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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 20: Jon Prime

Jon had been worried, before they had come back in time, about how well he would adjust to being in the past, pre-Apocalypse. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle the lessened level of terror, or the need to eat and sleep completely again, or being, essentially, less than he’d been, or for that matter the urge to storm the Institute and throttle Jonah Magnus in his office. He’d fretted about a lot of things.

As it turned out, none of them were things he needed to fret about.

His body reacclimated to human needs quickly enough, and it actually felt kind of good to feel the rumble of hunger or the drag of exhaustion again. It was definitely good to get back to cooking, which he’d sorely missed doing even if it felt odd to be cooking for more than himself and Martin. Martin had been right about his statement fueling Jon for a while, and his younger counterpart had taken to bringing home any real statements he came across; it was enough. And with Martin there, he didn’t feel less.

As for storming the Institute, that urge had been surprisingly easy to resist. Tim had managed to convince them to stay at his house longer by asking them to keep an eye on Past Martin while he healed. His excuse had been that Jon knew what Past Martin was going through and Martin knew what his past self was like, so they could keep him from doing anything stupid. Jon guessed there was more to it than that, but he didn’t want to pry into anyone’s minds, so he just let it go and agreed. It seemed simpler.

Martin had adapted well, too. Granted, he’d still been human—as far as Jon knew—before they came back, and he’d had two weeks to adjust to being blind before they were reunited, but he’d picked up on the cane Tim bought him fairly quickly. He didn’t seem to need it around the house, though, and when Jon questioned him about that, Martin said that he had a pretty good sense of direction when the world makes sense, Jon. And, honestly, Jon couldn’t argue with that. Tim spent a Sunday afternoon reorganizing his cupboards, then showed Martin where everything was so he could feel more independent in the kitchen while Jon watched from the doorway with a grin.

Past Martin got stronger by the day. At first, he mostly slept, which was fine with Jon, since it meant he could spend time with Martin and not feel guilty. He’d accidentally fallen asleep with his head on Martin’s lap one afternoon and woken to soft laughter, which is how he found out that Past Martin and Past Jon had apparently discussed things and Sasha was the only member of what Tim insisted on referring to as Team Archives who didn’t know they were together. After that, they’d dropped the pretense and just been themselves. It had been a huge relief to Jon. It had also been a relief—and a surprise—that Tim didn’t tease them mercilessly, but when he mentioned that to Martin, Martin just laughed and shook his head.

They’d all fallen into an easy domesticity. It was honestly the most surreal thing Jon had experienced in probably his entire life. Sasha and Past Jon were still staying with Tim—Jon had no idea what argument Tim had used on them, but it seemed to be working—and Jon delighted in watching the three of them, together with Past Martin, draw closer together into a cohesive unit that would be harder for Jonah to manipulate. Often, he would come out of the spare room from recording a statement, tape recorder in hand, to find them sharing stories or playing games and laughing. Some nights he joined in on the games, too, but mostly he just sat back with Martin and watched, grinning.

There were arguments. Of course there were arguments. They were all human beings with their own personalities and quirks. Nothing was going to be perfect harmony. Thankfully, they were usually made up fairly quickly. It felt like home, in a way, something Jon hadn’t experienced in he didn’t know how long. He knew it couldn’t last, but he was determined to enjoy it while he could.

Several weeks passed like that. Jon could see the signs that Past Martin was getting restless and impatient to be back at work—he listened hungrily to the team’s tales of what they’d been up to, ventured tentative suggestions on avenues of research or possible connections they might have missed—but he was, ultimately, a far better patient than Jon had been. Not that that was difficult.

As Past Martin’s recovery progressed, the three of them began taking walks in the afternoon, Jon letting the two Martins go ahead of him and following just behind. Partly it was that there really wasn’t room for them to walk three abreast, but mostly it was him giving them the opportunity to see what they were capable of on their own while he watched their backs, literally. At first they were slow circuits of a single block, and then Past Martin needed to sit down for quite a while, but within a couple of weeks he was walking easily and seemed almost back to normal. The scars healed better than they had for Jon, partly because Martin’s skin was fairer than Jon’s but mostly because Past Martin was better about both following doctor’s orders and not picking at the healing wounds. Tim’s had healed about the same, Jon remembered, a thought which still sent a lance of melancholy through him. And finally, the day came when he returned triumphantly from a check-up with the news that he’d been cleared to return to work that Monday.

“We’ll be glad to have you back,” Past Jon said sincerely, actually smiling in a way Jon couldn’t remember smiling until the too-brief time he and Martin had had in Scotland. “It’s all kind of…I won’t lie, it’s odd to sit around and keep working like nothing has changed. Like we don’t know what’s going on. But we’ve managed. There’s a lot more than can be easily done with three, though.”

“I’ll do whatever you need,” Past Martin promised. “God, it’ll feel good to get back into things.”

“Kind of surprised you didn’t try to get us to let you come back earlier, actually,” Tim teased him. “Don’t think none of us saw you chomping at the bit.”

Past Martin gestured to Jon and Martin. “They wouldn’t let me bring it up.”

“How long did you wait before going back?” Past Jon asked.

Jon grimaced. “A month. I should have stayed out longer, to be honest, and I ended up needing substantial physical therapy. But I was already obsessing over who killed Gertrude Robinson, and I didn’t handle being alone with my thoughts very well. Tim was out longer.”

“How long?” Tim asked curiously.

“Eight weeks, give or take.”

“So we can be away from the Institute? I thought you said…” Tim trailed off.

Jon paused, knife suspended over the cutting board. “I—I never thought of that. God, how did I not think of that? Our Tim seemed fine when he first came back, and he never said anything, but…”

“You can be away from the Institute, just not for good,” Martin said. “When you’re out…convalescing, that’s one thing. Even if you’re on an extended vacation, that should be okay. It’s if you try to leave, if you just up and walk away with the idea that you won’t be back, that you’ll have problems. As long as you really intend to come back at some point, it’s fine.”

Jon turned around and stared at Martin. “How long have you known that?”

“Since Elias told us we were trapped there?”

“My God, that was…” Jon rubbed his temple with his free hand. “Why didn’t you say anything? And please don’t say ‘it never really came up.’”

Martin actually smiled at that. “Honestly, Jon, I assumed you knew. I mean, you were away for ages, and I know Basira kept going off on…excursions. She might not have been gone long, but I just…I thought you’d figured it out. Especially when nothing really happened to us in Scotland.”

Jon hadn’t thought about that, either. But yes, at the time they had meant to go back to the Institute eventually, hadn’t they? Or maybe the Eye had let them go because it knew what Jonah was plotting. Either way, Martin was right, he really ought to have figured that out sooner.

He sighed, turning back to his meal prep. “I can, as we have established, be a bit oblivious at times.”

Sasha gave an overly-dramatic gasp. “You? Never.”

“Oh, shut up,” Past Jon grumbled.

Tim snickered. “Hey, does that mean you two have to come back to the Institute, too?”

“That’s…more complicated.” Jon scraped the contents of the cutting board into the pot. “I’m bound closely enough to the Eye that I’m not…dependent on the Institute, I don’t think? As long as I’m taking statements, feeding the Eye, I’m fine. I believe. And Martin is cut off from the Eye entirely. But it’s a rather moot point, as we intend to move into the tunnels beneath the Institute anyway.”

“You can’t seriously be planning to do that,” Tim protested. “Come on, they can’t be comfortable—”

“They aren’t. But that’s not the point, Tim.” Jon sighed and reached for the spices he’d selected. “We are putting you in very real danger by being here. Besides, we’re not in a position to assist like we would be if we were closer to the Institute. I don’t particularly like them, but it’s the best option for everyone.”

Tim reached past Jon to get plates out of the cupboard, his expression mulish. Jon braced himself for whatever arguments Tim might throw his way and resolutely shut his mind against prying for it, but before he could say anything, Past Martin came up and put a hand on Tim’s shoulder.

“You can’t fix everything, Tim,” he said quietly. “And I know that’s rich, coming from me, but…we have to trust them. It’s not like we won’t ever see them again if they’re not living under your roof.”

Tim’s shoulders slumped. Jon caught his eye and offered him a smile. “It’s certainly no reflection on you, Tim. It’s just…we need to do this. I desperately need you to trust us.”

“I can give you that.” Tim managed a smile in reply, then turned to set the table. “You’re not planning to move in tonight, though, right?”

Jon was about to answer, then froze as a rumble of thunder sounded from outside. It was low and gentle, but the sound sent a shudder of horror running down his spine that he couldn’t explain. He had to stand, perfectly still, until the sound stopped.

“No,” he said as soon as he felt able. “Not tonight.”

He went back to what he was doing, or tried to, but there was obviously a storm building, and the next peal of thunder brought his breath up short. The spoon slipped out of his hand and into the pot.

“Are you okay?” Sasha’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way away.

“Fine,” Jon lied automatically. Really, this was ridiculous. There was no reason for this. Thunderstorms had never bothered him before; why were they suddenly an issue now? He retrieved the spoon and returned to cooking.

The others shifted the discussion to the logistics of smuggling Jon and Martin into the Institute and the tunnels beneath them without being spotted. Since Martin was already explaining about the other entrances, Jon didn’t feel the need to jump in. They would still need to figure out which entrance to use, or find one in the first place, and how to get there surreptitiously, but at least there were options beyond “hope to avoid the cameras mounted around the Institute when sneaking into the Archives and subsequently into the tunnels”. That would be the fastest way to tip Jonah off that something was going on.

Another roll of thunder sounded from almost directly overhead—not a sharp crack, but a long, rumbling bass growl. Jon felt it to his core, and he gasped, leaning over to catch himself against the counter. Suddenly he was in the spare room in the cabin in Scotland, the words being torn from his throat against his will: I…OPEN…THE DOOR!

“Whoa!” someone shouted.

“Shit, that’s—how is he—” someone else stammered.

“Get his hand off the burner!”

“Jon! Jon, it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here.”

Something brushed against him, and he jerked away, but then a hand wrapped around his arm and tugged him away from the counter, and then someone was wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. There was a confused babble of voices around him, but Jon couldn’t focus on it, couldn’t focus on anything but the thunder and the static filling his mind and the fact that for some reason his hand hurt, why did his hand hurt…

“Jon,” the voice said again in his ear, and it was Martin’s voice, he sounded upset, he sounded scared, and Jon couldn’t let him be scared but didn’t know how to fix it, so he looked up desperately and saw Martin’s face close to his. “Come on, let’s go in the other room, it’s okay. Come on, I’ve got you. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Jon couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. He just let Martin lead him out of the room they were in and into another, keeping his eyes fixed on Martin the whole time, and then they were sitting on something and Martin pulled Jon into his arms, onto his lap, and wrapped him up securely. One hand came up to cup the back of his head, the other rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles.

“I’m here, Jon,” Martin murmured, his voice low and gentle despite crackling with emotion. “You’re here. We’re both here and we’re safe. We’re in London. The world isn’t ending, Jon. You didn’t end the world. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

How, the small part of Jon that wasn’t numb with terror thought, did Martin always seem to know the right thing to say? It was a ridiculous thought, of course; Martin didn’t always know the right thing to say, any more than Jon did, and they’d had more than a few arguments over one of them saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. But when it was a situation like this, when Jon panicked or got lost in his own head or was hurting, Martin always seemed to come up with the right words. Jon fisted his hands into Martin’s shirt and buried his face in his chest, focusing on the heartbeat that always soothed him when things got too bad. One of his hands, in a distant way, hurt, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

Of course the world wasn’t ending. It couldn’t be. How could the world end with Martin there? That was just ridiculous. If the world ended, he’d be all alone.

“You’re not alone, Jon,” Martin said, and shit, had he said that out loud? “I’m here. I will always be here. I won’t ever leave you. I promise. I’m here. I’m here.”

“You’re here,” Jon whispered. The words felt raw in his throat, but it felt good to say them. He whispered them again and again, and Martin whispered them back to him. They passed the words back and forth, you’re here, I’m here, you’re here, and slowly, slowly, Jon felt the terror recede.

The storm didn’t lessen. If anything, it got worse, but oddly, that helped, too. The sharper the thunder got, the calmer Jon grew. A mighty thunderclap rattled the windows, and the power went out, making someone yelp from the other room, but Jon was able to take his first full breath. He slowly eased his grip on Martin’s shirt and sagged against him with a heavy sigh.

“Better?” Martin asked, rubbing his back.

“A little.” Jon tilted his head back and rested his chin on Martin’s chest, looking up at him. There was only the barest amount of light in the room, but it was enough to see the outline of his boyfriend’s face by. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Martin pressed a light kiss to Jon’s forehead. “How’s your hand?”

“Hmm?” Jon became aware that his hand still hurt a lot. He eased it away from Martin and stared at it. It was red, almost raw, and he could see a couple of blisters on the palm that had miraculously remained intact, despite the grip he’d had on Martin’s shirt. “Oh. I—did I put it on the stove?”

“Apparently. Let me see.”

Jon managed a smile. He turned his hand over, palm up, and laid it in Martin’s. Martin hovered his thumb just over the top of Jon’s palm. “It’s still warm. Hold on, let me go find out what Tim’s got in that medicine cabinet of his.”

“Plenty,” a voice said from the doorway. Jon started, then relaxed when he realized it was his own voice, and that was still weird to hear. He looked up to see Past Jon coming in, a torch in one hand and a small handful of supplies in the other. “I was going to just leave it on the table for you, but…”

“Thank you,” Jon said sincerely. He didn’t leave the comfort of Martin’s embrace, though. The panic had left him a bit shaky and he wasn’t sure he could really sit up on his own, but more than that, he honestly didn’t give a damn if it made him look weak to lean on Martin. That was part of what love was, right?

Past Jon set the things in his hands on the table, then lined them up. “Cool compress, lotion, gauze, bandages. Paracetamol on the end if you need it for the pain. I—do you need a spare hand?”

“We’ve got it, but thank you,” Martin said. He picked up the compress, then pressed it gently to Jon’s hand. It was obvious he’d done this before, in some capacity.

Past Jon nodded and straightened, then hesitated before leaving the room. Awkwardly, he asked, “Can I…are you sure you’re okay? That looked a lot like, well, a panic attack.”

“It was,” Jon said softly. He hesitated, looking up into Martin’s eyes. Even though he knew Martin wasn’t really looking back at him per se, that he couldn’t actually see him, he could feel his attention, and they’d learned in the last few weeks that they knew each other well enough that they could still communicate wordlessly, to an extent. Turning back to his past self, he explained, “It was—the last thunderstorm I remember came up while I was reading…Jonah’s monologue.”

Past Jon flinched. “Ah. Well, I’ll, erm…I’ll leave you to that, then.” He gestured at the supplies and retreated back to the kitchen.

Jon and Martin sat in silence for a long moment. Martin kept applying pressure to the compress on Jon’s hand, his other hand securely supporting it, keeping it elevated. At last, Jon said, “I—I never asked if it was actually storming. That day. If it was…real thunder I heard or if it was just…the impending end of the world.”

“It was. I was on my way back. At first I thought I’d grab an umbrella, but then I thought…I thought I’d just stay downstairs until you finished your statement, then bring you a cup of tea or something. And then…” Martin trailed off and shook his head.

Jon bit his lip. “At least you made it back before…the Door Opened.”

“No, Jon,” Martin said softly. “I didn’t. I was still a good five minutes’ walk from the safe house when it happened.” He tried to laugh. “Ordinarily, anyway. I ran, as soon as I realized…I don’t know that I realized what exactly was going on, but I knew it was bad, and I knew that it was probably coming after you.”

“My God, Martin.” Horror ran through Jon’s body, and he reached out with his free hand to grip Martin’s shirt again.

“Hey, careful, I need room to work.”

“You were outside when—you c-could have been killed. God, I could have lost you and—”

“But you didn’t,” Martin reminded him. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against Jon’s for a moment. “I’m here, Jon. You’re here. We’re both here. We survived the end of the world. We made it. Together.”

Jon took a deep, steadying breath. “Maybe one day it won’t be so hard to remember that.”

“Well, I’ll always be here to remind you.” Martin straightened up and lifted the compress, then checked the heat of his palm and set the compress aside.

Jon glanced at the next item on the table and grimaced. “Of course the next step is lotion.”

“Do you want to do it yourself?” Martin asked. “You’ve got to keep things from drying out, but…I understand if someone else rubbing it in might be a bit much.”

At least that was something Jon had known he had an issue with before. Just not something he’d thought he would ever have to think about. He started to say yes, then shook his head, despite knowing Martin couldn’t see him. “No. No, will—will you do it? Please? I trust you.”

Martin’s face softened. They both knew what Jon was asking for. “Of course, Jon.”

He poured a little bit of the lotion into Jon’s hand. Jon tried hard not to flinch at the feel of it pooling into his cupped palm. Martin replaced the cap and set the bottle back on the table, nearly missing it, then took Jon’s hand and began gently massaging the lotion into it. Jon focused on Martin’s face and tried to regulate his breathing.

“Tell me something,” Martin requested abruptly.

Jon cocked his head, slightly off-balance. “What?”

“Anything. Your favorite play, your earliest childhood memory, your most embarrassing uni story. Anything.”

“O-oh, okay,” Jon said, surprised. He tried to think for a moment. “Ah—I’ve always been fond of The Duchess of Padua.”

Martin smiled encouragingly. “Yeah? I don’t know that one. Tell me about it.”

Jon launched into an explanation of the plot. The more into it he got, the more wildly he gesticulated with the hand Martin wasn’t attending to. Martin listened to Jon ramble the way he always did, with a smile and a look of genuine interest as Jon went on about a topic he knew nothing about and honestly didn’t care all that much about. He’d even told Jon, simultaneously not long ago and an eternity ago, that he’d always hated the theater, yet here he was letting Jon describe in technical detail the plot of a play he’d had no good reason to fall in love with.

“—staged very often, or studied for that matter, but I always thought it was fascinating,” he concluded with a sigh. “I actually rose a bit in a professor’s esteem because I used that one as the basis for our term paper on one of Wilde’s works rather than The Importance of Being Ernest or The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes. Best grade I ever got in school was on a paper I wrote on The Ballad of Reading Gaol.” Martin set something on the coffee table. “How’s that?”

“I—” Jon looked down at his hand. The lights were still out, but his eyes had adjusted, and he could see the stark white bandage looped neatly around his hand, securing the gauze without being too tight. “Oh. You’re done.” He gave his boyfriend a slightly accusing look. “You were distracting me.”

“You were panicking,” Martin told him. He wrapped both arms around Jon again. “I really was listening, though. I love listening to you talk about something you know a lot about. Or even something you’re just pretending you know a lot about.”

“Hey,” Jon protested, but without any real heat. He tucked his head into the crook of Martin’s neck and sighed, curling into him. “Thank you. For taking care of me. For knowing me so well. For being here.”

“Where else would I be?” Martin kissed the crown of his head. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

How many times had they passed those words back and forth, Jon wondered? He could probably Know the exact number, with a little effort, but it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. They could say it with every breath they had left from now until the end of time, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Jon had made a vow, kneeling in the remains of what had once been his boss’s office and pressing futilely against the gaping wounds in Martin’s chest, that he would never leave an opportunity to say them unsaid. They didn’t need to say it for each other to know, but it was important to Jon that they did. And while Martin never said as much, Jon knew it reassured him to hear confirmation every once in a while.

They sat in silence for a while, Jon letting Martin’s presence and the secure feel of his embrace soothe away the last of his lingering terror, or at least his lingering immediate terror. The fear would never go away completely. He’d grown to accept that. But at least now it was just the usual hum of background terror that was his everyday life, rather than the sharp, immediate panic of a flashback. Here with Martin, he was as safe as he ever could be.

At last, he sighed. “We should probably go back into the other room before the others eat everything.”

“I’m sure they saved us some,” Martin said. “But sure. You’ll have to get up first.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re sitting on my lap, Jon.”

“Oh. Right. I knew that.” Jon managed to get to his feet. Martin chuckled as he stood, too.

Tim had lit several candles and was apparently mid-debate with Sasha over whether or not he should add another one to the mix. Past Jon rolled his eyes in Jon and Martin’s direction when they came in. “Please make them shut up.”

“Impossible, I’m afraid. They’re both breathing,” Jon said dryly. Tim snorted and Sasha stuck her tongue out at him. “It smells good in here. Have you been baking?”

“Electric oven. Jon barely finished cooking dinner before the power went out. It’s the candles,” Tim admitted. “One of the kids in the neighborhood keeps selling them to raise money for school trips and the like, and I’m apparently one of his best customers.”

“Well, if you add any more, the smell might be overpowering. Or you might set off your smoke detector.”

“Point. Okay, then, sit down and eat. We saved you a couple plates.”

Jon didn’t have to look at Martin to see the I-told-you-so look on his face.

As they ate, Sasha slid a piece of paper towards him, covered in neat, still-unfamiliar handwriting that Jon presumed to be hers. “Can you think of anything on here we missed?”

The lighting wasn’t really adequate to read the paper clearly, and Jon was tired, despite Martin’s presence and support; the panic attack had drained him a bit more than he’d expected. He was going to need something stronger than a couple of old statements to recover, but he had no idea how to go out and get it. It all combined to make him forget himself a little. He reached out with the Eye rather than his own eyes to skim the paper. Sleeping mats, camp stoved, tinned food (ANYTHING but peaches)…

“What’s all this?” he asked, picking it up to see a bit better.

“Supplies,” Past Jon said brusquely. “You didn’t think we’d make you stay in those tunnels without some way of being comfortable, did you?”

Actually, Jon hadn’t thought about it. He picked up the list and studied it more closely, with his actual vision this time. It seemed like a fairly comprehensive list. There were a few things on it that he recognized as bearing his boyfriend’s hallmark, unexpected items that nevertheless might, in certain circumstances, make a huge difference. He angled the paper towards Martin. “Anything you have to add?”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Unless that’s written in Braille, I don’t think I’m going to be of much use there.”

“Oh. Right.” Jon was thankful that the combination of his complexion and the low light in the room would probably hide his blush from anyone whose eyes still functioned.

Tim looked back and forth between the two Martins. “Wait, you know Braille?”

Past Martin ducked his head, looking mortified. Martin, however, simply nodded slowly. “Mum had one of those pill keepers, you know the ones. I taught myself Braille so I could know which pills to get ready for her without turning on the light before she was ready to be awake.”

The look on both Tim and Past Jon’s faces made Jon slightly glad, and also slightly disappointed, that Martin’s mother was dead. Then he remembered that she’d died while he was in his coma, so she was currently still alive in a nursing home in Devon refusing her son’s visits but accepting, even demanding, his money, and it was very difficult for him to swallow his own anger and uncharitable thoughts. He wasn’t a monster and couldn’t act like one, no matter how good his motives seemed.

Instead, he covered the moment by reading the list aloud to Martin. Martin listened and nodded and smiled when Jon hit the last item on the list. “I don’t think you need to worry about a tape recorder, honestly. They turn up on their own.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Tim said dryly. “But you said the tunnels blocked stuff at times. I figured, just in case…”

“Might be a comfort,” Past Martin suggested softly. It was the first thing he’d said since Jon and Martin had come into the kitchen.

“The tunnels don’t stop the recorders,” Jon said. “But…thank you. It’s thoughtful of you.”

Sasha nodded and took the list. “We’ll get everything together tomorrow, then, and you can find another entrance to the tunnels.”

“Will you be able to find the Archives?” Tim asked. “Through those tunnels, I mean? They’re a mess, honestly.”

“We’ll manage.” Jon actually wasn’t a hundred percent sure how easy it would be. He’d had a map made at one point, but that was after Leitner had manipulated things for him, and the tunnels were shielded from the Eye, somehow. He’d be lucky not to have to live with the ever-present…fuzziness he’d dealt with when they’d been staying with Georgie and Melanie and their inadvertent cult. But they really and truly didn’t have a choice.

“I suppose if we have to, we could put a—a beacon or something at the foot of the stairs under the trapdoor,” Past Jon said uncertainly.

Tim grinned. It looked slightly diabolical in the flickering candlelight. “Ooh, or one of those electronic gizmos they use in hunting to attract prey.”

“I’m very sure random deer calls would have the opposite effect than luring us to where you want us to go,” Martin said with a smirk. “Have you ever heard those things? They’re terrifying.”

The conversation devolved into a slightly silly discussion of the weirdest animal cries they’d ever heard, and Jon was able to breathe and eat his dinner without too much trouble.

That night, though, curled into bed with Martin, he said quietly, “What if it’s a bad idea? What if being down there…what if I fall apart again? What if it’s like at Salesa’s, but worse?”

“It won’t be,” Martin said. The confidence and assurance in his voice was almost a physical force.

“How can you know that, though?”

Martin ran a hand through Jon’s hair, gently untangling a knot that had probably got there during his panic attack in the living room. “Did you know that if you lose sight in one eye, you only lose something like twenty percent of your overall vision but all of your depth perception?”

“No?” Jon could have known that, if he’d wanted to, obviously, but it wasn’t something he’d ever consciously set out to learn. He also didn’t see how it was relevant.

“I mean, you can sort of train yourself to compensate for the depth perception, but yeah, twenty percent of your vision. Mostly peripheral. It makes it harder to see people coming from that side of things.” Martin’s fingers caught in another knot. “The Beholder really had two eyes overlooking the Apocalypse, Jon. Jonah and you. He saw from the heights and you saw from ground level. He oversaw, and you…experienced. I’d even go so far as to say you were the dominant eye, so to speak. Of course you were weak when you were cut off from it. It’s like a phantom pain. That won’t be an issue now. The Eye isn’t as…strong. You said yourself, you’re still…you, just not quite as…all-powerful?”

“Hopefully I’ve still got enough power to do what needs to be done,” Jon sighed, but Martin’s words were a comfort.

After a pause, Martin added, “And you have me.”

“And I have you,” Jon agreed. “And we can probably get fairly close to the Archives. All right, I know I’m probably worrying unnecessarily. It’s just…” He trailed off, tracing his fingers over the three puckered holes clustered just above Martin’s heart. Jonah had known what he was doing, far too well. “I can’t lose you again, Martin. I can’t. And I’ll never forgive myself if it happens because I wasn’t strong enough.”

Martin covered Jon’s hand with his own. “It won’t. You’re strong enough, Jon. I trust you. And you know I’ll be right there with you the whole time.”

“I know.” Jon snuggled into Martin’s chest, then leaned up to kiss him. “You know I can’t do this without you.”

“I wouldn’t want to see you try.”

Jon yawned and adjusted the covers over the both of them. Martin rolled onto his side and buried his face in Jon’s hair, and Jon sighed with almost-forgotten contentment as he drifted off to sleep, Martin’s heartbeat thudding steadily in his ear.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #ptsd cw #panic attacks #I think we all agree that Jon has issues with lotion #but it occurs to me he probably has thunderstorm issues too

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c-atm · 3 years

Text

“So,” Heartberry started, “anyone has an idea of how to take this thing down cause I’m not crazy about being resprayed.” she leaned back with her legs crossed, sitting on Mister’s lap.

“We can’t ambush it, the thing always on guard, despite having one eye, ” Mister commented as he slumped in their recliner a little, “resilient thing too, just bounce everything off of that plum-colored skin of theirs.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. Never faced anything so docile but, oh so annoying.” Witchy groaned, throwing her hands up in agitation, before folding her arms over her breast, pouting with puffed blush crossed cheeks and steady brows.

The subject, how to take care of a demon who, despite being non-violent, leaves its victims comatose and foul-smelling.

So very foul-smelling.

They didn't know what it wanted. What's its purpose was, or if it even had one? Furthermore, it wouldn't tell them what it wanted...That or it couldn't.

There wasn't a mouth on its balloon-like, limbless single-eyed body, an eye that changes colors and showed a whole lot of expression based on its emotions.

It should have been an easy kill, but it did have a high payout for its defeat, for a good reason too.

It has escaped the six of them three times so far. Leaving them all unconscious and reeking. Not even Amy was a fan of the smell. So much so that she chose to abandon the hunt.

Three nights of undertaking this task.

Three nights of failing the task.

Three nights of smelling like literal defeat.

Defeat took a ninety-minute bath and shower to scrub off and put everyone on edge, even after a night of sleep.

None more than the resident witch.

She woke with her eyes glowed with prideful anger, even as Dapper pampered her a bit, massaging her shoulders and fixing his lady her favorite breakfast, which she did appreciate but was too in her pride to convey it. Still, for the sake of the morning, he let it be.

The afternoon though, things hit their boiling point when they began to plan for their next attempt.

"I think I might have an answer," Dapper came in with a book in his hand. He laid it open to a page with the despicable eggplant looking demon. "Our target defense is related to its focus. The more alert it is, the more invulnerable it is, and believe it or not, it's a bit of a punk...so it's always on alert. Though, you can't really blame it. It's a rare demon and a big payday."

"Ok, so how do we take care of it," Witchy asked with a glare.

"We have to distract it," Dapper announced with a smirk. "And what is its weakness, you ask." with a smirk, he pointed at a simple two-line description, which the three read.

"AHHH HAHAHA!" Mister threw his head back. "Ohh, well girls, looks like this is a job for you two."

Heartberry shook her head, "I knew it was looking at me strangely...Stop laughing." Her nostrils flared. "So...That's its weakness, so how do we exploit it."

"Photoshoot? Modeling? Music video!?" Mister chuckled, getting a headlock from his Connie.

"You know what? Fine." Witchy said coolly, getting off the couch and taking HB's hand and leading her out the room. "Going to pick up Amy, and we'll see you two in a couple of hours at that demon's base."

"My lady?"

He was answered with a slam of the front door, leaving the 'brothers' looking worried.

Two hours later, Dapper and Mister were waiting in the now abandoned apartment complex, waiting for their team.

"So what'd you think they came up with?" Mister asked, leaning back on a wall, eyes closed and hand in his pockets.

Dapper shrugged, looking a bit crushed." My lady is so damn prideful. Just hope she's not going to do something..Foolish for a win."

"She wouldn't be a 'Connie' if she took it on the chin, definitely if she feels she could win."

"Sis, stubborn as well, hmm?"

"Her most alluring trait." Mister smirked, opening his eyes and turning his head left, "speaking of alluring...Stars and Diamonds." He swooned.

Dapper looked over the same direction as Mister and arched an eye.

Heartberry, Amethyst, and the duo of Sarah and Biddy strutting towards them.

Dressed in flashy, flirty idol outfits.

Mister whistled as they walked up.

"Keep your eyes and tongue in your head, Mister," Heartberry teased as Mister playfully wrapped her loose plaid tie over his finger. "Schoolgirl style?"

"Yup, figured since it has a thing for the female form, we decided we'd appease its base emotions."

"I see devious." Mister flirted, "So..are you naughty or nice?"

"I'll show you later alone." She grinned, giving him a peck.

"Ummm-"

"Yes...Always." The purple demoness answered Sarah's and Biddy's question before they could ask.

"Quite the plan you came up with, ladies," Dapper smirked.

"It was actually trailblazer's suggestion." Sarah started." Alicia would have joined, but she was needed at the church."

"How did you guys get roped into this?" The demon Steven questioned.

"I was promised a piece of the reward and amusement." Biddy announced, plainly, " so far, I am amused."

"Same." Sarah nodded affirmatively.

"Dapper." HB called, getting the demon's attention, "around the corner."

Dapper didn't need any more than that as she morphed into a shadow, rushing to his lady's side.

He found her standing behind the corner, a cloak over her.

"My lady?"

Witchy leaped, red-face as Dapper formed himself from the darkness. "The hell, Steven. Give me a heart attack, why don't you?"

"Sorry." The half-demon offered, looking at his lady, " So? What are you doing over here?"

"Attempting to preserve my pride." She mumbled, "this is so stupid." She rubbed her temples with a groan before slamming her first to the wall.

"I really don't get why you are so angry, My lady?"

"I don't like to lose."

"I know." He chuckled

"This demon beat me four times."

"Four? We only confronted it three times."

"I'm not talking just in battle!" She growled." I mean …" Witchy clenched her fist. " You know what, trash the plan."

"This was your idea!" Shocks evident in Dapper's voice.

"I'm retracting it then!"

"Why? It's a good plan!"

"Why? I'm not some...Cosplaying, dallying, cutesy, pop-idol, centerfold!!" The fiery witch roared upwards,

"I'm a demon hunter! A witch! A warrior! A CONNIE MAHESWARAN!!" She continued, a flare of outrage literally coming from her mouth.

"Spitting fire, My lady."

He received a smoke conjuring snort as a response before she turned her back to him, her cheeky face pout returning, even as he interlaced his fingers around her stomach and pulled her to his chest, though it slipped a bit when she felt the rumble of his best from him chuckle on her back.

"Don't you think you're a bit too proud?"

"No! not at all!" She argued. "This thing has made a mockery of us. I mean, come on. Look what we've been subjected to." She groaned, leaning back into him. "Three nights of foul-smelling defeats from this one-eyed demon eggplant that won the genetic lottery in terms of defense and attentiveness, whose weakness is the 'allure of the fairer sex.' How am I supposed to feel knowing that this was the thing that beat me...Beat us."

"It hasn't beaten us," Dapper looked at his flame. "We're still here, ready to do what we do best."

"But what we do best won't work, as long as it's on guard, we can't kill it, and all we have to do is get sprayed and humiliated again." Witchy retorted, "even against the likes of Stevonnie and Steven squared. It just repels everything before blowing us away in a noxious fume." The witch sighed in chagrin." And to cater to its taste...A demon's taste...How disgraceful."

"That's kind of offensive, Connie," Dapper stated, slightly crossed. "I'm half-demon, you know."

The witch's face flushed, shamed at her callousness. "Sorry, my dapper devil. I didn't mean it like that." She gave him a quick peck. "It's just this whole 'honeypot' plan. It's humiliating."

Sometimes it's a requirement." Dapper joked yet spoke truthfully, "you've been at this job long enough to know that, and you used you womanly wiles before, so why is this so different?"

"Because it might not work, and I don't want to look bad in front of you again, " Witchy admitted looking down. "Especially against this do nothing demon, who can't attack more than letting out a nauseating gas."

Dapper kissed her crown gently, "My beautiful, prideful flame. You really let this plant sink its roots into you." Dapper laughed a bit before kissing her temple.

"How are you laughing? How can you find even the most smidge of humor out of this situation?"

"The fact that this plant isn't threatening the populace helps." The demon admitted, "Annoying them to the point of abandoning their home for the time, but at least they're unharmed."

"True, it's more menace than monster, but that makes it all the more shameful." The witch complained, "we've battled true nightmares and won without breaking a sweat, and yet the thing that gave us trouble can't even speak! It's frustrating!"

"Irony at its finest." Dapper jest.

"I want to win." Witchy declared. " I want to prevail over this creature; I have to..."determination in her voice.

"Well, then. We should join the others. We're holding the op-"

Dapper words fell short as Witchy's lips met his in an appreciative kiss. He was only slightly shocked for a moment before reciprocating. It all lasted a tongue-twisting, cheek caressing, hip holding, lip popping seven seconds before breaking off with a gentle -Chu-.

Dapper, a bit dizzy, turned upwards and breathed out a small heart-shaped fume. "Talk about your hot kisses."

"Pfft!" Witchy snorted before laughing into his chest. Holding him by the shoulder blades as he did. "Thank you," She whispered, adoring.

"For what?"

"Letting me vent, without judgment." She reached up, kissing his left cheek, "For making my favorite breakfast and massaging my shoulders." She kissed his right, "for dealing with my attitude in stride.

"It's no problem, My lady." He soothed, "I know your irritation comes from your convictions, your need never to let your people down." He kissed her forehead, "one of your most attractive qualities."

"Still."

"Still nothing. You are fine, not like you did anything insulting." He grinned, "You were just a sulky little witch."

"And impulsive." She sighed, " whatever. It is what it is." Witchy surrendered as she walked out of his grasp, peeling off her cloak and making Dapper jaw drop.

She was wearing a dark blue collared crop top with purple plaid trim around the hem and collared with a loose-fitting blue and purple stripe tie, a pair of high thighs navy suspender shorts, some dark purple knee-highs, and black collared booties. Every curve that she hid was on full display, and Dapper was burning the visage in his mind forever.

Reaching to her back left pocket, she pulled out a hair clip shaped like one of Dapper's broaches as well as a tube lip gloss.

"Mind helping me?" She tossed him the tube before clipping her hair in a left side ponytail. Dapper nodded before taking Witchy chin in his left hand and slowly stroked the gloss across pressed the lips, giving them a shimmer. "Hmm, might have given you too much."

Before the witch could complain, her partner gave her a tingling, suckling upon the brims of her mouth.

It was sweet, swift, and soothing, precisely what his lady needed as he felt her relax under his kiss.

"Better?" He asked, reapplying the gloss again, getting a breath of calmness and appreciation.

"Yeah." She felt herself grinning, " you could have asked for a kiss, though."

"True, but kissing 'a idol' off guard was too good to pass." He gave her a playful and wolfish grin, making her blush and push him away.

"Gods no. I'm no idol."

"You're my idol." He whispered, pressing his head to hers.

Witchy pursed her mouth, pouting a bit." Well. I guess that's fine…" she gave him a quick peck. "but only yours."

"Does that mean there is a chance I'd get to see you in this outfit again?"

"I'm more than likely going to end up burning this attire once we are done." She shrugged, teasing before backing away, turning, and walking towards the corner. "Come on, I'm sure the others are impatient and probably starting to head up to the roof."

"Of course," Dapper said, staring at his lady's confident stride before following behind her; idolizing the prideful fiery witch and all her perfect imperfection, as he always did.

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tainted-sentimientos · 4 years

Text

Barack Obama’s DNC Speech

“Good evening, everybody. As you've seen by now, this isn't a normal convention. It's not a normal time. So tonight, I want to talk as plainly as I can about the stakes in this election. Because what we do these next 76 days will echo through generations to come.

I'm in Philadelphia, where our Constitution was drafted and signed. It wasn't a perfect document. It allowed for the inhumanity of slavery and failed to guarantee women -- and even men who didn't own property -- the right to participate in the political process. But embedded in this document was a North Star that would guide future generations; a system of representative government -- a democracy -- through which we could better realize our highest ideals. Through civil war and bitter struggles, we improved this Constitution to include the voices of those who'd once been left out. And gradually, we made this country more just, more equal, and more free.

The one Constitutional office elected by all of the people is the presidency. So at minimum, we should expect a president to feel a sense of responsibility for the safety and welfare of all 330 million of us -- regardless of what we look like, how we worship, who we love, how much money we have -- or who we voted for.

But we should also expect a president to be the custodian of this democracy. We should expect that regardless of ego, ambition, or political beliefs, the president will preserve, protect, and defend the freedoms and ideals that so many Americans marched for and went to jail for; fought for and died for.

I have sat in the Oval Office with both of the men who are running for president. I never expected that my successor would embrace my vision or continue my policies. I did hope, for the sake of our country, that Donald Trump might show some interest in taking the job seriously; that he might come to feel the weight of the office and discover some reverence for the democracy that had been placed in his care.

But he never did. For close to four years now, he's shown no interest in putting in the work; no interest in finding common ground; no interest in using the awesome power of his office to help anyone but himself and his friends; no interest in treating the presidency as anything but one more reality show that he can use to get the attention he craves.

Donald Trump hasn't grown into the job because he can't. And the consequences of that failure are severe. 170,000 Americans dead. Millions of jobs gone while those at the top take in more than ever. Our worst impulses unleashed, our proud reputation around the world badly diminished, and our democratic institutions threatened like never before.

Now, I know that in times as polarized as these, most of you have already made up your mind. But maybe you're still not sure which candidate you'll vote for -- or whether you'll vote at all. Maybe you're tired of the direction we're headed, but you can't see a better path yet, or you just don't know enough about the person who wants to lead us there.

So let me tell you about my friend Joe Biden.

Twelve years ago, when I began my search for a vice president, I didn't know I'd end up finding a brother. Joe and I came from different places and different generations. But what I quickly came to admire about him is his resilience, born of too much struggle; his empathy, born of too much grief. Joe's a man who learned -- early on -- to treat every person he meets with respect and dignity, living by the words his parents taught him: "No one's better than you, Joe, but you're better than nobody."

That empathy, that decency, the belief that everybody counts -- that's who Joe is.

When he talks with someone who's lost her job, Joe remembers the night his father sat him down to say that he'd lost his.

When Joe listens to a parent who's trying to hold it all together right now, he does it as the single dad who took the train back to Wilmington each and every night so he could tuck his kids into bed.

When he meets with military families who've lost their hero, he does it as a kindred spirit; the parent of an American soldier; somebody whose faith has endured the hardest loss there is.

For eight years, Joe was the last one in the room whenever I faced a big decision. He made me a better president -- and he's got the character and the experience to make us a better country.

And in my friend Kamala Harris, he's chosen an ideal partner who's more than prepared for the job; someone who knows what it's like to overcome barriers and who's made a career fighting to help others live out their own American dream.

Along with the experience needed to get things done, Joe and Kamala have concrete policies that will turn their vision of a better, fairer, stronger country into reality.

They'll get this pandemic under control, like Joe did when he helped me manage H1N1 and prevent an Ebola outbreak from reaching our shores.

They'll expand health care to more Americans, like Joe and I did ten years ago when he helped craft the Affordable Care Act and nail down the votes to make it the law.

They'll rescue the economy, like Joe helped me do after the Great Recession. I asked him to manage the Recovery Act, which jumpstarted the longest stretch of job growth in history. And he sees this moment now not as a chance to get back to where we were, but to make long-overdue changes so that our economy actually makes life a little easier for everybody -- whether it's the waitress trying to raise a kid on her own, or the shift worker always on the edge of getting laid off, or the student figuring out how to pay for next semester's classes.

Joe and Kamala will restore our standing in the world -- and as we've learned from this pandemic, that matters. Joe knows the world, and the world knows him. He knows that our true strength comes from setting an example the world wants to follow. A nation that stands with democracy, not dictators. A nation that can inspire and mobilize others to overcome threats like climate change, terrorism, poverty, and disease.

But more than anything, what I know about Joe and Kamala is that they actually care about every American. And they care deeply about this democracy.

They believe that in a democracy, the right to vote is sacred, and we should be making it easier for people to cast their ballot, not harder.

They believe that no one -- including the president -- is above the law, and that no public official -- including the president -- should use their office to enrich themselves or their supporters.

They understand that in this democracy, the Commander-in-Chief doesn't use the men and women of our military, who are willing to risk everything to protect our nation, as political props to deploy against peaceful protesters on our own soil. They understand that political opponents aren't "un-American" just because they disagree with you; that a free press isn't the "enemy" but the way we hold officials accountable; that our ability to work together to solve big problems like a pandemic depends on a fidelity to facts and science and logic and not just making stuff up.

None of this should be controversial. These shouldn't be Republican principles or Democratic principles. They're American principles. But at this moment, this president and those who enable him, have shown they don't believe in these things.

Tonight, I am asking you to believe in Joe and Kamala's ability to lead this country out of these dark times and build it back better. But here's the thing: no single American can fix this country alone. Not even a president. Democracy was never meant to be transactional -- you give me your vote; I make everything better. It requires an active and informed citizenry. So I am also asking you to believe in your own ability -- to embrace your own responsibility as citizens -- to make sure that the basic tenets of our democracy endure.

Because that's what at stake right now. Our democracy.

Look, I understand why many Americans are down on government. The way the rules have been set up and abused in Congress make it easy for special interests to stop progress. Believe me, I know. I understand why a white factory worker who's seen his wages cut or his job shipped overseas might feel like the government no longer looks out for him, and why a Black mother might feel like it never looked out for her at all. I understand why a new immigrant might look around this country and wonder whether there's still a place for him here; why a young person might look at politics right now, the circus of it all, the meanness and the lies and crazy conspiracy theories and think, what's the point?

Well, here's the point: this president and those in power -- those who benefit from keeping things the way they are -- they are counting on your cynicism. They know they can't win you over with their policies. So they're hoping to make it as hard as possible for you to vote, and to convince you that your vote doesn't matter. That's how they win. That's how they get to keep making decisions that affect your life, and the lives of the people you love. That's how the economy will keep getting skewed to the wealthy and well-connected, how our health systems will let more people fall through the cracks. That's how a democracy withers, until it's no democracy at all.

We can't let that happen. Do not let them take away your power. Don't let them take away your democracy. Make a plan right now for how you're going to get involved and vote. Do it as early as you can and tell your family and friends how they can vote too. Do what Americans have done for over two centuries when faced with even tougher times than this -- all those quiet heroes who found the courage to keep marching, keep pushing in the face of hardship and injustice.

Last month, we lost a giant of American democracy in John Lewis. Some years ago, I sat down with John and the few remaining leaders of the early Civil Rights Movement. One of them told me he never imagined he'd walk into the White House and see a president who looked like his grandson. Then he told me that he'd looked it up, and it turned out that on the very day that I was born, he was marching into a jail cell, trying to end Jim Crow segregation in the South.

What we do echoes through the generations.

Whatever our backgrounds, we're all the children of Americans who fought the good fight. Great grandparents working in firetraps and sweatshops without rights or representation. Farmers losing their dreams to dust. Irish and Italians and Asians and Latinos told to go back where they came from. Jews and Catholics, Muslims and Sikhs, made to feel suspect for the way they worshipped. Black Americans chained and whipped and hanged. Spit on for trying to sit at lunch counters. Beaten for trying to vote.

If anyone had a right to believe that this democracy did not work, and could not work, it was those Americans. Our ancestors. They were on the receiving end of a democracy that had fallen short all their lives. They knew how far the daily reality of America strayed from the myth. And yet, instead of giving up, they joined together and said somehow, some way, we are going to make this work. We are going to bring those words, in our founding documents, to life.

I've seen that same spirit rising these past few years. Folks of every age and background who packed city centers and airports and rural roads so that families wouldn't be separated. So that another classroom wouldn't get shot up. So that our kids won't grow up on an uninhabitable planet. Americans of all races joining together to declare, in the face of injustice and brutality at the hands of the state, that Black Lives Matter, no more, but no less, so that no child in this country feels the continuing sting of racism.

To the young people who led us this summer, telling us we need to be better -- in so many ways, you are this country's dreams fulfilled. Earlier generations had to be persuaded that everyone has equal worth. For you, it's a given -- a conviction. And what I want you to know is that for all its messiness and frustrations, your system of self-government can be harnessed to help you realize those convictions.

You can give our democracy new meaning. You can take it to a better place. You're the missing ingredient -- the ones who will decide whether or not America becomes the country that fully lives up to its creed.

That work will continue long after this election. But any chance of success depends entirely on the outcome of this election. This administration has shown it will tear our democracy down if that's what it takes to win. So we have to get busy building it up -- by pouring all our effort into these 76 days, and by voting like never before -- for Joe and Kamala, and candidates up and down the ticket, so that we leave no doubt about what this country we love stands for -- today and for all our days to come.

Stay safe. God bless.”

- Former President Barack Obama

To the decided:

To the undecided:

To the opposed:

#politics #usa politics #democratic national convention #dnc #dnc 2020 #dnc speech #barack obama #president barack obama #forever my president #john mulaney #kid gorgeous #ariel #the little mermaid #nicki minaj #stupid hoes #vote #vote 2020 #cnn

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melynen · 4 years

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Q’s Christmas Wish - 00Q

((Written for MI6 Cafe’s anon prompt gift exchange, week 3. Probably my favourite prompt to write for.))

Q’s not at all sure why he did it.

It’s not like he believes in these things, nor is he superstitious. Santa Claus has never been real to him, and stars are in no way, shape, or form magical or divine or anthropomorphised in his mind. He’s not even feeling especially desperate or lonely. Not really, in any case. He's a firm believer in everything just happening, without there being a higher force or any particular reason as a deciding factor behind it.

He has been feeling a little gloomy lately, yes, that much is true. But it’s not like his life isn’t full of uncertainties and instability, what with him being the Quartermaster of MI-6 and all. He’s also made his peace with the fact that he’s in love with someone he’d do much better to ignore instead; after all, Bond is a double oh agent and his adventures with the fairer sex are both numerous and well documented throughout Six.

But Q wouldn’t be Q if he wasn’t stubborn, and besides, he doesn’t have time for a relationship anyway, so really, it has all worked out fine for him, has it not? Bond will never ask anything of him that he cannot give (an exploding pen notwithstanding, and even then Q can see himself caving and building the bloody thing for him, eventually) and he’ll never need to struggle to share his time with work, his cats, and a significant other. It’s a win-win situation if he’s ever seen one.

So why, then, did he do it?

Why did he, in a fit of madness or inebriation or recklessness or what have you, look up at the darkening sky of the cold December evening and, upon seeing the very first star of the night, make that simple, stupid, silly little wish of his?

And why did he, upon reaching his flat afterwards and after making his way to the sofa with both cats in tow, take out his personal tablet, do a bit of digging to find the correct email address, and write that short, fanciful, foolish message to someone he doesn’t even believe in?

Dear Santa, he had written, a half-empty glass of wine in one hand and the fingers of the other practically flying over his tablet’s keyboard, setting aside for a moment the fact that I don’t actually believe in you, there is something I would ask of you if given the chance. I know miracles aren’t exactly in your job description, but I’m perhaps in need of one, either way. There’s someone that I’d need returned home, someone dear to me despite every instinct of mine screaming for me to run; but hearts, eh? What can one do but sigh and learn to live with it? But I digress. In any case, this someone has a worrying habit of disappearing when the situation gets tough (or, sometimes, even when it doesn’t), and he’s a valuable asset to the place I work for. So if there’s anything you could do, anything at all, to bring him home, I would be forever in your debt. And I’m rather good with computers, so I wouldn’t be opposed to it at all if, say, you’d need help with surveillance. After all, keeping track of all of those children and finding out who’s been naughty or nice cannot be easy in this day and age. Best regards, Q

Bond is still wherever it is that he’s gone this time after finishing his mission (and he’s ditched his radio while he’s at it, if only so that Q hasn't got a way to keep track of him - because of M’s orders, naturally) when Q checks the agent’s status once he’s finished with the email - for old habits die hard and cats, much like old dogs, are not exactly known for learning new tricks with any particular ease. But Q’s used to it, he really is, so he doesn’t even bother sighing, simply logs off and pushes the tablet away in favour of getting up and going to refill his glass.

He’s not one to overindulge, however, so he sips the golden liquid at a more sedate pace, now. His thoughts still remain with Bond, but when don’t they? He’s learnt to live with that, as well, and has become quite a professional in pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind when his focus is needed elsewhere, so by the time the glass is empty Q is back to the good old strategy of ignorance, avoidance, and detachment that has served him so well for such a long time.

He then goes to the kitchen to fix dinner for both himself and the cats, and afterwards heads to bed for some reading before sleep finally claims him.

The next day Q goes back to work, as one does when it’s almost Christmas and one has spent the better part of the week guiding an annoying agent through a mission that has gone pear-shaped more than once, and said agent hasn’t even had the good grace to come back home. Instead, he has done one of his infamous disappearing acts while Q gets to be the one to sort out the mess left behind completely on his own.

Yes, he might be feeling a tad bitter about it, but he’s got every bloody right to. So there.

Q greets his minions and enters his office, his thoughts fully focused on removing his outer layers and getting a mug of tea to start his day the right way, and so he fails to notice that someone has already beaten him to it. He uncurls his scarf from around his neck, takes off his beloved parka, and gets as far as hanging both on the stand next to the filing cabinet before his mind registers the still steaming Scrabble mug situated next to his closed laptop.

”What the…?” is all Q gets out when a shadow moves suddenly at the edge of his vision, and before he quite realises what has happened, his back hits the closed door of his office and he feels rather than sees a firm chest snug against his own, a pair of slightly chapped lips covering his, and an arm wrapping itself around his waist while a gentle palm cradles his head, protecting it from hitting the hard wood of his door.

Q flails for a moment before his other senses catch on, as his eyes had automatically closed upon being attacked. The scent of a familiar cologne filling his nostrils is what finally clues him in on the identity of his would-be assailant, and Q relaxes into the kiss. His hands find their way to Bond’s shoulders, at last, and although his grip is light he is doing his very best to kiss Bond back with just as much enthusiasm.

The fact that this right here is one of his many fantasies concerning this particular double oh agent does certainly not escape Q’s notice. Though to be fair, he never did imagine quite an attack-snog like this - in all honesty, his imagination pales in comparison. Q has yet to decide whether it’s a good or a bad thing.

The kiss goes on long enough that Q almost manages to forget to wonder just what had caused it.

Almost, but not quite, as eventually they both need to accept the fact that from time to time, breathing is highly recommended if one plans to continue living.

Bond is the one to - reluctantly - pull away from the kiss, though he moves his head only enough to be able to rest his cheek against Q’s while they both take in much needed gulps of air.

“Bond… You’re back,” Q says when he can no longer remain quiet. He feels silly for pointing out the obvious, but the kiss they just shared seems to have robbed him of his higher brain functions. He can only hope that it won’t be permanent.

“Did you miss me?” Bond seems perfectly comfortable remaining exactly where he is, pressed snugly against Q with his arm around his waist. The fingers of the hand cupping Q’s head begin to run through his hair gently, and Q lets out a soft sigh and shivers at the feeling.

“You might have not disappeared the way you did,” Q says instead of replying to that question. It’s not like it wasn’t a rhetorical one, anyway. “And you didn’t have to thrown away your radio, 007. I would have appreciated that.”

“I might have, Quartermaster,” Bond agrees mildly and nuzzles at the side of his neck. “But I had things to take care of.”

“Of course you did,” Q says, trying his best to not appear quite as affected as he is by Bond acting like his more affectionate cat, Orion, with all of her headbutting and licking his face and everything else.

Bond’s next move better not be to lick his face, though. That’s where Q drew the line.

Well, for now, anyway.

While Q has been busy pondering the similarities between Bond and his cats, the man in question has progressed into leaving tiny little bites onto the skin of his neck. Q cannot truthfully say that he minds all that much, but he is aware that he ought to stop Bond nevertheless. For one thing, they’re still at his office, in full view of the security cameras (never mind that Q can easily delete any incriminating footage, it’s the principle of the thing); and for the other, he has absolutely no idea what has brought on this strange - if pleasant - new behaviour of Bond’s.

So Q clears his throat and says, “Bond?”

“Yes, Q?” Bond murmurs against the skin he’d just been biting, causing Q to shiver anew.

“Why, exactly, are you suddenly kissing me?” He pauses to gather his thoughts after yet another teasing bite nips his skin. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it, but I am curious to hear why now of all possible times.”

”Because I’ve been wanting to do it for a long time,” Bond replies, pulling back enough to be able to look him in the eye. “Also…”

“Also?” Q blinks, and Bond gestures upwards.

”Mistletoe.”

Q looks up, and yes, there really appears to be a real, live mistletoe hanging from the ceiling right in front of the door.

“That was not there when I left last night,” he feels compelled to point out.

”You’re not wrong.”

”Then how did it end up there? Or should I be asking, why did it end up there?”

”Well obviously someone put it there.”

”Obviously,” Q echoes and keeps on looking at Bond. ”It was you, wasn't it?” That would explain why none of his minions warned him about it when he came in - or about Bond’s return, for that matter.

”I can neither confirm nor deny such an allegation,” Bond replies. The kiss he plants on the corner of Q’s lips, however, speaks for itself.

”Why?” Q asks, because sometimes short and simple does the trick better than anything else.

“It’s Christmas,” Bond replies. “Seemed only appropriate.”

Q gets the feeling that that’s not quite everything Bond has to say about it, and he wonders if he can get to the bottom of it. But later. “Technically, it’s only the 23rd,” he points out in any case.

“True,” Bond acknowledges, “but I was hoping that you wouldn’t actually be at the office on Christmas Eve.”

“I hadn’t planned on being here tomorrow, no,” Q admits. “Well, unless 004 manages to cock things up again.” Q knows that these things happen, after all, no matter how good the agent in question is; and while 004 is good, he’s certainly no Bond.

Bond chuckles and nuzzles at Q’s cheek with his own stubbly one, and Q shivers. His arms tighten around Bond’s neck, which makes Bond hum appreciatively and turn his head to capture Q’s lips with his again.

This time Q is an equal participant in the kiss from the very first moments, and it’s an even lovelier kiss than the first one. Q keeps his eyes closed and his arms wrapped around Bond’s neck and surrenders to the kiss.

Lack of air is, however, an eventuality, and even the most loveliest of kisses must ultimately end. Q pulls away slowly and obligingly tilts his head for Bond to kiss his way down to his throat.

He’s still wondering what exactly Bond had been up to between the end of the mission and his sudden reappearance. Bond had only said that he’d had things to take care of, and Q’s curious about what they could have been. Well, perhaps one of them had been the acquiring of the mistletoe, which, yes, he can now see Bond not wanting him to find out about too soon. This all wouldn’t have been much of a surprise otherwise.

He’ll ask Bond about it, he decides, but not right now. Now they’re at work and while this has been absolutely lovely, Q is fully aware that they both have things to do that do not include kissing against his office door.

(Though that certainly should be included, in Q’s opinion.)

“Bond?”

“Won’t you call me James?”

“James,” Q amends. It feels strange to call Bond by his first name, but also right. Strangely right, even, Q thinks and smothers a giggle against Bond’s shoulder.

“Yes, love?”

“Um,” Q says and blinks, not having expected to hear that. “You’ve not been to see M yet, am I correct?”

“You are.”

“And am I also correct in assuming that even though you don’t have your radio, you do have the rest of your kit with you? Well, what’s left of it, anyway.”

Bond nods. “I left it at your desk.”

Q turns his head to look at his desk, and indeed, Bond’s kit rests there next to his no longer steaming Scrabble mug. How he missed it before is anyone’s guess, but Q firmly blames Bond and his mouth for distracting him so thoroughly.

“I shall look at it momentarily,” Q tells Bond.

“Is that your way of telling me to leave you alone, Quartermaster?” Bond asks, pretending to sound hurt. Or at least Q hopes he’s just pretending.

“It’s my way of telling you that we both have obligations to take care of, James,” Q replies. “And much as I have enjoyed this, we are at work and in full view of the cameras right now.”

“I am aware of that,” Bond says, sounding smug now. “R will be dealing with the evidence, and I may have requested a copy for myself.”

“Bond!”

Bond just chuckles and kisses Q gently on the lips. “Don’t worry, love, I’m sure she’ll have one made for you too.”

Q groans. “Not what I meant, and you know that!”

Bond just smiles. Q wants to simultaneously push him away and pull him even closer, but in the end he does neither.

“So, can I take you out to lunch today? And dinner, after work?” Bond then asks, now more serious.

Q blinks but nods. “I would like that, yes.”

“Excellent. I’ll be back after noon.” Then, finally, Bond pulls away from Q, who shivers at the feeling of losing his warmth. He has no idea why his office suddenly feels so chilly.

“Are you cold, love?” Bond asks. “I made you tea, I hope it’s still warm,” he adds and glances at Q’s desk with the beginnings of a frown on his forehead. Q immediately wants to reach out and kiss it away.

“Thank you, James,” he says softly and walks to his desk to pick up the mug and take a sip from it. It’s brewed to his exact preference, and whileit’s no longer hot it’s still warm enough to comfortably drink. Bond looks at him and his expression clears when Q takes another bigger sip.

“I shall see you later, then,” Bond says fondly. “Try not to get lost in your work, love, or I may be forced to kidnap you for our lunch date.”

Q snorts. “I’d like to see you try.”

Bond winks at him. “You just might.” Then he finally turns to the door, opens it and steps out into the branch proper, leaving Q to drink his tea and think back over the last fifteen or so minutes.

He’s still not exactly sure what had truly happened, let alone why it had happened, but he’s ready to take it as one of those things that Bond just does.

Because really, it cannot have anything to do with the email he’d sent. Or the star he’d wished upon.

Can it?

#mely writes fanfiction #00Q #mi6cafechallenge #anon prompt gift exchange

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lickstynine · 5 years

Text

Misadventures of Kit: Chapter Twenty-Five

I just want to say a quick thank-you to those of you that have been waiting so patiently for this. I was really struggling when school first started back up, but I think I’ve finally gotten into a routine, so I’ll be trying to post chapters regularly again.

written with @ocsickficsideblog

By the time Kit was feeling well again, it was barely a week til Christmas. He’d been watching the calendar warily. The Raycraft Christmas ball was drawing close, and even though he wouldn’t be going alone, he was still terrified. Siofra had visited several times while he was sick, and she’d promised repeatedly to beat the shit out of anyone who bothered him, but Kit couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that something would go wrong.

Now it was the 19th, and Kit was getting dressed properly for the first time in almost two weeks. He’d promised to take Siofra shopping for a dress, both as thanks for going with him, and so she’d have something appropriately fancy to wear. Alistair had of course insisted on coming along, and the younger boy was sitting impatiently on the bed while Kit put on mascara and re-re-re-fixed his hair.

“Kit, are you done now?” Alistair asked. He was grumpier than usual because he really didn’t like crowded shops, wearing his scruffy jeans and his black jacket so he could pull the hood up and sulk.

“Almost, but I’ve said repeatedly, you don’t have to come.” Kit huffed. He loved going shopping with girls, but he hated shopping with Alistair.

“Yeah I do. I need to protect you.”

“From what? The shopping centre werewolves?” Kit rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know what’ll crop up,” Alistair mumbled. “Not werewolves. You clearly don’t know your lycan folklore.”

Kit groaned. “That’s not the point. My point is, I don’t need a bodyguard, and even if I did, Siofra is stronger than you. You hate shopping, there’s no reason for you to come.”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Kit sighed in frustration. “Well, you’re choosing to come along, so you don’t get to complain.”

Alistair pretended to pout. “But there’s so much to complain about!”

Kit gave him an irritated look. “I’m serious. This is supposed to be a nice day with Siofra.”

“I was joking,” Alistair said. “You can just say if you don’t want me there.”

“Will you get offended if I say that?”

“No.” Yes.

Kit rolled his eyes. He knew better. “Come along, but if you start whining, I’m calling Taddy to take you home.”

“Okay,” Alistair said, brightening just a little. Kit didn’t make him stay home, that was enough to cheer him up. Kit just sighed dramatically, putting on his scarf and gloves and many coats before daring to leave the house. Though his cough had mostly cleared up, the cold outside air still made him wheeze. Alistair supervised this process, making sure Kit was adequately bundled.

When the boys made the trek down the stairs, Siofra was waiting outside the block of flats, with Finny sitting loyally at her feet. Alistair immediately cheered up, kneeling to greet him. Finny was equally excited, throwing his front paws on Alistair’s shoulders to bark and lick his face. Alistair laughed delightedly. “Hello, Finny! I missed you!”

Finny boofed in response, nearly tackling Alistair in his continued attempts to cuddle. Kit rolled his eyes, but Siofra grinned. She had deliberately brought Finny to distract their inevitable third wheel. She met Kit’s eyes, and he nodded gratefully. Alistair was none the wiser - it might hit him later on tonight, and he’d feel indignant, but now he only had eyes for Finny. Siofra ‘generously’ offered him the leash. He took it at once, beaming, genuinely believing she was being kind.

Kit took Siofra's newly-free hand, and they headed off towards the shopping centre at his admittedly slow pace. She didn't seem bothered, telling him about the hike she'd gone on last weekend - she and Riagan had trekked Ockley to Leith Hill, which sounded terrifying to Kit, even in fairer weather, but he listened loyally as she rambled.

“I'd offer to take ya sometime, but you're not exactly… outdoorsy.” Siofra laughed.

Kit shook his head. “I know, it's alright. That was always more Al's thing than mine.”

“What was my thing?” Alistair called back. He’d gone dashing ahead with Finny.

“Going outside.” Kit said, “Like into nature, not just out of the house.”

“Oh yeah, I like that. As long as there’s no people.”

Siofra snorted. “Well, yeah, that’s half the point of goin’ out. Get away from all the bustlin’ crowds ‘o idiots.”

“Definitely,” Alistair mumbled, petting Finny. The dog licked his hand before walking ahead to sniff a tree. Siofra went back to talking to just Kit.

It took almost an hour to reach the shopping centre, but Kit and Siofra were still chattering away when they approached the first store. Kit was so absorbed in a story he was telling, Siofra had to tug his arm to keep him from smacking into the doorway. She rolled her eyes. “You’ve got the survival skills of a dodo bird.”

“I’m not that bad.” Kit huffed. “I’m not extinct.”

Siofra fought the urge to snark back, knowing she couldn’t let him know what Alistair had told her. She settled on, “That’s sheer fuckin’ luck from the look of it.”

“That is correct,” Alistair said.

Kit just huffed again, leading her to the women’s formalwear section of the shop. “Come on, we’re looking for dresses.”

“What sort of dresses do you like, Siofra?”

“I like bright colours. Blue an’ green usually look good, black is easy. Somethin’ that makes my tits look nice, nips in at the waist.” She replied, looking at a deep blue gown on a mannequin before shaking her head. “Colour’s nice, but it’s just a shiny tube. Might look nice on a real skinny girl.” Suddenly, an idea made her snort. “Kit, you try it on.”

Kit’s face flared red. “I’d rather not.”

“He’s not trying it on,” Alistair said firmly. He knew Siofra didn’t know about the Dress Incident, but it still rankled.

Siofra drew back a little. “Jeez, okay. It was a joke. C’mon, let’s just look around.”

“Sorry,” Alistair muttered quietly, but he didn’t offer an explanation. Kit was just glad to be distracted by dressed, guiding Siofra over to an emerald dress with a low-cut top and a full, flared skirt.

“What do you think of this?”

“It’s nice. Little plain, though. If it’s gonna be long, I want somethin’ to be happenin’, ya know?” Siofra mused. “Is there anythin’ with lace? I like lace dresses. It’s like ‘I’m pretty, an’ I’m fancy, but I still fuck.’ Y’know?”

Kit laughed, “I don’t, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“You’re a weird girl, Siofra,” Alistair said, grinning.

“So are you.” She grinned back, turning to examine a deep purple dress with a patterned bodice. Kit came to look with her.

“This fabric is lovely.”

“Yea, looks like it might get warm, though.” Siofra said. “Don’t wanna sweat too much while I’m dancin’.”

Kit paused; he was always cold, he hadn’t even thought of that. “Oh… you’re right. You want something lighter, then?”

Siofra nodded. “Yea. Some’o these are nice, but I wanna look around more. Nothin’s speakin’ to me yet.”

Alistair didn’t join in the conversation much. He mooched around swishing the skirts of mannequins and making shoes dance on his hands and generally worrying the staff as they watched him mess with things. Finny, ironically, was well-behaved the entire time, just padding quietly at his side. Eventually, Kit and Siofra gave up, leaving the store to explore another. Alistair sighed to Finny. “They’ll be at this all day.”

Finny let out a dog sigh. Kit and Siofra were already ducking into another store that had stunning gowns on the mannequins. Kit was pondering outfits, and after a moment he asked, “How do you feel about red?”

“I like a good red. Red is a sexy colour.” Siofra said, winking at him.

Kit grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He’d had a vision of him, hair freshly dyed, red accoutrements paired with a sleek black suit, gold jewelry on top of it all, and Siofra, in a matching red gown and gold accessories.

“You got an idea?” She asked, “You’re makin’ a thinkin’ face.”

Kit nodded. “Come on, let’s find a red dress you like.”

Siofra followed him through the store, gathering up several gowns in varying shades from wine to crimson. Alistair sighed and made scarlet woman jokes, picking at his hangnails. Finny nosed his leg while Siofra smuggled Kit into the dressing room with her. Alistair raised his eyebrows, squatting down and shaking Finny’s paw. “Honestly, Kit is so blooming fancy he won’t answer the door in pyjamas, but I bet he’s getting up to stuff in there with Siofra. Gross. I hope they buy the clothes and don’t just put them back.”

If Alistair actually thought about it, he would’ve known Kit was just in there giving Siofra input on the dresses and helping her try them on. They went through about eight gowns, but all they really figured out was what they didn’t like.

Sequins look too cheap.

The short skirt is too casual… and a little slutty.

That wine colour is too dark, and cool. It doesn’t quite suit you.

Narrow skirts aren’t very flattering to your shape.

These rhinestones don’t look that elegant up close.

Eventually, they came back out, dumping all eight dresses on the reject rack. Despite the seeming failure, both Kit and Siofra had a fire in their eyes.

“To the next store?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yup. Finny, come on!” The dog stood up, tugging Alistair along after his owner.

“You two look like you’re going to war,” Alistair said, running to keep up.

“To war with tacky dresses!” Siofra yelled. She was practically lifting Kit so she could run faster, but he was still out of breath by the time they got to the next boutique.

“Siofra, be careful with him,” Alistair called, as if Kit was his premature newborn.

“I’m fine, Al.” Kit mumbled, but he was wheezing as they walked into the shop.

“Siofra, he needs to rest a minute.”

She paused in the doorway, looking around and finding a cushioned bench to deposit Kit on. “I need to piss anyway. I’ll be back. You figure out how to breathe.”

Kit nodded, waving as she walked off. Alistair sat beside him, rubbing his back. “You alright?”

“Just tired.” Kit sighed, running a hand through his hair. His chest was still heaving, and he let out a tiny wheeze with every exhale.

Alistair bit his lip. “Your chest still sounds bad.”

“It always does, this time of year. Fucked up from years of pneumonia.” Kit mumbled, leaning on the back of the bench. “I should've brought water.”

“Want me to go buy some?”

“Would you?” Kit took out his wallet, handing Alistair a crisp fifty pound note.

Alistair grinned at it. “Yeah, I’ll buy it. With this fifty.”

Kit rolled his eyes. “Just keep the change. I don’t have anything smaller.”

“Course not,” Alistair said fondly, leading Finny to a smaller shop selling health food and fruity drinks. “Wait there.”

Kit, of course, stayed put, out of exhaustion as much as obedience, while Finny sniffled curiously at the shelves of the shop. Alistair found water easily enough, pulling a face at Finny. “Lots of gross food in here…”

The dog didn’t seem as bothered, nosing at anything he could reach. The shop owner was giving Alistair a less-than-delighted look. Alistair quickly paid, getting even more evils for using a fifty. He returned to Kit at nearly the same time Siofra did, and Kit stood, taking the water and following Siofra through the maze of racks in search of a suitable dress.

They had settled on a few details already, bypassing anything that wasn’t voluminous and bright red. Eventually they narrowed it down to three: two strapless, one with a fluffy chiffon skirt and sparkling floral bodice, and one all satin, with a nipped waist and shimmery detailing around the top; the third had off-the shoulder sleeves, with floral appliques adorning the translucent sleeves, the bodice, and the outer chiffon of the skirt.

Siofra seemed satisfied with their choices, tugging Kit towards the dressing room. “Alright, come on Christina, I need help with my zippers.” She gestured for Alistair to follow. “You, too, Alyssa. Ya don’t hafta come in, but ya hafta at least look at me in each one.”

Alistair sighed, but he did actually want to see the dresses, so he let “Alyssa” slide - though it did annoy him that the sales assistant let him through into the changing room without a second glance, clearly believing him to be Siofra’s dumpy little sister. He was allowed to sit on a bench outside the row of stalls, while Siofra and Kit disappeared into a cubicle to try on the first dress. There was a bit of stumbling, grumbling, and mumbling about “stupid fuckin’ zippers halfway up my arse,” but before long, Siofra stepped out to model the dress.

It certainly wasn’t an ugly dress, but the floral pattern on the bodice tapered up and inward over the cleavage, featuring Siofra’s strong shoulders and completely concealing her breasts. “Fuck me, I look like a bloody drag queen!” She huffed, glaring at the full-length mirror on the open door of her changing stall.

Alistair laughed hard. “Go in that one!”

“You wear it if ya like it so much. I intend to show up lookin’ decent.” Siofra rolled her eyes, pondering whether Alistair might actually fit in the same dress as her. It would be close - he definitely wasn’t too tall or muscular - but she decided he was too squishy in the middle to fit in anything cinched at the waist. After another moment glaring in the mirror, she closed herself back in the stall so Kit could help her change dresses.

“Why does chiffon have so many fuckin’ layers?” She grumbled, “It’s like wearin’ a hoopskirt made’o bloomin’ candyfloss!”

Kit chuckled, “It’s for volume. Take away all the layers, and this is a boring A-line.”

Siofra rolled her eyes. “I know why. It’s just a pain. Come on, let’s get the other fluffy one over with.” She snatched the off-the-shoulder dress off its hanger, pulling it over her head with Kit’s assistance. Though the back opened wide with the zipper, she had no hope of stepping into anything with her hips. The sleeves were a bit snug near the top - dresses weren’t typically made with muscle in mind - but she liked the cut of the bodice better. She swung the door open so Alistair could see.

“Well, at least this one shows off my tits,” Siofra mused, “but I’m afraid if I lift my arms, I’m gonna rip these flimsy sleeves off like She-hulk.”

“Better body, but you look like Popeye with those arms,” Alistair said.

“Well maybe if the sleeves weren’t cut for Olive Oyl, it wouldn’t look so bad.” Siofra grumbled, swishing her hips in the mirror before closing the stall door again. “Fuck this fluffy bicep prison.”

Kit was snickering again as he helped her out of it. “Do you want to bother with the last one? I’m not sure this shop really styles for your body type.”

Siofra shrugged, throwing the heap of chiffon and fabric roses at him to hang back up. “Might as well, I’m already in my knickers.” She’d discarded her bra for the trying-on, since the straps would be awkwardly exposed. Kit hung and set aside the second rejected dress, unzipping the last one and helping Siofra pull it over her head.

“I like the material of this one.” He remarked, running a hand over the cherry satin as he zipped her into it. “Very sleek, elegant.”

“Ooh, this one makes my tits look great!” Siofra grinned in the mirror. She wasn’t wrong - the bodice had a slight dip between the breasts, and the glittering red stones around the top drew even more attention to her chest. Kit nodded, stepping out of the way so she could open the door.

Alistair was already snorting with laughter. He adopted Kit’s plummy accent. “Very sleek and elegant.” Then he switched to Siofra’s Irish lilt. “Cor, don’t my tits look great!”

“Your tits look terrible, actually. You should get a more supportive bra.” She grinned at him.

“Har har. That dress is nice though. Tits and all.”

“Yeah, I like this one.” Siofra nodded, “Skirt’s way more comfortable, too. An’ it looks expensive. I like that.” She swished her hips in the mirror, causing her dress and her curls to sway. Finny gave an approving bark.

Kit seemed excited. He hadn’t expected to find a dress they’d like so soon. “Do you want that one, then?”

Siofra shrugged. “Sure, yeah. I like it. I look hot in it. Why not?”

Kit nodded, bustling the other two dresses out to the reject rack while Siofra posed in the mirror. “Should we start looking for accessories, then?”

“Let’s just buy this an’ go. I had to walk through purses to get to the loo, the selection here is shit.” Siofra said, ducking back into the stall to put her own clothes on. Dress in hand, she and Kit walked to the checkout.

Alistair stood up and trailed after them, sighing heavily. “God, is everything going to take so long? Shoes and purses and flipping rings…”

“The jewelry will probably be easiest, actually.” Kit replied. “Most of the time, necklaces have matching earrings and bracelets and so on. Do you want to do that first?” He asked Siofra, “There’s a lovely jeweller right down this way.” He gestured towards a row of shops.

“Sure, yeah.” Siofra nodded. “I don’t wear earrings, though, so don’t get excited about that.” She warned him. Kit didn’t seem bothered, and they discussed metals and gems while they waited in line at the register. By the time the dress was handed back in a sleek shopping bag, they had already settled on rose gold and rubies. Kit was babbling excitedly as they walked to the jeweller.

“Most of my jewelry is yellow gold, just because it’s more widely available. I didn’t really like rose gold when it first came into style, but I warmed up to it a few years ago. I think it will look lovely on you, especially with your hair.”

Siofra let him talk, listening and nodding as they walked into the store. She was a little out of her element now; her idea of expensive jewelry was the department store - this place looked like a dragon’s hoard. “I hope you know what to look for, cause I’m lost.” She mumbled.

Kit nodded. “I saw an ad for one of their collections a few months back, follow me.” He led her to a lovely array of rose-gold jewelry, set with a variety of gems to show what the shop had to offer. There were only a few bracelets, but the necklaces and earrings were more numerous, and nearly a third of the case was taken up with mannequin hands modeling rings. “They can set any stone in the piece you like.” He explained, letting Siofra examine the case herself. She was trying not to gawk, but couldn’t help staring at the jewels oozing from the pinkish metal.

“Bloody hell… what’s my budget?”

Kit laughed. “You don’t have a budget. Pick what you like. As much as you like.”

Siofra turned to stare at him, more awestruck than ever. “You’re joking.”

“Why would I be?” Kit shrugged. “My father is making me go to this stupid party. I might as well waste his money making you look nice for it.” He was eyeing the earrings himself, wanting to coordinate his own jewelry with whatever Siofra chose.

Alistair attempted to entertain himself by trying to find the most expensive thing in the store, continually getting distracted by the prices. He’d still had money when he was old enough to be able to buy stuff for himself, but he’d never been one for fancy jewellery like this. He was more of the skull-ring-from-Hot-Topic type back then. Finny was interested too - he liked the sparkly things, and pressed his nose against the glass trying to look closer.

Alistair grinned at him. “Shame you don’t have fingers. But we can get you a necklace,” he laughed. “You’re getting nose marks on the glass.”

Finny gave a low ruff. He seemed to like the idea of his own shiny accessory. The sales girl giggled at them. “We do custom collars and dog tags on request.”

Alistair brightened. “Want a sparkly collar? Then I can take you to the Pride Parade.”

Finny barked again, and the sales girl went to a shelf, picking out a book to show Alistair while her coworker helped Kit and Siofra. She laid it out, opening to a page of thick glittery chains, as well as varying fabric and leather bands that could be stoned and studded. Alistair held the book out like he was showing Finny too, ignoring the amused look he got from the girl. “Are you a glitter or a leather boy?”

Finny snuffled at a picture of a bright blue band, adorned with gold studs and white stones. Perhaps it was sheer chance that he’d reacted to that picture, but Alistair nodded. “Yeah, that’s a good one.”

“Do you know what size band you would need?” The girl asked.

“Siofra!” Alistair called. “What size band does Finny wear?”

Siofra set down the ring she'd been trying on, turning to look incredulously at Alistair. “What?”

“Oh, Finny wants a fancy collar. Don’t worry, I assure you Kit has spent money on more useless shit than this.”

“He wants it?” Siofra asked, trying not to smirk too hard.

“Yeah, he was snuffling the page.” Alistair looked completely serious.

Siofra chuckled. “Um, I usually get ‘im an extra-large when I buy collars. A large might fit, but I worry ‘cause’o all the fur.”

“Extra-large,” Alistair told the girl. He didn’t want to risk getting a tight one.

She nodded. “And did you want all studs, or studs and diamonds?” She pointed to the different options in the book.

“The diamonds… They look pretty.”

The clerk checked a box on a form she’d pulled out. “And you wanted the deep blue?”

“He wants that, yeah,” Alistair said, nodding at Finny. The dog barked happily. Siofra rolled her eyes at them, turning back to her own counter to try on more rings. Alistair ruffled Finny’s fur as he got the collar sorted with the girl, rubbing the soft part behind his ears. Finny tilted his head, tail flapping happily.

The clerk finished typing the order into the register, looking back to Alistair. “Custom orders usually take two to four weeks to complete. Your down payment will be £1200.”

“You fuckin’ what?” Siofra spun back around to stare at Alistair and the girl.

“Kit.” Alistair didn’t even blink. “Credit card. Please.” The older boy pulled out his wallet and passed it to Alistair without looking up from the ruby earrings he was considering. Siofra was staring at them both like they’d just turned into dinosaurs.

Alistair held up the card, raising his eyebrows at Siofra. “Nice, isn’t it? I could do this once. Buy stupid shit I don’t even need. It was cool. Now I have to dig down the back of the sofa for the bus fare.”

Siofra snorted. “Yeah, that’s university for ya.” She was looking at Kit, and how casually he shoved aside a set of earrings to ask for a pair with more diamonds. “Is it still a sugar daddy if I’m older?”

“What would be the younger version? A sugar son? Yuck. And what is he to me? I’m not banging him.” Alistair never did have any awareness of his language in a posh shop. The clerk was giving him a weird look, and awkwardly cleared her throat.

“Ahem, sir? The down payment?”

“Oh yeah.” He handed the card over. She scanned it and handed it back, along with a receipt to sign. He scrawled his untidy signature and gave Kit the card back. Kit stuck it in his breast pocket, knowing he'd need it again once he and Siofra picked everything out. She had gathered a pile of glittering rings, along with a matching pendant and tennis bracelet. He was still waffling between pairs of earrings, trying to decide how to arrange everything - the bane of having ten piercings in each ear.

Alistair was soon bored again, sitting on the floor with Finny and sighing heavily. The dog climbed into his lap and mimicked his sigh. That made Alistair laugh a bit, rubbing between Finny’s ears. Finny licked his face and Siofra grinned at them. “You can take 'im outside. 'e probably needs the loo anyway.”

“Thank god. I’m losing my mind in here,” Alistair mumbled, easing Finny off his lap and getting up. “Come on, Finny.”

Finny climbed to his feet, bounding for the door. He was eager to get outside, too. Alistair ran through the shopping centre with him, laughing when all the posh people gave them dirty looks. He felt like a teenager for a moment. Finny pulled Alistair through the crowd, weaving deftly through the clusters of people. They burst out onto the street together, and Alistair walked Finny up and down the high street, letting him stop to pee. The dog quickly selected a tree and did his business before tugging Alistair down the street.

Alistair let Finny lead him submissively. “Where are we going then?”

Finny just continued to run down the street. Alistair started floundering after a few minutes. “Finny, I don’t think I’ve gone running since PE at school… And even then I’d bunk off and sit in the bogs.”

Finny stopped pulling Alistair along, instead electing to run circles around his legs. Alistair laughed, dragging him to a bench. “Come here…” The dog followed him dutifully and sat by his feet. Alistair gave his lap a pat. “You can sit right up here.” Finny hopped up at once, his fuzzy butt resting on Alistair’s legs. Alistair hugged him happily, completely swamped in dog fur. Finny was content to sit like that until Alistair’s phone buzzed. It was Kit.

We’re going to look for shoes. Do you want to come with or stay out with Finny?

Alistair pulled a face. I’ll come. Where are you?

By the food court. Siofra was hungry. Do you want anything?

Do they have those fancy donuts? The Krispy Kreme ones?

Yeah, what do you want?

Just get that really chocolaty looking one with the crumbly topping.

Alright. Kit didn't bother asking what his cousin wanted to drink - he'd already bought Alistair a hot chocolate when he was getting himself a chai tea. Meet us by the Krispy Kreme.

Okay. Don’t touch anything strawberry flavoured.

Wasn’t on the agenda. Kit rolled his eyes. As if he was the one who forgot about his allergy, when Alistair had never told Julius about it and nearly poisoned his cousin as a result. He was still grumbling to Siofra about it when Alistair came up to meet them, Finny in tow.

“Did you two buy what you wanted then?” he asked.

“We did.” Kit waved the tea in his right hand, offering Alistair the donut and hot chocolate in his left. Siofra just nodded. Her arms were weighted with bags holding her dress and jewelry, and her hands and mouth were busy with a carton of inauthentic but deliciously greasy Chinese food.

“Only one donut?” Alistair said, taking the drinks and food with a grin. It was an old, old joke between them, back when Alistair was still a little pudgy five year old. He’d always insist he could manage several desserts.

“Yes, because you don’t have a change of clothes.” Kit smirked.

“Ha ha. So you’re going shoe shopping next? Are you getting those fancy ones with the red insides or whatever it is?”

Kit rolled his eyes. “I already have a pair of Louboutins that will match my outfit. We’re finding shoes to go with Siofra’s dress, and hopefully a matching clutch.”

“A clutch? Oh! One of those stupid little purses?”

“It's not stupid.” Kit rolled his eyes. “It's small, so it can hold necessities like a wallet and keys, but it isn't a huge bulky thing that's in your way all night. It's an evening bag.”

“I remember them! Remember when we were kids and that Lord’s daughter - Arabella, was it? - hit me over the head with her clutch? So I tied her pigtails to the door handle and slammed it shut,” Alistair giggled.

Kit didn't seem as amused. “You're leaving out an important detail. She hit you because you were flailing around by the refreshments, hit her punch, and spilled it all over her dress.”

Siofra snorted. “Always been a charmer, huh?”

Alistair stuck his tongue out at Siofra. “She didn’t have to hit me, did she? I’d have said sorry for spilling her punch if she hadn’t, and the whole clutch-and-pigtail drama could have been avoided.”

“You also could've been dancing on the dance floor, instead of endangering innocent people seeking refreshments.” Kit pointed out. He spotted a shoe store and walked inside, Siofra in tow. Finny pulled Alistair along, following sedately, while Alistair glared at anyone who gave them funny looks.

Kit and Siofra went immediately to the high heels, looking at the array of shiny shoes on the shelf

“We definitely want something red or rose gold. I know your skirt is long, but it you lift it, the shoes ought to match.”

“They've also gotta fit,” Siofra reminded him. “Most gals have smaller feet than me. See what they've got in a 9.5. I can do a 9 or an 8.5 if it's open-toed.”

Kit sighed. “Well, that certainly limits our options.” He started exploring the shelves, but found little more than a generic gold sandal. After a good ten minutes of scouring, he shook his head and stalked out of the store. “This place is useless.”

“We’d be fine if it wasn’t for her troll feet,” Alistair snorted. Siofra kicked him in the shin as she walked by.

“Shove my troll foot up your arse if you don't watch your fuckin’ mouth.”

“Ow! Get her, Finny,” Alistair urged. The dog just barked cheerfully and kept walking. Alistair rolled his eyes, letting Finny drag him after Siofra. “So where to now? How many shoe shops can be in one big shopping centre?”

Siofra looked at him for a moment, then back to Kit. “Is ‘e actually that stupid, or does ‘e really just never go outside unless ‘e’s followin’ you like a needy puppy?”

Kit shrugged. “Bit of both.” He said, leading the group into another shoe shop.

“I’m not the needy puppy when you’re koala hugging me all night,” Alistair grumbled.

“You’re the one who insists I stay at yours.” Kit replied, not even looking up from the high heels he was examining. The pair he was looking at were actually quite pretty - bright red pumps with narrow laces attaching them at the ankle. Each lace had shiny gold aglets and the heel was tall and thin. Siofra looked at them approvingly, selecting a pair in her size to try on.

“These are cute.”

“They’re basic.” Kit replied flatly. “This style is popular right now. Five girls at any given nightclub are wearing this shoe in one colour or another. You’re not a vapid parasite looking for a face to suck. You’re an exquisite guest at an exquisite event.”

Siofra snorted, amused but also taken aback. “Damn, okay. Maybe save for them for a backup at least?”

“If you like them.” Kit shrugged.

Alistair held Finny’s leash out in a lordly fashion and stuck his nose in the air. “You’re an exquisite quest at an exquisite event, my darling,” he said in Kit’s posh accent. “We must have your own shoes cobbled for you by the finest craftsmen out of gold and marble, studded with pearls fresh from the ocean. We can’t have common shoes on my precious carpets, oh heavens no.”

Kit rolled his eyes at his cousin. “Why don’t you go piss on a tree with Finny? That seems more like your kind of activity.”

“Oh, aren’t we funny. He’s already pissed. I want to see what shoes old Hobbit Feet gets anyway.”

“Who the hell are you talkin’ to about shoes?” Siofra asked, “I saw glittery pink trainers in your wardrobe.”

“I didn’t buy those! They were fucking hand-me-downs from Toby’s sister,” Alistair grumbled. “I don’t have rich parents to fund me anymore. You know how expensive shit is? It’s awful!”

“So you fit in Toby’s sister’s shoes, and you’re givin’ me shit for my shoe size?”

“Maybe she had gigantic feet too, you don’t know!”

“I saw the shoes.” Siofra grinned. “She didn’t.”

“Didn’t you know that posh folk are known for their dainty feet?” Alistair declared, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Then why are Kit’s shoes bigger than mine? He’s the daintiest of the three of us by far.”

Kit spun around; he’d been busy scrutinizing shoes and not listening to the others. “What?”

“They are? Kit, what’s your shoe size?”

“...good question.” Kit sat down on one of the little benches, lifting his foot to check the number on the sole. “10.5. Why?”

“That’s huge!”

“I mean, I said the same thing, but not about his feet.” Siofra grinned. Kit went red, but he laughed so hard, he snorted.

“Gross! I don’t want to hear about that!” Alistair cried, blushing too.

Siofra just laughed. “Stop talkin’ about my feet, an’ I’ll stop talkin’ about his dick.” She turned to look at a pair of gold pumps, trying to gauge whether they were too yellowy.

“Are those the one?”

“Mm, no.” Siofra had pulled out one of her rings to compare the colour. “I kinda wanted a red shoe, anyway. Red pumps are sexy as fuck.”

“Alright, Dorothy. Clicking your heels will be useful at our place, you’ll get to leave early.”

“Actually, in the book, Dorothy had silver shoes. They changed them to red to show up better on-screen.” Kit chimed in.

“I don’t really remember the book. You read it to me when we were kids.”

“I remember. You called my mum Glinda and yours the Wicked Witch, and got sent to your room for the night.” Kit rolled his eyes.

Alistair snorted. “Don’t tell me that wasn’t genius. And true. And your mum bought me fake fairy wings and I got upset when I couldn’t fly with them.”

Kit just shook his head. “I remember.” He went back to looking at shoes, glaring at a ruby pump that had a nice colour but a slightly squatty heel. “This shop is just as bad as the last.”

“What exactly is wrong with that shoe?” Alistair asked.

“The heels are too short, and wide. It's not elegant. Not to mention, it would look pitifully small on someone as tall as Siofra. That heel height might work proportionately for someone Julie's size, but even then, it's unflatteringly thick.”

“Maybe we could buy them for Jules. He has to climb on the countertop to reach shit from the back of the cupboard.”

Siofra snorted and Kit rolled his eyes. “If I'm going to buy Julie heels, they'll be attractive.”

“He has really fucking small feet. Like, comically tiny.”

“He could probably fit both feet in one'o Kit's shoes.” Siofra grinned.

“And have room to spare,” Alistair agreed.

“My feet are not that big!” Kit cried.

“I was making fun of Jules’s feet that time. It’s no fun when he’s not here to hear it.”

Kit rolled his eyes. “Loving fiance you are.’

“Shut up, I am. If I gushed about him all day you’d feel awkward, right?”

“I'd feel annoyed.” Kit corrected.

“Well, either way. And for the record, I like his stupid small feet. They’re cute and ridiculous,” Alistair said.

“You're just ridiculous.” Kit huffed. “Come on, let's try another shop. This place is a disappointment.”

“Ugh, how many more?”

“However many it takes to find good shoes.” Kit replied. Siofra just chuckled, gesturing for Finny to come along..

“I can’t believe people enjoy this. I’m bored and hot and my feet ache and this place is full of other humans.” He pulled a face, like other people were the equivalent of sewer rats.

“This is why I said you didn’t have to come.” Kit reminded him, “And that is why I said if you did come, I’d send you home if you complained.”

“I have to look after you!” Alistair huffed. “I’m practically your carer. I should be receiving benefits for this.”

“First off, I pay for anything you ask for. Second off, we already discussed that Siofra can take care of me just as well.”

“You know I’m not being serious, Kit. And yes, Siofra is fine and responsible and strong, blah blah blah, but you’re my cousin. I’d worry about you.”

Kit groaned. “You should worry about my sanity if you keep whining. For Chrissakes, Finny is being more cooperative than you, and he doesn’t even know what the hell we’re doing!”

“I’ll bet he does. He’s a clever dog.”

“Okay, so the dog is smarter and more cooperative. Good for him. You still need to stop whining.” Kit said.

“Only if you stop bitching.”

“What am I bitching about?!” Kit cried.

“Me.”

“The only thing I’m bitching about is your bitching!” Kit’s face was going red, and he looked close to popping a blood vessel. “You agreed to not complain when you insisted on coming with us!”

“Kit, calm down,” Alistair mumbled, looking almost unnerved. “What’s wrong with you? I’m not being serious.”

The older boy deflated, his voice wobbly with frustration. “Then why are you seriously trying to drive me insane?” His eyes flickered between Alistair and Siofra and the crowd around them, afraid to say more in such a public setting. Though the cup in his hand was still half-full, he mumbled something about wanting another tea and walked off towards the food court. Siofra sighed and rolled her eyes.

Alistair looked equally upset, mumbling something about taking Finny to pee despite the dog having just been. He went off in the other direction. Now Siofra looked properly peeved, stalking after Alistair and grabbing his collar. “Oi! You don’t get to just kidnap my dog.”

“Get off me!” He yelled it way too loudly for a public place indoors, but his voice was thick, like he had a bad cold. The people nearby gave him weird looks, but Siofra just seemed like an annoyed big sister, so nobody gave them a second glance.

“Then gimme my fuckin’ dog, an’ I’ll go find your idiot cousin myself.” Siofra kept a stony grip on his jumper, holding a hand out for Finny’s leash. Alistair handed it over at once, keeping his face turned away.

“Now get off.”

“Gladly.” Siofra dropped his collar, wiping the now-free hand on her jeans. “You go cry while I fix your fuck-up.”

“Fuck you,” Alistair spat, clenching his fists. He kept his back to her though, hoping he might be able to pretend he wasn’t near tears later if she couldn’t actually see him welling up.

“Go annoy someone else, why don’t ya?” Siofra rolled her eyes and walked off in the direction Kit had gone.

#misadventures of Kit #chapter twenty-five #angst #drama of the big gay #kit #raycraft #siofra #rafferty #alistair #ocsickficsideblog #collab

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thievinghippo · 6 years

Text

Fic Update: Drifting (4/5)

Fandom: swtor

Pairing: Andronikos Revel/Sith Inquisitor

Rating: Teen

Summary: When the Sith Inquisitor is captured by Zakuul, Andronikos Revel loses his anchor. Driven to become a pirate once more, he must confront his past in order to rescue his future.

Notes: Allusion to a child’s death and some standard death imagery in this chapter

Read on Ao3!

On the other side of town from his old man’s - His. His shop. He’s really gotta start calling it that - is a graveyard.

After Revel talked to Zeika, the shop manager, and after Carl’s happily situated and figuring out exactly what’s needed to fix the Princess, he takes a walk. It’s colder than he remembers and he wishes he had a coat. But he’s either too lazy or too proud to go back to the ship to find one. So he digs his hands deep in his pockets and walks.

More than ten years have passed since the last time he was on the planet. It’s definitely being built up and he’s glad. Living and working here is absolutely not the life he would have even chosen for himself. But for some people, it’s exactly the right fit, and those folks deserve not to worry about credits.

The well-paved road eventually putters out to become a dirt one. And from that divide, Revel can see the graveyard.

He tries not to think about the frantic holomessage from Elene, Niata’s mother, sent him more than ten years ago, telling him that their colony was being attacked. The one where Niata told him that bad pirates were here and she was scared. He might not try to think about it, but he’s still got that recording backed up somewhere in his holopad. Revel’s never been able to bring himself to delete it, not when it’s the only recorded version of his daughter’s voice he’s got. He deleted all of her earlier messages, always assuming there would be another one. Fucking raiders.

The graveyard is small, maybe only fifty tombstones and monuments. In one corner, kept neat and tidy, thanks to monthly payments to a local flower shop, is Niata’s grave.

Elene wanted to be cremated and her ashes spread over an ocean. Revel took care of that, no problem, and took a trip to Manaan. But Elene didn’t have any instructions for Niata and the kid was six. She’d have no idea what she’d want. Death shouldn’t be real to a six year old.

Revel did his best. Maybe he could have cremated Niata, too, and drop off her ashes over the waterfall at the same time. But he knew his daughter. Knew that she hated being alone more than anything. What if her and her mom’s ashes got separated? The thought of Niata being alone for the rest of time sent him on a bender he barely remembers.

Instead, he brought Niata here, where she’s surrounded by people. Revel’s grandmother is even buried here. She died before he was born, but he likes to think she might have been a decent person, even if she did raise an asshole for a son.

He’s not been back to the grave in person since he buried her here. Once a year, on the anniversary of her death, the flower shop sends him a holo with whatever bouquet of flowers they put out there. Niata always liked blue flowers. Didn’t matter what type, as long as they were blue. It’s the wrong time of year, so there are no flowers on her grave right now.

He should have brought her flowers.

Revel’s of half a mind to walk back into town and grab some, but decides he better stay. Carl thinks they’re gonna be on the planet for a while, so he’ll have a chance to bring Niata flowers later.

Now that he’s standing in front of the grave, he’s not exactly sure what to do. It’s a modest tombstone, dark stone with just her name Niata Gund and the dates etched into it. Someday, years from now, he and Denravi - assuming he can rescue her from Zakuul at some point - are going to be buried here, too. Drellik can talk about grand Sith tombs all he wants, but this is what he and his girl decided.

Reaching out, he softly knocks the top of the tombstone with his knuckle. “Missing my first mate,” he says, keeping his voice quiet.

Revel stands in front of the grave, just thinking and trying not to get too deep into what ifs. What ifs are fucking dangerous, are what they are. So he pushes those fantasies away, the ones where he wonders if Niata and Denravi would have liked each other and just what sort of person his daughter would have become.

Niata would be twenty-two now if she lived through that raid. Old enough to join the crew of the Sky Princess the Second. He wonders if she’d be embarrassed of the ship’s name or secretly pleased. He decides a combination of both. Maybe loudly complain to anyone who would listen but still keep the name plate that’s on the bridge clean and polished.

Finally, when he doesn’t think he can stand the cold any longer, he brings his fingers to his lips before pressing them against Niata’s grave. “I’ll bring you flowers tomorrow.”

“Fuck, this takes me back, Andronikos,” Carl says, leaning back on the steps.

Revel takes takes a swig of his beer and nods. He’s had a little too much to drink tonight and feels like waxing nostalgic. “Drinking on the old man’s front porch steps? Like the last thirty-five years haven’t happened.”

“Oh they happened,” Carl says, patting his stomach. It’s expanded little bit over the years, but none of them are eighteen any more. “Hard to believe I’m gonna be sixty soon. Never actually thought I’d make it this long with some of the stupid shit I pulled.”

“I hear you,” Revel says. He’s fifty-three himself and there are days when he feels every single year carved into his bones.

They’ve been on Eorath for three months now. Slowest three months of his life. The holonet on the planet so rarely gets a signal that he’s given up trying. And the Princess is still dark. Holonet will be one of the last things that Carl gets around to fixing.

But he’s almost done. Another week, and the ship should be back at full force, ready to take on the Eternal Fleet again.

“Been thinking,” Carl says, running his hand through his hair. It’s finally reached the point where there’s more grey than red. It’s not a bad look, not really.

When Carl doesn’t say anything else for a bit, Revel sits up and takes notice. Carl and thinking’s never a great combination. Usually means he’s about to get into some serious trouble. Well, at least Revel’s here to protect him and bail him out if he has to. “Can’t leave it like that, Norn.”

“Shit, I know,” Carl says, looking off into the distance. “Here’s the deal. Trott’s talking about getting married.” He coughs, probably as a way to waste time. “And I’m not completely opposed to the idea.”

Revel lightly punches him on the shoulder. “Good for you,” he says with a grin. Carl’s been basically flying solo for a long time now. It’s been good to see him with Trottren these past few years. “Any time you’re ready I can marry you two love birds. Lemme know and I’ll even give you a discount on my services as wedding present.”

Carl starts to laugh. “Fuck you,” he says, holding his side. “If he and I do this - and right now I’m thinking it’s like a seventy-five percent chance - we want to do this right. A place to settle down. Kids, even.”

“So you’re telling me I’m gonna lose my engineer and my navigator?”

Carl looks down at his beer like it’s holding all the secrets of the universe. After he takes a breath, he says, “Yeah, I am. I’m ready to retire.”

Revel should have known this could happen. Carl and Trottren have been playing house these past few months, renting an apartment in town while the rest of the crew still stay on the ship. A ugly part of him is jealous. Jealous that Carl gets his happy ending when Denravi is locked away in a prison somewhere.

But another part of him thinks that maybe Carl has the right idea. They’ve made plenty of credits over the last few years, almost as much as the first Princess at her peak. It’s been a hard couple of years, though. Sharing a small ship with six other people ain’t the easiest thing in the world. And then there’s the fucking truth, the one he doesn’t ever want to admit to himself.

He’s tired.

He’s tired of raiding Eternal Fleet ships and hoping it’s the one where he finds Denravi. Tired of scourging for fuel and parts; even with plenty of credits it’s getting harder and harder to find supplies these days. Admitting that makes him feel like a fucking failure. He’s a pirate, it’s in his blood. It’s what he does. Fuck, even before he was a pirate, back in the army, he basically did the same thing. Kill people the brass wanted dead. He never asked questions. Just killed who they told him to. One of the reasons he advanced as quickly as he did.

Now? Now he wants his wife. Maybe it’s time to do a little more. Hire an information broker. Find out if she’s actually on one of these ships. And if she is, maybe find out which one. No reason he can’t do both, though. Keep raiding ships while investing credits in finding more specifics about Denravi. There’s just one loose end to tie up first.

“So Zeika’s ready to give up managing the shop,” Revel says. He takes a sip of beer and closes his eyes, wanting to make sure this is what he wants to do. He opens them again because he trusts his gut. Hasn’t always. If he had, Rilke would be dead in a ditch somewhere before the SIS spy could have betrayed his crew. But with this? Yeah, he trusts his gut. “You and Trott want to take it over?”

Carl freezes, his beer bottle halfway up to his mouth. “Wait, you serious?”

Revel nods. “You do realize that means you’ll actually have to live on this planet, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s on the way up. And there’s nowhere for me to lose at cards, so that’s definitely a plus,” Carl says. His beer finally makes its way to his mouth. “I’ll have to talk it over with Trott, but shit. This could be perfect.”

“Tell you what. You and Trott stay on the Princess until I’ve got new crew to replace you both, then you come here and take over,” Revel says. Can’t be much fairer than that. Won’t take long to get new crew, either. The Sky Princess the Second’s made a bit of a name for herself.

Carl stands up off of the porch. “I’m gonna go find Trott right now.” He takes about three steps then turns back. “Thank you, Andronikos.”

Not trusting himself to say anything, Revel nods. As Carl walks off, he brings out his holopad, wanting to start a list. There’s got to be more he can do to find Denravi. If there is, he’s gonna do it.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Captain,” Trottren says. “I can’t find a single Fleet ship that’s on it’s regular patrol.”

“Fuck,” Revel says under his breath. If all the routes have been changed, he’s gonna have to get a map of the new ones. Hopefully the underworld’s been taking notice, mapping them out. It’ll cost him a shit ton of credits to get an updated version, but what else can he do? He presses the comm button. “Carl?”

What? Carl asks from the engine room.

“We got access to the holonet yet? I got some people to reach,” Revel says, leaning back in his chair and putting one foot up on the pilot’s console. When Carl doesn’t respond, Revel adds, “Force damn you, Norn.”

There is only one me. You want to keep the ship flying or you want holonet? Make a choice.

Revel shuts off the comm. Carl will know to keep the ship flying. Hopefully they won’t miss anything big while they’ve got no comms. Three months of no news is starting to wear at him. He picks up his holopad and brings up his accounting program. If he’s gonna have to dole out for all new maps of the fleet, he needs to figure out where the credits are going to come from.

“Wait, I think I found one,” Trottren says. His voice is excited, which Revel understands completely. It’s been almost three months since they’ve raided a Fleet ship. “Sending you the coordinates.”

Sitting up and putting both feet on the floor, Revel looks over the console. They won’t even have to jump. Just fly faster than the ship for three hours. And if there’s anything Revel can do, is fly fast.

They leave the ship and there aren’t any droids to greet them. It sets Revel’s nerves on edge. Just more than a hundred Fleet ships raided and every single one of them has had a minimum of twelve droids waiting to fight them in the docking bay. And now there’s not a single one.

“This is creepy,” Carl says quietly.

“Agreed,” Revel says. If Vaylin’s finally upgraded the security on the Fleet ships, they could be facing some unknowns. Revel really doesn’t like facing unknowns. “Well, we’ve been raiding their ships for almost five years. Suppose it’s time they figured it out.” He takes a breath, wondering if he’s gonna have to rework his whole operation. “Bitta, scout ahead for us, will ya?”

“Got it, boss,” Bitta says quietly as she goes into stealth.

She disappears easily, just like Denravi used to do. He remembers the first time Denravi ever stealthed him. Felt so strange and powerful at the same time. Something he could have found himself getting lost in easily, being invisible like that.

Five minutes pass and Bitta’s not back. Now he really doesn’t like this. He’s ready to call the whole thing off when they hear Bitta yell for help. Revel doesn’t hesitate and starts to run towards her voice, the rest of the crew behind him.

The corridor door shuts behind them. But they keep running, to find Bitta locked behind a forcefield. “They’ve changed everything, boss,” Bitta says, sounding near tears. She throws her hands out in front of her and dirt and rocks shoot out of her finger tips. Guess that answers that question. Former Jedi, it is.

“Breathe, Bitta,” Revel says quietly. He stands in front of the forcefield while Yorril, his tech, starts to work on the console.

After a couple of minutes, Yorril throws their hands in the air. “This is all new programming,” they say, sounding as frustrated as they’ve ever sounded. “And it’s good. Better than I’ve ever seen Zakuul use before.”

“Shit,” Revel says, even as he’s trying to stay calm. “Okay, so they’ve finally got someone competent working over there. Had to happen eventually.” He puts his hand on Yorril’s shoulder. Softly, so Bitta can’t hear, he says, “Can you get her out?”

They nod. “It’ll just take a bit.”

Almost an hour passes before Yorril throws up their hands in victory. “Fuck, yeah!” they yell as the forcefield goes down.

Bitta immediately runs out of the room, straight into Yorril’s arms. The two kiss and Revel stands there with his mouth wide open like an idiot. He’s the captain of the ship. He’s supposed to know everything that happens on his boat. And he had absolutely no idea about Yorril and Bitta. That’s two couples now he has on his ship. Luckily he’s pretty sure there’s not going to be a third, since Iske has no interest in men and Weltar has no interest in anyone.

“Alright,” Revel says, holstering his blasters. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll need to do some more research before we hit another ship.”

He takes a step down the hall and another forcefield goes up.

Twelve hours.

Twelve hours and they’re still stuck in this damn hallway. Nothing they do make a dent in the forcefield. Not for lack of trying. A couple of hours ago, he had to physically drag Yorril away from the console to take a fucking nap.

Luckily, they all have water and rations on them. They always keep some handy, in case it takes longer than they plan to clear out a Fleet ship. And hopefully they’ll figure a way out before they use all the supplies. Because Andronikos Revel is not going to die behind a fucking forcefield.

Bitta suddenly goes still. “There are people on the ship,” she says, gripping Yorril’s hand.

Revel stands up from the floor and moves in front of the forcefield, wanting to protect his crew anyway he can. With a signal, he hushes them all, and listens. He hears footsteps coming towards them and he takes out his blasters. The second they make the mistake of dropping the forcefield, people are going to die. Nobody messes with his crew and lives.

A group appears down the hall and he squints his eyes, sure he can’t be seeing things right. Knights of Zakuul? The fuck? Apparently Revel’s pissed off enough people for them to send in the big guns. There are at least half a dozen and he’s suddenly wondering if he and the crew will get out of this after all.

He’s fought Force users before, but only behind Denravi and her lightsaber. Seven people with guns don’t stand much of a chance against six Knights. Shit. He’s not losing another crew to Force users. He can’t. He fucking can’t.

A woman marches behind the Knights and straight up to the forcefield. With a bit of a shock, Revel realizes he recognizes the woman. Hylo Visz. What the fuck is a woman like that working with Knights?

“So you’re the asshole who’s been tearing up the Fleet,” Hylo says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Pirate assholes. We should just space you. Makes the datawork a whole hell of a lot easier.”

“Leave my crew outta this,” Revel says, mirroring her posture. “They take their orders from me.”

“You willing to come quietly in return for their safety?” Hylo asks.

The crew starts muttering behind him and Revel takes a breath. He turns behind him and looks at his crew. “I’m gonna go talk our way outta this,” he says, silently promising that he will keep them all safe somehow. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Carl shakes his head. “I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I, but we don’t have much of a choice,” Revel says. They don’t, not when Hylo could just starve them out. “You all stay safe, okay?”

He walks back up to the forcefield, close enough that it almost tickles his nose. “I’ll come quietly.”

The forcefield drops and for once, Revel decides not to do anything stupid. Twenty years ago, he would have charged the second the forcefield dropped. But he’s not a kid any longer. He takes a step out and immediately they put his hands behind back, cuffing him.

Hylo takes his arm and they start walking. “You’re gonna have a little talk with the commander. She knows how to deal with pirates.”

Revel rolls his eyes at the talk. Only pirates know how to deal with other pirates. A bullet between the eyes does wonders. “You sound sure of this commander,” he says, trying to get a little more information.

“Yeah, I know all the tricks, buddy, so don’t bother trying,” Hylo says.

He shakes his head and tries to figure out a plan. He’ll get out of this somehow. He always does.

#swtor #andronikos revel #denravi hindemith #hippo writes fanfiction

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earleofsteve · 3 years

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The "Cliff Notes" version of my bullying story written on December 10, 2019

Once upon a time, there was a young man with certain physical features that made him stick out from his classmates. We shall call this young man SJ to protect his anonymity. Every day that SJ went to school, he was mercilessly mocked for these physical features. Even after school, in the neighborhood where he lived, certain neighborhood kids would mock him as well. SJ couldn't escape the mocking except for inside his own home or the homes of relatives. Needless to say, the day after day bullying abuse really wore him down and eventually took his voice away. Towards the end of the eighth grade when his hair grew to a length sufficient to cover his ears, the mocking finally stopped; but, the damage had been done. SJ was nearly non-verbal.

The high school years were not too bad for SJ. He got good grades. He was on the basketball team. He discovered the wonders of beer. He didn't date though. Not that he didn't want to. He just was unable to communicate with the fairer sex. You see, largely due to the bullying, SJ developed this thing; where, when a young woman would approach him and try to engage him in conversation his anxiety level would go through the roof and he would be unable to say anything. This inability to talk on SJ's part was often mistaken for disinterest or perhaps that SJ was just stuck-up or that he had no interest in women. None of which was true.

After high school, SJ worked in his Dad's car business for three years before deciding it wasn't really for him. Those three years were also SJ's party years before he left the car business and went off to college. In college, a couple of very nice young women tried to engage SJ in conversation; but, alas, his stupid anxiety and inability to speak got in the way again. It looked at this point like SJ was destined to be a single man for the rest of his life.

Fast forward to July of 2000 when SJ meets Al & Millie Castor at a music festival in Evart, Michigan. He then gets invited to their home in the U. P. for a Labor Day Weekend jam and SJ has the time of his life strumming along with these fabulous musicians; and, due to their encouragement, SJ even sings his very first song in front of others. Do you know how hard it is to muster the strength to sing in front of others when a person has been unable to talk for a significant portion of their life? That my friends was when the first crack was put in the shell that SJ had longed to break out all of his life.

But the story doesn't end there. On October 17, 2000 a miracle happens. God himself steps in and gives SJ his voice back. God himself helps SJ start to deal for the first time in his life with all the pain that the bullying inflicted on him. Good news isn't it? Not so fast SJ. You need to be hospitalized. God doesn't directly help people. Never has. Never will. You need to be medicated. Thus begins a very difficult, prolonged chapter of SJ's life. Some that know this story will remember SJ saying way back in October of 2000, "I don't need those doctors. I need God, my family and my friends." Those words were true then and they are still true today. Do you know what the problem is with those pills that SJ was force fed? They don't get to the root of the problem. Trauma due to bullying, loneliness, isolation. How do you fix those with a pill? Can you get Jesus in a pill? Do good friends come in a pill? Do family members that believe your October 2000 story come in a pill?

Fast forward to October 2011. SJ meets a beautiful, blue-eyed, bluegrass loving, bass playing, 'Till The End of the World Rolls Around kind of woman at the Branch St Retreat. SJ courts this lovely woman. She says she has never been courted before. Is courting old-fashioned or something? The following September, Labor Day Weekend 2012, SJ gets down on one knee and asks this wonderful woman if she would be his wife. She says yes. They get married and live happily ever after in a cabin in the pines in the hills of ... Well, actually, the cabin in the pines part of the story has not happened yet; but, hopefully soon it will.

THE END

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pocket-anon · 7 years

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The Long Way Home (10/10)

Holy cow, guys, we made it to the (not quite) end! I have so many mixed emotions about finally getting to release this chapter - excitement at getting to finally share it, extreme relief because I spent the better part of this year bemoaning the fact that this fic was never going to get done (and if it did, it wasn't going to be pretty), and sadness that it's all nearly over now. But never fear - I've been promising an epilogue, and I intend to deliver. I just want to thank you all again (and again and again) for the incredible support and enthusiasm you guys have shown this story. Your generosity has been amazing. Love and hugs.

As always, thanks to my beta, @captainstudmuffin, and to @lifeinahole27, @clockadile, and @ladyciaramiggles for their additional feedback. Additional thanks to my wonderful CSBB artists, @waiting-for-autumn and @giraffes-ride-swordfishes for providing some gorgeous artwork to accompany this fic! Links to their illustrations of certain scenes (*) will be in the text - go show them some love!

Find it on AO3. Nautical term glossary here.

Missed a chapter? Get caught up here.

Summary: After an unnaturally long life fraught with personal tragedy, Killian Jones has become known throughout the realms as the infamous Captain Hook, an opportunistic ne’er-do-well and one of the most formidable pirates to ride the waves. When he crosses paths with a mysterious young woman with no memory of who she is or how she arrived there, he recognizes the chance to claim a monetary reward that will constitute his biggest score yet. But a journey across the world to get her home leads to a series of adventures that reveal that her value lies in far more than gold and jewels. A Captain Swan Anastasia AU - sort of. (Captain Swan Enchanted Forest AU. Romance, Adventure, & Eventual Smut. Rated E.)

Warning: Brief but graphic depictions of violence, peripheral character death, and smut.

The air seizes in Killian’s lungs as invisible forces tear him from the ground and send him soaring backward. He slams into a pillar, the impact knocking his cutlass to the floor, and magical vines burst forth from the stone and bind him upright, the thick green branches wrapping around his torso and pinning his wrists while he screams in indignation. “No!”

His voice mixes with those of the King and the Queen as Emma’s parents are similarly flung backward and restrained against opposing pillars.

“David!”

“Hang on!”

Emma spins back and forth in panic, her eyes darting between each of them before she turns her attention back to the Dark One, her face written with fear and outrage. “Let them go!”

“So sorry to interrupt your lovely little reunion,” he says, strolling in with a wily grin, “but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity, you see – your parents and your new beau in the same place!” He giggles menacingly and flicks his wrist, and Killian grits his teeth as vines snake around his neck and draw tight. “I mean, look at all the wonderful leverage!”

“He is not her beau,” the King grunts, shooting Killian a cross look as he continues to struggle against his restraints.

The Dark One’s high-pitched laugh is filled with glee, and he flashes Emma an evil smirk, pressing the tips of his splayed fingers together. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I spoil the happy surprise?”

Emma’s mouth falls open, and she shares a look with Killian and then meets her father’s disbelieving stare with a guilty expression. The King gapes, too dumbfounded to even continue thrashing.

The Crocodile chuckles and saunters over to Killian. “You.” He surveys him, his features tinged with venom. “What a fortunate coincidence, you and the Princess running into one another. Now I don’t have to hunt you down separately!” He affects a comical grimace. “And breaking her memory curse with True Love’s Kiss? You restored her usefulness and delivered her back to me from the other side of the world.” He leans closer, his eyes shining dangerously. “I’d be grateful if I wasn’t so set on killing you.”

“How did I get there?” Emma demands, drawing his attention away. “To Vicarstown. Did you send me there?”

“Well, your mother’s birds didn’t carry you.” His lip curls snidely.

“Why?”

“Well, your heart is rather difficult to rip out, you know,” he says, “all that nasty light magic around it and whatnot. Besides, killing you when there was a chance you’d be useful again someday would have just been wasteful!” He shakes his head and wags a finger back and forth. “No… no, no, no. Better to just send you as far away from home as possible and condemn you to live as a penniless orphan, working in a brothel or a scullery somewhere. You finding your way back, well…” the Dark One shoots a disdainful look at Killian, whose face grows darker with every word, “that was unanticipated.” He steps back from her. “But no matter. It worked out rather well, don’t you think?”

He wanders back over to Killian and makes a show of studying him with a sneer. “You’d best cooperate, you know,” he tells Emma over his shoulder. “The first time he lost a woman he loved, he became quite the villain.” He smiles wickedly. “Losing another might make him darker than me.”

Killian lashes out against his bonds in a fit of renewed rage. “You bloody son of a bitch…” he rasps. The pressure on his neck doubles, and his words end with a strangled noise.

“Now, now,” the Demon admonishes, motioning for the vines to squeeze tighter. “Such language around your Princess.”

“I know about Milah,” Emma barks, raising her hand for him to stop. “I know you killed her.”

“He killed her,” the Dark One bites out, “when he stole her from me.”

Killian sees confusion flicker across Emma’s face, and his heart sinks.

“Ah.” The Crocodile pauses, his eyebrows lifting delightedly. “That’s right. She was my wife. I imagine he neglected to mention that.” He points a talon-like fingernail at Killian. “He helped her run away from me and our son, and it tore our family apart.” His eyes shrink into slits. “He brings nothing but ruin to the people who are foolish enough to care for him. Believe me, I’m doing you a favor.” He waves his hand, and huge black spots appear in Killian’s vision as his living noose draws even tighter.

“No!” comes Emma’s ragged scream. “Please!”

The vines relax a fraction, and Killian’s chest heaves as his world swims back into focus.

The Dark One whirls on her again, incredulous. “Really? A million skeletons in his closet, and you still want him?” He cocks his head inquisitively. “Why?”

Emma licks her lips, shooting a nervous glance at her parents. “I know he has a lot to answer for,” she says. Her eyes fall on Killian, and the emotion he sees there causes him to feel the sting of tears. “And I know he’s been angry for a long time. But he’s not the man he was. And he’s not beyond forgiveness. I’ve seen him be brave and generous and self-sacrificing. He’s a good man,” she argues, her voice on the verge of cracking. “And I love him.” She takes a deep breath and spins, fixing the Dark One with a wet and furious glare. “Now let them go.”

There’s no longer any amusement, mock or otherwise, on the Crocodile’s face, only bitterness. “You know my price,” he hisses.

The vine tightens again, and Killian knows by the Queen’s weak cry that all three of them are being strangled this time. His head pounds, his lungs burn, and darkness beings to close in on him once more.

There’s a dazzling flash of light as a magical rift splits open in the air next to Emma, and he can vaguely see her reach through and draw something out of it. The light winks away, and she’s left wielding an elaborate sword with a large red stone gleaming in the pommel. “You want it?” she asks angrily, swiping the blade through the air with a turn of her wrist and shifting into a fighting stance. “Come get it.”

The Dark One snorts. “Oh, come now. I defeated him once with a sword,” he says, nodding at Killian and conjuring a blade for himself out of thin air. “You really think you’re a match for me?”

“Considering this sword can actually kill you,” Emma snaps, “I’d say it’s at least a fairer fight.” She holds up her empty left hand. “There’s also this.” A glowing white sphere of energy rips from her fingers and strikes him dead on, and she launches forward with her sword as he stumbles back, executing a swing toward his left side.

He manages to catch her weapon with his at the last moment, his snarl barely audible over the clash of the steel. “Yes, that is a little irritating, he admits, pushing her away with a grunt.

Emma comes at him again, and their arms blur as they crisscross through the air, the blades contacting over and over in a mesmerizing flurry of strikes and parries. She dodges a blow to her right and spins left, launching another series of magical blasts on the return.

Killian feels the slight loosening of the vines around his neck and chest, but the Demon otherwise weathers Emma’s onslaught looking none the worse for wear. He straightens after her latest volley and blocks another blow, his blade catching hers near the hilt. “Is that the best you can do?” he grunts, shoving her backward again.

Emma reaches down and pulls out her dagger. “No.” She narrows her eyes and whips it in his direction.

The Dark One laughs, avoiding the little knife easily and wading in for another strike.

Killian glances down as best he can and glimpses Emma’s dagger embedded in the vine binding his hook, the blade having just skimmed the thick leather of his brace. Bloody brilliant woman. He tears what’s left of the vine with a yank, pulling his arm free and reaching up to finesse the tip of his hook beneath the length of the vine encircling his neck. The sharpened steel slices right through, and he sucks in a deep breath as the plant falls away.

Emma gives a guttural yell the likes of which he has never heard from her, anger burning in her eyes as she unleashes an even more powerful torrent of magical energy, the sustained blast actually driving the Crocodile to shield his face and retreat a few steps.

Killian winces at the blinding light, ripping away the last of the vines as quickly as he can. He drops to the floor, pulse bounding in his ears as he snags Emma’s dagger and rolls toward the hearth, his arm stretching the blade toward the purplish-black ink pooled on the worn stone.

Emma’s power is fearsome to behold, but after several long minutes, she can sustain it no longer, and the magic finally dissipates. She nearly loses her grip when the Dark One bats her feeble follow-up strike aside, his muddy brown hair now haphazard in his eyes and his features twisted with feral resentment.

“That’s quite enough, Princess,” he bellows.

He waves his free hand, and Emma utters a cry as an invisible wave catches her in the chest and flings her sideways. She crashes into one of the elaborate stained glass windows that line the west wall, and Excalibur clangs to the floor as she collapses beneath a shower of sparkling rainbow shards.

“Emma!” Her parents scream, watching with horrified expressions as the Dark One advances on their daughter’s fallen form.

“No more games,” he fumes.

Killian launches forward, wrapping his arms around the Demon’s shoulders from behind and plunging Emma’s dagger into his chest with a loud grunt. The ink-coated blade slides home, and it’s as though flesh turns to stone when the Dark One suddenly freezes like a life-sized statue.

“I agree,” Killian grits, his tone fierce and deadly in the Crocodile’s ear. He releases him and scrambles to Emma’s side, broken glass crushing beneath his boots as he kneels and gingerly brushes the shards off of her with his sleeve. “Emma? Love?” His voice betrays his fear as he gently rolls her over.

She winces a little and groans.

Her signs of life lift an enormous weight off his chest. “Thank the gods,” he breathes, tracing the side of her face reverently with his fingers. His jaw clenches at the sight of blood oozing from a jagged cut on her forehead. “Lie still, darling. It’s going to be alright.”

Wrath writhes and thunders like a tempest in his chest, and his eyes fall on Excalibur. He rises, taking up the sword and swinging it in the Dark One’s direction. “I’ve waited over a century for this,” he grinds out, stalking toward his foe. “You don’t know the number of ways I’ve dreamed of ending your miserable existence.”

The Crocodile grunts, still frozen. “Then do it,” he manages, his face locked in a nightmarish scowl.

Killian gnashes his teeth and raises the blade level with his shoulder, drawing back his elbow and preparing to ram the weapon straight into the other man’s heart an inch below Emma’s dagger. He stares down the length of the blade, momentarily eyeing the intricate engraving that covers the flat of the undulating steel with a black floral motif. One lunge. One thrust to get his revenge and end the threat to Emma forever.

Murder and revenge change you. They turn your heart dark.

I’m already a villain. My heart’s as dark as they come.

Your heart may not be as dark as you think.

His conversation with the Blue Fairy echoes into his head, followed by the whisper of Emma’s words spoken into his skin.

I love you.

After all these years, you’re still capable of good things.

Good things. He remembers her smile when he rallied his crew to go after the slavers, and the palpable hope he’d felt watching children running free across the deck of the ship that had imprisoned them suddenly resurfaces and quells the storm raging in his heart. He thinks of singing to her as they dance, of the sweet sound of her laughter, of the satisfaction of drawing her close, of the peace and contentment – elusive for so long – that he finds in cradling her sleeping form.

And something in the depths of his soul cracks.

Perhaps there’s something more valuable than gold or jewels or even revenge worth fighting for now.

“A lifetime contemplating your death,” he growls at the Crocodile. “My revenge was all I had left, and I let it turn me dark.” A wave of anguish and shame washes over him, and he turns his head toward Emma, blinking back the emotion in his eyes and taking a slow breath. “But I have something else now,” he says quietly. “Someone else. And she’s more important than my vengeance.”

He registers the surprise in those golden eyes as he steps back and whips Excalibur around sideways so the strong of the blade comes to rest at the base of the Dark One’s throat. “Leave Emma and her family alone,” he orders gravely. “From this day on they are all to be permanently protected from your interference. In exchange, I let you live.” He lifts his brow expectantly. “Do we have a deal?”

The Dark One’s eyes flit across his face, as though searching for a weak point, a bluff. “An interesting proposition, Captain,” he drawls.

Killian presses the blade more firmly into his skin, the edge dangerously close to slicing flesh. “I’m still an impatient man,” he warns. “You have five seconds to accept. Five… four…”

“Oh very well, very well!” The Crocodile rolls his eyes in disgust. “Agreed.”

A low moan reaches their ears, and Killian turns his head to see Emma trying to sit up. He lowers Excalibur and hurries over, setting the sword next to him as he drops back down and carefully buoys Emma up against his chest. “Easy, Swan.”

“Killian.” She rotates a little and throws her arms awkwardly around his shoulders, pressing the side of her face to his neck.

“You okay?” he whispers, cupping the base of her skull and winding his fingers into the mess of her hair that has long since fallen out of its braid.

She nods eagerly against him, and they both breathe grateful sighs as he closes his eyes and squeezes her tight, gratified to feel her arms firmly squeezing back. Emma reaches up to stroke the back of his head reassuringly. “Help me up.”

They struggle to their feet, with Emma reaching for Excalibur’s hilt and bringing it with them.

He eyes her wound. “Your head, love…”

She straightens with a soft groan, but flashes him a hasty smile, some encouraging color returning to her face. “Later,” she promises. She turns and waves her free hand, and the vines binding her parents disintegrate into nothingness.

The King and Queen fall away from the pillars, coughing and rubbing their necks, and Emma’s father stumbles over to her mother to make sure she’s alright.

While her parents regain their composure, Emma raises the sword aloft and releases it with a gesture. The blade hovers in mid-air, and Killian watches her raise her arms, bowing her head as determination hardens her expression. The veins bulge on her forehead, and her outstretched hands begin to tremor. Gold-white light pours from them and envelops the sword, growing brighter and brighter until it wrenches the blade into two with a great flash and the sound of rending steel. The pieces float apart, rotating lazily in the air until she poofs them away, one after the other.

The squid ink wears off and the Dark One stumbles forward just as Excalibur disappears. Emma shoots him an appraising frown as he regains his balance. “Sorry. Looks like you’re going back to the drawing board,” she tells him flatly.

The Demon’s face grows malevolent, and he yanks her dagger from his chest and tosses it aside. “At least I get a consolation prize,” he snaps, waving his hand.

Killian yells as he’s flung backward again. He crashes into the edge of the round table this time, severe pain erupting in his side and the wind leaving his lungs as he groans and struggles to brace himself upright.

The Dark One closes the distance between them. “You left me a little loophole, dearie. There’s nothing in our deal that says I can’t still kill you.”

Killian’s nostrils flare as he tries to catch his breath, every excursion of his chest wall searing like a red-hot poker. He grits his teeth in defiance. “I protected the people that matter,” he wheezes.

“Stop!” The commanding tone of Emma’s voice is enough to make even the Dark One pause and turn his head. She runs forward and positions herself in his path, shoulders rigid and head held high as she stares him down. “You will not touch him.”

“You and your parents are free to go.” The Demon flips his hand dismissively toward the door before pointing at Killian. “But this one is mine.”

“No,” she counters forcefully. “He’s mine. And you can’t have him.”

Yellowed teeth gleam as the Dark One smiles coldly. “That’s very touching,” he simpers, narrowing his eyes. “But, if you haven’t noticed, our deal only protects you and your family.”

“Yes.” Emma licks her lips. “And that includes my husband.”

The Dark One falters, his brow wrinkling, and Emma spins, grabbing Killian’s shoulders and fixing him with an earnest expression. “I know this is unconventional,” she says with a nervous little laugh, “but I’ve spent my whole life hearing about True Love.” She glances at her parents’ unreadable expressions before turning her eyes back up to him. “And I have you now, and I’m not letting you go.”

Killian reaches forward and grunts at the wrenching discomfort that shoots along his ribs when he pulls her into his arms. “This isn’t how this was supposed to happen,” he groans with an agonized chuckle. “I was going to let your parents hold my feet to the fire for a while and then win them over with my charm and dashing good looks before I asked for their blessing.”

Emma chuffs, her bright eyes growing wet as she fixes him with a lopsided smile. “Really? You had a plan?”

He does his best to smirk. “Of course I had a plan, Swan.” He re-sobers, wincing and attempting to keep his breathing even. “Since the day I met you, all I’ve wanted is to be by your side.”

She bursts into another soft little laugh and sniffles. “So what do you say?”

The words lodge themselves in his throat, and he glances anxiously at the King and Queen.

“Oh, do it already!” Emma’s mother suddenly blurts out, looking misty.

His heart leaps, and he meets the King’s eye. Emma’s father appears solemn and apprehensive, but he gives him an almost imperceptible nod at last. Killian nods back, reaching toward his breast to lift one of his chains over his head. A small silver ring with flowers flanking a dark oval stone dangles from his fingers, and his chest is tight with both pain and emotion as he holds it out to Emma. “I know it’s not fit for royalty,” he says softly, “but this belonged to Liam. Now it belongs to you.” He raises his gaze, folding the ring into her upturned palm and giving her a watery smile. “Princess… Emma…” He chuckles at how shaky he is. “Swan. Will you marry me?”

Emma cups his face in her hands, her eyes shining. “Yes. Yes, I will.”

Her kiss fills him with tearful elation, and he thinks, despite the stabbing pain in his side, he’d be happy to just live this moment over and over again for the rest of his life.

Perhaps out of curiosity or, dare it be suggested, an actual shred of respect, the Dark One waits until they pull apart to clear his throat. “If you two are quite done, allow me to ruin the moment by pointing out that you’re not married yet,” he remarks, though his tone is less insistent than before. “I can still kill him anytime between now and the wedding.”

“They don’t need a wedding.”

All heads turn toward the King, whose stony mask is softened by suspiciously red-rimmed eyes.

“As King and Queen, we can declare them married even without a ceremony,” he says calmly. “If what you said before is true and this is True Love – if he loves Emma the way I love her mother,” he arches an eyebrow at Killian, “then you can consider it done.”

Killian’s mouth falls open at the King’s words, and he turns back to Emma to see the surprise and awe he feels reflected her eyes. She throws her arms around him impulsively, and he recoils and yelps.

“Oh gods! Sorry! Sorry.” Emma jerks away, chagrined. “Here.” She hastily loops his chain over her head before reaching out and applying her hands to his injured side. They glow golden, and the most delicious warmth penetrates his skin. His breaths grow deeper and more relaxed as the pain begins to ease almost immediately.

“There will be a wedding, though,” Emma’s mother interjects, catching his eye from across the room and looking hopeful, “won’t there?”

Killian looks down at Emma. Her attention remains on his broken ribs, but he spies the dimple that appears in her cheek, and he smiles. “Yes, your Highness. I suppose there will.”

“Well, congratulations, pirate,” the Dark One snarks, looking slightly nauseated. “You’re now subject to the whims of the female sex.” He takes a step back. “Let’s hope you find it a fate worse than death,” he mutters.

Killian chuckles as Emma's magic fades, and he gazes down at her fondly and gathers her in his arms. “I’ll take my chances.” To his grim delight, the Crocodile huffs, flicking his wrist and disappearing in a swirl of thick plum-colored fog without another word.

The remaining tension leaves Emma’s shoulders as soon as the Dark One is gone, and Killian turns his attention to her face, his thumb grazing her cheekbone as he inspects the drying blood on her temple with concern. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

She rolls her eyes and erases all traces of the injury with a wave of her hand before rising up on her toes to press a soft kiss to his mouth. Her lips curl upward into a grin that matches his. “Never better.”

The King harrumphs, and they spring apart, Emma flushing pink like a rose. She grabs the crook of Killian’s arm and hauls him over to her parents, dropping into a brief curtsy. “Thank you, Papa.”

Her father’s gaze softens, and he steps forward to sweep her into a bear hug, his relief more obvious on his face now. “No, sweetheart. Thank you. You risked your life to protect us. Twice. I’m so proud of you.”

Fingers touch his arm, and Killian suddenly finds himself looking into a familiar set of green eyes when he turns toward Emma’s mother. Snow White’s face shines with unexpected warmth, and she holds out her hand. “Thank you for taking care of our daughter, Captain.”

He plants a kiss on her knuckles, and his breath catches when she suddenly pulls him into a hug of her own, her arms wrapping around his and causing emotion to bloom in his chest. “You know what it’s like to love someone,” he manages with a weak laugh, embracing the petite woman carefully. “What else could I have done?” He blinks hard when she returns him to arm’s length. “I know I’m not the man you and your husband wanted for Emma,” he admits, bowing his head and trying to swallow the heavy lump in his throat. “I’ve hurt a lot of people and been on the wrong side of good for too long.”

Snow scrutinizes him intently. “We’ve all done things we regret, Captain. And for what it’s worth, you won’t be first person in this family who’s spent time as a wanted criminal,” she replies. Her eyes dart momentarily toward Emma and the King. “Emma has always been an excellent judge of character, and she’s turned down a lot of suitors. If she chose you, you must be someone very special,” she says with a kind smile. “You’re willing to put her first, and you’re her True Love.” Snow fixes her daughter with a wistful gaze and sighs. “And that’s all we’ve ever wanted for her.”

* * *

The sound of steel on steel and the occasional enthusiastic calls from Emma and Killian to one another fill the morning air as the couple spars in the west courtyard just outside the royal living quarters, all smiles as their blades fly and flash in the sun.

From the terrace of their breakfast room above, David watches his daughter and her… new husband (the thought still makes him bristle a little) engage each other and break apart to regroup over and over again. He catches himself smiling grimly when Emma executes a daring attack on Killian’s right and nearly succeeds in throwing him off balance. She’s gotten better – much better, he thinks. He’d noticed it even during her battle with the Dark One – how much more sure and fluid her movements are, how she transitions from a block to her next strike much more instinctively, how much more effectively she guards herself.

There’s nothing for him to do but grudgingly admit that the pirate has been teaching her well – as far as swordplay goes, anyway. The King’s stomach clenches at the idea of what else the pirate has been teaching his little girl late at night away from prying eyes, and he swallows hard as he tries to put the idea out of his mind for the umpteenth time. Tensions between the two men had in fact come to a head that first evening when Emma had faltered at the idea of Killian being housed in the guest wing and – in quite possibly the most awkward conversation David can remember suffering – she’d finally confessed that she preferred to have Killian share her quarters instead. Snow had turned far more red than white but had done her best to be gracious, stammering that of course Emma would want to “spend time” with her new husband, but David had merely stared daggers at the pirate, too overwhelmed with unwanted mental images and indignation to say anything. That was two days ago, and while he’d like to think he’s managed to be civil, a cloud remains over his head.

He watches as Emma and Killian appear to agree to a rest, and he purses his lips. “Marcus?” he calls.

Hovering nearby as he usually is this time of day, the groom pokes his head into the room. “Sire?”

David narrows his eyes in Killian’s direction. “Can you have my sword taken down to the yard please?”

“David.” Still finishing her morning cup of tea at the breakfast table, Snow shoots him a warning look he knows all too well.

He does his best to look innocent. “I just feel like a little practice, honey. Maybe Emma or Hoo- Killian will indulge me.”

“Right.” She eyes him dryly. “You know if you injure him, you’ll have to answer to Emma, right?”

He comes over and steals a quick kiss. “No one’s getting hurt, I promise.” He smiles as his wife rolls her eyes, planting one more peck on her forehead before he heads for the door.

Emma looks similarly suspicious when he arrives in the courtyard asking for a match, and her eyebrows lift with dismay when Killian gamely volunteers. David doesn’t miss the look of foreboding, so like her mother’s, that she shoots her new husband, but the pirate merely grins, his posture relaxed. “No worries, Swan. I told you when we first met that I thought you’d been trained by a great swordsman.” He gestures at David. “Now I have the pleasure of proving myself right.”

She snorts.

“We’ll be fine, sweetheart,” David says firmly, accepting his favorite longsword from one of the valets with a grateful nod.

“If you hurt each other, I’m not healing either of you,” she huffs, spinning on her heel and heading inside.

The men watch her go before turning their attention back to each other.

Killian grins. “So what do you say, Your Highness?” he asks jovially. “First to disarm?”

David unsheathes his weapon and tosses the scabbard to the valet before rotating his wrist a few times to loosen it up, his face turning humorless as the steel swings like an extension of his arm. “Sounds good.”

They face each other and assume their stances, taking silent stock of the other’s posturing and subtle movements. Having already seen the pirate spar with Emma, David has a sense of what he’s up against. He knows Killian has a right to be confident, but there’s still something about the lack of tension in the man’s shoulders and the anticipatory gleam in his kohl-lined eyes that fuels David’s desire to take him down a peg.

There’s only a brief moment before he springs forward with his first attack, his sword cutting through the air and meeting Killian’s block with satisfying force, the impact vibrating up the length of the blade and buzzing his hand before he reverses direction and slices again from the left.

Killian remains purely on the defensive for the first few minutes, trading his smirk for a look of concentration, his lips folded and his brow bent. When he does begin to execute cuts of his own, his attacks are precise and perfectly-timed, and it becomes obvious to David that the pirate is actually much better than he originally anticipated. Sweat dampens his forehead and his arms grow tired, but he keeps up his offensive, pouring his frustration over having lost his daughter only to have her returned but lost to him in an entirely different way – and to a pirate, no less – into every blow.

To his credit, Killian seems to understand his need to fight, shouldering the wordless anger patiently while never giving ground.

At last, when there’s more exhaustion than resentment in his movements, David pulls back and pauses, narrowing his eyes at his new son-in-law. “Why haven’t you won yet?” he demands, chest heaving.

“Your Highness?” Killian also catches his breath while feigning ignorance almost convincingly.

David angles his head as he considers the possibilities. “You’re holding back.” He braces his free hand on his hip. “Why?”

Killian averts his eyes and shrugs. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the chance to have some real competition.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. You were sparring with Emma before this. You have to be at least a little tired.” The King squints. “Are you trying to let me win?”

Killian chuckles and arches an eyebrow. “You think a dastardly pirate would give up bragging rights over a king?”

David surveys him thoughtfully. “You’re not dastardly. Not anymore, anyway,” he says at last.

Emma’s husband lets his confident façade fall away for a rare moment, blinking at him with eyes that look almost anxious. “You really believe that?”

David sighs, recalling Killian’s heroism in the battle with the Dark One, and the ire he’s been feeling for the past few days begins to lessen as he nods. “I do.” He glances down at his sword and shakes out his arm a little. “I also believe you want to throw this match in order to get on my good side.”

“Would you fault me if I did?”

He finally cracks a smile. “I guess not,” he acquiesces. He meets Killian’s eye soberly. “You really love Emma.”

The emotion that appears on Killian’s face at the question makes his nod unnecessary. “More than my life,” he says quietly. He chuffs. “More than my ship, even.”

David frowns. “What are you planning to do with your ship, by the way?”

Killian gives him a sad smile. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know what use I’ll have for her beyond pleasure cruises now, but that’s not what she’s built for. I may give her to my crew. At least I know they’ll take care of her.”

David bobs his head, jutting his lower lip out as the seed of an idea begins to form. After a moment, he raises his sword once more. “I want you to try to disarm me,” he announces. “No going easy, just fair and square. And when you and I are done here, I have a proposal that might interest you.”

“A proposal?” Killian’s face lights up, his dimples appearing with that devilish grin of his. “I don’t know how to break it to you, mate, but I’m a happily married man now.”

David laughs in spite of himself and shakes his head as he aims a fresh cut at Killian’s midsection. “Shut up, pirate.”

* * *

The night air is filled with the chirps of frogs and crickets, the whisper of wind through thick groves of trees, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the soft slosh of the lake against the rocky shore. Emma closes her eyes as she listens, leaned up against the stone doorway leading out to her balcony and pulling her hairbrush through a section of her locks in a long-practiced rhythm. Home. Her lips tilt upward. It sounds like home.

The quiet pad of footsteps makes her turn and look over her shoulder. Killian approaches, dressed in the pale cotton shirt and trousers he’s taken to wearing at night. She smiles to herself at the half-open way he wears the shirt – not so different from the way he wears any shirt, really. She flushes. Pirate.

“You’re still awake,” she observes with a grin.

“Aye. As are you.” He slips his hand around her waist as he draws near enough to all but press her up against the doorway. “You’d best come to bed soon if you still plan on making the trip with me back to the harbor tomorrow. We leave early,” he reminds her, leaning in for a slow kiss that makes her toes curl.(*)

She hums and smiles against his lips. “Of course I’m coming. I want to see the crew again.” Her eyes flicker back and forth over his face with gentle concern. “How do you think they’re taking the news?”

He sobers a bit and pulls away to wander out to the balustrade. “Well enough. I imagine some of the men have decided to stay and help us build the new naval guard your father proposed. The ones that don’t can find positions on other crews that come through or travel to bigger ports and find opportunities there. With their share of the reward money, I imagine they’ll all be quite comfortable, at any rate.”

Emma deposits her brush on a small table just inside the doorway and follows, subconsciously turning her ring around her finger and facing him with her hip against the rail.

He glances over and takes her left hand to admire, yet again, how well the band fits. “What shall I give you at the wedding ceremony, love?” he asks, thumbing the silver. “This ring? Or would you prefer a prettier one? Something with a nicer stone, perhaps.”

“What? No,” Emma chuckles and shakes her head. “I love this stone.” She gives him a sly sideways look. “It reminds me of you.”

Killian’s eyebrow arcs, and he lifts his head, adorably perplexed. “Does it?”

“Mm-hmm.” She hums coyly and turns her eyes back to the ring. “When you first gave it to me, I thought the stone was black. That’s how it looks at a glance or in the shadows.” The corner of her mouth quirks knowingly. “But put it in the light,” she continues, triggering white light to glow from her right hand and using it to illuminate the ring, “and it shows its true color.” A rich crimson hue appears in the depths of the stone, and her smile widens as she gazes down at it fondly. “It’s not as dark as you think it is. It’s just a much deeper red than most red stones.” She hums. “It’s like carrying your heart with me.” Emma looks up at him shyly. “Does that sound silly?”

The softness of his expression –wonder and love radiating from his handsome face – makes her heart skip a beat, and though he’s kissed her hundreds of times over the last two weeks, her breathing still grows shallow as he leans in. “No, Swan,” he murmurs, his voice a little thick. “That sounds lovely and kind. Just like you.”

Her arms find their way around his neck, and he drags her to him with his hand and brace on her hips, rumbling low and happy in his chest. Their lips move in tandem, the now-familiar burn of his scruff sending a excited shiver across her skin, and the gentle slide of his tongue against hers stokes the heat gathering in the pit of her belly. Killian stops kissing her just long enough to reach down and hook his arm under her legs, and he sweeps her up off the flagstones, the lace hem of her nightgown fluttering gently in the breeze. Emma giggles as his mouth finds hers again, and she feels his dimple appear under her thumb. “Time for bed?”

“Aye.”

* * *

“You’re sure you don’t want us to come with you?” Snow lifts her eyebrows and fidgets a bit with her hands as she stands in the courtyard and watches Emma and Killian double-check the contents of their saddlebags. “We could change clothes and be ready to go in no time.”

The morning is clear and crisp, and the gentle wind that plays with their hair carries the earthy scents of spring and neutralizes the warmth of the sunlight that spills across the castle grounds.

Emma flashes her mother a patient grin and shakes her head with a subtle swish of her ponytail. “We’ll be alright,” she assures her again, tugging the heavy satchel flap down and securing it before coming over to indulge the Queen in a prolonged hug. “We won’t be gone long.”

“I know, but you just got home,” Snow sighs over her shoulder. She pulls back and holds Emma before her with a helpless smile, fondly admiring the way her daughter looks in her newest riding ensemble complete with trousers and swordbelt. She brushes an imaginary speck of dust off of Emma’s smooth black leather jerkin with dark red trim that, aside from the deep curving V-neck, is apparently very reminiscent of one of the King’s favorite coats. “Can you blame me for trying?”

Killian finishes with his bag and approaches, reaching out to pat his black and white charger on the neck in passing. “I brought her back to you safe once,” he says with a chuckle. “I promise to do so again.”

“We’ll hold you to that,” Emma’s father’s voice carries over to them. The King finishes inspecting the contents of the armored wagon that’s to accompany them, nodding his approval to the guardsman who stands by. He swings the door shut and comes to join them, wiping some trace grime off his hands. “The gold is set,” he announces. “Give your men our thanks.”

Killian grins. “Aye, I will.” His heart swells as the King holds out his hand and they grasp forearms.

“You two stay safe and come home soon,” David tells him solemnly. The crow’s feet at corners of his light blue eyes deepen ever so slightly. “I don’t know if I can get her mother to hold off on wedding planning for more than a few days.”

A quiet laugh escapes him, and Killian bobs his head.

The King turns to Emma and cups the back of her head with his hand, planting a firm kiss on her head as he draws her close. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart. We’ll see you soon.”

“I love you, Papa.” Emma hums and grins as he releases her. She tugs her jerkin straight over her white ruffled shirt and turns back toward her horse. “Time to go, Bug.” The pretty golden buckskin with black mane and matching stockings knickers in response as her mistress slides into the saddle.

Killian grins at the obvious affection between his wife and her favorite mare as he mounts beside them, getting his seat and reaching for the reins as Emma does the same.

“Try to keep your second trip together less eventful than your first,” David suggests up to them with a wry chuckle.

Killian’s eyes glint mischievously. “If you insist.” He glances over at Emma. “Ready?”

The Princess looks to the guards driving the wagon and smiles when they give her a nod. “Yeah,” she says, turning her sunny face back to him.

He sidles his horse a step closer to hers. “Then by all means, love,” he says with a wink and a tip of his head toward the castle gate, “lead the way.”

Thanks so much for reading! Ready for the epilogue? Click here!

#csbb #cs ff #cs fic #captain swan #captain wench #captain duckling #cs ef au #cs anastasia au #cs au #cs au ff #ouat ff #ouat fanfic #my writing #the long way home

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whirofinvention-blog · 5 years

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My Brief Encounter With the Sun

It has been a while since I've posted here, at least relative to the rate I would like to be posting and to the events I would like to be attending. To start, I guess I should come clean and admit I didn't attend GP Portland. By now I've drafted three separate posts about my not attending, but they all sounded self-indulgent. Instead of a dedicated post, here's the bullet points:

- I did not know anyone playing in the main event. When I started this blog, I knew two people locked in to the event, but leading up to the event they all dropped out. This is not the end of the world, but it is nice to have friends around to celebrate and commiserate with.

- My deck choice was up in the air. As I have mentioned before, I own Hardened Scales and Lantern Control. My results leading up to the GP with Scales were middling at best. Lantern on the other hand has a better track record, but underperforms against skilled opponents. Plus both are faced with the daunting amount of sideboard hate present for KCI decks right now.

-Lastly, and most importantly, social anxiety was the big roadblock. This is something I have struggled with for awhile. It is far from crippling, but it is stifling at times. I get in my own head about it. Though the other two points were factors, they probably could have been ignored. My anxiety just let them become excuses.

There were still silver linings. I had a great time at the event site with friends playing EDH, and I bought and sold a lot of cardboard.

Plus, the Friday of the GP, I registered for Oakland. Maybe that little bit of disappointment in myself was the perfect push to get me to register for Oakland.

If you're reading this, it means you probably keep up with Magic pretty frequently and are already aware that I did not top 8 the GP this past weekend. It was the most successful weekend (in fact it was pretty heartbreaking), but I had a great time. Friday night I got into Oakland pretty late so did not have time to go to the convention center. Instead I went to the home of my friend David and his partner Kayla who graciously housed me this weekend. We ate some dinner and stayed up way too late drinking, catching up and playing games of Scales versus Mono-Red Phoenix.

Saturday, we got up and made our way to the hall for what was going to be a long day. Before Round 1, I got my beautiful full-art Bolt promo as well as my not-so-beautiful Tigtone playmat and sat down for my first round. Unfortunately for me, I got paired against a pretty rough matchup to start my tournament: UB Faeries. If you have never read the card Mistbind Clique, I would suggest giving it a look cause it is a very messed up card. We went to game 3, but ultimately, the tempo power of his deck combined with his suite of removal and counters proved to strong for my robots.

Round 2 can be described pretty easily. If you are playing against TitanShift and your opponent fails to ever draw a Primeval Titan or a Scapeshift, then their deck looks pretty atrocious.

The following round was the one that really hurt. Most of it is a blur besides the last turn. My opponent was on Grixis Death's Shadow and sitting at 5 life with a few cards, two shocks, a fetch, and a Gurmag and Death's Shadow. I had three lands (2 Nexus, 1 Citadel), a Hangarback on 4 counters with and activation up, a Mox, and a Ravager on three counters at 15 life. My opponent cantrips main phase, plays a second fetch, and goes to combat swinging with both. I know that if he has a Temur Battle Rage, and I don't block the Death's Shadow, I am dead, so I immediately block the Shadow. He then goes to 1 life by fetching a shock and fetching a basic and TBR's the Shadow. I activate Hangarback and the Inkmoth and sacrifice all of my permanents besides the Welding Jar and a Thopter to the Ravager. We do the math. I have a 13/13 Ravager to his 12/12 Shadow. He tramples over for 11 and deals 5 with the Gurmag for lethal. There were two mistakes I made here. The first you may have noticed. If I was going to sac the Hangarback, why not block the Gurmag first. This one felt bad. The other was that I simply did the math wrong and thought the attack put me to 14.

This round spawned the quote of the weekend when I texted Dave: "I just punted my round 3 into the fucking sun." Unfortunately for Dave, he also made a round losing misplay this round, so we vented to each other which helped. Having a friend around can really help alleviate the anger/stress/sadness from moments like this.

Round 4 is where my tournament ended. My opponent was on Devoted Evolution. Game 1 I had a Hardened Scales and Ballista and was able to kill all his creatures easily. The other two games he assembled infinite mana and a mana dump with the first four turns. The only really relevant statistic I have is that all of the games where I resolved a Hardened Scales and was able to put a +1/+1 counter on a creature while it was out, I won easily. The deck felt extremely strong in those instances, and it won a couple games without the Enchantment. Overall, I can't be too disappointed given the amount of preparation I put into things and walked away proud of the fact that even though I scrubbed out early, I took my opponents to game 3 every time and had a nice time.

The rest of the weekend was side events which were super fun. I managed to play a couple Battlebond drafts with Dave which were great, but I want to quickly tell you about my ridiculous Ultimate Masters draft.

The draft started with me taking a Demonic Tutor and getting passed an Unholy Hunger followed by a blue card. Pick 4 I saw a Spider Spawning and went all in. By the end of the draft I had an absolutely insane U/B/g self-mill deck that's win cons were pretty much just a Spider Spawning, Rise from the Tides and a Lab Man I picked up pack 3 pick 7. Round 1 I was paired against Dave, of course, and proceeded to slowly crush his U/W Heroic deck and killed him with Lab Man in 2 quick games. Round 2 didn't go as well. I got paired against the only other competent drafter at the table who was on G/W Heroic and made a 4/4 on turn 3 both games while holding up protection for it. After the games, my opponent told me that she thought my deck was the sweetest and probably the only other good deck in the pod which was nice.

There's not much else to say about the event, except it was a ton of fun, and I am already looking forward to the next one (GPLA in March maybe?).

Before I end things, I feel obligated to talk about the bannings announcement scheduled for two weeks from now. I know most of the world will never read this, but I want to stake a claim and call my shot now.

Modern has a problem that needs to be fixed: KCI. In a typical tournament 4 of the top 8 decks being the same archetype isn't the end of the world, but KCI has been showing a dominant performance in the modern metagame for months now. No matter how many copies of Stony Silence and Rest in Peace are running around, the deck still puts up amazing results. Plus the addition of Sai has made it so some games they just attack you to death. None of this even takes into account how the deck can have 10 minute turns and is a nightmare to sit down across at your local FNM.

As I see it there are a few different permutations for possible bans and unbans that may be on the horizon.

The first, and perhaps most vocalized ban, is Ancient Stirrings. This card is probably the best card draw spell in Modern and sees play in KCI, so it seems like the logical card to target with a ban. Unfortunately, I don't think banning it would actually do too much to KCI. If it were banned, I would expect the deck to just abandon green in favor of more blue sources to take advantage of Whir of Invention. Plus, if you ban Ancient Stirrings, then you are also hurting Tron, Amulet, Hardened Scales, and Lantern/4-Color Prison. Some people might say that it is for the good of the format to take the card out of it, but I have to ask, when is it good for a format to hurt 5 different decks with one banning?

The next most likely banning in my eyes is Faithless Looting. Much like Ancient Stirrings, this card is extremely powerful and is the only other card in the running for most powerful draw spell in the format (at least in my eyes). Looting is almost never used as a fair card and has shown how strong it can be in the recent resurgence of Dredge as well as the new Arclight Phoenix decks. The only reason I write about it here is I believe you cannot ban Ancient Stirrings without also banning Looting. If you get rid of Stirrings it will make the Looting decks stronger in the format. Now, if you ban both of them, you would be hurting a huge chunk of the format. Maybe this is what WotC wants. A fairer looking field of decks in modern. Personally, I don't want to play a format where the combo decks are Storm and CoCo with the other decks all being things like GBx, UW Control and Spirits. I cannot imagine a world where they ban just Looting and not Stirrings as well.

This brings me to the card that people have been asking about banning almost as much as Stirrings. Krark-Clan Ironworks. KCI as a deck obviously couldn't exist without the card KCI. The free sacrifice outlet is powerful and maybe is too powerful for Modern. It creates the mana to cast the spells. If WotC banned KCI, I think it would be a fine decision while only impacting one deck in the format.

Still, I don't think banning KCI is the answer. The card has potential and provides a unique effect to the format, that could see other uses. Maybe people start turbo-ing out their Emrakuls or making giant Walking Ballistas with it. I don't know, but the options are there. Scrap Trawler on the other hand doesn't really seem to have the same potential and is the card I would most like to see banned. If KCI makes the mana, Scrap Trawler is the part that makes the loops actually happen. It gets you back the Spheres and Stars to draw the cards. Plus, it is hard for me to imagine this card ever doing anything other than degenerate interactions with egg-like artifacts. Just like with KCI, banning this would have no effect on the format other than hurting KCI, but I think KCI has more potential for fair things and for that reason should be left in the format.

A few other thoughts I have on the current ban list. Though at this point in time it is pretty much a meme, I do believe Stoneforge Mystic would be a safe unban. It is rare that I find myself in a game where Stoneforge Mystic would be too good. Though it is a powerful card and will assuredly see play in fair decks, modern has become a strong enough format over the past few years that I doubt it would be an issue right now.

The other unbanning I could see happening, and actually want to happen more, is Preordain. Green and Red should not have the best one-mana cantrips in modern. Blue is the card draw color and blue deserves the best cantrip. There are a few worries with unbanning Preordain, specifically blue based combo decks like Storm would become oppressive. That may happen, but I believe that has more to do with storm being a bad mechanic than Preordain being too strong for the format. Plus, I think this might be the best solution to avoid having to ban Stirrings and Looting anytime soon. Maybe this would make the format too combo-centric, but this isn't Legacy where we have Ponder and Brainstorm. Fair blue decks would play Preordain and be better off for it.

Also, they should unban Punishing Fire just to see what the fuck happens.

Well, then. See ya soon I guess. Next time I will probably write about an EDH deck.

#modern #magic #magic the gathering #modern magic #hardened scales #gpoakland

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ladlewritings · 4 years

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Pathfinder

I mentioned this story some while ago, it was unfinished at the time. Since then I completed the first draft, rewrote it, had a couple of other people read it, left it in a virtual draw somewhere at the back of my computer for about two years, then did a final copy edit and decided that now was as good a time as any to put it up for your reading gratification/disappointment.

Let me know what you think?

It had been three long years since the first astrophysicist’s alarm had sounded. In that time every resource available had been drawn upon to build mighty ships capable of carrying sufficient technical and scientific citizens, animals, plants and knowledge away from the Earth to seek somewhere to settle and terraform as a replacement home. Perhaps one which would be far enough from any asteroid belts to minimise the risk of a similarly catastrophic meteor strike to the one which currently threatened the end of existence on this planet.

Hank still wasn’t entirely sure why he’d been selected as a “Chosen One”. A geologist by profession, his main interest was in palaeontology – Precambrian for preference. It was a bit of a niche field of study, and for some reason it had removed him from his comfortable laboratory and his sedimentary rocks and placed him here amongst the intelligentsia and those with recognised special technical abilities.

There were some up-sides, of course. For one thing when the town-sized meteorite Delendis actually struck destroying an estimated 95% of life on Earth, he would no longer be there to suffer the resulting climate swings, which were estimated to last 30,000 years, and the accompanying environmental upheaval. There was also the fact that he would be heading off into the infinite blackness of Space – it was what every child dreamed of and many adults aspired to, but he wasn’t so sure it was as exciting in actuality, when the crew was 2,000 strong and he personally wouldn’t have anything to do with pressing the buttons that changed course, accelerated or slowed down “Pathfinder”, as the craft had been unimaginatively designated following a six month long world-wide brainstorm.

Another advantage that he hadn’t originally foreseen was that the average age of people picked for the mission was 23. Hank was slap bang in the middle of this demographic and couldn’t help but notice that a good percentage of the other passengers were quite attractive. He wasn’t sure that anyone in the planning consortium had thought about this, the sexual tension that these circumstances were creating would be created under these circumstances; a couple of thousand frustrated scientists, engineers and, for the most part, geeks, who weren’t generally used to hanging out with the opposite gender, let alone being stuffed into a flying box with them – even if the box itself was about the size of a large tower block, albeit one designed by someone who had spent too much alone time in a darkened room without air conditioning.

Still, Hank had always been more comfortable around the fairer sex than a lot of his contemporaries and optimistically hoped this might give him a bit of an advantage when it came to finding something to do on those long, or in fact constant nights!

The overcrowded living conditions were also leading to tensions of other sorts. On more than one occasion Hank had entered a room to be greeted with angry silences from the engineers and aerospace technicians who were attempting to get the machine ship-shape, before the planned take off in less than six days’ time.

Just now though, this was none of his concern. Hunger had visited early tonight, so he headed to the eating quarters at around seven o’clock, instead of his habitual nine. He’d always tended towards a nocturnal lifestyle and the habit had persisted, even after leaving university.

What a difference a couple of hours made! There were people from wall to wall and conversations bounced off the ceiling, almost deafening in their intensity. Hank squeezed in at the food bar and grabbed some salad and something vaguely resembling meat, then looked around for a seat, which seemed to be in short supply. He had to jostle through the crowds of bespectacled people to wedge himself unceremoniously between a thin, drawn looking guy and a woman with a long scar across her cheek, both of whom appeared uncomfortable at his incursion.

He started eating, slowly becoming aware of the conversation taking place next to him. The scar-faced woman was trying to speak quietly to a muscular man across the table, but the volume of people and conversation made this difficult. What they were talking about sounded like it should have been more confidential. Apparently, ‘One of the rocketists,’ this being slang for the actual rocket scientists, ‘was telling the flight planner that he didn’t think the materials they were using were man enough to take the strain. He said that they were better before we went all biodegradable! Apparently a thousand years ago we’d have been using carbon fibre and metal, instead of all this Plastech and Polymet garbage. It wouldn’t be so bad if we hadn’t returned all the non-recyclables into the earth, let alone the fact that it seems to have upset the tectonic stability of the planet.’ cleverly managing to argue for and against environmental sustainability at the same time.

The talker’s confidante leaned back in his chair and placed his long, sturdy hands behind his shiny head. ‘Last I heard they were worried about the lateral stabilisers. My guess would be that we’ll get into space and start spinning like a Ferris wheel. On the bright side, at least we might improve the Grav-Lock mechanisms in the process and be able to stand up without floating away.’

Hank had heard many such conversations in the two weeks since his relocation to Pathfinder, most of them were one sided put-downs of another worker’s or divisions’ attempts to fix things and keep to schedule. But the volume of complaints had been steadily increasing over the last week and everyone was getting close to breaking point.

He finished his meal and left the table, shoving his tray through the hole beside the doorway which took the dirty dishes to who knew where, to be cleaned and redeployed. As he walked out of the room he almost bumped into Maggie. ‘Hi Hank.’ She had a way of talking which twanged at his baser instincts, but he didn’t know if it was the tone of voice or the fact she managed to make a flight-suit look like a fashionable ensemble for a night on the town. It certainly didn’t help him think.

‘Hey, Maggie. How’s it going? Have they fixed that air conditioner in your room yet?’ His eyes attempted to find somewhere innocent to rest his gaze but had to give up and settled on her face.

‘No luck! On the bright side, it makes bedtime interesting when you don’t know if you’ll need to wear a fur coat or a negligée until you step into your bedroom.’ She accompanied Hank as he walked down the corridor, ‘what’s happening in the world of prehistoric beasties?’

Hank vaguely studied the back of his hand as he thought about an answer, ‘To be honest, I think the only reason I’m on this trip is to pad the numbers and give the botanists someone to ridicule.’

Maggie put her hand on Hank’s shoulder, sending a shiver down his spine, ‘I can’t imagine anyone laughing at you. I tell you what, do you want to come back to my room for a drink?’

Hank was momentarily taken aback but managed to gather his senses and form a reasoned response, rather than blurting out “really?” Which was the first thing that came to mind. ‘Yeah, I don’t seem to have a lot on until we make planetfall, which should be in about fifteen thousand years’ time.’

Maggie led the way as Hank tailed her, wondering which of the 439 decks her quarters would be on and whether she would have time to realise her offer had been a mistake before they got there. But it was only a couple of levels up and, before he knew it, he was standing in a strangely perfumed room, while Maggie went to find “something more comfortable” to wear – which in Hank’s estimation was always a bit of a misnomer.

He visually investigated the room, although there was no reason for this as pretty much every berth on the ship was identical. His eyes soon alighted on the display stretched across part of the wall opposite the bed. The screens had their own power supply and turned on as soon as you entered the room, or at least they were meant to… more often than not though you came in to find it merrily announcing current mission stats and a likely launch date to no one at all, or it’d turn itself on at three o’clock in the morning just after you’d got to sleep because of some badly timed ventilation testing in the laboratory down the corridor.

There was currently a news story playing which showed the projected date – roughly three weeks away – for the impact of Delendis into Earth. Hank stalked over to the monitor and popped out the fuse holder at the bottom left corner, the screen showed an agonised pattern of random noise before it lost its picture and became just another section of the plain matt white wall.

The sound of the door to the bathroom sliding open reminded him where he was. ‘Sorry, I might have disabled your monitor.’ Hank turned around to see what Maggie’s idea of “something more comfortable” was. She appeared to have gone for the less is more approach, the diaphanous material hung in just the right way to make Hank’s major intellectual functions temporarily abandon him for a better viewpoint, he realised his mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut, nearly severing his tongue in the process.

Maggie stood by the bed, ‘Are you planning on using that for something?’ She pointed towards his hand. Hank looked down, as if seeing the fuse and his hand for the first time. He reached back and placed it gently on the desk without removing his eyes from the sinuously seductive prospect in front of him.

Hank massaged his forehead to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating then walked towards Maggie while loosening his flight-suit. Probably not the attire he would have chosen for such circumstances, but with a choice limited to that or nothing, it was probably preferable.

The two stood in front of each other, Maggie patiently waiting, Hank struggling with the unforgiving fastenings that held the suit in place. When he had finally removed the top, he looked into her piercing and intelligent green eyes, which looked back at him with dividends. He glanced down, then up again and started to think of a polite way to suggest they might be more comfortable on the bed, ‘Well I don’t know about you but…’

Suddenly the lights went off, Maggie gasped, ‘Hey, how did you do that?’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ Hank replied, ‘probably just another power cut.’ As he finished saying this a red light started flashing in the corner of the room. It was the sort of light that suggests to the observer that its presence is not a sign of forthcoming gaiety. ‘What on Earth is that for?’

Maggie motioned towards the small piece of electronics laying on the desk, ‘It might be a good idea to plug that back in.’ Hank almost managed to pull off a casual walk over to the screen, trying not to look as worried as he felt.

After a couple of abortive attempts, the fuse slid back into its housing and the screen crackled back into life, a calm voice droned out of it “… please prepare yourself. An error has occurred. Await further instructions.” The screen showed a live shot of the Pathfinder in its entirety, lit up from below, with the night sky framing the uneven crenelated upper surface of the ship.

Her smooth face creased, ‘How can we prepare ourselves if we don’t know what’s going on?’

Hank shrugged, then moved his head closer to the screen and squinted at the ultra-high definition picture, ‘Hey, come take a look,’ he continued to inspect the night sky as he felt Maggie’s body press into his back, this close contact should have set his teeth on edge, but his mind was too busy trying to make sense of what he was looking at, ‘Is that what I think it is?’

Maggie’s eyes flashed back and forth with the small moving objects on the screen, ‘Comets? Lots of comets! You don’t think that’s why the alarm’s going off, do you?’

Hank thoughtfully scratched his chin, ‘I’m not sure but I think it might be a good idea if we go to bed,’ Maggie gave him a look which suggested that wasn’t the suggestion she was expecting, ‘for our safety,’ he added, completely failing to sound as authoritative as he was aiming for.

Maggie’s frown turned into a grin, ‘I was at those safety briefings too. They mould to your body contours when the ship’s taking off.’ Her eyes widened when she realised what Hank was suggesting.

The screen blustered back into life, flashing red and white out of time with the light in the corner of the room. “Attention. The estimated time for the impact of Delendis has been adjusted. Impact will take place at twenty-one hundred hours tonight.”

Hank and Maggie both glanced at the clock next to the screen. It read 20:23. Hank looked at Maggie with his lip curling in consternation, he was about to tell her he would go back to his room and leave her to prepare when the voice inexorably continued. “Please find your nearest launch berth and assume positions for take-off immediately. This is not a drill. Launch sequence will commence in T-minus two minutes.”

Maggie launched herself towards the bed and flicked the launch mode switch, Hank looked uncertain as to what he should do until she said, ‘What are you waiting for, get on.’ He assumed the correct position, on his side as the plaque above the bed instructed, trying to lay facing her, in as professional a manner as he could while she was wearing something which left so little to the imagination. Why he thought this necessary, when five minutes before he had been assuredly stripping off in front of her, was not something he cared to think about as he settled back feeling the odd clamminess of the biomech mattress subside wherever his skin pressed into it.

Maggie moved her head into a more comfortable position, which meant they couldn’t help but stare into each other’s eyes, ‘I didn’t even think the ship was ready yet.’

Hank reached out for her hand and squeezed it in as reassuring a manner as he could muster, in lieu of actually finding something to say which might make her feel better. The screen on the wall showed decreasing numbers, while the computer-generated voice droned through a 120 second countdown, which seemed to take forever. Eventually the last five digits elapsed then, nothing happened. Hank glanced awkwardly towards the screen, which showed 00:00. ‘Looks like you could be right…’

An ear-splitting creak thundered through the ship, followed by the sound a planet sized central heating system would make getting ready for winter. Finally, a noise like a concert hall full of radios picking up the static from the start of the Universe signalled the first Grav-Lock Impulsion engine firing, it was shortly followed by many more. The initial feeling of heaviness passed through Hank’s body and he wondered if it would get worse, just as the ship juddered off the ground with a crunch and pushed him against the padded mattress so hard that he couldn’t even turn to look towards the window.

Maggie’s hand pressed down on his, but he didn’t know if this was voluntary or because of the acceleration, he hoped it was the former. The speed of the ship seemed to constrict Hank’s lungs, it was almost unbearable and lasted, as close as he could estimate, for at least as long as the countdown to take-off had. Although there was no reduction in the ongoing acceleration of the ship there was suddenly a lurch which left Hank and Maggie floating five centimetres above the bed. Maggie huskily reminded him, ‘Don’t move yet,’ as another static crackle and an almost gentle descent back to the welcoming surface indicated that the internal Grav-Lock systems were now on-line.

‘Come on, I have to see’ she said, as she sprung off the bed towards the small semi-spherical window. She looked out, her jaw dropping at the sight of the Earth dropping vertiginously away behind them.

Hank squeezed his way in next to her and saw the inspiring sight of the planet – on which every single thing in recorded history had ever happened – drifting serenely into the starry night sky. Not far away from the big blue/green ball of everything they had ever known, a city sized rock outlined by red fire was drawing towards the planet, leaving a stream of particulate residue in its wake and preceded by many smaller meteors and meteoroids which were clustering round the larger carbonaceous motherlode.

‘Well, that’s it then. We’re off.’ The situation was affecting Hank in psychological crevices he didn’t even know he possessed, ‘No more sunny days and walks in the park, no more birds singing in the trees, no more waterfalls, no more lazy days hammering at rocks in the middle of nowhere. I’ll miss it.’

Maggie looked askance at him, ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. Get a grip on yourself, this is exciting!’

Hank shook his head and dragged himself out of the introspection. ‘The worst thing is that it’s the big ones that go first,’ Maggie gave him a quizzical glance, ‘in mass extinctions, which is what this is likely to be. It’s the megafauna and flora that go first. The Permian-Triassic extinction took out 90% of all life on Earth. Funnily enough we’re probably about the biggest thing that might survive through the radiation, re-entry firestorms, dust and debris fallout, earthquakes, hurricanes, acid rains… You get the idea!’

‘So, wouldn’t be much fun then. Makes you glad to be the most intelligent creature on the planet, or off it, in fact.’ She turned and kissed him. ‘Well, we seem to have a little free time, shall we find something useful to do with ourselves while everyone else is still panicking?’ She moved back to the bed and slid on seductively, patting the empty spot next to her, ‘Come on, before it gets cold.’

Hank stared at the retreating planet for a while longer, before turning and taking in the full glory of Maggie’s curvaceous body. ‘Ah, why not?’ He pounced across the space and landed next to her, ‘I guess we have a duty to propagate the species. After all, apart from the livestock and specimens down on the zoological decks, we Troodons are going to be the only dinosaurs that live on after Delendis wipes out all life as we know it.’

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#Fiction #Dan Ladle #Hank #Maggie #Pathfinder #Sci-Fi #Science Fiction #Space #Writing

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