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atinylittlepain · 9 months

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Oh Baby - A Carmy Berzatto Story

dad!carmen berzatto x f!reader

carmy masterlist

a small family, a new family, trying to figure this thing out.

warnings | 18+ angst surrounding being new parents, work stress, but enough fluff to make up for it, i promise

a/n | this sweet little piece comes from a lovely request sent to me over DM, thank you so much for sending this my way, i hope i've done it justice. Also have to thank the cousins @tieronecrush and @northernbluess for reading this bad boy and letting me scream about the bear, love ya both

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He’s running late. It started with a question from Sydney about one of the new menu items, and then it was Sugar needing to show him a quote for some inspection they still need to get done. And then there was something with one of the new chefs, though he can’t really remember what it was right now as his brain fries with how late he is.

He told her he’d be home by midnight at the latest, finish dinner service and get his ass home immediately. He had even made a joke about getting home just in time to give their girl her seemingly routine middle of the night bottle. But it’s now two in the morning and he’s only just getting on the L to get back to their apartment.

It’s not like he has a hard time with the late nights. In fact, he always thrived on this chaotic rhythm. But he knows it’s not doing her or their girl any good. Getting home and crashing in bed, useless until ten in the morning, no help with breakfast or getting their girl dressed and ready for the day, shuffling into the living room to find her already working at her desk, her foot keeping a steady rock to the bassinet right next to it. A few days ago, the fleeting thought that she looked like a single mother, and then an immediate clench and clash of pain sliding through his chest. It’s the same feeling he has right now on the train, building and beating until he has to put his palm right over the hurt, like he might be able to press it out with the heel of his hand.

He could slow down, everyone at the restaurant has offered that up to him. Shorter shifts, only there when he’s really needed, whole days off. So he doesn’t know why he can’t just accept that, why he’s still holding onto the restaurant with white knuckles. And right now, he’s too tired to give it much thought beyond how badly he wants things to be different. No more disappointed sighs, no more ships in the night, no more making promises only to break them.

He’s only a little surprised when he walks into their apartment that the light in the kitchen is on, her light murmurings filtering through, enough to make that hurt even worse. He finds them standing in front of the microwave, waiting for a bottle to be warmed up, and for a moment, what a sight it is. She’s wearing an old The Beef t-shirt, legs bare and set in a slow shuffle side-to-side, her cheek pressed over the top of their girl’s head where she’s held in her arms, eyes dropped shut. A small smile that slides away when her eyes crack open to see him standing in the doorway.

“You’re home.” It’s barely rasped on a whisper, a small frown pulling down each word. He considers for a moment that he’d really like for the ground to swallow him up right about now.

“I’m sorry, baby, I–” His words crack when their girl starts to fuss, small coos and whimpers, tiny fists balled and pressing against her mom’s chest to arch her back away from her hold. And there it is, that sigh, that small collapse of her shoulders as she gets the bottle out of the microwave, no longer looking at him, brushing right past him to go sit down in the living room. He follows on her heels with all the timidity of a scolded dog.

“I can do it, if you wanna go lay back down. It’s– I’d like–”

“I can do it, Carmen.” Still not looking at him, her eyes focused on their girl, finger skating down the rounding of her cheek as she latches onto the bottle. He knows it’s one of the ways she tries to even the score with him, a petty thing to not let him partake in or watch this small wonder. When she was first born, and she was still breast-feeding, and he was still on a Sugar-mandated paternity leave, he’d hover endlessly. Just over her shoulder, watching the way their girl's hand splayed over her sternum like a perfect flower as she latched on, whispering in awe at her contented sighs and eager gulps. Always dropping a kiss to her temple, small words of love and gratitude, her chin tilting up, basking in them, warmth in the way she would look up at him.

But now, now she’s looking at him with all of the kindness of a prison inmate, eyes blank and jaw set as she cups the back of their girl’s head, smoothing out the mass of curls already growing, just like his. For a moment, only fleeting, anger starts to rise like bile up the back of his throat. Anger that he’s here now, wanting so badly to be here now, and she’s the one boxing him out. But that anger is gone in a blink because he can see the way her eyes are starting to swim, red-rimmed and heavy down her cheeks. And he can see the way her lip is starting to tremble too, even as she coos and hums to their girl when she starts to fuss with the bottle. He can’t be angry when she’s hurting like that, when he’s the one who has made her hurt like that.

He kneels down in front of where she’s sitting on the couch, a small relief that she doesn't flinch away when his palms come to rest on her knees. He can tell that she’s trying not to break, little sniffs to hold back the flood as their girl continues to suckle.

“I don’t want it to be like this.”

“Neither do I, Carm.” Said on a sigh, like, sure, nice words, not expecting anything to come of them though.

“Tell me what I can do to make this different.”

“I’m dumbfounded by the fact that you’re asking me to tell you what to do. Do you really not know?” Quick and clipped, still whispered so that it doesn’t disturb their girl as she finishes her bottle. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to arrange the right words to respond.

“You’re right.” The best that he can come up with at two in the morning, though at least it’s the truth. She just sighs though, shaking his hands off her knees so that she can stand up. And this hurts too, how easily she can do this by herself, or at least how easy she makes it look, transferring their girl to one arm as she pads back into the kitchen. A little more space between them as he follows behind her, watching how she holds the bottle against her hip to get the top screwed off, rocking and shushing their girl all the while as she soaps up the bottle.

“Baby, let me do that. I can, here, just let me–”

“Goddamnit, Carm.” Still whispered, but still sharp, enough for their girl to let out a whine at her sudden exclamation, though she’s quick to soothe and calm against her shoulder.

“Do you want to know why I don’t let you help? It’s because I’m trying to get used to doing this on my own.”

“What?” It feels like the floor has dropped out from under him, a skittering, sickening feeling running up and down his spine. He wants more than anything to reach for her, for both of them, to thumb away the tears that are starting to fall even as she tries to steel her jaw. All he can do to ball his hands into fists over and over.

“You’re not here, Carmen. And when you are, it’s like– it’s like I’m living with a stranger. You told me before we had her that you would be here, that things at the restaurant were going to change. And I’m getting tired of waiting for that to happen.”

“What are you saying right now?” She scrunches her eyes shut for a moment, pure frustration, and complete exhaustion, all the while still rocking their girl.

“I’m saying that if this is how it’s going to be, I don’t know if I can keep doing this with you. My sister–”

“No.”

“Carm–”

“No. That isn’t– that’s not– you can’t just take her from me like that. We– we said we would do this together.”

“We already aren’t doing this together, Carm. And I’m just– I’m tired.” There isn’t any more to say, not now. She doesn’t look at him again, brushing past him through the doorway of the kitchen to get to the nursery down the hall. He doesn’t try to follow, numbly shuffling back to the couch, a full body slump, tilting his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose when the tears start to prickle. He listens to all the small sounds, stealing snippets of her humming, the quiet padding of her bare feet into their bedroom, the rustling of sheets. And then perfect silence, except for the broken exhales he keeps trying to stifle.

…

Sleep happens, somehow. Curled onto his side on the couch, but not for long, the watery blue glint of dawn slanting in through the blinds when he’s woken up to the sound of their girl’s quiet babblings. The nursery is closer to the living room, so he’s almost certain she hasn’t been woken up by the sound yet. But he also knows that those soft coos will soon turn into full-blown wails, so he gets up, biting back a groan as his spine shifts and crackles upright before stumbling into the nursery.

Everyone seems to call their girl something different. She calls her bean, or sometimes pearl, any iteration of small, precious things, usually with a my in front of the word. Richie calls her cub, or cubby, a fitting choice given her father’s nickname. Sugar calls her curl because of that head of hair she’s already grown into. Sydney calls her miso baby, though it all comes out as one word like misobaby, on account of the cravings for broth and noodles her mother incurred while she was pregnant with her, something that Sydney was always happy to accommodate whenever she stopped by the restaurant. Carmy’s is less creative, he thinks, the first word he remembers coming to mind when he first held her in his arms, somewhere between wonder and utterly sweet devastation at the sight.

“Hey, little, what’s going on in here?” It always shocks him, how light his whole world is when he picks her up in his arms, and how easily her cheek settles against his chest, his palm smoothing the small shake of her cries between the fragile wings of her shoulder blades. He remembers being terrified the first time he held her, that he’d somehow manage to ruin this most perfect thing. Laying in her hospital bed, watching, she reassured him that he wouldn’t, that he couldn’t, that perfect came from him just as much as it came from her.

“It’s breakfast time, isn’t it? We’re gonna let your mom sleep in, okay? I’ve got it.” He drops his lips to the crown of her head, taking a long breath in as he shuffles out to the kitchen. And he does have it under control, after all, he knows how to follow a recipe.

He keeps her close in one arm, only fumbling a little with the one-handed bottle into the microwave production, but he manages. And then onto the couch and honestly, he thinks it’s a little holy, it certainly feels that way. Watching her eyes slip shut in contentment as she drinks from the bottle, her tiny gasp and sigh when she’s all done. How could anything ever be as good as this? He doesn’t think it’s possible.

“Think we oughta make breakfast for your mom, huh? You wanna help?” She gurgles over his shoulder as he finishes burping her. He’ll take that as a yes. He maneuvers her high chair into the doorway of the kitchen with about as much grace as his one-handed abilities will allow him, trying hard to stay silent, peering down the hall to make sure she hasn’t woken up yet. Coast clear, he settles their girl into the high chair and gets to work.

There’s a slightly old half of a loaf of brioche on the counter, something he brought home a few days ago, one of Marcus’ new projects. Eggs and milk in the fridge, so his plan is already forming.

“You know, when I first met your mom– you’re a little too young for the details, but– the morning after, I made her french toast. I think it got me a second date.” He whisks up the eggs and milk quick, a pinch of cinnamon like he knows how she likes it.

“I think for a while she was just coming back for the french toast. But I didn’t care, I was just happy that she kept coming back.” Butter melting deep and golden in the pan, and then the silent sizzle and snap of the battered slices of bread frying up perfect. He glances over to their girl in between checking on the bread in the pan.

“You weren’t done, were you, little? I’m sorry, I got you.” A little spit-up down the front of her onesie. He stretches between the stove and her high chair to dab it up with a clean dish towel, not even trying to resist the want to press a kiss to her forehead, earning him an exasperated gurgle from her.

“Already too cool for me, huh?” She smiles, showing off the two new teeth that have only started to come in. He doesn’t think he’s ready for any more teeth to start coming in yet.

He’s just plating up the first few slices when his ears prick to the sound of stirring, what sounds like a stretch groaning in her chest from down the hall. Bare feet padding, stopping at the nursery, he’s sure, and then coming closer, his heart starting to kick up in anticipation.

“Good morning, my bean.” He can hear the kiss she drops to their girl’s cheek, and he chances a glance over to see her bending over the back of the high chair to nuzzle her face into their girl’s, contented giggles bubbling up in her small chest at her mother’s ministrations. His heart stutters stop for a moment before the gears start to turn again in a much better rhythm. But too long of a glance because–

“Oh shit.” The smell of singe, one of the slices burnt up and unsalvageable. He’s quick to scrape it out of the pan. Still plenty to make this right, okay, not perfect though. He was going for perfect.

“What’s all this?” She’s being quiet, not looking at him as she gathers their girl out of the high chair and into her arms, a small sway side to side.

“I, um, breakfast– you hungry?”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. Go sit, I’ll get it.”

“Did she–”

“Yeah, I fed her.” She’s finally looking at him, bewilderment rounding and widening her eyes, though she quietly nods and shuffles through the kitchen. A soft graze past him and toward the small dining table they have set up in front of the windows, now letting in the first honeyed light of the morning.

Two slices, steam still rising and melting down a sliver of butter. Syrup on the side because she doesn’t like it to get soggy. And a plate for himself too because he knows she’ll tell him to eat, even as mad at him as she is now.

She keeps their girl in her lap, her arm curled around the soft round of her belly to hold her upright, and he can’t help but smile, sitting down across from them. A small sigh with her first bite and it feels like the greatest relief, something slackening beneath his ribs.

“I didn’t play fair last night. I’m sorry, Carm.” Always beating him to the punch, he hates that she’s apologizing.

“No, you were right. I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m gonna make some changes, okay?” She sighs, her lashes dropped to the tops of her cheeks, not buying it. And he doesn’t blame her, he’s talked about changes in the past. Though the changes have yet to happen.

“Baby, I’m serious. I’m gonna talk to Sugar today and get this figured out. Not gonna keep messing this up.”

“You aren’t messing up, Carmen. I know how important that restaurant is to you. And maybe it’s selfish, but I just want you here more, with us. You’re missing so much, and I don’t want that for you.” Their girl chooses that moment to start to squirm in her hold, pressing the dough of her palms into the edge of the table to stand up in her mother’s lap, turning around and wrapping her small arms around her mother’s neck, making a smile get big and bright on her face as she smacks a string of kisses on her cheek, a quiet thank you, my bean. Missing things like this, he thinks. His heart aches with it.

“Nothing is more important than this. I think when she came– I was just like– holy shit, you know?” Her smile tempers, settling on him as she continues to accommodate the squirms and shuffling of their girl in her lap.

“Yeah, I’m familiar with that feeling.”

“This isn’t an excuse, I know it isn’t. But, I don’t know, I think I believed that if I could just work harder, make sure the restaurant was good and money was coming in that– that it’d somehow make me feel less terrified.”

“Terrified?”

“Of getting this all wrong. I just– Jesus Christ, I want everything for her.” There’s more he’d like to say, but he cuts himself off with a resigned laugh, holding his head in his hand as he watches their girl twist around in her mother’s arms again, looking at him now like somehow she knows he’s talking about her. And then a small hand reaching out across the table. Small hand reaching for him.

She gets up with a sigh, rounding the edge of the table, an easy pass-off, their girl’s hands grasping at his t-shirt, the same one he came home in last night. He holds her close, taking another deep inhale of the crown of her head before looking up at her mom. Her mom, his woman, his partner, who carefully runs her fingers back through his mussed hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

“There are so many people also working to make sure that restaurant is good, Carm, and it is. But I– we need you here, we just do.” Her palm slips down along his cheek, and he turns his head to press a kiss to the center of it. A much smaller hand tugs at his curls to get his attention, making him laugh as he drops a kiss to their girl’s temple.

“You’re right. This is where I need to be. I don’t want you having to do this on your own anymore.” He gets up with a sigh, hiking their girl onto his hip, reaching out for her with his other arm, his fingers curling behind the nape of her neck, a small coaxing that she allows, pressing her forehead against his.

“We’re gonna do this together, alright? I’m here, and I’m gonna figure out how to keep being here.” An answer in the way her nose brushes along the side of his, an okay. And the realization that he can’t remember the last time they were this close is enough to bridge what space is left between them, more of a sigh than a kiss, but he’ll take it. Quick to be interrupted by quiet fussing and a small fist pressing against his cheek, both of them pulling away with a laugh to look at their seemingly perturbed girl.

“I think we’ve made a small monster.” She says it absolutely dripping in affection, her hand coming to brush their girl’s sleep-tufted hair back from her face.

“Maybe, yeah. She’s still fucking perfect though.” He snakes his arm around her waist, pulling her close so their girl is half-sandwiched between them, eyes wide as she babbles up at them both.

“We have to stop saying fuck around her, Carm. It’s gonna end up being her first word.”

“She’ll fit right in at the restaurant that way.”

A small family, a new family, figuring it out in their sun-soaked kitchen. Tired eyes and bare feet and quiet laughs. And there’s going to be more messing up, he already knows that. Both him and her. Passing sorry back and forth, willing and receiving. But this is enough to make it right, to keep going. This can be perfect.

#carmen berzatto fluff #carmen berzatto fanfiction #carmen berzatto fic #carmen berzatto #carmy the bear #carmy x reader #carmy berzatto #carmy berzatto angst #carmy berzatto fluff #carmy berzatto fanfiction #carmy berzatto fic #the bear fanfiction #the bear fic

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avatar-anna · 1 year

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A Nice Surprise

so...no one asked for this, but i'm in a domestic!harry mood

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“Sleigh bells ring, are you listenin,’ in the lane, snow is glistenin,’ a beautiful sight, we’re happy tonight…” Y/n hummed along to the song that had been playing on the radio just seconds ago in her car. She always found Christmas carols ironic, seeing as most of them were about white Christmases, winter wonderlands, and the joys of cold weather when it was barely cold enough to see your breath outside in Los Angeles. Winter wonderland or mornings out on the water to surf, she thought the songs were catchy and did a pretty good job of getting her into the Christmas spirit.

Unlocking the front door of her house, Y/n stepped inside and hung her keys up on the hook on the wall. After work, she’d gone out to buy gifts for her family. She had a list of everything she needed to get in her purse, and happily scratched off each one when she found it. Y/n didn’t usually like shopping for herself, but there was something satisfying about knowing exactly what a family member wanted and going out to find it. And now that she had a daughter, she couldn’t help but feel smug as she picked up the last doll in the store that all the other moms wanted to purchase for their daughters as well.

Speaking of daughters, she looked down at her belly. Y/n was barely showing, and she still feared that something would go horribly wrong. Even with all the modern advancements in medicine, pregnancy and giving birth could still be so traumatic. Not to mention that this time around she would be having twins. The news was certainly cause for celebration, but Y/n would always worry, would always think about possible outcomes until Harry distracted her.

Her doctor told her everything looked perfect at her last appointment, and Harry consistently told her not to worry, so she tried to be positive, which was easy when her two daughters were around. The thing that kept her mind at bay the most was cuddling Harry and Simone, her oldest, on the couch and watching a movie while baby Colette slept soundly against her chest, and maybe taking a walk along the beach, too. Though after being on her feet all day, Y/n felt like skipping the walk and settling for just watching the sunset from the deck chairs on their back patio. Sometimes Y/n wondered if she and Harry were even ready for one new baby let alone two, but those thoughts were fleeting, and it was easy to let them go when Harry was more than excited about her having twins.

As Y/n walked through the house, she realized Simone didn’t seem to be home. She, along with the two dogs, was always the first person to greet her when Y/n came home, but she only got the two dogs today. Curiously, she walked further into the house after sufficiently petting her dogs. At the faint sound of music and finding little candles leading upstairs, Y/n really began to wonder what the hell was going on. Following the candles all the way to the door of her bedroom that was slightly ajar, she tentatively walked inside.

“Harry! What the hell are you wearing?”

Nothing. He wasn’t wearing anything, the only thing keeping him looking decent being a small Christmas gift that left very little to the imagination. Y/n had turned around when she saw him, her cheeks flaming red. She had been ready for a relaxing night huddled up on the couch with her daughters and husband, and now it seemed Harry had very different plans for tonight.

She could practically hear his grin as he spoke. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen me naked before. How do you think you wound up pregnant three times?”

Harry loved how flustered Y/n got when either of them tried to “spice things up.” After having Simone at such a young age, enrolling her in school, and their conflicting schedules, and with Colette currently not sleeping through the night, both of them found it a little harder to find time to be truly alone, so they took liberties where they could and seized opportunities when they had the chance.

There was a rustling on the bed that told Y/n Harry had got up from it, and then he was right behind her, his hands landing on her shoulders to turn her back around. Looking up into his face, she saw that he’d gotten a haircut sometime today, the sides a little shorter than they were this morning. It made his features look more pronounced, his jaw and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Opening her mouth to comment on his little surprise, his haircut, apologize for acting like an idiot, anything, Y/n immediately clamped her hand over her mouth and rushed to the bathroom instead, dropping down to her knees so she could empty the contents of her stomach into the toilet. A minute later, Harry was there, holding back her hair and rubbing soothing circles into her back until she was done.

When she felt strong enough, she flushed the toilet and let Harry help her to her feet. Facing him again, she saw that he’d slipped into his robe before coming to help her, which only made her feel bad for ruining his plans, whatever they were. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, walking over to the sink so she could brush her teeth and rid herself of the lingering horrible taste in her mouth.

“What for? You only threw up at the mere sight of me,” Harry joked.

Y/n glared at him for a moment, but once she was done brushing her teeth, she walked over to him and fell into his awaiting arms. “Whoever said morning sickness gets better with each pregnancy is a liar,” she mumbled. Then, looking up at him, she said, “I know you probably had…plans for us, but I’m really tired and I feel gross, and I probably killed the mood just now. Can we take a raincheck?”

Harry squeezed his wife and kissed the top of her head. “Of course, lovey. How about a bath instead?”

He knew that there was a slight possibility that his plans for tonight would fall through, but he had prepared for that. He bought some bath bubbles with a very subtle scent, knowing that anything too strong would make Y/n nauseous, he bought sparkling cider in lieu of wine, and he got her all her favorite sweets. Harry also knew that her mood swings might make her more than eager for his original plans for tonight, too, so he held out hope and focused on enjoying an evening alone with his wife.

Y/n nodded and let Harry get everything set up, more than happy to let him do this for her. It had hit her all of a sudden. She’d been mostly fine all day, working and walking around the large mall a couple minutes away from work to buy presents, but now she felt exhausted, four months of being pregnant hitting her out of nowhere.

Harry helped Y/n into the bathtub and got in behind her so that her back was resting comfortably against his chest. He felt her relax against him, almost purring when he began to undo the braid her hair had been in all day and comb his fingers through it. Grinning, he kissed her cheek and asked how her day was. Y/n told him, her voice quiet as she rested against him, letting his hands soothe her tired limbs. It wasn’t until she got to her return home that she remembered that Simone and Colette still nowhere to be found.

“Harry?”

“Yes, my love?” he replied, kissing all along her bare shoulder and neck.

“Where are our daughters?”

Harry paused for a moment when Y/n leaned her head back to look him in the eye. His grin was a little sheepish as he said, “Uncle Niall took them out for an evening of fun.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow at him. “That sounds ominous.”

“They’ll be fine. I just told Niall to take them to a movie and ice cream or something so we could have a couple of hours to ourselves.”

“Oh…okay,” she said before turning to face forward again.

Harry thought her response was a little odd, but he didn’t question it until he heard her sniffle. “Lovey, are you crying?” He was familiar with Y/n’s behaviors during pregnancy, but the crying always amused him. His wife hardly ever cried, so to see her do it at the drop of a hat was definitely interesting.

She sniffled again and raised a hand to her face, presumably to wipe a tear away. “Yes, but it’s just the hormones. I really wanted to see them and then they weren’t here and then you were so loving and it’s all too much so now not only have I ruined your kind gesture by throwing up, but now I’m a crying mess of hormones too.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around her as best he could. He pecked her cheek a couple times, one of his hands sinking into the bathwater to rest on her baby bump. “I love you so, so much. Even if you’re a crying mess of hormones, you’re my crying mess of hormones, okay?”

Y/n huffed a small laugh and swatted at Harry’s arm, but his grin only widened. When she finally calmed down, he said, “And if you want, we can call Niall and he can come back early. Just say the word.”

“Yeah?” Y/n asked, and when she looked back at him again, her eyelashes were all stuck together and her eyes were still glassy, but her voice wasn’t wobbling anymore.

Harry kissed her, his thumb brushing lovingly against her cheekbone as he held her face in his hands. “Yeah. Spending time with my girls is one of my favorite things, you know that.”

Y/n smiled, and Harry thought it was the most beautiful thing. “And what’s your favorite thing?”

“Well, you would’ve known if you hadn’t thrown up. I had some pretty great tricks up my sleeve for tonight.”

“Oh fuck off,” Y/n muttered at his teasing, but Harry only gasped at her.

“Babe, you can’t swear! They can hear you,” Harry gasped, and she knew he wasn’t teasing this time.

“Okay, first of all, we don’t know that they can hear—”

“I just know, okay? And I’ve read that even at this stage, babies can—”

“Harry shut up!”

“See, that’s exactly what I’m saying. You can’t—”

Y/n rolled her eyes and grabbed his wrist and brought it to her stomach. “Harry. Shut up and feel. They’re moving.”

Harry did shut up then, too entranced by what Y/n had said to focus on anything else. The bathroom went absolutely silent while they waited for the babies in her belly to move again, and when it did, Harry gasped, utterly in awe. “That’s—” he tried to say, but he couldn’t find the words.

“I know,” she replied, knowing exactly what he meant. Then, raising her free hand to her mouth to hide her smile, she asked, “Are you crying?”

He didn’t even try to hide it, just grinned and nodded, kissing her over and over again.

They stayed in the tub until the water went tepid. Once they were ready to get out, Harry stepped out of the tub first so he could get a towel for his wife. Y/n grinned at how delicate he was with her. Harry had always been careful with her since they found out she was pregnant, but this was different somehow. Like now that he had felt their babies moving around, her pregnancy felt all the more real.

Y/n normally was more than capable of getting out of the bathtub herself, but with the baby, she didn’t want to risk possibly slipping and falling, so she reached her hand out for Harry to take. She shouldn’t have been surprised when her husband wrapped her in a towel and lifted her out of the tub, carrying her over to their bed. She laughed as Harry set her down as gently as he could instead of playfully tossing her onto the mattress like he normally would have. Still wrapped in her towel and Harry in his robe, Y/n pulled him down to her and kissed him, threading her fingers through his still damp hair. While her hands stayed in the same place, his were everywhere—tracing the sides of her arms, the curve of her waist, even her stomach where he could feel the tiny bump that seemed to be growing every single day.

At one point, Harry shifted so that he was on his back, letting Y/n put her weight on him. Their kiss was interrupted when she heard something crinkle, though, and pulled the forgotten gift from where Harry had laid on top of it. “What is this?” she asked him, eyeing the box curiously.

Harry blushed a little and tried to take it out of her hands. “Nothing. Just—Nothing.”

“Oh come on. Tell me,” Y/n whined, doing her best to pout at him. Harry was a lot better at it than she was. “You can’t keep secrets from me when I’m carrying your child. Children. I’m carrying two of your children currently.”

Harry’s responding look was incredulous. “I can’t believe you just said that,” he said, but motioned for her to open the box anyway.

Leaning in to kiss Harry once, she took the gift and opened it, eager to see what had made his cheeks all pink. Y/n looked at him with raised eyebrows when she peeled away two sheets of tissue paper and saw what was in the box. With two fingers, she raised it up so that it was hanging from her hands between them.

“Wow, you really did have plans for us tonight,” was all she managed to say without laughing.

“It’s not like that,” Harry said with a roll of his eyes. “I just know you’ve been uncomfortable sleeping lately and I thought wearing something like that would help, but when I got online, there were so many options and cuts and colors, so I figured I’d make it a little festive.”

“And you love me in red.”

“Yeah. I do absolutely adore you in red.”

Y/n inspected the nightgown closely. It was fairly simple, which led her to believe that while Harry had claimed he wanted something that would be fun for the holidays, she could wear it beyond Christmas too. It was cool to the touch, the satiny red fabric soft under the pads of her fingers. The lace on the bodice looked hand stitched, and she noticed that the tag was conveniently missing. She didn’t like Harry spending so much money on her, but she’d learned a long time ago that he loved giving, that he got a kind of thrill from seeing someone open a gift he’d picked out.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, still running her fingers over the fabric. Y/n was aware of the fact that she was still in her towel from the bath, and suddenly wanted to be wrapped up in the nightgown. Harry had been right when he said she’d had trouble sleeping as of late; she was always too hot and too uncomfortable at night, and she knew that it would only get worse as the babies in her belly grew, but she loved that Harry did whatever he could to ease some of that discomfort.

“Mm,” was all Harry said, or didn’t say.

Y/n looked up at him, only to find that he had a far away look in his eyes. She knew that look, knew that he was most likely picturing her in his gift. “I’m assuming this was a bit of a self-indulgent gift, too.”

“What? No,” Harry said, but they both knew he was lying. When Y/n pressed him with a look, he sighed in mock defeat. “Okay, so it’s possible that I fantasized about you in that nightgown with you on top of me. It’d be bunched around your hips because of my hands,” he paused then and pursed his lips like he had more to say but wasn’t sure he should continue. Eventually he did. “And I may have noticed that you’ve filled out a little in the chest department, so it’s possible that I also imagined you practically spilling out of this thing.”

Y/n was quiet for a moment, taking in Harry’s “possible” fantasies. It was pretty tame as far as those kinds of things went, and honestly, after knowing him for so long, it was not nearly the oddest thing she had ever heard him say. However…

“Chest department?”

“Shut up, I was trying to be polite. You were complaining about them the other day, but I will never ever complain about them. Ever.”

Y/n was only teasing, though. She loved how attentive to every little change her body went through since they found out she was pregnant. And while she’d complained a little about her change in the “chest department,” that was one thing she liked about pregnancy. Aside from the babies themselves, obviously.

Without saying anything else, Y/n stood up and walked back into the bathroom, nightgown in hand. She ignored Harry’s protests and shut the door behind her and quickly got to work.

Y/n fixed up her hair, combing it a little and fluffing it at the roots, hoping it didn’t look limp around her shoulders. Next, she rubbed lotion into the skin of her arms and legs before spritzing a little perfume onto her collarbones. Once she was satisfied that her skin was soft and moisturized, she touched up her makeup that she’d had on all day, cleaning up smudged mascara under her eyes and adding a little more blush to her cheeks. She wanted to look good for Harry, to make up for putting a stop to his initial plans for tonight by throwing up almost as soon as she saw him. She didn’t know how long they had before Niall came back with Simone and Colette, but she figured they could make the most of it.

When she thought she was ready, she slipped the nightgown on and examined herself in the mirror.

Harry’s desires of seeing her spilling out over the top of the nightgown would have to wait another day. It seemed he had bought the nightgown a size or two larger than her usual size to accommodate the baby bump that would continue to grow in the next few weeks. But if she pulled the nightgown tight, she could see her bump through the satiny fabric, and the sight alone left a lump in her throat, tears of joy threatening to spill over her eyes.

Running a hand through her hair one last time, Y/n opened the bathroom door again. Harry was waiting on the bed in almost the exact same position that she’d found him in when she’d come home from the mall earlier. The sight made her sigh and shake her head, but she met him on the bed anyway, eager to make any wish he had come true.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::i also have a blurb about how niall's evening with the kiddos went, so lmk if that's of any interest to anyone!

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing #dadrry

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tendaysofrain · 1 year

Text

Random Stuff #14: Cats in China--History (Part 2)

(Link to Part 1)

(Warning: Very long post ahead with multiple pictures!)

Cats Becoming Pets

In the book Dreams of Splendor of the Eastern Capital (《東京夢華錄》), a memoir by Meng Yuanlao/孟元老 about life in the then “Eastern Capital” or Bianliang/汴梁 (today known as Kaifeng/开封, located in Henan province) in Northern Song dynasty (960 - 1127 AD), there was a section called “Miscellaneous Goods”, which revealed that there were special street vendors who sold horse feed, dog food, and of course, cat food and cat treats:

“If you kept horses, there were two people who sold hay daily; if you kept dogs, there were dog food being sold; if you kept cats then there were cat food and small fish”. (“若養馬，則有兩人日供切草；養犬則供餳糟；養貓則供貓食並小魚”)

Another book that shed light on this change in more concrete terms is Fleeting Dreams of Splendor (《夢粱錄》)--which as you can probably guess from the title, is a memoir modeled after Dreams of Splendor of the Eastern Capital, this time about life in Southern Song dynasty (1127 - 1279 AD) capital city Lin’an/臨安 (today known as Hangzhou/杭州, located in Zhejiang province). In the book it was mentioned that people in the capital kept white or yellow long haired cats, called “lion cats”/獅貓, which couldn’t catch mice and were only kept for their looks, or in other words, these cats had become actual pets:

“People of the capital kept cats to catch mice, and the cats have long hair. Those that were white or yellow were called ‘lion cats’, these cats could not catch mice and were kept because they looked beautiful”. (“貓，都人畜之捕鼠，有長毛。白黃色者稱曰「獅貓」，不能捕鼠，以為美觀”)

During Song dynasty, folk customs also developed around cat adoption. Cat adoption, called pin/聘 or na/納, was treated like a “wedding” of sorts, complete with a “bride price” and a “marriage certificate” contract/契. The “bride price”, of course, was paid to the family that the cat came from, and usually took the form of some salt (this act is called ”bringing salt”/裹鹽; historically salt is a valuable commodity) or some small fish skewered on a willow branch (called “buying fish and skewering with willow”/買魚穿柳 or simply “skewer of willow”/穿柳). The contract, however, had quite a mysterious air about it and vaguely resembled a Daoist talisman:

^ Template of a cat contract, from Yuan-era (1271 - 1368 AD) book Newly Published Reference on Ying Yang and Selection of Dates/《新刊陰陽寶鑑剋擇通書》. Top says “Cat Contract”/貓兒契式. Content consists of a drawn picture of the cat in question at the center, and the terms of the contract written in a counterclockwise order that spiraled outwards from the picture of the cat, which read:

“A cat is Black Spots¹, it used to live before the bodhisattvas of the West, Sanzang² brought it home with him, and it has since been protecting Buddhist scriptures among the people. The Offeror is Moujia³ , who is selling (this cat) to a certain neighbor. All three parties⁴ has agreed upon the price of __, so __ will be returned as the contract finalizes. May the Offerer become as wealthy as Shi Chong⁵, and as long-lived as Peng Zu⁶. (From now on, the cat) Must patrol the grain storage diligently, and must catch rat thieves without slack. (The cat) Must not harm the chickens and other livestocks, and must not steal any sort of food. (The cat) Must guard the home day and night, and must not wander to the east or west. If (the cat) breaks these terms and wanders off, it shall be punished in the courtyard. __ year __ month __ day, Offeror __.”

The foot of the contract read:

”To evaluate a good tabby cat: there must be stripes on the body, and the stripes on the limbs and tail must be just right”⁷

“King Father of the East⁸ see to it that (this cat) does not wander south”

“Queen Mother of the West⁸ see to it that (this cat) does not wander north”

“Received on a day blessed by the Eminent Benefactor of Heavenly Virtues and Eminent Benefactor of Lunar Virtues⁹”

“Returned on a day blessed by the Eminent Benefactor of Heavenly Virtues and Eminent Benefactor of Lunar Virtues”

Notes:

“Black Spots”/黑斑: placeholder cat name.

Sanzang/三藏 refers to Xuanzang/玄奘, as in the real life inspiration of the character Tang Sanzang/唐三藏 in Journey to the West. It was widely believed that domestic cats had came to China from India with traveling Buddhist monks, and that they were protecting the scriptures from damage by rodents.

“Moujia”/某甲: placeholder human name.

“Three parties”: Offeror, Offeree, and Witness.

Shi Chong/石崇 was an extremely wealthy official during Western Jin dynasty (266 - 316 AD) who loved to compete with others over who was the wealthiest.

Peng Zu/彭祖 is a figure in legend and a Daoist immortal who had lived for 700 years according to legend.)

This is part of the practice of evaluating cats based on looks, called xiangmao/相貓.

King Father of the East/東王公 and Queen Mother of the West/西王母 are gods of Yang and Yin respectively.

Eminent Benefactor of Heavenly Virtues/天德貴人 and Eminent Benefactor of Lunar Virtues/月德貴人 are deities representing celestial objects, and are part of the Four Pillars of Destiny/四柱命理 concept in Chinese astrology, where basically different days and times are presided over by different celestial objects and therefore different gods. A day that is blessed by both of the aforementioned Eminent Benefactors is considered to be a very auspicious day.

As a cat owner, I could most definitely feel the helplessness and desperation emanating from this contract. Invoking deities in the hopes that the cat will do its job, not destroy stuff, and not simply run away......I’m sure many cat owners throughout the ages and across the world could sympathize with this sentiment. The special emphasis that was placed on keeping the cat from running away was probably because back then, people lived in residences that consisted of buildings surrounding a courtyard in the middle (for example, a siheyuan/四合院), so it was extremely easy for cats to run out of the residence and become lost.

Anyways......back to history.

Song-era poets wrote many poems about cats, and both Song-era and Yuan-era painters painted many works about cats (which I will cover in my next posts!). At the same time, cats were painted in Song-era tomb murals along with sparrows as a sign of longevity, since cats are māo/猫 and sparrows are què/雀, and when said together they sound like the word mào qí/耄耆, which means “elderly people”.

^ Tomb mural depicting a tabby cat with a sparrow in its mouth. From a Northern Song-era tomb discovered in Dengfeng, Henan.

Ming dynasty (1368 - 1644 AD) emperors were also big-time cat lovers. Of note were Emperor Xuanzong of Ming/明宣宗 (personal name Zhu Zhanji/朱瞻基), who painted cats, and Emperor Shizong of Ming/明世宗 (better known as Jiajing Emperor/嘉靖帝), who reportedly loved his cat Frosty Brows/霜眉/Shuangmei (I swear this name sounds a lot more artsy in Chinese) so much that he bestowed the title of Qiulong/虯龍 (note: Qiulong is a type of Chinese dragon that is either defined as horned or hornless depending on the source) upon it, and when Frosty Brows died, he ordered a tomb be constructed just for his cat, then ordered high-ranking officials to write eulogies for Frosty Brows:

“During Jiajing Emperor’s reign, there was a cat in the palace whose fur was slightly blue-ish except the glowing white brows, so it was named ‘Frosty Brows’. This cat understood His Majesty well, and when His Majesty went somewhere in the palace or visited a consort, it would walk ahead and lead the way. While His Majesty slept, it would stay nearby. His Majesty adored it the most. When it died, His Majesty ordered it be laid to rest at the shady side of Mt. Wansui (today called Jingshan/景山), and a stone stele was to be erected marking its grave as ‘The Grave of Qiulong’”. (嘉靖中，禁中有貓，微青色，惟雙眉瑩潔，名曰“霜眉”。善伺上意，凡有呼召或有行幸，皆先意前導。伺上寢，株橛不移。上最憐愛之。後死，敕葬萬歲山陰，碑曰‘虯龍塚’)

-- Old Rumors Under the Sun, “Within the Palace of Ming Part 3″/《日下舊聞考·宮室·明三》

“Later when a lion cat of the Palace of Eternal Longevity died, His Majesty grieved and ordered it be laid to rest at the shady side of Mt. Wansui in a coffin of gold, then ordered the senior officials to write eulogies and a funeral ritual be done, so the cat’s soul may achieve transcendence. However because the prompt seemed awkward, most of the senior officials could not perform at their usual levels, only the Scholar of Rites Yuan Weiwen came up with such words as ‘the lion metamorphosed into a dragon’, which delighted His Majesty”. (“最後西苑永壽宮有獅貓死，上痛惜之，為製金棺葬之萬壽山之麓，又命在直諸老為文，薦度超升。俱以題窘不能發揮，惟禮侍學士袁煒文中有「化獅成龍」等語，最愜聖意”)

-- Compiled Rumors of Wanli Era, Chapter 2/《萬曆野獲編·卷二》

^ A Nebelung cat (image source). According to the description above, Frosty Brows probably looked like this cat but with white markings above the eyes. RIP Frosty Brows, you shall be remembered.

Of course, Frosty Brows wasn’t the only pet cat in the palace. According to Moderate Records/《酌中志》, a book that’s mostly about life in Ming-era imperial palace (which is the same as the Palace Museum today), there was a special place called the “House of Cats”/貓兒房 that employed 3-4 servants just to take care of the cats that were favored by the emperor. These cats even had titles and nicknames: un-neutered male cats were called xiaosi/“小廝”/”lads”, neutered male cats were called laoye/”老爺”/“old men”, female cats were called yatou/”丫頭“/”gals”, and cats with titles were called maoguanshi/”貓管事”/“cat butlers” .

Speaking of royal kitties that left their names in history, Emperor Qianlong (1711 - 1799 AD) of Qing dynasty commissioned a series of paintings of his cats from the court painter and Jesuit missionary Ignatius Sichelbart (also known by his Chinese name 艾啟蒙/Ai Qimeng), and this series of 10 paintings were collectively known as 《貍奴影》, or “Cat Images” (li/“貍” or linu/“貍奴” are both archaic names for cats). Here is a Douyin video of these 10 paintings and the names of these 10 royal felines, translation courtesy of @rongzhi.

The Ins and Outs of Feline Ownership

By Qing dynasty (1636 - 1912 AD), there were two encyclopedia-like books specifically about cats, called The Compendium About Cats/《貓苑》 and The History of Cats/《貓乘》 respectively, which were extensive compilations of records and mentions of cats from older texts, including everything from folktales about cats to cat behavior to how to take care of cats, which served as guides for new cat owners back then. Although cat owners today have much more reliable and scientific sources on how to take care of cats (***Please keep in mind: this post is for fun! If you have any questions regarding the health of your cat, please ask your local veterinarian!***), books like these still provide an interesting glimpse into how cat owners of old went about taking care of their cats. Here I will be presenting a few passages from The Compendium About Cats/《貓苑》 that I found to be pretty cool or interesting:

How people used to bring cats back home and litter train them:

“The way to adopt cats: use a dou¹ or a bucket, and carry it in a cloth sack. Once you reach the home of the previous owner, ask them for a single chopstick, then put both cat and chopstick in the bucket inside the sack to bring them back home. Should you encounter potholes on the way back, you must fill the pothole with rocks before passing over it. Upon arriving back home, take the cat along to worship the household stove god and greet the resident dog. When you are done, take the chopstick and stick it in a mound of dirt in the yard, then tell the cat to never urinate or defecate inside, but still allow the cat to sleep on the bed. This way the cat will not run away”. (“納貓法，用斗或桶，盛以布袋，至家討著一棍，和貓盛桶中攜回。路遇溝缺，須填石以過，使不過家，從吉方歸。取貓拜堂灶及犬畢，將箸橫插於土堆上，令不在家撒屎，仍使上床睡，便不走徃”)

How people thought neutering changed behavior:

“Male cats must be neutered to blunt its might, so their toughness may be softened, and they will soon become plump and friendly”. (“公貓必閹殺其雄氣，化剛為柔，日見肥善“)

What to feed cats and what not to feed cats:

“Cats will grow sturdy when fed eel, and will grow plump when fed pork liver. However if cats are fed too much meat broth, it will give them intestinal issues”. (“猫食鳝则壮，食猪肝则肥，多食肉汤则坏肠”)

“Catnip”:

“Cats will become inebriated after eating mint²”... “Mint is the alcohol of cats, as such the leaves are fresh and relaxing”. (“貓食薄荷則醉”...“貓以薄荷為酒，故葉清逸”)

Treatment for fleas:

“When a cat has fleas, mash up peach tree leaves and chinaberry tree roots, boil the paste into a warm brew and bathe the cat in it to kill the fleas; otherwise rubbing camphor tree shavings over the cat also works”. (“貓生虱，桃葉與楝樹根搗爛，熱湯泡洗，虱皆死，樟腦末擦之亦可”)

Notes:

Dou/斗 (here pronounced dǒu), was historically a type of container that was originally for wine, and then became an apparatus used to measure volume (particularly for grains), so dou also doubled as a unit of volume. This unit of volume can be traced back to at least the Warring States period (770 - 221 BC), but is considered archaic today and could only be found in chengyu and other sayings that originated in history (ex: 升斗小民, “sheng and dou commoners”; since both sheng and dou are relatively small units of volume that ordinary people used in day-to-day life, this chengyu was and is still used to imply “ordinary people”).

“Mint” or “薄荷” here is likely just a species of mint. However, catnip (Nepeta cataria) is a member of the mint family, and its native range seems to span much of Eurasia, including parts of China, so it’s unclear exactly which member of the mint family this text is referring to.

Cats in the Age of the Internet

Thanks to scientific and technological advances, many people no longer adopt cats to keep rodents away, but keep them solely as companions. However, being our feline overlords, cats require a lot of affection, attention, service, and commitment from their humans, thus giving rise to the playfully self-mocking terms of "official(s) of poop-scooping”/铲屎官/chanshiguan and “slave(s) of cat(s)”/猫奴/maonu, while cats are called “cat master(s)”/猫主子/maozhuzi due to their seemingly volatile moods and behavior. People even imagined that cats were aliens from another planet called the “Planet Meow”/“喵星” who came to Earth to conquer humans with their cute appearance, thus giving rise to the term “Meowish”/“喵星人”, meaning “inhabitant of Planet Meow”. A cat who raises its hind leg up straight to lick its backside is described as “sending signals back to the mother planet (Planet Meow)”, and a common euphemism for a cat passing away is “(the cat) has returned to Planet Meow”.

^ An inhabitant of Planet Meow sending signals back to its mother planet.

Another common internet slang for the act of kissing, sniffing, or hugging a cat out of adoration is “sniffing cat”/“吸猫”/ximao. As some might notice, the term subtly and playfully draws a parallel between the addictive aspect of cuddling with a cat and the addictiveness of illicit drugs. Finally, because 喵 (miāo), the character for “meow”, is a homophone of 妙 (miào), the character that can mean “great”, on videos where there are cats meowing clearly, you can see barrage comments from many people asking questions like “how is my exam going to go” or “how is my job interview going to go”, as a playful way of wishing for things to go smoothly in the near future.

^ Some examples of these barrage comments, with people asking “how is my job interview score”, “how is my luck in the future”, “am I going to be accepted into Tsinghua University”. Video from Bilibili.

And that is all for the history of cats in China! In Part 3 and Part 4 I will cover famous paintings about cats and poems of cats, and these posts will be coming out within the next two weeks, stay tuned!

#cats #chinese history #chinese culture #chinese folklore #internet culture #cat #history #random stuff

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hockey-fics · 10 months

Text

Next Summer ~ Brock Boeser

Summary: The summers spent at your family’s cabin were some of your favourite memories. When you return as an adult you discover that maybe not everything from the past was really left in the past.

Word Count: ~5,300

Warnings: Drinking, implied smut (I guess, but it’s very fleeting and vague)

Traditions didn’t hold a huge place in your life growing up. Every Christmas you bounced from one relative’s home to another. Thanksgiving dinners almost never looked the same. Cousins and aunts and uncles would come and go, years of family dinners and holiday gatherings would go by before you would see them again.

But there was always one thing that you looked forward to each and every year. Every summer, for two and a half months, you would drive down from your home in the suburbs to the cabin on the lake. You would get to forget about school and homework and bedtimes. You would spend all day out in the summer sun, sticky with sunscreen and bug spray.

Your family wasn’t the only one. Each of those cabins along that shoreline would come alive. The quiet beaches would fill with children, adults on decks drinking a few hours before it became socially acceptable anywhere else. Dark nights would be brightened by campfires and beams from unsteady flashlights, held onto by kids who should have been in bed long ago.

There was a sense of peace that was brought on by that property. Time moved slower, everyone seemed happier, things felt easier. But as time went on you started spending less and less time out there. You went away to university. You became busy with internships and jobs and leases that didn’t end for the few months of summer.

But eventually the property lost the interest of your parents. With no children at home, familiar friends who once had cabins up there selling them off, the time and energy and money to take care of it no longer seemed to be worth it. You yourself hadn’t been there in a couple years, though the memories were as vivid as always. So when the option of them gifting the property to you came up it took little consideration for you to say yes.

After packing your car full of essentials you headed up to the cabin shortly after the exchange of ownership. When you pull up to the familiar cabin there’s a sense of ease that washes over you, even now that you had a truckload of responsibility to go with coming up here.

Hoping out of the car you bring everything inside, the memories flooding in. After putting your groceries in the kitchen, sheets on the bed, and pulling the patio couch cushions out you head out onto the deck to enjoy the fresh air and slight breeze rolling in off the lake.

A few minutes after flopping down onto the patio furniture you’re greeted by a big white dog, tail wagging crazily as he stares up at you.

“Hey buddy,” you say, reaching over and scratching him behind the ear. “Where did you come from?”

“Milo.”

Tipping your head up you look in the direction of the man calling for who you would guess to be the dog that was standing in front of you. Standing up you walk towards the edge of your deck, the dog following after you, nose nudging at your hand. “I think-,” you begin, freezing when you notice who was standing in the yard next to you. “Oh my god,” you laugh, hurrying down the stairs. “You’re still around, hey?”

You grew up with Brock. At least for two months of the year every summer. You were the same age and his family owned the property next door. The crush you had on Brock spanned from early in your life right up till the last summer you spent together right after high school graduation.

“Holy shit,” Brock comments, shaking his head. He has his arms around you as soon as you’re close enough for him to reach you. “Of course I’m still around, I’m out here every summer. You’re the one who vanished.”

Pulling back you look up at Brock, shaking your head. “Sorry, we don’t all have an off-season.”

“I guess you’ve got a point,” Brock chuckles. “Just out here for the weekend then?”

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” you admit. “The place is mine now and I work remotely so I guess I could be out here as long as I want but I don’t know, it feels weird to think about being here that long again.”

“Yours, hey?” Brock states, glancing behind you at the house. “Are your parents okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” you assure him. “Just not as interested in getting drunk on the lake everyday of the summer anymore.”

Brock laughs, glancing out at the lake before turning his attention back to you. “Well I’m glad it’s yours now, wouldn’t want to see anyone else here.”

You couldn’t deny the way he still managed to fill your stomach with butterflies, even all these years. “Me too,” you say, voice quiet. Glancing down you pet the dog again that had still not left your side.

“I see you’ve met Milo,” Brock comments, glancing over his shoulder and pointing to the second dog that was laying under the shade of a tree. “That one’s Coolie.”

“They’re very cute,” you tell him, smiling down at Milo. “How long are you up here for?”

Brock shrugs, like time didn’t mean anything to him. “Till sometime in August.”

“So I guess we have plenty of time to catch up then.”

“Absolutely,” Brock says with a smile. “You want to come over for a drink or something?”

“I’d be down for a drink.”

You follow Brock across the yard and onto the deck, accepting the can of cider he offers before sitting down on the soft cushions of one of the patio cushions. “So, what’s new in your life?”

Brock shrugs, flopping down onto the patio sectional, Milo joining him seconds later. “Not too much, I guess. Just been in Vancouver for the last while playing for the Canucks.”

You can’t help but laugh at his comment. “Well I know that much, can’t exactly stay under the radar as a professional athlete.”

“I guess,” Brock chuckles. “What about you though, you seem to be staying under the radar pretty well.”

“Gotta keep a little mystery…or my life just isn’t that exciting, I don’t know. I got my degree, moved back to Minnesota and now I’m just working from home…living the life, really,” you joke.

“I can’t imagine you not making life exciting.”

Rolling your eyes playfully you take a sip of your drink. “Why’s that? Because I used to steal my parent’s alcohol and try to convince everyone to go swimming in the middle of the night?”

“Well that was pretty exciting back then,” Brock laughs.

“Are you out here alone?” you ask, looking towards the cabin. It was pretty quiet for anyone else to be here but you almost couldn’t imagine Brock ever being alone.

“Yeah, for now,” Brock nods. “My, um, my mom doesn’t really come up very much anymore.”

“Right,” you say quietly. You hadn’t talked to Brock in a very long time, but that didn’t mean you didn’t know anything about his life, including his father.

“I have a few friends coming up in a few days though,” Brock tells you, his inflection rising, an obvious attempt to change the topic.

“Uh oh,” you joke with a playful smile. “Sounds like trouble.”

“Hey, now, I’ve never been trouble,” Brock defends, laughing under his breath.

“I don’t know about that one,” you tease.

The two of you sit on Brock’s deck, drink after drink as you exchanged stories from the nearly 10 years since the last time you saw each other. You didn’t even realize how long had passed or how late it had gotten till the sun was beginning to set and you realized your mind was hazy from the alcohol.

“I guess I should get going, don’t want to overstay my welcome,” you say, finishing off the last of the drink you had in your hand.

“You never could,” Brock tells you, taking the empty can from your hand as you stand up. “But I won’t hold you here either.”

“I appreciate that,” you laugh, glancing back to your cabin. “I should probably go figure out dinner though.”

“Fair enough,” Brock chuckles. “See you tomorrow?”

“I’m sure you will,” you tell him, heading down the steps of the deck and back over to your own house.

After making yourself a late dinner you head to bed, your mind unable to think of much more than Brock. It was clear that your feelings for him hadn’t entirely disappeared. But eventually you manage to clear your mind enough to fall asleep, sleeping peacefully through the night till the sun shining through the blinds in your room wakes you up.

You make yourself some breakfast before dragging your laptop out onto the deck with your mug of coffee to get some work done for the day. It’s not long before your attention is broken by the sound of Brock’s voice, calling after his dogs as they run out the door and towards the lake.

Smiling you watch the dogs for a few minutes as they splash around in the shallow water of the lake. When you look away from them you see Brock looking in your direction, raising his hand in a friendly wave.

“Morning,” you call to him, sitting up straighter to look over the edge of the patio railing as Brock comes closer.

“How was your first night back out here?”

“It was great,” you tell him. “Do you want some coffee?”

Brock’s eyes shift to your laptop before looking back at you. “I don’t want to interrupt you if you’re working.”

Shrugging you push yourself away from the table to stand up. “I’ve been missing the interruptions you get working in an office anyway,” you tell him with a smile. “Do you want anything in it?”

“Some cream if you have it.” Brock makes his way up the steps of the deck, sitting down at the table across from you as you return with a mug of coffee for him. “Got any plans for after work?”

“Not really,” you tell him, sitting back down and looking over your laptop at him.

“I just bought a couple stand-up paddle boards a few weeks ago. Would you want to come test them out with me?”

“As long as you promise not to laugh at me when I fall off.”

“I promise,” Brock chuckles. “You can get back to your work if you want, I don’t want to distract you.”

“Hard not to be distracted by you,” you tell him, a playful smile on your lips.

“Well I’m always happy to be your distraction.”

After Brock finishes his coffee he heads back to his own place, giving you a chance to actually get some uninterrupted work time in. It’s nearly 5 when you wrap up everything you had to finish for the day. Changing out of the pyjamas you had spent the better half of the day in you tug a pair of shorts over a bikini, heading across the yard to Brock’s place.

With the garage door wide open you step into it, watching Brock doing kettlebell swings.

“Enjoying the view?” Brock asks, looking at you through the mirror when he finishes up his set.

“Well I can’t say I’m not enjoying it,” you tell him, glancing around the garage turned gym. “This is pretty impressive, I remember when this place was filled with bikes and beach toys.”

Brock turns around to face you, wiping a layer of sweat from his forehead. “I needed to have something out here to train if I want to spend this long out here.”

“Makes sense. Well, I can get out of here to stop distracting you, when did you want to go out on the paddle boards?”

“I’m just finishing up here, I’ll probably go have a shower before we head out.”

“Do I get to enjoy that view too?” you joke.

Brock chuckles, reaching down to pick up the kettlebell again. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

Shaking your head you take a step out of the garage. “I’ll meet you down at the beach when you’re ready.”

“Okay, see you in a bit,” Brock says as you head out of the garage.

Finding a beach towel you head out onto the end of the dock that was connected to your yard, laying it out and shimmying out of your shorts. Laying down on your stomach you rest your head on your arms, enjoying the way the sun felt like a warm blanket cloaked over your body.

It’s not long before you hear Brock calling your name and you roll onto your back, looking down to the end of the dock.

“Ready to go?” Brock calls.

Collecting your things from the dock you hurry down to meet Brock, following him to grab the paddle boards before heading to the edge of the lake. The water is surprisingly warm for July and you climb onto your paddle board with a shocking amount of ease.

After steadying yourself the two of you begin to paddle along the shoreline, your conversation falling to quick comments here and there as you focus intensely on keeping yourself upright. By the time you make it back to the section of the lake in front of your house you’re more than ready to follow Brock’s lead and sit down on the board, floating easily on the still water.

“You’re pretty good at this,” Brock tells you.

Your legs are crossed in front of you, arms behind you on the board as you lean back into them. “Guess my balance is better than I expected.”

“I’m kind of disappointed I didn’t get to see you fall in.”

“Oh, you want to see me get wet?” you joke.

“I-I, that’t…well, I mean, I-,” Brock stammers, shaking his head as he gives up on his sentence.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you tease, giggling as you stretch your legs out in front of you. “What are your plans for tonight?”

Brock hesitates for a second, eyes narrowing. “Are you hinting at something?”

It takes you a moment to realize what was going on, reaching down and running your hand through the lake to splash Brock. “No,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I was going to see if you wanted to come over for dinner.”

“Oh,” Brock laughs, eyes diverting down to the surface of the lake, cheeks flushing red. “Yeah, dinner sounds great.”

After putting the paddle boards away you and Brock head over to your place, digging through the kitchen to try to figure out what to make for dinner. You hadn’t really thought through your plan, inviting Brock over before you even know what you would make for dinner.

“You’ve been in the fridge for awhile,” Brock comments, sitting at the bar counter on the other side of the kitchen, watching you curiously.

Sighing you turn around, shutting the door behind you. “I don’t actually know what to make,” you admit.

“I can tell,” Brock laughs. “What are the options?”

“Whatever is in the fridge,” you tell him, gesturing to it.

Brock slides off the stool, walking across the kitchen to pull the fridge open. His eyes scan the shelves for a few minutes before slowly turning towards you. “Do you need me to go to the grocery store for you tomorrow or something?”

Rolling your eyes you push yourself between Brock and the fridge, your back pressing against him as you join him in staring into the nearly empty fridge. “Look, I know it’s bad but I didn’t plan to stay more than a night or two.”

“And were you planning on only eating eggs and spinach for three days?”

“Maybe,” you hum. “I didn’t plan to have dinner guests I would need to impress.”

“You don’t need to impress me,” Brock whispers, his hands falling to your hips. “Now will you agree to come have dinner at my place instead?”

Your mind tunes in to the feeling of Brock’s hands on your body, your heart hammering heavily in your chest. While you were so caught up in your thoughts you realized you hadn’t answered the question within a length of time that was even remotely normal. “Uh, yeah, sure, that sounds good.”

Brock steps back, his hands falling from your hips and leaving your body longing for more. Sighing to yourself you fish a bottle of wine out from otherwise bare fridge, hurrying after Brock.

It’s not long before you’re standing next to Brock, a glass of white wine in your hand while you watch him barbecue a couple steaks. “Was inviting me over just a scheme to get me to feel bad for you and cook you dinner?”

“I wish I was that calculated.” Bringing your glass to your lips you take a small sip, gravitating a little closer to Brock. “I like how this worked out though.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you do,” Brock teases, reaching over and wrapping his arm around your waist, tugging you into his side.

You let out a shaky breath, fingers clutching tighter onto your wine glass. With your heart racing you try to act natural, like your stomach wasn’t absolutely alive with butterflies, like your thoughts weren’t racing a million miles an hour about nothing but Brock.

“You okay?” Brock asks, the smirk on his face was enough to tell you that he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Fuck off,” you laugh, shaking your head. “You’re so used to this aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?” Brock laughs, eyebrows furrowed as he looks away from the barbecue to turn his attention to you.

“Tall, handsome hockey player who can get women to absolutely fall apart like it’s nothing,” you tease.

“I’m not that tall,” Brock comments, pulling the steak off the barbecue.

“Oh, but you know how handsome you are.”

Brock gives you a simple shrug, chuckling as he picks up the plate of steak, letting you go to head back inside. Rolling your eyes you follow Brock back into the house, refilling your wine glass before leaning against the counter.

“I’m actually surprised you don’t have a girlfriend,” you comment, watching Brock plate up the steak and salad the two of you had made earlier.

“Why’s that?” Brock asks, setting the plates down on the table next to the large window that overlooks the lake.

“I just told you why outside, you just want to hear me talk about how great you are,” you joke, sitting down at the table across from Brock.

“Well I could say the same thing about you,” Brock retorts, switching the conversation around onto you.

“Because I’m a tall, handsome hockey player?” you joke, taking another drink from your wine.

Brock shakes his head with a breath of laughter. “Seriously, weren’t you with someone for quite awhile?”

Nodding slowly you inhale deeply, polishing off what was left in your glass of wine.

“That bad, hey?” Brock asks, reaching for the bottle of wine to refill your glass.

“No…I mean, yeah, I guess, I don’t know,” you sigh, picking up your newly refilled glass. “We were together for three years in university.”

Brock nods, taking a bite of his dinner, evidently waiting for you to continue to fill in the details of your vague story.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” you assure him with a breath of laughter. “I’m just glad it ended when it did.”

“For what it’s worth I’m pretty glad it ended as well.”

Scoffing you raise your eyebrows, shaking your head. “Why?” you ask, already well aware of why.

“Well I don’t think I’d get to be sitting here having dinner with you right now if you were still with him.”

Tipping your head to the side you gaze across the table, a soft smile on your lips. “Does that mean there’s something more than friendly happening here, Brock?”

“I’ve had some more than friendly thoughts,” Brock admits.

You can feel your cheeks reddening, looking down at the table. “Oh,” you mutter.

“Sorry, I, was that too much or-.”

“No, no,” you interrupt, breathing out a nervous laugh. “Just, um, been awhile since I’ve flirted with anyone.”

“There’s no way that’s true.”

“Yes it is,” you exclaim, laughing quietly. “I honestly don’t meet a lot of new people and I don’t usually make it a habit of flirting with my friends.”

“I’m glad you made an exception.”

Laughing softly you pick up your glass of wine, taking another sip, enjoying the warm buzz the alcohol was filling you with. “Me too,” you whisper as you set it down, gazing over at Brock.

Finally you two finish the dinner that had been nearly forgotten amidst the conversation. After the dishes are done you head out onto the deck to continue your conversation. Before long the sun is set and the bottle of wine is empty. After another goodbye that you know won’t be for long you head back to your own house, falling asleep easily to the sound of the waves crashing onto the shore through the open window.

The next few days leading up to the weekend feel busier than any days you had in a long time. After work you would join Brock for some activity or another. A trip into town to properly stock your fridge. An evening on the boat. More paddle boarding and kayaking and even partaking in a couple sessions in Brock’s home gym.

And before you knew it you had finished up your work from the week, time seeming to be flying by now that you were spending it with Brock.

Friday night. You hadn’t expected your Fridays to remain as exciting after leaving the city. But you also didn’t expect to be spending it with Brock and a handful of his friends.

“Still impressed with your Spikeball skills, to be honest,” Jack says, standing next to you by the fire, a bottle of beer in his hand. You had spent the afternoon fighting to keep up in many competitive rounds of Spikeball on the beach, something you did better than even you had expected you would do.

“I’m kind of offended by how much you underestimated me,” you laugh. Lifting your red solo cup filled with tequila and grapefruit soda wincing at the flavour, the ratio of tequila to mixer so off it would make a bartender cry.

“Sorry, I promise I won’t do it again,” Jack chuckles. “I’ll make sure we’re always on the same team from now on.”

“Good,” you say, extending your hand to shake his on the agreement. “We can be a power duo.”

“Power couple,” Jack comments with a smirk.

Rolling your eyes playfully you take another gulp of your drink. “Pretty bold of you.”

“What can I say? I’m a bold guy.”

Before you can get another comment in you feel a hand run along your lower back, stopping on your waist. With a slight flinch you turn your head, body relaxing when you realize it was Brock, though you were still a little surprised by the physical contact. Brock places his fingers under your chin, tipping your head back so you were looking up at him. You don’t even have time to process what’s happening before he’s pressing a soft and quick kiss to your lips.

“H-hi,” you stammer, voice soft as your cheeks redden. “What, um, what’s going on?”

“Just coming to check on you,” Brock whispers.

“Shit, sorry man,” Jack mutters to Brock, nervous eyes shifting back to the fire you were all standing around.

“Don’t worry about it,” Brock tells him dismissively. “Want to come with me to get another drink?” Brock asks you.

With a quick nod you let Brock take your hand in his, guiding you around the fire and up into the quiet cabin.

“Okay, what the fuck was that, Brock?” you exclaim, now in the privacy of the kitchen.

“I-,” Brock begins, shaking his head. “Have I been reading this wrong? I thought…I thought…haven’t we been flirting since you got here?”

“I mean, yes,” you exhale. “But what the fuck was that? Why’d you choose that moment to kiss me?”

“I’m sorry,” Brock mumbles, swallowing heavily. “But you two were flirting and I didn’t want to lose you and I-.”

“I wasn’t flirting with him.” Stepping closer you reach up, your hands on either side of Brock’s face. “You have to trust that I would never do anything with your friends.” Rolling forward onto your toes you lean closer to Brock, your lips brushing against his. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Brock mutters before kissing you again. It’s longer this time, your lips moving with his as you wrap one arm around his shoulders. Brock runs one hand around your back, tugging your body closer as his tongue brushes against yours. He’s pushing you against the kitchen counter a second later, your head spinning with the mix of overwhelming emotions and the effects of the tequila.

A strangled moan emanates from your throat just before you hear the crashing of the cabin door closing. Pulling back from Brock you stare up at him with a guilty smile, as if you were still just a couple teenagers sneaking around at the summer cabin.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Sam declares, taking a step back towards the door.

“No, no, you’re good,” you assure him. “We were just, um, about to head back out.”

“Were we?” Brock asks, voice quiet as he places his hands on your hips, pulling your back into his chest.

With a quiet giggle you tip your head back, looking up at Brock. “We can pick his back up later,” you assure him.

Back outside you let Brock pull you onto his lap on one of the chairs around the fire. You knew it was some drunken, misplaced desire to exert the fact that there was indeed something happening between the two of you that was more than just friendly.

The rest of the night is spent in loud conversations, rambunctious laughter echoing off the still lake. By the time the night is over and people begin trickling off to head inside you’re more than ready to have some time alone with Brock.

“I’m going to head home now, want to walk over there with me?” you ask Brock before standing up.

“Yeah, of course,” Brock replies taking your hand and walking back to your cabin.

Inside you take Brock’s other hand, tugging him closer. “Do you want to spend the night here?”

“Yes,” Brock replies quickly before pressing his lips to yours again, kissing you with an eagerness that you quickly matched.

Before long the two of you had stumbled your way up to your room, the silence of the cabin being interrupted by the sounds of your moans.

Laying breathlessly next to Brock, your body flushed and tired, you can’t help but begin to worry about the implications of the situation. Was this just because you were both drunk? Did he really have feelings for you or was this all just because of the alcohol?

After tugging some pyjamas on and using the bathroom you crawl back into bed with Brock, resting your head on his shoulder, arm over his chest. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Brock hums, running his fingers along your back.

“Do you, um…was this, I just,” you stammer, finally pulling yourself away from him, sitting up and staring across the dark room at the slice of moonlight that was shining on the wall through the curtains. “Was this just a meaningless hook-up? Because I actually have feelings for you,” you admit.

You feel Brock run his hand along your back, fingers curling around your waist as he tugs you back to lay next to him. “No, it wasn’t,” he assures you, kissing your temple before you settle in next to him. “I was so into you when we were growing up. Every summer since high school I’ve hoped you would show up again.”

“I don’t believe you,” you giggle. “I had the biggest crush on you back then, you can’t steal my story,” you tease.

“Back then?”

Rolling your eyes you reach over and take his hand, squeezing it gently. “Still do.”

“Good,” Brock chuckles.

And just like that the two of you fall into a comfortable silence that quickly turns to a deep sleep. After that first night together the two of you grew closer, no longer just spending the days together but the nights as well.

Every morning you would wake up next to Brock, often going for a walk with the dogs before you would have breakfast together. Then you would spend the majority of the day working at your place. After you were done your work for the day you would head over and join Brock for dinner.

For the next month and a half everything felt easy and fun. The daily stress you normally felt when you were back at your apartment had almost dissipated entirely. You grew closer and closer with Brock, falling more and more for him with each passing day. Time had begun to slip by faster and faster, till the majority of the summer was now in the past and you were getting closer and closer to the day where the cabins would be shuttered as everyone returned to the real world.

Laying on your couch you stare out through the large window at the sheets of rain pouring from the sky. The summer was coming to an end whether you wanted to admit it or not and the grey sky was doing its part to remind you of that. Brock’s car was already packed, his place was tidied and ready for his departure.

You have your head on Brock’s chest, your arm draped over his stomach. He’s running his hand along your back and with each passing second you begin growing closer to tears. You didn’t want to admit how much it felt like your chest was being ripped apart.

Sniffling quietly you try to blink away the tears in your eyes before Brock could notice. But you weren’t as secretive as you had hoped. “Are you okay?” Brock whispers.

Nodding you lift your head from his chest, wiping at your eyes. “Yeah, it’s stupid.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Brock assures you, waiting for you to go on.

“I just don’t want this to end,” you admit. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t either.” Brock wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” you mumble, shuffling in your seat to face him. Taking one of Brock’s hands in yours you give it a quick squeeze, glossy eyes staring across the small distance between you and Brock.

“Because I never meant to hurt you.” Brock reaches over, brushing away a few of the tears that had spilled from your eyes onto your cheeks.

“You didn’t mean to hurt me, Brock. I know you didn’t,” you assure him with a quick sniffle, eyes gazing down at your interlocked fingers. “I would rather be hurt now than to never have had this summer with you.”

Brock leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “I just wish we had more time.”

“Me too,” you whisper, lifting your eyes to look back up at him. “Maybe we can next summer.”

Brock nods slowly, pushing a piece of your hair behind your ear. “Next summer,” he echoes as a tear slides down your cheek no longer caring enough to wipe them away, no longer fighting the sadness in your heart. Because the pain was going to happen whether you wanted it or not. But maybe, just maybe, the promise of next summer would be enough to help you deal with the sadness.

#brock boeser #brock boeser imagine #brock boeser fanfic #Brock Boeser one shot #brock boeser fic #nhl one shot #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl fanfic #nhl imagines

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no-pilots-please · 2 years

Text

The Interruption

Part I: The Dry Spell

Part II: The Dinner Date

WARNINGS: Angst to fluff. Mentions of sex. Swearing. Mentions of death.

. . . .

Admiral Kasinsky had died. Unlike some of his colleagues at Top Gun, Hangman had been part of the Pacific fleet for quite some time. He had known the Admiral and worked under him for six years now, and felt the loss was a great man gone too soon. The funeral was on a Sunday. Hangman donned his dress whites. He stood at attention, saluted, and played his role as lieutenant.

The image of Maverick pinning wings into his coffin causes him to lose sleep.

In the following weeks, Hangman is angry. Too many thoughts about his career, his life, and his future swim through his head. Overshadowing them is the constant cloud of the mission. Cyclone tried to change the mission parameters, which Maverick took personally, and rightfully so. The grown men's egos went to battle. Maverick won-of course he did. Jake would never speak the words aloud, but Pete Mitchell was the best pilot he'd ever met. Better than him. Mav could make the run. Hangman knew he could make it too.

But that image of Maverick punching a pin into Iceman’s coffin jars his thoughts when he’s trying to focus. Iceman died a husband, father, hero, accomplished high ranking officer of the US Navy, a legend in his own right. But with that comes the sacrifices he asked his family to make, putting the job above them even when it was hard. At some point, he ranked out of flying and became the man giving the orders instead of taking them.

Maverick had been serving just as long as Iceman. He was dedicated heart and soul to flying, at the expense of everything else. No promotions, no wife, no children. Hell, not even a dog. Mav was married to aviation. No outside distractions existed. He was a man with the singular focus it took to be the absolute best. Period.

Did Hangman want to be Iceman, or Maverick? Did he even want to be either?

Why was it your voice in his head that seemed to ask him these questions?

. . . .

8:22pm on Wednesday. Your phone buzzes with a text from Hangman.

I'm coming over.

You looked at the work in front of you, then took a brief survey of how much more time you needed to get it done.

YOU: Not free tonight. Let's get together this week?

HANGMAN: I'm on my way.

YOU: I'm busy.

HANGMAN: Be there in 20

From your position at your desk-kitchen table workspace, you throw your phone against the couch and sigh in frustration. The past three weeks had been really fun, meeting for drinks or dates and hooking up whenever you got a free evening. You were having all sorts of very satisfying orgasms with the absurdly good looking pilot, but that's really all it was. As much as the pilot had begged for a continual ego-check on that Sunday night dinner, he didn't seem to be taking that seriously. Nothing seemed to get through as much as your take-charge moment that first night together. Was he even interested in keeping himself grounded? You had to wonder. So far he only responded when he was checked in the bedroom. Your frustration with his "me-first" attitude was coming to a head tonight. You were buried in work on a Wednesday night, desperately trying to make a deadline for the following day. There was no time for Hangman.

For a while, you ignored the buzzing of the phone against the sofa cushions. You could not ignore the heavy knock on your front door.

Rolling your eyes, you begrudgingly open the front door, one hand on your hip.

"I said it's not a good time, Jake."

"I need to talk to you." he interjects, suddenly standing up straight when you open the door. He's wearing gray sweatpants and a matching grey sweatshirt, military issue workout gear. You'd realized over the past few weeks he didn't have too many civilian clothes. He'd packed light. It was a constant reminder that his time here was temporary.

"You need to let me in-" his voice rings deeply, more urgent. The tone, you realized, is as rehearsed as the smirk he wears when he wants something. Part of the persona of Hangman the Pilot. It sets you off.

"First of all, asshole, this is my home. I don't take orders, you have no rank here. This isn't the Navy." Your own voice is stern. Steady, even, cold. You don't move.

"What could you possibly be busy with right now? Wait- is someone else here?" He asks, eyes narrowing. Jealousy rises in his throat, his eyes darting between you and the sliver of the home he can see inside.

"First off, its none of your fucking business why I can't be at your beck and call. Im not your girlfriend, Jake. And, even if I was, I wouldnt just drop everything at a moments notice. I've got a major deadline tomorrow and I'm behind. I don't have time tonight." You know you don't owe him an explanation, but you give him one anyway. His lips part, as if hung up on the next thing to say. The ego check he's been needing slips from you before you realize.

"You're not the only one with work stress."

As soon as the words leave your lips, you feel a little bad. Your work was very important to you, and very important to the company it was for. But it wasn't national security. It wasn't life and death. But for Jake, it's exactly what he needed to hear. It's as if you took the wind out of his sails. His shoulders soften and his he takes a deep breath.

"You're right. I'm not. I'm sorry." He says, stepping back towards the edge of your porch, hands in his pockets. He looks for a long moment at your scowling expression as you guard the door. Once again, the woman before him is not taking any of his shit and making it known loud and clear. The ego check he needs. A smile, the genuine one, plays slightly across his face. "See; this is why I like you."

You aren't letting him off that easy. He thinks hes having a moment of real feelings, but from where you stand it just looks like charm dialed up to 10. "What do you really want, Jake?" Your own posture softens, opening the door wider. He can see a stack of papers and the blue glow of your monitors at the kitchen table. It's a glimpse into your life, you as a person, that hits him square in the chest. You weren't just a woman who existed just to serve his needs. You existed in places that had nothing to do with him. You had your own challenges.

Suddenly, he thinks he should go.

You can see in his expression that he's wrestling with something.

"I just...I need to get out of my head. Today sucked. I thought-I hoped-you could distract me. I needed to get off base." Jake's voice is even, but there is unrest in the way he shrugs and shifts his weight from foot to foot. He gestures to the workspace behind you as he continues. "You've got your own things going on though, I see that. Sorry. I'll get going."

"Jake." You stop him as he sets foot down the steps. He glances over his shoulder, somehow looking incredibly handsome despite the harsh yellow light from your porch. It highlights the high points of his features and lights his green eyes.

"If--if you need to get out of 'the bubble', you can come in and just chill. So long as you don't distract me."

You've taken to calling the environment of Top Gun as a whole "the bubble". Those pilots were eat-sleep-breathing training and the mission. Hangman had said it was the best environment in the world for making the best on the planet. Why did he need to get out of there right now? Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

"Yeah? I won't. I'll just watch some Netflix and veg on the couch. You wont even know I'm here. Promise."

He's impossible not to notice, you think. Somehow even the grey sweatsuit cannot hide the physique underneath. Even the bad lighting cannot undo his looks. But he wont get that ego boost from you, not after his outburst. "Okay. Come on in."

"Thank you, sweetheart." He reaches out to wrap you in a tight hug. It was uncharacteristic of your relationship so far. You were intimate, but you weren't really affectionate. Not the pair to hold hands or cuddle on the couch. Witty banter over drinks or dinner, and hot sex afterwards was more your speed. Something was not right.

Unfortunately, you didn't have the time to press. You gripped his back and returned the hug, and shut the door behind him. Jake shuffled off his shoes and flopped down on your couch with a heavy groan. You took back your seat at the makeshift desk and watched as he clicked through Netflix. Some Will Ferrell comedy flicks up on the screen as the pilot started half-watching and he scrolling through the phone. You placed your headphones in and continued to work, happy that Jake was again making good on his promise.

Over the next two hours you shared the space together, but separately. You were cranking through your work and putting the finishing touches on the deliverable. At some point, Jake helped himself to a seltzer from your fridge and politely interrupted you to ask if he could have some of the leftover pizza he saw in there. You nod and offer a slight smile, placing the headset back on and continuing to type away.

Jake goes onto your back porch to take a call. You can't help but notice how the warmth goes right out of your apartment. Working overtime hunched at your desk was way more enjoyable when he was sprawled out on your couch, laughing at the movie on TV. You were still sort of mad at him, intruding on you like your life wasn't as important as his was. But you knew something wasn't right and you couldn't help but worry about him.

You hit send on that final deliverable at 10:14pm. Jake was still outside on the phone. Peering through the glass of your patio door, you could see the pilot shaking his head, a solemn expression on his face. You made the decision not to disturb him. Padding towards the bathroom, you decided to settle in for the night. Brushing your teeth and washing your face, you wonder what has gotten the aviator so worked up.

His large frame appears in your bathroom doorway. "Hey." His voice is gravelly, tired.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. I was on the phone with my cousin, talking through my existential crisis."

There it was, admission from Mr. CalmCoolCollected that something was deeply bothering him. You were glad that he got to talk to someone about it. But why did he come here?

"Okay." You say softly as you pat your face dry. Gently, you press the hot cloth to your eyes, tired and sore from straining at the monitor the past 14 hours.

"Look, I'm sorry about barging in on you like this. It wasn't right of me. I'm not your responsibility. I was just...I am having a hard time. I didn’t know what to do."

You nod at the pilot as he runs a hand through his hair, trying to sooth his own frustration. Looking into his eyes, you place a gentle hand to his shoulder.

"Thank you for apologizing. Do you want to talk about it? Is that why you came here?"

Eyes divert your gaze as he glances to your hand on his shoulder and then to the floor. You were being way too sweet to him after he was a complete ass. He shakes his head.

"No. Not tonight. I've burdened you enough with my shit today."

"Well, you're here now. We can talk if you want."

You're looking up at him, hair in a messy bun and not a stitch of makeup on your face, and he can't help but lift his gaze from the floor to you. Hangman fights the desire to wrap you in a tender embrace and just kiss you in the bathroom doorway, but he thinks better of it. Stuffing his hands into his pockets to give them something to do, he returns his gaze to the floor as he sidesteps to let you back into the hallway.

"I just...my contract is up next year. And I don't know what I'm going to do."

The words still you.

“Jake. You did not come over to my apartment demanding I drop everything because you aren’t sure what decision you are going to make in a year.”

“Yeah. Kinda. It’s just a lot.” Is all he can offer, suddenly embarrassed. It’s a rare emotion for the lieutenant.

Pivoting suddenly in the hallway, you reach out and lock your hand around his wrist. His eyes go wide but he obediently follows you the the apartment. Tugging him through the apartment, you take him to the living room and basically force him to sit on the couch. Taking a seat opposite him, you cross your legs and your arms.

“Don’t be all ‘oh, its not your problem’ because you came over to my place after I told you not to and made it my problem. You have my attention. Jake Seresin, talk.”

The blond leans back dramatically on your couch. You can’t help but admire the way even his neck is muscular and masculine, sexual even, as he throws his head against the back of the couch. The thought is not appropriate. He takes a deep sigh and just starts talking, jarring you from your thought.

“The admiral died.” he starts. As Jake continues, the thoughts tumble from his mouth as he sorts through everything in his brain. You pick out several gems like “I’m like, really good at the single life” “Maverick lives in a hanger, for gods sake.” and “I’m the only modern pilot to shoot down another plane.” Slowly, as the words pour out, they being to paint a picture of a man at a crossroads in his life. He was at the top of his game, the top of his career field among a bunch of other elites. What was next? He didn’t know, and it scared him. You could tell.

Jake continues prattling on, body animated as if working out the energy he’s been containing all week. Nodding as you listen, you move towards the kitchen and he follows, rambling along. You run the kettle and prepare two mug of warm tea. The aviator, leaning against your countertop, quiets as you hand him a mug of lavender chamomile tea.

“Just...drink. It’ll help you calm down.” You encourage him, as he raises the mug to his nose and inhales the scent.

“You’re really too nice to me, you know.” His smile crinkles his eyes softly. Damn, he was so handsome. Even at the edge of an existential crisis wearing grey sweatpants, you couldn’t help but admire the man in your living room. He seemed so comfortable here, and for a brief moment you imagine what it would be like waking up every morning to him here in your kitchen.

Don’t catch feelings.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, Seresin.” Is the best you can do, ignoring your better judgement to give him any complement.

He chuckles. Taking a long, calming sip of the tea, he looks at you. “Am I crazy?”

“I don’t know, Jake. I wish I could help but, I just don’t know anything about this.” What could you tell this man you’d only known three weeks? You had barely known him when he showed up on your front porch a few hours ago, but the last half hour or so of Jake spilling his thoughts and insecurities on your couch made you feel like you did. Gazing at him softly, you rub your eyes, fighting sleep that is creeping in.

“You did. Thank you.” Jake finishes his mug of tea and flashes a false grin into the bottom of the mug. “I should get going.” His voice is soft. Pushing himself off the counter, he starts towards the door.

“Stay.” Involuntarily, you take a step towards him. Its a response to him leaving, but part of you wonders if it’s a secret plea for more. You don’t want the warmth to go out of your apartment. “You shouldn’t be driving this late, you’re tired too.”

“Yeah? I’ve got to be up early.” Jake closes the gap from the door to the kitchen with soft footsteps until he is standing so close that you can feel the heat radiating off of him.

“That’s okay.” You nod, voice so soft its barely more than a whisper. You bridge the gap between the two of you, reaching your hand out to take his. “Lets go to bed.”

. . . .

Jake fell asleep with his arm draped across your side, almost spooning you. His touch spreads a warm, soft feeling through you. Sensations were completely different than the normal electric lust that coursed through you at every touch. Hangman was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Nothing happened between the two of you that night. Everything happened between the two of you that night.

#jake seresin x female reader #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #hangman fanfiction #Jake hangman seresin #jake hangman x reader #hangman top gun #top gun maverick fic #jake seresin angst #hangman angst #hangman fluff #top gun maverick #hangman x female reader #hangman x reader #hangman x oc

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ohtobemare · 11 months

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tom kazansky headcanons that nobody asked for

• His father is retired Navy, mom an Army nurse.

• Navy v Army football is a hot topic of debate in the house.

• Nicknames––Tommy, Ice, Iceman, Kazansky, Kaz (rarely).

• Kazansky’s an only son. Which equates to a massive amount of pressure. He carries the pride and weight of the family name on his shoulders, and it is the drive to be the best.

• Daddy issues. 100%. Daddy wasn’t nearly there enough and lacked affection and connection with his only son. Tom craved his father’s approval, which leads to his tendency for perfection and OCD.

• He will kill himself training. He has to be the best. It’s nearly religious. Everything from his service record to career objectives/goals, to his physique. If it isn’t perfect, he won’t rest until it is.

• Born, 12/31/59. Raised in Hawaii. The big island is home. The only other place he’s lived in San Diego, but he'd like to retire to Alaska.

• Tom is loyal, nearly to a fault. Like a guard dog.

• He can also be a vengeful SOB. Eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth leaves the world blind and toothless, but, at least it’s fair.

• Deep sense of justice, and patriotism. He’ll die for his country and not think twice about it.

• Family is everything. EVERYTHING. He will lay down his life for his family, blood and perceived.

• Kazansky also wants a family. Wife, a swathe of kids, the white-picket-fence, all-American dream.

• Contrary to Slider and other pilots, Kazansky is a romantically grounded dude. He isn’t a man-whore. He seeks connection and is a genuine romantic. The occasional fling is necessary, sometimes, but mostly—he’s looking for the right girl.

• When Tom falls, he falls hard. Read: loyal to a fault.

• His sense of humor is dry, slightly cutting, but hilarious. He’s not a jokester at all, but his whit is what makes him shine.

• He’s the guy you call when you need bail money, when your car is broken on the side of the road, but not the guy you call when you need to hide a body.

• He asks questions. He calculates. He weighs every decision. Hell, he doesn’t make decisions without weighing the costs. But most of the time he's perceptive and dead-on, rarely is ever wrong.

• Appearance isn’t everything but it damn well plays a part. He’s more interested in the brain and the matters of the heart.

• Values and morality is at the core of his must-haves when looking for relationships, romantic or platonic.

• He’s a stellar cook. Like, the man can cook Thanksgiving like a gourmet chef. And he loves to cook.

• Art. Art art art. That’s it. He has an in-home studio that is his grotto, next to the cockpit. Art is one of the very few things he calls irreplaceable in the world.

• Religion is actionable—if the actions don’t match the sentiment, you’re doing it wrong. He aligns with the evangelical Christianity, but the practice is lacking.

• He will 100% call you on your bullshit and not blink and eye.

• He’s unflappable. Very few things ruffle his feathers.

• His favorite holiday is Thanksgiving, and then July 4. For reasons. Fleet Week is his pride and joy.

• Tom isn’t the cheating kind. One he’s found the one, it’s that one, forever and always, until death.

• Insecurities are mostly hinged on performance—if I can’t provide for my family, what kind of man am I? If I’m not the best in the air, I’m not good enough at all, etc.

• He’s always worried about his girl and being the best for her, that she deserves better than him.

• He’s a stoic and a cynic. But, that doesn’t mean he’s cold and unfeeling. Actually, Kazansky is hilarious and warm when he’s with the right people. Otherwise, he’s cold as ice, a brick wall at first sight.

• Tom’s pretty empathetic, just not in the way you’d think. He wants you learn and grow, and may not always communicate it as gently as he should.

• He won’t touch it if it isn't a 4x4 or straight American muscle-car. Oddly, though, he doesn’t do motorcycles.

• Alaska is his favorite place on earth. He’s a master shot and loves the outdoors. If he could retire anywhere, Sitka would be it.

• One hell of a horseman.

• The housing market is his weakness. He’s always looking at property. Especially as his family grows, he will not be satisfied until he owns the biggest damn house on the cul de sac, if that’s what the wife wants. He doesn’t care where he lives, in or out of town–as long as there is room to grow.

• Absolutely he will get whatever his wife wants. If that's pickles at 3AM for a pregnancy, he's on it. If that's a $85k Suburban they can't afford right now, he'll sell blood.

• He says what he means and means what he says. You’ll get no bullshit. If he says he’ll be there, he’ll be there.

• He has high expectations for himself, and those he cares about.

• Cunning is merely one way to describe Tom Kazansky.

• Can't stand a liar or a simp.

• He’s a clean freak. 100% OCD about a clean house. But, his studio? Don’t touch anything, his mess is alphabetized. And as much as he loves a clean house, if it’s a mess from a busy day with kiddos, that’s kinda the best a house can be.

• Treat others how you’d want to be treated. He’s a big proponent of the golden rule.

• If he had it his way, dogs would be the only critters in the house. But 5 kids will bring anything and everything home, and that’s fine.

• His best memories is first, his acceptance into the Navy; the first time he flew a plane (his father’s Cessna); the day he knew she was the one; his wedding; the birth of his first child (and every child thereafter).

• His worst memory? Any of his mother’s deployments. Something about them just hit differently. Also the day he flunked his driver’s permit–his father’s disappointment was unparalleled.

• Does your character wear glasses/contact lenses etc.? Yes. Tom does wear contacts later in life, and also wire-frame glasses when he’s in the studio. He lives in aviators––those damn blue eyes are sensitive!

• Tom’s always been a blonde, of some type or another. It changes depending on sun exposure. The Navy requires him keeping it short, but, in his youth he used to wear it longer–complete with gel, and feathering. He’d like to do that again.

• Perfect posture. That chest is always out, front and center.

• For clothes, he’s a comfort guy. Jeans and a t-shirt or button down, usually. Shorts when it’s a beach day. Not afraid of sandals, but, he’s actually more of a cowboy boots kinda guy.

• He won’t go anywhere without a tactical watch, aviators, his class ring, and his wedding band.

• Tom isn’t a talker, usually, unless it’s with people he knows and loves and feels comfortable around. Listening is extremely important. When he does talk, he weighs his words carefully, and has a pretty cleaned up speech pattern. Slang isn’t his thing, but he will swear.

• Penmanship is dependent on the day. He can write masterfully and with control, but most of the time it’s a mix of cursive and shorthand that only a handful of people on the planet can decode.

• Sex is pretty vanilla. He’d much rather have interesting foreplay, because that’s where the magic happens. Can be a bit of a dom, but consent and trust is absolutely key.

• Libido is insane, but, with five kiddos—finding the time can be rough. Quickies are key, and he’s mastered the art of getting his girl off while watching the clock.

• Deployments are hard on the intimacy front, but he manages to keep it interesting. Phone calls are recorded, so he has to play nice—but, that doesn’t mean mail has to be nice. He gets nothing short of enjoyment when his girlie sends playful mail. Though he does have to keep it from Slider, most of the time.

• Photos live in his cockpit, his breast pocket, his wallet, and his helmet. He also keeps at least one piece of artwork from every kid in his go-bag at all times.

• The children have been deemed “Icicles”, thanks to Maverick. Icicles in the Kazansky Clan.

edit: • Tom is a bookworm. He’s particularly drawn to classical literature and poetry—Huck Finn is his absolute favorite, and he has multiple editions. One of his prized possessions is a leather bound special edition Twain volume.

#tom iceman kazansky #top gun #top gun 1986 #random headcanon #random headcanons #headcanon #headcannons #writers of tumblr #writer things #val kilmer #yes i know this is random but these are my go-to backstory points #nobody asked for these but oh well here there are #my val kilmer era

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foundtherightwords · 1 year

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The Quiet Chaos - Chapter 5

Pairing: Billy Knight (Lethal White/Strike) x OFC

Summary: After a bad breakup throws her carefully-planned life into disarray, Esme has sworn off dating forever. However, when she forms an unexpected connection with a young man named Billy, who's dealing with his own struggles, Esme is forced to face the truth: sometimes you can't plan for love.

Warnings: mental health issues, angst, slow-burn, developing relationship, dysfunctional family, some violence (non-graphic), some smut (non-explicit)

Chapter warnings: awkward sex, discussion of self-harm

Chapter word count: 4.4k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

Chapter 5 - Dawn and Emerald

It was late, and the tube was packed with weary people coming back from their evening shifts. Esme felt sorry for them, for how downtrodden they looked, and was almost embarrassed for how happy she was. The return journey seemed longer than the journey to the allotment, but it was probably because she was so eager to get off, and so was Billy.

She leaned on his shoulder, her hand in his, their fingers all tangled up. Now and again, she would raise her head, and he leaned down to meet her halfway. Their lips brushed briefly. She wanted to pull him to her and feel his mouth over hers again, but their carriage was nearly full, and she didn't feel brave enough for a public make-out session yet, so she had to satisfy herself with those fleeting touches. Even then, they still made her feel absurdly giddy, like a teenager having her first crush. Not that I know what that's like. When I was a teenager, I was too busy making sure Sibby, Tiff, and Sam ate and bathed and did their homework.

When they reached their station, Billy pulled her back and asked quietly, "Are we going to your place, or mine?"

A thrill went through Esme. Is this really happening? She remembered having to Google "how many dates before you have sex" while going out with Neil, and being so confused because the results were so wildly different. Never would she dream, in a million years, that she would be going home with a guy at the end of their first date. OK, first official date, but still.

As she pondered his question, however, that thrill faded somewhat in the face of practicalities. "Mine is probably better," she said. "Not that there's anything wrong with your flat," she quickly added. "It's just... Angua's not allowed there."

"That's OK. I've always wanted to see where you live." He took her hand again, and they all but ran to her flat.

The moment the door shut behind them, Billy drew her to him, picking up where they'd left off, but Esme couldn't seem to rediscover the excitement she'd felt first in the greenhouse and then on the tube. Her insecurities were rearing their heads, reminding her of a million ways in which she was inadequate, in which this might turn out as disappointing as their botched first date. She extricated her lips from Billy's, muttering, "I thought you wanted to see the flat."

"Later." He peeled her jacket off, then his own.

"I have to give Angua some water—"

But Angua would not be used as an excuse. The moment Esme let her off the leash, the little dog trotted to her water bowl, which was already full, lapped up some water, and settled into her bed with a contented sigh and a sideway glance at them, as if to say, "That's it for me tonight. You crazy kids get on with it." Esme laughed helplessly and let Billy pull her back into his arms.

This could work, she told herself. This will work.

At least, it never felt this way with her exes. Sex with Marco was awkward and fumbling, both of them being too young and inexperienced to really know how to work with each other. Her casual dates were just that, casual. Neil was... adequate, but certainly he's never been such a blazing heat against her, nor has he ever slammed her into a wall so hard she could feel her spine tingling, while in search of the bedroom door.

"Um, Billy, that's the broom cupboard."

He buried his face in her neck, laughing. "Right. Sorry."

She steered him toward the bedroom. He reached for the light switch by the door, but she put out a hand to stop him. "Do you mind if we keep the lights off?" she said. That was how she had always done it, letting the dark hide her shyness and her imperfections, her too-small breasts, her flabby stomach, the weird stretch marks from puberty that never went away. It had annoyed Neil, who preferred to see what he was doing, to no end, but it'd annoyed him even more when she seized up under a bright light, so he'd let it slide.

There was still some light coming in through the window from the street, enough for her to see Billy frown briefly, but he shrugged, amenable as always. "Sure."

They found their way to the bed, and the rest of their clothes, whatever that hadn't been discarded already all over her living room and kitchen floors, came off. Esme ducked under the cover. A second later, Billy joined her, his hot body pressing down on her, his mouth dropping scorching little kisses down her neck, her shoulder, her breast, his callused fingertips running down her sides, rough yet gentle at the same time, sending trembles all over her. His frenzy, so different from his usual shy self, caught her off-guard.

"Have you been with—have you been with lots of girls before?" Esme asked.

"Does it matter?" he said, his voice muffled as he trailed his lips over her skin.

"No. I'm just wondering."

"There was one or two... but not like this. Not like you." His lips were on her again, and she realized she didn't mind it, didn't mind letting him sweep her away in a whirlwind of desire, of excitement, of things unknown but intoxicating. Her hips started to move under him.

But then Billy paused. She could feel his arms quivering as he held his body poised over her.

"Hold on... I think—I think we should slow down," he panted in her ear.

"I thought you said we would be at it all night," she whispered back with a giggle, rolling her hips more deliberately, rhythmically, pressing herself into his hand.

"More reason for—slowing down then—"

"But I don't want to slow down." She reached out, searching for him, guiding him to her.

Suddenly he wrenched away from her with a moan, and she felt something hot and sticky splash across her belly and thighs.

Billy dropped his head.

"Shit," he mumbled into her shoulder. "Shit, shit, shit. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

For what felt like an eternity, Esme could only lie there, motionless, while Billy said sorry again and again, his hands digging into her arms, his breath hot on her skin. Then she found herself thinking, as if her mind was somewhere outside of her body, And I just washed the sheets too.

The thought reminded her of practical matters. She shifted her hips, but Billy was pinning her in place. "I need to get up," she said.

He bolted up. "Sorry, yeah, sure..."

She gingerly lifted the duvet, sat up, and got out of bed.

"D'you need me to get you a towel or—"

"No," she replied, more sharply than she intended. "Just... no. It's fine."

She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. The hot water did little good for her jumbled thoughts. Is it possible to die from embarrassment? Because she wanted to curl up inside herself and die, right now. Was it her fault? Had she pushed him too strongly? He had asked her to slow down, and she hadn't listened. It was their first date all over again. No, it was even worse, because she'd been so nervous about their first date that the disappointing end had been almost a relief, and at least she could blame Billy's hypomania for that. But this? After their first kiss, and all that passion, all the expectation... this was crushing.

Then she realized she's been focusing too much on herself. If this was such a blow to her, then how mortified Billy must be feeling. Oh God, what if he's left? Wrapping a towel around herself, she ran into the bedroom. No, he was still there, sitting at the end of the bed with his head in his hands. The despondent hunch of his shoulders sent a twinge through her heart.

"Saved you some hot water," she said, much more softly than before, and dug out a clean towel from her cupboard.

He looked at her, then at the towel in confusion. It took him a moment to realize she wasn't mad at him. He took the towel, mouthed "Thank you", and darted into the bathroom.

While waiting for him, Esme put on her pajamas and turned on the nightlight. Billy reemerged a few minutes later, the towel wrapped around his waist.

"Listen, Esme, I'm really sorry about—" he began.

Esme was about to interrupt and tell him there was nothing to apologize for, when she caught a glimpse of his chest. There was a large mass of scars right under his collarbone, above his sternum. This was the first time he appeared without a top in front of her, so she'd never seen them before. When they were in bed together, she had been too focused on his mouth and his hands and everything else to notice the bumps under her fingers. But now they were there, unmistakable, and there appeared to be a particular shape to them...

She turned on the big light so she could examine the scars more clearly. Billy saw her eyes widen and attempted to cover himself with his hand, unwittingly repeating the nose-to-chest tic that she now recognized always surfaced whenever he was stressed or upset. But the gesture wasn't enough to cover the scars. She had seen. The scars were in the shape of a horse. No, not just a horse. The Horse. The Uffington White Horse.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Billy reluctantly dropped his hand. "... I did it."

She stared at him in horror. "What?!"

"A few years ago, I had a... psychotic break. It was bad. I cut myself. I don't remember why. I don't even remember doing it. I just... had to."

Tears welled up in Esme's eyes, blurring the shape of the Horse. Now she knew why he had fled at the sight of her necklace. What happened to him on that hill that haunted him so? She couldn't envision what horrors he'd been through, what pain he'd endured. She was only aware of the aching gulf between them, filled with those unknown things. How could she ever hope to cross that gulf and reach him?

"Please don't cry." He lifted his hand as if to wipe away her tears, but it seemed he couldn't bring himself to cross the gulf either. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

Esme shook her head. "You're not making me cry," she said. "I'm crying for you. There's a difference."

"How?"

"When someone made you cry, that's because they're hurting you. When you cry for someone, that's because you love them." She didn't know where those words came from. They sounded like something in one of her mum's sappy books.

Billy gazed at her for a long moment. "Does that mean you love me?" eventually he asked.

She paused, not knowing how to answer. Instead, she reached out to touch the scars, lightly brushing her fingertips over them. And then, because touching was not enough, she leaned down and kissed them.

Billy sucked in a breath. "Esme, I can't—" But she kept the kiss tender, not sensuous, and a second later, she straightened up. He was looking at her, his lips quivering with things unsaid, his eyes sparkling with tears, looking so vulnerable that she took him in her arms, rocking his head on her shoulder. "It's all right," she murmured soothingly. "We don't have to do anything if you're not ready. Just stay with me. If you want to," she remembered to add.

He did want to stay. Soon they were nestled next to each other in bed, her arms around him, her head on his shoulder. Esme again rethought her idea of a first date. This is nice too, she decided, as she fell asleep to the sound of his soft snores, feeling his breath on her hair.

***

It must be quite early—the window was still dark, though there was a grayish quality to the darkness that told her morning was close—but something had woken her up. Then Esme realized it was Billy, lying on his back next to her, groaning and thrashing in the throes of a nightmare. She knew better than to try and wake him up in this state, so she rolled him to his side instead. As she did so, Billy's eyes popped open, huge and haunted, looking at her without seeing her. "Dawn?" he said.

She didn't know whether he was asking for someone named Dawn or whether he thought she was Dawn or whether he was asking if it was dawn, but now was not the time to ask. "Shh, it's OK," she whispered. "You're having a nightmare." His eyes closed then, and he slipped quietly back to sleep.

However, sleep eluded Esme, whose head was filled with questions about the mysterious Dawn. Of course, she had no illusion that Billy had never been with anyone before—he had told her as much. And it did not matter anyway. But if this Dawn meant so much to him that he called out for her in his sleep, she'd want to know.

The next morning, over breakfast, she asked, keeping her voice nonchalant, "Who's Dawn?"

Billy looked up from his toast. "Where'd you hear that name?"

"You had a nightmare and called me Dawn."

"Did I?" His fingers tapped the jar of strawberry preserve, a ghost of his tic. "God, I haven't thought of her in years."

"Who is she?" Esme repeated, a touch impatiently now.

"She's my—um, my brother's wife. Well, ex-wife."

"Your brother?"

"Jimmy."

Presumably, this was the same Jimmy that frightened young Billy with tales of the dog-meat curry. Another puzzle piece fell into place.

"I used to stay with them sometimes, when my dad—when I first came to London," Billy continued. "She's a lot older than Jimmy, I think, and Jimmy's a lot older than me, so she's more like an aunt. But she was kind to me. I used to have these nightmares about—" Again, there was a pause, and a correction—"nightmares like you wouldn't believe, and she would calm me down. But Jimmy got angry with me for telling her about the Horse. So I left to share a flat with some mates, and then Dawn and Jimmy split up. I never saw her again." There was a wistful note in his voice. "She's the closest thing to a mum I ever had."

"Where's Jimmy now?" Esme asked.

"Prison," Billy replied, and said no more.

How silly of her, to feel jealous of Dawn! There was another stab of pain in Esme's heart, not just for Billy, but also because with each of his reveals, the gulf between the two of them seemed to be gaping a little wider. How could she be there for him, when he spoke of things she could never imagine, no matter how many books and articles and studies she read? How could she support him when she didn't know what he was going through? She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze, an inadequate gesture compared to his pain. He smiled at her, but even that smile could not drive away the fear that one day, all her tears and kisses and touches would not be enough.

But Esme tried to ignore that fear and continued seeing Billy. She no longer fretted about what to do for their dates. They still met every Saturday to walk the dogs at the rescue center. When they didn't have the late shifts, he would come to her flat for dinner and stay the night. During her lunch breaks, Esme would bike down to Asda or the woodworking studio so they could have lunch together on the river bank. She discovered her love for flea markets again while scouring them for things to brighten up Billy's flat, and Billy would sometimes accompany her as well—much like herself, he didn't mind crowds as long as he didn't have to interact with them. But most of the time they just stayed home, cooking and eating and reading and going to bed together.

They had yet to try having sex again, though Esme had gone to her doctor to refill her birth control prescription and to make sure everything was good to go. Sometimes, when Billy spent the night, she would wake with his hand on her breast and the hard ridge of his arousal behind her, but then he would also wake, go crimson, and turn away or even jump out of bed. If she hinted that they might have another go at it, he would try to deflect, and it turned into the most awkward back-and-forth of "We don't have to if you don't want to" and "If you don't mind that I don't want to". In the end, Esme decided to just drop it. It made Billy uncomfortable, and she, in turn, would feel bad about making him uncomfortable, so why put more pressure on both of them? Of course, if the timing was right... but she never did have good timing. So she just learned to take things as they come and not to think too much of the future.

She also learned that it was OK to ask a lot of questions, and to talk, and to listen. Billy had good days and bad days, and she learned not to take his bad days personally. If anything, the bad days helped her to treasure the good days even more, made every moment they spent together even more precious, and gave special meanings to the simplest of things, like falling asleep next to him and waking up, knowing he was still there.

***

That Sunday, the flea market in Camden was quieter than usual. The colder weather might have something to do with it, but Esme didn't mind as she linked arms with Billy and strolled through the stalls, stopping at whatever caught their eyes. Seeing a table full of used books, they both navigated toward it without a word, and grinned at each other when they noticed their synchronized steps.

A crate of brightly-covered children's books stood in front of the table. To Esme's horror, she recognized them. A box containing similar books was currently gathering dust in her storage shed. With a glance at Billy, who was digging through the stacks next to her, she tried to nudge the crate out of the way, but her movement only drew Billy's attention. He saw the author's name. "Ivy Pendergast... Hey, she has the same last name as yours! This isn't your mum, is it?"

Of course, she had told him that her mum was a writer and illustrator of children's books, as well as other basic facts—her dad was a glass artist, she grew up in Kent, and she had three younger siblings, Sybil, Tiffany, and Sam. Billy had raised an eyebrow at that and said, "They really do like Discworld, don't they?" (they had been reading the books together—well, rereading for Esme—and Billy was really getting into the City Watch, because, as he said, he liked stories about crime-solving), and Esme had nodded in mock weariness. But there were still things she hadn't told him, and now she silently cursed her dad for not having a more common last name, and her mum for taking that last name when they married, despite all her feminist ideals. I could lie. But he's bound to find out sooner or later. Better get this over with.

"That is my mum, actually," she mumbled.

Billy flipped through the content of the crate with interest. "Emerald Saves a Grasshopper," he read out loud. "Emerald Saves a Lizard. Emerald Saves a Fox."

Esme closed her eyes, praying that he wouldn't put two and two together. After all, not a lot of people know Esme is short for Esmeralda, and even fewer know Esmeralda means Emerald in Spanish.

But apparently Billy was one of those people. "Emerald?" he said. "Esmeralda? It's you, isn't it?"

Esme nodded, smiling to hide her pained expression. "She started writing them when I was about three. They were all quite simple at first, but then she ran out of animals, and now it's Emerald Saves a Lesser-Spotted Blue Tit and Emerald Saves a Mantis Shrimp and God knows what else. It'll be Emerald Saves an Amoeba next, probably."

He grinned. "So she just saves animals?"

"It's for kids age 5 and under, Billy, they don't need a plot. She saves other things too, but they're not as popular as the animal ones... What are you doing?"

He was buying them. He was actually buying the books. God help me.

"You don't have to buy them, you know," she quickly said. "I probably still have a few boxes of them in the shed if you want. Signed, too."

"You should keep those. They'll be worth something in the future, right?"

"I doubt it. She's signed so many of them that the unsigned ones might be worth more."

Billy grinned again. After he'd paid for the books, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me that your mum's books were based on you?"

Esme just shrugged. The truth was that, by the time she started school, they were no longer based on her. What she didn't tell Billy was that before growing up in Kent, she had grown up in a lot of other places as well, with the five of them—Sam hadn't been born at that point—crammed into one tiny camper van. It was the best day of her life when her dad decided to become a glass artist and realized you couldn't set up a kiln in a camper van. Nor did she tell him that her parents were always too busy with their creative endeavors to actually parent, and it fell to her, as the eldest, to give her younger siblings some sort of routine and structure in their day-to-day life. While Emerald was saving all sorts of cute animals and having adventures, Esme had to save her siblings from getting into scraps and falling behind in their classes. She grew to hate those books.

She didn't tell Billy any of it because she realized, compared to his nightmarish childhood, hers was practically idyllic. She knew how terrible it would sound if she complained to him that she'd had to take care of her siblings growing up, when he'd grown up motherless, beaten by his father, and abandoned by his brother. And so she kept silent.

At the same time, she would love for her family to meet Billy. They all disapproved of Neil, but she knew they would adore Billy. And he would adore them, provided that they didn't stress him out too much. She only hoped her relationship with Billy had reached a point when it was appropriate to introduce him to her family (why isn't there a guide to such things?)

"What are you doing for Christmas?" she asked one night while they were in bed, Feet of Clay propped up on her knees. Christmas was still a few weeks away, but knowing Billy (and herself), she thought she'd give themselves time to mentally prepare.

"Nothing, probably. Last year Jacob invited me to his house, but this year he's going to visit his daughter in Australia. You?"

"I have to work on Christmas Day."

"Bummer."

"I don't mind. Christmas is always a busy time. People don't pay as much attention to their pets, and they can get into all sorts of things. Someone has to hold the fort."

"I'll come by and keep you company."

"Ugh, stop being so stinking sweet, will you?" She leaned down and gave him a peck on the lips. Then, in a carefully casual manner, she said, "I'm going down to Kent to see my parents on Boxing Day though. Would you like to come with me?"

Billy sat up to face her. "You really mean it?"

"Yeah."

"Do they... what did you—I mean, how much did you tell them about me?"

"Not much, just that I'm seeing someone." She looked into his eyes. "Do you want me to tell them about your condition?"

He reached for her hand, clasping it tightly as if to stop his nervous tic, to anchor himself. "Would they... object, if they know?" he asked in a small voice.

"No," she said firmly. "And even if they did, it wouldn't matter to me." She lifted his hand and kissed his calluses. Billy's eyes softened. He tugged her forward until she landed on his lips.

"How did I get so lucky?" he whispered against her mouth.

But Esme had other things on her mind. "I have to warn you though, my parents are kind of... unconventional." She almost laughed at the understatement.

"I've gathered as much."

"No, honestly. For one thing, they don't celebrate Christmas."

"Are they Jewish or—"

"No, they just think it's too commercialized. When I was growing up, they would just give us presents whenever they felt like it. Only when my sisters and I moved away that they accepted that Christmas was one of the few times we could all get together, so they reluctantly agree to host it, but they still won't do any of the traditional things though. It's daft."

"I think it's cute."

"It may have been cute when we were kids, but not when we started going to school," Esme said with a humorless laugh. "Imagine having to explain to your classmates that you had no Christmas presents because your parents didn't feel like it."

"At least you had presents," Billy said quietly, and shame burned Esme's face. She was doing the very thing she had vowed not to do—complain about her parents in front of Billy. She kissed him again to distract from the offense.

"I'm just telling you so you won't have to worry about bringing presents or anything."

"OK, I won't." He kissed her back. "You can tell them about me. I don't mind."

Chapter 6

A/N: The detail about Billy carving the Horse into his chest was taken from the show. It didn't happen in the book, as far as I remember.

Taglist: @quinnypixie, @accidentalslag, @etherealglimmer

#billy knight #billy knight strike #cb strike #billy knight fic #billy knight x ofc #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #joseph quinn character #billy knight smut #joseph quinn smut

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aftgficrec · 1 year

Note

hello :)))) i think you all are wonderful

can you rec any fics similar to “odd eye” by tdashshirts because it’s my favorite fic and i love how andrew is characterized in it and just the dynamic between andrew, kevin, and neil at the end. just like them knowing each other really well and having each other even when the rest of the world doesn’t understand. (it doesn’t *have* to be kandreil it could just be besties for life vibes)

We’ve been wrestling with this ask for a long time, as there are two distinct aspects to Odd Eye that do not always overlap. We hope these fics have the outsider Andrew with strong Neil and Kevin relationship vibe you seek. -A + F

andreil/kandreil with andrew having a bad day here

foxes revise opinion of Andrew here

kandreil as childhood friends here

bffs kevin and andrew here

‘think i'm looking at a long night…’ here

‘Flavors of Fall’ here (complete)

‘does the dog die at the end?’ here (complete)

‘creature of habit’ here

‘Hold on to Me’ here

‘to derail the mind of mine’ here

‘like someone you've chosen’ here

‘white soap’ and ‘Bloom Where You're Planted’ here

‘never an empty room’ (kandreil) here

‘As Normal As Normal Can Be (For Them)’ here

Referenced in the ask:

Odd Eye by tdashshirts [Rated T, 16394 Words, Complete, 2021]

Andrew spends most of his childhood thinking he is a psychopath. He is not. Andrew is, and always will be, just Andrew.

tw: self harm, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: blood, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: ptsd, tw: mental health slur, tw: violence, tw: panic attacks, tw: depressive episode, tw: involuntary outing, tw: homophobia

Easy relationship w/ Kevin:

I know it's warmer where you are (And it's safer by your side) by Greenfallleaves [Rated G, 1096 words, Complete 2023]

Part 2 of Queerplatonic Kandreil

There is no plot, just Kandreil hanging out in their dorm, vibes and platonic cuddling.

Minyard-Josten-Day Rivalry by makebelieveanything [Rated G, 10454 words, Complete 2022]

Kevin's been living with Andrew and Neil for years, and recently, his roommates decided to drag him into their media rivalry charade without consulting him, which leaves the three of them to figure out what that means for their collective future. It has a bigger impact than any of them expected.

i.e. The story of how Kevin Day finds out he’s had two platonic life partners this entire time. Including funny headline blurbs, Kevin suffering the rivalry in his head because he refuses to comment in public and Neil and Andrew's canonical inability to communicate with words and hoping people just understand them anyways.

Andrew’s characterization:

Trust Fall (And Welcoming Arms) by SpangleBangle [Rated E, 84557 Words, Complete, 2017]

Life goes on after the Foxes win the championship, and for Andrew and Neil it's uncharted territory with only each other for guides. Maybe it's time to put away some of those hard edges, and learn how to touch more softly, and speak more honestly. And if they falter, they have their family to help them get back on their feet.

tw: scars, tw: knives, tw: homophobia, tw: panic attacks, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: discussions of self harm, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced eating disorders, tw: depression, tw: dissociation, tw: flashbacks, tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced drug abuse, tw: explicit sexual content

i'm turning inside out (can you still recognize me?) by cemetxry [Rated G, 3666 words, Complete 2022]

For a long while, Andrew only allowed himself to stim when he was alone.

Unmasking was fucking hard. He had masked for so many years that Andrew didn’t even fully realize how tired and tense his body was, how much it was aching for release. For years and years he would only stim in private, locked away in the bathroom and allowing himself to stutteringly flap his hands in the fleeting moments he could manage alone.

But after years of effort, he's finally beginning to heal, and he thinks he might be ready to share that with the person he cares for the most: Neil.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse

Colder months series by butallmystars [Rated M, 3 complete fics, series incomplete]

part 1: April after all [2205 words, Complete 2022]

There’s something feeding off Andrew’s ribs that he can’t put a name to and it chains him to his bed.

tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced csa

part 2: And it was May [3608 words, Complete 2022]

Andrew doesn’t have the words to respond today. It’s all chewed glass, vowels digging fractured shards into the delicate skin of his mouth.

tw: implied/referenced csa

part 3: June bug (and other small nuisances) [2867 words, Complete 2022]

Nobody warned Andrew that he would be twenty-three years old and still fighting through the clotting fear in his throat for the seven-year-old boy who knew danger before he could put a name to it.

tw: nightmares, tw: panic attacks

Normal as Pie by NikFriel [Rated T, 4313 words, incomplete, last updated Oct 2022]

Andrew's life with autism. From the foster care system until after he graduates.

tw: child abuse

Art

characters that have caught most of my attention art by @erlie

Duality animation by @c-dragon-art

I love this trio) art by @lolooos-world

night practice crew 🦊 art by @colourofmagic

it’s that one kiss meme with kandreil art by @rainbowd00dles

as requested, more of these three! art by @kryptidfox on twitter

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philosophicalpug · 1 hour

Text

hey how we feeling

@white-familys-fleet-of-dogs

#fantasy high #oisin hakinvar #adaine abernant #adaine o'shaughnessey #fhjy spoilers

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shiroi---kumo · 6 months

Note

Where does it ever end, o creature of tainted starlight?

The nature of a nightmare is its predetermined ending. No matter how one may struggle, how much one may wish to set things right, this had all happened already. There was no choice here, just as there had not been a choice back then. She made his choices, moved his muscles back then. The parasite in the pollen, or magic, or whatever wicked strings she had so gleefully attached to his puppet arms.

Bewitched, he played a symphony not of his own making. No, he was not the Maestro of the Massacre; The sword in his hand was no baton, but a mere instrument. Moving along to a predetermined tune, a carnival as old as the world: senseless slaughter.

A doll only obeyed its master, no? Or, perhaps, that was merely what he so desperately wished to believe. Alas, the inner workings of one's mind were often the very harshest of judges.

You know... this isn't true, right?

Pilvi.

My little Pilvi. Hiding behind an array of masks like the terrified princeling you are. So pristine, so holy, you cut yourself away from your hands. Your hands that you used to kill.

But they are your hands, my darling sweetie.

Are you afraid of them?

The ground parts, like a slavering maw of a sleeping beast. It shakes, it breathes, it cries out with all the voices of those that your hands have put down. The verdant witch's laughter ceases - drowned out by a chorus of low moans. Pained, pathetic things, and all their hands.

Clawing at your white fabrics. Clothes that have tasted blood, but we both know this is not about the corporeal, hm? It's all about that sniveling little princeling, still thinking he can hide away so deep the gore never stains him.

Mother's precious boy, oh, what would she think if she saw what you had become?

There is no ability to run, to fly, the ending is predetermined. The hands rise from the earth, peeling flesh on reddish bone. They clutch, and they claw, and they pull. Dragging, dragging you down, down, o demon of tainted starlight, so that you may never again see the sky against which you blasphemed. You crawl, but they strangle you, your claws were never strong enough to dig in. And so, they drag you on coarse rock until your nails break and the flesh tears from your belly. The Soil is here now, at the precipice of the hell you created - it beckons you in.

Cry, weep, scream, little princeling - the end arrives all the same. Bite your apple and lay to rest your wretched fairytale, Snow White, let the dust and dirt fill your lungs and the rot caress your skin. At the horizon of your blurring vison, His skeletal black wings part, painting the sky a deep vermilion. Maybe it should have been you who fell asleep.

White Devil, you fleeting fog, in lightless silence you will die like a dog.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ He knows in his heart that it's only a matter of time before he comes for him.

He knows.

A voice he doesn't know is speaking to him. A deep voice that rumbles up from the cosmos themselves. Maybe it is one of Lord Bahamut's messengers. Maybe this is what the Dragon Lord himself sounded like. Maybe it is the voices of the soil calling out to him... because yes he can hear them too.

He couldn't always. Not when he was a child. He didn't know what to listen for. Not when he was a teenager. Still the voices had never spoken to him.... but when he was nearly a man - when the darkness came to swallow up Windaria just as it had Misterica before...

When the Great Dark came once more, and he watched his new found family shift to the form of glimmering sands only to take up the golden gun into his own hands. That was when he heard them. That was when he felt their power. He might not have been soilborne but his ears could certainly hear them.

Ever since he felt their force eat away at his very being. Ever since he felt his own blood mix with that of the demon gun itself. Black Wind's heart and his own thudding in time and he felt the flood of the soil within it rush into his form and he swore he could have suffocated on the sensation. It was all he could do just to pull the trigger of the Dragon Lord's cannon and feel the kickback almost sent him flying.

He couldn't hear them then but he can hear them now.

But as the voice continues he thinks he knows for sure who this celestial boom belongs to. It has to be Lord Bahamut. It has to be. Who else would call this vessel by such a name? Who else would refer to him in such a way that makes him feel so small? Who else but the Celestial Mother's only blood kin would know him by the name that was given to him by the eclipse themselves?

How else would he be recognized as a celestial?

Only the gods themselves could really see him for such a thing.

He knows what he is. He knows what he's done. He hasn't been able to sleep since. He knows the voices. He's felt the hands and it never gets any easier when those ghastly spirits rise from their graves to claim. They'll drag him down just as the voice says. They rip and claw at fabric and flesh alike while he hasn't even the breath to scream.

A cold hand of Ice Blue clamping down hard over his chin so that any cries from misty lips become that strained muffles. Beg and plead all he likes. They'll come for him. Lord Bahamut will send his kin to claim his sister's failed vessel. Lord Bahamut will come to claim himself.

He waits for the day that clawed hand reaches forward to carve out his heart.

Dark wings spread out before him. The sky stained in that of heat crimson. The bubbling boiling blood of the souls born to soil hue come to drag him into the depths below. Come to drag him home.

Fire Red hands to peel back flesh until he is stained the color of his bloodline and the imprints of his hericay are burned into his bones by every chromatic fingerprint of the Soil that is eager to consume the Mist.

His Mist.

There's no escaping them. There's no escape but he has to try. He can't just die like this. He can't just die because there is still work to be done. There is still work. He knows the depths have a feeling. He knows the depths have a name. A Mother Black darkness that will pull him deep into her void and to the place where it all began. The origin of it all.

That is why this was all predetermined, wasn't it? When his Mist finally fades into the soft Sky Blue then he can finally know rest but would the heavens still except his wretched soul when his one hue was no longer pure? White Clouds stained red.

His hands no longer pure but instead tarnished like silver that has been unkept over the years. It doesn't matter how much he claws or digs. They would drag him down. Drag him down the Burning Gold of his counterpart. Down past the only thing that's ever really mattered to him.

They'd be separated forever -

Jade eyes set up wide as misty breaths roll out of him in heavy pants. Where was - he was in his room ... in his own bed. He was... in the castle and His Excellency has allowed him time to rest?

He doesn't remember falling asleep.

He must have and as moonlit vision travels, it finds deep caverns dug into the mattress upon which he lay. He finds places where his hands clawed at reality while his dreams pulled him under. It was just a dream. A dream again of the souls that have fallen to the Maken's wrath.

Jade vision downcasts as he lets out a sigh. The entire room is completely fogged over and he can only imagine he was screaming in his sleep again. He can only be thankful that the other residents here don't quite have the same hearing as that of a Misterican.

He's only been here four years but it never gets any easier. Not with everything that's happened. Not with everyone who's died. Not with every life he's killed. Not with Rorahm still refusing to wake up.

It never gets any easier because now after everything, he can't escape the voices of the Soil.

#ask || inquires of the cloud #anon || voices in the wind #tw; long post #tw; night terrors #tw; nightmares #tw; violence #tw; body horror #tw; death #tw; murder #tw; grief #tw; self hatred #tw; self deprecation #tw; panic #tw; severe injury #tw; severe depression #tw; self loathing #tw; abuse #tw; drugging #v; trapped in the castle of false joy

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spookyspaghettisundae · 4 months

Text

Time For Debriefing

Water turned pink where it circled the shower drain.

Sleek white surfaces captured a vague reflection of Chloe Grant’s silhouette. Both palms flat on the wall, she leaned against it, and closed her eyes while hot water ran down her body in a constant stream, washing away blood from bruises and scratches alike.

Though returned to climes less cold, it felt like the body armor and airlift had captured the wintry air of the Rocky Mountains. Like the shower’s heat needed to wash that away even more than the ignorable injuries she had accumulated on her first mission for Future Proof.

Steam filled the shower room. A long sigh escaped Grant.

Her mind’s inner eye flashed with memories of recent events. A crocodile from another era, a veritable dinosaur. Gazing down the jagged cliffs of the Miocene era, having jumped the jaws of death, and living to remember it. The crunching of bones every time the Purussaurus hit crags on its long way down, falling until it hit the ground.

A man she had barely known was now wiped from existence. Without an explanation. Without a trace.

The sound of bare feet tapping on hard floors cut through the stream of water blanketing Grant’s entire world.

Someone else joined her in the shower rooms.

Mischchenko’s right eye was beet-red, the skin around it discolored in a different shade. A scowl across her lips suggested she was none the happier for whatever she had suffered in the Rockies.

She hadn’t said a word for the entire ride back in the airlift, dismissing any questions about her well-being. After landing, she disappeared into the headquarters’ medical bay, and Grant hadn’t seen Mischchenko since.

Mischchenko entered a stall several booths apart from Grant’s. The short-walled separators only revealed a set of shoulders and their heads. Mischchenko waved a hand in front of the connected electronic sensor—the showers here had no handles to operate them.

Her showerhead sprang to life, unleashing another stream of hot water, soon adding to the fine mist of steam in the room.

Grant wiped water from her face and waited till Mischchenko finally spared her a sidelong glance. Then Grant said, “And here I thought Spencer woulda wanted to brief us immediately after getting back.”

Mischchenko grunted, with a fleeting hint of a grin.

She swept her long brown hair back behind her head, screwing her eyes shut, as she stepped under the stream of hot water.

Sputtering, she finally verbalized a reply, eyes still shut. “He would have, if he hadn’t been in a Zoom call with investors, or somethin’.”

That tracked better with what Grant had expected from the CEO.

She finally cracked open her shampoo bottle and soon massaged her scalp with a blue liquid.

“What did the doctor prescribe?” she asked Mischchenko.

“Concussion,” said Mischchenko with a deep sigh. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine.”

That also tracked.

“You ever, uhm, have a near-death experience on this job? Dealing with dinosaurs like we just did?”

Mischchenko snorted. Laughed. Something in between, sputtering again.

She shook her head but grinned, with gritted teeth on display, and said, “All the damn time. Wouldn’t have it any other way, though. Who else in my line of work gets to say they deal with bona fide dinos?”

“Can’t complain about what Spencer’s paying, either,” Grant muttered.

“Nope, really can’t.”

Once Grant started massaging the shampoo out of her hair, suds gathered around the drain on the floor, and the shower’s water no longer spiraled down in pinkish hues. The soap no longer stung in any open scratches on her skin.

The pain was gone, as was first blood.

Grant asked her, “Got any family?”

Mischchenko shook her head again.

“Two dogs. That’s it.”

Grant flinched. She really didn’t like dogs, but the puzzle pieces fit. Of course Mischchenko was a dog person.

She considered chit-chatting some more about the generous insurance policy Future Proof LLC was granting them, but the previous night and day had been blurring into a surreal haze.

Grant desperately needed some downtime to process everything. Every strange thing. Preferably with some shuteye. But it was a lot to take in. She suspected her mind would keep spinning, keeping awake for many nights to come. Considering all the things she had known about reality, now challenged by everything she had learned of.

Of Anomalies that connected different points in time.

Of a company and government organizations secretly dealing with living, breathing, dinosaurs.

And of lots, and lots of dead people. The broken, and the missing. How many had disappeared through those Anomalies? Disappeared when some change to the timeline erased them from existence? How many had been eaten or mauled by dinosaurs?

She waved a hand in front of the sensor and the stream of water from her shower cut out.

Neither she nor Mischchenko said anything. Only the sound of water remained between them.

Grant left the shower room and dried off. The blurry haze extended. Time melted and stretched and contracted.

Still radiating heat from the shower, she sat alone in her new office in the sleek, highly technologized building of Future Proof.

The device on the desk barely resembled a computer. Her fingers tapped on the desk’s surface upon which a keyboard’s layout glowed, which took some getting used to—without the feedback of physical keys underneath each fingertip, her first few attempts at entering her password failed miserably, punctuated by annoying beeps.

The computer itself was a sleek white case clipped underneath the desktop, as invisible as most of the futuristic tech in this building. A transparent wide screen unfolded on the desk’s right half, and turned opaque upon activating the display’s projection.

This whole place felt like it came from the future.

And maybe it had?

What Singh had said—the company had dealt with threats from the future, just as much as it had been dealing with prehistoric animals coming through the Anomalies. What if Spencer and his crew had been dragging futuristic tech into the present for use in their operations?

Grant sighed as she clicked through a flood of onboarding emails.

Singh had spammed her inbox with a grotesque amount of information, ranging from itineraries of different section heads in the company, accounting, various login and authorization information, staff meeting schedules she was expected to attend, training modules, and other administrative crap.

A single mail stood out to her, addressed to her from the CEO himself.

Malachi Spencer wished Grant a good start at her new workplace. A cold and short message, like one would expect to receive through automation. Something unpersonal and generic, fitting for any new employee if you just exchanged the name addressed at the top.

And yet, it filled Grant with a strange sense of unease. She wondered if Spencer had spent the minute it took to type up those two lines and send it himself. At any rate, he didn’t seem like the type to agonize over those two quaint sentences. Even so, she couldn’t help but wonder.

Then she shook her head, clicked on a debriefing appointment scheduled for in little under an hour into the future, and wasted more minutes scouring other files and options that her new computer and office offered.

Her eyes burned. She rubbed them.

Closed the inbox.

Grant played with the smart office’s settings, increasing window opacity to one hundred percent, thus blocking out the sights of other office workers in the cubicles outside, and dimming all light to the point where she could steal away for a nap unnoticed.

Tall as she was, she barely fit onto the bright red couch in her office. Her calves rested atop one armrest and she dared to close her eyes.

Her office space did a good job at muffling the sounds of phones, chatter, and buzzing devices outside.

Thoughts of the night swirled, preventing sleep from arriving. This wasn’t like her, as her time in the military and private security had left her accustomed to effortlessly chunking up her sleep.

Then again, this wasn’t like any job she had ever worked before.

She thought back to Carter’s incessant swearing, followed by the sight of his broken leg after the dinosaur had tossed the big man aside like a toy.

She thought back to Pruitt’s dry sarcasm while piloting the airlift and coordinating while Mischchenko was MIA, and then to how Sears had vanished from existence for no explicable reason. Because something had altered the timeline. For a split-second, she dared to wonder if it was because of the—

The bright flashes of energy from their EMD weapons, and the hissing snarls of the Purussaurus, a toothy maw that could have broken her in half, and swallowed her whole.

Crunch, crack. The dinosaur’s bones broke as it fell, crashing into the canopy of trees half a mile down cliffs of the Miocene era.

The scintillating, brilliant light of the Anomaly, that wondrous sphere, a rupture in the space-time continuum, connecting two eras, millions of years apart—

Her phone’s alarm buzzed. Nap time was already over.

Grant sighed.

Time for debriefing.

She slipped into her flats and struggled to find her way. Then she bumped into Singh while looking for the conference room—for which they had to ride the elevator to the top floor, and he showed her the way again, chewing her ear off with more administrative busywork—she couldn’t tell if he was repeating the Cliff’s notes of whatever he had already spammed her in mails with, or if this was more information he expected her to absorb.

Grant hoped not to break out into a cold sweat over the thought that she was about to forget everything he was blabbing about.

Instead, she tuned him out, nodded strategically in intervals, and considered how she would phrase future apologies.

They pushed inside glass doors.

Stark white, sleek, and reflecting surfaces awaited them. Surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, the conference room permitted them to overlook Austin’s skyline, mirroring the imposing and dizzying architecture of Spencer’s own office.

The CEO himself, garbed in a different, but no less sharp-looking three-piece suit, sat at the head of a long, oval table. Mischchenko and Pruitt also already awaited when Grant and Singh entered.

Pruitt, whom she now saw for the first time without a helmet, turned out to be a man of what she assumed to be Native American descent, probably in his fifties. He shot Grant a weary smile, and twirled a silvery pen between his fingers, clicking it fluidly after every other spin.

Carter joined them, limping inside on crutches. The young, burly man had a scruffy blond beard to match his grumpy demeanor. A doctor in medical had encased his leg in a thick cast.

As more people poured into the conference room, Spencer made introductions with Chloe Grant and them, one by one.

Marcus Stantz, public relations, had joined them. Grant caught herself staring at him repeatedly because he bore an uncanny resemblance to Ben Affleck. The main difference were the black rings of exhaustion under his eyes, like he had been up all night, just like the field agents. And given he was their spin doctor, he likely slept even less than the operatives.

Danielle Bennett, head of IT and data processing, quickly avoided eye contact and buried her attention in a thin black laptop without a brand label on its case. She tip-tapped away at the keys while introductory chatter filled the room. Barely spared Grant a glance, like she didn’t expect her to stick around for long, or avoided getting close to anybody. Carter grumbled something and shook his head.

The science division also took part in the debrief session.

Alisha Burch, the company’s paleontologist, was a mousy black woman around Grant’s age, yielding a timid and nervous smile in their introduction. Then she spent the rest of her time staring at a blank spot on the table, only parting with some words when addressed directly.

Doctor Solomon, whose acquaintance Grant had made in Containment underground, showed up in the same white lab coat. He, too, looked like he hadn’t slept all night. Once the debriefing commenced, he looked bored, and kept checking his wristwatch like he had somewhere else to be.

Two women, several decades Grant’s senior, entered the conference room with Solomon—Lucille Trémaux, a quantum physicist with long gray hair; and Rebecca Chao, head of specimen containment and animal control. Both of them dressed quite chic and in different tones of blue, replete with scarves around their necks.

Grant fidgeted when the presence of their scarves reminded her that it was indeed somewhat chilly in most rooms of Future Proof LLC’s headquarters.

And Malachi Spencer, once more looking like a knife in human shape, folded his hands on the table in front of him, and cast a glance in the round.

“That would be everybody for this meeting. Let us begin,” he said with strong rhythm.

Carter raised a hand and grumbled his ask, “Where the hell’s Ruiz?”

Like a gargoyle, Spencer’s entire form stayed statuesque, while only his eyes moved and his unblinking gaze drilled into Carter.

Grant felt like it was not a good idea to ever interrupt Spencer.

“Agent Ruiz is excused. He filed a written report in full and resumed his vacation leave,” Spencer replied.

Carter’s eyebrows raised in visible frustration. He swallowed a remark. Unlike with the rest of the team, he likely kept his mouth shut in front of the CEO.

In fact, Valentìn Ruiz was sitting at a table outside a café at the other end of the city, tucked away behind the shining skyline of Austin, Texas, far out of sight from that conference room.

The outdoor section of the locale shone in soft pastel colors of pink and blue, courtesy of tasteful lighting and decoration.

Coffee cups and spoons clinked, in symphony with the shuffling of a waitress, a smooth texture of inoffensive music, and idle chatter from other tables.

Across the table from Ruiz sat a woman with red hair and features as strikingly symmetrical as his own. While Valentìn Ruiz was dressed casually in earthy brown tones of a leather jacket, a comfortable olive sweater, stonewashed dark jeans, and a beige beanie on his head; the woman was dressed in a snazzy black business suit, rivaling Spencer’s taste in expensive attire.

Ruiz didn’t know her name. Not her real name, anyway. He didn’t need to, or want to, for that matter.

He slid a USB thumb drive across the table towards the mystery woman.

The sleek black surface of that tiny object featured the logo of Future Proof: half a clock, connected in its linework to half a shield.

The drive contained a copy of his report and debriefing on the Rocky Mountains incursion, originally written to Spencer in full.

The drive also contained other data he was putting up for illicit sale.

The woman in black shook her head with a wide smile, and asked, “How do you get those out of your FOB unnoticed?”

Ruiz reciprocated with a crooked smile of his own. He said, “I got a couple o’ tricks up my sleeve.”

With an adroit flick of his index finger, he sent the USB drive sliding the rest of the way across the table, barely caught by the woman in black before it slid right off the edge of her side. Then Ruiz splayed his fingers, wiggling them in a hypnotic pattern until a poker card—the Jack of Hearts—appeared out of thin air, clinched between two fingers.

“My, my,” she said. Seductively. “Look at you, Mister Magician.”

“Maybe I should charge extra for my performance,” he said. His smile widened until his perfectly straight teeth were on display again. His dark eyes flashed with mischief. “You do need me more than I need you, after all. Or am I wrong?”

“You know—”

He raised his other hand to stop her, and it worked. The card vanished from his right hand and he shook his head, chuckling.

“Please, I don’t think we’ll ever be more than friends, if even that. Just wire me the payment, and I’ll be on my way again.”

The woman in black’s face fell. Serious. Eyes cold, blue, piercing, like a shark’s. A killer.

Trained on Ruiz’ dark eyes, she said, “Already done. You keep delivering this kind of excellence in intelligence, and our… professional relationship will continue to flourish, Mister Magician.”

His smile faded. Ruiz tapped the table’s surface twice. He left tattered dollar bills on the table next to his empty cup of coffee while he rose from his seat.

Wagging a finger at her, he asked, “Did the signal beacon I left you work? Newbie on our team fried me pretty hard with an EMD. Had no idea if it would still work.”

The red-headed woman narrowed her eyes.

“Yes, it worked. A bit late, and we’re still observing while Future Proof is mopping up the mess, waiting to scour the premises for scraps once they clear out. No thanks to you. Maybe if you—”

Ruiz’s stone-cold gaze met hers. Burned, icy cold.

Silenced her without a word. Neither of them smiled at each other.

Two sharks, recognizing the danger they both exuded.

“Maybe,” he said, licking his lips in the pause, “if you doubled your efforts in replicating the Anomaly detection system, you wouldn’t be lagging behind, and they’d be picking up your scraps—not the other way around.”

The smile returned to her red-painted lips. Cold and calculating, this smirk did not reach her eyes, though she radiated a calm confidence.

“I assure you, Mister Magician. In due time. I, too, have some tricks up my sleeve.”

Unsettled by that, Ruiz nevertheless kept his composure. With his back turned to her, he raised a hand for a motionless wave. Didn’t even bother to look at her when he said his parting words.

“Well, I have some vacay days to enjoy. Bye.”

He left. Crossed the street, weaving between traffic, until he mounted his motorcycle and drove off.

The mystery woman watched him leave, still smirking. She sipped her coffee. Then she grabbed her phone.

The sun rose high over Austin. It was going to be a beautiful day.

And it wouldn’t be long before Future Proof’s next mission in the field.

The Anomalies were occurring more frequently.

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moss-bride · 9 months

Text

Koi boi

Lawrence Oleander x femreader. Chapter 1

The world moves past them in the blink of an eye but it's languid here.

He gave up caring. Vitality leaves them behind

At least it was that way until her. Years ago on a rainy day in mid October, the therapy circle was made of sad victims of life's hard downs. His sister (before he cut his family off) had forced him to go. He barely spoke a word as others around him shared stories he didn't care about hearing.

He's staring at the clock, willing it to move so he can leave this farce.

Then she stood up. Behind her the wall was decorated with spiders and grinning ghosts. With big glasses and a warm smile she stopped him. Her expression strongly contrasted to her next words.

"I was born dead. The doctors revived me. I feel like I was never born at all.

Sometimes I wonder if it was wrong of them. I was supposed to die."

Moving her hands to express parts of her sentences

"Oblivion before observation. They took that from me. It's like I wasn't meant to be here, I feel it in my breath."

a poem she had written. Short and free verse. And when he repeated it in his head as the group therapist told her to sit back down (demanding she explain. Explain. Always explain because people are greedy) he felt the poem and its writer understood him like no one before

She's still here, I didn't miss her. I almost missed her. She is still here and he doesn't know what he'd do if she'd already left. This is the one location where they can sit with each other and he's eager to get started.

The only time he enjoys life is in the moments he catches sight of her between gaps of twin bookshelves. Where dust rains down on him and her head is bent down. Still as a statue.

There isn't an option to approach her like a normal person. He argued with himself on the semantics for months on end. Why can't I? Because there's a possibility he'll lose her. If he were to talk to her he would forfeit the freedom he gains from perception of others, there's a chance she won't feel the same as he does or need him the way he needs her

And if that happens she'll call the cops to take him away and he would never see her again.

On the other hand, there is an voice in the back of his head demanding he be quick. This voice sees her thread, bright red and humming with life in all it's fleeting glory, ready to slip away from his at any given point. Urging for him to grab hold and pull. He hates the need of action. Hates his inaction.

It would be easy to grab her. No one except social services is in her life to report her immediately missing. But he won't. He's not a kidnapper. Sick and disgusting but surely he wouldn't -

The walls are plain unassuming concrete smeared white. By the cracks you could tell it's a cheap paint spread thinly over bumps and crevasses so long ago. Zero cameras and empty of people except him, her and the librarian.

Yet he can't he isn't that sick. Of course not he'd never.

He sees her standing at a bookshelf with her back towards him, searching through the horror section. Open windows, dark skies. The flickering light frames her downturned face with such care it leaves him nauseous. His shoulders untense though still fraught with nerves.

His job he never strays from his apartments until he met her. Chasing her across the city like a dog for the short moments he can spare. Although he's gone to more places then he can count now, it never stops his nervous thoughts. While hiding behind trees and trash cans he's shaky and unsure of why he's there.

She doesn't remember him from that day long ago. At least, he can't find any form of recognition in her eyes when they happen to see him.

She sits a few seats away. Getting up occasionally to retrieve and put back books she finished. As is their usual routine though only he is aware of it.

She's standing so innocent and sightless to the world around. He thinks 'How amazing It would be if she was blind. She'd make the prettiest blind person.'

She's wearing the pretty brown skirt that he loves and a warm knitted sweater of what he knows to be her favorite color of a muted green, not the color of evergreens but a soft and warm moss that makes him want to bury his head in her chest and breathe everything she is into him.

Under the skirt he saw her slip on simple white underwear this morning, as well as some pretty warm stockings that slid up her leg, plain and unassuming. His face had pressed against the glass window as he wiped the fog caused by his heated breath to get a clearer look.

He's been staring like a creep, he dissolves into his seat, opening his book in the guise of reading.

He's so alone but these brief moments spent each day with her makes him less so. Content. He watches her nonchalantly sort over books, pulling one out and skimming over its contents then, finally, notices him.

Those eyes shoot scalding water down his back.

He's stiff with anticipation choking him as she walks on by and chooses a seat in front of him, so close the nearness scalds his cheeks and has him flipping through book pages restlessly.

This is the closest he'll ever get to her while she's awake, his hands shake as she silently reads. Burnings a whole into the meeting of the pages until he swears there's the whiff of smoke from intense concentration.

Is it his imagination or did she just glance at him and smile? yes, it was a quick upturn of plump lips she directed at him so gently. it's for him, that smile is for him, an invitation to speak? Or a mocking gesture? Faces are terrible things that tear you apart but her smile confuses him. Sending him hiding behind the papers.

Her presence next to him sends hunger clutching and biting at his stomach, and he's not sure what he's supposed to do, really wants to talk to her but if he does he might blurt out something wrong and she'll never come near him again and if that happens he'll fucking kill himself. She could look at him and see his appearance and scoff.

No, she's perfect like this, unaware and silent as a grave.

She fiddles with a button on her sweater, then writes something on the paper. Notes about her book he thinks but then to his surprise, she speaks. "Do you like Anja Albert?"

He blinked at the words. "Huh?"

She laughs lightly, for a horrified moment he thinks she's laughing at him. it's a strange coughy sound and points to the book he has open.

He fidgets in place. "Oh, yes." he don't know who she is. He got this book last week after he realized how often she checked it out. Over and over again in the course of two years, he thought that surely after being held by her so lovingly the book would permeate with her scent and he was correct, the barest hint of coconut and vanilla was evident on the worn pages that when he pressed his face to take in more he nearly came.

She beams at him. "You have good taste. She's my favorite author! I'll let you get back to reading."

That short chat was just for a compliment. She takes her book and waves goodbye. He's frozen

Watching her leave. Wishing he could make her stay. Without her here he has no reason to remain in public.

Walking home his gaze is frozen on the sidewalk replaying the conversation. The 'should haves' haunt him.

Next time their conversation will be longer. A novel notion. He's only ever wanted a conversation to end.

#x reader #lawrance oleander #btd lawrence #dead dove fic #a03 fanfic #lawrence oleander

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xantchaslegacy · 1 year

Text

Compleation Logs Interlude: Where the Hearth Is

Urabrask and Elspeth's meeting at the end of SNC

(Link to story on Ao3)

The Caldaia, New Capenna

Two figures walked the streets. They moved in concert, only a few inches of space between them.

Those who glimpsed the pair thought them a couple headed home after a night on the town; the taller one handsome in dapper green, escorting a dashing young woman in flashy white and gold.

Those who looked closer, passers-by and hopeful pickpockets alike, noticed both looked worse for the wear, as if they’d already fended off a mugging, or fled the authorities.

Or perhaps, like many in the city, they had been in the thick of the riots that had left New Capenna reeling.

Violence had pervaded the streets for days, at every level. Family allegiance was no longer the protection it was on a normal day. And despite rumors of the adversary’s demise that very evening in the midst of the angels’ return, anyone, anyone, was fair game.

So it was saying something that none of the pickpocket hopefuls who glimpsed the pair thought to approach them. The good citizens of the Caldaia shirked trouble on the best of days, but the pair carried themselves with such a fearsome air of purpose that even the most jaded purse-snatchers and leg-breakers of the city’s lower tier gave no more than a fleeting thought to approaching them. When they turned into an alley, none followed. When they descended a staircase marked “Off Limits to Foot Traffic,” no late-night busybodies made any comment.

For their part, the pair sought no trouble as they swept lower and lower into the city. The woman in white strode with an enforcer’s gait, a gloved hand laid protectively on the hilt of her shimmering sword (was that halo?). The woman in green kept her gaze forward, but her eyes took in every nook and cranny of the surrounding streets and alleys as they went, sweeping for danger, and tracking each eye that tracked them.

They had little fear of attack, but could ill-afford to be tailed.

As luck would have it, never in the history of the Caldaia had there been a better night to move unfollowed. There were changes happening above. Grand changes. Big enough to turn most eyes upward, and leave this pair to slip below.

Below the Caldaia.

Below the lowest places known to the citizens of New Capenna.

And lower still.

** ** **

“Are you sure you’re up for this tonight?”

“A little late to ask, isn’t it? We’ve been descending for over an hour.”

Vivien grimaced. “Just wanted to ask before it was too late.”

She stood with Elspeth in a dark passageway far below the city, a few dark feet of space between them and their destination. Vivien’s hand rested on a heavy steel door, the metal hot under her fingers. It was a new addition, discreetly built into the bedrock of New Capenna.

Elspeth’s voice offered the ghost of a smile. “Do I look that bad?”

She did look tired. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her gaze was jittery with the ragged, fading energy of adrenaline. Her hair and makeup, done in the stylish fashion of the city’s upper-crust party-goers, was smeared. Her white garments were torn in a dozen places and stained with grime, blood, and soot.

“You...look like you could rest.”

Elspeth nodded, but her eyes were on the door. “Do you trust him?” The question came out hard. Steely.

“More than I expected to. If he’s deceiving us, he’s a better liar than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“And Tezzeret?”

Vivien snorted. “Would you trust him?”

“Maybe.” Elspeth sighed. “I know Tezzeret wants what’s best for himself, and Phyrexia isn’t good for anyone.” She glanced at Vivien. “But you don’t trust him.”

“I’d be the greatest fool in Dominia if I trusted that man. No, he has his angle, and I think he’d throw every one of us to the dogs to make it.” Vivien grimaced. “But we still have a choice to make. Phyrexia or those who’d oppose it.”

“That’s no choice at all.”

“So I’m told.”

“Tezzeret’s handed over tools to thwart them before. To me and Koth and Venser.” Elspeth licked her lips. They were badly cracked, and there was a spot of blood at the corner of her mouth. “I’m willing to believe he’d do it again.”

“Urabrask is...a bit more than a tool.”

Elspeth’s smile tightened. “I doubt Tezzeret thinks the same.”

Vivien nodded. When Elspeth did not reply further, she jerked her head at the door.

“So-?”

Elspeth drew in a long, whistling breath, and let it out slow.

“Yes.”

The cavern interior was much changed since Vivien’s first visit. Its primary occupant had spent weeks carving out the space to better suit his needs, and Tezzeret had used his local contacts to bring down the materials needed to set up a modest forge. A Riveteer crew, some builder gang out of Beamtown, had proved discreet and fearless enough to install the forge and a secure door.

It had been hard, Tezzeret said, to locate souls bold enough for the work, with a hunger for gold that outweighed their fear of the tunnels below New Capenna.

And any fears they might have had about the cave’s extraplanar occupant.

The occupant in question was equally changed since Vivien had first descended below the city. Once feeble and diminished from the cosmic burn of interplanar travel, Urabrask, praetor of New Phyrexia’s Quiet Furnace, now stood tall. Hulking in profile with a broad beak and stout wings that vented flame, he loomed over an anvil the size of a wagon-cart, striking and hammering at a white-hot slab of steel with his bare claws, shaping the metal with heated blows and showering the space with sparks.

And above him-

Vivien stared. The streets were flooded with rumors from the heights to the Caldaia. Whispers of the angels’ return. Elspeth’s young companion had supposedly been of angelic essence, and been key in releasing her fellow angels, but to see three of them floating here in the cavern, looking down on Urabrask-

“Ah.”

Elspeth was staring up at the angels too. Between the slim part of her companion's lips, Vivien could see Elspeth’s teeth, grit tight.

Vivien paused, then shook her head.

Best to forge ahead.

She cleared her throat. “Urabrask.”

He did not turn or raise his head from his work. Whatever was taking shape under his hands had his full attention, as it did the attention of the angels. A passing glance from one of Urabrask’s assistants, a bare-chested ogre, was all the notice paid to their arrival.

Vivien exchanged a look with Elspeth. The younger woman looked ready to collapse. She’d been moving nonstop for more than a full day by now, and it was a surprise she was standing at all.

And that was before considering she’d lost at least two people close to her in that time.

“Urabrask.” Vivien shouted into the din again. “I’ve brought Elspeth!”

“A moment.” Urabrask’s voice boomed now, when it had merely rasped before. “This is a delicate stage.” He flipped the heated metal with a flick of his claw, and began working the sides with alternating strikes from his left claw, and grinding strokes from his right, forming a sharp, rippling edge to the steel.

Another exchange of glances. When Elspeth broke her gaze, her eyes did not turn to Urabrask, but back to the angels floating over him.

Vivien sighed. Folded her arms. She almost wished Tezzeret was with them, to smooth out this interaction. She understood the general score of things: the urgency to mount a defense against the phyrexians, but there was so much baggage to the situation that she was beginning to feel overwhelmed nurturing such an important part of that defense.

A sidelong glance. Elspeth was still looking up.

The angels were a sullen-looking trio. Hostile, even though they were just hovering there. They were watching the red praetor like he was a rabid dog dying in the dirt.

Then again, anyone might be cranky after being the unwilling reservoir for the demons’ little playground amidst the apocalypse.

“I’d think an angel might have better things to do than lurk down here,” Vivien ventured, whispering to Elspeth. “Freshly released from imprisonment.”

“Here to keep an eye on that, I’d bet.” Elspeth’s gaze flicked down to Urabrask. The look happened inside of a moment, but in that moment there was a clenching of Elspeth’s jaw. A tensing of her shoulders. A curl of her gloved fingers into fists.

Then she was staring at the angels again, breathing just a little harder than before.

Vivien put a gentle hand on her companion’s shoulder. The younger woman tensed at the touch, but a moment later her muscles relaxed, and her shoulders sank down an inch. Her exhalations were still audible in the din, but she seemed in control.

Vivien patted her shoulder.

KLANG

Urabrask struck the glowing steel one last time, then lifted it from the anvil. Steam vented from his wrists as he did so, enveloping the metal in a thick fog of vapor for several seconds before dissipating.

Held up against the dark, the steel was clearly a shield, circular with a rippled circumference. The edge of the thing reminded Vivien of a shark’s maw.

With a grunt, Urabrask thrust the shield into a trough of shimmering liquid. It hissed and steamed in a way that water did not, and when he pulled the shield free, countless rainbow droplets arced up and spattered on the floor.

Halo

Urabrask’s assistants, a trio of devils, moved to mop up the spilled stuff immediately. There was a wistful look in their eyes, but they also eyed the effect of the liquid on Urabrask’s creation with awe.

The steel radiated light. The color across its surface rippled as if water, but in a muddle of colors. Against the relative darkness of the cavern, it was like viewing sunshine through a hole in a black tarp.

Slowly, like stormy seas returning to rest, the colors resolved into an ordered patchwork of color. Each shape on the steel glowing as if lit by its own light.

Like the halos of the angels.

Urabrask held the shield up to the angels present, face quietly upturned. With equal silence, the angels descended, their wings unmoving as they dropped through the air. When they came within arms’ reach of the shield, their light and the light off the steel seemed to magnify each other, and a rainbow glow touched the edges of the vast cavern.

Urabrask shied away, slightly but noticeably, from this glow. His arm was trembling.

The shortest of the angels took the shield from Urabrask, hefting the massive thing onto one arm with astounding ease. He brandished it in short thrusts and swings. It stayed in place along his arm, as if held by magic, and shifted to the opposite limb with the simplest of gestures.

At the last stroke, the angel paused, holding the shield out in front of his chest. Then he nodded, as if in approval.

“Why are you here?”

Now, as her voice rang out, all eyes turned to Elspeth. Hers hadn’t left the angels. She had one hand on her hip, and the other gripping the pommel of her new sword. The globe at the hilt was swirling with light, and the glow from the blade had extended to envelop her arm and shoulder. The feathers of her cape were standing on end, flickering with that same glow.

Like a lizard raising its frills.

“Giada died to free you,” Elspeth said, an edge in her voice. “What are you doing here in this pit? There’s a city to defend above, but I find you here dealing with-” she mouthed something silently, grimaced, and thrust her chin at Urabrask. “-with that? Aren’t you supposed to be protecting us as from that?”

Urabrask grunted at that. His ogre assistant, who had been sweeping up the ashes around the anvil, turned, growling, and moved to stand alongside the praetor. The angels, for their part, went back to examining the shield, only the tallest one among them having deigned to fully turn her head in Elspeth’s direction.

Vivien winced. Not a great start to introductions.

“We are here in protection of the citizens above,” the tall angel replied, ice in her voice. “Our senses are still keen to the threat of the flesh-desecrators, and we have come to evaluate a threat. The demons may be happy to cavort in the paradise we toiled to build them, but we take our duties seriously.

“Ungratefully though the people of the city have treated us,” the angel added. “Unworthy though every last one of them are of our protection.”

Vivien pursed her lips. The angels had been free for scant hours. If they had already detected Urabrask, hidden so far down in the bedrock of the city…

“But this one...” The short angel regarded Urabrask with a hawk’s eye. “You have the skill to craft weapons against the wicked ones. And you say you intend to annihilate your hideous kin?”

“That is not what I said.” Urabrask did not raise his head while addressing the angels. His gaze was fixed on Elspeth.

The angel took the shield by the rim and held it at arm’s length. “But you intend to fight them? And you possess the skills and the sense of self-sacrifice to make use of the Halo to that end?

Urabrask held out the hand that had held the shield. Vivien noted that is was burnt and smoking where the Halo had spattered it. “That is my intent.”

“Then we will not descend from on high to wipe you from existence.” The taller angel’s gaze swept over Urabrask’s assistants. “Nor will we punish these servants of the demons who have come to aid you. Our brothers and sisters will leave this...cave of yours untroubled, provided you have vacated by month’s end. And provided you use the essence of our siblings that has been brought to you for the end it was intended, to beat back the perverters of flesh.”

“So the angels of Capenna are backroom gangsters?”

All eyes snapped back to Elspeth.

“What is the difference between you and those demons you slander?” Elspeth demanded. “They at least are concerned with keeping phyrexians out, not hiring the convenient ones as mercenaries.”

Vivien’s chest was feeling tight, and she wasn’t even directly in the conversation at hand. She hadn’t expected this hostility from Elspeth. This level of stress, like a wolf whose den had been threatened.

“Child, we owe you nothing.” The tall angel looked down her nose at Elspeth. “Certainly not an explanation of how or why the angels choose to conduct themselves. Not to you, and not to your alien friend there.”

Vivien tensed, hand tightening on the case that held the Arkbow.

Elspeth scowled, but simply shook her head and turned away from the angels.

Urabrask had regarded the exchange in relative quiet. Now he lay a single talon on his ogre helper’s shoulder. The ogre nodded, and went back to the ashes. As his helpers tidied up the space, Urabrask took a rag and began wiping the soot and grease from his claws. Not once did his eyes leave Elspeth.

Even now, after many meetings, Vivien could not read those eyes. Was that a predatory look? One of Caution? Hunger? Hope?

“I’ve brought Elspeth,” she repeated, trying to press the anxiety out of her voice, and simply making it loud instead.

“Yes.” Urabrask began wrapping the cloth around his fingers, where the smoking was worst. “This is good.”

“Good,” Vivien echoed, frowning.

“Elspeth Tirel.” Urabrask moved toward them. He was less stiff now. More graceful and fluid in movement since he’d healed from his searing transit to New Capenna. Still, there was something about how he walked that put Vivien on edge. How he seemed ready to fall onto all fours and lunge forward at a moment’s notice. “Much has happened since we last saw each other.”

“I haven’t had the pleasure, actually,” Elspeth replied, flat. The hand on her sword’s pommel had slid toward the handle.

“Mm.” Urabrask raised a single talon under his beak. “True. When I saw you last, you were with the Hammer, carving a path for the Mirrans through the Thanes and into my furnace.” He made a sound from his throat, like steam through a punctured pipe. “You would not have seen me at that time. I was...hidden.”

Elspeth offered him nothing except to twitch her brow.

Urabrask took another step forward. “Phyrexia needs you.”

Vivien closed her eyes. Tezzeret really would have been a boon to have for this introduction.

“Excuse me?”

Vivien opened her eyes. Elspeth was squinting, her mouth twisted in a scowl.

“Phyrexia needs you.” Urabrask moved a step closer as he said he. “You must help us.”

He thinks she couldn’t hear him.

“...I must?”

Urabrask made another sound. At least Vivien was reasonably sure it was him. No one else in the cavern seemed capable of making a noise like creaking gears grinding to a stop.

“Yes. The work before us is immense, and it cannot be done without you.” He looked to Vivien. “Didn’t you explain to her the immensity of the work ahead?”

A pang of annoyance cut through Vivien’s anxiety. “I explained there might be an alliance here. Against a shared enemy.”

“Norn.” Urabrask nodded. It would have been an amusing motion in any other context. “She dreads you, Elspeth. All Phyrexia knows you have left, and still she orders patrols to search for you. Commands her leaders bound for other worlds to annihilate you on sight.”

“So I’ve heard.” Elspeth was standing upright, but something in how she was holding herself was starting to suggest sudden, imminent forward movement just as much as Urabrask’s posture did. “So? Phyrexia is not a plane of gods. It’s not a place where faith or belief change the raw truth of power. One person won’t turn the tide back against Norn. One person isn’t difference enough to oppose all Phyrexia.”

“It is not all Phyrexia we’ll be fighting,” Urabrask said. “I oppose Norn, as does the Furnace, and as do denizens all across the New Phyrexia’s factions.”

“Not enough of them. Norn controls Phyrexia now, or am I wrong? At least enough of it that you’re so desperate you’d kill yourself crossing the blind eternities to recruit one person.”

“An important person.”

Elspeth’s face flickered between anger and bewilderment.

“I am not planning a revolution against Phyrexia, but for it.” Urabrask extended a claw, holding it outstretched, palm-up. “Our New Phyrexia is full of potential. We have inherited the tools of continuous improvement, and a chance to use those tools free from the elitist trappings of old Phyrexia. There is room for many paths to perfection, but Norn is not interested in ideological diversity, only order. Only control.”

“All Phyrexia desires control,” Elspeth replied. “The Thanes fight over control perpetually. The chrome phyrexians want to control knowledge. Even the Swarm, as much as Glissa and Vorinclex might protest, are trying to corral evolution itself.

“Even you want control over your little corner of the world. You see? I understand Phyrexia pretty damn well myself. Norn’s no different than any of you, she just won.”

“She hasn’t won yet.” Urabrask raised a single talon. “Your view of Phyrexia is reductive.” he put out a second talon. “And,” he added, extending a third, “not all control is made equal. The desire to control is neither good nor bad, but it is not the same to want to control one’s own world as it is to want to control all worlds.”

“Quibbling.”

“I was a dragon in another life, Elspeth Tirel. A dragon does not quibble. A dragon builds.”

“You build on the bodies of the Mirrans. Your raw materials are the corpses of the fallen. Your furnace dwellers, many of them, are mirrans, most compleated unwillingly. Do you dispute that?”

“What would you have us do? Do you think the Mirrans that journeyed down into the depths below Mirrodin’s mountains before the invasion were interested in coexisting with us? It was compleat and kill, or die meekly. Those are the only two options the Mirrans ever offered us in dealing with them, and it is better, I think, to give them a new chance at life than to snuff out their lives.”

Elspeth gave him an icy glare. “I can’t say I agree.”

“And you should not have to; I don’t expect you to join me at the forge, Elspeth Tirel, but I do ask you to help me fight to protect it. Protect the remaining parts of Mirrodin that my forge protects in turn.”

“You helped gut Mirrodin. How can you expect me to fight for you?

“Because you want Norn dead just as much as I do. Perhaps more,” Urabrask replied, automatic. “She threatens the safety of the homes of you and your allies, as long as she is the one who directs Phyrexia. She threatens your homes just as much as she threatens the existence of mine.”

“Maybe I’ll just wait until she’s destroyed your home to intervene.”

Urabrask grunted. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I have no love for your Phyrexia, in any of its forms or factions.”

“You fought for Mirrodin when the mirrans stood to lose their lives and their homes. Those that remain have made a home for themselves in the pockets of the furnace we have been able to keep safe for them. Why stop fighting now?”

“Maybe it’s worth it,” Elspeth said, at a whisper. “Maybe Mirrodin needs to go with what’s left of Phyrexia so the rest of the multiverse can be safe.”

“That would be a waste.”

Elspeth shrugged.

Urabrask cocked his head. “What can I say to convince you?”

She shrugged again. “That’s not for me to figure out.”

Urabrask fell silent, his massive head tilted to one side, and then the other, as if in contemplation.

“I believe in Phyrexia,” He rumbled. “Our New Phyrexia. I made a furnace there, wanting only the freedom to make good works. That is what I wanted it to be. A place that takes what is and makes it all that it could be. So we furnace-dwellers took our corner of the world to do just that. Who could fault us? The inner plane was our birthplace, and so we made it our workshop. When war came, we sided with our siblings of oil and steel. We were all phyrexian, and we did not begrudge our siblings the right to fight for what they thought their portions of Phyrexia should be. It was no more than what we wanted.

“Then Norn decided she wanted more. She took what was ours. She put her porcelain cronies in charge of our silent, wonderful forge, policing us like we were no better than Sheoldred’s thugs. Now we produce nothing good. Nothing truly great. I appealed to Norn. She was my sister. She was Phyrexian. I thought she could be made to see what she was doing did not advance the work of our people, our culture, in a meaningful way. She appointed me her warden of the furnaces. Her warden. A figurehead on the leash of her eggshell priests. I stood in her annex like a fool while the orthodoxy smiled at me like I was a simple animal begging for scraps. I knew then I could not trust my fellow praetors. I told the furnace dwellers that, for succor, I must go to Elspeth Tirel.”

“Why did you go to Norn?”

Elspeth’s question clearly took Urabrask aback. “What?”

“Why did you go to Norn?” Elspeth’s gaze was steel. “You knew about me then. You knew about Koth. You knew we oppose Phyrexia. Why didn’t you come to us first?”

“I...what can I say? I have come to you now; what more could you I do? What more do you want me to do?” Urabrask spread his hands. “Tell me, Elspeth, what you need from me, but do as I ask.”

“...what is it you ask?” there was a weariness now in Elspeth’s voice. She was starting to sound as tired as she looked. “What specifically?”

“Come with me to New Phyrexia.” Urabrask leaned in close, his own voice as much like a whisper as a creature his size could manage. “You and your planeswalking allies. Let us carve a path into Norn’s inner sanctum and strike her head from her shoulders.”

“This...I cannot do this. I cannot be the killing blade for another. Not again. Not anymore.”

“You can. I will supply you with anything you need to do this. Anything you want at all. Halo. Willing warriors of the furnace.” Urabrask put a claw to his breast. “My own body is yours, but you must do what I ask.”

Elspeth’s lip curled. “We fought each other for many months, your side and mine, but this is this first time you’ve ever offered parlay. I can’t remember a time when your furnace-dwellers came to the resistance bearing anything more than indifference. But don’t pretend – you didn’t want to stick your neck out for us. You only wanted to ignore us and set us in the corner so you could soothe your conscience with a meager peace.”

“The indifference was a gift,” Urabrask protested. “It was all we could offer without making trouble with the other factions. You must understand-”

“And yet trouble found you. I understand well enough-” Elspeth’s voice had gone low, but it went unchallenged in the space. Even Urabrask’s workers were minding the exchange now. “You had your paradise on New Phyrexia. On the bones of Koth’s homeland. You had your forges and your flunkies and you thought you were protected. You never thought you’d need an ally like me. But now, your confederates have turned on you and you come crawling to me. ‘Come and kill my enemy for me,’ you say-”

Urabrask began to object, but Elspeth cut him off.

“But you don’t offer apologies. You don’t have any remorse for what you’ve done. You haven’t even thought to tell me what’s become of my friend, Koth. No. Instead you’ve come here, to my home plane, on a day of great loss for me, and ask me to be your mercenary in exchange for Halo.”

“I ask you to return to finish what you and your planeswalker friend started.”

“This is nothing that I started,” Elspeth snapped. “You and yours started this when your comrades killed the mirrans and drove them from your homes and you did not intervene.”

Urabrask clenched his claw into a fist. “Let us intervene now, then. Let us stop their advance; it is not too late. And if it is not enough for you to fight for the mirrans’ home then tell me what you want, Elspeth, and you will have it. There is nothing I will not give you, on this or any plane.”

“How can you insult me like this?” Elspeth’s voice cracked, and she had to gulp down a sharp, ragged breath before continuing. “Do you think I need to be bribed to do the right thing? If you had acknowledged the evil of your allies...if you had sought me ought when it mattered, then we wouldn’t be here. We could have fought, not as mercenaries, but as comrades. As friends. Do you understand that? Your enemies and mine would have been the same, and if Norn feared me, she would fear you as well. We might have won. We might have-”

Elspeth spun around suddenly. She was breathing hard. Her eyes met Vivien’s.

“I can’t.” She stepped away from the praetor. Urabrask made a stuttering half-motion, as if to reach after her, but his hand faltered. The gear-sound came from his throat again, and to Vivien’s ear it was not unlike the sound a dog made when wounded.

“If I knew what I know now-” His head lowered by inches. “I did not. What use is there in dwelling on what should have been done?” His voice grew quieter with each word. The Beamtown hires turned back to their tasks, letting him stand alone in silence.

“Elspeth.” Vivien took a step toward her companion to intercept her, but paused at the edge of her path. “Elspeth, are we just...are we just leaving? Are...do you need to leave?”

Elspeth halted half a foot from Vivien. “What am I doing here? What are we doing?”

“Easy, easy.” Vivien put her hands on the back of Elspeth’s neck, and brought her face close. “We can come back later, alright?” She glanced at Urabrask. “He’s not going anywhere. At least not right away, I don’t think. I’m sure he...” she trailed of, and sighed “I honestly don’t know if we can walk away from this. I’m sorry Elspeth, but this thing with the phyrexians. I know I don’t have to tell you this is bigger than you and me. We need a plan for this. And allies.”

“Why do I have to be here?”

Vivien started to form a response, looked closer at Elspeth’s haggard face, and decided she wasn’t actually looking for an answer.

“It’s not my war.” Elspeth’s eyes were wet. Her gaze was on the ground. “It’s not my job to fix his fucking fire-pit. His...his...” She grunted. “He made his fucking bed. I’m not his nursemaid.”

Vivien shook her head. “This isn’t about him. You know it isn’t. It’s about you and me. I’s about what’s left of Capenna staying Capenna. It’s about Dominaria and Alara and Theros and everywhere the phyrexians aren’t but could be if we don’t put a stop to them now.”

Elspeth grunted. She half-turned back toward the forge, but couldn’t quite manage it. “Does he deserve to be part of that?”

Vivien grimaced. “I think...I think even if you don’t want to fight for him, we don’t have the luxury of saying ‘no’ to the help he can offer. And my gut tells me he does want our help.”

Elspeth nodded, but looked no more convinced. Her frown was deep, her eyes set on the ground-

“It is my home too,” Urabrask whispered.

Elspeth tore free of Vivien, rounding on the praetor. “What?”

“It is my home too. Mirrodin. I wasn’t born on some far-away plane. I didn’t come to Mirrodin to take it away from anyone else. I was born there. Thrice-born and re-forged. It is my plane...it is our plane as much as it is the mirrans. None of us asked to be there, but there we reside.”

“You killed the others that lived there,” Elspeth spat back. “So what if you were born somewhere? It doesn’t excuse slaughter.”

“The vulshok and the goblins treated us no better,” Urabrask said. “When they first found us, doing our quiet work in the dark below their mountains, in the low tunnels of the lacuna. They killed us, and we killed them in return. I don’t think either of us were right to do so,” he added, when Elspeth seemed ready to interject. “Killing is useless and wasteful. But we did it to each other, out of fear of the other. Because as pointless as killing is, dying is worse.”

“Well congratulations. You chose killing, and did plenty of it.” Elspeth turned away again. Vivien made a move to follow her.

“Please.”

Vivien blinked it was the last word she expected to hear from Urabrask.

“Please.” This time there was a sound of metal on stone, and Vivien turned to face the praetor.

Urabrask was on his knees, head bowed low to the ground, hands outstretched beneath his beak, which scratched the cavern floor. His breath was shuddering now, labored, though he was long since healed. “We did not ask to be born of the furnace, but it is the home that I and mine know, It is the home we love. Alone or by the side of the mirrans that remain, all I ask is for that home.”

Elspeth pulled away from Vivien.

“What about my home?” She moved toward Urabrask, her voice rising. “What about my childhood ripped out from under me by the same sort of fiends that have taken Mirrodin? What about my friends and my family and my...and everyone dear to me taken away by you, or those like you, or by dragons and demons and gods? Explain to me why I owe even one of you anything more than my fucking sword caving in your miserable, treacherous skulls?”

“That is why.” Urabrask pressed his head further down, and Vivien could her the stone grind beneath the tip of his metal beak. “You have fought and searched for a home. You have defended homes that were not yours. Norn fears you, yes, but more than that, Phyrexia needs champions who understand what it is to need a home.

“Tezzeret told me this about you,” he added, when Elspeth’s face showed clear confusion.

“It was not his place.”

“Nevertheless,” Urabrask continued. “You have fought and sought and now you have reclaimed your home-”

“This is not my home!”

The shout was so violent, so sudden, that even the angels above started in surprise.

“I was told it was-”

“I don’t know this place! I never grew up in that city up there! That place full of noise and greed where the only loyalty is whatever material gain the person standing next to you can offer. I don’t have a home here, and I don’t have family. The closest thing I found to a father here is dead. The closest thing I could have had to a sister is gone and I-”

She gasped, and breathed hard.

“-I haven’t had a home since the time I was born. All I’ve done...all I‘ve ever done, is run from plane to plane trying to make a home for myself. I thought I’d found it so many times but...I can’t keep fighting just to have a home. I...I’m tired like you could not possibly understand.”

Urabrask was breathing hard as well, Vivien realized, belatedly. Almost in tune with Elspeth. When he spoke, his voice was similarly hoarse.

“Explain it to me.”

“What?”

“Please.” Urabrask’s voice was insistent. “You think I do not understand. Give me a chance to understand.”

Silence. The ogre and devils cleaning the forge cast glances at the three of them. Even the angels, silent and aloof though they were, seemed to lean in, if almost imperceptibly.

Elspeth sucked in a sharp breath through her nostrils, and for a moment Vivien felt certain her companion was about to strike Urabrask down. Instead, she squared her shoulders.

“There was...there was Alara. The first real home.”

She stopped short, gave a short jerk of her head, and continued.

“I was happy there. Actually happy. I felt hollow sometimes, and there were nightmares, but there were always going to be nightmares, and as hard as it could be to sleep, I had friends and comrades and a beautiful homeland to call my own in my waking hours. When the shards converged...when Esper and Grixis attacked us...I could have stayed there, maybe, if it had always been a fight for Bant. A fight to...to keep the other shards from destroying Bant. But the Bant I knew went away slowly. Quietly. The fighting faded away and there were sojourns from the other shards. Alliances. Exchanges of culture and I knew the Bant I loved would not remain so.”

Elspeth’s shoulders sagged. Her head inclined to look upon the floor.

“And besides, Bant had seen me for what I was. Not of them. Not of their world. I could not pretend to belong there any longer. I myself was a sojourner, and they would not have had me as one of them.”

“That can’t be true,” Urabrask said. “They would not have rejected you. You fought for them. They would have been fools not to keep and want you.”

“You have too much faith in the gratitude given to outsiders.” Elspeth’s tone was sharp, but her hands, which had been balled into fists, untensed and unfurled slowly as she continued to speak. “But I will explain in a moment how homes can be ungrateful.”

She turned away from him, and stared into the shadows.

“There was Dominaria next. I pretended it was a home, but I didn’t pretend very hard. It was a crossroads. A place to be because I had no place to be. I could go through the motions of being a knight in the pits, without the danger of disappointing anyone. Until Koth found me and brought obligations back into my life.”

She inclined her head toward the forge. The devils were heaping coals onto the pile to keep the heat steady.

“Koth couldn’t bring me a home. He was barely holding onto his own home then. But he found me a cause. He invited Venser and I into his home to fight for it. He gave me a cause, and he gave me my childhood nightmares to slay for that cause.

“I will always love my friend Koth for that,” she said, low, loud only enough for Vivien and Urabrask to hear. “And for the hopelessness of that fight he brought us to, I will hate him, always. But not as much as I hate myself for leaving that fight. Hopeless though it was. Hopeless though it is”

“It is not,” Urabrask replied. His voice too was a whisper now, though no-one had to strain to hear it. “It is not hopeless.”

“I still had hope though,” she said, paying him no apparent mind. “I had to have hope for me, at least, or I would have never left Mirrodin. I still hoped for something for myself, I guess. Hope to still find a place to live and just be until I died. Before the devils of my childhood found that place too, like they find everywhere, in the end.”

“Mirrodin.”

“What?” Elspeth looked back to Urabrask, at last.

“You called it Mirrodin, Elspeth. You still have hope for it.”

Elspeth snorted. “You’re just a person in the end, aren’t you?” Her voice was cracking worse now, and high. “Just a foolish person who believed in something that didn’t turn out to be what you hoped it to be. We’re just a multiverse of fools. Me with my gods and hope for homes. You and your Phyrexia.”

“Fools,” Urabrask sounded even lower than he had that first night, when he had still been half-dead from the scorching touch of eternity. “What next? What happened after you...after you were not on Phyrexia any longer?”

Another pause. Then, Elspeth knelt by Urabrask’s head. Her own face was turned down such that Vivien could not tell if it was angled at Urabrask or the floor.

“Theros. Theros, which needed heroes. The straightforward kind of heroes who killed monsters and protected the weak. Heroes who did not have to consider the motivations and intentions of the beasts they slew. Theros, where I could have the approval of the gods themselves, and I could have had love and happiness and...” She shook her head. “Theros was another empty promise, in the end. Another planeswalker stole my love, and my valor. He turned the whole plane upside down, and though I emptied myself out to fix the world again, I found that the gods were just as petty and ungrateful as anyone, and I-”

She coughed. Or did she sob?

“-I died.”

Urabrask shifted. “But you are here now.”

“Death is not much of anything, sometimes.” Elspeth laughed. It hurt Vivien to hear that laugh. “My body is here. My mind is here. My soul, technically, is here now. But I do not know if my hope is here. And without hope...”

She trailed off.

She looked up at Urabrask.

“...tell me something about yourself.”

“What?”

Elspeth placed her hands on her thighs. “I’m telling you who I am. I want to know who you are. You said you were a dragon, that you were born...many times? Tell me about that.”

Urabrask did not respond immediately. He remained kneeling, the bellows of his inhalation and exhalations like the working of some great coal machine in the distance.

When he spoke, it was like a rush of venting steam.

“I was born a dragon, first. My sire laid my egg carelessly in the bowels of Kuldotha, and then left me, as is the dragon’s way. I remained there in a deep place where traces of phyrexian oil pooled and soaked into the membrane of my egg. I was born stunted. Weak of limb and lacking entirely of wing. My siblings and sire scorned me, but Phyrexia did not. I crawled through levels of the Oxidda chain and the furnaces below the surface of Mirrodin that no flying dragon would deign to know. I found the foundlings of Phyrexia there. Creatures who the growing phyrexian culture had rejected out of weakness of design, or maybe because they sensed, somehow, that burgeoning fire within our souls that the remnant echoes of old Phyrexia did not recognize as truly phyrexian. We were all of the oil, and in the oil I heard the whispers of our progenitors. The secret techniques of taking what is and making it strong by modification. How to add to myself and become more.

I made a place for myself down in the bowels of Mirrodin, and I hoarded metal there. This is a dragon’s prerogative. But dragon’s hoard on Mirrodin is not like a dragon’s hoard on other planes. Metal lives on Mirrodin. Metal thinks. The hoard I gathered was not just a pile of trinkets, it was a catalog of life and history and form. A record of what was that could be used to explore what could be. What the metal could be. What we who live our lives with metal in our being could become.

“And so, wanting to be more, I added the metal to myself. I was reborn by my own will. I used the secrets of our progenitors, those techniques the oil had bled into my brain, to add the metal to myself, and I began to see. Memory of the metal bled into me. I threw away the flesh that had betrayed me and made a from for myself I could be truly proud of. And now the metal whispered to me as well, and, wanting to her the whispers, I let the memories of the metal become my own. I was an ogre. A Vulshok. A goblin. All metal in Phyrexia is cycled, and the metal of Mirrodin recalls the lives it has led. I hoarded those memory as I hoarded metal. Armored myself in it. Consumed it. Shaped it. Smashed and melted it. I have appreciated metal from every angle. Its flavor, its substance and form...the very essence of the stuff. Metal has nourished my body and my soul, and now comprises much of my body. Without metal, I would be nothing.

“The shape and the form of metal delights me, but form is fluid, and I learned that, so long as metal is kept flexible and able to move from form to form, it is eternal, and there is a beauty to that flexibility of form and function. Nothing ever need be broken. Nothing ever need be called useless, so long as it can be made anew into something.

“Phyrexia has given me paradise in this way. Myself and those who love metal. Who love creation, and the fiery conception of the new from what others would consider trash. Consider me.” Urabrask smacked the ground with the back of his knuckles. “Despised as and ogre. Feared as a dragon. And not much changed in either regard in compleation, as far as the mirrans are concerned. But I have found me and mine. Goblins and vulshok and ogres and dragons alike who do not fear re-creation. Who delight as I do in taking what has been discarded and giving it purpose, that nothing need ever be discarded again. It tears at our souls, Elspeth Tirel, to see anything discarded as useless or reviled. So me melt and we forge anew, until every molecule is made good and worthy. Waste not. Want not.

“This is what I mean when I say I can build for a new Phyrexia. I see potential in every piece of our world. Potential undreamed of by our siblings of oil and steel. I am not being boastful when I say this, even I do not know what that potential will look like five cycles, a hundred cycles from now. I only know we could be more than what Norn would have us be. More than a weapon. More than a virus that spreads for spreading’s sake.

“But I cannot build for New Phyrexia and Mirrodin both. I need someone who understands what it is to lose a home, and who can speak to the not-phyrexian perspective. I need you, Elspeth Tirel.”

Elspeth nodded, though from the way she swayed it might simply have been her weariness clutching at her. “And what would I be helping you build, exactly? What is your Phyrexia’s relationship with the world?”

“I don’t know yet.” Urabrask shook his head, the tip of his beak clipping the floor twice. “I have ideas. I thought I knew what we would look at when I only had the furnace to worry over. But I realize Phyrexia cannot just be left to grown in silos. We must work as one, but we must truly work together as one, as equals in a shared space. And as for expansion into other worlds...there are so many on Mirrodin who have not found their place in the Great Work. If we spread ourselves thin across the multiverse, too many will be forgotten in the expansion.

“Very egalitarian,” Elspeth said. Vivien imagined she almost saw a smile at the corner of her companion’s lips.

“There could be room for all, if we make it,” Urabrask continued. “I cannot communicate this to my followers of the furnace yet, but we have much to learn before we think of offering change to other planes, let alone forcing it upon them.”

“That’s quite the change of heart,” Elspeth replied. Her tone was soft, but something in it put Vivien ill at ease. “‘Tend the forges or feed the forges,’ wasn’t it? You were just as ruthless as the others when I was fighting for Mirrodin. Just as cruel to anyone who did not fit your vision. Why should I believe that’s changed?”

“I...I am learning. Phyrexia is learning. We are all still young, compared to the multiverse. The oil of our progenitors taught me much, but I do not accept all of it. Old Phyrexia at its core, at its heart and beginning, was built on elitism. A belief that some would rise above, and all others were only good for parts. An elitism of form that did not allow for all to share in the glory of the machine. I reject this. The imperfect should never be discarded, only reforged. Those who don’t wish to be reforged can themselves re-forge.

“And yes, I am learning” he added, softer, “that some do not want to or cannot tend the forge. Maybe they also deserve life. Deserve freedom. I do not know yet how they will exist alongside the Great Work, but as I see it, the best the path of the Quiet Furnace can offer is to not impede the paths of others. The freedom of others to pursue perfection how they want to, so long as that pursuit does not block the pursuit of others, is paramount. Do unto others as we would have them do unto us.

"Phyrexia should offer opportunity to all, not force it upon them," he added, when Elspeth did not respond.

"You're late in realizing this."

"Yes."

"And what does that look like exactly? After the dust settles? When you have your quiet world again and your enemies are gone?"

"I do not know." Urabrask paused, turning his head up to the roof. Vivien was reminded briefly of a dog sniffing the air. "We have never had the chance to grow into what we could be, without the virus of tyranny directing us. If I could, I would tell you with certainty we will coexist in peace. That a Phyrexia without Norn and the grasping expansionists among us would fit neatly into the multiverse as you wish it to be, but I cannot say this, and you know I cannot."

“No. No you can’t.” Elspeth straightened her back. She was looking down at Urabrask now, from on her knees; down on the gleaming metal curve of his beak. “There isn’t a single thing you can say to me that will change the fact that Phyrexia has, as a culture new and old, chosen the path of invasion and assimilation at every turn. So what do you have, Urabrask? What else do you have to tell me that I should make any move to not wipe you and your furnace from the face of Phyrexia along with every other faction of your cruel culture?”

Urabrask bristled, and raised his head. "We were born on the silver world, Elspeth Tirel. I told you. I was born there. That is my home. The Mirrans had no interest in sharing it with us. But I am telling you now I understand that we must share, if we are to exist on anything resembling our own terms."

When Elspeth did not respond, Urabrask slackened his muscles. “I do not know what to say to you.”

Elspeth pursed her lips. Nodded. “What am I to you?”

"You are a champion of those bereft of a home. All Phyrexia knows this." He lowered his head to the floor. His head was not of a proportion to touch his forehead to the ground, so instead the tip of his beak click-ed against the stone. "Please. Be our champion...”

Elspeth tilted her head. She was looking into Urabrask’s eye, Vivien realized, and he into hers.

“...be my friend.”

Elspeth blinked. “Friend?”

Urabrask nodded. “Yes. If you would have us.”

“Do you even know what that means?”

“I am not a beast, Elspeth Tirel. Compleation has not put the concepts of camaraderie and trust beyond me. The limits father of machines put on our ancestors to keep these concepts from them do not bind to our new Phyrexia. Norn would see those limits on our imaginations put back in place. I would see these concepts made available to all Phyrexia.”

Elspeth leaned in from her kneeling position to put her face by Urabrask’s head. Just beyond her arm’s reach.

“You know what it means. But do you mean it?”

Urabrask blinked. A sudden shiver ran down Vivien’s spine, as she realized she had never seen the praetor blink before.

“I want to mean it. I want allies for our new Phyrexia. I need allies. There is an untapped value in alliance with those not compleat like we are. There will be advantages.”

Elspeth closed her eyes.

“You want a mercenary.”

“I want an ally.”

Elspeth shook her head. “You want a sword to sink in Norn’s throat.”

“Do you not want that?” Urabrask returned.

“Is that all I am to you?”

“I think more of you than that, Elspeth Tirel. I know also you are weary in mind and in flesh.”

“I am.” Elspeth slouched down on her knees. For the first time since they’d entered, her hand slid from the hilt of her sword to rest in her lap. “As you...as you must understand...you burned your own flesh away to come here?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Elspeth blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Isn’t home important to you? The concept of a home? A home itself? Wouldn’t you leap through danger and pain for the sake of a home?”

“Yes.” Elspeth’s voice had a renewed energy as she said it.

“Can you believe that a Phyrexian would do the same?”

“I’ve seen what you call a home.” Elspeth shook her head. “I want to believe you, but I don’t see what you see as worth fighting for.”

She stood, and drew her sword.

The workers reacted first, The ogre drew a thick wrench from his belt and took a step forward, growling. The devils dropped their brooms and rags and similarly advanced in Elspeth's direction. By then, Vivien had her bow out of its case and had it trained on the closest devil. The sudden glow of her weapons made them pause in their tracks.

"Stop," Urabrask commanded, his muscles tensing visibly. "Let her be."

“And you,” He pointed to Vivien. “Do not threaten my workers.”

Vivien frowned, but lowered her bow to aim at the ground. Above, the angels’ faces had darkened.

Through all of it, Elspeth never took her eyes off of Urabrask.

"Do you know who this is?"

"I do not." Urabrask's breathing was heavy, almost laboured, and steam was wafting out of his joints and wing-stubs.

"This was Giada. This world, this city, offered her very little, and wanted to take and take and take from her. To drink her up. She was a tool to them. A resource. She was useful, and that was all that those who called themselves her guardians cared about. And yet still. Still. She gave her life willingly for New Capenna, for the safety of those dear to her, for the chance that this place might be...something more. Something better. She did not need to be infected or coerced or bribed to do what was right.”

Above, the angels moved there heads towards one another, but remained silent.

“This was…this was admirable,” Urabrask said. “A sacrifice worthy of emulation. But I do not mean to use you up, Elspeth. I meant it when I said I would give you anything for your help. Fight for us, and there is nothing I will not give you to help you find a home of your own.”

Elspeth shook her head. A quick jerk. “I am not as strong as her. I am not as devoted as you.” She paused, then continued in a hushed rasp. “I do not want to die. Not for anything. And I am afraid to die, if I must face Phyrexia again.”

"Then I will die before I let them kill you.

"You would die for me?"

"I would die for freedom. For the furnace, if I must. And I know that you are the key to freedom for the furnace. It would be better, though, if we could both live through the violence that must happen. We should both try to live, if we can."

Elspeth's arm dropped. Luxior left a brief, many-colored distortion in the air behind it as it moved. She stared at Urabrask, then tucked the sword back into the sash at her waist.

Then she looked back at the praetor kneeling before her.

“It’s all words,” she said after a moment. “It’s all just words back and forth and they don’t mean anything unless there’s action to back them up.” She grimaced, a look of misery that wrinkled her mouth and her eyes. “I want to believe you. I do. But...I don’t know if anything you’ve said is enough to make me go back there. Back to that place”

“What could I say?” Urabrask lifted his beak and inch from the floor. “What good are my words? Words are empty and prove nothing. The father of machines had many fine words. Great speeches and lies he used to sway the Thran. Psalms and scriptures to bend old Phyrexia to his will. He had priests with no function except to spread his words...his lies. Norn, Sheoldred, Jin – they could offer you very convincing words in favor of their visions of Phyrexia, but those words would not make them right. No. If you were the sort of person who could be convinced by words...I don’t think you would be the right person to fight for us, if that was so.

“I can only ask that you feel.”

Elspeth sniffed. “Feel?”

“Feel and believe that what we are fighting for is something we can fight for together. That we can overcome the worst parts of old Phyrexia’s culture and the most toxic parts of New Phyrexia’s to be something...something more. And that, even in Norn’s Phyrexia there are those who deserve a chance at life. A chance at an existence not under her tyranny.”

Elspeth’s head inclined forward, her face pointed at an angle towards the ground. From her vantage point, Vivien could see her companion’s shoulders fall.

“It is hard, Elspeth. Urabrask touched his beak back to the ground. “I know it is hard, when you have no guarantees in life. Nothing certain or solid to stand on and reassure you that your choices are the right ones. I do not know what lies ahead for you or for me, but I know this: together, we have a stronger say in what our futures will bring than we would on our own. We would-”

But here Urabrask fell silent, as Elspeth crossed her arms across her chest, and her hands hugged at her upper arms.

He ground his head further into the floor, and silence reigned in the space.

Elspeth stood there amidst all of it. The angels watched, unsmilingly curious. The Beamtown crew were clearly listening intently, though their eyes were averted. Vivien stood a few feet from her companion, wanting to say something. Something. But finding nothing worth vocalizing, she simply stood and added to the silence.

Elspeth simply stood, arms folded, ignoring them all.

Finally she covered her mouth with a single gloved hand. With the other arm, she hugged herself, fingers tight around her own upper arm. Tears fell freely and silently from her face, the glow of the forge bright in the wetness of her cheeks.

All the while Urabrask knelt, bowed and unmoving.

Vivien ached for something to shoot at. To have her bow in hand, and a physical danger in front of them. Something attacking her friend that she could actually help with.

But instead she stood, tired and aching and feeling close to joining Elspeth in her tears.

When Elspeth did finally raise her head and look to Urabrask, it was a tremendous relief.

“One day, Urabrask of Phyrexia...and I hope for both of our sakes that we live to see such a day, you will repay me. Somehow, you will repay me. For now...”

Elspeth paused, mouth half-open. She closed it, gave the chamber a sweeping look, and re-fixed Urabrask in her sights.

“...for now, even if we cannot live in peace together, we will fight alongside one another. So long as a greater evil requires our cooperation….”

She went silent again, for the space of several seconds.

“...until we have both made safe homes for ourselves and those in our care.”

“That is good. And it is wise.” Urabrask’s beak scrapped against the stone floor, and Vivien realized after a moment he was trying to nod.

“...and...” He raised his head, and shifted back onto one knee. “...and thank you For what you’ve done and what you will do yet, for Mirran and Phyrexian both.”

Elspeth nodded once, staring at Urabrask with unblinking eyes.

“And if it is agreeable to you-” He held a claw up, and plucked the shield from the small angel with such a swiftness the he was left blinking and staring at his now-empty hands. “I offer this gift, even if you think it a bribe. Throw it aside when this is all over.” Urabrask proffered the iridescent weapon to Elspeth. “I have work to do yet to complete it, but when we are together again on New...on Mirrodin, I will have it ready for you. Between my own skill, and the infusion of Halo, it will be a formidable tool against Norn and her lackeys.”

Elspeth’s eyes scanned the shield. The light from the metal cast rainbow colors across her face.

“That is too cumbersome for me.” She drew her sword. “I fight light on my feet these days. And I am done taking weapons as gifts for mercenary service.”

“That is not a problem.” Urabrask put a hand on each side of the shield. Smoke trailed from the places where it touched his body. He pressed, and the shield compressed, swirling inward, the surface blurring like a whirlpool. Vivien could not tell if the hiss that accompanied the transformation was coming from the shield, or if it was the praetor’s own exhalation of pain.

A moment later and he held a small circle of clean, uncolored steel, about the length of half a forearm. A buckler, suited to the fencing sword in Elspeth’s grip.

“Metal’s greatest trait is that it can always change.” Urabrask’s voice was shaky, but he held out the shield with a steady arm. “Change and adapt. Adapt and improve. With this, no oil shall touch you. With this, you will fly on the power of your world, and the craft of mine.”

Elspeth stared at the shield, wary and tensed, like a fox or a wolf come upon a cabin suddenly built in its hunting ground. Every eye in the space was on her, the angels looking on with aloof intent, the workers with an eager curiosity, and Urabrask with…

...Vivien didn’t know quite with what.

Finally, Elspeth nodded, though not to anyone in particular. Her shoes clicked softly on the stone as she strode to the armor, ripping the last of her cape from her shoulder.

When she was within a foot of the shield, she stopped. Urabrask knelt by her side, unmoving except for the minute quiver of his eyes. Neither moved for several long seconds.

She took the buckler from him, and turned it over in her hand. Her reflection in its surface was so crisp it might have been a second Elspeth, locked away in the metal. Urabrask watched her intently, his claws held close to one another.

Like a schoolgirl waiting to get an answer to her confession, Vivien thought.

At last, Elspeth looked up at Urabrask. The fire from the forge glinted off the wet trails on her cheeks.

“I shouldn’t trust you,” was all she said, in the end.

"In your place, I might not trust me either,” was all Urabrask offered in return.

She did not spare him another look as she took the shield and placed it against her arm. It flashed with rainbow energy and the light spread out from the metal in lines of light. The light echoed in the glow from her sword, and the lines shot up her arms, then bloomed from her shoulders in two wings of light.

Elspeth’s gaze swept her arms, her chest, and the armor of light illuminating her. Slowly, she raised her arms, and she ascended. The glow enveloped her fully, and she rose up through the air. The wings did not beat, did not flutter an inch, but still she ascended, turning slowly as she cast her head from one side to another, face unreadable.

“It will keep her safe,” Urabrask muttered.

Vivien was not certain anyone besides her heard it. The workers had paused in their cleaning to stare up at Elspeth, and even the angels’ disapproving scowls had faded as they beheld Elspeth. Was it a heresy to them, Vivien wondered, for a human to bear themselves like an angel? If it were, they gave no indication as she lifted higher than they in the great vaulted cavern, still examining the shield.

“It will keep her safe,” Urabrask said again. “She will be an untouchable bastion, and lead us to freedom.”

With all eyes on Elspeth, radiant like a mantled sun, Vivien felt sure she was the only one that noticed, but some of the grease streaking Urabrask’s face was fresh oil, streaming in minute trails across his armored cheeks.

Pouring from his fiery eyes.

“Where the Hearth Is” is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.

#mtg #mtg fan fiction #elspeth tirel #urabrask #vivien reid #elesh norn #tezzeret

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