for anything more than the fact that the Temple is there. Ahsoka could feel unshielded individuals from here, if she focused, but she’s also been doing this much, much longer. The twins theory holds more water than ever.

“Can you show me?” Ahsoka asks, instead of asking for more clarification. She squeezes Leia’s hands and smiles. “In the Force?”

Leia nods, and closes her eyes. It’s not the first time they’ve done this, but it’s the first time in a while that Leia’s needed Ahsoka to guide her through.

Luke’s light, for all that it’s unfamiliar to Ahsoka, is brilliant among the rest of the signatures in Coruscant. Like Anakin and Leia, he’s a star in his own right, but he’s brighter. He doesn’t have Anakin’s bitterness or Leia’s righteous anger, just... light. Ahsoka had asked Leia to show her instead of looking for herself because she’d expected to not recognize the boy, but she needn’t have. He’s unmistakable.

He’s so bright that she almost misses the other signature that she does recognize. She shies away, knowing that it would be there, but... but it’s almost twinned with another nearby. Not identical, but different in a way that comes with age, with trauma, with... death.

Leia hadn’t arrived alone, after all.

Why would Luke?

Her eyes snap open, her hand coming up not-quite-fast enough to clap over her mouth as she gasps. She feels a shudder, one that starts in her shoulders and reaches deep into her ribcage, finds a home in her chest and doesn’t stop.

“Oh fuck,” Quinlan whispers. “Torrent? Um, Sokari?”

Rex steps closer. “Commander?”

“That shabuir faked his death again,” she manages. “Three times, Rex!”

He blinks at her. “...I know way too many people who fit that description, Soka.”

“Master Ke--” she cuts herself off. He might have changed his name, just like she had. There’s already an Obi-Wan here. Rex seems to be figuring it out, but she needs to give him another hint.

“He pulled a Hardeen,” she stresses, and Rex’s eyes snap shut with a tired groan.

“Who?” Leia asks, her own tumult of emotion paused in the wake of Ahsoka’s shock. There’s a hope and relief to her, and Ahsoka belatedly realizes that her main worry had been that she’d misidentified what was going on, that she’d given herself a false hope. Ahsoka’s internal reaction, her approval and awe at Luke’s presence, had trickled over enough to give Leia the reassurance she’d needed.

Unintentional as it was, Ahsoka was glad that she’d succeeded in helping her charge.

“Er...” she trails off. “I don’t know what name he’s going by, right now. We’ve spent so long in hiding...”

“The man Luke knew as Crazy Old Ben,” Rex says, and Leia’s eyes light up.

“Oh,” she breathes. “General O--no, names. The High General, then.”

“Yeah,” Ahsoka says, not a little soft. “Yeah, I guess death didn’t stop him any more than it stopped me.”

“I could have told you that,” Leia says, smiling far too widely. She squirms where she still sits on Quinlan’s lap. “He was... he taught you, right?”

“As much my master as the official one,” Ahsoka says. She glances as Quinlan, feels Maul’s gaze on the back of her head. “Your f... my official master was very young when I was assigned to him. He wasn’t ready to teach, wasn’t even ready to be a knight, entirely, so my training was split between him and his master.”

Quinlan pops in at that moment, “Your grandmaster was military, too?”

We all were, she thinks. Even you, in your own way.

“I landed in their care mid-battle,” she says carefully. “It was a complicated situation.”

He nods, and she vaguely notes that he’s got his arms wrapped around Leia, and his chin tucked on top of her head. She isn’t sure if Leia’s noticed, but Quinlan’s picked up ‘baby’-sitting duty so often recently that she’s fairly certain he’s all but declared her ‘little-sister shaped.’ It doesn’t matter that Leia’s older--she’s still taking the juice boxes and gummy snacks that Quinlan shoves at her every single snacktime.

“Do you think...” Rex trails off, something uncomfortable twisting in the Force, even though his face keeps it mostly hidden. “My brothers. If the General survived and... and made it back...”

“I didn’t feel any,” Ahsoka says, because she knows she’d have noticed if it was anyone she’d met, and likely any clone at all. They all felt different in the Force, but they all held a spark that made her know it was one of them. “I’m sorry, Rex’ika.”

“A long shot,” he says, that dash of hope shriveling up. He must see something in her face, because there’s a curl of warmth in him, even if his smile is brittle. “It’s fine, really. I have you, ‘Soka.”

Rex and Ahsoka. Two halves of one whole.

She can’t wait to hear the lectures on attachment, the way people who haven’t seen her wars try to criticize her for clinging to any chance at still having a will to live. She can’t wait to see them justify telling her that it’s selfish to hold her sanity in her hands and refuse to let the grief take it away. She can’t wait to stare someone down for asking her to ‘learn to let go’ after she’s lost her family, her life, her universe three times over.

Most of the Jedi are more sensible than that, are reasonable enough to see those shades of grey and how to approach rules in the spirit they are meant instead of the rigid letter, but there will be some.

There will be more than enough telling her she is wrong to hold her oldest, closest, best friend as dear as she can.

Attachment, they’ll say.

What they’ll mean is ‘codepedence.’

They won’t be entirely wrong.

She reaches out for him, lets him fall into her side and stay there, closes her eyes and reaches out for the man she’d long called father, when they’d still been in each other’s lives.

This time, past the deafening flare of surprise-love-hope of the little star next to him, she can feel him reach back.

---------------------------

The second the ship has landed, even before Tholme and Fett are done with the checks, Ahsoka’s waiting at the exit. She strains her hearing so she’ll know the second the system will let her open the massive door of the cargo hold.

Leia clings to her side, and the boys stand to her back.

Quinlan’s stressed enough that she can feel it like a cloud. She is very much not trying to feel that stress. Quinlan’s stress levels, back where he’s got Maul so he can keep an eye on Ahsoka and the Baby Sith at the same time, are so low on her priorities list that it’s a a little sad.

It doesn’t take long for her to be able to punch the button and open the damn door.

It opens slowly. She bounces on her toes, because there’s a beacon of light and a steady, familiar glow on the other side, and she’s so, so close. She can’t see through the crack yet, because it’s day in this part of Coruscant, and the sunlight is blinding against the dark of the hold. So close. She’s so close.

“The hell’s wrong with you?”

Fett? Fett. He’s already here to get off? This door’s slow.

She doesn’t answer him, because the door is finally open enough to let her out, and she leaps through the gap.

She lands on a pourstone floor, feels pebbles and grit compress under her boots, frantically looks around as her eyes adjust to light and--

The High General, the Negotiator, Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, looking just as he did when she first met him, if a little less armored and a little more fed. The hair, the beard, the crinkle in the corner of his eyes. His spirit is a little older, his smile a little more strained, his posture a little more tired, but it’s him.

He spreads his arms, low enough that she could have dismissed it if she’d cared less for hugs, except she’s almost as small as she was when they met.

And every other hug she’d given back then had been, functionally, her being a living missile aiming her montrals for someone’s organs.

She’s a little more aware of how to avoid stabbing her friends in the intestine now.

“Master!”

She sprints for him, collides and sobs, feels him stumble back and then sink to his knees on the too-hard floor, and can feel the tears pouring out of her already. Her breath hitches, and she wails like a child, and that last part of her that couldn’t even grasp at safety shreds itself. His arms are tight around her, warm and strong and Master Kenobi don’t you dare leave again.

It doesn’t matter that Sidious is out there, that the Republic’s been building towards war for a century, that even now someone’s kicking up the Trade Federation. Her dad is here.

“I’ve missed you too, my dear,” he says, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, the bristles of his beard scratching along the skin of her forehead. Off to the side, the binary suns that are Luke and Leia grow brighter in proximity, so bright she can barely bear it.

(“Fett, why the kriff are you reaching for your blaster?!”)

(“Torrent said her master tried to kill her.”)

(“Different guy, that was a different guy, put the blaster away.”)

(“You could have just warned me.”)

(“I didn’t expect you to go for a shot on sight!”)

(”Calm down, Jetiika, if I was going to shoot on sight, we’d already be in a firefight.”)

She ignores everything.

“If you fake your death one more time, I swear I’m going to kill you myself.”

He tries to pull away to talk to her more directly. She does not let him. He apparently resigns himself to this, because he just adjusts how he’s sitting and pulls her in closer.

“In my defense, I was far from the only one presumed dead that took advantage of that status, by the end,” he says, letting her slump into his lap and cry herself dry. “I’m proud of you. You know that, I hope.”

She nods against his chest, smearing tears and snot across the linen and wool. She doesn’t care that they’ll need a thorough washing. She can have her public breakdown and it’s fine because Master Kenobi is here.

He doesn’t even know what she’s spent the past fifteen years doing. Luke wouldn’t have known. He doesn’t know she’s thirty-two and broken, beyond a shadow and cut down by her own master. There’s so much he doesn’t know but the Force rings with the truth of it: he’s proud of her anyway.

“I’m going by Ben, now,” he mutters against her montral. “There’s already an Obi-Wan here, after all. Still, I remain a Kenobi.”

She can’t make the words come out of her mouth. She’s overwhelmed, so much so that speech is a mite bit beyond her.

Sokari Torrent, she presses along the frayed bond that’s knitting itself back to life with every breath they take. Leia was already calling me Auntie Soka, and Rex and I both took Torrent, for...

“For the men you lost,” he mutters. “Yes, that’s fitting.”

He smells like sapir tea and a spiced beard oil.

There’s a whirl of activity about her, greetings and ‘a Sith apprentice?’ and introductions. She distantly notes when Fett almost shoots Dooku before Rex shuts that down and advises the Master to leave the area before things spiral out of control. She feels Ben stand, and she stands with him, clings to his side like a child and trusts that whatever happens, whatever needs to happen, he’ll take care of it until she can stand on her own two feet without swaying.

Rex grabs her free hand, and she feels herself settle back into her skin, bit by bit.

She’s back at the Temple. The twins are safe. Her grandmaster is here. She has her other half.

They can save the galaxy this time.

She’s alive she’s home she’s okay.

She’s okay.

Everything’s going to be okay.

576 notes · View notes

shurisneakers · 3 years

Text

shut in [7]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, implied abuse, death, implied ptsd, injuries, broken bone, origami and paper planes

Word count: 3.7k

A/N: ONE MORE WEEK !!!!!!!!! ONE MORE WEEK !!!!!!!! also gif is somewhat related except steve isn’t there sorry to crush any hopes

i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!! also if you want to be on the taglist, it’s mentioned at the bottom of the chapter.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

“Is there a reason you’re back so early?”

Both of the men nervously glanced at each other, silently urging the other to talk. A quiet form of encouragement.

“We chec- we checked all the neighbouring towns. All your safehouses,” one of them finally sputtered up after his partner elbowed him in the ribs.

“And?”

“We coordinated with all our guys across the country to look for them-”

“All I’m hearing are a bunch of excuses,” they twirled the gun on its barrel like it was a plaything. “Get to the point.”

“No one knows where they’re hiding,” he finished, swallowing thickly. “We’re still looking though. We just thought-”

“What?” their voice was surprisingly calm. “That your little status update would impress me? That I’d feel sorry for you for working so hard?”

“N-no boss,” his partner finally pitched in, saving face for his companion who opened and shut his mouth wordlessly. “Just keeping you in the loop. We’re close, I can feel-”

“Do you remember what I told you the last time you were here?”

Both of them shut their mouths immediately. Knuckles white, nails digging into their skin as they clenched their fists shut.

“That you wanted them dead,” the first one said with faux confidence. A waver in his voice gave it away.

“Yes, but you’re forgetting the important part,” they tsk’ed, shaking their head, eyes downcast.

They didn’t give anyone a chance to react. They slammed the gun down, swiftly picking it up before taking aim at his partner’s face.

“I said I’d blow your brains out.” They pulled the trigger.

Bits of bone fragment and blood splattered across the first agent’s face. He inhaled sharply, chest rising and falling haphazardly. He had his eyes shut tightly, face away from the carcass slumped over next to him..

“I want every fucking part of this country searched,” they roared, throwing the gun to the side carelessly, leaving someone else to scurry after it. “And since it’s so fucking hard for you to finish two tasks, just get me their location.”

The agent barely nodded, looking like he was about to throw up. His partner’s blood trailed down the side of his face like sweat.

“I’ll kill them myself.”

Hugh Grant was starting to look less appealing on your 6th rewatch of Notting Hill. In fact, he was starting to blend together with the characters from Die Hard and it was becoming difficult to differentiate which part belonged to which movie.

Sam sat opposite to you at the dining table, a set of papers assigned in front of him. The TV was left on, serving as background noise and occasional fillers to substitute the lack of conversation.

“That movie is not making sense anymore,” he stated objectively.

“It stopped after the third time for me.” Your words were hushed, your focus remaining on the swan you were trying to create from scratch.

“If I hear her say ‘I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy’ one more time, I actually think I’ll projectile vomit.” You could tell that his eyes didn’t shift from the screen though. “I can feel the bile. It’s going to happen.”

You only hummed in agreement, more interested in his lamenting than the actual movie.

Although origami wasn’t one of the skills you picked up in the fucking mafia, you still knew a few basic things. The rest you just folded with confidence and prayed it would work.

What other options did you have when you were stuck together in a house with no WiFi?

Sam had made a paper bowl to hold the car keys and the few dollars you picked up from Pierce’s place. It looked like it would fall apart at any given moment, its structural integrity questionable at best.

You had made a small flower that rested on the table in front of you. You were sure it would go missing the minute a draft entered the room.

He had given up after his contribution of the bowl. Apparently his creative expertise extended only towards that and paper airplanes, not that that stopped him. He was folding and manufacturing them with a vengeance.

“How is this supposed to help, Wilson?” you questioned, unable to contain the smile that grew on your face at the sheer number of planes he was making.

“Just because it’s not a decorative marvel-” he shot back in its defence, “-doesn’t mean it’s useless.”

“Oh, yeah? What else can it do other than not fly?” You watched as he launched one of them. It did a loop before falling miserably to the floor.

“Hey, you can put a message in it. Maybe one of those button trackers, a microphone. The possibilities are endless.” He laughed, folding another one out of the limited supply of paper he had left. “Besides, your thing won’t even lift off the ground.”

“Yeah, but this one can float.” You held up the swan that you had created. That about concluded your knowledge of origami.

“That’s actually… pretty cool,” he admitted. “Teach me how to make one.”

“A true master never reveals their secrets,” you eluded, placing it on the table.

“I dare you to make another.” Sneaky bastard. He knew you wouldn’t be able to replicate it. He saw you struggle the first time.

“Why, so you can just copy off of me?” you dodged, and Sam narrowed his eyes at you. You followed the same.

Neither of you blinked for a while.

“I’m out of paper,” he finally relented, gesturing to the fleet of planes that littered the table.

“I’m out of ideas.” You paused, looking down at how you’d spent the last hour. “Do you wanna go test these outside later?”

Sam looked up eagerly and you could just tell he was intending on getting competitive. “Hell yeah.”

“I’m going for a run in some time.” You got up to stretch your limbs, shrug off the fatigue that was setting in. Along the way you left the swan and one of the paper planes on top of the mini fridge alongside the car keys. It was cute. “We could do it then?”

“Sure,” he affirmed. “What time?”

“At around 6-” your eyes landed on the clock on the wall before widening, “-shit, shit, shit, I didn't realise it was five thirty. We have a call with Ransone.”

“Phone’s on the couch,” he mentioned to the living room, sitting up straight. “Why are you freaking out? We still got a few minutes to go.”

You pushed yourself away from the table, forcing yourself to shakie off the drowsiness that had begun to set in.

“You wouldn’t get it,” you mumbled, “He gets pissy if I don’t do things his way.”

You grabbed the phone, punching in the buttons and having it at the ready.

You noticed Sam focused on you with knitted eyebrows but not voicing whatever he had on his mind.

“Ready?” you questioned, but more as a formality. You had to do it regardless.

He simply nodded, looking on as you let the phone ring. If he had noticed your antsiness towards the call, he didn’t bring it up.

Ransone picked up on the last ring, not skipping a beat in answering, “Y/N.”

“Hey Ransone.” You switched the call to speakerphone.

“Are you alone?”

You glanced at Sam. He shook his head, arms crossed over his chest, edging you to continue with the arrangement you had planned the day prior.

Ransone trusted you more. He was more likely to communicate openly if Sam wasn’t around.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Where’s the other one?”

Sam silently scoffed.

“He’s taking a nap.”

“Ah,” Ransone’s tone was condescending. “How have things been?”

“It’s fine.” You press your lips into a straight line, not elucidating. “What’s the update out there?”

“Everything is a mess. We’re trying to figure out who attacked you but since there wasn’t anything left behind or any kind of trace, it’s proving to be... inconvenient.”

“Is it safe to travel?”

“What, with your face on national television?” he laughed. “Nah, I’d say it’s a little too early to be thinkin’ of a road trip. Just stay where you are, I’ll tell you when you can come out.”

Your fingers were thrumming at the table rhythmically, peeking at Sam every now and then for anything he found suspicious or wanted you to ask about.

“Listen, we’ve paid off every big guy to keep this under wraps as much as possible but Pierce was an important person. All the higher ups want this to be solved as quickly as possible. They don’t care about sacrificing a player here or there.”

Pinning the blame on you was easy enough. The faster you were put away, the faster they could stage an “accident” in prison so that none of their secrets were exposed. Wasn’t like they hadn’t done it before.

“Others in the business aren’t likin’ us accusing them of attacking one of our own. Our best bet right now is Serpentine but we haven’t gotten anything to prove it.”

You doubted they ever would. Even if they did do it, Serpentine was notorious for being cunning and stealthy in their operations. They made sure there would be no tracks leading back to them.

“So, we’re at a dead-end,” you verified. There was no telling when this would end, your exit looking further and further away. “We’re fucked.”

“No. We’ll just- Y/N, listen to me,” Ransone called out, drawing your attention back to the call.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve always protected you,” his voice was noticeably softer. “Don’t you trust me?”

You felt the temperature in the room drop.

“You said there would be no one there!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ransone scoffed. “I never said that.”

“I walk in there and there’s four people, completely armed.” Forcing yourself to recall it was making your head spin. Maybe you could ask the nurse for a painkiller. “It was supposed to be empty.”

“I think the blood loss is making you delirious,” he chided, looking at the bag of drips hanging above your bed. “It wasn’t even that bad-”

“You’re lying.” The words slipped out before you had the chance to think it over.

“Excuse me?” he tilted his head, tone suddenly sifting to that of warning.

You knew he was. You had agreed to this mission because it was supposed to be easy. It was a break.

“Ivan was there when you briefed me.” You lifted your good arm to point at him shakily. “He knows you’re lying.”

“Does he now?” Ransone quirked an eyebrow, studying his aid who stood in the corner of the dingy hospital room.

A beat of silence passed where Ransone stared at Ivan, waiting for a reply of confirmation.

Ivan only lifted his shoulders in unawareness. “I don’t remember you sayin’ that.”

Your mouth fell agape but you quickly rushed to shut it. Fucking liars. You shouldn’t have expected anything better.

“Told you.” Ransone shrugged. “You’re a smart one, Y/N, so I’m going to let that slide this time. But next time you accuse me of something I didn’t say…”

He trailed off, resting a hand on your broken shoulder. You flinched, jaw clenched so tightly you thought your teeth might break. You tried to imagine yourself somewhere else, desperate to reduce the quivering of your body when he squeezed it lightly.

“You know I’ve always tried to protect you.” He put a finger under your chin, tilting your head to meet his eye. “Don’t you trust me?”

A beat passed before you responded.

“I do,” you said through gritted teeth, pulling your face away from him.

“I’ll ask them to up your dosage.” Ransone took a step away from you, dropping his hand. “I’m going to need my best player on the field as soon as possible.”

You didn’t acknowledge his statement. Every part of your body felt like it was going to combust.

Did he really say that no one was going to be there or was it just the injuries playing with you?

“Get well soon,” he offered, one step out the door. “Buttercup.”

“You trust me, don’t you Y/N?” he repeated when you didn’t respond.

“Yes.” You swallowed, gaze falling to the floor.

“And I trust you. You wouldn’t do anything to break that, would you?”

Sam raised his one hand questioningly as if to ask what the hell he was talking about. An intimidation tactic. He had been using it for several years to reinforce your loyalty.

“I wouldn’t.”

There were things you weren’t telling him, of course. Details about that day or where you and Sam were hiding right off the top of your head. More if you thought about it deeply.

“Good,” came his response. “So if there’s anything you need, let me know. I’m always a call away.”

“Thank you.”

“Talk to you soon.” He ended the call there.

You stood there blankly for a while before dropping the phone to the ground and crushing it. Usually you wouldn’t have to do that; removing the battery would be enough. This time you wanted to.

Your chest rose and fell heavily. You loathed him. Yet, you couldn’t fucking leave.

“Hey.” Your eyes snapped back to Sam. “We still going on that run?”

The wind felt good.

Your muscles were burning and you could feel the constriction of your lungs but you liked it. The endorphins were working their charm.

Sam was right beside you, not questioning why there was so much aggression in your movement. You had lost track of how long you had been running. You couldn’t bring yourself to focus on that.

The path was paved with fallen branches and roots sticking out, forcing you to hop over some of them to avoid falling. It only annoyed you further.

You wanted to punch something. Or someone. The tension was rolling off your back in waves, and if someone saw you the’d probably believe you were going to commit an act of violence.

It was a while before you felt your steps begin to falter, the need for a proper breath taking precedence over the want to run more.

“Timeout?” you asked Sam breathlessly, slowing your pace to a jog.

“Sure about that, Usain Bolt?” he huffed, slowing his pace to match yours.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he dismissed it. “T’was fun.”

Now that you had slowed down, it forced you to come to terms with how much energy you had just burnt out.

“You wanna talk about what’s on your mind or ignore it?”

“Rather not talk about it for now.” The more you thought about him, the angrier you got. And as of late, you had realised that your method of dealing with that anger wasn’t the best.

The air was getting colder. It was getting harder to see what was in front of you, relying on the few rays of sunlight that shone through the treetops. You took a roundabout at your self declared checkpoint, changing course back to the house.

Sam followed wordlessly, but his presence was strangely comforting. Warm.

“Thank you.”

“For...” he trailed off, prodding you on.

“I don’t know. This.” You gestured to the path ahead of you. “I didn’t think you’d agree to it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” His eyebrows knit together in puzzlement.

You didn’t have an answer to that. Probably because you weren’t used to people just doing nice things for no apparent reason.

“How are you so calm all the time? I’ve never seen him get under your skin,” you asked quietly. “How do you do it?”

He didn’t answer straight away. He mulled over it as he dodged broken sticks and upended roots on the ground. You would be fine if he didn’t answer either; as long as he knew that you appreciated it.

“I just realised that everything he put into me was destructive. Actively worked on unlearning it,” he replied after a while. “It took me years to even begin.”

You expected to hear that but it didn’t make it easier.

“I don’t even know how to start,” you mumbled. It was so tiring, even thinking of where and how it began. It was all you knew. All you were taught.

“If I could add something?”

You looked at him questioningly.

“You had a different relationship with him than all of us, Y/N. A deeper one. It’s not easy to forget that,” he pointed out. “But… you’re not him. That takes strength.”

These weren’t new revelations. It was things you had told yourself earlier to rationalise all your actions. You knew it on a surface level but it was difficult to convince yourself sincerely.

You didn’t say anything, just continued jogging with an eye on the ground.

It felt better to hear it from someone else. A starting point to maybe get to where he was, too.

“I just can’t believe anyone took him seriously enough for him to get this far,” Sam added, a tick of annoyance in his voice. “I don’t condone bullying but someone should have just punched him in the face as a child.”

It wasn’t even the funniest thing you had heard him say but for some reason it elicited a snort from you, soon giving way to a laugh.

His face snapped to yours at the sound of your laughter, a small smile growing on his face.

His brief moment of distraction was all it took for him to not notice the tree root sticking out in front of him. His ankle got caught in the wood, sending him stumbling to the ground face forward.

“Oh shit,” you cursed, halting in your place immediately, dropping to your knees to where he was.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, turning onto his back. “I think I broke my face.”

“That may be a bit excessive but your nose is definitely bleeding,” you knew this was serious but you were finding it difficult to control your laughter once you realised it wasn’t a life threatening injury.

“Just leave me here to die.” He covered his eyes with his elbow, refusing to look at you.

“C’mon, Wilson. Let’s get you fixed up.” You stood up, offering your hand. He grabbed onto it, hoisting himself up. “Can you stand up straight? Do you think you have a concussion?”

“World class assassin,” he grumbled, shaking his head to imply he was fine other than a possible broken nose.

“Promise I won’t tell. Your reputation is safe,” you said it humorously but with conviction, hoping to make it less embarrassing for him. Not that you’d let him forget it any time soon.

It took longer to walk back considering how far you had ventured out, along with the fact that you had to guide him as he held his nose in the air to try and control the bleeding.

You pushed open the door to the house, holding it open as he walked in. Sam made his way to the dining room after you told him you’d get the first aid kit for the second time during your stay there.

By the time you returned from the bathroom, grabbing an old t-shirt along the way, he had a single ice cube pressed to the bridge of his nose.

“That’s not going to be enough.” You dropped the kit onto the table, opening the mini fridge. You emptied the ice cubes from the tray onto the t-shirt, twisting it into a small ice pack.

“These are my battle scars.” You could tell that he was trying not to use his nose. He sounded ridiculous.

“Whatever makes you feel better, Sam,” you chortled. His mouth eased into a half smile and you didn’t get why until you realised it was the first time you had called him by his name. You didn’t acknowledge it, surprised by how easily it slipped out from your mouth when you weren’t actively stopping it.

You gave him a bit of cotton to wipe off the blood that had dried on his face.

“Look up,” you instructed, standing over him so you could assess the damage. He complied, letting you cradle his jaw softly, tilting his head to see if there were any signs of a fracture or anything worse.

It was a bad fall, but nothing he hadn’t been through before in terms of severeness. It wasn’t going to leave a mark.

“Definitely going to bruise but it’s not broken,” you concluded, going over it once more to make sure.

“Thanks, doc,” his voice came softly from below you. Only then did you realise how close you were standing to him. You could feel his breath on your wrist that was still caressing his face.

It felt like eternity, but he didn’t make an effort to move or shove you away. Your eyes flitted down to his lips for a second. If you just leaned dow-

“Right,” you cleared your throat, taking a step back. “Just hold this to your face for a while to reduce any swelling.”

You handed him the makeshift ice pack, feeling the heat creep up your neck.

“Your turn to use the bed tonight, right?” His voice was significantly lower than what it had been a few minutes ago, something you weren’t acclimated to hearing. It only made your face feel hotter.

“Yeah.” You avoided meeting his eyes, using the time to close the first aid kid. “Unless you want it.”

“No, go ahead.”

It was too early to retire for the evening but suddenly you weren’t all that hungry anymore. Apparently neither was he.

“See you tomorrow, then?” you inquired, turning away before he could see you cringe.

“See you tomorrow,” he confirmed, “Good night.”

You just gave him a short wave over your shoulder and physically restrained from walking to the room, shutting the door and never looking at him again. You hoped he didn’t notice or at least never bring it up if he did.

You couldn’t do this. Not again.

Not when you knew the consequences.

Next part

213 notes · View notes

word-scribbless · 3 years

Text

Oh baby part 8

Wooo this one has been in the works for a while! Sorry for the delay life has been very busy! @leroyjethrogibbsgirl and I are very excited for this chapter and the next (this one had to be cut off because it was getting super long so part 9 will pick up right where this one leaves off). We also have a little extra thing in the works we’re excited about!

We’re also very excited about a new character introduced in this chapter!

Side note this chapter and the next deal with some PTSD and anxiety so if that’s a trigger just be warned.

Masterlist

————————

The 3 months after Jethro and the girls were reunited were not the easiest. Both Gibbs and his little girl were having nightmares and Y/N was trying her best to pretend she wasn’t having panic attacks every morning when Gibbs left.

While difficult, it was also a very snuggle and love filled 3 months. Their little family did anything the could together. They would snuggle every night before bed, spend days off together (like usual) but they didn’t take a single second for granted.

“Hey you” Y/N greeted.

“Morning” Gibbs smiled and kissed her while scooping Amelia up off the counter.

“Making breakfast together?” Y/N asked as she smiled at the stack of pancakes. “Pancakes on a weekday?” She questioned with a smile

“Yeah, we were up. Figured we’d spend our time making momma’s favorite.”

“Momma loves CAKES! Wiff chippies” Amelia shouted as she moved to hug her mom.

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at her little girl and her husband, but something in her gut told her the reason they’d been up was because they were woken up by their nightmares.

“Rough night?” Y/N whispered to Gibbs when Amelia was distracted.

“Mhm, easier for both of us to just get up.” He said and Y/N frowned.

“Please wake me up next time? She can nap and I only have 1 class this semester, you are our super hero you need sleep!”

“I know” he smiled “just needed some time with her.”

Y/N understood, and wished she would wake up when Gibbs had nightmares, because he’d never wake her up. However her own daily panic attacks took so much out of her, she slept like a rock.

“Just wish you’d let me be there for you too.”

“Ya need your sleep”

“I need to know that you’re okay.”

He just nodded and kissed her head. Truly none of them were okay, but Y/N and Gibbs knew that together they’d get there eventually.

It was quickly approaching Amelia’s 2nd birthday and they were all using that to distract them. It probably wasn’t the best idea but both Gibbs and Y/N knew if they focused on their little girl then they’d be alright.

PTSD however, doesn’t care that it’s a few days from your daughters birthday. The Gibbs family found that out one night when Y/N came home from dropping Amelia off so she and Jethro could get party supplies for the weekend. Y/N walked into the house and noticed a side table flipped, and a vase broken. A few boxes were off the shelves and maganizes off the coffee table. Y/N automatically reached for her phone to call Gibbs and panic set in when his phone rang on the couch.

She stalked slowly to the basement where she head sobs. She ran down the stairs to find her husband curled up on the floor crying with two crumpled up papers in his hand.

“Baby, hey” she cooed and kneeled next to him. She winced when he shrunk away and pulled his hand away from hers.

“Jethro, hey” she tried again. “It’s just me can- can I help?”

She heard him sniffle but he didn’t move.

“Okay I- I’m just going to sit right here. if and when you’re ready I’ll be here. If you want me to go just tap my hand once.” She said, trying to keep her voice even. She wasn’t new to panic attacks at all of course.

She knew that with Gibbs and his PTSD from everything in his life, this was most likely an episode. He usually hid them from her, much like she did with her panic. After this, she knew that they would have to try harder to talk about it.

She waited for him to tap her hand to ask her to leave, she knew how much being alone helps him process. Much to her surprise, when she did feel him touch her hand it wasn’t a tap, it was him sliding his fingers through hers.

“Can I hold you?” She whispered after a few minutes of holding his hand.

He nodded slightly and she wasted no pulling him into her chest.

“I-I-I” he stammered.

“Shhhh” she assured as she stroked his hair. “We can talk in a minute baby, just breath. Can I see what you have?” She asked pointing to the crumpled papers. He nodded and tried to smooth them out a bit before holding them out to her.

She gasped as she saw what they were. It was a stack of letters, half from her that she had written from the safe house a few months ago and half from Shannon, that she had written from protective custody before they were killed.

Tears came to her eyes as she realized just how much it hurt him when they had to go away.

“Aw baby” she said as she kissed his head.

“We’re here, we’re safe. I’m so sorry you had to go through this again.”

“I- I found the letters and thought about how I lost them and I almost lost you and Amelia and I- I can’t lose you.” He cried into her chest. “I just- god it hurt all over again reading these”

“I know, I know” she said, tears falling slowly.

“Has this been happening a lot?” She asked him after about 20 minutes of just holding him.

“Not this bad” he admitted.

“I um- my panic has been bad too. I have been thinking about seeing some one, think maybe you should too.”

“Y/N-“ he started to argue.

“I’m not asking you to spill your guts, just try it?”

He nodded and took a deep breath “I’ll think about it.” He said and she knew that was the most she’d get for now.

Later that night as they were wrapping Amelia’s presents Gibbs finally remembered what she had said about her own panic.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were panicking again?” He asked, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

She leaned back into him and sighed. “I just was hoping it’d go away”

He nodded, getting that more then she knew.

“You gonna get help?” He murmured.

“I actually made an appointment yesterday, thinking about going back on meds.” She had been on them back when Ryan had first died but slowly cut back.

He nodded.

“Had one when I was with meals the other day... I- I- have to be okay for her.” She said and snuggled further into his grip.

He nodded and marveled at how strong and fearless his wife was. She would do anything for their little girl and he wouldn’t even go talk to someone after breaking down. He couldn’t, he just had to keep going. He thought if he was ‘strong’ enough he’d be able to fix them all, even though he knew Y/N would tell him being ‘strong’ didn’t mean you didn’t need help. He just never knew how to ask for it.

The next day Gibbs went in to work for a few hours, Andi and Josh still had Amelia until her party that night. Y/N had her therapy appointment and had to pick up her new medicine. She had one more stop to make.

She had set up the the perfect gift for not just amelia but her whole family.

She pulled into the drive way a few hours later and smiled to see Gibbs truck already there. He had made Amelia her first “Big Girl Bed” complete with railings on the side that they could remove to sit and read to her or when she didn’t need them anymore, and was planning to put it together in her room that afternoon. She smiled at the new member of their family in the back seat.

“Alright bud, hope dad isn’t too mad at me for this” she said and smiled as her new “son” barked from the back seat.

Y/N knew Gibbs loved dogs and that even if he wouldn’t admit he needed help to any other humans, maybe he’d let a dog help him.

She had contacted a program that trains dogs for people with panic disorder and PTSD. She also knew that a puppy would work wonders for their little girl who still woke up From nightmares every few nights. As soon as she saw this particular pup she knew he was theirs.

She walked into the house with the dog following close behind her.

“Jethro” she yelled and she heard “up here” from Amelia’s room.

“Can you come down real quick?”

“In a minute”

He said and she smiled and patted the dogs head as she heard her husband’s foot steps.

“Uh Y/N” he said when he spotted she wasn’t alone.

“Hi”

“Why do you have a dog”

“Meet Sniper, your new puppy son.” Y/N said as she nodded to sniper to go and see the man.

Gibbs smirked and leaned down to pet the dog who had moved to greet his new owner.

“Hi handsome” he said taking the dog’s head in his hands and scratching his cheeks.

“You got her a dog?” He questioned looking up.

“Got us a dog.”

Gibbs smiled and shook his head.

“You’re crazy” he laughed and kissed the dog’s head.

“So you like him”

“He’s our son now...of course I like him” he laughed and she smiled wide, sitting down next to him.

“Sniper huh?” He asked with a grin.

“Thought you’d like that” y/N smiled and he kissed her head.

“He’s trained for families who have members battling panic and ptsd”

“You did this for me?” He asked and she can tell he is a little apprehensive.

“You’re not the only one I did this for Jethro. He is trained for kids who have been through trauma as well.”

“You here to help us buddy?” He asked and smiled when the dog barked happily.

“Just like how we help each other.” Y/N said.

He smiled and kissed her, “you’re crazy, and incredible.” He laughed and hugged her to him.

“Meals is gonna love you” he said to sniper. “Hope you like hugs.” He continued and laughed as Sniper almost leaned his body weight into him, waiting for a hug.

Yeah, she made the right choice, she thought as she watched her husband with sniper.

It was almost time for Andi to bring Amelia home. They had decorated the whole house, Gibbs had finished her “big girl bed” they had put a big bow on it and Sniper was laying on his own bed next to hers with a big bow on his head.

Y/N opened the door while Gibbs stayed upstairs to keep sniper in his spot.

“Hi baby! Happy party day darling!”

“Hi momma!!!! Where poppa!”

“Well, you get most of your presents from momma and poppa on your actual birthday tomorrow, but you get two surprises from us today! They are in your room with poppa, should we go see?”

“Yeahhhhh” she squealed

“Poppa I home!” She yelled and swung the door open stopping in her tracks.

“Hi baby! Happy almost birthday!”

“Rrruff” sniper barked happily and wagged his tail.

“Amelia wanna come meet sniper?”

She nodded and walked over to her dad and the dog.

“He our doggie?”

“He is baby” Gibbs laughed and she pet him.

“I has a puppy brover?”

“Yup you have a puppy brother and poppa made you something too.”

“A BIG GIRL BED!” She yelled jumping up on it.

“Puppy come on my big girl bed?”

“Sure sweets, sniper can go up.” Y/N said looked at the dog “go ahead” she said and the dog jumped up and started licking Amelia’s face.

“I LUV PIP-ER”

Gibbs laughed at how the little girl said sniper and smiled as he watched Y/N join the love fest.

“Come on gunny” Y/N said as she motioned Gibbs to join them. He shook his head and plopped down on the bed sandwiching sniper and Amelia between him and Y/N. Feeling all the more lucky for the ladies and now gentleman in his life.

————-

Next chapter

@mac99martin @kittenlittle24 @drakelover78 @hopscotchandlemon @viper-official @viper-official @ilovemark1951 @theofficialzivadavid @averyhotchner @andreasworlsboring101 @diesinspanishbcimhispanic

#ncis image #ncis #ncis x reader #leroy jethro gibbs imagine #leroy jethro gibbs x reader #jethro gibbs x reader #gibbs x reader

135 notes · View notes

pastpatientlywaitingforimagines · 3 years

Text

Constellation | Spencer Reid x Reader Platonic

WC: 2547

A/N: A cheeky little Galaxy post :)

WARNINGS: SPOILERS FOR 13x01, hospitals, general CM stuff, descriptions of panic attacks and PTSD (fictional so possibly not accurate and DEFINITELY not how everyone might experience it)

This is part of my GALAXY universe! If you liked this relationship, check out the MASTERLIST for more content!

You had only just been allowed to resume field work after an extended medical leave when Cat Adams resurfaced, leading Emily to sideline you once again.

“I’m not having this fight with you, (y/n).”

“I’m cleared for field work.”

“I know, but you’ve been cleared for less than a week and I don’t want your first case back to be this one.”

“Why, because it’s Cat Adams? I’m not afraid of her.”

“Because you’re not afraid of her, that’s why.”

“Emily-“

“I told you, I’m not having this fight. You’re going to stay here and work the case with us. JJ will go with Reid.”

As much as you resented Emily for not letting you go to the prison with Spencer, you were glad she was at least sending JJ. At least he wouldn’t be alone. It was enough to keep your head on straight, and Emily even let you go with the team to collect Diana. It made you feel more useful, especially when Spencer’s mom recognized you among the team.

When you got back to the BAU, you planned to make sure Spencer and his mom had everything they needed to resume normal life. Instead, you were greeted by Morgan, who had a lead on Scratch.

You expected Emily to tell you to stay, Scratch was just as big of a threat as Cat Adams, but she handed you a kevlar vest and didn’t say anything about it when you joined the team in the SUV’s.

It was thrilling, being back in the field. You understood why you hadn’t been allowed to be there in so long, your mind kept flickering to Spencer and his wellbeing. For the past three months, the thought was loaded and often lead to panic attacks. Now that he was released, you had to keep reminding yourself that he was safe before your worries got that far.

The speed of the drive was enough to fuel your adrenaline, but it was amped up quickly when the spikes took out your small caravan.

The truck came out of nowhere, smashing into your vehicle and immediately disorienting you more than you already were. When you finally came to, the first thing you noticed was the pain in your left arm. There was a woman next to you, she didn’t look physically injured but her behavior told you otherwise. She clearly had something internal going on.

You tried to exit the vehicle, but the side was smashed into your leg. While you didn’t think your leg was broken, you surely wouldn't be able to get it out on your own. Your hands found your gun instead, and on autopilot you double checked that it was loaded. You couldn't figure out where the rest of your gear was, or your platoon. You started whispering their names, trying to locate them.

“Smith… sound off. Marcos… sound off… Taylor… sound off. Taylor… sound off.”

“(y/n)?” a strangely familiar voice called. You tried to melt into the seat as much as you could, keeping your gun drawn towards the door on the other side of the woman. It opened, revealing a man you felt like you knew in another life.

“(y/n), it’s Matt Simmons. Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know who you are,” you kept your gun trained on his forehead. He paused for a moment, noticing the state that the woman next to you was in.

“Ok, ok. I’m going to take Tara, you stay where you are and I’ll help you next.”

“Where’s my platoon?” you asked. The flicker of realization that briefly crossed his face confused you, but instead of acting on it he took the woman he called Tara out of the SUV and started calling for someone named Luke.

“Sergeant (y/l/n), I’m Luke Alvez with the 75th Rangers. I’m going to help you get out, ok?” A new voice, also familiar, said to you calmly, “can you put the gun down?”

“Where's my platoon, Alvez?” you asked again.

“You were in an accident,” he slid onto the seat next to you when you lowered your weapon, though you kept your finger on the trigger.

“They ambushed us,” you whispered quietly when he got to working on freeing your leg.

“I know. Do you know where you are?”

“Afghanistan,” you answered incredulously, “where are the helicopters? How are you going to extract us without helicopters?” You were starting to panic more than you already had been, breathing increasing rapidly. You held your arm at a funny angle, trying to keep it where it would hurt the least. Your best guess was at least one broken bone in your arm and also a broken collarbone on that side.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok. You’re having a flashback. I can’t get your leg out from here. The first responders are going to have to help, but I can’t have you shooting them.”

“No,” you pushed back on him with your good arm, “If I can’t move you need to find Taylor first.”

“Who is Taylor?”

“You’re no help to me,” your hand flew to your left wrist, fiddling with the bracelet you wore.

“Ok, I’ll be right back,” he stepped out of the SUV and back to Simmons. Despite the clamor of first responders around you, you could still hear what the two men were saying.

“They’re deep in a flashback. We can’t get power tools in here until they’ve calmed down or they will start fighting and hurt a lot of people including themselves,” Luke said.

“So how do we do that?”

“They keep asking about their platoon, about someone named Taylor. I know (y/n) got into a humvee accident while they were overseas, I think they’re reliving it. I don’t know all the details though.”

“Who does? Does (y/n) have a therapist we can call?”

“Yeah, but it’s three in the morning,” Luke fell silent for a minute before speaking again, “I’ll call Reid. He might know something.

You had an inkling that those words were supposed to mean something to you, and it only frustrated you more when they didn’t. Alvez announced that he was rejoining you in the SUV, then pulled out his cell phone, a move that confused you because phones like that didn’t work in the desert.

It confused you even more when the call seemingly connected, Alvez giving the person on the other line information about being ambushed by Scratch, Steven being dead, and Emily missing. Though familiar, none of those names made sense to you, or your situation.

“No,” you hissed, “Taylor. I can’t find Taylor.”

“(y/n) is ok. Their arm is broken, and they're deep in a flashback. They keep asking about someone named Taylor. They never talked about a Taylor in group, what can I do to help them?” Alvez listened for a minute, then handed you the phone, “it’s for you.”

“Where did you take Taylor,” you asked harshly as soon as you had the phone in your hand.

“Listen to me, (y/n). It’s Spencer. Your mind is playing tricks on you, you’re not in Afghanistan anymore. Look around,” you finally took a minute to observe your surroundings. There were too many trees for you to be in the desert, he was right. Of all the things that weren’t making sense to you right now, he was the most familiar. He had the answers you were looking for.

“Where am I? What is happening to me?"

“You’re with the FBI in Virginia. You can trust Luke, he’s going to make sure they take you to the hospital and I’ll meet you there.”

“Is Taylor ok?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you where Taylor is when I see you at the hospital, ok? I know you’re scared and hurt, (y/n), but listen to me. It’s only rain. Can you picture the rain for me?”

A single memory jumped to the forefront of your mind, standing in the rain with a curly-headed man you were certain was Spencer. You could feel the way the droplets hit your skin, you could feel the comfort you had with the man you knew was your best friend. You could feel your lungs opening up and your breathing get easier.

“Spencer,” you exhaled, finally finding footing in your brain, “it’s only rain.”

“Keep breathing, Luke is going to get you out and I’ll meet you at the hospital, ok?”

“Yeah,” you fought to keep your breathing steady, “I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

You hung up and handed the phone back to Luke, counting your breaths.

“Give me another minute, Luke,” you could still feel your heart racing, though your mind was fighting to come back to reality. Once you felt like you had a better grip on it, you gave Luke the go-ahead and braced yourself while the crushed door of the SUV was cut off of the vehicle. It took every grounding technique you had to keep your head in the right place, and more than once you felt yourself start to panic about where Taylor was.

Luke rode in the ambulance with you, reassuring you multiple times that it was ok when you apologized for pointing a gun at him and Matt. You could feel your body crashing from the loss of adrenaline, the usual post-episode exhaustion coupled with the almost excruciating pain coming from your left side.

When Spencer arrived at the hospital, your brain was still cloudy from the exhaustion and various pain meds you had been given when the orthopedist had set your arm.

“How are you feeling?” he took a quick glance at your medical chart before actually making eye contact.

“Just tired, and still not… still not all the way here. Taylor… I still can’t figure out what happened to Taylor…”

Spencer sat down on the edge of the hospital bed, eyes soft, “Taylor was killed in the accident ten years ago. Your humvee was ambushed, do you remember?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, “I remember. Ten years ago when I was in the military. Now I’m a Supervisory Special Agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. We were chasing a lead when we were ambushed by Mr. Scratch, Peter Lewis,” Spencer nodded, “is the rest of the team ok? I haven’t seen them.”

“I haven’t seen anyone yet either,” he hesitated, and your knowledge of the man clued you in to the fact that he was calculating the probability of declining your condition if he told you everything he knew. The odds were in your favor, because after a moment he spoke again, “but Steven is dead and Emily is missing.”

“Emily’s missing?”

“I don’t know much about it, I have to talk to everyone else.”

“Then go talk to them, I promise I won’t go anywhere until you come back,” you reassured him. He made his rounds to JJ and Rossi in their rooms, then returned to yours with Luke on his heels. The other man stopped at the doorway when Spencer re-entered your room.

“I have to go take care of something for Rossi. You’re going to be ok here,” he said quickly before you could protest.

“I’m coming with you,” you started to get up. Spencer caught you gingerly when you practically fell into his grasp, still fatigued from your earlier episode.

“You can’t, not like this,” he whispered, lowering you back down onto the bed, “stay here a little longer. Will is in the next room with JJ, he said he’d take you home when they discharge you.”

“I don’t want to go home, Spence. I want to help find Emily.”

“I know, you can’t go into the field like this though. Tell me you’ll be good for the doctors so I can leave here without worrying more about you.”

You couldn't say no to this man you cared so much about, not when he was looking at you with the biggest puppy dog eyes you had ever seen from him.

"I'll try my best," you sighed, leaning back onto the pillow.

"Thank you," he gave your good hand a squeeze before heading back towards the door where Luke was waiting.

"Luke," you called before they could leave. He stopped in his tracks, inquisitively making eye contact with you to show you he was listening, "don't let him get lost in that big brain of his, ok?"

"I won't. Rest up, we need you back at full strength as soon as possible."

"Thank you," you whispered after him as he followed Spencer out of the hospital. You tried to get some sleep, but it didn't come easy as your brain tried to make sense of the events that had transpired the past few days. First Spencer's mom was taken, Spencer was released from prison, then Cat Adams showed up claiming to be pregnant with his baby, and now Scratch had literally ran a truck into your team- your family. It was a lot for one person to process, especially since your brain had taken an unwanted break from reality earlier in the evening.

You managed to doze off for a little bit, flitting in and out of sleep until exhaustion finally took over and pulled you deeper into its throws.

You were woken by a nurse who cheerfully informed you that you could go home. Will came to collect you and held your bag of belongings for you when he walked you out to his car.

He answered all of your questions to the best of his ability and even offered to bring you back to his home when you expressed how much you didn’t want to go back to your apartment.

Henry and Michael were enough to distract you from your reeling worries and keep you grounded while you waited to hear from the rest of the team. You let the boys draw on your cast, leaving the hard plaster full of colorful artwork.

As you were eating breakfast that Will had made, your phone finally rang.

“Emily is safe, Scratch is dead,” Spencer said when you answered.

“Thank goodness,” you sighed.

“Are you at home?” He asked next.

“No, I’m at JJ and Will’s. I wasn’t ready to be alone just yet,” you told him honestly.

“How’s your head?”

“Clearer now that I’ve gotten some sleep and some food. How’s yours?”

“Still getting back up to speed. Why don’t I pick you up and we can have a quiet day with my mom? We could all use the rest.”

“Sure, Spence. I’d love to spend some time with your mom.”

When Spencer came to pick you up, you noticed a soft smile playing on his lips when he saw the way you were curled up on the couch watching tv with the boys tucked into your side.

You let them greet him first, they hadn’t seen him since before he had gone to prison. Once they released him he finally wrapped his arms around you tightly.

Your relationship had never been very physical. In fact, you could count the number of times you had hugged Spencer Reid on one hand. Standing in Will and JJ’s entryway, though, embracing him for the first time since he had been arrested, you didn’t want to let go.

Galaxy Taglist: @kermitsaysgayrights @niallthedancingharry @shadyladyperfection @thatsonezesty13 @lexshead @ceeellewrites @howdycharlie @girlycakepops @fantastic-fans @canimarrypizzaornah @daisyflower138 @dyingrexx @taylormobley @bazzleslynn @tj-drinks-tea @willa-wonky @eddiesbifocals @tee-mbrown @reniescarlett @bone-hurty-bitch

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #Criminal Minds #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #platonic imagine #platonic soulmates

86 notes · View notes

itmighthavebeenintentional · 3 years

Text

Shadows And Pills - 1

Summary: Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all. Alexa comes away with a shadow.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Warnings: RAPE, Torture, Abuse, Self Harm, Negative Images of Psychological Services/Mental Health Professionals, Hallucinations, Stalking, Supernatural Horror, Prescription Drug Use and Eventual Abuse, Mental Illness, PTSD, Flashbacks of Violence, Flashbacks of Tragedy, Starving Oneself, Isolation, Physical and Mental Exhaustion, Denial, Self Neglect, Gaslighting, Mental Spiraling, Mental and Emotional Abuse

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Author’s Note: This is not a happy story in any sense, at any point. I could only write this at my lowest places, emotionally and mentally speaking, and I had a hard time coming back from it. This is dark, and it does not at any point get lighter. I relied heavily on my own experiences with mental struggles and took a few pieces here and there from my own experiences with mental health professionals. MY EXPERIENCES ARE MY OWN AND ARE NOT TYPICAL, NOT EVEN FOR ME. If you need mental help of any kind, please DO NOT HESITATE TO REACH OUT TO GET IT. This story was an exercise in mental exorcism, in a sense.

For all the Loki lovers out there, I do not shine him anything like a good or redeeming light here. He is evil incarnate, more or less. I love Loki, I love good Loki and redeemed Loki and misunderstood Loki and just about every incarnation thereof. I needed a villain, and he fit the story.

Above all, please be kind. This was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever written, and it took me years to work up the courage to post it. If you have any questions, please feel free to message me or send me an ask.

Thank you to @thoughtslikeaminefield and @glassjacket . I would not have made it through this story and would honestly not be here today with the two of you. I will never be able to tell you how much you mean to me.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Word Count: 1 - 3785; 2 - 3513; 3 - 1068

In Case You Missed It: ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

...

Shadows and Pills

Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all.

Alexa comes away with a shadow.

In the weeks following the disaster, the public equally lauds and decries the Avengers, but while their opinions are divided over the heroes, the villain is universally denounced as nothing short of Satan himself, and the city throws an actual celebration the day Thor takes Loki back to Asgard to face the justice of their people.

Alexa, having not turned on her television since the day she got home from the hospital, ignores the boisterous celebrants and goes about her shopping, earbuds firmly in place, frown lines now permanently etched between her eyes and around her pinched lips.

“Routine will help you through some of the worst days,” her therapist tells her during one session. “Something familiar and safe to retreat to when the flashbacks are the worst. Just give it a try,” he adds at her disbelieving grimace.

And so she sets a routine.

Morning Routine: wake up. Ignore alarm, lie in bed an extra thirty minutes or so. Shower. Pretend to eat breakfast. Take meds (this one she never skips or shirks). Find something to wear. Stare at it for another ten minutes. Eventually get dressed. Contemplate keys for another fifteen minutes. Leave the goddamned apartment already.

Her routine has varying results, although she does admit to her therapist that life is marginally more bearable with the routine than without.

“It’s nice to have something to look forward to for the next day.”

Her therapist can’t quite hide his grimace at her flat, deadened tone, but she’s not being sarcastic or rude. She finds that going to bed at night is a trifle easier when she knows what’s going to happen the next day.

“So, who are we up to today?” the doctor asks, switching the subject with awkward abruptness. It’s been six weeks since Hell came to New York, and during their twice-weekly meetings, her therapist suggests going through each of the people she saw die in front of her that day, to get closure...or say goodbye...or something.

Sometimes Alexa wonders whether he just wants to hear the details for his own perverse pleasure.

“Brenda.”

Alexa robotically begins to list the personal details she knows...knew...about her floor manager. Unlike the mail room intern she discussed at their last meeting, the list for Brenda goes on for a while. She’s worked with Brenda since she started at the company, learning most of what she knows about her current job from the woman.

Brenda was kind, sharply intelligent, and mothering to everyone under her supervision, and yet she did it in a way that didn’t make anyone uncomfortable. She balanced work and a family long and well enough to both receive regular promotions within the company and also, very recently, become a new grandmother.

The backs of Alexa’s eyes sting as she remembers the photo Brenda showed her not twenty minutes before part of the building collapsed on top of half the department. Her jaw locks as the scene plays before her eyes again, the explosions and shrieks of metal drowning out the shrieks of the people only five feet away.

She closes her eyes, but there’s no pause button to freeze the scene, no power button to shut the images off as she turns in her memory and runs, making it to the stairwell and slamming the door open, turning back and screaming for Brenda, straining her eyes through the smoke and dust and mountains of falling debris. Brenda is running, reaching for Alexa even though she seems miles away, and then one of the file cabinets is thrown over, propelled faster and harder than should be possible, and...and…

And then Brenda isn’t running anymore. Her outstretched hand, the only part of her that wasn't crushed by office furniture, spasms against the ruined carpet, as if it thinks it’s reached its destination and is grasping at its savior.

Alexa’s hand tingles, and her fingers lock into her palm, nails fitting easily into the little grooves she dug there weeks ago. No blood, she only dug that deep once, but the furrows remain as permanently etched there as the frown lines on her face.

Alexa struggles to take in a labored breath as her therapist watches her with the appropriate amount of professional, clinical sympathy and detachment.

“Do your counting,” he reminds her.

How could she forget? She counts to three once, letting a breath out at the end. She repeats the process twice more, ignoring her therapist’s brief flash of annoyance at her departure from his “system.” But, for once, he doesn’t ask her why she has to deviate from the standard one-to-ten method and just lets her do the goddamned counting in peace.

Small blessings.

“Have you had any flashbacks since our last session?”

She stares at him, letting her gaze rest heavy and disbelieving as she turns his question over. She’s been averaging about five flashbacks a day, triggered by everything from accidentally brushing a stranger on the sidewalk (Jim knocking past her to get down the stairs just as the door on the stairwell behind her explodes inward; more shrieking, then falling, then dark) to lifting a carton of cold milk from the shelf at the grocery (that impossibly cold hand grasping hers, pulling her up from the rubble, bringing her face to face with...something...something in the...shadows, it was so dark there, and…).

“Yeah. I’ve had some flashbacks since our last session.”

“What sort of coping strategies did you use?”

He’s not even meeting her eyes now, just getting notes down on that damned pad. The scratching of his pen grates into her bones, and Alexa grits her teeth as she glares.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

One, two, three.

Breathe.

She slowly recites the list of strategies he suggested during a previous session, none of which have proven particularly effective at lessening the frequency of the episodes, but most of which she grudgingly admits provide some slight relief afterwards and allow her to refocus her mind on the present rather than dwelling in the memory.

“And the shadows?”

How can he get this wrong every time when he’s taking all those fucking notes?

“Still just the one.”

“Has it manifested in any other way? Asked you to do anything? Do you feel different in any way when you notice it?”

There’s a distasteful eagerness to his words that always turns Alexa’s stomach, and she has to physically bite into her tongue to keep from asking what kind of bonus he gets for each symptom she shows of different mental illnesses.

“It’s just there sometimes. I..” She hesitates, feeling vaguely nauseated from his questions, but she has to be honest, right? Because, ultimately, it’s his job to help her, and she’s never going to get through this by hiding symptoms. He can’t help fix her if he doesn’t know what’s broken, and he did suggest the routine, so, okay, he gets a pass for this one.

“I still mostly only see it before I’m falling asleep. I’ve started seeing it in the late afternoon, as well, not often, but sometimes. Always in shadows that are already there. It doesn’t talk or anything, doesn’t really have any face or form except for vaguely person-shaped, but it...it watches me. And it’s...denser than it was last week. More...it’s thicker than it was, like when you see wispy clouds kind of...gather and turn into storm clouds?”

He nods, his pen whizzing over the legal pad he records their session notes on. “So, you feel threatened by the shadow? Like it’s storm clouds gathering to...what? It feels menacing?”

But, like most of the questions Alexa fences in this office, this one isn’t easily answered.

“It feels like it’s watching me, waiting for something. I don’t know what. I don’t...I don’t know if it’s menacing, exactly. Like, it feels potentially dangerous, but I can’t tell if it’s for me. I don’t know. It’s just...darker and more there this week, but it doesn’t do anything, and I don’t feel different, and it doesn’t speak to me. I. Don’t. Hear. Voices.”

She clips off each word at the end of her rant separately and precisely, repeating her counting in her head, and she forces her breathing to even out. The doctor is just doing his job, he’s just trying to help, he’s supposed to ask these questions, it’s how he helps-

“Hmm. I’ll have to consider that between now and our next meeting. In the meantime, go ahead and move up to the next dosage step with your meds, keep it on the escalating schedule we set.”

You set, she thinks mutinously for a moment before internally shaking her head. She nods, biting her tongue once more. She’s going to have a permanent indentation there as well, at this rate.

“Any side effects? Itching, swelling, difficulty breathing? Any unreasonable lethargy or detachment?”

“I mean...I don’t really have anything to attach to at this point, so…”

He frowns at her again, and she wonders if he’s going to crank up her dosage two notches instead of one.

“Are you having what you feel are typical emotional responses to everyday stimuli? Have you laughed or smiled at anything yet? How long has it been since you emotionally felt anything besides the frustration and panic?”

And, somehow, this question is difficult, too. She struggles through, trying to find a balance between honesty and not making herself look like a complete failure who can't function in life. She doesn’t help her case when she admits she hasn’t followed many of his suggestions beyond establishing a routine.

“Not even exercising?” he asks, his disappointment palpable.

When she silently shakes her head, her lips pinched tight against his disapproval, he shakes his head with a sigh that sings of ultimate betrayal. Instead of berating her as usual, the doctor frowns and looks down at his notes, considering them silently. He clicks his tongue against his teeth for a moment before switching over to end-session mode, robotically delivering his closing remarks, his typical reminders to keep her meds on a strict schedule at the exact time every day, to avoid all alcohol and unprescribed drugs, to keep her diet as clean and unprocessed as possible, and to get plenty of exercise. Even this last bit is delivered with a sharply clinical detachment, as if she has driven him to the brink of her own psychoses by stubbornly refusing to accept his help.

There is a short, silent moment between them where they refuse to look at each other, the doctor perusing his notes once more while Alexa examines the wrinkles creased into her jeans from lack of folding. The doctor flips pages over in his legal pad and slaps the cover shut sharply, breaking the standoff with one last, dismissive comment.

“Routine, Alexa. Stick to the routine. If it’s what brings you comfort, if that's the one thing you’re taking away from these sessions that actually helps, then stick with it. I’ll see you Thursday afternoon.”

….

Her afternoons vary, according to her therapy schedule. Her sessions take roughly an hour and a half, so that’s one block of time she doesn’t have to try and fill. On the days she isn’t having her skull cracked open, she can sometimes force herself to work on the files her company sends her way. Grunt work, brainless stuff that any first-year intern could do, but it keeps her on the payroll and covered by health insurance until the doctor clears her to return to the office.

Not that there’s an office to return to yet.

Grocery shopping for food she’ll pretend to eat later, making excuses to stay out of the apartment a little longer each day, watching the shadows of the buildings grow darker and longer until the sunlight disappears from the streets.

And the other shadow, the darkest of all, thick and solid against the brick and stone, pacing her, keeping track as she wanders through the broken city blocks. Sometimes she walks a little faster, pretends to not notice the black spot. Sometimes she pretends it’s keeping her company. With the most conversation she’s had in weeks taking place in her therapy sessions, she occasionally finds the imaginary company of her shadow stalker to be more pleasant than menacing.

Occasionally.

Eventually, though, she and her chimerical companion head back to the silent, encroaching walls of her apartment to begin the night routine.

…

Night Routine: laundry. Pretend to eat dinner. Shower. Finish laundry. Clean already clean kitchen. Another shower (on the bad days, the ash and debris won’t wash off). Rearrange already arranged closet. Braid hair. Take meds, do not skip, no matter how much they screw up her sleep, because they help. They do. Settle into bed. Stare at the wall. Adjust pillows. Re-settle. Stare at the shadow. Start to drift off, slide into a flashback, scream back to full consciousness. Watch the shadow. Doze. Awaken from a fucked up nightmare she can only partially remember. Repeat ad nauseum.

Really, if Alexa could just skip the nights and go straight into morning, that’d be great. Mornings are tedious but tolerable. Afternoons are blurry and tense, especially therapy days, but nights…

Nights just won't shut down.

The drugs are partially responsible, the doctor has told her multiple times. The medicine can either make sleeping more difficult, or it can act like a sedative, dragging and holding her down. Honestly, she’s getting kind of mixed results. It’s difficult to stay awake, easy to slip under, but then she can’t stay asleep for very long, jerking back to consciousness in something close to full panic, unable to figure out if it’s the drugs or the dreams that’s pushing her to the edge.

Because the fucked up dreams...well, that’s all on her and her broken brain. She stopped bringing up the dreams in therapy after the first couple of weeks of sessions. The doctor seemed hell bent on steering Alexa towards the possibility that she was experiencing waking hallucinations, but there’s no way she could possibly be awake for all this shit. Maybe some of the flashbacks, but not…

Not…

Her brain isn’t that broken.

No. No, she can tell from the way she jerks to consciousness afterwards, she knows she’s asleep. Yeah, she’s unstable and has flashbacks, but she’s not delusional. They’re dreams.

Every night.

About…

Something.

Okay, sometimes she can remember. Sometimes the meds dull her down so much she forgets what day it is, but sometimes she can hold on to a detail or two. Cold, slender fingers, impossibly strong. A flash of bright blue that sends nausea racing through her entire body (who knew your toes could feel nauseated?) or a glimpse of bottle green that, conversely, thrills her to her soul. A smooth, velvet voice that penetrates every layer of her being, down to the deepest recesses. Darkness descending...a sense of dreadful awe…

And sometimes she can remember every unhinged detail with a terrifying clarity that she will never even consider mentioning to the therapist. Not if she likes her jacket sleeves to fit properly.

There’s honesty, and then there’s idiocy.

The shadow is larger tonight. Taller, a little broader, definitely denser. She would say looming, even, but it’s not quite that large.

Not quite.

She stares at it openly, no longer trying to avoid acknowledging its presence. What's the point? The doctor knows about it, and it’s not like she’s talking to it. She’s not that far gone yet. And she hasn't lied to the doctor, either. The shadow does watch her, like it’s waiting, gathering. Convalescing. But it hasn't ever talked to her.

She does not hear voices.

She yawns and rolls her shoulders, left then right, sliding a little lower in bed, searching for a cooler place between the sheets. Movement catches her eye, and she looks up as the shadow shifts, leaning left then right, and seems to…

Grow?

No, it’s never moved before. She’s pretty sure she’s never seen it move, but now it pulses and raises up, stretching-

No. No. Sourceless shadows don’t move. They don’t grow, they don’t shift, they don’t-

The shadow stretches upwards abruptly, definitely looming now, and Alexa hits the wall behind the bed, scrambling backwards in a blind panic as she realizes the shadow isn’t growing.

It’s coming closer.

Her breathing speeds up, but her limbs are heavy and dull with narcotic stupor. The foot of her bed darkens as the shadow creeps even closer, and she opens her mouth to protest, to scream, to say something, but her tongue is numb and stupid with the acrid, coppery tang of fear and pharmaceuticals, and she hates, hates this kind of dream where she can’t speak, can't move and she can barely breathe, and...and…

The shadow reaches out, stretches over her foot and slides up her calf in a clammy, viscous caress that tightens on her knee and pulls her several inches down the bed as her throat closes.

Do not shrink from Me. It is not your fear I crave, but your adoration. Come to Me, allow yourself to move past the fear and embrace what I wish to grant you.

Horror, deep and instinctual, floods her veins. Alexa feels the voice more than hears it, and it awakens an ancient fear that finally, though futilely, awakens her drugged limbs. She claws at her sheets uselessly as the shadow moves over her, a freezing oil slick that oozes against her skin as if her blankets and clothes weren’t even there, sending shivers to the very marrow of her bones as her gorge rises, and she chokes on the bile that singes the back of her throat. She can’t fight, can’t move against this intangible force, but neither will her terror let her sink past the fear to blissful unawareness.

Give over. Let go of your stubborn fear that tethers you to this useless reality. Allow Me entrance, and I will grant you the relief you seek. Release your grip on the world that cares nothing for you, and I shall bestow upon you the peace you so desperately crave.

Her skin raises in gooseflesh everywhere the shadow crosses, and her stomach turns as it squeezes its way up her torso, her chest, her throat, slipping over her lips in a sick parody of a lover’s caress. She opens her mouth - to scream, to breathe, to do something - and the shadow plunges inwards, invading her mouth, her throat, coating her inside and out with a thick, glutinous sensation that leaves her mouth hanging obscenely open, tongue thrashing, while her mind screams useless denials.

Submit to Me what you see I can easily take, give Me My due. Give over, drown in Me, and I will save you from this miserable existence.

And she is drowning, the air pressed from her lungs as a dark heaviness settles solidly over her. Her arms are forced over her head, and she is strung out on her twisted sheets, writhing under the weight of the shadow as it presses over every surface, against every entrance. No matter how she strains, her legs are gradually forced apart. The darkness’s lack of speed is affected, some barely functioning bit of her brain whispers to her; it could take her as swiftly as it cares to and is only moving slowly because it wants her to suffer, wants to taste her anguish. She has no chance against the shadow, she can’t even touch it, really she could just save herself the anxiety and fear and just-

NO.

She twists as hard as she can, but the shadow simply moves with her, flows over her, waits until she takes another breath, and then surges between her thighs, driving her torso off the bed with the force of its thrust. Every cell in her body locks, not in pain, but in complete revulsion. And then again, and again, cruel in the thoroughness of its violation, covering and saturating every crevice of her being, coating and tainting everything it touches.

Wrong, can't...stop, stop, stop, wrong, can’t...God, please…

You cannot rely on yourself, on your own mind for proper guidance. Let Me protect you. Let Me save you from yourself.

How long...minutes...hours...years...just stop, please…please-

The alarm clock shrieks right in her goddamned ear, and she can breathe and move and scream and goddammit, she fucking hates those dreams that send her careening onto the floor, scrambling for cover when she can’t even remember what she's running from.

Her morning routine is already in shambles. There’s no ignoring the alarm clock today. A morning shower maybe, to wash off the sticky aftermath of night sweats, definitely, but no lying about, staring at the walls in a sleep-daze. Definitely washing the sheets tonight, too.

She surveys what she can see of her bed from her crumpled position on the floor in front of the closet and sighs. Must’ve been a hell of a nightmare to tear up the covers that badly. She thinks for a moment of trying a little harder to remember, to recall some piece of the dream, but then her stomach flips over, and she summarily rejects that idea in favor of caffeination and medication.

She allows herself another few minutes on the floor, waiting until her respiratory and heart rates return to a less alarming pace before climbing to her quivering knees. The shadow darkens the far corner of the room, as innocuous as always. Though she doesn’t know why, she can’t help an involuntary flinch when she first sees it. It’s not normally present in the morning, at least, she doesn’t think so...well, she can't remember the shadow being so dark in the mornings, at least. But...

She clears her throat against the thickness that seems to coat it suddenly, and readjusts her plan to include a glass of water before she starts in on the coffee. She realizes after another long moment of staring that her hands are trembling along with her legs. Her jaw clenches, and she knows she’s being ridiculous. It’s a damned shadow. It just sits there. It’s a minor manifestation of a mild psychosis secondary to major psychological trauma. It’s just a damned dark spot; it doesn’t change, doesn't want her to do anything, and it definitely doesn’t fucking talk to her.

She. Does. Not. Hear. Voices.

…

Up Now: 2

36 notes · View notes

starryeyedrogue · 3 years

Text

mental health & vent

again, a long one. please stick with me here.

tw: depression, anxiety, ptsd, epilepsy diagnosis, suicidal thoughts mention

hey everyone, like I said in my last post, I won’t be as active on here. this doesn’t mean I’m quitting by any means, I’m here for the long haul! I just need a break for a little bit.

side note: I am not in any way suicidal or practicing self harm. this is just to vent and act as a PSA for my mutuals/followers.

now onto my main message.

I’ve seen lots of posts about mental health lately, and I’m so incredibly proud of those who have spoken up. They’ve inspired me to make my own post, actually. normally I’d keep it to myself, but this time has been rough and I want to get it off my chest. I’ll probably delete this later, but still.

I’ve been depressed.

long story short, I had a very traumatic experience a couple years ago with an ex boyfriend (not going into it on this post, for details just dm me. not something I’d want to post publicly, this is just an explanation) and I was deeply depressed. I was never diagnosed “officially” because I was afraid to speak up, as this would expose what I was going through. I had really bad anxiety at that time too, and I still do. I also have PTSD flashbacks from it now and again. none of this was diagnosed, and I still don’t want to bring it up to my doctors/family. my irl friends don’t even know, at least not most of it.

I have monoclonic epilepsy, which means my seizures are fairly small. my arms, legs, feet, hands, and fingers twitch, and I lose control for a few seconds. it doesn’t hurt, and sometimes I don’t even notice or remember it happening, but my family does. epilepsy in general runs in my family, and it can be triggered by a great deal of stress, lack of sleep, and of course flashing lights. in my case, I never “had” epilepsy or seizures until the “experience” I mentioned before, as it caused massive amounts of stress for about 2 years straight. it’s gotten better, as I now have medicine and am out of that situation, and I haven’t had a seizure since September, which is amazing and a huge blessing.

writing has helped with my depression and anxiety a lot, as I can write out what effects me the most. honestly, some of the characters are based off of myself (before vs after) and the person from the “experience.” this is just for therapeutic reasons, as I don’t really want to go to real therapy (I’d be too embarrassed to ask for it or talk to someone anyway, though I probably need to go eventually and plan to when I’m on my own).

however, when I stopped posting it, I started feeling bad again. I didn’t think I needed to post my stories to feel better or to make a childhood dream into reality, but not posting it made me feel somehow worse. I’ve stopped writing as much, and I’ve lost motivation to do just about anything. I’m working on a couple things to help myself get out of this “funk,” but any tips would be greatly appreciated!

this may seems stupid, but I’ve been depressed and very anxious about my schooling. I started in cyber security and got about halfway through, but I became depressed and had other issues so I didn’t finish the degree. now I’m starting in psychology, after praying for months and months for help with figuring out what to do for school. I finally got an answer, and that answer was to be a Christian counselor! I want to help as many people as I can, especially since I know how it feels to be anxious, depressed, and have PTSD.

I’m dealing with a lot of changes right now, as I’m selling my first car, might have to move out of my first house/childhood home, and just a bunch of other stuff. this sounds trivial, but I hate change. it seriously stresses me out. my neurologist told me that if I have any more seizures, I won’t be able to drive for 6 months to a year to be safe (as I could have an “episode” as I call it while driving and hurt myself/others in a potential car accident). trust me, trying not to be stressed while being stressed, anxious, and depressed is not easy.

on top of all that, my irl friends have all but abandoned me. I never hear from them (all but one, she’s the best!), and when I do they ignore me or pretend to listen when they obviously aren’t. I try to make plans with them, but they ignore me or just say “definitely!” but never try to set up times to hang out. It’s been almost two years since I’ve seen them all together. I was able to hang out with the friend I mentioned earlier to go to another friend’s recital, but that was it, and that was months ago. I totally get being busy, but I miss them and I don’t think they miss me, which really hurts. one friend ditched us on graduation day and we haven’t talked to her outside of “happy birthday,” or “@___ look at this thing I know you like,” which she never responded to. graduation was 4 years ago. I miss them all, even if they aren’t really my friends. I miss familiarity and their chaotic personalities. I’ve known them my entire life. honestly, I haven’t made any other friends irl, even though I’ve tried (I’m very introverted and a lot of people don’t get my humor/personality. I’m very much a mischievous old lady that uses weird wording (li.e. using uncommon words for my generation mixed with modern stuff, basically I sound like a vampire that’s been around since the 50s and mixes the eras together in some unholy mixture) at heart and I have very niche interests that I cling to like they’re my last hope). basically, making friends and meeting new people is hard for me for various reasons.

tumblr is different though, which I’m seriously grateful for! the people I’ve talked to are all so nice and really fun to talk to, and they’re part of why I’m posting this. @elvish-sky gave me the courage to post this and @hey-its-nonny and @padawansofthejediorder have been amazing and super nice to me, and I couldn’t be more grateful. the reason I’m posting this is to let them know what’s going on if I don’t respond to messages for a while, and to let them know what wonderful people they are and how much it means to me that they care about me, even if we’re just tumblr mutuals. I love you guys, thanks for being here! it means more than you know.

my mom and dad both had health scares recently, which made me spiral even more. I honestly don’t know what I would do if one of them died. they’re literally my world and my best friends, as ridiculous as that sounds. my mental health was so low I honestly thought I’d die too. they’re both fine now, which is truly a blessing and a massive relief. when I say I thought I’d die too, I don’t mean I wanted to commit suicide, but I honestly can’t imagine a world without my parents, especially my mom (hers was the main health scare, it was a case of reaction to a new medication for her migraines). we’re insanely close and she’s my best friend, as cheesy as that sounds. I don’t know what I would do without her. it’s making me teary just thinking about it.

long story short, please be patient with me. I’m dealing with a lot right now, and I need some time to take a deep breath and focus on my mental health. if you have any suggestions/tips for dealing with depression, anxiety, and PTSD flashbacks, please let me know!

for those I’ve tagged, you don’t have to reply or even read this whole thing if you want, I tagged you because I thought you’d like to know about this and/or I wanted to show my appreciation for your kindness!

I love you all, thanks for sticking around and listening to my rants. <3

#roguespeaks #sorry that was super long #vent #mental health #roguesrambles

14 notes · View notes

r6shippingdelivery · 3 years

Note

headcannons for hobbies? Like what they do on their off time?

Hi nonnie! I actually did a Hobbies HC for “all” ops a long time ago. But seeing that was before the expanded bios, and it only reached up to Gridlock and Mozzie, I’d say it’s time for an updated version, don’t you say?

Some of the answers are unchanged from the old post, because I already nailed it or the new info didn’t disprove my ideas. But I had to revise a lot of the answers I gave the first time around! In order to find their hobbies and/or get a glimpse of their lives beyond Rainbow and what they might like, I read all the bios, and looked up concept art, and elites, and past battlepass content, etc. And when none of that was enough, I just went with my gut instinct 😂 Thank you to @grain-crain-drain, @dagoth-menthol & @todragonsart for bouncing ideas with me when I was stuck! 💕

Hobbies Headcanons for ALL ops (up to Neon Dawn)

FBI

- Ash: According to her savta, shooting things is not a hobby, but Ash disagrees. And since according to her expanded bio she knows Hebrew, Arabic, English, French and Greek, I’m willing to bet she enjoys learning languages as well. - Thermite: He grew up on a ranch and loves riding. He’s also taken an interest in improving gadgets it seems, so my old proposal that he dabbles in forging/smithing stuff seems plausible. And based on this concept art, demolition derbies attending and maybe even competing himself too? - Pulse: He’s interested in a variety of topics and goes through phases of intense, nearly obsessive focus, until something else captures his attention. He still has a lingering fondness for building muscle cars, since it was something he used to do with his father. And like Thermite and Hibana, it seems he might enjoy demolition derbies. - Castle: He’s a language nerd, studying/reading/practicing new languages is his hobby for sure. Since the expanded bio says he rescues abused dogs, I don’t think it would be far fetched he volunteered at animal shelters too.

SAS

- Thatcher: Aside from repairing his boat, The Iron Maggie, he also enjoys fishing. He used to do that with his dad & brothers, and tried to take the rest of the SAS fishing as a bonding experience. It didn’t go very well - Sledge: He plays rugby, and has an inexplicable fondness of trying the wildest ideas that tend to end with something broken, be it one of his bones or a structure or wall (just read his extended psychological profile and you’ll see, lmao) - Smoke: Boxing, it helps him focus all his chaotic energy. And chemistry in general, it’s not just a hobby but a passion of his. - Mute: he enjoys tinkering with stuff, taking it apart and then putting it back together in a different way, just to see if he can improve it or make it work in his own way. Flying drones plays perfectly into that, with the added bonus of being able to do the flying part just for fun too.

GIGN

- Montagne: His main passion is working with people, teaching and mentoring others, and therefore when he’s not on duty, his main passtime still is mingling with people and getting to know them. I could see him making overtures with Castle, interested in the American and fascinated by his knowledge of various languages, an area Monty feels insecure about due to only knowing French and English. - Twitch: Engineering, robotics and developing an empathic AI is her life.Twitch is a workaholic passionate about those topics. She also greatly enjoys traveling and, according to her expanded bio, people watching. - Doc: He surely had some hobby at one point, but he can’t remember it, or the last time he had free time for it. Doc is also a workaholic, although one that loves to complain about it. - Rook: Apparently he’s passionate about cycling, auto racing, and rock concerts. Mainly cycling though, since he dropped out of university to cycle around France.

Spetsnaz

- Tachanka: He collects and repairs old weapons. Mostly soviet, but he has some interesting pieces from other countries too. And he dances surprisingly well. - Kapkan: Aside from a certain interest in psychology, his main hobby is hunting, of course. But he also whittles and carves wooden figurines. - Glaz: Quite obviously, painting. He’s an artist, and quite a good one. He also likes playing cards, especially poker. - Fuze: He builds new weapon prototypes for fun. And tests them, if he can convince Six of it. He also likes to bake from time to time, a skill he learnt thanks to his grandma - and because he has a sweet tooth.

GSG9

- Jäger: Planes. Model planes, repairing old WWI & II planes, you name it. And watching copious amounts of documentaries. - Bandit: His bike is his main hobby, both taking care of it and riding it. He also likes playing pool; and, if pranking people counts as a hobby, that’s his oldest one, dating from when he was a kid. - Blitz: He was and still is an athlete at heart, and Blitz loves running. - IQ: In order to disconnect from engineering pursuits, she indulges in rock climbing, spelunking, and writing science fiction stories.

JTF2

- Buck: He crafts mechanical puzzles, and enjoys all kinds of physical activity that can take place outdoors. - Frost: She just loves being surrounded by nature, and often goes mountain climbing or diving.

SEAL

- Valkyrie: Swimming and diving, of course! She wanted to be a professional swimmer, but now it’s just a hobby. And apparently she enrolled for a helicopter pilot license, and language classes. - Blackbeard: According to the expanded bios, he likes sailing and even participated in a championship. And since he climbed Mount Everest, it’s safe to say he also likes mountain climbing.

BOPE

- Capitao: He loves football, playing or watching it, doesn’t matter, he’s all for it. - Caveira: Spends a lot of time practicing Jiu Jitsu, in the gym and also on unofficial tournaments.

SAT

- Hibana: For her it’s traditional Japanese archery (Kyūdō). And probably demolition derbies too accounting that concept art from before with Thermite and Pulse. - Echo: According to the expanded bio, he has few interests outside work, but I always imagined he’d be into gaming and e-sports. Hacking too, and that’s a direct influence from Dokkaebi.

GEO

- Jackal: He plays the acoustic guitar/spanish guitar, and sings too. And now we also know he volunteers with at-risk youth. - Mira: Fixing cars is second nature to her, and thanks to her expanded bio we know she also does metal sculptures that incorporate used mechanical parts.

SDU

- Ying: Extreme driving, which can sometimes trigger her PTSD, and traveling. Especially exploring cities by randomly jumping in public transport and just going anywhere. - Lesion: He is also one to volunteer in underprivileged areas (like Junk Bay, where he grew up), and clearing mines and other unexploded devices. I also imagine him with a certain gusto for playing blackjack.

GROM

- Zofia: If obsessing about her father’s supposed suicide and the oddities surrounding it, and desperately trying to reconnect with her sister count as hobbies, sure, she has those. - Ela: She’s also an artist, one with a very particular vision that some have called narcissistic. Apparently she also does some “freelance” volunteer work, roaming the streets at night and offering help/comfort, or a willing ear to the people she meets.

707SMB

- Vigil: He likes to take walks around the forest, just aimless exploring and marvelling at nature and any animals he might come across. Often listens to relaxing music while doing so, and he might pick a pretty rock here and there to bring home. - Dokkaebi: Hacking is her hobby, of course. She also has several social media profiles and is an active member in a couple of hacking forums. As per a previous battlepass, I believe she enjoys mountain trekking too. And dancing to electro beat, due to her elite.

CBRN

- Lion: His rebel years left him with an appreciation for rock music and a dream to be in a group. Lion still plays the electric guitar, when he’s not off volunteering at the local church. - Finka: Pushed by her parents from a young age to try different sports, just like her siblings, she eventually discovered a strong love for fencing and ice-skating.

GIS

- Maestro: Cooking, and boxing, an interest he shares with Smoke. But mostly cooking. - Alibi: She’s also a marksman, engages Ash in friendly shooting competitions.

GSUTR

- Clash: She’s very involved in different activist causes, mostly surrounding racial issues and inequality. - Maverick: Photography, mostly nature or candid shots of his fellow operators. I also think he likes horses and riding. And Buzkashi of course, but he hasn’t played since he left Kabul.

GIGR

- Kaid: Playing chess, he’s a good strategist and it shows. And while dozing off with a cat on his lap is not a hobby, he also loves that. - Nomad: Traveling to all sorts of remote locations, she’s an explorer with a thirst to prove herself. She also keeps a travel journal, which includes maps and some drawings of the places she’s seen.

SASR

- Mozzie: Dirt biking, of course. The more dangerous the jumps and stunts are, the more he likes it. He knows his limits and works to surpass them. - Gridlock: Robotics. She still wants to compete again in robot championships, just like she and Mozzie did so many years ago. She would consider that fixing cars and vehicles has become more part of her job than a hobby, but still loves it too.

Phantom Sight

- Nokk: Fencing, as evidenced by some of her concept art, she participated in fencing tournaments. - Warden: He knows appearances are important, and he cultivated a very specific image, so he likes to take care of that, be it by buying luxury or antique cars, or designer suits, etc.

Ember Rise

- Amaru: Archeology and exploring the Amazon jungle is her passion. It used to be her whole life and job, but since she joined Rainbow, she’s been busy with training and missions, yet she never lost her love for adventure, history and protecting her country’s cultural artifacts. - Goyo: He’s a really good chess player, and enjoys other games where he either has to think, or his usual poker face and calm demeanor can throw his opponents off.

Shifting Tides

- Kali: When she’s not writing reports about her underlings progress, or making lists about who should be ascended/rewarded, who needs to be punished or chastised, etc, she’ll be doing yoga, since it helps her focus. Or hardcore pilates when she needs to burn away some frustration first. - Wamai: Diving and being underwater in general, be it on his special immersion tanks or on the actual sea, it doesn’t matter. He finds it calming (and he’s addicted to the anoxia sensation)

Void Edge

- Iana: Space exploration fascinates her, and she’s always trying to learn everything she can about the cosmos, watching documentaries and conducting her own in-depth research. - Oryx: Wrestling helps him hone his physical prowess, and it’s also a measured outlet for his deep seated rage. He also greatly enjoys reading poetry.

Steel Wave

- Melusi: She’s committed to the conservation cause, which stems from both her love of wildlife and nature, and her protective instincts. She likes to explore too, although she’s not driven by a will to prove herself or reach certain goals, but simply for the joy of seeing natural spaces. - Ace: Social Media. He’s obsessed with his public image and popularity. While he travels quite a bit, it seems he does it more to share new and exciting selfies on Instagram than for the pleasure of visiting new places.

Shadow Legacy

- Zero: He knits and crochets, it’s an engaging hobby that helps him clear his mind, plus he enjoys making stuff too. Not many people know about this side of him though.

Neon Dawn

- Aruni: She and Hero, her giant pouched rat, volunteer on landmine detection and removal efforts. She also likes to travel extensively, and has done so in the company of Twitch and Nomad.

#rainbow 6 siege #r6s #rainbow six siege #rainbow 6 #headcanons #Anonymous

64 notes · View notes

cassiecasyl · 3 years

Text

bittersweet surrender (everything is better now)

My first contribution for @whumpay2021!!

fandom: mcu relationship: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes warnings: self-harm, nightmares/flashbacks add. tags: Bucky Barnes has PTSD, Alternate Universe - Angels, Angel Sam Wilson, Angel Bucky Barnes, Recovering Bucky Barnes, Alpine and Redwing as their pets

prompts: Day 9 - gentle/brutal + Day 10 - screaming/silence

note: this fic is based on a headcanon i have about angel wings which i’ve previously written about in this series. I have pasted some paragraphs at the start for better understanding, but I still highly encourage you to check out the original series!

Read on Ao3.

“What are those lights?” Dean eventually asked, wonder and admiration on his face, an expression he hadn’t worn since his childhood was stolen.

“The plumage of an angel possesses a glow specific to the angel,” Castiel explained. “Sometimes, when the angel is around someone they especially trust and care for, this glow manifests in those particles. Nobody really knows what they actually are.”

“They look like fireflies,” Dean stated, but his eyes spoke of a question he was too afraid to ask. Castiel chuckled and agreed before he whispered a little word in Enochian, increasing the expression on Dean’s face. “What was that?”

The angel repeated the word, louder this time. “That’s what they’re called,” he clarified. “It means sparks of emotion, which is contradictory since angels aren’t supposed to feel. With the absence of a soul comes the inability to feel, but somehow, emotions found a way into our beings. These fireflies, as you call them, especially respond to strong emotions, but somehow they don’t resonate with hate, which is one of the strongest emotions. Usually, they show when an angel is around someone they,” Castiel made a quick pause, almost unnoticeable to those who didn't know him, “... love. Those little traitors.”

- After the Flight (The Meaning of Home) by @cassiecasyl

~~~

The poison entered him from the veins in his left arm. It’s still bleeding from the impact, and Bucky thought he saw flashes of bone the few times he’s able to blink his eyes open. He groaned in pain, instictly flinching away from their hands, but his body lay still, obedient. It burned through his system, alighting his insides, flames infecting his body and soul.

Humans always thought of hell as a pit of fire you’re thrown into, or the stake they’d burned witches on. Bucky knew better. Hellfire devoured him from inside. The souls of future victims screamed a haunting melody as they burned.

He remembers being a comet. His wings caught fire in the wind, the Earth rapidly approached to greet him in a lethal hug. Feathers danced back towards the heavens, hopelessly holding out for a home lost.

The inferno inside reached them now, igniting them anew, as if they weren’t injured enough already. It blazed through his grace, touching the very essence of his being, triggering what should never be forced. Tiny blue orbs sprang from his plumage, fighting their artificial light, reflecting in the tears streaming down his face. No. They couldn’t.

A nasty smile echoes in his mind, darting around forever. His heart sinks as his love sings, but he doesn’t feel it. They jab into his arm, cutting something off. He is a machine, easily reconfigured. No. They fill him with foreign hate, and it burns what’s left of him. Blue turns inside out, ablazes in orange before glaring at him in red. Bucky screams.

He screams, but there’s no sound, so he tries again, and again, and again, to no avail. His body is no longer his own. They control the very air he breathes, control the function of his lungs. He could die, here and now, and his body would be none the wiser.

Blood fills his mind, darker than his corrupted sparks. It is splattered all over the place, all over his face and on his hands. He is shaking inside his stoic cage. A tainted feather falls onto the ground, further painting itself with blood. It is surpringly light, considering the state of his wings. They are darkened with ash and charcoal these days, and covered in the grey mud only snow produces.

Winter. That’s what they call him.

He comes when it’s most inconvenient, and leaves only coldness in his wake. Wherever he goes, suffering follows, and even the trees shake with fear. None of them hear him scream.

He tries and tries, screaming until he swears he can feel blood in his throat, and then some more. Louder. Nobody even flinched. Louder. Why didn’t his mouth move, why were his tears only an extension of hellfire? His eyes burn, but winter freezes him before a tear ever leaves his eyes. They are as trapped as he is. Bucky screams, because that’s all he could do anymore. He screams over the roaring flames and the souls haunting him. He screams, but it never passes the barrier of his skin.

Bucky screams.

He screams until another voice joins him. “Bucky!” It was familiar panic, or worry. Hands collide with his freezing skin, and it’s burning again, oh god, they’re burning him again. He doesn’t even remember what he did to deserve this. Bucky kicks and flails, blind because they control his eyes, but his body is his.

A scream thralls through his ears and he stops and opens his eyes, every nerve on high alert. The dark room seems familiar, but Bucky can’t quite place it. There are shadows playing with him, and the moon, ever the creep, smiles into the window. A night light burns on the nightstand on the other side of the bed.

Brown, worried eyes catch his. Bucky stills, breathing heavily. Sam. His wings are angled slightly in alarm, showing their light brown freckled underside. He relaxes as Bucky stares, the hellfire and ice slowly replaced with softer warmth.

Hazel fireflies surround Sam’s wings, standing out more now that he had closed them. On the upside, his wings are colorful; his primary feathers are black and white, covered by grey secondaries. In the middle, they meet his back in a golden brown, blending into his sepia skin. He is beautiful, hoping eyes a promise of home, sparks untainted by hate.

Bucky reaches out, daring to search for contact, for comfort, slowly enough to ask for consent. Silver light reflects on his metal arm, and he is back there, with them in his veins, no, cables, controlling, controlling, controlling. Bucky recoils, scared of what his hands will do when they meet Sam. He can’t hurt him.

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t—he already did. Red splotches obstruct his vision, much like the blood he shed when they first met. When the hate still fueled him, rage dancing in his bones, hellfire in his veins, so hot it’s freezing him. When his sparks were still tainted red, a supernatural beast scaring its next victim just for fun. Nowadays, they usually don't show at all. He’d lost them to the winter.

Though, he means to see their glowing eyes in the corner of his own. He shudders, unsure whether his body follows the motion. No. Bucky shakes his head as he fights against the ice in his lungs. He can’t hurt Sam. Not again. Blood fills his vision, or maybe the moon hides behind clouds, too scared of the monster he is. Too scared to witness a murder between lovers, because one can’t trust his mind. His mind that screams for blood.

Blood, blood, bloodbloodbloodblood—

Pain stabs through him and he stills. Bucky blinks, looking into worried eyes that break his heart. He’s so sorry. The air he sucks in is a weird mix of warm and cold, of dry heater and cold night. He stares again, and thinks that maybe a tear escapes his eyes. He’s still an angel, not a machine. Machines don’t cry.

His hand must’ve found his wings, because that’s where the pain pulses from, sharp and attentive. There’s blood on his hands, but it’s his own, so it’s okay. His fingers graze another feather, thumbling on it and pulling slightly. It was the only thing he could do. Tears run down his face, weirdly warm - everything he is, is frozen, so why aren’t they? - and dropping to his chest and he knows he can’t stop them.

His shaking fingers lose grip on his soft plumes tainted with blood, and he desperately tries to get it back, to get it under control again, to just feel what he deserves— A hand stops him, burning him with the contact. It’s not letting go, even as Bucky struggles against it, but carefully leads his hands forward, away from his wings. Bucky looks up at Sam, blinking through the tears and an apology on his tongue.

Sam wraps his arms around him and Bucky falls into him as he melts. “It’s alright, you’re gonna be alright,” he assures him, and Bucky latches onto it as he rides through another wave of tears. Sam’s warmth is so drastically different from the one he dreamed about— comforting, soothing, calm, safe. He nudges his head into the crook of Sam’s neck, breathing in his home and the sweet nothings Sam hadn’t stopped saying.

“Hey, remember when we were racing in the sky?” Sam asks as Bucky’s breathing steadies. He continues after a moment as it becomes clear that Bucky won’t answer—but the fallen angel doesn’t feel judgement coming from his lover. “And the sun kept hiding behind clouds, so you decided to be Icarus?”

Bucky chuckles. “And you almost flew into a bird,” he recalls.

“Almost,” Sam repeats, chidingly, but not without a smile in his voice. Bucky glances up at that. Before, he had been staring into nothing, too afraid to look the other angel in the eye, but now, all he could see was the homely beauty. The moon’s cold light clashed with Sam’s warm skin tone, darkening it like a sunset.

“Anyway, you flew past the clouds and you would’ve flown into the sun, if I hadn’t caught up to you in time.” Bucky grins up at him. He remembers that day. It was one of the the first time flying since he’d escaped, and the first time he’d made it that far up. By the time he was past the clouds he was positively basking in the sun’s glory and in happiness. And then Sam came, almost golden in the sun, and his luck had been complete.

“If you’re trying to use this story as a moral, it’s kinda working,” Bucky teases, reveling in Sam’s snort. Right when he wants to cuddle closer, they’re interrupted by an ear-shattering screech that’s trying to impale Bucky’s sensitive ears. Sam just sighs as the noise is followed by a cat hissing.

He rubs over Bucky’s right arm before he quietly stands up, and Bucky whines at the loss of contact, at the warmth leaving him. It’s cold without Sam, but he keeps the thoughts of winter at bay by ignoring the moon in favor of watching Sam open the door. He quickly ducks as Redwing shoots through the opening, and almost stumbles on Alpine in pursuit. The cat has his eyes keenly set on the bird, who is now circling the ceiling in panic, calling out again. Bucky chuckles.

He welcomes the cat as he jumps onto the bed and lies down next to his angel. Bucky’s hand automatically finds its way to the soft and fluffy body, petting him until purrs erupt. He laughs at Sam’s exasperated face as he tries to get his bird to land or just calm down in general.

“You really gotta teach your cat some manners, old man,” Sam tells him and he laughs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky grins innocently. Sam rolls his eyes in response, but the smile playing on his lips isn’t missed to Bucky. Redwing finally lands on Sam’s shoulder and the angel gently offers his hand to him. The bird nuzzles it, chasing the darkness it brings.

Bucky watches them. He’s staring again, he knows that he does it a lot - Sam keeps pointing it out - but he can’t help he lopsided grin his mouth morphs into at the sight of his family. Alpine had fallen asleep, his fur tickling Bucky’s belly. Right here, at this moment, he is happy. It is weird how fast his weird little family cheered him up.

Sam looks back at him, his dumbass bird on his shoulder, his eyes undecided between annoyance and love. He thinks his heart might burst with all the love it’s not used to holding. There’s a new light there, suddenly, blue and frazzling. Bucky blinks, trying to chase it from the edge of his vision. It’s just his mind playing tricks on him.

But then Sam’s whole face lights up. He moves forward slowly, as to not scare Redwing again, and sits down on the bed. Bucky quickly glances back to the side, and then does a double-take. There, caressing his damaged wings, are a few little blue orbs. He cries out in surprise, covering his mouth, tears returning to his eyes. This isn’t real, he tells himself. It couldn’t be. They’d turned them red, replacing all he had with their hate, but now his body is brimming with love instead of hell.

Bucky looks back at Sam, and sees understanding love reflected back at him. He reaches out, closing the distance between them until their lips meet in a kiss. The warmth is overwhelming, but Bucky doesn’t want it to end. He got his sparks back, he was no longer corrupted, broken. He was happy, sappy enough to cry joyous tears as he kisses the man who made all of this possible, who was the reason for all that was good in his life.

“Thank you,” he whispers in-between kisses, his heart jumping with every beat, dancing in love. Blinking blue mixes with soft hazel, creating a stylised night sky, completed by the colors of their wings. Bucky puts all the overflowing love into the kiss, his hands flailing to get Sam closer, and Sam returns the favor.

But then, Bucky moves the leg against which Alpine is resting. The cat wakes up instantly and voices his complaint in a confused meow. He breaks the kiss, softly chuckling into shared air before leaning back to take care of his fluffy child, leaving Sam to do the same with his feathery kind.

~~~

taglist: (lemme know if you wanna be added or removed!) @starrynightdeancas @spookyscarykittycat @sherlock-who-mentalist @lost-lunar-wolf @aniridescentdreamer @aixabi

#sambucky #self-harm tw #nightmares #angst with happy ending #hurt/comfort #fluff #angel au #Whumpay2021 #my fic #tfatws

24 notes · View notes

firefly464 · 4 years

Text

The Real World - Chapter 9

:insert eyes emoji here because shits about to get real:

@i-have-this-now wrote the last part because she’s great and amazing and wonderful :D

Master Post

First - Previous - Next

~~~

Wilbur sat in his office, staring at his computer screen in dismay. It had been roughly a week since him and Tubbo had gone and visited Tommy. Roughly a week since his friend's panic attack. A week since Tommy had started acting differently. His friend had been acting secretive all week, almost terrified in a strange way. He acted as if no one could see the way he flinched at loud noises, or the fearful look in his eyes whenever someone came too close. He had fumbled around with the phone, as if not even knowing how to use it. He had talked to Dream in an almost pleading tone, begging for… something, and Will didn’t know what it was. He had never seen his friend acting like that before.

His hand traced over the long scar on his arm that Tommy had given him during his panic attack. He didn’t blame his friend at all for the wound, in fact it was mostly his own fault for trying to comfort him. At that moment, it had been clear that Tommy hadn’t actually been seeing him. He had seen someone, or something else. In Wilbur’s concern for his friend, he had reached out to comfort him, despite the fact that he knew it was a bad idea.

His stupidity had earned him a long, jagged cut down the side of his forearm from the pencil that Tommy had been wielding as a weapon. He had jerked back with a hiss of pain. “Get the fuck away from me! I won’t let you hurt anyone else!” Tommy had screamed.

Tubbo took a small step forward, his hands out in front of him comfortingly “Tommy, you’re ok, I promise. No one is going to hurt you.” His voice was soft and calm, as if he was talking to a wild animal. Based on the look in Tommy’s eyes, it wasn’t too far off from the truth.

Tommy’s blue eyes had snapped over to Tubbo, as if trying to figure out what he was supposed to do. “Tubbo? Tubbo you need to run! He’s going to kill you, he’s going to fucking kill you and burn our home to the ground!”

“Hey, it's all right. I’m fine, see? No one is going to kill me.”

Desperately, Tommy grabbed his friend's shoulders, trying to get it through Tubbo’s head that he needed to run. “You don’t get it. H-He’s going to kill all of you. You need to find the others and warn them. I can’t… I can’t fucking lose you.”

“Tommy, take a deep breath. You’re safe. I promise that we’re both safe.”

“But Dream-” he shuttered, a wave of sobs running through him, “God this is my fault. Why the fuck did I listen to him? Now you’re all going to fucking die because of me!”

Wilbur stared intently at the scar on his arm, trying to figure out what the hell Tommy had meant. Clearly, Dream had done something to him. But what? What had he done that was so terrible, it had caused the boy to collapse over a simple video clip? Will had rewatched the clip several times, trying to pinpoint exactly what could have possibly triggered the terrible PTSD. He had found nothing.

After WIlbur and Tubbo had left Tommy’s house, it had seemed like things were slowly but surely returning back to normal. Tommy had quickly gone from acting as if he knew nothing about the world around him or how to do anything, to slowly but surely returning to his old, chipper self. Even so, it didn’t feel right. Something was still wrong. His jokes all felt forced, his smiles all fake. Whenever they were in a call together, his words all felt carefully planned out, as if he were scared of saying something wrong. No one brought up his outburst, but it was clear that they were all thinking about it.

At one point, Tubbo had hesitantly suggested that Tommy get on the DreamSMP, clearly scared of triggering another panic attack.

However, Tommy had just gone silent, before very quietly saying, “What…?” His voice had been filled with a hesitant hope. Hope for what, Will didn’t know. But it was something that he hadn’t heard in his friend's voice all week, and he wasn’t going to question it.

“The SMP? The server?” “How do I… How do I do that?” He had asked quietly.

Tubbo had ended up walking his friend through the entire process of getting online, never once asking why or sounding annoyed. It was clear how important this was to Tommy, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ruin it by teasing.

As Tommy had logged onto the server, the discord call was silent. No one spoke as he spun in a slow circle, taking in everything around him. Not a word was muttered as he cautiously moved around. The only sound that could be heard were the quiet sobs being picked up by his mic.

“Home…” He had whispered quietly, the sound just barely loud enough to be picked up over discord.

God, none of it made any sense. None of it made any damn sense, and just thinking about it made Wilbur’s head hurt. Tommy acted as though he was an entirely different person. At first, Will had just attributed his strange behavior to PTSD. A strange way of coping after whatever hell he had gone through. But now… Now he wasn’t so sure. Tommy was recovering far too quickly for it to be merely PTSD. So what the hell was going on? He needed to talk to Tubbo. They needed answers.

~~~

The next day, Tommy was sitting in front of his computer, staring at the walls of L’manberg. Looking at it made his chest hurt with homesickness, but it was his only connection to his old life. It may not have been as impressive as the real thing, but it was still beautiful in its own right. Ever since the others had shown him the server, he had spent most of his time on it. He hadn’t exactly done anything, but simply walking around the familiar lands of his home felt calming.

A ring sounded from his computer, making him jump. It took him a couple seconds to calm down enough to register that it was only an incoming call, and not any sort of attack. With a slightly trembling hand, he answered.

Silence. “Hello?” he asked, trying to see what was going on.

“Hey Tommy.” Tubbo’s voice was reserved, almost nervous in a way. Tommy could feel his muscles tense. The last time he had heard his friend speak like this was during the war. Something had happened. Something must have happened.

“What's wrong? Are you ok? Did something bad happen?” he asked, trying to figure out what was going on.

“What? No, no. We just uh… We just wanted to ask you something.”

“I mean, go for it…? Are you sure everything is alright?”

“We’re fine. Tommy, I want you to answer me honestly, got it?” Wilbur’s voice cut interrupted his rampaging thoughts. Thoughts of how his friends were hurt. Thoughts of what had gone wrong. Thoughts of how Dream might have gotten to them… “Tommy, what happened to you?”

“I told you already. I don’t remember,” he replied half heartedly, his mind elsewhere.

“I think we all know that isn’t true. Tommy, what did Dream do?”

That brought his train of thought to a screeching halt. What did they know? How did they figure it out? What had he done wrong? “W-what? What do you mean?”

“Alright, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Tommyinit wasn’t this shit of a liar. He was bad at it, yeah, but at least he could lie without sounding like a moron. I’m going to ask this once, and I expect a straight answer. Who the hell are you?”

Tommy felt like his blood had frozen in his veins. They knew, they fucking knew. Dream was going to kill him. Dream was going to follow through with his threat. “I uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wilbur ran a hand through his hair. “Alright. If you aren’t going to give us a straight answer, I might as well ask Dream himself.”

“NO!” He screamed. If Will went and asked Dream, then Dream would think that Tommy had snitched. Then, who knows what would happen. “Please don’t talk to Dream about it. Please.”

Will had already left the call.

~~~

“Yeah, you’re right, chat. Hold on let me check if he’s online,” Eret said, switching browsers from Minecraft to Discord. “Yep, he’s in VC 3 with Tubbo.”

Eret clicked on the voice chat. He tried to talk yet Tubbo cut him off. “Oh fuck, we aren’t in a private VC.”

“Sorry, a wha-”

“Er… Hello?” Eret said. The two of them suddenly stopped talking. “So, what’re you two up to?”

“...Eret?” Tommy said, it sounded more like a statement than a question.

“Am I intruding on something? I can go if you’d like.” Eret replied, hoping to lighten the tension on the situation. Eret’s twitch chat was going insane, spamming questions and shouting. Eret wasn’t really focused on the chat.

“Hold on, I think we should go to a privat-” Tubbo spoke but was cut off.

“No, that- that’s not right- I- you fucking-” Tommy started, and was immediately removed from the VC. Tubbo also exited the VC seconds after.

“It is actually getting a bit late here so I guess it’s time to end the stream.” Eret tried to make an excuse to end the stream. “I’ll see you later guys. I love you all so much, thank you for all the support this stream. I think I’m gonna be streaming tomorrow? Still not sure. Anyways, I’ll see you guys later. Peace.”

He quickly exited Twitch and stopped streaming. Tommy sounded… mad? Upset? Scared? Eret didn’t know. He opened Discord and sent a message to Tommy.

TheEret Today at 8:52 pm

You alright?

He instantly got a Discord notification back, but it wasn’t from Tommy.

Tubbo_ Today at 8:52 pm

can we private VC?

TheEret Today at 8:53 pm

sure

The second he sent the message, he got a call from Tubbo. “Hey, Eret.” Tubbo said. “I… I don’t think Tommy’s feeling too well. I’m really not sure what happened.”

“Oh god. Is he okay?” Eret asked, concern creeping into his voice.

“I- hold on, I’ll dm him and see if he wants to talk.”

“Alright.”

A few seconds passed. “Oh. Oh no.” Tubbo said.

“Wait, did something happen? What’d he say?”

“He’s very… mad at you. I- Oh jeez, that’s a lot of messages- I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Do you think it’s because of the SMP? I- you know it was just a bit, right?” Eret asked. Surely, Tommy can’t be mad at him because of a video game right?

“Yeah, yeah, but he’s… he sounds pissed, man. I don’t know wha- Oh. Shit, hold on, he wants to be added in the call. You okay with that?”

Honestly, Eret wasn’t sure. “Uh- yes?”

“Eret.” Tommy’s voice rang through the call. His voice was quiet and stable, unlike his usual self. “What the fuck.”

“I- I’m sorry? I don’t know what I did wrong. Was it the SMP? You know that was a-”

“You could’ve been on the right side of history, Eret. You could’ve-”

“Tommy, calm-”

“Instead, you chose to loot us and leave us for dead. You chose power. You chose to be with Dream.”

Wait, were they supposed to be in character? Eret just ended his stream, so was Tubbo streaming? Or was it something else?

He immediately switched into character, hoping it was the right move. “Well, it wasn’t hard for me to choose. You were fighting for something futile, something you didn’t guarantee. I chose Dream because you were fighting a losing battle, and I didn’t want to get the short end of the stick.”

Whilst he was talking, Eret sent Tubbo a Discord message.

TheEret Today at 9:12 pm Are you and tommy streaming?

Tubbo_ Today at 9:12 pm no?

TheEret Today at 9:12 pm so i’m not supposed to be in character?

Tubbo_ Today at 9:12 pm uhh yeah

Before Eret could wrap his head around the situation, another person joined the call. It was Wilbur. “Dream said you have 48 hours, Tommy wh- wait, why is Eret here?”

Before Eret could respond, he was kicked from the call. He stared at his monitor in stunned silence, not entirely sure of what had just happened. Tommy had seemed so mad at him for his “betrayal,” even though none of them were supposed to be in character. Why was he so upset? And why did Wilbur react to Eret being there in the way that he did? Had he said something wrong? Was there some sort of planned stream that Eret wasn’t told about?

Eret turned off his computer with a sigh. His mind was racing with possibilities of what had just happened and why, but he wouldn’t be able to act on his thoughts until tomorrow. All he could do now was sleep.

~~~ On the other side of the country, a man sat in front of his computer. A sadistic grin sat upon his face as his green eyes pierced through the dim light. “I warned you not to tell them Tommy. Now, it's time to face the consequences of your actions.”

~~~

Master Post

First - Previous - Next

118 notes · View notes

yandere-society · 4 years

Text

The Ultimatum

Synopsis: Valentine’s Day has rolled around once again, and just like last year, you plan on spending it with none other than your emotional support dog. What you don’t know, however, is that you have an unexpected visitor awaiting for you at home.. and not only does he have a loaded gun on his hip, but he also has your beloved pet in his lap.

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

Word Count: 6,000

Admin: @tatertotthethot

Valentine’s Day Event Masterlist

Trigger warnings: yandere-themes, signs/mentioning of mental disorders such as: anxiety, depression, PTSD and dissociation; Mentions of gang violence; Depictions of gore; nonconsentual kissing (nothing sexual); no dogs were harmed in the making of this…

“Here you go, guys.” You said as you handed the couple across the counter their drinks. You returned their smiles and bid them a good day, but as soon as they turned away and linked their fingers together on the way out, your expression settled into one of disdain.

Baley, your manager, noticed it. But like always, she chose to ignore it. She’s very much use to your secretive, albeit bitter distaste towards romance. She’s been working along side you for two years now, and knows that you’re a big advocate for holiday decorations. You’ve decked the place out on Halloween, thanksgiving, Christmas— even fucking Saint Patrick’s day. But for Valentine’s Day, all you did was slap some heart shaped stickers on the window and didn’t even look too happy to be doing that, either. But she’s never been one to push.

“Guess what I’m doing this evening,” She hinted, hanging the ‘closed’ sign on the door.

“Hm?” You asked, having zoned out while rinsing your shot glasses out.

“I’m gonna eat the rest of my edibles and read some alien erotica.”

Not expecting anything less from her, given her personality, you only choked out a laugh and shook your head. It’d be more amusing if you knew she wasn’t kidding. Baley has a weird obsession with aliens and you never took her serious about it until you bought her a tentacle dildo as a gag-gift on her birthday, and instead of laughing about it and going off into a banter like you were anticipating, she started screaming and jumping up and down like you just handed her the last Golden Ticket to the fucking chocolate factory.

“What about your boyfriend?” You asked, forcing yourself to engage in conversation to keep you from spiraling.

“He’s out of town. So I’ll be thinking of him as I read about the alien king abducting me and using my tenta-holes—“

“Never mind.” You cut her off, trying to let that lighten up the mood. You appreciated the effort, but it didn’t work. You just wanted today to be over.

It’d be a whole lot better if only you could tell her the truth and come clean about your past. But it’s not like she’d believe you, even if you had the guts. But in all honesty, her fantasy about alien abduction was more believable.

You’re a barista making $10 an hour, living paycheck to paycheck and inhabiting the house your grandmother left you in her will. You have no car, you rely on public transportation; all your clothes are from goodwill and when you’re not working at this shop, you spending your life in confinement of those walls with your dog, as a recluse.

If you even dared to tell Baley that, just three years ago, you were living in a million-dollar mansion in South Korea, and had a luxurious wardrobe from big-name designers and that you didn’t even own a pair of fucking socks that were under $100.. she’d look at you as if you were the alien. She wouldn’t entertain the bigger half of the story, about how you were engaged to a man who’s now serving a life sentence and could possibly be put on death row for committing a robbery that left one of the international banking systems short 23-million won— which would amount to be approximately 20 million dollars in America... you would’ve lost her at the word Fiancé.

It’d be easy to prove, though. Your associations to the crime may not show up in your background check, being as you’re back here in America and was never detained, and the news isn’t relevant enough to circulate here. However, a simple google search would reveal it all, even with pictures of you two in public.

But not even you wanted to look up his name to know what was going on with his case. You were still ambient to forget about him, in a way. You wanted to ignore his existence. You fucking loath that man.. you swear, you do.

You had fallen back into a brooding silence again without even meaning to, and although you were busily cleaning up off muscle memory, you were detached. He still has that effect on you. And truth be known, the first year you spent in lonesome isolation after leaving Korea was just a change of scenery but not very different from the lifestyle he had subjected you to. But even still, it was so much better than living with him at the estate. And now, with your dog Sweetpea there, you feel safe again. At least you were in the same place you grew up, and felt closer to your grandmother—

Fuck, you missed her so much. He wouldn’t even let you visit her in person before she past. The man owned his own private jet and it never had any maintenance problems until the one fucking night you needed to go back home. You only got to speak with her on the phone, and bawled your fucking eyes out and spewed out an incoherent apology just hours before her heart gave out. That’s when she told you that she left you the house, and how sorry she was for kicking you out of it because you didn’t pursue the career field she wanted you to go for.

If only they would’ve arrested Taehyung a month prior, you could’ve been there for her. You could’ve hugged her and the two of you could given each other the apology you both deserved.

“Hey..” Baley’s voice suddenly came to your left ear, the only one that you could actually hear out of. Your right one, despite being 80% deaf even with a functioning hear aid, was faintly ringing from the emotional tangent you had accidentally drifted into.

You looked over at her, and broke down. Although she could never fully understand, she still gave you an empathetic frown and was pulling you into a hug before you could sputter out an apology— not that there was any use for one.

You had secrets that still haunted you, and will always impair your daily life— much like your botched eardrum and this shitty device you spent way too much money on. That’s another thing you only had Kim Taehyung to thank for, along with your fucked up shoulder.

You had to carefully elevate your arms but eventually returned the hug and cried a little harder, not able to help it. Sweetpea was a great reciprocate for affection and did a swell job with distracting you, but as far as human comfort goes, you haven’t had so much as that in.. well, seven fucking years. Tae was always big on affection, and also comforted you when you needed it. But it was redundant and didn’t have a sincere effect, being as he was the very one that initially caused the hurt it derived from.

“I don’t know what the hell is going on with you, I never do... but I want you to know that I can see how strong you are. You’re doing a great job at making it through each day...” she muttered, rubbing your back as it shook with each silent sob. You felt bad when you heard her own voice beginning to thicken, but that was no surprise. She was a sympathizer and a little bit emo in general. Seeing others cry was enough to jerk a tear out of her, and you loved that about her. She’s a weirdo, but she’s pure, and she’s very good hearted. You could even say that you may have deeper feelings for her as well, and they may even be mutual, but you were no good for her. Hell, you were already putting her in enough danger just by being an employee at her shop. If you were to let your relationship stem past being friendly coworkers, or even hung out with her outside of work, that could pose an actual threat to her safety.

So, even though you wanted to lengthen the embrace, and longed to tighten your arms around her even more, you pulled back and wiped at your face, giving her a weak grin and a nod instead.

She squeezed your shoulders one last time before taking a step back, recollecting herself.

“You go home. I got everything else.”

You sheepishly nodded again, thanking her one last time before collecting your things and booking it out of there. Had you not felt so broken and defeated in that moment, you would’ve refused. But her show of affection triggered a deep, dire need to give and be given more comfort.

Fortunately for you, though, you had a special someone for that. Your dog is the only living creature on this planet that can be trusted with the revelations of your past. She’s the only reliance you have for receiving unconditional love and support without any judgment... probably because she doesn’t even understand what the fuck you’re saying half the time, nor can she repeat the shit you say, but as far as comfort goes, it’s always a guarantee.

— That’s just in her nature, like most pets. Pitbulls, however, are very sensitive and attentive to certain emotions— especially depression and anxiety. They’re just as good with protecting their owners, as well as they are with babysitting them. Everyone knows pitbulls have a notorious and misguided reputation for being aggressive. But little do most know, before dog fighting became a popular thing and defamed their personalities, pitbulls were primarily referred to as ‘Nanny dogs’. They’re great with babies in general, and very domestic and charismatic by nature. But despite being big, loveable goof balls themselves, they can literally sense stressful emotions and will know what type action to take in order to sedate them.

Sweetpea may not have professional training and certification but it is by her true nature and personality that you call her an Emotional Support Dog. When you’re having another one of your episodes— panic attacks, senseless paranoia, nightmares— she’s running to your aid and doing anything she can to distract and get you to play with her. When you’re depressed and spiraling into another breakdown, she licking at your face and sitting in your lap, not even seeing the problem with her being three times bigger than the average lap dog—

“Kneehemplamaforseeking?”

You sucked in a breath and blinked over at the PetsMart employee, smiling a few away from you. You probably looked lost, and in a way you quite literally were. You hardly remember walking in the direction of this store, let alone entering it. But this a common thing for you, so you easily just went on about your way despite the sudden worry of missing your bus... again.

“I’m sorry, what’d you say?” You had asked, turning your good ear towards her and watching her lips move.

“Do you need help looking for something?” She repeated, carefully annunciating her words this time, now that she could see the device in your ear. In today’s age, most people mistake it as a bluetooth— which has unknowingly saved you from accidentally talking to yourself in public, more than you would know.

You shook your head in response to the lady, and checked the time on your phone. You had 30 minutes left, thank God.

“No thanks. I’m just here to get some treats and waste some time before my bus comes. It’s windy as hell outside.”

“Ah, it certainly is,” she agreed, making her way to the next aisle. “Be safe out there!”

“I’ll try.” You muttered to yourself, grabbing a bag of bacon strips off the shelf— the very thing you had ultimately came for. It should’ve taken you no more than 5 minutes to grab and go. But it wasn’t uncommon for you to take much longer and aimlessly wonder down multiple aisles only to get one or two things from the same aisle, though. You do it at every store you go to, if you can stand to be outside of your home or away from work.

After checking out, you made it a mission to stay present until your bus came. By the time you got home, you were more stable.. up until the bus driver— a sweet elderly man who’s been transporting you on this route for last couple of years, handed you a rose on your way down the stairs.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, young lady.”

You had the strength to give him a genuine smile, but as soon as you stepped off and the doors closed, and the bus engine picked back up and left you with a gust of wind, you broke again.

Taehyung always gave you a bouquet of blood red roses for Valentine’s Day. He knew you were a sucker for them. And you still are, but sentiment wasn’t the only emotion to come now. They brought on an ache. A pain. A worry. A twinge of longing, but a fuckton of resentment.

You wanted to throw it on the ground and stomp at it.. better yet, you wanted to set it on fire and watch it burn while smoking a much needed cigarette. But first, you need to see your dog. You know she’s just as anxious to see you.

You trudged up to your door and was quick to unlock it... but frowned when you didn’t see her on the other side. Maybe it was because your ears were ringing again from how worked up you’d just gotten. But usually, the mere sound of your key twisting at the lock would have her running to the and practically beating it down, and you’d opened to see her gleefully wining out and wagging her tail.

But she wasn’t there.

“Sweetpea?” You called out, making it a point to swing the door shut behind you. Still, nothing—

Whimpering. You heard her whimpering and your head snapped over to the hallway. Your heart began to race. Your bed door was open, as always, and you could hear her in there but she wasn’t coming out. Only whimpering for you to come to her.

Fearing the worst, thinking perhaps she’d hurt herself to the extent that she couldn’t move, you barged down the hallway and listened with a sickening sense of uneasiness as her whimpering turned to muffled howls.

“Sweetpea, wha—“

You screamed. Sheer horror and white-hot adrenaline erupted through your veins and scorched your nerve endings, leaving you numb in the limb to the impact of the floor beneath your kneecaps. All you could feel was the volcanic eruption of despair in your chest and the strain in your diaphragm.

Sweetpea was okay, but very much in danger. She had a muzzle on, and her big, canopy-like ears were peeled back and her big, doughy eyes were wildly beading dead at you as she struggled and pawed at the carpet, watching you fall to you fall out. She was so worried to get to you but she couldn’t, do to the death grip of the man who was holding her by a leash. She couldn’t even interpret the lethality of the weapon that was also aimed at the back of her head— a glock you specially recall being the weapon of choice when Taehyung pistol whipped a man’s head open before emptying all twelve rounds in his magazine into his face.

Now, all you could envision was the same being done to that sweet face and big, bulbous head.

You screamed out and wailed even louder, not even looking at the intruder or registering who it was. Because you already fucking knew and in your mind it was too late.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” He roared, making you and Sweetpea flinch. You stopped screaming but your breath was ragged beyond your control. Your vision was bouncing between his fierce scowl and Sweetpea’s fearsome one. You dove forward, intending to crawl and beg but two pairs of shoes stepped out from where they’d been standing behind the door, and their hands gripped you by the biceps before hauling you up to your feet. You didn’t even try to resist them. You knew better than that. But fear still had you discombobulated and speaking out to yourself, feeling incredibly dizzy and disarrayed.

“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

“You’re not dreaming.” Taehyung snarled, palm itching to slap some sense into you. But even within the three years he’s spent in bitterness, it didn’t change the morality he did have in relations to you. He’d never hit you out of anger.

But then he realized the real reason why you were saying that, when your knees suddenly gave out and the hold his men had on you became the only thing keeping you up right as you fainted out. He didn’t realize you still had that problem, and it hurt him to see that now.

Back when he had you in his possession, you had accidentally witnessed an execution down in the basement of his mansion. It was the first time you fainted, a d your body came toppling down a good ten-or-so steps, which were made of cement, and you were lucky to have only broken your nose and dislocated your shoulder.

Guilt crashed over him, suddenly. He meant to terrorize you in a way that wasted little time to gain submission, but he didn’t mean to trigger your PTSD— although he knew it was likely. Given the resolve, he put the gun back in its holster and stood up, beckoning for Yoongi to take the leash. Jungkook easily held you up by the waste and waited to pass you off to your fiancé before bringing your wrists behind your back. You slowly came to as he did so, and your head lolled back up only for your entire body to snap back into attention all at once, now that you were face to face with the Devil himself.

“Come on, you fucking idiot!”

Your head snapped over and you began to panic again as Yoongi fought with your, trying to drag her over to her cage by the leash. She was putting up one hell of a fight and audibly wheezing from the choke, her eyes now bulging as she looked at you.

You bucked against the both of them, your maternal instincts causing you to go feral as you saw red.

“QUIT! YOU’RE FUCKING CHOKING HER, YOU FUCKING PRICK! PICK HER UP!”

“She’s too squirmy!” He shouted back, the shock of your outburst causing him to lose tension and Sweetpea lunged the both of them forward. Tae was shouting at Jungkook to hurry with the restraints and squeezing you tighter, but you were kicking and flailing like a fish out of water now.

“MAKE HIM STOP!” You cried out, but was forcefully silenced by the gigantic hand that grabbled around the entire bottom half of your face— including your nose. Having been in this situation before, knowing his antics, you knew he wasn’t going to let you breathe again until you did as told. So you were forced to settle down but was still desperately pleading with your eyes, crying as your dog continued to heave against the menstruations.

“Yoongi, for fuck sake, the dog is 50 pounds. Just pick her up and put your in the kennel.” Tae stressed, eyes still locked with yours.

With a grunt, Yoongi tackled your dog and trapped her in a bear hug, snatching her up off the ground. You wanted to scream at him again but you were actually starting to struggle for oxygen, chest jolting with an involuntary attempts to inhale.

“Alright, they’re on. I just gotta link them.”

Tae’s hand finally dropped and you hacked out, swallowing as much air as you could. Now that Sweetpea was safely in her cage, you had time to worry about your own safety, but the look on his face wasn’t giving off such a merciful vibe.

“You do whatever you want to me. I don’t care. I won’t fight back... but if you hurt my dog—“

“If I hurt your fucking dog, it’ll just be tough shit for you. I’ll still do whatever the hell I want and unless you need me to prove that, I suggest you stop with ultimatums..” he chuckled, but it sounded so cold and twisted. He was on the verge of snapping, and was fighting to keep as much composure as he could right now, for your sake.

But he was on a heist right now, you readied yourself for the unknown when he punctuated his sentence by grappling your throat with the same, vandalized and accessorized hand he just smothered you with— fingers digging in at the sides. Your breathing was once again constricted and your eyes reddened in strain, your voice dying out.

Tae may not beat you, but he knows your worse fear is dying by suffocation. Hence, why he’s so big in breath play.

“Can you?” He reiterated, snarling his teeth at you and revealing the top and bottom pair of golden, fang-shaped plates framing his pearly white canine teeth. Back in the day, you found them so extravagant and tasteful, but now you found them all the more threatening.

He waited until your eyes began fluttered back before letting go again, and Jungkook’s body was the only thing that saved you from falling back. You never understood why, but for some reason, Jungkook was the only person Tae allowed to be in closer range of you, even when it wasn’t necessary. He even reminded you of that when Yoongi had stepped a little too close and Taehyung shot a glare over to him that had him taking a couple steps back. But Jungkook was apparently free to stand there, holding you up even as you regained your footing. You feared that one day it will all make sense, but for now, you were thankful that he was there to at least to save you from collapsing.

It’d be great if they weren’t even fucking here, at all.

“Go put the kennel in the car— not on the seats, though. Hobi will kill me if I fuck up the interior.”

“Please let me rehouse her.” You begged, cringing as his eyes returned to you. They looked even more colorless than before. “I’ll come with you, but I don’t want her there with us.”

“She’s fine. As long as she doesn’t shit and piss everywhere and doesn’t chew any of my shit, or try to attack me, I’ll let you keep her.”

“You were just holding a fucking gun to her head, Taehyung. Please let me rehouse her. My friend Baley will take her. All I gotta do is leave her in the cafe with a note— I have the keys. I’ll even let you write the fucking note yourself and we can go...” It was significantly getting harder to speak, now that your airways were irritated and your unsteady emotions were only making it worse.

You had already accepted your fate, but had a twinge of hope left that he’d at least hear you out on that request. His features had softened into a crestfallen display of guilt, and remorse. But your faith in him shattered all over again when he stubbornly shook his head and reached for the gun again. You were just about to throw another fit until he pulled the magazine out and showed it to you.

It was empty, until he pocketed it and pulled out a fully-loaded one and clipped it into place, before putting it back in the holster.

He tricked you, and although it was still pretty fucking evil, you were relieved. He never intended to shoot her and wouldn’t have been able to, even if his finger applied enough pressure on the trigger. But you were still very much in the midst of an abduction, and you still hated this man for what he was doing to you now.

“Why are here?” You croaked.

“To come get you and our new pet,” he announced, faking the enthusiasm before reinforcing his glare. “I’m... incredibly pissed about the fact that abandoned me.. but even more so offended by the negligence to stay updated.”

His eyes then caught the flash of a blue light at your ear. Your hearing aid was dying and faintly peeping in your ear. The remembrance had his entire demeanor shift to a sullen one, like a switch.

“But at the same time—“ his voice had fallen into a lower pitch, almost to the point of being a whisper as he stepped closer and easily molded his hands around your face. You suddenly felt fragile, but not in a way that made you giddy, like it use to. Now, you had to swallow down the bile in your throat and fight against the nausea as his suddenly lips came near.

“—It’s really hard take that out on you, when I can’t even blame you for it. But It’s been three fucking years, honey. Three. How could you not even have enough concern for my well being, to not even send a fucking post card? Did you really think you‘d never see me again, and that you had snuck away from me? I knew what you were doing, and where you were going before you even boarded your fucking flight.”

“You’re suppose to be in jail. I thought you were letting me go.”

“First of all, you didn’t even know the original plan to think that it had failed. All my charges have been dropped and the suspicion of my involvement dismissed. Namjoon has been found guilty and is now serving that sentence, like I had initially plotted from the beginning. You never knew shit to fucking assume anything!”

You glared at him despite the jolt that came with his drastic notch in volume, and not your tongue as he went on.

“But I did allow you to leave the country, but only to give you space and to let you touch base with... whatever the fuck it is that you still find valuable here. I didn’t think I’d have to clarify the circumstances of your stay, but for you to not even reach out.. and the fact you got some shitty, minimum wage job on top of it all, when you still have access to the saving account I’ve put in your name.. You really thought we were over? You haven’t even checked the news articles to see any updates on the case. I’ve been out for a week!”

He was still holding your face but his hands were shaking and the pressure was increasing again. He always pulls back and regains control over his temper before inflicting harm, but it’d be foolish to not expect him to one day lose that control. He’s hurt you on ‘accident’ before. He’s slaughtered many people, more than you’ll ever know to keep count. Nothing is sacred.

But now, you are a lot more contempt and able to tolerate the fear of him hurting you on impulse, being as Sweetpea was out of harms way and no longer in the room. You were still shaking though and had closed your eyes, bracing for it. But the jerk of shock only came when his suddenly lips covered your’s, and Jungkook finally backed away.

The kiss only lasted about three solid seconds before he pulled back, and was heavily panting through his nose. You dared to look up and caught a glimpse of the physical pain marring his features. His eyes had gone watery and his jaw began ticking like a time bomb, nostrils flaring and chest rising. He pressed his forehead against your’s and snaked his fingers into the hair at the nape of your neck, trying to fight off his own sobs and choking on them more and more with each second.

“You hate me.. you haven’t even missed me.” His voice was so thickened by his emotions that it deepened the natural richness he already had, making it sound contorted and almost inhuman. A tear dropped down his nose bridge and hit your quivering lips, and for the life of you, you couldn’t fight back the heart wrenching burn it inflicted on you.

How could you still feel anything for this man? It can’t be. It just fucking can’t be..

But it was. You were so bewildered and petrified by the oncoming sympathy that it stunned you into a froze state of shock. He kissed you again, thinking it was a show of fear for own safety— and he was right to interpret the fear, but it was with different cause. He was steadily conjuring up feelings that you wished you could’ve watched burn, like you had intended to do with the rose your bus driver gave you. But here you were, heart bleeding for him.

You still didn’t reciprocate the kiss but it brought on more involuntary anguish.. you cried harder and so did he, and as he leaned your head back to kiss at your neck, you stared in perplexing awe at the gigantic bouquet of roses sitting on your nightstand.

“It’s okay. I‘ve missed you too fucking much to punish you now.” He calmed, and took a good 30 seconds to regain his composure. There was still a groggy undertone in his next words, but once again, he was back in his domineering mindset. “But I ain’t cutting you that much slack.”

You yelped when he suddenly shoved you back, straight into Jungkook for the nth time. He heatedly wiped at his eyes and stepped back, and it was the first time you took in how much more muscular and rigid he’d become over the years.

Before, he was a lot more slender and you’re certain that the very shirt he’s wearing now use to be at least 2 sizes too big on him before.. however, the black silk was skin-tight and clinging to the humps of his biceps, and straining around the buttons between his pectorals. His skin was more pale than ever before but now you could see a tattoo curving along his temple, arcing aside the edge of his pierced brow. The word that was written in elegant, cursive writing made your heart palpitate and your stomach twist even more.

Honey. That was your signature endearment. That was the name you’d given him in place of your real one the very night he met you, and asked for it.

This crazy motherfucker really is obsessed with you. How he can lie to you, deceive you, punish you and drive you fucking bonkers and stalk you down only in the act of what he calls love.. and for it to actually be a form of true—albeit dangerous love, was beyond you.

The scripture on his handsome, albeit matured face distracted you for a few seconds. You snapped out of it when Jungkook suddenly hauled you up by the midsection and slammed you down on the bed, pinning his hand down between your shoulder blades and rendering you defenseless.

“What are you doing? Taehyung! Please! Get him off of me!”

“If I could trust you to stay still, I would.” His voice was neutral again, despite a offhanded sniff. You struggled to look back, but it was no use as he was standing out of view.

“Stay still for what?”

“Do you still have your ring?” He asked instead, ignoring you.

“It’s in my nightstand drawer. Now tell me—“

“Told you she kept it,” Jungkook finally spoke— and just like it was back then, it was a very rare occurrence for when he did speak on your behalf. That’s another thing nobody else dared to do, unless asked. But knowing that he was the one stalking you for Taehyung made you all the more disturbed with him.

“Fucking creep. You’re hurting me!” you screamed at him, and he had the audacity to increase pressure. Tae said nothing, nor did he stop his friend from retaliating.

“I also know about your little affair with your coworker. Since when did you start swinging both ways?”

“What are you talking about?” You growled, and he only snorted in response.

“She knows you like her. She knows you stare at her ass every time she bends over and that you bend over on purpose to make her look at yours. She knows you like it when she slaps it.”

You, one again, went unmoving.

Jeon Jungkook is her fucking boyfriend.

“What does Jk even stand for?”

“Jackson. But he doesn’t like to be called Jackie, and you know how I am about nicknames. So I call him JK.”

“Don’t you fucking hurt her, Jungkook. You leave her alone. Tae, don’t you let him—“

“Don’t you worry about me.”

“BALEY?!”

Baley walked into view, an unreadable expression on her face. The mere realization of what was happening finally over filled your mental tolerance and you brain suddenly launched you away from reality.

The beach. You were at the beach with your cousins, all of you a little over the age of 18. You were on spring break your senior year in highschool and talking about the future. Graduation. Prom. College~

“She’s zoned out.” Baley said, and Jungkook finally let go. You were indeed paralyzed and had completely dissociated, talking to yourself. Taehyung, with a fully-loaded syringe in his hand, leaned over to look at your face. Your pupils were dilated, eyes stargazing in general, lips softly moving as you babbled nonsense. He hated knowing that it was coming to this, but he swore he’d earn your forgiveness.

“I’m gonna get your ear fixed.. or at least get you a better device. We’re gonna be okay. We’re so fucking rich now, I don’t even know what to do with all our money— only to turn it into more. I won’t have to work as much. We can get married, have the best fucking honey moon we can imagine. We can get started on a family. I’ll win your dog over, too. I promise.”

He sank the needle into your bicep, and you didn’t even flinch. Only blinked in rhythm as a tear fell.

“I’m gonna be a forensic scientist, like Mawmaw wants me to be.” You incoherently muttered, having said that to your friend, Jessica, on the beach.

It was insensitive, but he couldn’t help but crack a grin at that. Whatever memory you were reliving at the moment, was quite sometime before you actually began your classes for such profession. He bent down and kissed your cheek one last time as he injected the entirety sedation serum into your system and pulled it out. But you were oblivious to it all.

“I think I’m smart enough...”

”You’re very book smart, baby. But you’re probably gonna drop out after three semesters and become a bar tender at a strip club, because you’re not fit to be a homicidal investigator. You’re too soft.”

“I’m not..”

“You sure?”

“I’m gonna be a forensic scientist, like Mawmaw wants me to be.”

“Well, you’re gonna become my wife before you become anything else.”

“Ew, don’t even play like that. You’re my cousin.”

“Jeez..” Baley muttered. “You really have driven her a little bat-shit, huh? This is way more disturbing than I anticipated—“

“Babe, lets go sit in the car. Come on,” Jungkook hurried, pulling her out of the room.

Taehyung continued to whisper sweet nothings into your deafened ear, but the last night you heard before it all went blank was the perfect, bittersweet saying that bidded you goodbye for the night.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Honey.”

#yandere society #bts #kim taehyung #yandere bts #yandere taehyung #taehyung x reader #bts x reader

849 notes · View notes

emilythecosmicbun · 3 years

Text

Creepypasta OCs.

Any updates information is on Wattpad WATTPAD: https://www.wattpad.com/story/255861941-creepypasta-ocs-emily-elliot-and-stedge

TW BLOOD, ABUSE MENTION

cottontailprincess is my Instagram and Emilythecosmiccat is my username on some art websites.

They/Them pronouns please

do not sexualise me, my characters or my boyfriend please he isn’t comfortable with that.

okay so these are my two vent ocs.

Emily/Elliot (Bunny.)

one of them, as you know, is my impure agere oc, representing all the sad and flashback parts of everything. I made them to help cope with my thoughts and feelings. They are based off of my appearance and my trauma. They age up with me.

BASIC INFO

Full Name: Emily/Elliot Bunzelle but prefers just Emily or Elliot.

Nickname(s): Bunny, Emmy, El, Em, Princess, Prince, Princette

Meaning of name: Emily (from Urban Dictionary.) An Emily is someone who is crazy inside and out. She knows who her friends are and try’s hard to look after them. She is very pretty but doesn’t always know that. She isn’t always the most popular, but to her that doesn’t matter. She has friends from all ages and they all adore her. She hides her feelings however upsetting they may be.

Meaning of name: Elliot (Urban Dictionary) Elliot is a true master at caring. He teaches how to love and be loved. A man of honour a man of steal. He's as handsome as a Greek God, as strong as diamond, as compassionate as a saint and is as gentle as a father's touch. Elliot possesses a magic within to create a vision in the eyes of all, leaving them stunned at how brilliant and perfect Elliot truly is. A leader, a spirit lifter, a lover, a giver, an Elliot'll leave you speechless with his being, his essence.

Gender: Non-Binary

Pronouns: They/Them

Age:

Currently 19, same as IRL me, though they physically and mentally regress to younger ages, so their age varies. Their main ages are variants of 1+

Date of Birth:

August 21st (Body born in 2001)

Race/Species: English and a Spirit or Entity.

Native language: English (as in England English.)

Orientation/Sexual Preference: Bisexual Personality: Silly, playful, honest, caring, childish, bratty, stubborn, sweet.

Are They Dead: No but they aren't alive either. Somewhere in between.

Any Mental Health Issues?

C-PTSD, due to multiple traumatic events. They frequently experience multiple flashbacks and nightmares, and is usually terrified of leaving their safe space unless it’s with Stedge, even then, they panic.

Triggers: Listed Here. Triggers page on my Carrd.

Powers/Special Abilities: Can float slightly off the ground, is able to phase through walls, spew blood at will, and look "alive" when speaking and comforting children, or just around those they trust.

APPEARANCE:

Looks:

Very young child: Short but very curly/wavy brown hair, a bit lighter than when they are in older looking forms. They wear a pink dress with a white shirt under, and black school shoes. However, they can also just wear a sonic shirt and leggings, or a skirt.

Child: They can vary but their usual look is long curly/wavy brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, blood on their mouth and nose area, tired-looking eyes, pink dress, sometimes a nightgown, depending on the look, they can wear socks, bunny slippers or even go barefoot! Sometimes they wear bunny ears! Sometimes they like to wear sonic gear.

Teen: Depending on the age as a teen, at the point it's "kawaii" inspired things, sometimes just a Melanie Martinez shirt and pants (or skirt), sometimes overalls! They also wore band merch, stuff like that. They have either long brown hair, black hair or multicoloured hair like Melanie Martinez (dyed in variants such as pink, red, blonde (more like light ginger.)

Adult: Band tops, but also ones with cute designs on such as bunnies or kittens, sometimes overalls or dresses, sometimes even onesies, since they can still have the traits of an agere headspace. Short Brown hair, is a lot chubbier than the rest, can be considered mid or plus size.

Height: Varies depending on form and age, but usually smol.

Weight: (UNKNOWN BUT IT VARIES.)

Hair color: Dark brown/Brown

Eye color: Brown

Scars and/or skin conditions: Has a few bruises and a few cuts in some places, but I prefer to not draw them.

Has a skin condition called psoriasis. (I have it IRL.)

Never Seen Without: White Bun, and their three Cream The Rabbit plushies.

Likes:

• Things with peaches (the fruit) on them. (Including peaches and peach ice tea.)

• Bunnies

• Their Caregiver, Stedge.

• Drawing, and colouring in.

• The colour pink.

• Sonic The Hedgehog.

• Porcelain Dolls

• Stuffed Animals

Dislikes:

• Abusers (including physical, mental and sexual abusers.)

• Those who take advantage of vulnerable people.

• People who don’t take them seriously.

• Drama.

• Being abandoned or left alone.

Relationships:

Stedge - Partner in crime, best friend, caregiver and lover. (Depending on age of course.)

Cream.exe (Sally.exe game) - practically twinning, bunny loves to hang out with cream.exe. (my highest kin, apart from cream herself.)

Family Members - Depending on which member, they do have a good bond or a negative one. Bunny loves them on different levels, some of them, they hate. This does not reflect on how (I myself) feel about said family members.

(If you want your creepypasta oc to be friends with Bunny, just ask!)

OTHER INFO:

• They age up with my current age since they aren't dead and they are based off of me.

• I decided to make them some sort of entity since I couldn’t make them a ghost and still be alive lol they age up with me.

•Their “trauma” is the same as mine, which is why I won’t write it in detail here but they are a victim of abuse.

• They are all bloody because its how I feel about my trauma.

• They physically and mentally regressed to the age they are supposed to be, if they are in their child forms, they are an actual child. (Direct reference to my age regression I use to help me cope with my trauma) They prefer to be in this form so they can protect and befriend children. They don't harm children or other victims of abuse. The children usually call them “bunny.”

• When they're in their adult form, they have a partner called Stephen. Someone who they have known since they were 17 years old. When they are a “child” he takes care of them and protects them to make sure they don't ever get hurt again.

• Their sense of justice is what caused them to want to help other children. They never want to see another child go through what they went through.

Any Other Info is on the Picture.

Stedge

Well, I also made a creepypasta oc to represent my boyfriend, someone who I love and trust to help me during those horrible times. He’s like my partner in crime. lmao also his age isn’t rly there because he ages up with his real life counterpart, which will get updated.

REMINDER TO NOT SEXUALISE HIM AS MY BOYFRIEND IS UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THAT.

BASIC INFO:

Name: Stephen

Nickname(s): Stedge, Mr. Bubbles (by Emily/Elliot.)

Meaning of name: Stephen The most beautiful boy in existence. Has stunning eyes, that make your heart fall through the floor when they crinkle with his perfect smile. Is deep, unlike most boys, and extremely intelligent. Has a big heart, and he doesn't realize when he's being taken for granted. Even though he would never admit it, he sometime's can't see what's right in front of him. An over-analyzer, and very stubborn, but he will admit defeat when he has to. Likes to drive girls crazy, apparently. Easy to fall in love with. Hard to figure out.

Gender: Male

Age: Ages up with IRL person. Currently: 19.

Date of Birth:

9th April

Race/Species: English, Human.

Native language: UK English.

Orientation/Sexual Preference: Straight

Are They Dead: No

Any Mental Health Issues? No, None that we know of.

Triggers: None that we know of.

Powers/Special Abilities:

He doesn't have many powers but he athletic and can run quick and has a good amount of strength. He uses a bat and other various stuff.

APPEARANCE:

Looks:

Short brown hair, brown eyes, a bit of facial hair, variants of a black or dark grey shirt, but obviously not only those, sometimes they’re ripped.

Hair color: Dark brown, brown.

Eye color: Brown.

Scars: None.

Personality: He is quite intelligent and mature, behaves childishly in front of Emily/Elliot, cold and serious, is kind, polite, protective.

Hobbies and Likes: • playing the guitar

• skate (skateboarding)

• listening to tunes

• spending time with Emily/Elliot.

Dislikes:

• Abusers, people who take advantage of vulnerable people.

• People who are cruel to Emily/Elliot.

Relationships: Bunny - Best friend, soulmate, would do anything to make bunny smile, frequently gets them stuffed toys and food.

EXTRA INFO:

He is a few months older than me in IRL, his age is 19 right now, along with mine but will be updated.

Stephen is a human, and helps take care of Emily (in their child forms.) since they are a child and very vulnerable in that state due to their trauma, when they’re adult they are romantic towards each other.

They work together as a team when bashing and killing abusers. While he uses physical means, Emily uses mental.

Any Other Info is on the Picture.

WATTPAD: https://www.wattpad.com/story/255861941-creepypasta-ocs-emily-elliot-and-stedge

#my art #agere #sfw agere #creepypasta oc #creepypasta #impure regression #creepypasta child #child oc #bunny #sally.exe #sally exe #sonic exe

22 notes · View notes

imagineaworlds · 3 years

Text

I Love You (Part Twenty-Seven) -- Aaron Hotchner

Written By: @desperately-bisexual

Request: None.

Warnings: Cursing. Talk of murder, rape. sexual assault, forced impregnation, Hybristophilia, loss of child-- literally everything Criminal Minds. Mentions of panic attack(s), anxiety, PTSD, shock, etc. (I think that covers it all. Please, if I missed anything triggering, TELL ME!)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Greenaway!Reader

Word Count: 19029

Timeline: Season 4 Episode 02. Right after part twenty-six.

There were a thousand times throughout the past week when Hotch wasn’t by my side and I felt anxious. He wanted to get back to work as quickly as the doctors cleared him, and since his leg healed pretty fast— or he was at least pretending like it had healed fast—he was back in time for the next case JJ had for us. I was still worried, however. It killed me to go to work every day while he was on bed rest. Getting to come home to him every day, though, to see that he was alive and alright, that was a relief of sorts. Leaving with him on Monday morning after picking him up from the doctor’s office was… less relieving. I mean, they cleared him, of course. He had been going to make sure that his ears were going to be okay, too, since I was worried about that, but he insisted that the doctor said everything was fine. Everything wasn’t fine, though. I could tell. I knew him well enough to know when he was lying or when he was pretending for my sake. He didn’t want me going to his checkups, and at first I understood, but then I slowly started getting suspicious when he was coming home from them without immediately coming to tell me any news— even though it was “all good news”, according to him.

I told Morgan early on that I was worried about Hotch. After New York, Morgan was trying to find ways to be more open and understanding with me. I think he realized that he had been a prick in the car that night when he said he agreed with JJ. I think he realized that he was wrong, and that his choice as my best friend was to either support me entirely or to forget me. And we didn’t want to forget each other. We had been worried sick that night, and his near death experiences in the ambulance seemed to have knocked some sense into him. So when I told him, he insisted that Hotch himself was probably okay, but he was just worried about me in the same way I was worried about him. I wanted to believe Morgan; I really did… But I told Morgan the same thing I had been telling Hotch and all of the doctors: what happened to me that night wasn’t a common occurrence. I didn’t get panic attacks. I didn’t freak out like that. It was a one time thing, and everyone just needed to get over it. If Hotch were really concerned, he should’ve just told me the truth, and then I wouldn’t’ve been concerned about him, and vice versa. Cause and effect kind of thing.

“Are you over Hotch passing out?” Morgan asked as we sat in the boardroom together to get some privacy. I shook my head. “Why?”

“Because he scared the shit out of me.”

“Hotch feels the same way about your panic attack. I saw him. He pulled all of those I.V.s out of his arms and pushed a nurse to the side just to get back to you. If you expect that he has to be honest with you, then shouldn’t you show him the same courtesy?”

Well… I hadn’t thought of it like that. I really didn’t think that what happened to me was a big deal—but that could have just been denial—and I hadn’t stopped to think that maybe Hotch was worried sick about me. I didn’t want him to hide things from me because of me, though. That wasn’t the point. We made a promise to each other that we wouldn’t keep secrets from each other. Him being honest about his health should’ve been the most important thing to us.

Then JJ interrupted to tell us that we had a case. Morgan thanked her while I kept my gaze lowered. We hadn’t talked since New York, and I felt like I had reason to continue staying distant from her for a while. I couldn’t bear that Morgan disapproved of me and Hotch because it sounded like he was more concerned for me than just trying to say: “Are you sure?” a thousand times. Once he knew that I was really sure about marrying Hotch, Morgan gave in because he only wanted what was best for me. JJ, on the other hand… Well, she hadn’t even tried to apologize. According to her behavior, she seemed adamant on maintaining her position. She didn’t think that Hotch and I were a good fit. And that broke my heart into a million pieces, because, of course I wanted her to support us, but I wasn’t going to tolerate that she was disapproving just for the sake of it. Her reasons didn’t hold. She wasn’t sure if I was ready to be a mother to Jack, or willing to spend time with Haley, or ready to actually be a wife. But what she failed to recognize was that I was ready for all of that. I was ready, and I tried to tell her, yet she didn’t seem to believe me. I couldn’t forgive that.

“I’ll call Hotch,” she said quietly.

“He’s at the doctors,” I told her, though I was still looking at the ground.

“I know. I’ll tell him to meet us at the jet.” She stepped into the room and started laying out the case files for everyone.

The rest of the team started filing in moments later. I turned in my seat to face forward, ignoring everyone’s glares, and opened the case file. JJ started running through it, but I ignored her in order to just educate myself. I think it was obvious to her and everyone else what I was doing, though.

Delilah Grennan was found dead in her home two nights ago. She had been raped repeatedly, bludgeoned to death, then presented post-mortem with her palms laid over her chest innocently— which meant that the Unsub felt remorse for what he had done. What conflicted with the hands of purity and innocence, however, were the stab wounds inflicted post-mortem, also a part of the Unsub’s ritual. That part probably came before the hand placement. The oddest part was actually about the rape that occurred during the initial attack. The local PD tried to run the semen found in her through VICAP in order to get a DNA match—which would have made this an open and shut case—the only problem: it matched that of a known serial killer named Cortland Bryce Ryan, also known as the “Angel Maker”. The issue with that was that he had been in prison since his arrest, and the one year anniversary of his execution was two days ago. The day of the murder.

“Were there any other victims?” Emily asked.

“Kinda,” JJ answered, managing to catch my attention. “Victimology and signature match almost perfectly with an old serial killer who was executed a year ago.” I knew that from the file. “He raped and killed six women in ten months.” She pressed a button on the TV remote, which revealed crime scene photos from the original Angel Maker case ten years ago. “It’s all the exact same. The copycat even opened all of the windows in the house, which was what Cortland did; however, that information was never released to the public.”

“So, then, this is definitely someone who knew Cortland personally,” I said.

JJ eyed me cautiously for a second as if she were asking herself if it were safe to address my comment. But she nodded and continued with, “Yes. Probably.”

“There’s one discrepancy, though,” Reid said after awkward silence hung in the air for a moment. “Cortland used his bare hands to beat his victims, but the M.E. concludes that Delilah was beaten with a hammer or some other heavy instrument.”

“So, this guy is weaker,” Morgan concluded.

Emily raised a brow. “Why wouldn’t his victim fight back, then?”

Silence blanketed the room. We all looked over at Rossi, as the lead profiler in the room, to see if he had anything to add. He shrugged at all of us. It was then decided amongst us that we would discuss it more on the plane where Hotch would be waiting. So I collected my file quickly and went to my desk to grab my go-bag. That was when I felt Emily poke my shoulder. I jumped in my own skin before turning and realizing that it was just her.

“Sorry, Ms. Jumpy,” she laughed. “I just wanted to ask if everything is alright.”

“What?”

“With you and JJ.”

I looked up at the boardroom to see Morgan and JJ talking privately—probably about me. I sighed and zipped up my go-bag again. “Yeah, we’re fine.”

“I mean, you’re clearly not.”

“You know I love you, Em, right?” I asked her quietly. She nodded. “Then I need you to really not take offense to this: please drop it. It’s none of your business.”

Emily fell silent and took a retreating step backwards. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”

“No—” I insisted, grabbing her hand. “I’m sorry. I just…” I sighed again. “It’s really complicated right now. I swear, once things are sorted out a bit more, you’ll be the first person I tell. I swear.” I squeezed her hand and glanced around the bullpen quickly. The only person around was Anderson, but he had headphones in as he was eating his breakfast. I looked at her again. “You’re the only one who never doubts me and Hotch. You know that?”

“Why would I doubt you two?” she chuckled. “Like you said, it’s not my business. But the opinion I’ve naturally made is that you’re really good for him, and he’s really good for you. Who am I to come in here and tell you any different?”

I shrugged and looked up at JJ again. “Yeah. I don’t know.”

When we arrived at the jet, I saw Hotch waiting just outside for us. I smiled lightly at him and walked straight towards him while the rest of the team filed onto the jet. When we were alone, I bounced up on my toes and kissed him. He cupped my cheek briefly as he leaned into our kiss. We both pulled away at the same time. I took his hand in mine while looking at the windows of the jet to make sure none of the team was watching. After my conversations with JJ and Morgan, it was probably no secret that Hotch and I were serious about our relationship, and since New York it was getting increasingly harder to hide the fact that I needed physical reassurance of Hotch’s presence and safety nearly all the time. I didn’t like being reliant and distracted like that, but… I almost lost him… I deserved a pass for a bit until I stopped worrying about him. Our rules about not making our relationship a big deal at work were slowly starting to mean nothing to me. I loved Hotch. I loved him more than anything, which was why I worried so much. Touching him, holding him, and kissing him was the only way I could calm down now. The team would understand that, right? Still, though, Hotch didn’t like it. I had to understand that, kind of. So, I let go of him reluctantly.

“What did the doctor say?”

Hotch shrugged. “I’m the poster child of perfect health.”

I furrowed my brows. I didn’t believe him. There was no way that a week after being in a bombing and going through surgery he was suddenly in perfect shape. I mean, he wasn’t really limping now, and he wasn’t fussing about his ears. Maybe it was actually possible. But still. The scrapes and bruises were still on him, and until those would disappear, I’d be wary. Even though I trusted Hotch, and he promised to never lie to me, I had to keep an eye on him. He said the doctor’s said he was fine… If I was suspicious about that, then that was my choice. But until I knew for sure that something was wrong, I was going to bite my tongue.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Morgan yelled at us as he stuck his head out of the jet. “Cincinnati awaits us!”

Hotch walked away from me before I got a chance to inquire further about what happened with the doctor. He was so reluctant to tell me anything about those visits. At first, I was understanding, but now that I could tell he was being weird about something, I was starting to get annoyed. Whatever was going on, I’d found out eventually. He had to know that. I always found out, and if it turned out that he was lying to me, I’d rain hell down on him—just like I did when he went behind my back to ask for a transfer five months ago. How time flew. Geez.

I sat next to Hotch at the big table. JJ and Reid were across from us—though I refused to look up at JJ even once; and Morgan and Rossi were sitting on the couch to my left. While the engines started whirring for takeoff, I felt Hotch’s ankle caress mine lovingly. He knew that even a year in, I still had trouble with the jet taking off. It didn’t help that Reid would always give those statistics about how takeoff and landing were the most dangerous points of a flight. Hotch knew that Reid’s statistics always ran through my mind when the engines started up. He knew that I hated this part. He knew that it made me tense up. He also knew that I was getting better at hiding it because I felt like the others wouldn’t understand my continuous anxiety about something like this. Since Hotch and I weren’t sitting in the back on our own, he couldn’t grab my hand to comfort me. So he used his ankle. And I silently thanked him for it by nudging him back.

As the plane started racing down the runway, the team began discussing some theories about the case. Spencer was going on and on about an “evil and an eviler twin” while everyone stared at him blankly. I chuckled to myself. Spencer glared at me lightly and questioned what I thought about all of it. So I looked down at the case file to give it one more review before presenting my hypothesis.

I thought there was no way there were twins involved in all of this. I mean, the DNA would’ve matched, sure, but… come on, that was out there. This copycat we were dealing with used a hammer to bludgeon his victims before performing the same ritual the Angel Maker did. This was all a very convincing ruse to make people think that the Angel Maker was back, but he had been dead for a year. Someone managed to somehow get a test tube sized amount of Cortland Ryan’s semen, and they were using it to “prove” the hypothesis, but we could see through it. Well, all of us except for Reid, apparently. The question about all of this really should have been “why” instead of “how”. Cortland raped and inseminated his victims, and the police thought that the ritual of stabbing his victims’ stomachs was a figurative way of killing the future child that could have been born from that act. However, in prison, Cortland denied this theory, but he refused to say what the truth was. So why? Why did Cortland do it, and why was this Unsub doing it?

Hotch groaned quietly next to me as the plane climbed towards altitude. I stopped talking halfway through my explanation to look at him. He was holding his head in his hands, his eyes shut, his entire body tense.

“Baby,” I whispered, taking his hand under the table.

“Yeah?” he whispered back. He was much quieter than I was, and he still wasn’t looking at me— or really even focused on me at all. It seemed like he only responded just to get me to lay off compared to actually listening to what I had to say.

I squeezed his hand. “The doctor did clear you to fly, right?”

“Mhm.”

“So, then, what’s wrong?”

Hotch bit his lip and threw his head back against the seat. His eyes were screwed shut and his face was contorting into an unattractive look in response to whatever pain he was feeling. “It’s just a headache,” he insisted. “I’m fine.” He tore his hand away from me and looked at the team. They all seemed just as concerned as I was, but he ignored their worry by redirecting their attention back to the case.

Everyone kept watching Hotch closely as he gave out our assignments. Morgan and I were to head to the prison to take a look at Cortland’s personal effects and to talk with the guards there about who Cortland was close to, and who could have possibly helped him get his semen out of the prison. Reid was going to head to the crime scene with Hotch, Rossi and Emily were going to check out the body at the morgue, and JJ was going to start meeting with the local PD about the case.

Hotch hadn’t yet decided to bench JJ since finding out that she was pregnant, but he was adamant about keeping her out of harm’s way. So, she was left to work at the police stations and the hotels. That was it. Honestly, she seemed fine with it. I knew that if I were in her position, and Hotch were benching me like that, I would have been pissed. It had only been a week since we found out, she wasn’t even showing, and yet Hotch was already making sure that she was safe. I mean, I understood the thought process. I knew that he didn’t want her to get hurt, because he was responsible for making sure she was safe and healthy. But still. I would’ve hated the idea of being cooped up in a police station all day. At least she got that much, though. Once she would start to show, I had no doubts that Hotch would pull her out of the field—that was if she weren’t going to make that decision herself. JJ spent a lot of her time in the office and in the precincts, anyhow. She probably didn’t want to put herself in danger while pregnant, and that was understandable.

As Morgan and I pulled up to the prison, I took in every detail of it. Compared to all of the other prisons I had seen inside and out, this place was much nicer. In fact, it had a Victorian era feel to it. The high, castle-like walls were a light tan color, and the material looked like limestone, if I were to make a guess. There weren’t even electric fences surrounding the outside of the prison because that was how high and rough the walls were. There was no way in hell anyone was climbing those—and even if they tried, a guard would probably shoot them off before they could get very far because on every corner and in the middle of each wall were guard towers. Those weren’t modern either. Honestly, if we weren’t in Cincinnati, I would’ve thought we were touristing at a castle in Europe.

The front gate was as expected. The check points were modern, but they were built into the old walls for support. If someone wanted to drive straight through, I wished them luck, because there was no way in hell that any of this was budging even the slightest bit.

Morgan parked the car in the tiny parking lot in the courtyard where prisoner transport buses were kept. We got out, both of us putting our sunglasses on, then headed inside. They required that we put our weapons away in locked cubbies before even entering the security area where they made us walk through two metal detectors, and they still had to pat us down, anyhow. It was exhausting. All of that just to see if there was something of interest in Cortland’s belongings before he died. Honestly, there could’ve been nothing. It was entirely possible that Cortland had nothing in his belongings that pointed to who could have possibly started killing again on his behalf. My hope, however, was that there would be something in the visitor’s logs. Maybe someone who visited often, or someone with a personal connection. Any lead was a good lead.

When we got through security, there was a man waiting for us just ahead. His legs were spread at shoulder width, his hands on his hip, his moustache tickling his lip to the point that he kept scrunching his face to try to stop it.

“Welcome to Hawksville,” the guard said, reaching out to shake Morgan’s hand before mine. “My name’s Sid.” He stood tall and pointed to his name tag. “Sid Rutledge.”

Morgan and I smiled at him politely. I introduced us, then got straight to the point. “We’d like to see Cortland Ryan’s personal belongings, if you don’t mind.”

Rutledge laughed at my bluntness. “Sure thing, little lady.”

When he turned his back, I looked at Morgan and rolled my eyes. We started following him through the corridors of the prison. We were still in the front section of the place, which was where all of the offices and break rooms were. The inmates were kept further into the prison, out of our way. He led us to a room filled with boxes and boxes of past and current inmates’ things. It seemed odd that these things would just be sitting around, collecting dust. It made me feel uneasy for some reason.

“Ryan didn’t have any next of kin,” Rutledge began, “so after the execution, all of his belongings were boxed and stored.” He set two file boxes on the table in front of me and Morgan.

I raised a brow. “This is all of it? All ten years, this is everything? I thought he was popular here.”

“He was; but a lot of the inmates get creative with getting letters in and out of the prison because the Warden keeps an eye on all official correspondence.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” I whispered to Morgan.

“Not in prison, it isn’t, sweetheart,” Rutledge answered.

Morgan opened up one of the boxes and started sifting through all of the letters Cortland got while he was in prison. Most of them were letters from women around his age—crazy fans who were trying to earn his favor. I couldn’t begin to imagine why. I mean, seriously. Why the hell would anyone think: “Ooh, serial killer in prison! He’s hot!” Like… What? But to each their own, I supposed, right.

“Did Cortland have any male fans?” Morgan inquired.

“I suppose there were some, sure. They were all total freaks. This one kid—maybe eighteen or nineteen—would visit every six months or so. He was a musician or some shit like that because he always liked to brag about that damn song he wrote for Ryan.”

“Did you ever catch Ryan trying to smuggle things out of the prison? Maybe to this kid or something?”

Rutledge chuckled. “Usually, they’re trying to sneak stuff in, not out.”

“May I see Cortland’s visitor logs from the past ten years?” I asked. “We need to check every single person who ever came to visit him.”

He chuckled again. “Over the past ten years? That’ll be a lotta names. It’ll take ya forever.”

I smiled sourly. “I’ll figure something out.”

Rutledge shrugged before gesturing for me to follow him out of the room. We ventured down another few doors before taking a left into another room identical to the one Morgan was in. Rutledge ran his fingers over a few of the file cabinets, mumbling under his breath as he counted or something, and then he came to an abrupt halt. He chuckled in eureka before pulling one of the drawers open. I watched as he started collecting about two to three different files for me. When he had everything he thought I would need, he threw them on the table between us.

“There ya go.”

“Thank you,” I said, grabbing a seat at the table.

“If ya don’ mind, I’ll be headin’ back to the other room to make sure Mr. Shiny Head doesn’ steal anything.”

I held back a chuckle. Mr. Shiny Head. Oh, I was going to be using that, and I wasn’t going to let it go, no matter how much shit Morgan would give me for it.

When Rutledge left, I dug into all of the logs. I started at the very beginning, just skimming for names that stuck out or repeated. I took my time, trying to remember any name that I had spotted in the case file, anyone who wasn’t from the state, anyone who didn’t have any kind of relation with Cortland or the Ryan family, and so on. There was ten years’ worth of visitor information in those files, and I had to go through all of it. My hope, however, was that I would spot something out of the ordinary fairly fast so that I didn’t have to waste all day doing this. Maybe Reid should’ve come to the prison to do this. He would’ve read all of these logs in, like, five minutes—if that. Asshole. He was a good friend and a good profiler, but still… Asshole. I wished that I could read half as fast as he could.

And then something caught my eye. Shara Carlino. I had hardly made it through the first year within the logs, and her name showed up every single day. Every. Single. Day. She waited every day before the prison would open just to be the first one to get in so that she would have the longest amount of guaranteed time with Cortland during visitor hours.

As the door opened, I looked up from the records to see who was entering. Morgan was holding the door behind him to make sure it closed quietly, then he smiled lightly at me. I smiled back before looking back down. For a moment, nothing was said between us as he sat beside me. When the silence became awkward, I finally asked him what he found.

“Reid just called,” he gave a half-assed explanation. I raised a brow. “Someone sent the local newspaper a letter claiming to be the Angel Maker.” I chuckled. “Yeah,” he agreed with a short laugh. “He’s authenticating it right now. Hotch wants us to keep working this angle in the meantime. Have you found anything in here?”

I nodded and turned some of the records to face him. “One woman, Shara Carlino, she came to see Cortland nearly every day.” I pointed to some of the examples within the visitor’s log that mentioned Shara’s name over and over again.

Morgan grabbed his phone and told me that he would call Garcia for some more information on Shara. “Hey, baby girl,” Morgan said into the phone while grinning ear to ear, “I need you to get me a home or work address for Shara Carlino.” He waited for a moment. Garcia was probably talking his ear off as she searched for Shara’s information. Then, Morgan’s smile faded. “You’re kidding.” Silence. “Nah. Thanks, precious. I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up and looked at me. “She works across the street.”

My jaw dropped. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. She downgraded from being a famous realtor in L.A to a shitty sales job—”

“And something tells me that downgrade has to do with the prison and Cortland.” I stood, quickly gathering up all of the records and throwing them back in the box. “Let’s go.” I stepped around him to lead the way out of the prison.

Once we had collected our guns from the front and made it back to the car, Morgan and I headed to visit Shara Carlino at her place of work. It was a short drive, of course. In about two minutes—if that—we were pulling into the parking lot just outside of her “shitty sales job”, as Morgan put it. We walked straight in and met with a secretary at the front desk. We flashed our badges and asked him where Shara Carlino’s office was, and he led us there. He knocked on the door and told Shara that the FBI had come to see her. I heard her as she sighed before telling us to enter.

“Thank you for seeing us, Ms. Carlino.”

“Well…” She shrugged. She offered us seats in front of her. “How may I help you, Agents?”

“According to the records we looked at, it seemed like you were Angel Maker’s number one fan,” Morgan stated flatly.

Shara chuckled. “No. His name was Cortland, and I wasn’t a fan.”

“Really?” I cocked a brow. “Then what were you?”

“We were lovers.”

“Last time I checked, death row doesn’t allow conjugal visits.”

“We weren’t physical lovers, Agent Greenaway. It was a spiritual connection. Everything was understood with just one look or one word. There were no secrets between us. It was absolutely blissful. He made me feel alive in a way that no free man ever could.”

Morgan and I both gave each other a glance that sarcastically said: “Okay… then…” I didn’t really understand the appeal of prisoners, especially misogynist serial killers. But he was gone now, and he never hurt anyone else. So… no harm, no foul, I supposed. To each their own.

“Where were you on the sixteenth of this month?” I asked.

“I was away on a business trip with the company. Why?”

“We’re just covering all of our bases, ma’am.”

“You think I had something to do with this?”

“No, but we do think that someone who was very close with Cortland had something to do with this.”

“Well, you can ask anyone here, they’ll confirm my alibi, anyhow.”

“We’ll do that,” Morgan said.

“Now, if you don’t mind,” she slowly started getting sour, “if I’m not under arrest, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Well, we couldn’t argue with that. We weren’t going to arrest her or take her in because we really had no reason to, but we were at least going to check on her alibi first. Maybe then we’d find a reason to continue questioning her. Until then, we had to leave. So, Morgan and I thanked her for meeting with us before we saw ourselves out so that we could go talk to her colleagues.

After we confirmed Shara’s rock solid alibi, Morgan and I headed back out to the car. As we got settled, Morgan didn’t turn on the car. When I asked him what was wrong, Morgan sighed and thought for a second longer before telling me that something was wrong about Cortland’s personal belongings. There was a list in the box that listed everything that was collected from his cell the day he was executed. Like, every single thing—even the weird stuff. But Morgan noticed that a few things were missing, like some paper cranes Cortland made. Originally he thought that it was just that someone accidentally threw them away or something, but he had been churning all of it around in his head, and now he was wondering if someone was selling Cortland’s stuff online, which was how the Unsub got some of Cortland’s semen. It made sense, I guess. Someone smuggled the stuff out in order to make some money off of the Angel Maker.

So we called Garcia with our theory and asked her to look into it for us. She said that she’d use her technological magic to start looking, and she’d get back to us as soon as she could confirm or deny our theory. Until then, Hotch wanted us back at the office. Great. Calling us back when we could just go look for another lead at the prison was a sign that either the team found something really good or really bad… And considering the last thing we heard from them was about the letter they got from the Unsub, I was going to go out on a limb and say it was bad news.

Our stop at the precinct was brief, though. From the moment we got out of the car to meeting with the team inside to leaving again, it was probably all about five minutes or so. It was already getting late, another day come and gone without any viable leads, and there was only one thing the Sheriff could think to do. Since the local newspaper received that letter from the Unsub claiming to be the Angel Maker himself, the town was spiraling into a panic. People wanted to know if Cortland Ryan was really dead. The Sheriff was under pressure to give proof, and we were all trying to tell him that wasn’t the right play. It didn’t seem to matter, though. The Sheriff made the call to dig up the body, and Hotch ordered that Emily and I would go with him to see, while the rest of the team would head to the hotel for the night.

It was absolutely preposterous that anyone could think that Cortland was still alive. I mean, there were witnesses at his execution, and there were professionals that confirmed that he was gone, people were there to see him be buried. To theorize that he was still alive and back to terrorize the town was just… It was out there. But we were only on this case because the Sheriff invited us in. We could consult that he shouldn’t dig up Cortland, but it was ultimately his decision, and there seemed to be no way to convince him not to do it.

When we arrived at the cemetery, there was already a crew there, digging up the body. There were yellow work lights on stands surrounding Cortland Ryan’s grave, about three workers already moving about, and one small excavator machine just waiting for the go ahead from the Sheriff to pull the casket out. Hotch kept trying to convince him that this was all a bad idea. To be fair, it was a shit idea. By digging up Cortland’s body, we were playing right into the Unsub’s hand, which would just encourage him to kill more on Cortland’s behalf. I mean, there was no way in hell that they body wasn’t there, so, realistically, this would help get the public off our backs— which was the Sheriff’s point in the first place—but if there was any chance there was something wrong with the body in that casket, things were going to get much worse for us.

The Sheriff told off Hotch one last time before gesturing to the man in the excavator. We all fell silent in order to watch. The machine started moving up, pulling at the chain attached to it. As the chain went taught, a loud creaking sound screeched around us. The casket budged in the grave slightly. They gave it another tug with the machine, and it gave another screen, which was finally when it started moving out of the grave. As the casket was lifted, it scraped against the metal walls, and the machine itself was rusty and old, so it also gave off a high pitched, shrill cry that made my ears hurt. As I cringed, I clocked Hotch out of the corner of my eye as he pressed his palms to his ears and stumbled back.

I furrowed my brows and followed him. “Aaron—” He kept walking away from me. “Aaron, stop!” I skipped a few steps to catch up to him. “Aaron.” I cupped my hands on his elbows and crouched slightly so that my face was in his field of view. He was staring at the ground while stretching his jaw to (probably) make the ringing in his ears stop. It was like New York all over again. “Aaron, what is it?”

“It’s just my headache,” he insisted quietly.

I looked over at Emily, Rossi, and the Sheriff. They were all watching us, even though they should’ve been paying attention to the casket that was finally being carefully set down on the grass. I let go of him and stood up straight. The three of them looked away from us long enough for me to sneak my hands up to Hotch’s face. I made him stare right into my eyes. Neither of us said anything as I tried to get a read on him from his dry lips, his racing eyes, his shortness of breath, and his weak limbs. He was lying to me. He wasn’t as healthy and perfect as he had been claiming. And this certainly wasn’t a fucking headache. I needed him to tell me the truth, but before I could pry for answers, I heard Rossi, Emily, and the Sheriff all gasp and curse under their breaths.

I let go of Hotch again before we both hurried over. We leaned forward slightly to look into the casket, and what I saw made my stomach churn. Cortland wasn’t there. There wasn’t a single body—or, hell, even a hint that a body had been in there in the first place. I sighed. What the fuck were we supposed to do now? The locals were going to have a million and one questions, the Sheriff was probably going to crack under all of this pressure, the news was going to have a field day, and the Unsub was going to be so happy we played his game that he was going to start killing more just to keep up the ruse of “Cortland Ryan, the Angel Maker, back from the grave to kill everyone!”, and a lot more women were going to die because of it.

Hotch didn’t sleep that night. I tried staying up as late as I could with him while working the case, but at some point, the caffeine stopped working, and my eyelids got too heavy to keep fighting. My exhaustion reached the extent that Hotch had to grab my pajamas from my go-back and help me into them because if it were up to me, I would’ve just gone to sleep in my work clothes. Hotch wouldn’t let me do that, though. So, he helped me get ready, and he tucked me into bed, kissed me goodnight, then turned off all the lights except for the small lamp on the desk so that he could keep working.

I felt somewhat sorry, to be fair. This case wasn’t just for Hotch to work on his own. He had been proving that something was off, and I should’ve stayed up all night with him, no matter how tired I got. But I just couldn’t. Besides, Hotch would have rathered that I were in tip-top shape for a long day’s work, than stay up all night running into the same walls we had been facing with the case all day. Sleep was good. Sleep was healthy. That was why I wished Hotch would’ve joined me, but since finding out that Cortland’s body wasn’t where it was supposed to be, I understood that he wouldn’t rest until this case was through. Fair enough.

In the morning, he woke me up and gave me a cup of coffee to get my day started. I sat up and kissed him. He pressed into our kiss lightly for a moment before handing me the cup and escaping into the bathroom. As the water started running, I heard him tell me that he wanted me and Morgan to keep up with the potential lead of finding whoever was selling Cortland’s things on the internet for profit. When I argued that we wouldn’t be able to do anything until Garcia reached out to us, he said that we should just focus on the profile until then.

I snickered to myself. “Ha. Easier said than done,” I whispered under my breath as I brought the rim of the paper coffee cup to my lips.

Then, when Hotch got out of the shower, I pushed into the bathroom to get ready. He snuck up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed my neck again and again until it started tickling and I laughed while brushing my teeth. Hotch finally gave up with one last passionate kiss. I watched him walk into the bedroom, pulling off his towel so that he could get dressed.

“Don’t be shy, turn around,” I snickered before spitting the toothpaste into the sink.

Hotch glanced over his shoulder at me. “You wish.”

“Mhm.”

And then my phone started ringing. Hotch let the band of his boxers snap slightly against his hips before reaching over to grab it for me. He brought it to the bathroom. “It’s Garcia.”

“Ask and you shall receive!” I cheered to the universe before kissing his cheek as we exchanged the phone and I pushed past him. “Garcia, give me some good news, please.”

Garcia chuckled over the phone. “Well, sunshine, I’ve got your lead… Is that good news?” I hummed a “yes” while picking up a pen off the desk so that I could scribble down notes. “I tracked down who has been selling Cortland’s stuff on the internet. Drum roll, please! A man by the name of Sid Rutledge.”

I chortled. “You’re kidding.”

“What? You know him or something?”

“Yeah. He’s the guard at Hawksville Prison that was helping me and Morgan.”

“Well, it turns out that he’s not exactly that helpful to the justice system. He didn’t show up for work today.”

“Do you have a home address?”

“Ready when you are.”

I started writing down the address as Garcia gave it to me. Hotch was now dressed and ready for the day by the time I hung up with Garcia and tore the page out of the notebook. Hotch grabbed the page from me so that I could get dressed. I explained everything to him while getting dressed. I told him who Rutledge was, how he always creeped me out, that he seemed more concerned about keeping an eye on Morgan (a black man) over me (a doe eyed white woman). He was the poster child for racist, sexist asshole. I supposed that it made sense that he was helping Cortland this whole time.

When I was ready, I took the paper back from Hotch. We approached the door to the hotel room together, taking a moment to stand close to each other and stare for a moment because our time together was never guaranteed. Since New York, we had been trying to make the best of every second we had. We always knew that our jobs were dangerous, and there was always a chance that we could lose each other in the field, but those near-death experiences made it more real, and it was terrifying. So I craned my neck up at Hotch while taking in every detail of his face. From his black hair that hung in his face as he looked down at me, to the mole on his cheek, his thin pressed lips, his smile lines, his thick brows, his sharp jawline, everything. He was so perfect. He was so handsome, so gorgeous, so sexy, so lovable. And he was all mine. I would never forget that. He was mine and I was his, and I was just waiting for him to finally make it official.

“I’ll get Morgan,” I whispered, afraid to raise my voice, thinking that it would spook him off somehow. “We’ll go check out Rutledge’s place.”

Hotch reached out and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Be safe for me.”

I nuzzled against his touch. “I’ll try.”

He leaned down to kiss me passionately. The second his lips were on mine, I felt myself melt. If it weren’t for his hand cupping my cheek, I thought that I might have actually collapsed right then and there because of how light and loving the kiss was. He wasn’t being rough, dominant, and possessive with me. He was kissing me in a way that said: “Come back to me for more.” And I just knew that I had to get back to him.

Hotch blindly reached for the doorknob while we were still kissing deeply. He was practically towering over me, and I had to grab onto his jacket to maintain my balance. But the second the door was open, we tore away from each other. I fixed his jacket before stepping around him. In the hallway, he went to the right to head towards the elevators, meanwhile I headed to the left to knock on Morgan’s door.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!” I teased while knocking an annoying number of times.

Morgan opened the door to make me stop. “Jesus, what do you want?” He was dressed and ready, but he still seemed cranky.

“Late night?”

“I was working until about four. You?”

“Two.”

“I hate you.” He stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him. “What is it?”

“Garcia got our lead on the internet seller. Sid Rutledge—the guard from yesterday— he’s the one who’s been selling everything. Here’s the address,” I said while handing the paper to him. He took it from me. We both started walking towards the elevator as he took note of the address. “You want the honors of arresting him?”

Morgan smirked at me as we stepped into the elevator. “I’d love nothing more.”

Nearly twenty minutes later, as we were pulling up to Sid Rutledge’s house, I grabbed two FBI vests from the back of the car. Morgan put the car in park, and I handed him one. Rutledge seemed like a pussy, if I were being honest, but we were going up to a prison guard, and we were going to attempt to arrest him. He wouldn’t exactly be too happy with us. Wearing vests was just a precaution, and since Morgan scared the shit out of me in New York, he had to wear the damn vest whenever I made him.

During our approach up to the house, I had to be sure to step around all of the dog shit on the sidewalk. Sid must’ve had a huge dog that he didn’t clean up after. Then, I let Morgan take the lead with knocking since I promised that he could be the one to arrest Rutledge. Since meeting him at the prison yesterday, Rutledge’s appearance just kept getting worse. I mean, he started out looking like a shmuck. But then it turned out that he was racist, sexist, and who knew what else; and now we were arresting him for smuggling shit out of prison, selling it on the internet, then having the audacity to lie to Federal Agents during a Federal Investigation. I wondered which judge on planet Earth would be lenient with him.

“Woah—” I stopped Morgan from moving by grabbing onto the back of his shirt once I noticed that the door was open. “Two deadbolts and neither of them are locked.”

For a guy like Rutledge who worked in a prison long enough to see all the different kinds of evil that existed out in the world, there was no way he left his door unlocked. If I worked in a prison, I wouldn’t leave my door open, either. If there were ever any prisoner who didn’t see eye to eye with me then got released… yeah… So, of course Rutledge would lock both of those deadbolts. The fact that they weren’t locked was a fair reason to worry.

Morgan nodded knowingly. We both pulled out our weapons, and then I followed his lead into the house. “Sid? It’s the FBI… From yesterday… Sid, we’re coming in.”

Morgan gestured towards the kitchen, so I started making my way there. Morgan kept moving slowly towards the bedroom. The living room we were in was entirely clear, so I stepped into the kitchen, but it was also empty. Well, not empty. It was the dirtiest kitchen I had ever seen, but, then again, Rutledge didn’t seem like a put together kind of person.

“Y/N,” Morgan called calmly from the bedroom. “We’ve got a problem.”

I sighed and holstered my weapon. I knew what that meant. Rutledge was our only remaining lead thus far, and if he were really dead, as I expected him to be based on Morgan’s tone, then we were utterly fucked. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that—

Shit.

Rutledge was lying dead on his messy twin sized bed. The sheets looked like they hadn’t been washed in… Well… Frankly, forever. Just like the kitchen, it was so messy in the bedroom that we could hardly walk around. Rutledge was a huge hoarder, so there were boxes, food containers, candy wrappers, and used condoms everywhere. I honestly had no fucking clue who would sleep with him, especially in a place like this. But who was I to judge. What was truly eye catching, however, was the overkill stab wounds on Rutledge’s chest and crotch. It certainly was the same M.O. of the copycat—bar the fact that this was not a female victim. The stabbing, the open windows, everything… But his arms weren’t crossed over his chest to symbolize innocence or regret. The overkill of the stabbing, and the fact that his arms weren’t crossed, all indicated to me that this wasn’t about the Angel Maker. I was sure that the copycat did this, but not for the same reason he had been killing the other victims. Rutledge probably sold the semen—and maybe other things—to the Unsub. He probably knew who we were looking for, therefore he had to die in order to keep him quiet.

“This is complete overkill,” Morgan stated the obvious.

“And it’s personal,” I added. “This isn’t about completing the Angel Maker’s vision, it’s about revenge.”

I walked into the bathroom and opened up the medicine cabinet. There was Motrin, TUMS, Advil, medication for his hyperthyroid, but that was about it. Nothing too special. What was on the counter, however, was an entirely different story. My jaw dropped as I picked up the orange pill bottle. That was new and interesting.

“Oh, yeah, definitely personal.” I brought the bottle back to the bedroom and held it out for Morgan. “Viagra.”

If this was personal—which it certainly fucking was—then the Viagra just smacked us across the face to tell us that we got our whole profile wrong thus far. This whole time, we had been focused on looking for a male Unsub who was obsessed with the Angel Maker’s work; but we never stopped to think that this was a female obsessed with the Angel Maker. Our profile was off before… But now we had a better idea of who we were dealing with. The Viagra indicated that the Unsub was obviously sleeping with Rutledge, yet the stab to the groin told us that it wasn’t exactly a… consensual experience. I mean, it could have been, but not in the traditional sense. Obviously, our Unsub wanted Cortland, whom she couldn’t have, and if she was the one getting the semen out of the prison through Rutledge, it was possible that having sex with him was payment for keeping their secret quiet.

“I’ll call Hotch,” Morgan said.

“Tell him to give the profile without us.”

“You sure?”

I nodded and turned back into the bathroom to keep digging. “We still need to find everything he was selling.”

Besides, we knew the profile now, and that was all that mattered. We didn’t need to waste our time by leaving the crime scene to go help present the profile to the local P.D., then head back out into the field to do more work. Our time was better spent where we were. That being said, I still needed to churn the profile over in my mind a few times.

Now that we knew that our Unsub was a woman, a few things changed. Our age profile, for example, narrowed down because the only kind of person who would do all of this for Cortland was someone who was madly in love with him. Someone like Shara Carlino. If she didn’t have the most bulletproof alibi I’d ever seen, she would’ve been my first visit after leaving Rutledge’s house. So, if she were in love with him, she had to be around his age—30 or so. The fact that she was female also explained why the bludgeoning of these victims was so different from Cortland’s original M.O. But she was still strong, which told us she wasn’t any younger than 25, and she definitely wasn’t older than 45. Since Cortland was 36, nearly the perfect median, it made sense that our Unsub would be around the same age, too.

Just as I deduced earlier, she likely killed Rutledge because he knew who she was. But what changed now that we had the Viagra bottle was one simple thing: sex. Rutledge was an asshole, obviously. He was an asshole who probably didn’t do things for free. Smuggling and selling Cortland’s things benefitted him financially, but selling the semen to our female Unsub gave him leverage. The Viagra bottle, the way he was half naked on his bed, and the stabbings to his groin, they all pointed to the fact that Rutledge was forcing her to sleep with him in return for the semen and his silence. But now that we were approaching her endgame, he became useless to her. So, she got her revenge. She loved Cortland, she wanted to give her body over to him entirely, not to Rutledge. Sleeping with him probably felt like a betrayal to Cortland. By killing Rutledge, she was apologizing to Cortland… In some fucked up way. But this was all fucked up, so.

All of her behaviors pointed to her being a groupie. For context, groupies were a thousand times worse than your average fan. She was on a mission. Her whole life was now about completing the Angel Maker’s work because it was the only thing that could bring him back to life in her mind. She was in love with him. That was worse than being a groupie. Love could make anyone do anything. I mean, look at how I practically ran into a bomb zone just to be by Hotch’s side after the explosion in New York. For me, love would make me climb mountains for Hotch. I’d die for Hotch. Our Unsub felt the same way about Cortland; though we differed because she was willing to kill innocent people for Cortland.

“She left something by accident,” Morgan said from the bedroom. I left the bathroom since there was nothing else notable, and I joined him in the bedroom. He was standing up straight after grabbing something off the floor. “A turkey baster.”

“Jesus…” I muttered under my breath.

“What?”

“I’ll bet you anything that’s not leftover gravy in there.”

Morgan shivered and set it down on the bed. Well, at least we knew how she was simulating the sex now. The fact that she accidentally left it here was concerning, though. She probably wouldn’t have wasted Cortland’s semen on Rutledge since she viewed it as the most important part of him and her M.O. But she had brought it with her, and it must’ve fallen out of her rape kit. If she brought it with her, that meant she was on her way to—

And then Morgan’s phone started ringing.

“It’s another victim,” I said as he reached to answer it.

Morgan furrowed his brows at me in confusion, then answered. “Yeah, Hotch?” Silence blanketed the room as he waited while listening. “Y/N and I will meet you there. Send CSU here to Rutledge’s place.” Silence again. “Alright. Thanks, Hotch.” He hung up and put his phone away. “You scare me sometimes, Greenaway,” he teased me as we started heading back out to the car.

“You scare me all the time, Morgan.”

“That’s hot.” He laughed and skipped to his car door before I could slug his shoulder with a rough punch.

“You wish.”

“Hey, a man can dream, right?”

“Disgusting.” I pulled my vest off and got in the car. I finally got to punch Morgan once he was sitting down next to me, busy with turning on the car so that we could meet Hotch at the crime scene. “Idiot.” I didn’t even hit him that hard, yet he was pretending like I just smacked him with an iron shovel.

“I’m telling Hotch when we get there.”

“Tattle tale.”

He laughed to himself, then started driving.

When we arrived at the crime scene, we could see Hotch and Emily standing outside of the house with the Sheriff. The police department was surrounding the property with their cars, trying to keep curious neighbors out. Morgan and I made it in without hassle. When we met up with Hotch and Emily, the Sheriff started reviewing the case with us while walking up towards the house.

“Maxinne Chandler. 28. Lower Cannan native. Single, living alone—”

“How many kids did she have?” Hotch asked after stepping over another kid’s toy in the yard.

“None of her own,” the Sheriff answered. “She ran a daycare out of her. One of her clients, a father, was dropping off his son when they found the body.”

Emily and Hotch continued inside with the Sheriff, but I tugged on Morgan’s sleeve to hold him back. “Morgan, wait… Delilah Grennin and Maxinne Chandler worked from home. They had open door businesses. A jewelry maker and a daycare center. That can’t be coincidence.”

We had been waiting for a second, real victim to connect the dots in victimology, and there it was. Our Unsub was going after easy targets. Delilah and Maxinne both had their doors open for strangers, and Rutledge opened his door for her because he was hoping to get some action. It made sense. Cortland went after women that sexually attracted him—hence the rape—but this Unsub’s purpose was to serve Cortland, not gain sexual gratification. Because she didn’t get anything out of forcefully entering the home and pinning the women down, she had to be smarter about it. She would probably come in during the day when the businesses were open, ask to use the bathroom, leave a window open, then sneak in late at night when it was time to strike.

“Let’s tell Hotch,” Morgan offered.

The body was in the bedroom, still on the bed, left untouched in its posed position. Her arms were over her chest, her eyes were closed, there were stab wounds in her stomach, and Emily was talking to the M.E. about the traces of semen found. Hotch was staring at the stab wounds, his arms crossed over his chest. Morgan and I had clearly entered at a bad time, so we waited back for them to finish discussing the scene.

When the M.E. left, Emily and Hotch started hypothesizing together. We still stayed silent. They were working as a team on this, and Morgan and I were anxious to tell them what we had put together as our own little team. One thing at a time.

“Nine puncture marks this time,” Emily said. “It doesn’t look chaotic or disorganized, though.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Can I see your pen?” she asked him while pulling out a small notebook. Hotch agreed and handed it to her. We all stayed quiet as she scribbled something down that was slowly occurring to her. “She did this on purpose… I knew that they felt familiar, but I wasn’t sure how… But look at this—” She turned her notebook around. She had drawn the dots the same exact way the Unsub did, and suddenly all of the pieces were falling into place.

“The Big Dipper?” I questioned.

“No,” she shook her head, “The Dolphin from the Heavenly Waters family.”

Hotch took his pen back. “Tell Reid to go back and reexamine each of the bodies to see if the same connection can be made.” Emily nodded and stepped out to call him. He turned to me and Morgan, “What did you guys discuss outside?”

“We think we found the connection between the victims,” Morgan began.

“They both ran in-home businesses with an open-door policy,” I finished.

Hotch considered for a moment. “It makes sense, I suppose. The Unsub can get in and out during business hours, then comes back later with a ruse or something. She’s small, as we know, and she looks welcoming enough that she’d be invited into the victims’ homes.” He was saying what we already knew, but he was working through it himself, so I didn’t stop him. “Reid’s been working on deciphering some of the letters the prison sent to us from Cortland’s correspondence. Maybe he can use the information of the ruse to narrow down who we’re looking for.”

“I’ll tell Emily so she can let him know,” I offered, stepping out to meet up with her.

When we got back to the precinct, everyone gathered in the boardroom to start brainstorming. Originally, Rossi would’ve called this our “group think session”, but Hotch had yelled at him a couple of cases ago about calling it that, so it had since ceased. However, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Hotch was all about politics, so he had to maintain face about what our team really did on cases—and the Bureau hated group thinking. Calling it “group thinking” around Hotch was worse than saying that profiling was just guess work. But, realistically, we did group think while we were profiling.

When I first joined the team, Gideon told me that every member of the team offered something new and different. According to him, no one was dead weight. I had always tried to keep that in mind while profiling like this as a group, but it seemed like we had suddenly run into a wall. Without the letters that Reid was working on, there was nothing more we could do, much to his chagrin. I didn’t like taking credit for profiles, because that wasn’t the point, but while skimming the notes of what we had, I couldn’t help but chuckle at how most of this came together because of me and Morgan. Telling Hotch that was also a death wish— even for me. We were a team. No one person was responsible for a profile. But, damn…

“I cracked it!” Reid cheered, running over with a stack of papers. “I deciphered the letters.” He handed them to JJ. “She wasn’t just a fan—They were in love.” I could’ve told him that. “Look—” He gestured to JJ to hand the letters out.

JJ handed Cortland’s letters to Hotch, then she hesitantly handed me the stack from the Unsub. We didn’t look at each other as I took them from her. She walked away from me silently and sat down at the opposite side of the room, putting her hand over her stomach.

I started reading the first one on my stack. “’My dearest Cortland, thank you for writing back to me. The day the verdict was read, we shared a silent moment. I knew then that there was a force willing us together. Every time I see you, I feel warmed as if by the sun; and, yet, I fear that if I come too close, I’ll be consumed by your fire. I long to see you again. Love, your dove.’”

Hotch went next. “’My dove, ever since your visit, I am crazed with thoughts of you. Already you’ve entered my dreams. Each time you appear to me, I’m embraced by a feeling of trust and belief as if I’ve known you all my life. Dreams are not enough, however. I yearn to see your face once more. Come visit me. Yours, Cortland.’”

“’My dearest Cortland, as always, I’m touched by your words, and I do long to see you again, but they won’t let me. We’re not supposed to have any connection since the trial. It breaks my heart to think that I may never get to lay eyes on you ever again… Continue writing me, my love, for it’s the only thing that brings me comfort throughout my days now since discovering that I will bring a part of you back into this world. I love you. Your dove.’”

“My secret wife, all appeals have failed. All hope is lost. The guards are celebrating my defeat by clearing out my cell, destroying what memories I have of you. My execution has been set for tomorrow. By the time you read this, I will be gone, and all of you will have of me is what you will bring back. I will be watching you from the stars. I will love you from above until one day we are reunited. I love you.’”

“What do you think she meant by that last line?” Emily questioned.

“The murders?” Morgan hypothesized. “By pretending to be the Angel Maker, she’s revived his memory and the terror in this city.” I chuckled to myself. “What?” he asked, turning to me.

“Boys,” I whispered under my breath. When I realized that all eyes were on me as the team was waiting for an answer, my smile faded. I tapped the paper and said, “She was pregnant.”

Emily looked impressed. “Well, if she really did have his kid, we might be able to track her through birth records. Maybe—”

“Agent Hotchner,” the Sheriff interrupted, storming into the boardroom. “We just got a report that a woman was attacked in her house by a female assailant. The victim’s alright… I can’t say the same for the attacker.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“The victim was walking home from work when she was attacked,” the Sheriff answered. “She screamed out for help, and the whole neighborhood ran out to help her.”

“This isn’t our Unsub’s M.O.” I spun in my chair to face Hotch. “It isn’t late at night, she was attacked out in the open—the ritual couldn’t be completed there.”

“Maybe she was rushing to get to the last victim because she knows we’re after here,” Emily offered up.

The Sheriff shrugged. “You can ask her yourself when you get to the crime scene, if you’d like.”

“Y/N, Emily, take this one,” Hotch ordered, nodding out towards the front door.

We nodded, too, and headed out.

Emily jumped into the driver’s seat in one of the SUV’s outside, and I got into the passenger’s seat beside her. We started following the Sheriff to the scene. Allowing him to navigate was faster than following a map and getting lost on our way there. This way, we’d get to the scene as fast as possible—hopefully before the paramedics could take the victim to the hospital. From the description the Sheriff gave, it sounded like the victim wasn’t as hurt as the attacker was, but the paramedics probably still felt like it was best to take her back to the hospital to make sure she was alright. I didn’t blame them. Even if she wasn’t physically injured by the attacker, the shock could do more harm than good.

“So, are you ever going to tell me why you and JJ are on bad terms?” Emily finally asked me while still staring at the road. I sighed. “I know, I know, it’s none of my business. But I love you and JJ equally, and I want to make sure that you’re both alright. But if you tell me again to drop it, I will. I’ll respect that choice. I promise, Y/N.”

I knew she would drop it if I told her to. I knew that her promises meant the world to her, and that she understood a thing or two about keeping secrets. I mean, really, what did I know about Emily? Of course, we were close, and she was a dear friend of mine and Hotch, but she kept a lot of secrets from all of us. She kept a thousand things bottled up, and none of us ever pried. There were rules in our team. We didn’t profile each other, and we didn’t pry when it came to secrets. Hotch and I were different because we had a rule that we wouldn’t keep secrets from each other just to save our own, personal relationship. But I wasn’t required to tell Emily anything, the same way she was never required to tell me anything.

The worst part, however, was that I wanted her to know. I wanted her to know the truth the same way I had eagerly anticipated JJ and then Morgan the truth. But I’d been burned one too many times. It didn’t matter that Morgan had since come around, or that he was trying to get me and JJ to apologize to each other… What they initially said to my face hurt me. I confided in the two people I thought would understand most, and they both let me down. I wanted JJ to know that Hotch and I were going to get engaged, and that we decided that we wanted to have kids. I wanted her to be the first person to know because she was the only other person on the team who could have possibly understood. But she took my heart from my chest, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it. She practically told me that Hotch and I weren’t good for each other—that I shouldn’t take things with him too seriously. But what about her and Will, huh? Why did they get to know each other for just a few months, then have a baby, and everyone’s fine with it; but Hotch and I date for a year and have a conversation about marriage and kids, and suddenly I’m the bad guy.

I wanted to tell Emily the truth. In a way, I needed to tell her, just to see if her response would be any different than what Morgan and JJ’s were. Emily told me before we flew to Cincinnati that she supported me and Hotch, and that she felt she had no right to judge us. Plenty of people at the office didn’t support our relationship. There was the issue of the age gap, the fact that he had gone through a messy divorce with a kid in the mix, and, oh, yeah, he was my boss. It didn’t matter that the FBI had no rules against our relationship; people still looked down on it anyhow. I wasn’t going to convince people’s minds, but my family—the people I spent every day with at the office and entrusted with my life in the field—should’ve at least given me the courtesy of feigning excitement on my behalf. Morgan was my best friend. Even if he didn’t think mine and Hotch’s relationship would be perfect, he should’ve supported me and my elation. Hotch didn’t hit me, mistreat me, or not love me. Hotch was good to me, and Morgan knew it. If there was any sign that Hotch and I were toxic, then, yeah, Morgan would’ve earned the right to warn me away from marrying Hotch. But this was real life. This was our reality, and the truth was that Hotch was good to me and loved me more than anything. Therefore, Morgan should’ve been on my side from the get-go.

Emily… She… I didn’t know enough about her personal life to make a call on where she would stand on all of this. Would she react like Morgan and JJ? Would she still be adamant that it wasn’t her place to give an opinion? Or would she be excited for me? I wasn’t sure. I hoped that she would be thrilled for me and Hotch, but how could I know for sure? Well… there was really only one way to know. I had to tell her.

“Before the explosion in New York,” I began, “Hotch and I talked about getting married and having kids.” Emily didn’t say or do anything. “We decided that we’re ready.”

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye. A slight upward curl of her lip slowly became more prominent until she was smiling wide with her teeth showing. My heart jumped in my chest. That was so different to how things went with JJ and Morgan. Neither of them smiled when I told them. But Emily did. She was smiling until she was laughing gleefully, and then she removed one of her hands from the steering wheel so that she could hold my hand.

“That’s so great, Y/N!” she cheered.

I squeezed her hand, a smile slowly forming on my face now, too. “You think so?”

“Of course, I think so!” She waved my hand around. “Hello! You two love each other! You two have always been a perfect, happy couple. I was always wondering when the hell he’d get around to finally asking you to marry him. Honestly, when I joined the team and found out that the two of you had only been dating for six months, I was shocked. I thought he would’ve married you the day he met you.”

My smile widened. “Thank you, Emily,” I said in all sincerity, trying to suppress the giddy shake in my leg.

“For what?” she furrowed her brow slightly while smiling at me.

“For believing in us.”

“Is that what this is all about? You and JJ?”

I nodded.

“Oh, Y/N,” she tsked her tongue. “What happened?”

“She and Morgan doubted us. They didn’t think that Hotch and I should get married. They think that we’re rushing things.”

“Screw them.”

I chuckled. “What?”

“Screw them!” she said with more passion. “We love them, they love us—but screw them and what they think about you and Hotch. They don’t know your relationship. No one does but you and Hotch. If the two of you think you’re finally ready, then I say go for it. It’s your choice, not theirs. Once they see how happy you two are while married—even though they should already see it now, the same way I do—then they’ll understand that you made the right choice. You and Hotch are adults. Make your choice to be happy, and prove them wrong.”

We were suddenly approaching the crime scene, so Emily released my hand. She set the car in park. The scene was still busy with the paramedics looking at the victim in the back of their ambulance, and the police were trying to keep all of the neighbors back. Because of what the Sheriff told us about how they practically ganged up on the attacker, I was surprised that they hadn’t broken through the barricade yet. The attacker was sitting in the deputy’s car across the street, but from where we were, I couldn’t see who it was. I truly believed that this wasn’t the work of our Unsub. The Sheriff and the team could be suspicious all they wanted, but I had an inkling. Our Unsub wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t risk finishing Cortland’s legacy like this. The last kill would probably be the most important one to her. She would be careful and take her time with the last victim. This… this was all so messy.

Then I saw who was sitting in the car with their hands cuffed behind their back.

“Em,” I said suddenly, stopping in my tracks. She stopped with me once she caught on. “That’s Shara Carlino.” Emily looked confused. “The woman who thought that she was Cortland’s only ‘lover’.”

Emily’s eyebrows raised in shock. “You’re kidding.”

“She’s Cortland’s number one fan. Her alibi is solid. She’s not our Unsub. We’re just wasting our time here.”

“Maybe…” She trailed off as she started walking towards the car. “Ms. Carlino,” she said after opening the door, “I’m Agent Prentiss with the FBI. I work with Agent Greenaway. You spoke with them yesterday.” Shara looked over Emily’s shoulder to glance at me. “Why… Why did you do this? We know that you’re not the woman we’re looking for, so why?”

“I just wanted us to be together again…” she cried. Her face was all bruised and bleeding from the mob that jumped on her after she tried killing the victim. Yet she didn’t seem to care. She was crying because she failed to do what our Unsub was doing. She couldn’t connect with Cortland in the same way, and she was furious because of it.

Emily slowly closed the door on Shara and turned to me. “Well…” Well, I was right. We had wasted our time—actually, Shara had wasted our time. “That was certainly—”

My phone started ringing, cutting Emily short. My eyes apologized to her for the interruption as I answered. “Morgan…” I growled.

“Sunshine, you’re gonna love me right now,” Morgan cheered on the other end. I rolled my eyes. I was in a bad mood still because of Shara, and not even Morgan’s snippiness could change that, unfortunately. “I’ve got you the name and address of our Unsub.” Okay, the cheered me up a bit. “Chloe Kelcher. She was on the jury during Cortland’s case, and she started visiting him once every six months while in prison so that no one would piece together that they were close.”

“She’s his dove?”

“Yeah. Birth records show that she had a baby about three months ago that died after being born.”

“That’s definitely a trigger.”

“Uh huh. We’re all heading there right now. Looks like we’re closer, but Hotch wants you and Prentiss to meet us there.”

I sighed. “Okay.”

When I hung up, I told Emily everything. She told the Sheriff, and we gave him the address so that we could race there. We turned the lights and sirens on as we left the crime scene. Emily stretched between the front seats we were in so that she could grab two vests for us to wear. Knowing that we were heading to the Unsub’s house, it was best to play it safe. Besides, if I even decided to show up without one, I was sure that Hotch would strap one onto me forcefully anyhow. And while that was normally an appealing idea, I wasn’t in the mood. I hadn’t forgotten about last night. I hadn’t forgotten about the plane ride. I hadn’t forgotten my worry over the fact that I knew that something was wrong, and he was refusing to fess up. That was when I realized that if I showed up and Hotch wasn’t wearing a vest, I was going to strap one onto him. Funny how those things worked.

At Chloe Kelcher’s house, the team was gearing up at the cars they brought. Hotch was putting on a vest… Thankfully. Then, when Emily and I got out of the car, he spotted me while making sure his gun was loaded. We exchanged a brief glance as I moved my hair out of my face so that it wouldn’t distract me inside. He was watching me closely. That morning, in the hotel room, he begged me to be safe for him. Since New York, I understood why he was being a little more protective than usual, but this was different. The look in his eyes was different. He was practically begging me to stay in the car, which was preposterous. I would do nothing of the sort. I was a part of this team; I was on this case—it was my job to go in there and search the house with them. If he wasn’t going to sit in the car, then neither was I.

So, when everyone was ready to head in, we carefully approached. We were going to do a hard entry—which meant that Morgan was going to kick down the door, then we were all going to disperse into different rooms in order to clear the house. The hope was that we were going to catch Chloe off guard so that we could grab her before she would have a chance to run. With a hard entry, however, there was no time for planning. We didn’t have a chance to stop and account for how many rooms there were to clear ahead of time. But we were used to this. The first ones in the door made their way to the back of the house, while the people in the back cleared the front rooms like the kitchen and the living room. I happened to be towards the back with Emily, so we headed straight for the kitchen. We separated around the table in the middle of the room. She ventured to the left, and I went to check the pantry on the right.

“Clear!” Rossi called out.

“Clear!” Morgan responded.

“Clear!” I added.

“Clear!” Hotch finished up.

I sighed and lowered my weapon to my side. Emily and I moved back into the living room where Rossi, Morgan, and Hotch had also gathered.

“Okay, spread out,” Hotch ordered. “We need to find out what her end game is and where she is before it’s too late.”

I immediately turned towards the hallway where the bedrooms were, and made my way to the last one on the right because Hotch was taking the one on the left. When I stepped in, I stumbled slightly. I hadn’t anticipated what I saw. I thought that it would be just another bedroom, or maybe a home office, or even a goddamn shrine praising Cortland… but this… this caught me off guard. I was standing in a nursery. Like, a baby’s nursery. We knew that she had a baby that she lost, but I… It had been months. I… I wasn’t sure why I was so shocked to find that the nursery was still there and put together.

The walls were painted a light baby blue for a boy, and the ceiling was a dark navy blue to imitate the night sky. The one thing that didn’t surprise me was the glow in the dark stars stickers shaped into The Dove constellation. Expected. She wanted her baby to be raised with a constant reminder that his father was watching over him. That part made sense, I supposed. But what sent a shiver down my spine was the empty cradle with a red dinosaur toy eerily similar to the one Jack and I loved to play with, and the pajama onesie that was laid out next to it. It was like she was still expecting her baby to show up again…

“You okay?” Hotch asked from the door.

Frightened by the sudden intrusion, I jumped in my own skin. When I realized that it was just him, I caught my breath and nodded. He started walking in to take a look around with me. “Note the view,” I snipped, pointing to the ceiling. Hotch glanced quickly. “This is probably the cleanest room in the whole place. Her grief sent her into a spiral of deep depression to the point that she couldn’t keep anything together besides the one thing she had left: hope and love.”

“Do you blame her?” Hotch asked me.

I shook my head. “No.” If I ever lost Hotch, Jack, or a bab— Well… Or anyone else… I wouldn’t know what to do with myself either.

“Did you look in here?”

I turned to see that he was pointing at a wooden chest in the corner of the room. It looked identical to the one we had in our office at home. But I hadn’t really noticed it when I entered the nursery. Even if I had, I figured it was probably just filled with baby toys or diapers or something.

Hotch flipped the top of the chest open. Both of us leaned in with our weapons raised, ready to shoot something. I wasn’t sure what we were expecting to shoot in a goddamn wooden chest, but better safe than sorry, especially with this Unsub. But what we found only confused us. Hotch and I lowered and holstered our weapons.

“That…” I sucked in a deep breath. “That explains a lot.”

There was a corpse trapped in there, covered by a loose plastic bag in an poor attempt to preserve it. After finding out that Cortland’s body wasn’t where it was supposed to be, and now finding this corpse in our Unsub’s house— specifically her baby’s nursery, I supposed I shouldn’t have been shocked, honestly. If I were to guess, she somehow got ahold of Cortland’s body just after he was executed. I only assumed that because it didn’t seem like the grave was bothered before we dug him up last night.

“Wonderful,” Rossi said sarcastically as he came into the room. “I assume that’s who I think it is.” Hotch and I both nodded. “Listen, I think I might’ve found something here. It’s a weekly planner,” he explained while handing it to Hotch, “and it has Delilah Grennan and Maxinne Chandler’s names in it on the day of their respective murders.”

“What about today?” I inquired.

He nodded. Faye Landreaux. 162 North Red River Drive. She’s an accountant… Works at home…”

“That’s it,” Hotch agreed, jumping on his toes. The three of us ran out of the nursey. “Let’s move!” he shouted throughout the house. Emily, Reid, and Morgan, and the Sheriff immediately hurried outside to the cars.

Emily and Morgan were with me, Rossi and Reid were with Hotch. Morgan drove, following Hotch and the Sheriff to Faye's house about ten minutes away. It was conveniently nice that it was close… but it was also worrisome because that meant we were at least two steps behind our Unsub, meaning it could’ve been too late already.

When we arrived at Faye’s house, we spotted an extra car in the driveway—and, of course, the license plate was “ANGLMAKR”. How did no one fucking notice that before? How did we not catch that in some kind of records or something? Jesus. Morgan noticed, too, so he ran up to go see if there was anyone or anything inside of it. Meanwhile, the rest of us grouped up to start considering how we should handle this.

“Hotch,” Morgan called in a whisper while jogging over to meet us, “the car’s still warm.”

“And the windows are still closed,” I said, pointing up at the house. “She hasn’t killed her yet.”

If she had, then she would’ve made sure to open the windows to make sure that the soul could leave the house. If anything, she was probably… Well… Worst case scenario was that she was already setting out her rape kit. But we couldn’t know for sure. And if we tried anything, there was a possibility that Chloe would kill her before we could even get into the house.

“Find a way in,” Hotch told Morgan.

“Right,” Morgan agreed before racing off to search the perimeter of the house.

Hotch turned to Emily. “You’re gonna take point talking to Chloe.”

“But the profile says you’re not going to be able to talk her down. She has to complete Cortland’s work,” I argued.

“I know, but it’ll occupy her long enough to give Morgan a chance to get in and rescue Faye from inside the house. We just need to buy some time.” He turned to the Sheriff. “I’m gonna need all of your vehicles to quietly pull up to the front of the house, facing forward. On my mark, they’re all going to turn their lights on at the same time. I’m also going to need a megaphone.”

The Sheriff nodded and hurried off to do everything he was told. The rest of us started getting in position on the driveway. Because it was so dark and the streetlights on the road had been blown out, we didn’t need cover as we waited for the Sheriff’s department to pull up all of their cars. I was standing between Hotch and Emily, Reid and Rossi on her other side. When the P.D. was ready, Hotch held up his hand, waiting to give the signal. On the count of three, he dropped his hand. All of the cars suddenly turned on their high beams, lighting up the entire house, definitely alerting Chloe to our presence. Well. Hopefully we didn’t just get Faye and Morgan killed.

“Chloe, this is the FBI,” Emily said into the megaphone. “We know you’re in there.” She looked at me and Hotch. We both shrugged. She could do this if she just had a little more faith in herself. We knew that this wasn’t going to stop Chloe, but it was just going to buy Morgan time, like Hotch said. If Emily just kept talking for a bit longer, we’d be golden. “I know that you think that finishing what Cortland started will somehow bring you closer to him. We both know that’s not true. You’ve been lied to, Chloe. Cortland wasn’t who you really thought he was. I think it’s time you know the truth.” Spencer started scribbling a script for Emily onto a notepad. She nodded an acknowledgement to him before continuing. “Those letters that you think were so special between you and him? Well, he sent them to dozens of other women, too. ‘Without the flesh, there is only the soul.’ Does that sound familiar, Chloe? ‘You don’t need to touch me to feel the love I have for you.’ He said the same exact things to other girls like you, Chloe. He was a liar. He didn’t really love you. He was a narcissist. He couldn’t love you.”

A scream from inside the house shook the whole neighborhood. Panic ran through me as I didn’t see Morgan yet, but there was also no sound of gunfire or a struggle—which was good. I just had to know that he was safe. Since New York, I didn’t need to keep worrying about him. He scared the shit out of me with that ambulance stunt. This wasn’t easing my conscience at all. Asshole. Where was he? Why wasn’t he out yet?

And then Emily tapped my arm. I glanced at her quickly to realize that she was staring at the yard to the right of the building. I followed her gaze to see that Morgan was helping Faye along as she limped beside him. He was okay. He looked fine. No cuts, no bruises, no scrapes, no bullet wounds, no blood, nothing. He was safe.

Suddenly, the front door of the house opened. We all watched for movement for a minute before Chloe took a slow step out. She was wearing all black—two sweatshirts and snow pants, all for the sake of making her build look bigger, like a man. In her hand, she was carrying a small revolver.

“Chloe,” Hotch began as we all pulled our weapons, “drop the gun.”

She continued moving towards us, so I put my finger on the trigger. Hotch repeated his order. Chloe looked up at all of us, yet she didn’t stop or listen to Hotch’s order. He tried ordering her again. She hadn’t raised her weapon at us yet, she hadn’t made any sudden movements to give us cause to fire, and she was still far enough that she could surrender. So Hotch tried one last time before I whispered to him that I was waiting for the order. He didn’t seem to hear me, though.

Chloe looked up at the sky and whispered, “I’m coming to you, my love.” And then she started raising her weapon.

The Sheriff got the first shot in before the rest of the team could squeeze their triggers. As I fired, I saw out of the corner of my eye how Hotch stumbled back. I stopped firing so that I could look at him. He was wandering around aimlessly as the team continued to shoot at Chloe to make sure she was down. My eyes softened in concern. Hotch was still stumbling, even when the gunfire ended, and he ran into a car while holding his head between his palms. He was trying to guard his ears from the loud sounds. I spotted the similarities in relation to how he looked in New York. The way he was holding his head, the way he was stumbling around like he didn’t know where he was, and the way he could hardly stand up straight unless he was leaning against that car… My heart started pounding in my chest.

I looked at the team, who was also eyeing Hotch with concern. “Go!” I yelled, shooing them towards Chloe. They took the command without argument. While they moved to see if Chloe was really dead, I hurried over to Hotch to make sure that he was alright. Suddenly, he collapsed onto his knees. Thankfully, I managed to catch him by grabbing onto his elbows, and I held him up against the side of the car.

Hotch was blinking like crazy, looking at nothing specific as he glanced around at everything but me. I grabbed his face to let him know I was there, and he tried to squint and focus on me. “Baby,” I said to him breathlessly. “Baby, what is it?” He still didn’t respond. “Hotch!” I yelled, shaking him.

“I can’t hear anything,” he tried to explain calmly, but his tone was in a panic. He groaned as he hid his face in his hands. “Fuck… I can’t hear anything…” I brushed my fingers through his hair to let him know that I was there with him. “Y/N.” He braced his hands on my shoulders as his sight started to come back.

“I’m right here.” I smiled to make him feel better. “I’m right here.”

His hands squeezed my shoulders, and he stood up tall. “Shit…” he cursed under his breath. He stretched his jaw and his face to help clear his ears. “I’m okay,” he reassured me. I shook my head at him. He clearly wasn’t okay. “I promise.” He pushed past me to meet up with the team again.

I stayed where I was. My jaw was hanging, practically on the floor, and my eyes didn’t even blink. How did this happen? Why? He said he was alright, yet for the past two days, he had proven time and again that something wasn’t right. Ever since getting on the airplane at Quantico, I knew that something was wrong. This… The way he seemed just as dazed and confused as he did the night of the bombing in New York… He had been lying to me this whole time.

I didn’t sleep that night. Hotch fell asleep fairly quickly after kissing me goodnight and rolling over to face the wall. But I stayed curled up on my side, watching his back. I was worried about him, and I knew that worry wouldn’t allow me to sleep, and it really didn’t. Even when I tried to close my eyes, I would just be tortured by the memories of New York. I saw flashes of the street camera recordings of the bombings, of getting that first call from Garcia when she told us something bad happened, of holding Kate’s back together with my hands, or seeing Hotch collapse in the middle of the hospital, of seeing him as he broke down when he found out Kate didn’t make it out of surgery. It was all killing me.

Then I would think about how Hotch couldn’t seem to hear anything when they were pulling the coffin out of the ground, and when I fired my weapon at Chloe—That was my fault. How did I not realize that I did that? He didn’t have a problem with it until I fired my gun because I was standing right next to him. That one was my fault. I should’ve realized that there was something still going on with his ears, and I should’ve held out. But then she could’ve shot Hotch. He was right in her eyeline, her posture was squared up to shoot him. If she was going to shoot anyone, it was going to be him. I saw her raising her weapon, and I made a choice. I made the right choice. It was him or her, and I didn’t hesitate.

Finally, when morning came around, Hotch woke up to the sound of his alarm. He groaned and grabbed his phone to turn it off. Meanwhile, I closed my eyes, ignoring the flashes of nightmares, and pretended to be asleep. I was so worried about him; I didn’t need him worrying about me and how I didn’t fall asleep. Eventually, he turned over to face me, and I felt him put a gentle hand on my arm to wake me up. I gave it a few seconds of him massaging my arm awake before I opened my eyes. He was smiling at me while I pretended to be slowly waking up. I forced myself to smile back at him.

“Wanna shower before we head to meet up with the team?” he asked me quietly, brushing a strand of my hair out of my face.

I shook my head and closed my eyes again. I was trying to silently play it off like I was just tired, and I wanted to sleep in for another few minutes while he showered. It seemed to work because he kissed my temple and carefully slid out of bed. When he was gone and the bathroom door closed, I sat up and I started to think while he showered.

About fifteen minutes later, Hotch stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his hips, another one hanging from his neck as he used one corner to clear the water out from his left ear. I shifted on the bed while thinking about what was underneath that towel and how good he looked while his chest was still dripping beads of water. I had to shake off the thought, knowing that wasn’t what I wanted to do or talk about. I needed to focus on having a real conversation with him that had been weighing on my mind since New York.

He smiled at me. “I wish you would have joined me.”

But I didn’t smile back like I should have. “We need to talk about something.”

His smile disappeared and his forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows raised in worry. “Are you okay?”

I nodded and sat up. Hotch walked over and sat down by my feet. He reached out for me, so I turned onto my knees and crawled over to him. He pulled me onto his lap, his arms wrapped around my torso to hold me close. I tilted my head to the side so that I could press my forehead against his. As his wet chest soaked my pajamas, I thought long and hard about what to say next. There wasn’t enough time to prepare for such a conversation, and I wasn’t even sure if there were words to express exactly how I felt, but I needed to try.

I sighed quietly before taking in a deep breath of bravery. Fuck it. Full send. I just had to be honest. “I need you to be honest with me about what the doctors have been telling you. I didn’t want to pry because I knew that you would tell me when the time was right, but it’s been eating me alive, Aaron. I can’t sleep and I can’t eat because I spend my entire days just worrying about you. Something changed in New York. You didn’t used to keep secrets from me, which is how I know that this is really fucking bad. You would tell me if things are actually okay. So, I need to know the truth before it literally kills me.”

Hotch’s arms tightened around me while he pulled his face away from mine so that he could get a good look at me. I wasn’t smiling, I wasn’t smirking, and I wasn’t having any fun while trying to get answers out of him without having to start an argument. What I needed most was for him to just come out and say the truth, no matter how terrible it could be. Even if he were dying, I wanted to know. Even if he were so healthy that he could do a backflip, I wanted to know. There was something missing from what he had been telling me about his health since New York, and I had enough. He was the love of my life, there was no denying it. There was no one else out there who could love me the way he did, and there was no one out there that I could love with the same intensity that I had for him. But for us to work, he needed to just be honest with me. I could take anything, no matter how horrible. If there was even the slightest chance that I was going to spend the rest of my life with him, I needed to know that I could trust him wholeheartedly and that he shared the same sentiment. If we didn’t trust each other, then what was the point? I wanted him to know everything— hell, he did know everything about me, even the worst of the worst, the lowest of the low. He could show me the same courtesy, couldn’t he?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?” I inquired with worry, pushing his wet hair out of his face.

“I didn’t want to lie, I swear. I thought that I’d be fine, and I just didn’t want to worry you.” He looked at me while he mimicked my actions by brushing my hair out of my face, too. “I’ve been so worried about you since New York. I don’t want you to have another panic attack because of me.”

“Just tell me the truth.”

His gaze fell from my eyes to my shoulder. “I’m technically not supposed to be in the field… The doctor didn’t clear me to fly, and she doesn’t want me to be around loud noises, like gunshots.”

My eyes softened. Why would he lie about something like that? That was nothing to be ashamed of. This was his fucking health— Did he not realize that a fucking doctor told him to not put a strain on his ears and that they likely told him that for a fucking reason? It wasn’t just a suggestion as he was taking it to be. They knew what they were fucking talking about and he had blatantly—

I took in a deep breath and tried to relax.

“Maybe I should have listened,” he admitted.

Yeah. Maybe he should have. Just a thought… God, I wanted to smack some sense into him so bad. He probably didn’t realize how frustrating it was to hear that he was going out of his way to hurt himself.

“My ears, they keep ringing to the point that I can’t hear or see anything… And when it happens, I go right back to that night and I can just see myself holding onto Kate while screaming for help that just won’t come. I feel so lost and panicked every time—” He looked at me. “But then you’re there, and you’re holding me just like you are now, and I find my balance and I remember where I am. I remember that I love you and that we’re both okay, and that’s enough to help me calm down.”

I took in another relaxing breath, this time because I knew that he was right. I wanted to be mad at him, but he had the right idea about being held and grounded by each other. Knowing that he was safe and alive was the greatest sedative for the mind and heart.

I tried to ask my next question as calmly as possible because he had been honest with me and that was what I wanted. I didn’t want to punish his honesty by yelling at him, but there was so much anger penting up in my chest, and I needed to let him know one way or another that he had made a huge mistake that didn’t just affect him. So I proceeded cautiously with, “How long have we known each other, Aaron?”

“What? I—”

“A year. We’ve known each other for about a year. In all that time, have you ever doubted that I can take care of myself? Even when the worst thing imaginable happens and you get all worried about me, do you doubt that I can handle any situation life throws at me?”

“Never.”

“So then don’t doubt me when I tell you that what happened in New York is nothing to worry about. I’m not lying to you. It’s the truth. Do you really want to know why I panicked like that?” He nodded slightly. “You fell to the floor and I thought you died. I saw you laying there, and I thought that I had lost you for good. I can’t bear to lose you, Aaron. That’s why I had a panic attack. That’s why I couldn’t breathe. But you were fine, just needed a little fixing up and you were good to go. Now you’re telling me that you’re not fine and that you’re putting yourself in danger? Did you ever stop to consider how I might feel about it? Your health isn’t just for you to worry about, Aaron. You have a family. We have a family. What if you were to come home one day and you can’t hear Jack’s laugh anymore, huh? You come home from a case and you can’t hear me tell you how much I love you, or Haley’s trying to tell you something important about Jack that we had to miss while we were gone, and you can’t understand her? You can’t do that, Aaron. It’s not fair. It’s not fair to you, to me, to Jack, the team, or even Haley. There are people who need you to be healthy and safe. We’re relying on it. You can’t just make the decision for yourself that you’re going to disobey the doctor’s orders and then have those around you suffer the consequences.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“I know you are, baby.” I pressed my lips against his forehead, keeping myself there for a minute. He leaned in and pecked a kiss against my neck. “I just want you to be safe and healthy. Is that too much to ask?” He shook his head. “I.” I kissed his forehead. “Love.” I did it again. “You.” He giggled slightly. “I love you, Aaron Hotchner.”

“I love you, too.” He looked up at me. “I.” He kissed my lips. “Love.” He did it again. “You.” Again. “Y/N Greenaway.” I smiled against his lips. “And I really am sorry. I promise, I won’t lie again. I swear it.” We hugged each other tight as he fell back onto the bed. I laughed and tried to roll off of him, but he held me tight. “You’re not going anywhere.”

When we were dressed and ready to leave the hotel, Hotch and I headed down to the lobby where the team was waiting for us. We apologized for being late, which earned a snarky remark from Morgan about how Hotch was getting “some action”, and in return, Hotch told him that he’d get to ride back-middle seat in the car as punishment. Morgan’s face fell. I chuckled as I walked past him to claim the front passenger’s seat in the car that Hotch would be driving.

We drove to the precinct first so that Hotch and JJ could wrap up a few things with the Sheriff, since he apparently wanted to discuss something with them in person before the team would get on the jet. Everyone got out of the car to stretch their legs again because they knew that they had a long flight ahead of them, but I did it because I knew that Hotch and I had an even longer trip. After Hotch admitted that he wasn’t clear to fly, I told him that there was no way in hell I was letting him get on that jet home. He told me that he understood, and we discussed how we were going to road trip home. It wasn’t ideal, but it was what we had to do in order to keep him safe.

Hotch and JJ finished talking with the Sheriff and one of Cortland’s original victim’s mother a few minutes later. She handed him a plate of cookies, which he thanked her for. As they all said goodbye to one another, Hotch and JJ slowly started making their way back to us. I pushed myself upright from leaning on the side of the car. Hotch and I exchanged a quick glance. Recognizing the signal, I opened the trunk and grabbed our go-bags while he handed the plate to Emily. When I had our bags, I closed the trunk, and I handed him his black duffle bag.

“You’re not coming?” Emily questioned, following Hotch around with the plate of cookies.

“No,” Hotch shook his head. “We’ve, uh… we’ve decided that we’re gonna drive back.”

“That’s a seven hour drive!”

Hotch looked over at me. I nodded a reassurance. “I… I really shouldn’t be flying.”

Emily looked over at me, too, now. She put two and two together. Knowing that this was something that we had discussed privately, and it was a decision we made together, she decided not to push. She nodded understandingly, then told us to drive safe. Morgan and I exchanged a glance as he got in the car with the rest of the team. I smiled lightly at him. Rossi was the only one who didn’t get in yet. He waited for them to close their doors before approaching me and Hotch.

“You know, I’ve done that drive before,” he said quietly. “There’s a lot of small towns—even more miles of absolute nothing. It gets kind of dizzying to spend all those hours on the road without stopping. Maybe you two should stretch the trip out for a day or two. Take a few days off to be yourselves again.”

Hotch nodded. “It’s something we’ve considered.” He reached out to shake Rossi’s hand. “Thanks.”

“Stay safe out there,” he said to Hotch, shaking his hand. “Don’t let him drive,” he joked, pointing at me. We both chuckled together, but Hotch only glared playfully at me. “We’ll be fine without you two for a few days, don’t worry.” He turned to get into the car.

When the whole team was settled in the car, Reid started the ignition. Honestly, I didn’t envy them after knowing that Reid was going to be driving them to the airport. I did feel bad, however, for not joining them, and for potentially not being at work over the next few days… but being with Hotch to make sure that he was okay… that meant more to me than anything else. That was what was important. I didn’t want to lose him, and that included losing any part of him, like his hearing. This was the safest thing for him, and I was going to be with him every step of the way, holding his hand as we got through this together.

He was going to hate me over the next few days. If he didn’t know it yet, he was going to learn very quickly that I didn’t appreciate being lied to. When Elle tried lying to me about her pain tolerance after getting shot, I stayed at her house for a bit to baby her, to make sure that she was alright and doing everything the doctor’s told her to do. She grew to dislike me over those two weeks because of that. But she was also the reason I didn’t immediately move in with Hotch, so she kind of had it coming. In Hotch’s case, he lied to me the same way she lied… and, boy, oh, boy, was I going to have a field day with making his life hell to make sure he knew to never lie to me again.

So as the team drove off, I held my hand out in front of me, my palm facing up. Hotch tried lacing his fingers with mine, but I playfully pulled away. “Keys,” I explained.

He furrowed his brows. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m dead serious. Keys, Agent Hotchner.”

He moved his go-bag from his right to left hand so that he could dig into his pockets for the car keys. “I’m perfectly capable of driving, Agent Greenaway.”

“No, you’re not.” I took the keys from him. “I love you.” I pressed a quick kiss against his cheek before hurrying off to the driver’s side of the car we were taking. Hotch watched me for a moment. “You can pick your jaw off the floor now,” I said, biting back a laugh, and opening up my car door.

His eyes brightened and a smile crept onto his face. “You’re something else… You know that, right?” I nodded. I could practically see his heart beating in his chest like we were in a damn cartoon or something. “I—” He was at a loss for words, which only made me smile. “I love you.” There it was. “Even though you’re a pain in my ass sometimes,” he mumbled under his breath as he got in the car.

Touché.

I was going to show him just how much of a pain in the ass I could be. Poor Aaron Hotchner had no idea.

#Criminal Minds #criminal minds fanfic #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #aaron hotchner #Aaron Hotch Hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner imagine #hotch

32 notes · View notes