#but I cannot put them in the teapot nor do I know them so | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

leviathanswingman · 3 months

Text

dear lucifer; dear diavolo

pairing: DiaLuci

rating: explicit

words: 13886

chapters: 1/1

summary:

"Diavolo,

This letter shall never reach you, as it is nothing more than a way to express these bewildering thoughts that have been plaguing my mind as of late... Diavolo, in spite of everything and even more so, in spite of myself, I seem to have fallen enamoured with you."

“Lucifer…” Diavolo started, his voice uncharacteristically soft and careful. “I don’t think I understand. Won’t you enlighten me as to why you addressed such a letter to me?” Lucifer's heart stopped in his chest. “What was your intention?”

Lucifer gets drunk and writes a love letter to Diavolo to get it all out of his system. Through a series of unfortunate events, the letter ends up getting published by Mephistopheles.

“Lucifer, would you lend me an ear for a moment?”

Simeon sat down on the couch, patting the empty space right next to him. Lucifer let out a breath but still sat down, one leg crossed over the other, keeping a good amount of space between them. The moment Simeon had invited him over to Purgatory Hall for tea he'd known that something was up.

“I suppose so. What is this about?” he asked while reaching for the teapot standing on the coffee table. “Have my brothers been causing you trouble again?” he added nonchalantly, yet the slight furrow to his brow betrayed his otherwise calm exterior.

Simeon quickly waved his hands in front of his face. “Oh no, not even in the slightest! As far as I can tell, they’ve been behaving quite well!” For a moment, he stopped talking. He pushed his hair behind his ear, lost in thought as he let his eyes wander across the teacup. “Actually, I wanted to talk about someone else, if I’m being honest.”

“And who might that be?”

“I wanted to talk to you about Lord Diavolo,” Simeon then said carefully. “There is something I wanted to confirm with you. I do apologize in advance, I know this might be a bit uncomfortable for you to talk about, but I believe it's necessary. I have been keeping an eye on you and I cannot help but worry.”

Simeon held up his teacup and Lucifer poured in tea for him, remaining silent. The fresh scent of green tea began to waft through the room.

“This is about?” he asked after a moment.

“The nature… of your relationship, would be the best way to put it, I think,” Simeon answered and was immediately met with silence, followed by another heavy sigh. Lucifer sat down his teacup and pushed his hair out of his face.

“Have my brothers put you up to this? For the love of everything unholy, how often do I have to tell them-”

“I’m sorry,” Simeon prefaced as he interrupted Lucifer. “Your brothers have no hand in this, I am here out of my own free will. I am not mocking you, nor am I trying to tease you right now. I simply worry about your wellbeing. I’ve made some observations of my own and would like to hear your thoughts on them. Will you indulge me this once?”

Simeon put down his teacup and placed one hand on Lucifer’s shoulder. When he felt the demon freeze at his touch, he quickly pulled back, placing his hand back in his own lap instead. For a second a conflicted expression clouded his handsome features. “Are you sure you don’t favour him?” he then asked without prior warning.

Lucifer looked at him with one eyebrow raised. “You want to know whether I favour Diavolo or not?” he repeated.

“Exactly.”

For a moment, he remained silent. Lucifer was considering his next words carefully. “Romantically?”

“Of course.”

Lucifer furrowed his eyebrows. “Well I certainly don’t-” he started before stopping in his tracks, apparently taking a moment to gather himself. He took another heavy breath and then gave a much more collected answer. “There is nothing for me to favour, since he is the Devildom’s crown prince. I believe my sentiments are entirely irrelevant, no matter which way you turn it.” Although his words sounded sensible enough, it was clear that they were learned and rehearsed to perfection.

Simeon tilted his head as he watched his friend. “What was that?” he asked. There was no fooling him. The way Lucifer was dodging the question was painfully apparent to him. After all, there was nobody else who knew him quite as well, and there were certain things even a fall from the heavens wouldn’t be able to change.

“What was what? That little moment right there,” he kept insisting. “If I’m not mistaken, you just did that thing you always do. You pushed something back.”

Lucifer straightened his back and stared Simeon down. “Now why would I feel compelled to do something like that?” he asked, his tone icy. There was something in his expression that made Simeon want to dig deeper. “There is nothing for me to ‘push back’.”

“Lucifer, you have never known how to deal with relationships outside of your professional life, let alone how to allow yourself to be happy and at peace.” He put down his cup of tea.

Lucifer inhaled sharply, raised one finger and opened his mouth as if to retaliate. Shortly after he closed his mouth again, taking a sip of his tea before putting down the cup.

“I don’t ever-” he started, voice furious.

“But am I wrong?” Simeon suddenly threw in. “I may not have Lord Diavolo’s gift when it comes to telling a truth from a lie, but I’d like to think I know you well enough to be able to tell regardless. Let me be frank with you. Ever since the day you met him, you have made exception after exception for that man. You bowed down before him, yet remain of equal standing despite it all. He bends over backwards to keep you by his side. It is obvious that he’s quite taken with you. What’s so scary about taking it one step further when you’re already halfway there?”

For a moment, Lucifer simply looked at him. Sure, there had been signs here and there, little behaviours Diavolo tended to show that crossed the lines of their carefully crafted boundaries. Recently, Diavolo had started to use an old voice recording of Lucifer scolding him as his new alarm. Despite himself, Lucifer had flushed at the realization that for some reason, his voice seemed to be the first thing Diavolo wanted to hear when he woke up. It was as baffling as it was infuriating.

His posture relaxed ever so slightly, his head dropped down as he ran his hands across his forehead, massaging his temples. “I shouldn't-,” he started, then quieted down for a moment, reconsidering his words. “I cannot allow myself to even entertain such sentiments, you should know that better than anyone else.” He was back to massaging his temples. Then, he continued and there was no need for Simeon to prompt him anymore. “I am aware of his…advances. One would have to be both blind and a fool to ignore them. Still, even if I wasn’t his right hand man, there would be nothing for me to pursue. He's our crown prince.”

“I think you should give him more credit than that.”

“And yet I won't,” he replied coolly. This was a sensitive topic he would prefer not to think about for longer than necessary, but Simeon just had to storm in and rip open a wound that had been carefully stitched shut. Lucifer was tired of it all. “Diavolo needs me, that is true. Perhaps, he even wishes for me to be by his side. But do not misunderstand. He doesn’t want me.”

“You think he doesn’t want you in the same way you do?”

Lucifer’s face contorted and he picked up the empty cup of tea, staring down into the leftover leaves. “If you insist on continuing this conversation I'm going to need something far stronger than this.”

Simeon threw him a concerned look. “Drowning your sorrows won't solve your problems and you know that.”

Lucifer tutted his teeth in reply and Simeon hummed. “Alright, I think I still have a few bottles of Demonus left in the fridge.”

“My Lord,” Barbatos began. “Excuse my insolence, but do you finally plan on pursuing the one you fancy?”

Diavolo almost choked on his biscuit, coughing violently. “Barbatos?!” He pounded his fist against his chest, trying to breathe again.

“It's been years, Young Master. Don't you think it's time for you to secure your match?”

Diavolo’s eyes were almost comically big, his cheeks dusted red.

“There must be a misunderstanding,” he started, laughing awkwardly. “How did you even assume that I have someone in mind for that kind of endeavour?”

“You are many things, but inconspicuous is not one of them, My Lord. You shan't keep him waiting any longer. Perhaps he will continue waiting for you, but I don't think it will be beneficial to his health.”

“Him? Who has been waiting for me? I fear I do not understand what you’re getting at, Barbatos. Please speak freely.”

Barbatos poured Diavolo a cup of coffee to prepare him for the bomb he was about to drop. He was aware that his Young Lord still hadn't caught on to his own feelings yet, but enough was enough. He had given him ample time to do so by himself. There was only so much Barbatos was willing to observe over the years. Perhaps a push was what was needed.

“Lucifer, of course,” he stated simply, a small smile on his lips. “Who else would I be referencing?”

“Lucifer?!” Diavolo repeated in disbelief. “Now, now, Barbatos. This must be a misunderstanding. You believe I fancy Lucifer?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“To a degree where I would undoubtedly approach him with romantic intent?”

“Exactly so, my liege. You may correct me if I’m wrong, but have you not been doing so already?”

A caught expression ghosted over Diavolo’s face. “How did you arrive at that conclusion, if I may wonder?” he asked quietly. “I have always believed that my intent towards Lucifer has come off as nothing but pure.”

Barbatos, who for once had agreed to sit opposite him, folded his hands and leaned forward. “Young Master, when you first met him you wouldn’t talk about anything or anybody else. Only his fall and pledge of allegiance have calmed that certain habit of yours. You talk about him like one would talk about their spouse.”

Diavolo shifted in his seat, his thumb rising to his lips. “I never intended for my actions to be interpreted in such a way.”

“Sometimes, intentions and wants are closely intertwined, even if one isn’t aware of them.”

Diavolo lifted his head and faced him. “Barbatos, I fear I will have to disagree with you on this for once.”

Barbatos sighed quietly. “Young Master. Shall I put you to a little test then? Lucifer’s personality, how would you describe it?”

“His personality?” For a moment, Diavolo seemed taken aback. He lowered his head and allowed his mind to wander. “Well, he is awe striking and dignified, a demon of true grandeur. He is gifted in both speech and action. Although he appears stoic, he does have a bleeding heart for his family. His -”

Barbatos lifted his hands before he could keep going. “ That should suffice. And his appearance?”

“I hardly see how his appearance should matter right now.”

“Young Master, please humour me.”

“Obviously, he is the most handsome man the Devildom has ever seen. Both his aura and presence are truly beautiful. But that is hardly a secret.”

Barbatos simply hummed. “Do you hear yourself, Young Master?”

Diavolo looked at him with a conflicted expression, his mouth open and eyes wide. Then, he dropped his head into his hands. “I fear I do,” he groaned after a moment. Barbatos patted his back sympathetically. “Say, what am I supposed to do now?”

RAD breaking news! Lord Diavolo’s secret brooding admirer? Anonymous letter writer urged to step forth!

Dearest Readers, the following letter has found its way into your trusty editor’s hands. It seems as if -to no one’s surprise- our very own crown prince has found himself a secret admirer. Truly, I am astonished it has taken this long for something like this to take place. After all there's no one who can hold a candle to him! Although a bit on the dramatic side, I myself cannot help being curious as to who would be this daring.

Who doesn’t love a tragic, one-sided romance?

Share your opinions, thoughts and concerns with yours truly, Mephistopheles. If you have any information about who the anonymous lovebird may be, call the RAD newspaper hotline or leave your suggestion in the bloody suggestion box.

PS: We bear no responsibility for possible injuries or deaths caused by the bloody suggestion box.

“Diavolo,

This letter shall never reach you, as it is nothing more than a way to express these bewildering thoughts that have been plaguing my mind as of late. In no way or form do I intend for this letter to reach the light of day. This remains between you and I and the horn of Demonus in my hand, for I am solely writing any of this down to clear my conscience and get rid of these daunting feelings which have taken me over. The “You” in question, of course, isn’t the real you. It is more of a concept, a supposed version of you which I will allow myself to share these sentiments with.

Diavolo, in spite of everything and even more so, in spite of myself, I seem to have fallen enamoured with you.

Of course, I am aware of how foolish a thing it is, but no effort of mine has been big enough to smother these flittish feelings at their core. Not once have I planned to burden you, yet somehow here I am.

So I will put it down in writing, just this once: I have fallen in love with you, and as much as I cannot justify it, I seem to have made up my mind already. Thick-headed as I am, there is nothing to change the fact. To think that I would display behaviours of such childish nature, how preposterous.

Falling in love puts you at a disadvantage which I cannot afford. I have always seen it this way, have I not?

All that is left to do is hide these feelings of mine until they become nothing more than a fleeting thought, a minuscule distraction perhaps. A pearl in its clam, sitting at the bottom of the ocean, barely perceived but appreciated for its beauty nonetheless.

This is nothing more than an acknowledgment of my feelings. A way to be finished with all of this, for both our greater goods. A way for me to admit what I shall never live down. A way to admit that even though your actions can be infuriating and quite often, you're a headache to be around, you have caught me in quite the predicament. For my biggest failure lies in the way my breath catches when your brilliance and charm come to show, and I find myself breathless in the face of your regality once more.

I look next to me and there you stand, a familiar shoulder pressed into mine. The warmth you radiate scorches me at my very core yet I shall never dare reach out.”

Lucifer stared at the newspaper in his hands, frozen in place. The ruckus his brothers were causing at the breakfast table had long turned into nothing more than background noise.

For a moment, there was a certain kind of tranquillity in the air, the calm before the storm, until reality sat in again and sheets of paper creased under the grip of his tense fingers. It was about that article, that ever so cursed piece of literary waste that had somehow found its way into Mephisto’s grimy hands and, inevitably, onto the front page of RAD’s newspaper.

Truthfully, Lucifer was all too familiar with the piece Mephistopheles had published. And although his memory was admittedly muddy at best, for he was currently nursing a particularly nasty hangover and was barely able to recall the events of that evening, there was no denying that those words could be anyone else’s but his own. Perhaps drinking with Simeon had been a bad idea after all.

He read the article once, read it twice, skimmed it from beginning to end and gave it a disgruntled look. Perhaps throwing it in the fireplace would do him some good. Certainly it wouldn't help resolve the issue itself, but perhaps the action would offer him some much needed relief.

After all, to put it rather plainly, it was a letter of admiration, written in a moment of weakness at Simeon’s suggestion; a foolish love letter Lucifer had carelessly crafted in a moment of self-pity, fueled by three bottles of Demonus and aggravated by his troublesome week. It was a letter he had certainly intended to write, but that never should’ve seen the light of day.

Yet here it was, black on white, in pristine print. The only blessing was that Mephistopheles had taken the time to copy the letter instead of simply scanning the original. After all, both his brothers and colleagues were more than familiar with Lucifer’s penmanship. There would've been no way of denying that he was the author.

Like this however, there was still plenty of room for damage control.

Suddenly, Lucifer felt a familiar presence leering behind him, calm and collected, yet with an undeniable underlying volatility.

“Well look at that,” the young demon said, letting out a long drawn whistle. “Looks like you're finally getting some serious competition.”

Before Lucifer could turn around, Satan had already snatched the newspaper out of his hands.

“Have I not told you to cease these sort of jokes? I have no idea what you could possibly be getting at,” Lucifer grumbled as he lifted his cup and took a big sip.

“Diavolo. In spite of everything and even more so, in spite of myself, I seem to have fallen enamoured with you,” Satan repeated, putting on an overly dramatic tone of voice. “What do you say, is Lord Diavolo the type to fall for that?”

“Ooooh Satan, what do you have there? Did I just hear Lord Diavolo and love in the same sentence? Show me, show me!” Asmodeus put his chin on Satan’s shoulder and grappled for the newspaper himself. Satan offered it to Asmo, pointing at the article in question.

“Look at what Mephistopheles just published.”

For a moment there was silence as Asmodeus read the letter carefully, glossed lips mumbling every second to third word as he scanned the letter. A smile was starting to pull at the corners of his mouth.

Lucifer felt his fingers twitching, tempted to rip the newspaper out of their hands. However, yelling at his brothers for being interested in the letter would be far too obvious now, wouldn't it? So he bit his tongue, ground his teeth and waited for Asmodeus to be done.

Shortly after, Asmo looked up from the newspaper, his big eyes shining with glee. “Oh Satan, could you even imagine?” he started, a dreamy tone to his voice as he clasped his hands together. “A partner for Lord Diavolo? They must be so lucky!! Imagine being able to pull the next Demon King! I’m almost jealous!”

At that point, Lucifer felt ever so inclined to intervene. He uncrossed his legs, placed both elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Pray tell, Asmodeus. Why would you think a letter as foolish as this one could coax Diavolo into a relationship? Let’s not pretend that such carefree writing alone would be enough to make a demon as important as Diavolo develop deeper feelings. Based on his status alone, he cannot afford to engage in such childish acts of freedom. There is a time and place for everything, and this is most certainly out of line, don’t you think so?”

“Lucifer, come on! Would it hurt for you to be at least a tiny bit more romantic? You can't tell me you haven't noticed how lonely Lord Diavolo gets. ”

“It would only create more issues for both Barbatos and me in the long run.”

“Boo! You old spoilsport! It's about love! Love!! What could be more important or exciting than that?!”

“Work,” he suggested drily. “Securing the Devildom’s position. Keeping Barbatos sane,” he added on. “Do you need more suggestions? I have plenty.”

Asmo’s mouth pulled into a small pout. “You're no fun.”

“That I have been told before. How else would things get done in this family?”

Lucifer put down his cup of coffee and smoothed down his dress shirt. A quick glance at the clock told him that it was already time to leave. “I have to go. Barbatos and Diavolo are awaiting me on some pressing matter.” He'd received a call requesting his presence shortly after he’d woken up.

Asmo waved at him. “Ask Lord Diavolo about the letter for me!”

“I will not,” Lucifer grumbled back as Satan let out a loud cackle, slapping Asmo’s shoulder in delight.

Unluckily enough, that cursed letter seemed to be intent on haunting Lucifer further throughout his day. He arrived at the Demon Lord’s castle 5 minutes prior to their appointed meeting time, as per usual. Barbatos was already waiting for him at the door, the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the halls.

“Good morning Lucifer,” he greeted.

“Barbatos. A good morning to you too. I take it you’re doing well?”

“Of course. The Young Master has already awoken, so let’s not keep him waiting for much longer. Shall we?”

Lucifer followed him to the tea room in comfortable silence. Before they entered, Barbatos stopped in his tracks, throwing him a side-glance.

“Perhaps I should warn you,” he started as he smoothed down his vest. “The Young Master has become quite taken with the idea of-”

Before he could finish his sentence, the door was pushed open with much enthusiasm. There was a big smile on Diavolo’s face as he greeted him with far too much energy considering the early hours.

“Lucifer, there you are! Come in quick! We have important things to discuss!”

Barbatos’ shoulders seemed to stiffen some more and Lucifer followed him inside, immediately suspicious. Diavolo’s little sparks of genius hardly ever promised good things.

As always, the table was already set and there were tea, coffee and amuse-bouches waiting for them. Diavolo plopped down on one of the chairs and waited for Lucifer to follow suit. Barbatos rounded the table to fill both their cups with coffee, preparing a third one for himself before allowing himself to sit down as well.

Just as Lucifer lifted the cup to his mouth, Diavolo began to lean forward, an excited smile on his face.

“So,” he began, the smile on his lips tender. “I am sure you’ve read the newest issue of RAD’s newspaper.”

Lucifer lowered his cup again, his expression wary. “I managed to catch a glimpse over my morning coffee before my brothers started to cause mayhem again. Why?”

Barbatos politely placed his hands in his lap. “Today’s breaking news were quite exciting for the Young Master,” he threw in. His face was directed towards Diavolo, but for a split second, he let his eyes stray back to Lucifer, who suddenly felt a dreadful sense of foreboding.

“Are you trying to tell me that appalling letter has caught your interest?”

Diavolo laughed gently. “That it has.”

The handle of the fine china cracked beneath Lucifer’s fingertips and Barbatos narrowed his eyes, but didn’t say another word.

“Why? It surely can’t be more than a letter filled with wishful thinking and nonsensical fantasies.”

“True as it may be, I still owe them an answer, don't you think so too?”

Lucifer shivered. “No, I do not.” He had to squash these nonsensical ideas before they evolved into something much worse. “It might as well be a ploy to isolate you. Who knows what that person's intentions are.”

Diavolo placed down his teacup. “Whether it's real or not is unimportant. Even if it's a simple ploy to assassinate me, don't you think it should still be looked into? And I believe if it were a threat against my person Barbatos would have spoken up already.”

Curses.

“That is correct,” Barbatos threw in. “I sense no evil intentions.” Interestingly enough, Lucifer thought his expression looked almost unhappy.

“That’s… a relief.”

Diavolo leaned closer towards Lucifer. “Barbatos, the newspaper please.” The butler handed it to him and Diavolo pointed at the printed letter. “Look at this line here. Don’t you think it implies I must know the author?”

Diavolo scanned the writing, his finger following each and every line until he found the one he'd been looking for. He pointed at it. Lucifer hardly wanted to read the letter a second time, yet he had no other choice.

I look next to me and there you stand, a familiar shoulder pressed into mine.

“I would hardly interpret it as a poet’s way of exercising their artistic freedom.”

“And how do you intend on finding that person?”

“Perhaps Mephistopheles knows more about it. He is the one who published it, after all.”

Mephistopheles.

Lucifer wished he could blame the demon for meddling once again. How had he gotten his grimy hands on it in the first place? Annoyingly enough, Lucifer still didn't remember much aside from getting incredibly drunk at Purgatory Hall, then stumbling home when he noticed Simeon was out cold on the couch. Once he was home, listening to Simeon’s advice and writing a letter to get everything out of his system suddenly sounded like a sensible idea. Perhaps he really should stop drinking.

“I must hear them out before letting them down kindly so they can move on. Isn't this exciting Lucifer? My first confession!”

Lucifer hated that sooner or later, someone would have to burst his bubble.

“Mephistopheles.” Lucifer was standing before his desk with crossed arms, his chin jutted out defiantly. Mephistopheles looked up at him with knit eyebrows, donning a discontent expression that he did not care to hide. With an annoyed huff, he leaned his cheek against his hand and mustered him from head to toe. “Lucifer. What gives me the displeasure?” he asked, his tone blasé.

Their interaction was just about as icy as he’d expected. After all, it was hardly a secret that they could not stand one another. Mephistopheles had hated Lucifer from the first moment he’d set eyes on him. The fact that Lucifer, disgraced as an angel, then distrusted as a demon, had somehow managed to become Diavolo's right hand man, a position Mephistopheles had been trying to secure for years, had put the last nail in the coffin. Lucifer on the other hand did not care for Mephisto’s attitude. His thoughtless devotion and almost aggressive loyalty reminded him of Michael, uncomfortably so. The fact that he had been openly volatile and borderline rude towards his brothers from the start certainly hadn't helped.

Lucifer tapped his foot impatiently. “Diavolo sends me.”

Mephistopheles immediately perked up. “Lord Diavolo? What does he need? Is my presence needed? If it is needed, then I-”

Before Mephisto could jump up from his seat, Lucifer lifted his hand in a rude manner, stopping Mephisto in his tracks.

He realized how tense his jaw was and unclenched it. “There’s no need for that. It’s about the letter you published. Diavolo wants to see the original.”

“The original? I assumed he already had a copy. It was between the documents you gave to me after all.”

So this was how he had gotten his hands on it. Lucifer had practically hand delivered the letter, served to Mephistopheles on a silver platter. Apparently his drunken self must have placed it on his stack of documents, already forgotten by morning since until this day, he did not remember any of it.

He cleared his throat. “He does not. I hardly deemed it important enough, considering how the author chose to remain anonymous.”

Mephistopheles tutted his tongue. “As expected. How arrogant of you to assume Lord Diavolo would see the issue the same way you do. I fail to comprehend how engorged your ego must be to support this sort of behaviour.”

Mephistopheles threw Lucifer a displeased glance, but he still opened the drawer at the bottom of his desk, thumbing through various documents before finally pulling out the letter.

Lucifer recognized the lettering paper almost immediately. His only saving grace was that Mephistopheles tended to avoid him like the plague and was thus unfamiliar with his writing and the stationary he preferred to use. Were it anybody else they would have recognized it straight away.

Lucifer did not thank him for his cooperation.

Mephistopheles pushed the document towards him. Before Lucifer could touch it however, he pulled it back again. “Do make sure Lord Diavolo gets it this time. I would prefer not to have you in my office a second time around,” he quipped.

“I was not the one who published an insignificant fan letter without permission,” Lucifer simply retorted.

“At least I wasn't the one who misappropriated it in the first place,” Mephistopheles bit back.

Lucifer ignored Mephisto’s last remark and left his office with nothing but a stiff goodbye. No matter how dignified Lucifer liked to present himself, his debates with Mephistopheles were unending in nature and admittedly, a bit embarrassing for either of them at their grown ages.

A few minutes into his walk back, his DDD rang and upon seeing that it was Diavolo calling, he picked up after the third ring.

There was no greeting needed. They had moved past the need for polite platitudes many decades ago. “Diavolo. Yes?”

“Mephistopheles just sent word that he gave you the letter. Do you perhaps have the time to bring it over? I would like to read it straight away.”

Inwardly, Lucifer let out a flurry of courses. Of course, Mephistopheles just had to call Diavolo so he could look good and tattle. As expected of him.

“Your opinion is important to me and you've always given me good advice,” Diavolo said slowly. “So if it won’t inconvenience you, I would like to request your presence as well.”

Originally, Lucifer had planned on getting rid of the letter, or at least doctoring with the writing, but now there was no other way out, was there?

“Haven't I already voiced my opinion on the matter? I don't see what my presence would be necessary for.”

“Lucifer,” Diavolo pleaded. “I simply wish for your presence by my side. Is that too much to ask for?”

“I suppose not, it's just…” That I do not wish to embarrass myself even further than I already have. He took an exhausted breath. “I will be there in half an hour. Do not expect me to sugarcoat my words.”

“Of course. Treat me as harshly as you see fit.” His warm laugh rang through the speaker and Lucifer had to swallow the incoming sense of dread. Wars and conflicts he could handle. Feelings however? It would be much easier if he had never gotten back in touch with them in the first place.

It didn't take him long to return to the Demon Lord’s castle. Barbatos seemed to be out on an errand, so he was greeted by a Little D that led him to one of Diavolo's chambers instead.

The door opened after a few knocks. Diavolo was lounging on his chaise longue and his expression lit up the moment he took note of Lucifer walking in. He greeted him warmly and beckoned him to step closer with a curl of his finger.

The letter, now placed in an unassuming envelope, felt like hot coal under Lucifer’s fingertips. For a moment, he considered his options. There was still time to accidentally drop it in the fireplace or fling it out of the window. For a moment, he humoured the thought. Still, that wouldn't change the fact that he had to face that there was no way out of this mess of his own doing. With gritted teeth, he had to admit his defeat.

“The letter,” he said calmly.

Diavolo sat up so he could reach out and Lucifer handed over the letter without much ado. Their hands brushed shortly.

“Are you certain about this?” he asked one last time, hoping Diavolo would return to his senses before it was too late, but the demon prince simply tilted his head and smiled. “As certain as I can be. Whoever wrote the letter did it at the perfect time.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes. “Now why would that be?”

Diavolo scratched the back of his head in a sheepish manner. “Oh, it was simply something I previously discussed with Barbatos. Pay it no mind.”

“If you say so.” For now, he chose to drop the issue. There were much more important things to worry about.

Lucifer watched Diavolo's every move as he pulled the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it carefully, smoothing over the creases before beginning to read.

Lucifer saw the way his eyebrows pulled together almost immediately.

He desperately wished for the ground to swallow him whole. Still, he stayed where he was, his feet planted firmly on the ground, his back leaning against a shelf in a false show of relaxedness.

Diavolo shifted in his seat, then tilted his head to the side. “Uhm, say Lucifer. Did you by any chance… copy the letter by hand? Did it get damaged or were there any other issues I should be aware of?”

Lucifer refused to move. He kept his eyes fixed on the top of Diavolo’s head as he crossed his arms behind his back. “I did not alter the letter in any shape or form,” he answered calmly. For a moment, he allowed his gaze to slip. His eyes met Diavolo’s. “The letter is unchanged. Mephisto will surely be willing to attest to that,” he admitted.

The demon prince was looking at him with parted lips, his eyes blown wide open. The expression on his face was a mix of shock, disbelief and a third thing Lucifer found himself unable to interpret.

There was nothing else to say. After all, lying to Diavolo would be completely and utterly useless.

He hesitated, then straightened his stance further. “If my presence isn’t needed anymore I would like to take my leave now,” he stated, his tone of voice a carefully crafted thing. Perhaps leaving him no room to discuss would be the most sensible way to go.

Diavolo did not excuse him, but Lucifer still turned around to head towards the door. Less than three steps in, he felt a presence behind him, right before a hand wrapped around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. Lucifer stared at the door in front of him and held back a sigh.

“Lucifer…” Diavolo started, his voice uncharacteristically soft and careful. “I don’t think I understand. Won’t you enlighten me as to why you addressed such a letter to me?” His heart stopped in his chest. “What was your intention?”

Lucifer turned back around, making sure to push off Diavolo’s hand that was still holding him back. “That letter…” Before he could continue, their eyes accidentally met. Diavolo looked conflicted enough for Lucifer to know that there were no options aside from damage control. Attempting to explain himself would be pointless.

That specific look was all he needed to be put back in his place. Perhaps being treated like an equal had spoiled him rotten.

“I never intended for you to read it,” he eventually settled on. The words left his lips slowly, carefully. “I would appreciate it if you could be generous enough to pay it no mind.” There was nothing left to do but respect their duties and play it down. The hopelessness of the situation was nothing new to him, so why should the confirmation he'd finally received change anything?

Diavolo pulled himself closer, his eyes an honest shade of gold as he watched him with questions in his eyes. “But doesn’t this sound like a-”

“Like a letter I wrote in a moment of inebriation? It is quite alright,” Lucifer cut in. Defensively, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and averted his gaze. “Allow me to apologize for overstepping. It was uncalled for and inappropriate.” His cheeks were burning with shame.

He nodded towards the letter. “Just throw it in the fireplace. If you don’t plan on doing it yourself you can just hand it over and I will do so in your stead.” It was an easy way out and Lucifer would have to allow Diavolo to take it. What other choice was there to make?

“Oh,” Diavolo said, biting his lip. “Of course.” With a quick flick of his wrist, he threw the letter into the fireplace and Lucifer watched the flames hungrily eating away at the page, turning its remains from white to black to ashes. Oh, he thought. So it had been that simple all along. Although he should feel relief, Lucifer found his eyes stuck to the fireplace; stuck to the graveyard where his feelings would have to remain buried.

Quietly, Diavolo began to speak and Lucifer listened to the sound of his voice without turning his head. “I trust you, Lucifer,” he said. “I appreciate your words of gratitude, but seeing as they cause discomfort, nothing will have to change.”

Strangely enough, Lucifer felt taken aback. A damp sort of pain was running through his body, and he was surprised to feel it as vividly as he did.

Nothing would have to change. It was for the better.

“Thank you,” he said through gritted teeth, the words bitter on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to chew them up and spit them out, but forced himself to swallow them down instead.

“There’s no need to thank me,” Diavolo replied blankly, his eyes set on the fireplace as well. It was an entirely absurd exchange.

They did not talk about the letter any further. Lucifer did not feel like making eye contact with Diavolo just to see that disappointed expression again.

Simeon was standing in front of the Demon Lord’s castle, the warm Devildom air caressing his cheeks and tousling his hair. He raised one hand and knocked against the heavy wood, his knuckles grazing the door hard enough he feared it would leave behind gashes.

It didn’t take long for him to be welcomed in. Barbatos seemed to still be up and about with Asmodeus and Solomon since one of the Little D’s allowed him to enter and led him through the halls until they reached another heavy door.

For a moment, he had to wait until a voice called him in and he was allowed to enter. The clacking of his heels against the marbled ground were filling the silence as he approached the Devildom’s future ruler.

“Lord Diavolo. Good evening,” he greeted harmoniously.

The demon prince was sitting at a table and there were several documents and maps spread out all over its surface. He looked up at his visitor, his eyebrows rising in surprise. It seemed like the unannounced visit had caught him by surprise. “Simeon, how have you been faring? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Simeon rubbed his hands together. “I am doing well, thank you. Solomon, Luke and Raphael have been keeping me on my toes. But I did not come here to talk about them.”

“Sit down, Simeon, sit down. What might be troubling you then?”

Simeon gingerly sat down as Diavolo attempted to move the mess on the table aside. “Well it’s a rather delicate issue. I hope you'll lend me an ear regardless. It’s about Lucifer.”

Diavolo stopped in his tracks and lifted his head. “Lucifer? What may be the issue?”

There was a knowing look on Simeon’s face. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Truthfully, I worry about his health. He’s always been one to overdo it with work and his duties, but the past week, it’s been much worse than usual. He is moody and unpredictable and I am not the only one who has noticed. Do you know if anything happened that could’ve sent him astray? I know his brothers have been behaving quite well, so I don’t think it is related to them this time around.” He allowed a beat to pass before he threw Diavolo a knowing look. “Perhaps…Excuse my bluntness, but is it possible that something happened between the two of you?”

For a moment, Diavolo remained quiet. “It saddens me to hear that he hasn't been doing well,” he said shakily, before making eye contact with Simeon again. “It truly does.”

“So something did happen. Was it about-”

“It's nothing,” Diavolo cut in, his voice suddenly quite unwelcoming. ”Even more so do I find your little act of innocence quite daring. If there’s something you want to say, then say it without restraint.”

Simeon felt a wave of exasperation rushing through his chest. “It certainly doesn't look like nothing happened,” he countered. “I think you are well aware of that.”

Diavolo raised his voice. “What did or did not happen between him and me should hardly concern you.” They hadn’t talked like this ever since Simeon first came down to the Devildom. The hostility was strange, but not unfamiliar to them. It was a quiet thing, almost imperceptible to an outsider's eye.

There was a firm look in Simeon’s eyes. “It is when I see an old friend in unnecessary pain.”

They found themselves locked in a stalemate. Diavolo was the first to give in. He dropped his palms down on the tabletop. A few sheets of paper were sent flying from the impact. “He said I should forget about the letter, so I did. Everything should be alright.”

Simeon didn't ask about the letter. There was no need. He had already known in his heart that Lucifer was the one who had written it. “And you didn't insist on talking about it further?” he asked.

“It wasn't my place to do so. Why should I have acted differently when it was what he wished for?”

“Because he is your friend who has sworn utmost loyalty to you and refuses to put either of you in a situation that could jeopardise your relationship. Tell me Lucifer would not act this way and I won't say another word.”

Diavolo didn't answer for a beat or two, then mellowed down considerably. “How could I let myself think in such ways when it took us decades to rid ourselves of the shackles of my status? My feelings, grand as they are, should be insignificant.”

“Yet they aren't. Not to you and most certainly not to him. Are you that keen to let it ruin your relationship? Do you truly want to go back to how things were?” Simeon asked bluntly, receiving him a disbelieving stare. “We both know how Lucifer gets when he sees the need to distance himself. He gets cold and impersonal and that is incredibly painful to experience.” Simeon fixed him with a sharp glare. “Excuse my bluntness, but you already know he loves you. Things have already changed. Not dealing with it will get you nowhere. Stop stringing him along for your own sake. Giving him a straight answer is the least-” Before he could finish his sentence, there was another knock on the door. Both Simeon and Diavolo turned towards the noise.

“Yes?” Diavolo asked unnecessarily. After all, there were only two people the Little D’s would invite in without a previously scheduled appointment. Barbatos was still out on a mission with Asmodeus and Solomon, so that left only one other person.

The door swung open. Lucifer was waiting in the hallway with a stack of papers in hand. His hair looked just as perfect as it always did, making Diavolo wish he could run his hand through it just once more, allowing his fingers to wander through the silky strands, his palm brushing over Lucifer’s forehead with the utmost care. The RAD uniform he wore was ironed to perfection, without so much as a speck of dust to be seen. In spite of his flawless appearance, there were heavy bags under his eyes. His gaze was a cold, detached thing that he hadn't worn out in decades.

Diavolo swallowed once, his eyes rushing over to Simeon, who fixed him with a solemn expression.

When Lucifer caught sight of the angel, he stopped in his tracks.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked warily, his hand still on the door handle.

Simeon stood up and shook his head. “Not at all. Thank you for the talk, Lord Diavolo. I hope you will consider my words of advice.” He threw Lucifer a quick glance and nodded shortly before he left.

As soon as he was gone, the atmosphere turned awkward.

“Lucifer,” Diavolo started carefully. He cleared his throat. “What may I help you with?”

For a moment, Lucifer mustered him. “I was planning to deliver a few documents.” A beat passed. He prepared to put them on the table, but when his eyes wandered downwards, he frowned. “Now what happened here? Barbatos leaves you to your own devices and you decide to throw the castle into disarray?”

He surveyed the mess and began to shuffle a few stray papers around in an attempt at creating at least some semblance of order. “What did Simeon want from you?” he asked while he kept sorting, his eyes fixed on the documents.

Diavolo motioned for him to come closer. When Lucifer remained in place, still busying himself with sorting the documents, Diavolo sighed. He felt a twinge of regret pulling at his conscience. He knew that somehow, he had to fix what he had damaged. Simeon had been right after all. They wouldn't get out of talking about what passed between them if he wished to save their relationship.

Slowly, he stood up and walked over to Lucifer. When he tried to put his hand on his shoulder, Lucifer pulled himself back just enough to avoid the touch. Rejection was a cold sword twisting in Diavolo’s gut.

“Forget it, it’s not like it’s any of my business. There is no reason for you to tell me anything.”

Diavolo felt desperate to keep the conversation going. “He was simply giving me a piece of advice. There is no need to worry.”

Lucifer threw him a cold look. “Why would I be worried?” Finally, he handed over the stack of documents he'd been carrying with him. “Do Barbatos a favour and file them away appropriately. That would be all. Have a good night, Diavolo.”

And just like that, Diavolo watched Lucifer’s backside as he exited the room, one last hand raised to wave goodbye. The words he had left him with stung like fresh pearls of water dripping over fresh wounds. Lucifer hadn't truly looked him in the eyes even once.

He had to fix this.

Lucifer was sitting at his desk with closed eyes, his heavy head cradled in his hands. It was difficult to tell whether what he was doing was an act of self-punishment or his newest attempt at repentance.

All he knew was that every single cell of his body was screaming for the comfort of sleep. But he couldn’t. His mind wouldn’t allow him to.

Today’s trip to the Demon Lord’s castle had been enough to unravel his carefully constructed restraints all over again.

Something had been in Diavolo’s eyes tonight. Lucifer wasn't enough of a fool to call it sadness, but it couldn't be too far off from it. All things considered, he couldn’t allow himself the luxury to be openly cross with him and let it tarnish their relationship even further. For once, he found himself unable to turn off his feelings or push them to the side for later consideration. He rubbed his temples and closed his eyes for the shortest of moments.

When he opened them again, something felt off. It was as if the world was blurring around the edges, the details losing clarity when he tried to look at them for too long. All colours seemed brighter, but the noise of the House sounded much duller than usual.

This must be a dream, Lucifer found himself thinking. He must’ve fallen asleep after all. Ever since Solomon had tinkered around with the dream world, jumping from dream to dream without much consideration of what it may cause, more vivid and sometimes even shared dreams had become somewhat usual. Leave it to that pesky sorcerer to send the Devildom's ley lines into disarray.

Suddenly, there was a voice next to his ear, deep and smooth. “Did I hurt you with my actions?” Diavolo was suddenly standing behind him, his eyes big and guilt-ridden, his hand held high enough to take hold of Lucifer’s shoulder if he so wished to. Still, his hand remained halfway lifted, reluctant to connect.

Lucifer let out a sigh. So not even his dreams were kind enough to spare him. At least the dream world seemed to dull his feelings enough to soothe his bleeding heart. “Why would you concern yourself with that?” he asked, slowly standing up to face the demon prince.

Finally, Diavolo placed his hand on Lucifer’s shoulder. “Because it was never my intention to cause you grief,” he admitted quietly.

“And yet you continue to do so,” Lucifer replied without hesitation. It was easier to be truthful when their entire relationship wasn't at stake. “However, it would be ridiculous of me to hold you accountable for my own unrequited desires.” He lifted his head and, knowing it was a dream, smiled reluctantly. “It was I who acted like a fool.” For once, he allowed himself to be soft, allowed his heart to beat quickly despite the emergency band-aid he had forced himself to plaster across it. “There was no need for change, yet my letter caused all sorts of unrest.”

Diavolo took his hands and held them gently in his own. Lucifer couldn’t help but find it cruel. Still, he didn’t ask to be released. The sensation was nice enough and more so, not real. The closeness they were maintaining was unattainable in real life. Perhaps it was time to wake up again before the dream could progress further. Dreaming would only get him so far.

He closed his eyes and breathed out. Diavolo’s hands felt warm against his skin. Slowly, the world started to blur at the edges again. He was ready to go.

“Wait.” Diavolo suddenly whispered as he squeezed Lucifer’s right hand. “Please stay,” he added. “Just for a moment longer. I have missed you dearly.”

Lucifer mustered his face. Diavolo’s symmetrical bone structure, his regal nose, his golden eyes, the dimples that only showed whenever he laughed; his mind seemed to have replicated them all perfectly. He allowed it, lifted his hand and even let his thumb swipe across his soft cheek.

“What is it?” he asked as he mustered Diavolo’s face. Even in his dreams, it was hard to face him when rejection was still a leaking wound.

Diavolo closed his eyes and sighed. “Your touch, it melts me at my core.”

Lucifer felt his heart rate accelerate.

The world seemed to blur at the edges once more. Now, they were standing opposite one another. Quietly, Diavolo placed Lucifer’s letter on the table between them and slid it over towards him. “I did read it from beginning to finish this time around. Will you be so kind and hear me out?” He tipped his head to the side, an apologetic smile on his face.

Lucifer fixed him with a composed gaze, keeping quiet for a moment. In the end, he still couldn’t say no. He ran his finger over the unharmed paper.

“I already told you, there’s no need to discuss this any further and you agreed. Your answer was quite clear. Why can’t we let bygones be bygones?”

“Because I do not wish to lose you.” Diavolo lifted one hand to Lucifer’s face, brushing it across his cheekbone, then up to his forehead and into his hair until he was carefully pushing it out of his eyes. “No matter what you say, I think you need me to acknowledge this. Please hear me out one more time.”

Slowly, he was leaning closer and his nose brushed over Lucifer’s cheek, his lips a breath away from leaving a feather-light peck on Lucifer's lips. Diavolo’s voice whispered a string of words he was unable to make out against his skin.

Lucifer awoke with a startle, his mind uncertain and his body bothered.

Solomon and those cursed ley lines.

“Big bro. There’s a letter for you.”

Lucifer raised his head and put down his cup of coffee, his mind split between his last talk with Diavolo and the dream that had continued to haunt him throughout the night. “Hand it over then.” It was the middle of the month. There were neither bills nor other documents to be expected, so it had to be something personal.

“Tell me where you put Baby and I’ll think about forkin’ it over,” Mammon tried to bargain.

Not even a beat passed. “No. Did you believe I would simply agree? What a foolish suggestion.” Lucifer let his eyes travel through the room. If he were Mammon, where would he put the letter?

There. With a quick movement, he lunged forward, trying to grab Mammon by his lapels. When he dodged, Lucifer saw the opening he’d known his action would create and successfully managed to pull the letter out of the back of Mammon’s waistband. “You’ll have to wake up earlier if you plan to outdo me.”

Mammon spun back around, his hands on his back. “Hey! Unfair! Give it back!”

“Why would I do that now? It’s addressed to me, is it not? Legally, you have no claim to it.”

“What’s all this ruckus about?” Asmodeus asked as he walked into the living room. He was wearing a lavish pink robe and the fabric rustled expensively as he approached. He let out a big yawn and stretched his back with a satisfied sigh. “You really had to ruin my beauty sleep with all of that pesky noise. Will no one apologize to little old me?” Despite his words, Asmodeus seemed rather chipper.

He was leaning his arms, one was folded over the other, against the backside of the couch and tilted his head curiously. “Oh! Lucifer, is that a hand-written letter? Who is it from, a secret admirer maybe?” His voice brightened with excitement. “Oh, oh! First Diavolo, and now this! Maybe it’s your turn! Do you think Barbatos might be next? Now wouldn’t that be darling!”

Mammon swung his legs over the back of the couch, landing safely as the sofa’s spring core let out a pitiful creak. “Are you coo-coo? Who would go after Barbatos?”

Asmodeus tapped his chin and angled his head. “I would,” he said without hesitation.

Mammon pulled a face and threw his brother an annoyed look. “Well, you’re weird, so… doesn't count.”

Asmo returned the look with a shocked expression. “Are you trying to tell me you wouldn’t?! It’s Barbatos we’re talking about here!”

“Exactly! The guy freaks me out!”

“And?”

“What and?!”

“And if you two won't shut up I will throw you out of this room before you even have the chance to take a single breath. Understood?” All it took was an unimpressed look from Lucifer to get them to quiet down again.

Asmo walked around the couch, lifting his skirts as he sat down next to Lucifer. Carefully, he folded his hands in his lap. “It wouldn’t hurt to indulge us from time to time, you know?” he complained light-heartedly.

“I do believe that would in fact hurt my health and sanity,” Lucifer countered as he retrieved his letter opener and cut the letter open with a quick flick of the wrist. There were several pages of paper inside, made of the finest material and sprinkled with a familiar eau de cologne.

Lucifer shuffled through them, then brushed his thumb over the first page. The words were hard to miss as they were written in crimson ink.

“Do you know who it’s from?” Asmo whispered curiously, his eyes big and cheeks pink.

Lucifer knew exactly who wrote the letter. He was intimately acquainted with the penmanship and lettering, yet it made no sense regardless. There were no words left to say between them, so why would he now decide to write a letter? To reject him in writing as well?

“I have an inkling,” he muttered as he began to read the letter, his eyebrows creased.

For a moment, it was quiet. Mammon was playing around with a coin, flipping it in the air from time to time to fight his boredom. Asmodeus was leaning closer towards Lucifer, his expression curious. He was close enough to read the letter with him, so he did. To put it more correctly, he skimmed through the letter, desperate to read the juicy parts before Lucifer could get there.

All of a sudden, Asmodeus squealed. Lucifer looked up at him in alarm and flipped the letter over to hide the writing. His little brother had both hands slapped over his mouth.

“Oh my god,” he whispered before throwing both hands on top of Lucifer’s shoulders, shaking his older brother ever so slightly. “Oh my god!!”

Lucifer quickly pushed his hands off his shoulders. “What made you think you could infringe on my privacy and get away unscathed,” he growled. “Reading my letters, really Asmo?”

The threat went straight over Asmo’s head. “Of course I did, it was right there in front of my nose! I'm curious by nature, you know that! But nevermind that! The letter, it’s a-”

Lucifer lifted his pointer in warning. “One more word, Asmodeus.”

Mammon watched them from the side and pocketed his coin. “Uh oh, he pulled out the government name, dude… better skedaddle…”

When Asmo seemed to remain blissfully unaware of the danger he was putting himself in, Mammon threw his head back with a groan and grabbed him by the collar. Asmo let out an undignified squawk when he was pulled away with little care for his sensibilities. Lucifer could hear the beginning of a fight from further away. For now, he did not consider it his problem. Both Asmo and Mammon could stand their ground perfectly fine by themselves.

Lucifer returned his attention to the problem at hand: The letter Diavolo had addressed to him for unknown reasons.

Quietly, he began to read it.

Dear Lucifer,

In spite of all difficulties, your letter has reached me. I have to thank you for taking the time to put your feelings down on paper, and even more so, for your patience. I apologize for the time it took me to formulate my response, for I have been foolishly conflicted.

Truthfully, it took the intervention of a friend to make me return to my senses. Now, I am more certain than I have ever been. Hopefully, you will accept my sincerity.

First of all, I would like to apologize: for inconveniencing you, but more than that, for hurting your pride. It was never my intention. I would bend at the waist and grovel in front of your feet if only that could bring me your forgiveness.

In the meantime, I shall offer my honesty as atonement and hope that my words will suffice to reach your soul.

Lucifer, the first time I saw you, your beauty and grace were so mesmerising that for a moment, I found myself entirely out of breath. When I stood up from my seat, robbed of my senses, you only looked down on me from the tip of your finely shaped nose. The words you directed towards me did not even register for I could not fathom the existence of a man who was able to redefine my understanding of perfection in the span of mere moments. You were righteous and proper, your existence so blinding I had to avert my eyes in exhilarating shame.

Throughout the years, we have built and nurtured a sort of companionship and trust I have never been able to experience before. I never thought it strange how close we had become and how difficult it was for me to say no to your every request. And when finally, you started to let down your guard around me, I assumed my feelings were quite natural. I made it a habit to make memories with you; I started to keep recordings of your voice and pictures no one aside from me would ever know about. The thought of being special was invigorating, I thrived knowing I was the only one allowed to pull you so close.

My life without you is something I do not dare imagine even in my darkest hours.

When I find myself in need, your unshakeable hand is always by my side, firmly planted onto my shoulder, giving me safety and reassurance.

Despite the want that filled my chest whenever I was near you, I always assumed this would have to be enough for us.

Lately, I have found myself forced to face reality. My feelings for you have long passed the boundaries of friendship. That is a fact I cannot afford to ignore anymore. The repercussions of my foolish actions, led by a fear of change, have started to hurt you. Sometimes, I catch myself thinking that I have already ruined everything with my refusal to act upon what we have been dancing around for years.

Your touch, it melts me at my core. I believe I have told you so in a dream. Oftentimes, I find myself staring at the fine bone of your overworked wrist and wonder, would my hand break it? Or would you break mine in return? I do not believe I would mind if you did.

Lucifer, if you will allow me to do so, I will cherish you more than anyone would ever dare to.

Please tell me, have I waited too long? Is all hope lost? Or can I allow myself to dream of a future together?

Yours truly and entirely,

Diavolo

It made no sense. For once, Lucifer found himself at a loss for words. Although the proof was right there in his hands, he refused to believe what he was reading. These were words he’d heard from Diavolo before, but seeing them put together in red ink, so intricate and careful, painted an entirely new picture.

Thoughtlessly, Lucifer stormed towards the entrance, letter still in hand, ready to make his way to the Demon Lord’s Castle once again. When he ripped the door open, he had to take a stumbling step back. There was a familiar face waiting for him, right on his doorstep.

Diavolo was looking at him, then looking down at the letter in his hand. Lucifer pulled him in by the collar and the front door fell shut behind them with a loud bang. In the distance, he could hear his brothers scurrying away like rats afraid to be caught by the house cat.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lucifer hissed through gritted teeth as soon as they were in the privacy of his home. Perhaps he’d finally lost it after all.

“Ah, so you’ve received it,” Diavolo chuckled quietly. ”I see you are upset.”

Lucifer took one step closer as he released his collar. The anger behind his eyes was fiery and wet. “I am upset, as you have put it, because I do not know what to do with you. May I repeat that it was your choice to keep things as they were? I was preparing to be okay with that.”

It was rare for Lucifer to lose his temper around him, so Diavolo knew to be cautious.

He lowered his gaze. “It was a mistake on my part. I was unaware how much my feelings had already bled into our every interaction. I was so used to you being by my side that the nature of my feelings blindsided me. I thought it would be better to have you by my side as a friend than lose you entirely.”

He grabbed Lucifer's hand and pulled it close to his chest. “Please, listen to the way my heart beats for you. Would it lie?”

Although he had half the mind to pull his hand away in anger, he allowed Diavolo to keep holding it for the moment. “The letter,” he said slowly. “What were your intentions?” His hand formed a fist beneath Diavolo’s warm hands and his expression remained cautious.

Slowly, Diavolo lifted Lucifer's hand to his lips and placed a chaste kiss against his knuckles. “Normally, I may not be prone to nerves, but the prospect of losing you made me act quite uncouth. As soon as I regained my senses I knew I had to make my feelings known. If you will have me, I will repeat them to you each and every day, as often as you need so you can believe my words.”

“There is no need for you to do that,” Lucifer said quietly. The tips of his ears were tinted red. “Stop it.”

Diavolo reluctantly let go of his hand. “Then what is it you want?”

Lucifer felt conflicted. When he furrowed his brows, Diavolo pressed his thumb against the crease between his brows, smoothing it over. “What do you wish for?” he repeated.

“My opinion shouldn't matter.”

“Yet it does to me.”

Lucifer let out a sigh. “Yesterday's dream,” he started. “I had an inkling you were there too. Your letter… confirms that suspicion.”

Diavolo nodded slowly. “It was not my intention to intrude. Truthfully, I only realized we were sharing it halfway through,” he admitted sheepishly. “Still, everything I said remains true. Your letter, it showed up for you as well, didn't it? Did you know I revived it from the ashes after you left?”

A surprised expression ran over Lucifer's face. “Why would you-?”

“Because despite my actions, your words shook me at my very core. I did not wish to let them disappear. Barbatos thought me a fool for it all.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, he scolded me throughly. I cannot blame him for it.”

Lucifer let out a deep sigh and pushed his hair out of his face. For a moment, he considered his options. “This is no topic to discuss in the hallway. We should take this to my chambers,” he finally settled on.

Diavolo flushed a darker colour. “Your chambers?! Well, of course, I suppose-”

By now, the anger had disappeared from Lucifer's features. He held up one hand. “Don't misunderstand. I don't wish for my brothers to eavesdrop,” he explained quickly.

“Oh, yes. Naturally!”

Lucifer took a hold of Diavolo's wrist, hidden between the frames of their bodies. If anyone were to watch them, it would simply look as if they were walking a bit too closely next to one another. Although he still seemed undecided, the stiffness had disappeared from the line of his shoulders.

They made their way upstairs and Lucifer threw a quick glance in the direction of one of his brothers’ rooms. A door was quietly pulled shut and he let out an annoyed huff.

“They are quite curious about your private life, aren't they?” Diavolo mused.

Lucifer shook his head. “They are too nosy for their own good.”

He led Diavolo to his room and pulled the door shut behind them. His back was turned towards the door when Diavolo stepped into his space. He placed one hand against the door and leaned closer. “Where were we?” he asked, his voice low against Lucifer's neck.

“We were negotiating, were we not?” Lucifer replied.

“Of course,” Diavolo mumbled. “I have half the mind to offer to grovel at your feet, if that will earn me your forgiveness.”

“There is no need for that,” Lucifer answered, knowing that Diavolo might not shy away from actually doing so.

“Then what will it take for you to accept me?” he asked. Diavolo let one hand come to rest against Lucifer's waist as he buried his face in the crook of his neck. His breath tickled against the sensitive skin. “Please.”

“We shouldn't lose ourselves,” Lucifer mumbled.

“But are we not on the same page? Just say the word and I will be yours.”

He wrapped his arm tighter around his core, pulling himself flush against his body.

“This is impossible. You have duties you cannot walk away from. I should know my place.” Despite his words, Lucifer did not pull back. He knew putting distance between them was detrimental, yet the touch felt too good to deny.

“Is it so wrong to want you by my side? I have had my eyes on you ever since our first chess match.”

Lucifer tilted his neck further back.“Your father wouldn't be pleased to know you have set your mind on courting a former angel. You will have to marry someday.”

Diavolo lifted his hand and pushed Lucifer's hair out of his face, letting his palm brush over his forehead. “My father should be pleased that I chose to court one of the most feared demons of the entire realm. There is no one aside from you that I desire. If it is marriage you worry about, then I will vow to bear responsibility.”

Lucifer flushed red, astonished by this answer he hadn't expected. “That is not what I was- Have you lost your mind?!”

Diavolo ran his hand through the soft tresses of his hair, catching a whitening strand between his fingertips. “You would make a fine husband. There would be no soul who wouldn't be jealous of me,” he murmured.

“Diavolo! That's quite enough!” He lifted his hand and placed it against Diavolo's cheek. “How can you be so certain about this?” he asked as he looked him in the eye, his eyebrows pulled together in question. “You will grow to dislike it.”

“Shall we put it to the test then?” Diavolo asked, his eyes set on Lucifer's. The air was heavy around them. “Shall we?” he repeated more quietly. “I promise you won’t get rid of me that easily.” A dejected smile appeared on his face. “Unless you ask me to step away, of course. Then, I will have to oblige.”

Lucifer slid his free hand around the back of Diavolo's neck, his palm curled over his nape, and slowly pulled closer. He did not break eye contact, simply tilted his head and considered the demon in front of him. Carefully, he closed his eyes as he crossed the distance between them. Diavolo followed suit, his chest flush against Lucifer's as their lips met. It was a soft and quiet thing. Diavolo made a small noise as Lucifer moved his lips against his own, angling his head ever so slightly. “I won’t ask for such a thing,” he admitted between breaths.

Lucifer found himself pinned against the door by Diavolo's sturdy body. His hand was travelling down, brushing past reliable shoulders, discovering the taut muscle hidden beneath his uniform. Diavolo let out a forlorn sigh as his mouth strayed off course, leaving Lucifer open mouthed as his lips pressed soft kisses against the corner of his mouth, exploring the sharpness of his jaw, the small hint of skin that his dress shirt allowed to be exposed.

“You are so beautiful,” Diavolo mumbled against his skin and Lucifer shivered at the sensation. “How could I grow to dislike you even in the slightest.”

The demon prince sucked at the skin experimentally, his purpose quite clear.

“Don't think I don't know what you’re trying to achieve,” Lucifer breathed out. “Have you always been this possessive?”

“When it comes to you I try not to be. Do you want me to stop?”

A slight pause for consideration. “No, you can go ahead.”

He could feel Diavolo's smile against his skin, moments before he pulled the skin through his teeth, gently sucking a dark mark against his neck.

Lucifer allowed a shuddery breath to break free.

“Are you absolutely certain about this?”

“As certain as you will allow me to be. If you so choose to accept my sincerity.” His hands were wandering, discovering tight muscles and tender skin until coming to rest against the sides of Lucifer's neck. Slowly, he cupped his cheeks. “Lucifer, do you like me?” All things considered it was a surprisingly innocent question.

“Has my letter not been enough?”

“I want to hear it from your mouth. Please, I implore you.”

It was strangely frightening to have his soul laid bare, exposed to the privacy of his own four walls. “Diavolo.” He leaned closer, allowing his lips to ghost along his ear. Lucifer shut his eyes and let out a deep breath. “Although I shouldn't, I long for you,” he admitted, his voice quiet enough to be not much more than a whisper.

Diavolo pulled back, his eyes warm like honey as he studied Lucifer's face. “As do I,” he breathed out, astonished. “Now where does this leave us?” He played the ball right back into Lucifer's hands.

“What can we afford to be?”

“Boyfriends?” Diavolo asked hopefully, but felt his heart drop when Lucifer pulled a face. “Have I misunderstood?”

Lucifer shook his head. “It's not that, just… that term. How old do you believe us to be?”

“Partners, then? Or lovers, perhaps? Youthful Fun 101 certainly will have more suggestions if those displease you as well.”

“That I can live with,” he replied quickly, his heartbeat a thrumming constant in his ears. “There's no need to consult that wretched book.”

“Marvellous!” Diavolo wrapped his arms around Lucifer and embraced him tight enough to push all air out of his lungs. “I vow I shall make you the happiest demon the Devildom has ever seen!”

Slowly, Lucifer patted his back. “I'll take that with a grain of salt.”

Laughing, Diavolo buried his head in the crook of his neck. “Now don't be like that, Lucifer. I am being nothing but truthful.”

Lucifer locked his arms around Diavolo's neck and shut him up with a kiss. For now, he couldn’t answer whether or not he could believe Diavolo’s words. Both love and established relationships were still uncharted territory to him, but in spite of it, it still felt surprisingly comfortable to share such closeness with Diavolo. He shouldn't enjoy it as much as he did, but for once, Lucifer allowed himself to indulge.

Diavolo swiped his tongue over his bottom lip and Lucifer parted his lips in reply, exploring the way Diavolo’s mouth tasted under his warm tongue. It was invigorating.

Diavolo started to move, unwilling to part as he was pulling him away from the door and closer towards his bed.

“You own such a large bed, doesn't it just beg to be shared?” He wriggled his eyebrows and Lucifer let out a huff in response. “You are inviting yourself in? Now isn't this quite the shameless behaviour?”

Diavolo laughed against his lips, his voice deep and smooth. “I am trying to proposition you, is it not working?”

“That remains up to debate.”

“Allow me to convince you then.”

Diavolo pressed Lucifer down by the shoulders, getting him to sit down on the edge of the bed. Slowly, he lifted his hand to his lips and pressed a kiss upon his palm. Lucifer pulled him closer by his collar, lifting his head defiantly. “What, pray tell, do you plan to do?”

Diavolo dropped down onto his knees and looked up at him, his hands coming to rest against his thighs. Lucifer buried one hand in the sheets, gripping them tightly for support.

“Kneel until I have your forgiveness,” Diavolo said with a playful twinkle in his eyes.

Lucifer flushed red. “I told you there's no-”

Slowly, he rubbed his hands up and down his thighs, gently massaging the taut flesh. “Tell me you do not enjoy this and I will step away.”

Lucifer pushed his hair out of his face as he stared down at the Devildom prince, flushed and excited between his knees. It was undeniable that it fuelled his pride to have the man he longed for beneath him, one cheek pressed against the fabric of his trousers, looking up at him with devotion in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

When Lucifer noticed his pants growing tighter at the thought, Diavolo’s eyes strayed as well.

“You desire me,” he murmured. He was running his hand over the inside of Lucifer’s thigh, going up dangerously high just to travel further down towards his knee again. “Look at you, my morning star.”

“Does that excite you?” he asked. For once, he did not feel the familiar pull of shame he had grown accustomed to. “How could it not? The most brilliant demon the Devildom has ever laid eyes upon is right above me, looking positively roused.”

Lucifer averted his gaze. “Enough with the praise.”

Diavolo's eyes wandered downwards and he ran one hand up towards Lucifer’s waist. “Will you let me serve you this once?”

“Serve me? What do you-”

Their eyes met and Lucifer could see his own desire reflected back to him in Diavolo’s eyes. His hand had stilled, as he was waiting to hear Lucifer's explicit consent, and his finger was tapping against his trousers in anticipation.

Lucifer slipped his hand over Diavolo's. “I shall allow it this once,” he finally agreed.

Diavolo did not wait much longer, his impatience having grown with each and every second wasted. He parted Lucifer's knees to create more space in-between his legs. One hand returned to its former occupation, fondling his thigh, while the other inched closer towards his zipper.

It was invigorating to watch the way Lucifer shifted under his touch, his eyes dark with want, his hand buried in the sheets.

“Lucifer,” Diavolo mumbled. “Do you even know what sort of expression you are making right now?”

For a moment he pulled himself up again to kiss Lucifer slowly, his hand coming to reach his nape. While he did so, he let his fingertips ghost across his pants, finding the zipper and pulling it down slowly. Lucifer panted against his lips when he experimentally began to run his hand along his considerable arousal. Slowly, he palmed him through his briefs, enjoying the way it clearly excited Lucifer. Some part of him wanted to stay like this forever. It was a side of Lucifer he had never seen before, and an irresistible and sensitive one at that.

“Let us take these off,” Diavolo mumbled as he ran his fingers over the impressive bulge. He watched Lucifer as he shuffled out of his pants, left to sit on the edge of the bed in nothing but his dress shirt, his expensive black briefs and sock garters. The demon unbuttoned the top of his shirt and leaned back, his eyes heavy in ways Diavolo had never seen before. It was intoxicating.

He pulled himself up, crawling onto the bed as well until he was close enough to push Lucifer onto his back. And so he did. Lucifer raised an eyebrow at him, and the corner of his mouth pulled upwards ever so slightly.

“Eager, are we?” he asked.

“Verily,” Diavolo breathed out, his excitement barely hidden as he shrugged off his coat. He laid himself on the side and pulled Lucifer’s body against his own, his lips soon discovering the exposed expanse of his neck again while his hands ran across his sturdy chest. While he nibbled at the skin, Lucifer’s hand explored the taut muscles of his back, one coming to rest against his hip, the other travelling further down as he pulled closer, reaching Diavolo’s ass. A satisfied chuckle escaped Lucifer’s lips and before he could feel embarrassed about it, Diavolo pulled him in and kissed him hard. His hand slipped past the waistband of Lucifer’s briefs, exposing his proud member. His fingertips trailed upwards, giving it an experimental pump as it was already half-hard. Lucifer exhaled sharply. For a moment, Diavolo opened his eyes. Lucifer’s eyes were squeezed shut, his cheeks flushed with the slightest bit of colour. Diavolo swore he had never seen something quite as beautiful before.

He swiped his thumb over the slit of Lucifer’s cock, collecting a droplet of precum and spreading it across, his fingers gentle and painstakingly careful. With one hand, he travelled further down, massaging his balls. Lucifer buried his face in the mattress. His arm was slung around Diavolo’s neck. He reached between them and undid Diavolo’s zipper, freeing his boner. Although his eyes were shut, Lucifer could tell it was a thing of majestic length and girth. Not that he hadn’t noticed before, but tracing his cold fingers over the feverish skin gave him an entirely new perspective. He opened his eyes and gazed down. It was huge.

Lucifer kissed Diavolo’s jawline, then his neck.

“I very well can’t be the only one getting satisfied,”he muttered. Diavolo laughed and planted a kiss against his cheek.

“Your pleasure alone would be satisfying enough for me.”

“That certainly won’t do,” Lucifer countered as he nipped at the warm skin of Diavolo’s throat. He let one finger trail over the vein lining his dick, then wrapped his hand around his member, stroking it lazily. Diavolo’s breath was heavy in his ear. The sounds he made were deep and needy.

“Shall we come together then?” Diavolo wrapped his hand around both their members, guiding Lucifer to join him. His hand came to cover Diavolo’s. It was a warm and slippery thing, uncoordinated with the way they were rutting together to reach their final high.

Diavolo could tell they were both close. Lucifer wrapped his arm around Diavolo’s neck, pulling them even closer together. Diavolo’s body was heavy on his own, but he liked to feel the weight against his chest. Somehow, it was grounding.

They picked up their pace and when he felt he was close, he grunted, burying his hand in the back of Diavolo’s hair, pulling him in to meet in a messy kiss. Lucifer was the first to come, his eyes shut and his breath out of order. It did not take Diavolo much longer, the sight of his partner, lost at the edge of lust, was enough to tip him over. He spilled over their hands, the liquid hot and thick. Diavolo let his full weight drop on Lucifer.

Lucifer pushed his hair out of his eyes with a shuddery breath. “When did we get so off topic? Rutting against one another like unrestrained teenagers.”

Diavolo buried his head in the crook of his neck, leaving a small kiss behind. “We have talked around the issue for a while now. Perhaps it was long overdue.”

Lucifer shot him an irritated side-glance. “Perhaps it would have been faster if you hadn’t rejected me straight away.”

Ah, still a sore point. A demon’s hurt pride was not easy to repair, especially not when it came to Lucifer. Diavolo lifted himself up and cupped Lucifer’s face. “I shall continue to apologize to you with both actions and words.” He kissed him slowly. “Until you believe me.”

Lucifer grabbed his face. “Then show me your best,” he replied stoically.

The expression made Diavolo laugh boisterously. “Anything for you, my dear.”

Lucifer squirmed under the newfound affection, the nickname still foreign to his ears.

Perhaps he would have to get used to this after all.

#fanfiction #writing #my writing #obey me #omswd #dialuci #diavolo x lucifer #lucifer x diavolo #getting together #angst #they are so dumb and so smitten #i hope this looks alright i did this on mobile #fingers crossed

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dark-night-hero · 11 days

Text

Getting to know my... genshin edition.

The one I started playing genshin for:

Diluc Ragnvindr, my love so sweet I will never the way you pulled me away from Valorant into playing genshin impact when I saw that one fanart of you.

The one I stayed for:

Kaeya Alberich, my darling, my sweetheart. I have no other ways to describe you but the reason why I manage to make it this far. I'm dramatic as f. Funny how I came because of your brother but the moment you show up in the screen while I'm playing I knew you are my type.

My current main:

Heizou Shikanoin, if it isn't my lovely child detective. I'm sorry I could not give you the best thing that was suitable for you but it's okay, it'll work out somehow.

The one I wish was my main / My future main:

Ayato Kamisato as the one I wish is my main but I don't have a good team let alone artifacts to give him. And yes, I have him. And yes, he is a good display on my teapot. Dainsleif as my future main so please please please please please make him playable.

The first character I made a fanfic for:

Diluc Ragnvindr, it just happened that his birthday was around the corner when I started playing genshin impact and because he was my first crush in genshin that I made him a bday fic HAHA it's the HOME ff.

The one whom I've made the most fanfic|imagines|drabbles|one shot:

Morax | Rex Lapis | Zhongli, maybe it was because of his interesting lore, something me and my cousin have talked about just this morning. I cannot stop writing, nor do I think I would ever ran out of ideal although most of it is angst because Zhongli is such a angst material, about this guy. His lore is very interesting as he is connected to quite a number of people/beings in the game, living up to his name as the former geo archon, he was a man who went through alot, lost a lot and gained a lot. He knows something yet keeps it disclosed only to himself mostly because of the contracts. He is such an interesting character with an angst material background.

The one I wish to write about:

Dainsleif, personally I think I can make something about him rn but most of the time I depend on the lore of the character before I started writing so that I can use their lore angst them to make them lore realistic. But right now I think that we are still lacking a lot of information about this guy sooooo yeah. Al Haitham on the other hand, I don't but I am yet to reach the Sumeru archon quest so I am yet to analyse his character and his lore. I have a few things in mind for him but for now, it is just my wish to write for him as I am yet to put it into words, on screen and paper.

My overall favourite character(s):

Ayato Kamisato and Kaeya Alberich. Yes, they are two. And I love them equally (..... i think, yes, i think.) That I cannot chose to pick one out of the two of them so might as well have a tie on top of my list.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2024°

: I do not own the used pictures. Credits to it's own respective artist, and if the artist wants it to be taken down, I will gladly do so hihi.

#dark night hero #genshin impact #genshin #random #dainsleif #genshin impact diluc #diluc ragnvindr #genshin kaeya #kaeya alberich #kamisato ayato #shikanoin heizou

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thomacrumbs · 3 years

Text

vincit qui se vincit.

various boys (albedo, diluc, aether, xiao, childe, gorou, kazuha, thoma) x gn! reader. fantasy! au. blurbs, mostly fluff. nouns used: sorcerer (childe) & witch (kazuha) w/ gender neutral pronouns. ♡s & ↻s appreciated!

notes: i brainrotted. i was listening to joy's album while writing this ^^

albedo.

the great alchemist albedo is just a myth, or so people think. cursed to live forever as a spirit bound to a teapot by a witch, he sits, bored out of his mind, on the shelves of a dingy antique shop. until one day, against the warnings of the antique shop owner, who warns of bad luck & misfortune, you purchase the quaint teapot & rescues him from his prison. he clatters menacingly on your countertop, only to be ignored by you for days on end before you finally lift the lid off the teapot, releasing his spirit into the realm of the living (its not as bad as it sounds. he is neither threatening nor scary). he doesn't have the heart to tell the human he's grown quite fond of that he's slowly disappearing.

diluc ragvindr.

the ludi harpstum is a festival of wine & song, celebrating the long history of the city of mondstadt, filled with games & song. this year, it seems like the knights of favonius has gone all out with their preparations, even calling in the famed circus of performers that has travelled every corner of teyvat, wowing people with daring flips mid-air, disappearing limbs & tight-rope on the thinnest of threads. the music & laughter of children is so loud that you could hear it from the windows of the dawn winery. an unwilling diluc is dragged against his will to at least view the once in a lifetime circus act, only to be charmed by the cute magic performer who winks at him from the stage as poker cards fly into the air. suddenly he finds himself going to bed thinking about them and wakes up in cold sweat wanting to talk to them. but, the ludi harpstum is only 15 days, can he catch you before you slip through his fingers?

aether.

yeah. maybe you shouldn't have tried to summon a guardian angel, but to be fair your friend put you up to this. now this blonde biblically inaccurate angel is bound to you by contract, and you have another headache to worry about alongside your minimum wage job, messy apartment and the neighbour from next door who keeps taking your flour. not to mention his constant rambling about his sister who you've unceremoniously torn him away from, and suddenly you're repeating this entire ritual, because you cannot say no to those eyes (and maybe you did want to impress him, what about it?) it didn't work, but he doesn't seem that peeved, especially when he settles on your bed after you've fallen into deep sleep, pressing a kiss to your forehead and affectionally calling you cute. he is your guardian angel, at the end of the day.

xiao.

you're the famed dragon rider in the skies of liyue. the winner of several races, competitions & illustrated celebrity in the devoted dragon owner scene. afterall, you ride the only remaining off-spring of morax, a gift from the emperor himself. you boast that no one else could tame your dragon except for you, and for a long while, this seems true. it blows curling flames at anyone who dares come close & curls it spiked tail protectively around you to ward off any unsavoury people. that is, until an unknown melody that carries over the wind calls your dragon down from the skies, and suddenly you are hurtling through the skies at insane speeds.

childe.

he came to liyue for one reason only (two, actually, but morax is dead now, so no boxing him), to challenge the great sorcerer branded by the archons. he's heard about their miracles from a young age, the ability to call down thunder from the skies, resurrecting the dead, moving the entire earth with a simple flick. the only obstacle in his way is that this sorcerer is near unidentifiable, with not even a name to put to a face. imagine his shock when the very sorcerer saves him from certain death, and he finds out they're not an old man hobbling around with a cane, but a young person around his age. oops can't fight if you're too distracted by how good your opponent looks. damn they look good kicking my ass i should do this more often.

gorou.

his dog has had enough of his single shit, crying into an empty bowl of icecream after watching the notebook, wailing about how he "wishes that were him". the animal whisperer who likes hanging around the local dog park is very surprised when they hear a yapping dog bark that his owner needs a significant other stat, he's desperate and alone, applications open please help my mess of an owner. but hey, you aren't complaining, he's pretty cute, and you find it cute that he tries to stop his tail from wagging whenever he sees you.

kazuha kaedehara.

from a young age, he's heard of the immortal witch that hides in their cottage in the thick of the dark forest nears the borders of inazuma. and nothing stops him from pounding on the door of the run down cottage, not even the animate vines that snap at him and trees that uproot themselves to stop him from advancing further. afterall, an immortal being must know the answer to bringing back someone from the dead, right? he near sobs when they tell him that it's impossible, the dead have to stay dead. he doesn't understand at first, but the witch is kinder than he expected, helping him through the memories, painful & happy. but he doesn't miss the flit of pain behind their eyes whenever he talks about losing someone, afterall, time is cruel to all.

thoma.

thoma thinks he's being seduced. afterall, isn't that what sirens do? sing of a pretty future, the numbers to win the future lottery. even though thoma has never won the lottery with their numbers, he stills himself entranced & walks down to the beach everyday to listen to them talk & sing, sitting on the edge of the rock as cold water clashes with his temperature that naturally runs high. finally, he gets the courage to confront them- he doesn't want to fall in love because of magic, that's not right. only to be met with a confused look, you're a half human half mermaid, not a siren. thoma fucking dies of embarrassment when he realises that he was simply in love all along.

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nanowrimo · 3 years

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5 Tips for Finishing Your Novel

April’s session of Camp NaNoWriMo is drawing to a close, and you might find yourself nearing the end of your novel. If you need some tips on writing and polishing the ending of your story, author Derek Murphy is here to share a few! Plus, you can check out the rest of our novel-finishing resources on our #NaNoFinMo page.

You won NaNoWriMo and have a 50k collection of scenes and sentences, but how do you clean it up and get it done? How do you make sure it’s finished, satisfying and enjoyable? Here are 5 powerful strategies for finishing your novel and some helpful writing tips that will push you past the finish line.

1. Give it a satisfying resolution.

In order to have a powerful story, your book should probably focus on a main character’s change or transformation. There’s an inner war, a.k.a. the character’s emotional healing, and an outer war: the conflict that forced the reckoning. If it’s a purely symbolic internal realization, you can mirror that with actual conflict in the real scene: the breaking of a dish, a fit of rage, a sudden ray of sunlight (or a storm… this should not be pleasant; It’s a breaking point and spiritual death/rebirth).

You can clarify the moment of change by setting up an illustrative contrast, a before and after, that shows how those internal changes have resulted in real-world consequences or benefits. Each character’s unique challenge will match their personal weakness or fear. The price for victory is the one thing they have so far refused to do, or something they cannot give up or bear to lose.

Make sure your protagonist has gone through a transformative struggle to arrive at deep insights, knowledge or awareness. Find a way to deepen the incidental scenes so that they become instrumental to a deeper purpose, leading towards an identity-shifting event.

The plot is what happens, and it’s important. But you can make it more dramatic and meaningful by making sure you demonstrate how hard it was and what it cost. It matters, it is remarkable, because it forced your protagonist to change.

Your conclusion might include:

Physical tension as allies perform a tug-of-war battle against resistance, that shows how difficult this struggle is, and how much force is required.

The consideration phase, as characters are tempted last minute or the price for victory is revealed: the sweet memories that give them awareness that this fight is worth the cost or risk (you need to show them making the choice, knowing what they will lose).

The final flashback, as the full backstory is revealed so we can see exactly why this conflict is so difficult or meaningful for the main character.

2. Add (unresolved) conflict.

Your story is made up of the events and scenes, where something happens. Each new event will push the characters further into the plot. Slow scenes where nothing is really happening can be red flags, so the first thing to focus on is increasing conflict, drama, suspense and intrigue. This is what creates urgency. The full reveal, demonstrating why THIS challenge is so difficult and powerful, should happen just before the final battle or resolution.

You want to make sure every scene, especially in your conclusion, has enough conflict. I recommend these three:

Outer Conflict (threats): Challenges or obstacles that prevent the character from achieving goals.

Inner Conflict (doubts): Moral struggles, decisions, guilt or shame, anger.

Friendly Fire (betrayal): Strong disagreements between allies or supporting characters.

You want to extend and deepen the potential conflict, without resolving it too easily. The biggest destroyer of conflict is conversation: when your characters just sit around and talk to each other. Most conflict involves a lack of information, and a desire for clarity. A lot of conflict is perceived or imagined.

The most important information needs to come last, and come at a great price. The information that has an emotional impact, and influences their actions and decisions, should be big reveals at dramatic peaks. A surprise or twist should be treated as an event: each scene is leading towards a change or new piece of information that provokes the protagonist to respond.

3. Fill plot holes with character motivation.

After you’ve made sure that “what actually happens” is intriguing (opening questions and raising tensions without resolving them) you can focus on making sure the plot holes are filled, and characters are properly motivated – these two things are usually adjacent.

You can find and fill plot holes by asking:

Why are the characters doing this?

Why does any of it matter?

Basically, readers need to respect the main characters enough to care what happens to them, so their choices and actions need to make sense within the given information. If there’s a simpler, easier solution, readers will get stuck up on “why didn’t they just…”? To fix plot holes and gaps in logic or continuity, or make the story go where you need it to, you can add urgency, fix the mood of the scene (bigger stakes require bigger justifications), show characters in a weakened mental state, or raise concerns but have them dismissed, with an excuse or justification.

You need rational characters to make plausible choices that lead to dire consequences. You need show why they don’t do something easier, or nothing at all, or why they face clear challenges, despite potential obstacles.

They’ll also require a deeper motivation, for why they’re willing to put themselves in identity-destroying conflict, rather than just giving up or running away. Why do they stay in THIS fight, when they’ve run from similar ones? If they weren’t ready at the beginning, why are the ready now – what changed in them, as a result of your story’s journey?

Your protagonist needs to have a strong, consistent internal compass, and it needs to be revealed through incidents that establish their character. This is who they are. Without this reliable core identity, we won’t be able to tell a story that forces them to change.

4. Let readers picture your story with detailed description.

In the final stages of revision, you can begin improving the description with specific details.

It’s smart to start – or end – a chapter with a vivid, immediate scene. You want to leave readers with an image they can see in their minds, hopefully connected to the feeling you aim to evoke. You can close a chapter with a reference back to a motif or image, with a deeper or more reflective context; applying meaning to the metaphor. This will help readers feel engaged, be moved, and leave a lasting impact.

Vivid scenes are mostly a matter of detailed description, so add the specifics about the story environment. Be precise, not vague. Instead of “she put a plate of tea and snacks on the table” you can write “she gently placed an antique porcelain teapot on the table. I could smell it was Earl Grey from the scent of bergamot. The half-sleeve of Oreos and can of onion-flavored Pringles seemed incongruous with the fancy dishes, but I knew she was making an effort to welcome me.”

Focus on the sensations and feelings; but also zero-in on any potential sources of conflict or internal emotions or states of mind. In my example above, the host might be nervous or ashamed of her spread; or perhaps she has a degenerative brain disease and doesn’t notice the incongruity. Tensions are unspoken, potential sources of negative feelings. They hover in the background of your description.

Readers will remember the pictures you put in their heads, not the words on the page.

Description should serve and be bound to the story, not distract from it.

It should be squeezed into and around the scene action, when the protagonist is using or exploring.

Show what’s different, not what’s the same.

Leave space for readers to fill in the gaps, but get them started in the right direction so they aren’t surprised later.

Sidenote: be careful about your metaphors, analogies and similes. Each one will put a picture into readers’ minds, and it can quickly get overcrowded with imagery. You’re asking them to ignore your real scene and think of something else. Use them to confirm and amplify the scene you have, and limit distractions.

5. Prepare to publish.

Typos are bad, but perfectionism will ruin you. This section is about editing and proofreading, but I don’t have time for all that, and you don’t either. The real problem with a story is rarely the number of typos. A very clean book isn’t better if people stop reading.

You can solve a lot of common writing problems, with my big list of 25 common writing mistakes, and self-edit your manuscript to make it as good as possible. After that, a copyeditor or proofreader isn’t always the best investment (and it can also be the biggest publishing cost).

Instead, use an editing software (I like Grammarly) to root out obvious mistakes, but don’t dwell on the small stuff like perfecting every word or rearranging the commas. Spending a very long time wrestling a poorly-written manuscript in shape is less effective than getting something (actually) done to the point where you’re comfortable sharing it.

This may be difficult at first, but you can’t learn and improve without genuine reader feedback (from people who aren’t your mom or best friend; nor the short-sighted opinions of a self-proclaimed literature enthusiast). You need to find readers who enjoy your particular genre, and the sooner you find them, the more valuable feedback you can get.

Shorten the feedback loop: Get over the fear and focus on learning by getting feedback early and often. However, this doesn’t just mean joining a writer’s club: writers are brutal and might focus on trivial things. The safest bet is to make it public, on Wattpad at least. Or get a cheap cover and throw it up on Kindle, Draft2Digital or even your own blog.

Making it public is scary and vulnerable, but it’s better than letting the fear of messing up keep you from the brutal, necessary experience of allowing readers to tell you what they liked and disliked about your writing. Will some people be critical? Yes! But guess what, you’ll get negative reviews even if you’re a brilliant, famous writer. Those are inevitable. And the first negative reviews may teach you more about writing than 10 years attempting to self-edit, afraid of putting your book out into the world.

PS. You can use resources, like my 24-chapter plot outline, as a way to spot story gaps in your manuscript and improve the structure (especially if your book suffers from a “soggy middle.)

Derek Murphy has a PhD in Literature, writes urban fantasy and is the founder of the alliance of young adult authors. More recently, he’s started sharing writing tips on http://www.writethemagic.com

Top photo by Adegbenro Emmanuel Dipo on Unsplash.

#nanowrimo #camp nanowrimo #nanofinmo #writing advice #writing tips #finishing a novel #by nano guest #derek murphy

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danganronpasurvivoraskblog · 3 years

Text

One step at a time.

Alright. I changed.

Thank god for that.

*After getting changed out of her Junko clothes, Mukuro returns to the lobby of the cabaret, to find Kuripa and Makoto sat at a table near the front, close to the stage.

What’ve you got there?

Oh, well, this is breakfast. I know we just had chicken and all, but it’s hardly the most effective breakfast.

Sorry I woke you up in the middle of the night.

It’s ok. We didn’t have any plans for today anyway. In fact, our only plan was...well, making plans.

What do you mean?

...

*Makoto gets to his feet and ushers Mukuro to sit down at the table too. He paces back and forth, pondering to himself.

Whether we like it or not, we’ve held out for this long, and our situation hasn’t improved.

Escaping capture from the apartment, being able to visit Kyoko in the hospital, and now having Mukuro with us...

You visited Kyoko? H-How is she doing? Is she ok?

She’s fine. She hasn’t gone in for the greater part of her surgery yet, but hopefully we gave her a little more hope about her situation.

I-I see...Sorry, please continue.

It’s fine.

But the point is, up until now, we’ve been exclusively relying on Shuichi to bring back results for us. And I trust him enough to see this through.

However, it’s clear that the plan we’re going with now...hiding out until we hear from Shuichi...It’s not gonna fly.

Agreed. As much faith as I have in him, we can’t just idly sit by and wait for him to get results.

So what did you have in mind then? I assume you’ve formulated some sort of plan?

...Something like that.

*Makoto takes a teapot and pours himself some tea.

My plan is a little bit simple but there are a few steps to it...But ultimately...

we’re going to find the person who set me up, and make them talk.

You mean the traitor?

No. Leave the traitor for Shuichi. I’m talking about...

[Flashback]

I’m sure you’re determined to catch me and protect your friends.

But you cannot win against my glasses and my soul!

Yukari Koime...

Exactly.

*Makoto checks the temperature of his tea and puts it back down, adding some extra sugar.

The more I think about it, the more I realize just how heavily involved the Organization Zetsubou members are.

I wouldn’t necessarily be surprised if all of them, traitor included, had a role to play in this situation.

And I believe that Koime’s was luring me away from the building to make me look more suspicious.

So it was a setup after all...

Given that she was the only one I saw actually at the scene, I believe if we’re going to get fast answers...

We’ll have to get them from her...!

Cool! Point me in her direction! I’ll beat ‘em out of her!

Calm down, you delinquents.

The biggest issue right now is not knowing where Koime is. It means we’re going to need to find a way to track her.

And without Future Foundation technology readily available to us...That’s gonna be difficult.

Don’t suppose Ouma has anything similar we could use?

Actually I do. I have a secret basement underneath my building.

But...the technology down there might not be what you’re looking for. It won’t be powerful enough to track this Koime person without a source.

Well, thanks anyway. But what are we gonna do in that case.

Something that might seem a little crazy, but hear me out...

*Makoto sips his tea.

Kuripa, do you remember what happened after we infiltrated that farm? After we took the old people’s clothes and fixed up their vehicle?

We got chased.

By who?

Kisaragi Foundation dickwads!

Wait, the Kisaragi Foundation chased you?

Yeah? What about it.

...

I only left Future Foundation recently...

I didn’t hear anything about a collaboration between the Future Foundation and the Kisaragi Foundation.

What?

It bothers me as well.

After all, since that incident, we haven’t seen hide nor hair of the Kisaragi Foundation officers.

Even when Byakuya and Munakata confronted us at Kyoko’s hospital, it was only Future Foundation. Had they brought any Kisaragi Foundation officers with them, our chances of evading capture would have significantly decreased.

And Byakuya’s smart enough to know that.

Then why didn’t he bring any officers with him?

I think the simple reason is that he couldn’t...

Because the Kisaragi Foundation has not gotten involved in this whole incident.

Yes. That seems logical. It explains why you haven’t been pursued by them since.

But that doesn’t make sense! Why the hell did they chase us if it wasn’t to arrest us as Fugitives?

I’m not sure...but I feel there’s only one way to find out...

And that is?

We might have to go and pay Tsurugi Kinjo a visit.

Are you mental!?

No, I agree with that.

Yes, it’s indeed risky...However...

Not only will we be able to get to the bottom of his stance on things, and whether or not he’s involved, but assuming he isn’t, we might actually be able to get his help.

If I’m going to get into a conflict involving two of the world’s most powerful post-tragedy conglomerates, I would rather have one on my side.

The Kisaragi’s cooperation could be the key in blowing this whole incident apart.

...

Alright, fine. But I’m bringing my weapon, just in case.

Yeah, that’s fine. I can’t promise that things will go totally smoothly.

But I think tomorrow, we should prepare to head out.

Affirmative!

Fine.

#danganronpa survivor #danganronpa #danganronpa 1 #dr1 #danganronpa v3 #drv3 #danganronpa blowback #drb #makoto naegi #kuripa kurafto #mukuro ikusaba #kokichi ouma #yukari koime #the fugitive arc

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rosies-pastimes · 3 years

Note

hi rosie. it has been a while >-<

a big hug for support! send packages of love to you right now

school's at a very busy period for me at the moment, but I'll push through! you got this too rosie ~~

dfgfgh haha no I haven't 👉👈 pancake and sugar cookie are really really adorable

why do you have to write a love song T-T what kind of homework is that 😫 I feel you

ahh you didn't make all of the fences yet... right? and oh another design :o

yess I have saved it somewhere safer now + may will probably heed your advice and write it down somewhere else too

*holds phone delicately* take care of the screen...

oh t-the creampuff- that flustered me real bad /~\

yes yes they looked yummyy (understandable why they are keqing's favourite)

that does remind me that I should go look for some new hoodies that will be comfy hehe cuddle buddy ahhh

it is a very nice colour!! um um um I always say blue haha but there are so many shades...

sdfgfdfg it's okayy (I've never watched either but I do know of them! more ohshc but still not a lot)

I cannot believe we are already halfway into the third last month of 2021 :')

- 🎮

i decided to put my replies in a readmore cuz theyre so long omg-

AND I EXTENDED THAT WHILE IM SORRY 😭😭

shit happened and monday - wednesday felt like i was living a fever dream, and thursday was spent with my extended family and my social battery ran tf out til friday BUT IM HERE NOW IAJIXSJ COPIUM TINGZ 😗✌️

ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ sends love and support aswell WE GOT THIS 💪👁️👄👁️

THEY ARE!! I SAW THIS TIKTOK WHERE SOMEONE TOOK OFF THEIR HATS AND PANCAKE'S HAIR WAS SO FLUFFY 😭😭 IT WAS SO CUTE and is now buried underneath all my favorited videos 🥲-

it was for a creative writing class 🤷‍♀️ i was supet poetic for 2 stanzas and then the chorus flopped it wasnt funny to me 🥲

i may have ran out of wood and got diatracted while farming for it so no u havent done all the fences yet hwehwe 👉👈 nor have i touched my teapot because ive decided to get the new inazuma thingy before i do 😌 AND THE GLOWY PLANTS IM IN LOVE 🥺

the real screen has a little wittle itty bitty crack from when i dropped it down the stairs and i wasnt using the phone case and theres a little nook with no protective glass protecting it 🥲 take care of your screens kids 🥲

child ➖👄➖ of ➖👄➖ the ➖👄➖ lord i had to put my phone down and take a deep breath-

it's been kinda warm here in my city, so hoodies are not an option 🥲 i cant wait for rainy season again 😭😭 cuddle buddies 👌👌

blue is like, so peaceful and calming 😭 it reminds me of the ocean 🥲 i desperately 🥲 want to 🥲 go visit 🥲 BUT CANT 🥲

im not sure if ive asked this before but do you have a favorite anime?? omg im awful HAHAHA

3 more months and its 2022 and i stg if i have to suffer ANOTHER YEAR IN THE HOUSE I WILL RIOT I HAVENT SMACKED MY FRIENDS FOR THEIR DECISIONS IN SO LONG 😭

on the bright side ill be 18 in january so adult tingz at last HAHAHA

#⋆-🎮

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mrslittletall · 4 years

Text

Title: Two Kings Bound By Sin Fandom: Hollow Knight/Undertale Characters: Asgore, The Pale King Word Count: 5.206 AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26730919

Summary: Asgore has a peculiar guest, the king of a place called Hallownest. Interested in how he managed to cross the barrier, Asgore decides to have some tea and a talk with him.

(Author's note: Both Asgore and the Pale King are characters that are incredible similar to each other and both of them get FAR too much hate of their respective fandoms, so a fic about them talking to each other spawned in my mind.

That was the first crossover I ever tried and, woah, that was more difficult than I thought! I also don't think I will crossover these fandoms again, while I like Undertale, I don't feel like I want to write for it. I am honestly surprised that I now even have a fic for this fandom on my page.

It would be best if you are familiar with both Undertale and Hollow Knight, because I reference the lore of both games. There are also MASSIVE spoilers in here, so I would advise to play through the games first before reading.)

The Pale King watched as the being at the other side of the table filled a cup with a golden liquid coming out of a teapot.

He had never seen a bug like this before. In fact, he had the impression that the being on the other side of the table wasn't a bug at all. He was tall, his bulky frame was covered with white fur and there grew even more fur, in a more yellowish colour, in his face and on his head, two floppy ears fell down to each side of his face. His face tapered into a snout and two curvy horns grew out of his head. He was clothed in purple robes with a symbol on it that the Pale King had never seen before and on his head there was a crown. Everything about this being appeared regal to him, everything besides the demeanour, which didn't felt regal, but warm and caring.

As the being was pushing the tea cup over to the Pale King, he remembered that he had seen creatures similar to him when he still had been in his wyrm form. They were called goats. Though, the goats he had seen, were walking on all fours, were significantly smaller and definitely not sentient. He remembered that they had made quite a nice snack once in a while.

The Pale King picked up the cup of tea that had been offered to him and said: “Thank you.”

Asgore watched the monster on the other side of the table closely as he lifted the cup of tea with both of his robed hands and sniffed at it. He had never seen a monster like this before, in fact, he wasn't sure if the creature sitting on the other side of the table really was a monster.

He wasn't tall, he actually was rather small, maybe reaching up to Asgore's chest. He didn't had any fur nor skin, he looked more akin to a bug and his exoskeleton was of a pure white, it was so bright that he even seemed to shine a constant light. His face looked like a mask that bore no expression, two dark eyes, pitch black in the middle of them, a visible mouth couldn't be seen. His head prolonged into several horns, arranged in a way that resembled a crown. Most of his body was hidden by the clothes he was wearing, robes of a silvery colour. Asgore barely could make out the claws that adorned the end of his fingers as he took up the tea cup.

But as strange as this sudden visitor was, his voice was the strangest. It had been just a simple “thank you”, in a whisper, but Asgore felt like his voice had bounced from the walls and settled right inside his own head. It was nothing short of a peculiar experience.

“I want to ask you how you managed to enter my home.”, Asgore said, as the creature finally took his first sip of tea. “But I think common courtesies should be in place first. My name is Asgore Dreemur and this is the kingdom of monsters I rule over, called Underground.”

The Pale King looked up from his tea as Asgore spoke. The liquid was warm, sweet and satisfying. He put the cup down, straightened himself in his most regal position and spoke: “Our true name cannot be spoken to anyone but our most close ones. You may refer to us as the Pale King or the Pale Wyrm, whatever you please. We are the acting ruler over the kingdom of Hallownest.”

“It appears that we both are kings.”, Asgore smiled at the Pale King. “I will refer to you simply as Pale King then, if it is your wish that your name remains unspoken.”

The Pale King nodded and then spoke: “You had a question for me.”

“Yes.”, Asgore nodded, taking a sip of his tea cup and then putting it down, looking into the liquid. “It shouldn't be possible for anyone to enter the Underground, for it is sealed with a magical barrier. How did you manage to enter?”

“You are talking about the magical seal we sensed before we found you?”, the Pale King asked. “We apologize for having eluded it, for we assume that the barrier was erected to keep your kingdom safe.” The Pale King didn't miss the little frown in Asgore's expression. Maybe his assumption was wrong. Regardless, he continued. If the barrier had been erected by Asgore or not, he should know about any weaknesses.

“We can assure you, that nothing is wrong with your barrier.”, he spoke. “We have a tight control over SOUL and sealing spells are one of our specialities, so it wasn't hard to figure out how to untangle a part big enough for us to slip through. It weaved itself right together afterwards, it is truly a marvellous work of sealing magic. We doubt that anyone or anything not versed in sealing spells could get in or out of your kingdom.”

“I see.”, Asgore said, gaze cast down on the table, his hands laying on his upper legs. “Would you... forgive me if my question may seem rude... but would you be able to break the barrier with your knowledge?”

“Oh?”, the Pale King said, not drinking from the cup he had already raised to his mouth. “We were under the assumption that the barrier was your own doing. Have you not erected it to keep your kingdom save?”

The Pale King actually had thought about erecting a similar barrier around his kingdom to fight the infection, but the infection came from within, not from the outside, it came from the dreams of his people, so it wouldn't have done anything.

“It is a rather long story...”, Asgore said, a deep sigh escaping his throat. “In short, the underground acts as a prison for my people. Nowadays, I am one of the last monsters who has ever seen the sunrise...”

For the Pale King, the sunrise wasn't something special. He had chosen to establish a kingdom underground and even though wyrms were able to fly, he always had preferred to burrow through the earth. He always had preferred to live hidden from the rays of the sun.

“We are afraid that we have to disappoint you.”, the Pale King said, finally taking another sip from his tea. “For as much as we possess a tight control over SOUL and as much knowledge we have about sealing spells, this barrier around your kingdom has been woven by the forces of several powerful spell users. A similar force would be needed to break it. Even if we could break the barrier, it would take us many, many years. Centuries even.”

“I... understand...”, Asgore said, looking deflating, staring into his own cup of tea.

“We are sorry that we can't help.”, the Pale King said. A kind of awkward silence spread between the two of them. The Pale King considered if he should say or ask something, but he felt that Asgore needed a moment. It seemed like he was rather eager to get rid of that barrier.

“I would have liked to offer a piece of cinnamon butterscotch pie to you.”, Asgore suddenly broke through the silence. “However, it was usually my wife who baked it. I tried out many times, but never could get the recipe down.”

“Your wife?”, the Pale King asked, scanning the room. It seemed like nobody but Asgore lived in the house they were sitting in.

“She... left me.”, Asgore said.

At his word, the Pale King flinched for the fraction of a second, fanning his wings up, thinking about his Root and how sad her eyes were lately, since the Pure Vessel had come into their life.

“We are sorry to hear.”, he said, not sure what to say. He wondered if his Root would leave him for good one day, he wouldn't be able to resent her for it. He deserved it.

“It has been a long time ago.”, Asgore said, swirling the liquid in his tea cup before setting it back on the table. “I can't even blame her for it. See that picture on the shelf? That's her, my sweet Tori.”

The Pale King's gaze wandered to the mentioned picture and he stood up from the table to closer inspect the picture frame that Asgore had pointed out. In it, he could make out Asgore, looking exactly the same as right now. Next to him was another goat monster with white fur, apparently female, wearing a similar robe to his. In front of them were two children, a young goat and the other... a human, both wearing striped sweaters. Their children maybe?

“She looks like she has been happy.”, the Pale King commented on the photo and sat back on the table, staring in his teacup.

“Back then, we were happy.”, Asgore said. “Tell me, do you have a queen of your own?”

The Pale King's thoughts went back to his Root again and it felt like cold fingers were grasping around his heart. It felt as icy as the void.

“Yes, we have a queen, our White Lady.”, the Pale King replied. “We share our soul with her, so deep is our bond. We cannot think about anyone else wanting to spend our life with, but...” He trailed off, unsure how to continue. “It has been difficult lately...”, he sighed.

“It's the same for me and my Tori.”, Asgore said, pouring himself a bit more tea. “I wanted to spend my whole life with her and with boss monsters, like us, that meant for the eternity. We can only age when we have biological children. We were happy and I wished for each of our days to be as fulfilling as the day before. Our life reached its peak when our children came into our life, but...” Asgore took a deep sigh. “Well, I can't resent Tori for having left me behind, as much as I still hope that she will stand in front of my door again.”

The Pale King waited a little while before speaking again, letting Asgore calm down what must have been a painful memory. “Your children?”, he asked after a few minutes had passed. “The ones in the picture?”

“Yes, our son, Asriel and the human was called Chara. We adopted them after they fell down the mountain. Do you have any children with your lady, Pale King?”

It had been an innocent enough question, but for the Pale King, the pile of a thousand broken shells, lingering shades and a being standing stiff as a statue, wearing the face of what once had been his child, flashed through his mind. He couldn't prevent his body to react as his tail lashed out and his wings flared up for at least one full second, as well as his claws digging into the table and his natural light flickering.

“No.”, he said, after only a second had passed, which had felt like a small eternity. “We don't have any children.”

Asgore had noticed the change in the posture of the Pale King, it had been brief, but Asgore had lived for a long while already and he could see the tiniest hints of change in someone's posture. He wondered while the Pale King had reacted so extreme at the seemingly innocent question if he had any children. Asgore asked himself, if maybe he knew the same pain that he did. It wouldn't hurt to...

CHECK

The Pale King

Ruler of the Kingdom of Hallownest

LOVE: Unspeakable.

“No cost too great...”

“What did you just do?”, the Pale King asked, his black eyes focusing on Asgore. He clearly had sensed the CHECK, but didn't know what it was.

“I am sorry, I didn't mean to offend you.”, Asgore said, his thoughts still lingering over the level of violence he had measured. So... he was not the only one... a king had to be their for his people, even if it meant he had to do things he would regret. Though, it was so high... Even higher than...

“Don't do it again.”, the Pale King cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “We have been considerate enough to not poke in your thoughts, we would appreciate if you don't look at our very soul.”

Ah, so he had recognized what Asgore had did. Asgore got a tight feeling in his chest, he had gotten curious, not thinking that a non monster would be able to see through his actions.

“I apologize once again.”, Asgore said. “I won't do it again. Please, ask me anything you want. I will answer with the truth and only the truth to make up for having intruded in your soul.”

“We would like to know why your wife has left you.”, the Pale King said, after he had thought about it for half a minute.

“It is a long story.”, Asgore said. “It has to do with the barrier.”

“We have time.”, the Pale King said, finishing his tea cup and offering it to Asgore for a refill. “Before we can go back, our SOUL reserves have to be filled up first anyway.”

The Pale King hadn't mentioned it earlier, but alone the slipping through the barrier had drained him. It had been tight and the untangling had been complicated.

“Let me begin at the very start then.”, Asgore said. “We monsters once lived among the humans on the surface.”

Ah yes, humans. The Pale King remembered them from his old life. Amusing little creatures. Always ran away screaming when he showed his face around them. They were crunchy and tasted sweet. They often tried to drive him away with their weapons though, so he mostly avoided their settlements. Why anyone would want to live among them got over his mind. They probably would come after his people just because they were different from them.

“We monsters possess a special power, once a human dies we can absorb their soul and gain unspeakable power.”, Asgore spoke. “However, my race always wanted to live in peace. It was the humans who attacked us without warning. We monsters are fragile creatures... with the right intent even a child could dust us.”

“Dust?”, the Pale King cocked his head, unsure of what to make from this term.

“We monsters are made from magic and only a little physical matter.”, Asgore explained. “When we die, the magic vanishes into thin air and the little physical matter that holds us together turns into dust.”

“We understand.”, the Pale King nodded, thinking about that if his people would turn into dust, the infection would have a harder time getting a hold of them. It literally would be unable to reuse their empty shells then.

“The war raged on for a while, but in the end, we monsters didn't had a chance. We were driven into this underground cave and seven human wizards created that barrier, that will let nothing in or out. We monsters have been trapped for centuries since then.”

Ah, so that explained why Asgore had referred to the underground as a prison. “So it is in your interest to break the barrier to give their people back their freedom.”, the Pale King spoke.

“Yes, indeed.”, Asgore said. “However, when we first went underground, my people still had hope. While we missed the sun, we could at least recover from the wounds the war had inflicted on us. We built a city near the entrance of the cave, called Home.”

The Pale King nearly choked on his tea. Underground and Home, Asgore seemed to be terrible at names.

“From experience, we can tell that you needed more room after a while.”, the Pale King said, thinking about how his kingdom had slowly expanded and they had dug more tunnels and build more homes.

“Yes, we explored the rest of the caves once Home got too small. Several monsters settled in different areas of the Underground, like Snowdin, Waterfall and Hotland. The area we are in here right now is the capital, New Home.”

Definitely bad at naming. The Pale King didn't make an expression at the “names” of the areas in the Underground. Maybe he didn't want to feel like a hypocrite, because in his kingdom there were names like Greenpath and White Palace.

“However, before we established New Home, back in Home, for me and my wife there had been wonderful news. She was expecting our child. The little boy you have seen in the photo.”

Neither the goat child nor the human child seemed to be around and the Pale King got the hunch, it was for other reasons than them having left with the queen or simply having grown up. His thoughts briefly went to the Pure Vessel again. No, that wasn't his child, just a tool, a construct to seal the infection.

“Like I already mentioned, it is special for a boss monster like me to get a child.”, Asgore said. “For our lives are tied directly to it. Without a child of our own, we can't age. I have lived for many many centuries already.”

“That seems similar to us Higher Beings.”, the Pale King spoke. “Though we won't age with or without a child present.” Or he would have gotten older once the Pure Vessel had stepped into his life... no, that thing wasn't his child. “We too have lived for many centuries already.”

“Our son, Asriel, was born and a reason of joy for all of monsterkind.”, Asgore told. “We lived peacefully and happily in Home, as a family. One day Asriel, who had explored the caves, came back with someone though... it had been a human child who had fell down into the Underground and got hurt. The one in the picture next to Asriel.”

“We have the feeling that this tale will not have a happy ending.” the Pale King spoke and took a sip of his tea.

“We were happy and full of hope...”, Asgore spoke. “Until that fateful day... me and my wife... lost both our children on the same day...”

The coldness of the void clutched around the heart of the Pale King again. He was no stranger to losing a child, even though he could only blame himself for their death... All the clutches that hadn't survived the voidification, all the children that had broken their shell right after hatching, all the children that had died falling down...

And all of it only for the Pure Vessel to ascend, a knight with the face of his child but without any feelings or will. A tool, a weapon. Nothing else.

“Would you tell us what happened?”, the Pale King said, both interest and a feeling that he barely could register rising in him. Was it pity? He didn't know.

“One day Chara, the human child, got terribly sick.”, Asgore continued.

“Why didn't you heal them?”, the Pale King asked.

“Of course we tried.”, Asgore said. “Especially my wife was very skilled in healing magic, but our magic didn't help. Whatever had befallen Chara, we were unable to help them... we tried our best, even calling to them to hang onto their determination, but in the end they breathed their last breath and died in the arms of Asriel...”

The Pale King appeared calm as he listened to Asgore's story, but in his inside he felt a turmoil coming... the memories he wanted to shut out. The memories of the first clutch that he had awaited so eagerly only to see that not a single one of them had made it... The way he had whispered to them to not give up, to hang onto their will to live, even though he knew that he needed a creature without a will. He had shut himself into his workshop for a while after that and started to try and detach himself more and more from his experiments.

“After Chara had died, Asriel decided to absorb their soul. It had been Chara's last wish to be buried among the golden flowers of their home village and Asriel wanted to fulfil them their last wish. With the soul of a human and a monster, he alone was able to cross the barrier, however...”

Asgore took a deep and shuddering breath and the Pale King knew how hard it was for him to continue.

“When the humans of the village saw Asriel, they thought he came to attack them, scared by his appearance and prejudiced against monsters as well as seeing the body of a dead child in his arms, thinking he had killed them.” Asgore's hand holding the teacup was trembling. “They attacked him, but Asriel never fought back. Instead, he came back and once he was on the flower field outside the palace, he turned into dust...”

There were tears in Asgore's eyes and a certain image flashed through the Pale King's mind. An image of the Hollow Knight being led to the Black Egg Temple, an image of him reciting the sealing spell, an image of him breaking down in front of the door. He rubbed his eyes, was his foresight acting up again?

“At this day, I swore revenge on humanity who robbed me of my first child after my second just had died.”, Asgore said. “Every human who will fall into the Underground has to be captured and their soul will be used to break the barrier, so that we monsters can finally be free again.”

The Pale King nodded to the words of Asgore, it made sense for him. Everything to keep his folk happy. It was the same for him... to fight the infection he was walking over a sea of corpse.

“However...”, Asgore continued and the Pale King looked up when a big paw wiped over his eyes. “My wife resented this plan. She didn't want to have anything to do with it and left me shortly after my declaration that monsterkind would wage war on humankind. I... never have seen her again since then...”

“...How many?”, the Pale King asked, his own crimes lingering in his mind.

“Six.”, Asgore replied. “One more, only one more until we monsters are free again, but...” Asgore took another shuddering breath and didn't finish his sentence. “I cannot resent my wife for having left me, because I have the blood of innocents on my hands... My level of violence will forever taint my soul...”

“...”, the Pale King didn't say anything at first, before quietly speaking. “How much?”

Asgore raised his head and said: “Pardon me?”

“You looked at our soul earlier. You surely could see it... our... level of violence...”, the Pale King lowered his head, unsure why he was even asking about it. In a sense, he already knew the answer.

“Too high to be numbered.”, Asgore said.

“Of course.”, the Pale King said. “It couldn't be any other way. In the end, we had to make a choice. The same choice that you had to make.”

“...after telling you about my and my people's predicament, would you tell me about yours?”, Asgore asked.

“Very well.”, the Pale King said. “Our kingdom of Hallownest is threatened by a force that we call the infection. It is relentless and deadly. It infects bugs in their sleep and turns them violent, it reanimates corpses and turns them into a threat for any living bug with a mind of their own still. It is... the doing of an old nemesis, which we have been too weak to put an end to once and for all.”

The Pale King had made sure, that the Radiance would have been forgotten, but she had found a way to come back, in the worst way possible.

“I am very sorry to hear.”, Asgore said. “You surely have your own troubles and here I keep you, listening to the rambling of this old goat.”

“We already act on our plan to get rid of it one and for all.”, the Pale King said, his mask an unreadable expression. “However... their had... many sacrifices to be made to enact on this plan. Sacrifices that left our wife sad for having been a part of them. We had run into... complications. The failures had been higher than anticipated until our Pure Vessel finally ascended from the depths below. It shall seal the blinding lights that plagues their dreams and Hallownest will last eternal.”

“Your Pure Vessel?”, Asgore asked. “Who are they?”

“Just a tool.”, the Pale King replied, feeling like the void was clutching his heart. “It's nothing but a construct.”

Asgore didn't dig any deeper. The denial of the Pale King, the level of violence and the way how quickly he had referred to the Pure Vessel as a tool, regret was pasted all over him. Asgore could fully understand him. He had done many despicable things to keep his folk save, as much as Asgore had stained his hands with blood of innocent children. He didn't knew who or what had died for the Pale King's plan, but he knew that it was eating at the Pale King every minute of his existence.

Asgore wondered if the Pale King was fearing that his plan, which he sacrificed so much for, failed as much as Asgore was afraid of the seventh human falling into the Underground, obliging him to declare war on humanity. A day he hoped would never come.

“I would offer my help, if I could.”, Asgore said. “But as you have already seen, me and my kind are trapped in these caves.”

“Our plan will succeed. We made sure of it.”, the Pale King said. The vessel was perfect. It was truly hollow, never showed any emotion and acted only on orders. It would be impossible for the Radiance to break a being without a mind, thoughts, hopes or dreams. His heart sank deep into his chest at the thought of having to seal them however... even though it felt like he would change only a few lives for the lives of millions, the amount of empty shells in the Abyss felt too high. No cost too great. He had known that and now it was too late for second thoughts.

“Would you like another cup of tea?”, Asgore asked as he noticed that the Pale King's cup was empty again. The Pale King subtly shook his head.

“Thank you, but it appears that our SOUL reserves have been recovered. We should retreat back to our own kingdom.”

“Of course.”, Asgore said. “Please allow me to escort you to the barrier.”

The Pale King nodded and when both of them stood in front of the barrier, the Pale King looked at Asgore.

“We may not be able to break the barrier, but we want to offer another option.”, he said, feeling a strange connection with the fluffy king. “Our kind possesses the gift of foresight, seeing into the future. We can use it to look into the strands of your future. There may be a hint hidden in there somewhere.”

“...”, Asgore's speechlessness was somehow be able to be heard. “It can't... hurt to give it a try.”

“Very well then.”, the Pale King raised his claws and laid them into Asgore's big hands. Then, he concentrated on the strands of the future surrounding Asgore, all while his eyes glowed with SOUL, the strands of his future unfolding in front of his inner eyes, taking shape.

Asgore turning into dust... a white goat monster (Toriel?) taking the throne. The barrier remained intact.

Asgore turning into dust... an angry fish woman taking the throne. The barrier remained intact.

Asgore turning into dust... a strange monster made of metal taking the throne... the barrier... remained intact...

Asgore turning... into dust... a monster looking like a human skeleton taking the throne...

Asgore... turning... into... dust... a lizard monster on the throne, overcome by grief and sadness.

Asgore... turning... into... dust... again... a little dog (?) on the throne...

Would every future for Asgore only predict his death? The Pale King breathed heavily as he searched the strands of his future, hoping, pleading that one of them would have a better ending.

Finally... there was a future where Asgore watched the sunrise with a bunch of other monsters.. including a human child in a purple and blue striped sweater.

“Pale King, are you feeling alright?!”

The Pale King felt a warm hand on his shoulder, he was breathing heavily, hunched over the ground, blinking a few times until the strands of future weren't flashing in front of his inner eye anymore. Until he didn't had to see Asgore die over and over anymore.

“Our apologies.”, he said. “Looking into the future can be... bothersome, because of all the possibilities.” He got up and folded his hands behind his back. “There will be a future where the barrier will be broken.”, he said. “Another human will come and they appear to be the key and...” The Pale King looked Asgore deep into the eyes. “Be wary of a yellow flower.”

In all the strands he had seen, it always had been the same being killing Asgore, a little yellow flower with a face and a twisted grin.

“A yellow flower?” There seemed to be a brief wave of recognition washing over Asgore's face, before he frowned and shook his head. “I don't remember ever having met a flower monster...”

“Whoever they were, they mean trouble.”, the Pale King said. “Just... take care.”

“Pale King, I want to offer you my thanks.”, Asgore said. “If you ever need someone to talk to, you can feel free to visit me in my home.”

The Pale King nodded, already deciding that he would never come back. He had gotten too reminded of his own crimes in Asgore's presence. If Asgore would knew the full extent of his sins, he surely would resent him. What were six innocent humans against an abyss full of the corpses of his own children? Especially after Asgore had told him the tale of how he had lost his own?

“Thank you.”, he said instead and untangled the barrier just enough for him to slip through, looking back at Asgore, who raised a hand to wave at him.

At the way back to the Palace, he thought about using his foresight another time, to make sure that the Vessel plan would not fail. He had looked again and again and almost all possibilities had hinted at success, however...

...no, he decided he wouldn't look. The plan would be a success. Asgore wouldn't turn into dust. He was sure of it. (Author's note: I lowkey regret that I started this thing at the table, because now I missed the opportunity to let Asgore say “Howdy”.)

#hollow knight #undertale #crossover #fanfiction #asgore #the pale king #massive spoilers for both games #two sad old man talk to each other #kind of a character study #littlewritesstuff #please be gentle to me

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neerasrealm · 3 years

Text

Bluebird

In which Jay wakes up after entry #80 and tries to catch his bearings. He soon realises exactly what fate it is he’s met. Word Count: 2408

Jay was silent as the strange man holding his hand led him across the barren black wasteland. He didn’t know where he was, or how he’d gotten here. His memory was fuzzy. A mess of noise and faces and phrases that would come and go randomly. The only thing he could be sure of was the dull ache in his stomach that would spike with pain every time he moved. He hadn’t seen another soul in this strange, nightmarish place besides the man in front of him now. He was taller than Jay, with elegant brown hair that was tipped with orangey-red. He was dressed finely in a waistcoat and shirt. Tattoos decorated each of his arms. The one Jay was holding onto had ink running up just below the elbow, making it a bluish grey colour. Neither of them said a word as they walked, but it wasn’t silent, oh no. this place was...loud. There was a constant quiet rumbling noise coming from god knows where, and occasionally he’d hear something shift in the distance, or the random shriek of something. It wasn’t helping Jay’s nerves. Not at all.

‘’Here we are, bluebird.’’ The man broke Jay from his thoughts. Or maybe he had zoned out again- was his memory still fuzzy? Would he forget this all? He didn’t have his camera. He didn’t have anything. Just the clothes on his back and- well...nothing else. Not even his hat…

He looked up. In front of him was a large, three storey gable-front house. It looked so...out of place, just sitting in the middle of the wasteland. It could’ve been a house he lived in, a house just in a random neighborhood somewhere in Alabama. The man pulled him forward onto the porch. ‘’Tell me, Jay,’’ he asked gently as he opened the door. ‘’What’s the last thing you can remember?’’

Jay furrowed his brows and followed the man inside. The interior was cozy. He was in an entrance hall, with large stairs in front of him. There was an entryway on either side of him, leading to two different rooms. Inside it smelled of coffee and...essential oils? He looked around some more. On the walls were surreal oil paintings, and a few plants were put in corners and against walls for decoration. There was a coat rack by the door, and on it hung a couple long black coats, a couple smaller black coats and a blue robe. He looked to the man. He was- well- handsome. Strikingly so. With sharp cheekbones, a five o’clock shadow, and dazzling golden eyes. Sure he was no Tim Wright but- damn-

‘’I…’’ Jay racked his brains, trying to remember anything through the haze his memories had become. Faces and names blurred together, events and times were skewed. Jay paused. ‘’...my best friend shot me.’’ he finally said. His eyes widened. He drew in a sharp breath, which made the pain in his abdomen spike. He gulped. He hadn’t even registered the memory until the words left his mouth. He remembered it now.

‘’Alex?’’

BANG!

...nothing.

He looked down at himself and paused. A shiver ran up his spine. A dark, crimson stain covered his jacket. A large, splotchy circle, and right at centre was the point of the pain. His breathing quickened, his hands shook. ‘’N-no-’’ he gulped. ‘’No- I-I- I’m not-’’ he blinked. ‘’I’m not dead?! I’m- I’m not dead! I’m not I-I can’t be-’’

‘’Shhhh…’’ A hand was placed gently on his shoulder. ‘’It’s okay, Jay.’’ Jay slowly looked up to the man. He stared back at him with soft, gentle eyes. It occurred to Jay he couldn't remember telling the man his name.

‘’A-am-’’ Jay gulped. ‘’Am I dead…?’’

‘’...Yes, and no,’’ The man sighed and looked down. His hand withdrew from Jay’s shoulder. ‘’You...are not alive. Not the way you used to be. You don’t need oxygen, you won’t age or grow, and you won’t get sick.’’ Jay stared at him, confused and horrified. ‘’But you are not dead. You can still walk, talk, take in information. You need to eat, you need to rest. You feel pain. You are neither dead...nor alive.’’

Jay stared down at his hands. They were...bloody. Covered in his own dried blood. He hadn’t noticed it till now. His hands shook and curled into fists. ‘’N-no-’’ he shook his head. ‘’No, I can’t be- h-how-’’ anger coursed through him. He clenched his teeth. ‘’I don’t understand!’’ his head snapped up and he glared at the man. His only response was a gentle sigh.

‘’I know, I know, Jay.’’ his voice was gentle, warm and soothing. He caressed Jay’s cheek with the back of his hand. ‘’You are safe here, blue-bird. I promise you that.’’ he gripped Jay’s shoulders, squeezing them reassuringly. His eyes were so...kind. Jay couldn’t tear himself away from them.

‘’Can-’’ Jay gulped. ‘’Can I ever go back…? Can I- see home again…?’’

The man looked at him sadly and reached up, brushing his hand through Jay’s hair. The touch was soothing. Jay felt like he was almost falling under a spell, like this man had him entranced. ‘’You cannot pretend to be alive, Jay. You are a dead man. A shell of what you were. You can see home but...you’ll never be able to live a life again.’’

Jay stared. His gaze softened. ‘’But I...can still go visit places…? See people…?’’ he asked gently. The man nodded.

‘’From a distance.’’ he replied. He suddenly looked up and over at the top of the stairs. Jay followed his gaze and his eyes widened in surprise. Stood at the top of the stairs was another man. He wore a beige waistcoat with a white shirt, along with black boots and pants. He had long red hair, and on his shoulder sat a small black mouse that ran behind his neck and over to his other shoulder. He stared at the two of them, his lips pulled into a thin line. ‘’Jason! Excellent timing, nounour.’’ the man called warmly. He gestured for Jason to come down to them. The redhead slowly walked down the stairs. He was elegant in the way he moved. Refined, calculated. His gaze never once softened however. He looked...suspicious, of both of them. He stopped at the end of the stairs and placed a hand on his hip. ‘’Jason, this is Jay. He’s a lost soul.’’

Jason turned to Jay, looking him over. His amber eyes seemed to linger on the crimson stain on his clothing before he looked away again. ‘’I see.’’ he sounded almost like he didn’t believe that Jay was in fact, a lost soul. Maybe Jay would have argued with him if he knew what qualified as a lost soul. ‘’How did you find him…?’’

‘’He was wandering the wasteland,’’ the man gave Jason a smirk. Like he knew something Jay didn’t. He turned to Jay. ‘’This is Jason. He’s sort of a...personal assistant of mine. He mostly keeps to himself, but you two will get along,’’ he turned to Jason. ‘’Won’t you?’’

‘’If he stays out of my workshop and cleans up after himself, yes.’’ Jason sounded unamused by the idea of getting along with Jay.

‘’Nice to meet you.’’ Jay murmured. Jason grunted in response. He turned and walked towards the entryway to the right, not saying a word. Jay looked to the man next to him. He rolled his golden eyes and tutted.

‘’Don’t mind him, bluebird. He’s always been a bit mean, but he’s a sweetheart, I assure you.’’ he took Jay’s hand in his own as he spoke and squeezed it. ‘’Come on. I’ll have Jason make you some tea. You like tea don’t you?’’

‘’Uh-’’ Jay was led through another room. This one looked like a lounge sort of area, but he didn’t get the time to really get a close look at everything. ‘’Sure?’’

He was led into a kitchen. It was- well, a kitchen. The appliances looked expensive, and the decor was cheery if you ignored the view of the barren wasteland outside the window. Jason was already filling the kettle with water. He looked up at the two of them and sighed. ‘’Tea?’’ he asked reluctantly. The man gave a soft chuckle as he stopped and released Jay’s hand.

‘’Yes.’’ he replied gently. He walked over to the counter and hopped up, taking a seat on it. He swung his legs. Despite the fact that he was a grown man sitting on a kitchen counter swinging his legs, he still seemed to carry an air of refinement with him. It was...intimidating, almost. The grown man swinging his legs like a child looked at Jay and gestured over to the door on the opposite end of the room. ‘’The dining room is just in there, bluebird. Go take a seat, I’ll get snacks for you, hm?’’

"O-okay." Jay mumbled. Obediently, he walked over to the door and opened it. The dining room had ruby red walls and a dark wooden floor. More of the surreal art hung up on the walls. The only furniture was the large, oval table, chairs, and a cabinet over in the corner. Jay wandered over to it, glancing around the room as he moved, like he was looking for something. He stopped at the cabinet. It contained...china. Fine, fancy china. Like something in an antique shop, or a grandmother's house. He glanced at the lock on the door and reached up, fiddling with the latch. He managed to open the cabinet and grabbed the ornate teapot in the middle of the shelf, examining it closely.

"Beautiful isn't it?"

Jay jumped in surprise and dropped the teapot. He whirled around to see the man again, holding a tray of snacks. He followed the man's slightly saddened gaze down to his feet, where the shattered remains of the teapot lay.

"Sorry-!" Jay said quickly. The man shook his head and walked over to the table.

"Don't worry about it. It was a tacky thing anyway. I didn't like it much." He put the tray on the table and snapped his fingers. The shattered china at Jay's feet burst into flames. He jumped and stumbled back from the fire and watched in shock as the small flames extinguished themselves, leaving absolutely nothing behind. Not even a scorch mark. "Come, sit."

Jay turned and stared at the man. He was sitting with his back to him. Jay gulped and nervously walked over to the table. He sat down across from him, tapping his fingers nervously against the table. "H-how did you do that thing with the fire…?" He asked nervously.

"Hm? Oh-!" The man's eyes widened. "Oh dear- I probably shouldn't have done that in front of you…" he sighed gently. "To put it short, that was magic. It's a skill uncommon in humans, but extremely useful."

"...magic…?" Jay didn't believe him. The other man gave him a nod.

"I know it sounds far fetched, but believe me," he looked over at Jay. Their eyes locked. "Humans know very little of their world. Monstrous creatures exist alongside you all."

Jay blinked. Monstrous...creatures…he looked down as his brain put two and two together. He'd seen one of them. Almost been killed by one of them.

"Something wrong, Jay?"

He looked up. "I-" he hesitated. "I've seen one- a-a monster, I mean." He glanced to the side, pausing as Jason walked in carrying a tray with three mugs on it. Jay chewed in his lip, tapping his fingers against the table again. Jason placed a mug in front of each of them and sat at the head of the table, quickly making himself comfy.

"Drink your tea first, bluebird. You must be shaken up, haven seen something like that." The man's voice was soft, soothing. He pushed the tray of snacks towards Jay. He hesitated, then grabbed a cookie from the tray. He took a bite, and his aching stomach growled with hunger. After quickly devouring the rest of the cookie he took a long sip of his tea. It tasted of...citrus. Huh. Still, it was warm and sweet, and he downed it quickly. Nobody spoke a word as Jay finished quite literally chugging the entire mug of tea. He put down the mug and looked up again.

"What was I talking about again?"

"The monster, my dear."

"Right-" Jay took a moment to gather himself before he continued. "That...thing it-" he frowned. "...it was- hunting me. Hunting us."

"Who's us?"

"Me and my friends. It- it got to my best friend first. A-Alex. It...it drove him c-crazy or something-" he paused. "So crazy that Alex...killed…" he trailed off, his pale, bloody hands clutching his mug. He reached up and wiped tears from his eyes before they could fall.

"What did it look like?" The man asked. Jay didn't see it, but he and Jason exchanged a look.

"It…" Jay racked his brains for memories. "It was tall...and white- its skin was, at least," he pursed his lips, trying to remember anything. Few images came to mind. Standing in a hotel doorway, the thing trying to grab him in the tunnel...laying on the ground looking up at Tim- Tim… "It wore a suit. A black one."

"A black suit…?" The man looked intrigued. Jay nodded.

"And its face it-" every memory Jay could conjure up was so loud. "It didn't have one." He looked up at the man across from him. His golden eyes were filled with terror.

"Him…" he murmured. He turned to Jason for a moment before looking to Jay again. "I know the monster you're talking about. His name is Slender."

"S-Slender?" Jay asked. "We- Alex, called it The Operator."

"Slender has many pseudonyms." The man replied quickly. "He's malicious. A being of manipulation. He'll do anything to get his victims and won't stop until he has them," he explained. "I've been fighting him for centuries…"

"Centuries…?"

"Yes." He replied softly. "I cannot guarantee he won't still come for you. You're not wholly dead. He could still use you." His golden eyes met Jay's. "But I can keep you safe."

Jay gulped. "...you can?" His voice was soft. Scared.

"Yes." The man reached over and offered his hand to Jay. "You can call me Zalgo. And I promise you my protection, Jay Merrick."

#marble hornets #mh jay #jay merrick #jay mh #creepypasta #creepypasta hcs #creepypasta fanfic #creepypasta fanfiction #lore #jason the toymaker #zalgo #zalgo creepypasta

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starswornoaths · 4 years

Text

Of Family and Home

Commissioned writing for @anorptron, posted with permission! Thank you so much for your patronage! \o/

Familial bonding between Edmont and Sage, anorptron’s WoL! This was such a delight to work on, thank you again!

Commission info!

Such was expected of the Warrior of Light, after all.

Watching the ceremony of Ishgard rejoining the Alliance had been easy enough; he hadn’t needed to participate, only be present as a showing of support— not only for the symbolism of the thing, but to support those few he felt close to. Neither Sage’s counsel nor his combat prowess were asked of him, so he offered nothing more than his presence. In a moment of honesty with himself, he wasn’t entirely sure he had it in him to give more than that.

In vain, he had hoped that it would end at the ceremony: at its conclusion, celebrations followed almost immediately after. It was less that Sage had been asked to stay and more that the festivities were so wide spread that it was damn near impossible to leave, and thus he resigned himself to having a flagon of ale pressed to his hand and putting on the bravest smile he could manage.

That, and hoping no one clapped him on the back. That shoulder wound was stinging fiercely in the cold.

For a blessing, Sage’s reputation for having a quiet disposition meant that no one expected very much in the way of conversation from him. A murmur of acknowledgement or a nod of his head seemed to suit, which was a relief: by the time that he managed to leave the festivities behind him, late enough that the sun had fully set, the numbness in his skin and the pain that sunk down to his marrow. It was all he could do to keep moving and cradle his bad arm in a way he hoped wasn’t too conspicuous.

At first, he had just wanted to get away from the crowds and the cheering because none of it felt right and all he could think of was watching Ysayle fade out like a comet streaking across the aether soaked sky, of seeing Estinien grow gnarled and twisted until there was nothing left of the man and all that stood there was a shade of Nidhogg, roaring out the call for the Dragonsong War to rage on. But then, the moment he realized the festivities thinned out the higher he climbed in the Pillars, his destination became clear to him: he had to go home. There was nowhere else left for him to go.

Fortemps Manor loomed overhead ere long, once he’d managed to hobble up the ramp leading to the Last Vigil. The lights from within washed the cobblestone street with warm lamplight, almost beckoning Sage. He prayed there was no one awake at this hour: he knew they left the lights on just in case he arrived, even if no one said it outright.

The door hinges creaked as Sage pushed one of the massive wooden doors open and slipped inside. Though the noise was quiet, it seemed to echo in the stillness of the foyer. Despite the carpet lining the tile muffling his footfalls, they sounded loud to him. He struggled to shake the feeling that he might be intruding, even as the Fortemps had insisted, time and again, that this was his home as much as theirs.

“Master Sage?”

He nearly jumped at the attendant’s voice softly calling out to him, but collected himself once his mind caught up with his hyper alert senses, he returned the greeting as well as he could. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, one of the doors down the hall opened, and Count Edmont stepped out to join them from his study. He seemed surprised at Sage’s presence, eyes widening for a moment before he offered a warm smile.

“My, I thought you would be at the festivities well into the night! Welcome home, Sage.”

“Count Edmont.” He greeted, and were he in better condition, he might have bowed in respect, but even standing and attempting good posture made the pain in his shoulder flare sharply enough that he flinched and curled into himself.

The warmth in Edmont’s smile guttered out into a look of shocked panic, and before Sage could even think of how to worm his way out of being examined too closely, the count was ushering him onto one of the plush couches beside the fire.

“Call upon a chirurgeon, if you please.” Edmont instructed the attendant, who was off into the night with a nod.

“That’s not—”

Necessary, Sage tried to say, but Edmont would hear none of it.

“Nonsense: you are injured, and I cannot in good conscience leave you to suffer so. Come, let me help you out of your coat that the chirurgeon can better look at you.”

Shame and guilt crept up his throat until his face burned with the embarrassment; even if Edmont didn’t view this as a failing on Sage’s part, he did. All the same, he was in no real position to argue with the count, in standing or physical condition, and so used his uninjured hand to work at the ties of his coat.

By the time the chirurgeon arrived, they had managed to get Sage down to his shirt, a simple and thin enough piece of clothing that it was easily moved around as she worked. With each prod and poke of her fingers, the pain spiked, and a frown marred her features.

“Your shoulder is fractured,” The chirurgeon finally said. “There’s some bruising and a few minor lacerations elsewhere, but that shoulder is what concerns me the most. Let’s get you into a sling.”

Though he couldn’t argue the point, the shame pressed down on him tenfold. Here he was, Warrior of Light, Eikon Slayer, unstoppable Bard and immovable object, reduced to this. Unable to protect those closest to him, what few there were, and now, not even able to draw a bow.

Temporarily. It’s only for now. He tried to remind himself, even as he feared how the injury might affect him once he was recovered. It did little to ease the pangs of anxiety at the thought that he wouldn’t be able to fight anymore, all the more as the chirurgeon manipulated his shoulder and arm into the sling to hold it in place. Even the cool touch of healing magic on the wound, easing the pain into something much more manageable, did little to put his mind at ease.

With instructions to leave it in the sling for the next fortnight and reassurance that she would monitor his healing progress by checking in on him regularly. Leaving pain medication for him to be able to comfortably sleep, she left.

In her absence, Sage thought he might be able to slip away into his room, but Edmont was draping a blanket over his shoulders and asking him to sit with him a while and have tea. “We have scarce had a chance to talk with everything that has happened,'' explained the Count when Sage tried to rebuke his offer. “Even had you come in lacking the wounds you bear, I would still speak with you, if you have the energy.”

Did he? Sage wanted to say no, felt the denial on his tongue press against his teeth, but he hesitated. A not insignificant part of him wanted to nurse his wounds and his wounded pride in solitude, aye, but there was another part of him still that yet grappled with the weight of all of his burdens. That part of him, if he were honest with himself, was tired of being lonely.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t quite gotten his legs back under him yet, physically or proverbially. Maybe it was because he could admit that the small part of him that wanted to talk to someone that wasn’t asking after his abilities had some merit. But after a moment more of deliberation, Sage nodded, and eased himself back into the couch.

The subtle tension in Edmont’s shoulders eased in relief, and that warm smile of his was back, crinkling the corners of his eyes. As one of the wait staff brought over a tray laden with cups, a teapot, and two small plates of cookies, it occurred to Sage that Edmont had already asked ahead, likely when he called for a chirurgeon.

“You planned this.” He said before he could stop himself. “After you summoned the healer.”

“What battles we walk away from can leave us with wounds that take much healing.” Edmont said wisely, and reached for the teapot. “And healing is in itself a rather exhausting process, even when it does not change us forever. Room for milk and sugar in yours?”

“For sugar, please.” Sage replied, voice gruff from misuse. He cleared his throat, and once Edmont poured his cup, managed a quiet, “Thank you,” in a clearer tone.

“A sweet tooth, like myself.” Edmont mused with a chuckle when he saw how many spoonfuls of sugar Sage put into his tea.

Not that many more than the count’s own cup, Sage realized with mild surprise. Not knowing what to say to that, he settled for curling his good hand around the handle of his cup and bringing it up to gently blow on it. The steam curled away from him in long, wispy tendrils, but the warmth from it was already seeping into him before he had even taken a sip.

“Was this injury from when you went to Azys Lla?” Edmont asked quietly after a companionable silence had fallen over them.

Sage nodded and took a sip of his tea. After a moment of contemplating its sweetness, he set it down and added another spoonful of sugar. As he stirred it in, he spoke up, “Didn’t want to trouble anyone. It would have healed in time.”

“Perhaps, but it could have healed improperly.” Edmont noted with a frown. “I see no sense in letting you suffer in silence for such a serious wound.”

Ah yes. If it healed improperly, he might no longer be able to fight on as the Warrior of Light. And then where would the world be?

Even as he thought it, Sage winced. Edmont had never made him feel as though he were only kept around for his use— and the Bard reminded himself that it was Edmont who had tried to send him away when the horde had begun to swarm toward the city, intent on casting it into the churning aether below, even knowing that Sage’s might alone could have been enough to turn the tide of battle.

Maybe that was why he had come here, when he had needed to escape the trappings of his title and the expectations that came with it. Because they couldn’t reach him here if he didn’t want them to. Because Edmont would never wield them against him.

“I’m...not good at relying on others.” Sage finally admitted quietly, half into his tea. “But your words have merit. Thank you.”

Edmont studied him for a long moment, teacup and saucer in hand. On the surface, he was the very picture of a noble Count, posture perfectly straight and hands appropriately delicate on the fine porcelain. His expression was almost unreadable but for those bright, discerning eyes of his gleaming in the firelight. After he seemed to find what he was looking for in Sage, his mustache twitched in the ghost of a smile as he primly set his teacup on its saucer and placed them both back on the table in front of them.

“If I may be candid?” He asked, and waited for Sage’s nod to continue, “I fear in speaking formally to you, I failed to make it clear how cherished you are in this house— and not for your use, I cannot stress that enough. You are a ward of House Fortemps due to circumstances outside of your control and ours, that much is true, but you have come to be so much more than that.” After another moment of consideration, he asked, “Do you know what I felt when I first met you, and realized you were just as mortal as the rest of us?”

“Disappointment?”

“Relief.” He said, and Sage hid surprise with another deep drink of tea. “Because you were real. You were human, and suddenly it all made sense, why you fought as hard as you did to make it to our door.” With a chuckle, he added, “When I told Haurchefant that, he said that we were of like mind, in that regard.”

“I failed.” Sage murmured, side stepping a reply to Edmont’s declaration, even as warmth different than tea or blankets settled over his heart for it.

“As have we all.” Edmont said with a shrug. “To expect perfection is folly— even from you. Yet, I fear that your myriad successes, and the legend you have become, have made you the exception in the eyes of many. And aye, even for a time, I was not immune to such thoughts. From the way Haurchefant spoke of you, you seemed almost otherworldly. Impossible, even.”

Ah. Another friend he had failed. Haurchefant had always thought too highly of him, and in the wake of his death, Sage only felt more strongly that the knight had gotten him all wrong. Not that he had ever told him that, knowing the effusive man would have just insisted in that way of his that Sage was wrong.

Not that he’d ever get the chance to now, besides.

“When I fail, it means someone dies.” Sage grit his teeth when he thought of Estinien, of the look of sheer terror on his face moments before it disappeared into Nidhogg’s aether. He set his teacup down to avoid spilling the last of his tea; he realized his good hand was shaking. “Or worse.”

“Such is the burden of any who fight for those who cannot.”

Edmont took a moment to spare a glance down at his own lap. Then, his gaze drifted just beyond it, to the cane that rested against the arm of the couch. Something shifted in his eyes, in that moment, and though they still gleamed, there was a certain sort of darkness there now. Familiar enough to Sage that it pulled him out of his thoughts. After the span of another breath, the Count added quietly.

“Even if it means sacrificing something dear to us.” When he looked back at Sage, that shadow in his gaze did not lift. “I had the chirurgeon called upon because I know what it is to have an injury that never heals properly. I know what it means to never feel quite right again, and still continue to fight to protect those dearest to you, until you no longer can. I would not wish that suffering on you.”

“So I can keep fighting?” Sage asked, not quite able to bite back the bitterness in his tone.

“Sage.” Edmont said his name so gently that he looked up at him in surprise. When he had his attention, Edmont reached over and laid his hand over Sage’s. “You could tell me right this instant that you are never again picking up a weapon, that you would never again answer a call to action, and I would be no less proud of you. You would be no less welcome here.”

“Why?” Sage asked around the tightening of his throat. His voice barely came out in a rasp, choking on the tangled knot of complicated, conflicting emotions that whorled in his throat. His chest felt tight. Nevertheless, he pressed, “Why care if I’m not of use to you?”

“Because I view you as family.” Edmont replied, voice calm and patient. “And it was thanks to you that I was reminded of the importance of letting those I love know that I love them, while I still have the chance...and that I can always do better in that regard.”

“My lord—”

“You need never address me so formally, Sage. I have already failed one son by letting him die thinking I viewed him as lesser, and that he was not loved. I refuse to let it happen again. That we are not of the same blood is of no consequence. As far as I am concerned, you are just as much a Fortemps as any of my sired sons.”

That tightness in Sage’s throat constricted all the more, and he felt a peculiar stinging in the backs of his eyes. He blinked rapidly to dispel it. It wouldn’t do to start showing that kind of vulnerability now, in particular when he was wounded in body and pride for the losses that he had stacked against him.

“I don’t—” He tried to speak, but swallowed thickly when his voice cracked. With a deep, shuddering breath, he tried again to find the words. “I don’t know if I feel I deserve that.”

Another twitch of Edmont’s mustache in a knowing, albeit somber smile. He squeezed Sage’s hand as if to anchor him.

“In all my years, if there is one thing that I have learned, it is that things both good and bad happen to us whether we deserve it or not. The earth does not ponder its worthiness of the sunlight, nor the waxing of the moon. They are merely inescapable facts of life. So it is for me to call you a member of the Fortemps family.” He let go of Sage’s hand and stood, wincing at the way his knee popped as he did. “I only hope that, in time, you will believe yourself worthy of it. Now, it is late for this old and weary man, and you have convalescence to catch up on, if I am not mistaken.”

The twinkle in Edmont’s eye helped Sage swallow the knot of emotions in his throat and nod. The Count’s smile widened.

“To bed, for us both, then— and never you mind the setting: I will take it to the kitchens.”

Shockingly quick for his age, Edmont plucked the tea tray off of the table, though after examining it for a moment of thought, held it out to Sage.

“Take the plate of biscuits, my boy, and have them as a snack if you like.”

Sage did, and as he took it with his good hand, he murmured, “Thank you. I’ll try to be worthy of this.”

“Of the biscuits? I daresay anyone is worthy of biscuits!” Edmont laughed, already on his way to the kitchens before Sage could reply. “Good night, my boy. May your sleep be truly restful.”

Plate of sweets in hand, Sage let himself smile as he wandered to his room— and ah, he supposed he should start calling it his room now, well and truly.

He was home, after all.

#ffxiv #anorptron #writing commissions #Sage Bradley #Edmont de Fortemps #this was so cute and sweet and sad to work on ;o; thank you again for commissioning me!#Sage is a good bean and deserves good things

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marvel-ousnesss · 4 years

Text

The Pirate and the Witch (part five)

(via giphy)

Word Count: 3425

Pairing: Harry Hook x daughter of narissa!reader

Summary: Y/N, an orphan vk who was taken to auradon at a young age, returns to her old home by request of the crown prince. However, things tend to go south at the Isle of the Lost.

Warning: Mild cursing, mentions of hangover

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE DISNEY DESCENDANTS CHARACTERS NOR THE SANDERSON SISTERS. All credit goes to the creators, writers, and producers.

A/N: No Harry in this part, just moving the plot forward; TBH I'm just trying to get through the first movie so I can just focus a bit more on the pairing. So, let me know what you think and don't hesitate to ask if you wanna be tagged in upcoming parts.

Part one

Part two

Part Three

Part Four

masterlist

I sprint to my place, going as fast as my feet allow it, and like I feared but expected, find a limousine waiting for me right outside.

“Give me 10 minutes,” I instruct over my shoulder, not giving the guards any time to protest.

I throw the door and go straight to the closet. Instead of neatly packing, I roll everything up and force it into my backpack. Next, I move to my desk to grab the tablet and folder I brought with me. As I rush downstairs, I mentally do a checklist of my belongings and, panting, I sit on the back of the car.

“Nailed it,” my voice is quiet but full of pride.

A headache hits me as soon as we begin moving; nausea and dizziness follow closely so I shut my eyes and try to drift off.

“Prince Ben is expecting you at the castle,” I groan at the driver’s announcement

“Please tell him I can’t go, I’m feeling a bit under the weather.”

“I apologize, lady Y/N, but I cannot do that. His highness said it was a matter of immediate importance.”

I breathe, “fine then.”

…..

After the familiar but pompous welcome at the entrance of the castle, without even greeting my parents, I’m escorted to Ben’s quarters; more specifically, his ‘office’.

I sit down in front of his workspace to wait for him; a few minutes later, he goest through the double doors, sporting the grin of the Cheshire Cat.

“Tell me everything.”

He walks to his desk and sits down expectantly.

I, however, don’t share his joyful mood. My arms fall to rest on his desk and my head follows, now resting on my elbows and facing down.

Completely disregarding the groan emitted by me, he whines, “Y/NNN.”

Another groan.

“You can’t leave me like this, you know? How was it? Did you meet Maleficent? Jafar?” He gasps, “did you see the Huns’ Troops?”

“No, yes, and no;” I lift my head, so it remains over my elbows, but facing him. “I met the crew of the Black Pearl.”

“Seriously? That’s awesome, I mean scary, I mean… tell me everyth.. are you okay?” His eyes flicker from thrill to worry, and his left hand reaches out to my right arm.

“Just hungover, and really tired, I guess.”

The prince opens his mouth but decides against voicing his thoughts. I bet he was gonna say something about underage drinking, but reminded himself where I was. I chuckle, almost inaudibly.

“Do you wanna lay down for a bit? We still have a few hours before Snow White’s birthday,” he offers.

I nod, “yes please.”

He leads me to his room and helps me make the bed; then, he digs through the first drawer of his nightstand and takes out a small white pill.

“There’s a glass of water on the bathroom sink. I don’t really know how to get rid of a hangover, but I think this and a nap will do the trick.”

“Thanks Ben.”

It didn’t completely do the trick. After what I assume were a few hours of tossing and turning, I’m woken up by my alarm and find myself walking to the bathroom. The headache has lessened, but the sensation of discomfort is still lingering through my body.

I take a cold shower and get dressed. After achieving a simple, yet classy look with the makeup Audrey kept at Ben’s, I go out of his room and head downstairs.

….

So far, everything’s going great. Most people have been dancing all night and all the guests seem to be enjoying the music, the food, and everything else that the party offers. I, for one, danced with Herkie for a bit, and then grabbed a snack with Jane and Lonnie. Right now, I’m making my way back to our family table when I cross paths with my dad.

With the most kind and charming smile, and a stiff voice dripping with formality, he asks “May I have this dance, my lady?”

With a smile matching his, I bow and reply, “sure, dad.”

“Killjoy,” he frowns.

The music grows louder and faster; and before I know it, I’m being twirled around the dance floor guided by my dad’s expert moves.

“You know, the king was worried sick about you,” he says once we return to our original position.

I quirk a brow, “about me, or about me going all rogue and Vk?”

“What are you talking about?” he asks with a small laugh. “You’ve been going rogue ever since you met that kid Ben, totally a bad influence.”

“Yeah, right… Ben’s fault,” I smirk. “Ignoring the fact that I’m your daughter.”

Pretending to be offended, he gasps and snickers, “What are you suggesting young lady?”

“Oh, nothing, dad, nothing at all,” I play coy.

After laughing again, with a motion of his right hand, my dad spins me toward the center of the dance floor and I end up in the arms of none other than Chad Charming.

He tries to speak seductively, apparently forgetting that it’s me who he’s dancing with.

“Y/N,” he greets, making his voice come out an octave deeper.

“Chad,” I giggle, unable to help myself. Does that voice even work on anyone?

“You look great tonight.”

“You too,” I return the compliment. “ But you’d look even better if you didn’t use your macho voice with me.”

His chest vibrates with his chuckle; but, as we dance, his eyes fly across the room.

Already knowing that face, I inquire, “who’s your victim for tonight?”

“Victim? How low do you think of me?”

“I mean, with all due respect-,” this time, it is me who guides his hand, inviting him to spin me. “Who’s the unlucky lady who’s caught your eye?”

“Melody over there, she’s been totally flirting with me lately.”

My nose scrunches, then I point out, “hate to break it to you, but she’s dating the blond guy.”

His right hand abandons my back and he exaggeratedly points at his head, making a face that seems to taunt saying, “duh”.

I roll my eyes at him, “the other blond. The one she’s talking to.”

He shrugs, and voices in a sing-song manner, “don’t know, don’t care.”

“Chad, we don’t flirt with people with boyfriends.”

He pouts, “You’re no fun.”

The song finishes, so I decide to look for Ben; he’s with his dad, sitting at their table and talking.

I take a deep breath before I approach them, and walk to them with a smile.

“Your Majesty, Ben,” I greet.

“Y/N, we were just talking about you. Take a seat.” Ben sends me an apologetic look, after hearing his father’s words.

I thank him and sit down on the empty chair that he pointed to. After offering me some food and a glass of lemonade, the king begins, “I gather that your experience at the Isle was, well, invigorating; I’d love to hear every detail.”

My eyes drift over to the prince, silently asking him for help, but his only response is an encouraging smile.

……

“To be honest,” I take a sip of my tea, “my conversation with the king didn’t go half as bad as I thought it would. I spared the Harry part, and he actually seemed to be kind of proud of my “data compilation,” as he called it”.

The three fairies hum as they listen to my words. I came for routine lessons today, but they managed to get me spilling all the gossip.

“He said the only thing left to do was putting the plan into action, which took me out of guard, really.”

“We’re really proud of you, dear,” says Merrywether.

Flora stirs her tea, “but you need to know that the union of both lands won’t come with an exchange program for students.”

I shrug, smiling at her, “you’ve gotta begin somewhere. And I believe that, the way my trip to the Isle went will make everything else just flow into place.”

Merrywether makes a move to grab a biscuit, but decides against it and takes a handful instead. Settling them on her lap to eat them one by one, she presses, “Tell us everything, how’s the place? Is it true that they eat kittens for breakfast?” She gasps, “or, or that the pirates feed the intruders to their man-eating kraken?”

I chuckle at her fearful antics and explain. “I did find the place frightening, but the people are not as mean as they paint them to be. Well, of the ones I met, only Jafar…”

Flora seems taken aback, “you met… them? How many of them? Did they do something to you? Are you sure you’re not spelled or anything? I think we should scan you for dark magic.”

“Flora, I’m fine. Really.”

“But—”

“As I said, they’re not that bad. I actually got along well with the ones I met.” I claim, “Jack and Gil were really kind to me, just like Maestre Gibbs. I also spent some time with Jay, Jafar’s son, and Carlos de Vil. Oh, and there’s also Harry; when Fairygodmother told me about him, she warned me how vicious and dangerous he was but he was just a bit cocky."

Fauna sighs, grinning at me expectantly, but the joy of her expression falls when I continue; ”A pretty cool guy, actually."

At that moment, the three faes exchange a worried look.

"What is it?"

"It's just," Flora sighs, "we think he may be a bad influence on you, dear."

"Yeah, we've made such huge advances with your progress," agrees Fauna, "and it'd be a shame for--"

"For me to go evil?"

"No, honey, we didn't mean it like that," Merywether tries to mend it, but I know how they mean it; just like the king and queen do.

"Then, how did you mean it? Do you seriously trust me so little? And, and do you seriously think so low of the VKs?" I place my cup on the table, looking at them with disbelief.

“We’re glad that they were kind to you, but you can’t forget what they’re capable of, darling. They’re there for a reason.”

“Them, or their parents?”

With a wave of her wand, Merywether refills the teapot and tray. As she does so, Flora stands up and looks out the window; “Well you know, how’s the saying?, why cure it when you can prevent it.”

“Unbelievable,” I scoff at her words.

Fauna’s voice is soft, and her look is full of pity, “Darling, we just think there are better crowds for you to hang with.”

Unbelievable. However, I manage to smile at her and say, “you have nothing to worry about, I promise.”

They don’t seem to believe me, but refuse to press on the topic; so the three of them exchange looks and flora speaks up; “okay, dear, let’s get started, then.”

Not to be dramatic, but I would’ve preferred a sleeping curse over today's lesson. The first three hours are full of misguided spells, so I ask for a break.

”This isn't working, ” I groan; ”can we please practice something else?”

Merrywether sighs, “let’s work on some transfiguration spells, honey.”

I agree, hoping that it'll clear my mind. Without a word, I then summon a table with three vases, and concentrate to turn them into whatever the fairies instruct me to.

………….

The next day, the sound of my phone wakes me up early; Ben's ready to reveal who he has chosen for the exchange program that we planned, and he asked me to be there when he tells his parents. So, right after breakfast with Aunt Charlotte, I drive to the castle, practically jump out of my car, and sprint to the Prince's Chambers.

Without announcements, I dive through the door; he smiles, "okay, now that we're all here, I'd like to make my first royal proclamation."

Oh don there'll be time for royal decrees, i cant believe you'll be king next month. Sixteen's to young to be king.

You'll do great, Im sure belle

I just smile at him, anf take a seat on the edge of his bed, giving him a nod

He chuckles, but as the words leave his mouth, all the smiles in the room are replaced by serious looks; except for mine. "As you know, I've decided that the kids of The Isle of the Lost are to be given a chance to leave here in Auradon."

Beast's comprehensive and caring facade quivers, as he points out the window, "I know we've spoken about this, but you are talking about the children of our sworn enemies living among us. Such risk cannot be taken."

"Every time I look out to the isle I, I feel like they've been abandoned. They're out there paying for something their parents did and it's time to do something about it." His words are full of confidence and compassion, he's gonna make the best king this people have ever seen. "They deserve a second chance, and I've already chosen the ones who'll inaugurate the program."

"Have you?" the king's voice is challenging, but he calms down when his wife speaks up; "I gave you a second chance," she reminds.

"Children of Jafar," Belle gasps, "Evil Queen, Cruella de Vil, and Maleficent." He doesn't hesitate.

I'm proud of him, but my smile becomes a bit forced when I hear his chosen VKs; it wouldn't be frank to say that I wouldn't've prefered for the pirates to come.

"Maleficent!?," roars Beast, "she is the most feared and vicious villain of the land. Her and those people are guilty of atrocities."

Suddenly, Ben's voice becomes pleading "But their children are innocent, don't you think they deserve another shot?"

The king hesitates,

"You gave me a second chance," I say. His eyes soften as he looks at me. Even if they can be too proud to admit it, the king and queen of Auradon have shown me such affections dignified for a daughter; it would be a lie to say that they didn't care for me.

He tries to toughen up again, but our imploring looks convince him otherwise.

"I guess their children are innocent. "

Ben smiled once again, "thanks dad, you won't regret it."

The day of the VK's arrival comes, and everything was perfectly organized; the band was playing and students and teachers were waving with excitement. You'd say that they all supported the young prince's decision; at least they pretend well (speaking of hypocrite). I chuckle as I look through the school window; even from here, I can see Ben's expression of excitement and Audrey's almost permanent plastic grin. The limo hasn't arrived yet, so I decide to grab a bite before the newcomers arrive.

After finishing my sandwich, I rush down the stairs to meet Ben, and bump into him as soon as I start descending.

"Oh, there you are, guys; come down," he smiles. I look behind me and find Doug strolling down the stairs.

"These are Doug and-"

"Y/N?" Carlos chirps, to which I respond with a smile and a wave.

"You know them?" Audrey questions, "Ben, she-"

"Relax, I'll explain later," he places a hand on her arm lovingly, "As you guys already know each other, Y/N and Doug will show you the rest of the school and will help you with your class schedules."

"Hey, guys, I'm Doupy's son; and this is Y/N, but you already know her, I guess, so," his voice is shaky and his eyes are changing constantly between me and them.

They look at me quizzically, "I'll explain later. Doug, these are Carlos, son of Cruella de Vil, Jay, son of Jafar; Mal, daughter of Maleficent; and Evie, daughter of the Evil Queen."

Doug takes a deep breath, "Great that we know each other; now, I already signed you up for all of your classes so feel free to ask any questions that you have."

"I have one," Mal smirks at me. "Does your pirate boyfriend know you're a pretty princess or did you,"she gasps mockingly," lie to him?"

In that moment, a glare replaces my comfortable smile and electric green sparks slither through my fingers; "I'll be happy to answer all of your school-related questions."

We walk down the hall in a tense silence, until we arrive at the last door of the building; "So, this is it," Doug smiles at Mal and Evie.

They wave and get inside, then I turn around and begin to walk away.

'' Aren't we getting the room next-door?" asks Carlos.

"Nope, now, c'mon," I grin, can't wait to show them their room; they're gonna love it.

I practically jump through the hall and into their room; also the last one down the hall but in the boys' side.

I open the wooden door and get inside, everything is neatly organized but the color pallette is a bit darker than it is for the rest of the rooms. Aside from that, it has the same things as the rest, including the console connected to the flatscreen tv on the wall.

They look at everything in awe, and take no time to throw themselves on the beds. "This is, wow," breathes Carlos; Jay agrees, bouncing on the mattress.

"This," I grab the console controls, "is the best part of all. It comes with 600 games and I'm sure that, if you play the proxy right, you'll have like 400ish more."

The boys come closer to the tv and look at it curiously, "it's like the one you showed me back home, the tablet?"

"Yup, just like that," I throw the control at Jay; "try it."

"Thanks Y/N, I mean, uh, bye."

Jay begins playing, and Carlos sits on a couch besides him; "no, really, thanks Y/N.''

"Bye, guys."

……..

I toss Chad his jacket without looking up from the book I'm reading. He and Ben have a tourney game against the falcons in a few hours and, given that Audrey and I have to cheer through it as well, the four of us decided to gather and work on some homework. Nevermind; Ben, Audrey and I are working on homework while Chad scrolls through the phone his dad just got him.

After Chad breathes out a 'thanks', the room falls silent, but Audrey complains, "I just don't think they belong here."

"Who?," Asks Chad.

"The teaching staff," I mock, "the VKs, you moron."

Ben sighs, putting his shoes back on; "oh, come on, they haven't done anything to us. They're not that bad."

"Ben, their parents are villains; that makes them evil too."

This time, I do place my book down to look at her, "You don't even have a point there; have you forgotten who my mom was?"

"It's different Y/N, you were raised here; and you're not evil, you're our friend;" she smiles at me.

Chad takes a drink of water from his bottle, "well, evil or not, Evie's kinda hot; and she's a nerd too. Got her to do all my chemistry homework."

I scoff, "such a gentleman."

"Seriously, guys, have any of you had a decent conversation with them? They're just like us," Ben insists.

"Y/N has," Audrey points out, placing her pink notebook inside her bag. "In fact, she knows the two boys. You never told us, Y/N/N, why were they so friendly with you when they got here."

Hearing Audrey's question, the three of us share a dissimulated look, and I explain. "Before school started, I went to check The Isle, spent a few days there, no big deal."

"It was all a plan so I could prepare my proclamation, Y/N went there and, based on what she saw, I chose the four VKs that joined the program."

Audrey's mouth is agape, but Chad keeps no mind of our conversation.

"You don't look surprised, Chad," she digresses. "Why don't you look surprised?"

"Only the three of us knew about it, we kept it secret so his dad wouldn't stop us."

"And you didn't tell me? Your girlfriend?"

"I-"

Placing my hair into a ponytail, I question, "Would've you let us go through with it?"

She glares at the three of us, but sighs "no."

She giggles, but we all know to look past that, "Well, your choice couldn't have been worse, Bennyboo."

We get out of the boys' dorm and begin to make our way to our lockers; "what matters is that the choice is made," I shrug.

Tags: @criticizing-blogger

@aspitefullittlebeing @treestarrrrrrrr

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raendown · 4 years

Link

Pairing: None Word count: 4702 Chapter: 4/4 Rated: T+ Summary: Months after the village is built Izuna is near his breaking point. Peace is nice, don’t get him wrong, but he could do without the pale shadow that follows behind him everywhere he goes. All he wants is to understand. What the hell is Tobirama’s obsession with watching him?

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Chapter 4

Stumping in to his friend’s home the next day, the first thing Madara does is sweep the building with his senses, breathing a sigh of relief to find no other signatures smoldering away in some hidden corner. Hashirama has already promised that both Mito and Tobirama will be busy with other engagements tonight but Madara knows as much as the next person how quickly plans can change.

Following the voice that calls to him from down the hall brings him in to the kitchen where he finds Hashirama with his hair pulled back and a frilly green apron tied around his front. It’s an incredibly domestic sight that drives an unexpected sliver through Madara heart. Not that he yearns for this man in any way; he won’t deny that Hashirama is attractive, any blind idiot can see that, but the giant stump is his best friend and Madara has never desired anything more from him. Rather the pang in his heart is a quiet wanting for something like this of his own. Now that he’s achieved the peace he always dreamed of he realizes more and more with every passing day that there still remains one glaring emptiness in his life. He’s lonely.

That’s not what he’s come here for, though. Nor are the questions in his mind the entire reason he’s come either but they are the foremost issue pressing at him and much more important than his desire to find a life partner.

“Just in time!” Hashirama chirps. “Could you set the table please? I forgot to before I started cooking and I don’t want the sauce to burn if I step away from it.”

“Hmph. What a great host, making me work for my dinner.” Even as he grumbles Madara moves to pull bowls and cups out of the cupboard. His eyes fall on the kettle steaming away and he quickly swaps the juice cups for teacups. Green tea with dinner sounds amazing after working himself in to several headaches with paperwork all afternoon, trying to coordinate several different projects while people swan in and out of his office indiscriminately.

“I’m just a little turned around tonight. When Mito told me that she was going to dinner with her friend in the Akimichi clan I thought ‘that’s alright, I’ll have dinner with Tobi’. But then Tobi said he was doing some sort of inspection? I think? He’s staying late at the office anyway and I didn’t want to be lonely so I thought this would be the perfect time to have a nice dinner with you!” As he chatters away he continues chopping vegetables and stirring in his pan, barely even seeming to draw breath. “Then this morning Mito said that her dinner was cancelled since her friend I think picked up a cold or something and that made me worry; you and her don’t really get along that well. So here I am trying to run around and figure out something else to cook that would be fast so we could all eat then you and I could go off on our own somewhere but then she got called over to have dinner with a different friend and I’m just–”

Madara cuts him off before the flood of words can drown them both. “Flustered, yeah, I can see that.” His companion sends him a painfully grateful look.

“You’re always so understanding, my friend.”

“Ugh.”

Doing his best to ignore the fond smile the other man directs at him, Madara sets the dishes out and retrieves the kettle only moments after it boils, transferring the water in to a teapot to properly brew them a batch of green tea. Then he sits himself at the table with a sigh and decides that subtlety is for people worried about offending others.

“Can I ask you about your brother?”

Hashirama's smile turns to curiosity. “Tobirama?”

“No, the other brother that you’ve hidden for years. I’ve uncovered your secret.” When his friend only continues to stare at him with a blank face Madara rolls his eyes. Sarcasm is wasted on this idiot. “Yes Tobirama. What is his deal?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What is his deal? What’s his problem? Did you know that he’s been stalking Izuna around the village since we all moved in here?”

Judging by the look on Hashirama's face he hadn’t known that. Something pops in the pan behind him but the tension between his shoulders is painfully visible as he turns around, voice drifting back across the kitchen with an undertone of caution.

“Can you give me a little more detail?”

“More than you want, probably. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed this! Every time my brother’s in the tower yours is right there up his ass, staring at him from across the room, standing so close they’re practically breathing the same air. And when he’s not in the tower it’s even worse! Tobirama follows him all around the village like he thinks he’s being sneaky – except he doesn’t even bother to conceal his presence! That’s probably the biggest insult of the whole affair!”

As he listens Hashirama removes their dinner from the stove with slow movements. In a strangely quiet voice he asks, “How long did you say that this had been going on?”

“From the day we all got here, as I understand it. I don’t remember if he was doing anything funny the few times we saw him before the migration, neither of us thought to pay any particular attention to him, but I know for sure he’s been stalking Izuna for months now.” Madara scowls. “For the most part Izu’s just confused. Irritated. He’s gotten pretty riled up a few times and said something about beating some sense in to his little shadow but an incident like that could be detrimental to clan relations right now.”

“Has Tobi seemed angry at all?” Hashirama's expression says that he already knows the answer but needs to ask the question anyway.

“No. Well, not at Izuna. He looks really pissed at whoever gets close to my brother and that’s probably the weirdest part. It’s started a few different rumors but Izuna’s convinced that it means Tobirama wants to kill him still and that he wants to do it himself.” As much as Madara can follow the sketchy logic behind that idea he still can’t make himself believe it.

Which is why he feels a very brief flash of vindication when Hashirama shakes his head to deny the half-assed theory. It’s always nice to be right, especially as an older sibling. The flash is very short-lived, however, in the face of how deeply troubled his best friend looks with every word he takes in.

“You’ve noticed some things that I haven’t it seems. I-…I should have been paying more attention. Especially with-” The words cut themselves off for the man to let out a morose sigh.

“Go on?”

“If he doesn’t seem angry then how would you say he does look?”

“Uh?” Madara scratches the back of his head, trying to picture a face in his mind that he’s honestly never concentrated very hard on. “If I had to put a name to it? Sad. He doesn’t look violent or yearning or angry, he just looks, I don’t know, resigned I suppose.”

As though a great weight has just fallen upon his shoulders Hashirama closes his eyes and trembles. “Oh Tobi…”

“There’s something we’ve been missing about this, isn’t there?”

For a long time there is no answer. In silence Hashirama plates their dinner, his eyes far away from the food he carries over to the table. Only the fact that such a mood is incredibly unusual for him holds Madara's tongue until finally he watches the man fade back in to reality looking somehow even sadder than before. Wetness gathers and clings to his eyelashes, so different from the way he is normally given to massive crocodile tears streaming freely down his cheeks.

When he speaks again it is soft and solemn. His words are heavy with a pain that Madara both can and can’t understand, the pain of almost in a way he’s never quite experienced, a pain borne in the name of another you cannot help.

“During the final battle between the Uchiha and the Senju, I’m sure you remember what stopped the fighting.”

“The apparition,” Madara breathes. He can hardly believe that he’s forgotten.

“It was no apparition.” Hashirama drops his gaze to the chopsticks before him, fiddling at the ends without picking them up. “That really was my Tobi. Older but the same. He- it was- it’s hard to explain. You know how smart he is and how he likes to research seals. Apparently years from now he will – did? – invent a seal allowing him to travel back in time and he used it to…to…”

Once more the words stop coming but this time Madara understands as he listens to Hashirama's voice crack and break on a muffled sob.

“Take your time,” he murmurs. He jolts when Hashirama finally meets his eyes, stomach clenching as he takes in the pain and helpless despair staring back at him. He has seen that look before.

“He travelled back in time to kill himself.”

“What!?” Madara sways in his seat with disbelief.

Hashirama brings his hands in close to wring them together. “It’s the truth! And he said the most awful things! Madara, he saved Izuna’s life that day. He – the one from the future – he said something about killing Izuna and that it ‘broke the world’. Said that he would rather kill himself so that I could keep my dream!”

So many different emotions and thoughts and reactions all clash together in Madara's chest he has to clamp one hand over his stomach for fear that it all might come spilling out over the table with shock. It’s too much to take in at once. He remembers that they’d had their speculations, of course, over what had really been going on that day. Yet he also remembers that it had seemed so unimportant in the face of peace, of lifelong dreams coming true, securing the future for his clan and the only brother left at his side.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” he mumbles. “There were two Tobirama because one was him from the future. He was trying to kill himself in the past.”

“Yes! That’s why he disappeared! Or that’s what Tobi says, anyway.”

“Right. And he was trying to kill himself because…he didn’t want…to kill Izuna? But he didn’t kill Izuna.” Madara scrunches his face with confusion, not entirely following. He distinctly remembers seeing his brother this morning and the man was most certainly not dead.

“No I know that. That’s the point. I told you it’s complicated!”

When all he does is cock his head to one side and frown Hashirama sighs and wrings his hands tighter.

“In the life that the older Tobirama lived he did kill Izuna in that battle. But because of that Izuna’s death somehow kicked off a different set of events that led to this village failing, I think. The destruction of my dream. So he came back in time to stop himself from killing Izuna…by killing himself instead. For me.” Another sob cracks his voice and Hashirama closes his eyes.

Madara can understand why. The reality of what he hasn’t known comes crashing down over his head like a mountain crumbling to bury him underneath the hurts he’s had no idea his friend is carrying around. It’s hard to decide what to freak out about first. Should he give in to the shadow of panic that Izuna dies in another world, would have in this one if not for the future’s intervention? Or should he close his eyes in solemn solidarity with the idea of having another love you so much they will damn themselves to lift you in to the light? Either way he has a very strong urge to go home and hug his brother tightly.

Although he isn’t sure he could bear to explain why at the moment.

“So he’s...what? Following Izu around and trying to find a way to apologize? Atone?” Guilt touches him for the way Hashirama flinches at his words but he needs to know as much as he can and this is a conversation he doesn’t wish to put his friend through a second time.

“No, I don’t think so.” Hashirama frowns. “I should have been paying more attention. He seemed to be doing so much better since we came here.”

“Well then what do you think he’s up to? There has to be some kind of reason he’s stalking my brother and I get that it’s probably connected to what happened but I can’t see exactly how.”

“If I know my brother then…then I think he’s trying to protect Izuna. He was so worried that something might still happen, convinced that if Izuna died in any way it would bring everything we’ve built crashing down. It would be so like him to take it upon himself to make sure that doesn’t happen. Oh, my Tobi…”

As Hashirama crumples in his seat Madara fights through the ever-increasing levels of shock keeping him rigid where he sits, dragging himself up out of the fog through sheer force of will to walk around the table and awkwardly pat his friend on the back. Comfort has never been a great skill of his. Trying to do it while he is still reeling himself leaves him feeling more awkward than ever but at least Hashirama seems to appreciate his graceless efforts. After taking a few deep breaths to collect himself the man turns to look up at him with shining grateful eyes that immediately send Madara scurrying back to his side of the table and practically throwing himself in to the chair as though it might shield him from any possibility of an unwarranted hug.

“Protecting him, that’s unexpected,” Madara admits once he is settled. “I think I might have jokingly suggested that but I would never have believed he was really playing guard dog.”

“My brother is not a guard dog!”

“He’s appointed himself as one,” he corrects, perhaps a bit harshly.

“Ah. Yeah. I suppose you’re right. He seemed to be doing so much better since we came to the village. And he was talking to me so well before, confiding. I never would have thought he’d slid back this far.” Hashirama shakes his head.

Loathe as Madara is to be the one pointing it out, he has to ask. “Are you sure he was confiding in you? Or was he just putting you off because he didn’t want you to carry his burdens?”

The widening of Hashirama's eyes tears at his heart and he is more than happy to let the conversation taper off for a short while, both of them eating in silence. He regrets starting their night off with such a terrible subject, mentally kicking himself for his lack of patience, making it even more of a relief when his friend eventually begins to haltingly murmur about something that happened at the tower that afternoon.

He does his best to be a better friend for the rest of their visit. By the time he goes home a couple of hours after dinner Hashirama has stopped looking as though he might burst in to tears at a moment’s notice, so there is that. Tobirama is probably in for a nasty surprise of a conversation when his brother catches up with him and yet Madara can’t bring himself to feel guilty for that. If the man truly is so caught up in his obsession it will probably do him some good to have the one he trusts most knock some sense in to that spiky head of his.

Walking home in the dark, Madara closes his eyes to let his feet continue on the path they know by heart while he stretches his senses out, picking through the confusing mass of signatures as best he can until he finds the one that burns the brightest in his eyes. It comes as no surprise to find Izuna waiting for him at home. Since he knows that his brother is probably waiting impatiently for the answers they’ve been wanting so badly he picks up his pace and hurries along, nodding to the voices that murmur greetings without stopping to chat as Hashirama has been encouraging him to do lately.

Building a rapport with their citizens can wait. This is a more immediate issue.

Izuna springs off the couch as soon as the front door opens, immediately freezing and sliding back down on to the cushions in an effort to seem as though he is only changing positions. Madara hopes he remembers to tease the idiot for that later.

“So how was dinner?” his brother murmurs with affected nonchalance.

“He knew the reason, to answer the question you really wanted to ask.”

Watching his younger sibling literally trip over his own feet trying to lunge off the couch a second time is just the sort of thing that Madara needs to lift his own mood after spending all evening trying to repair someone else’s. Izuna scowls and grumbles in to the tatami mats, crawling across to roll himself under the kotatsu blanket instead and glare until Madara joins him, wheezing with his efforts to contain the barks of laughter trying to spill out.

Amusement can only last so long in the face of such serious news, however. Only a minute or so after he sits down and tucks himself in Madara is talking a deep breath to sober himself again as he tries to sort through everything he’s learned and figure out how to pass it on.

Izuna listens with the sort of serious expression he normally reserves for war meetings and battlefields, brows drawn towards each other in a deep frown that wrinkles the sides of his mouth as well. Though it isn’t exactly surprising that he is able to keep himself from interrupting his silence is almost creepy considering how vocal he’s been about this entire affair since it started. All the frantic energy that he’s clearly been holding inside as he waits at home draining away slowly, bit by bit, gradually replaced by a different sort of tension with everything that Madara has to say. When the tale is over he crawls around the table to lean against his brother’s side.

“Well,” he murmurs, “at least he’s not secretly in love with me.”

“That’s all you have to say!?” Madara squawks.

“Honestly I don’t know what to say to any of that. Somehow the fate of this village rests of my survival? That’s a little strange to think about even if I can sort of imagine why.”

Brought up short, Madara looks down at the head nuzzling in to his shoulder. “You can?”

“Yeah, easily. If you lost me can you really say that you wouldn’t go a little ape shit?” Izuna looks up at him and waits until he concedes with a wry nod then adds, “Now imagine if you were somehow talked in to making peace with the man who killed me.”

The very thought makes him shudder. It’s impossible to imagine a world where he could allow himself to be somehow tricked in an action so terrible – and yet he realizes with a jolt that this is exactly what they have asked of both their clans, of every clan who agrees to move here and call themselves a shinobi of Konohagakure. All that differentiates himself from so many others is the penance he would pay for the powers gifted to him by the Sharingan. Izuna is right; the death of his most precious person would drive him over the brink of madness. Perhaps not right away but the descent would be inevitable from that moment and the process made faster if he were forced to interact with the one who took so much from him.

“So how do you want to handle this?” Madara asks, shaking away the what-ifs he hopes he never has to deal with.

“First thing I think I need to do is go scream in his stupid face. What the hell is he thinking? I mean this whole thing is crazy but if what he did to – what did you call it? – break the world was to kill me in that battle then when his older self came back through time to attempt sui-murder-cide then wouldn’t that have, like, changed the course of events right then? Things should be fine now. I think.” Scrunching up his brow, Izuna’s eyes fall to one side as he tries to think his way through what he’s just said.

Having had a few more hours to wrap his head around all these strange concepts gives Madara the confidence to nod that his sibling has spoken correctly. “That’s how I understand it.”

“Right, so then everything should be fine now. No need to panic. Definitely no need to be following me around like some overenthusiastic babysitter.”

“Be gentle. We both know that I’m the one who’ll have to listen to Hashirama if you aren’t.”

“No promises.” Izuna sits up straight with a sharp look in his eyes.

Madara rolls his own. “At least wait until tomorrow then. He’s probably going to have his hands full with his own brother tonight and I doubt either of us want to be around for that flood of tears.”

Pausing for both of them to shudder, Izuna leans over to rest against his shoulder again.

“Good point,” he admits. “I suppose it can wait until tomorrow. He’s always right there when I get in to the tower so kami knows he probably comes looking for me in the mornings even before I think to check whether he’s around. The second I find him, though, he’s getting the third degree.”

“If you think you can pin him down long enough to listen then more power to you,” Madara scoffs.

As it turns out, the task is both easier and harder than either of them expect. For once in his life Tobirama comes when he’s called, stepping in to the office when Izuna hails him the next morning and looking entirely unperturbed to be shut in to a room with two determined looking Uchiha. Now that he knows to look for the signs Madara notices the man even relaxing a small bit. If not for what he’s learned recently he might never guess that relief is from seeing Izuna locked away safe from the rest of the world.

When the focus of his obsession demands to be left alone Tobirama refuses him flat out with no hesitation, not even a hint of surprise. Clearly there had indeed been another conversation the night before.

“I can handle myself,” Izuna groans after the two of them have gone in circles of demand and refusal several times.

“Your skill indeed is a close match to my own but this is not something I am willing to chance.”

“For fuck’s sake, why?”

Tobirama’s answer brings silence like the cutting edge of a blade.

“Your survival is essential to the survival of my brother’s dream and I will do whatever I have to in order to protect that. If that means I must give my life in place of yours then so be it.” For such profound words he speaks with the lightness of a man who has spent hours considering them. The ease of total belief in a chosen path.

In the wake of his declaration neither of the Uchiha siblings are able to find words for quite some time. Tobirama, strangely, waits contentedly as they try to find their bearings. Whether because he feels better here where he can keep an eye on the one he so desperately needs to protect or simply because he wants to get this over with now so no one will track him down again later, all he does is fold his arms and wait with the air of a man not particularly in a hurry to be anywhere else. Which is ridiculous. He probably has more to do than either of them put together. How he manages to complete his duties around all the stalking is just yet another mystery.

After several minutes have passed Izuna is the first to recover, visibly bracing himself to speak.

“For your brother, huh? I guess I can understand that motivation. I don’t like it, still think you’re insane and need some help, but I can understand. Look, if you’re going to follow me around like a creep anyway at least just come sit in the room with me or whatever.”

“What!?” Madara is jolted back in to motion with indignation. “You’re just going to let him keep stalking you!?”

“He’s going to do it anyway! At least if he stops pretending to be sneaky about it, I don’t know, it would just lower the creepy factor for me.” Izuna shrugs.

Tobirama’s head falls to one side as he contemplates the offer, a little dubious, but in the end all he does is nod and turn to leave without another word. He has an obsession but he also has things to do and when they’re all piled on top of each other here in the tower it’s only too easy for him to monitor Izuna’s chakra for any signs of distress or danger. Considering his sensitivity it would not be outside the bounds of his ability to keep track of every chakra signature that enters and leaves the tower to watch for possible threats.

“Are you insane?” Madara snaps the moment the door is closed, uncaring whether or not Tobirama can still hear them through the wood. His sibling rubs at the space between his brows with a long suffering expression.

“Maybe, who knows? I meant it when I said I could sort of understand his motivation but…think about it. Rather than following behind all the time or hiding in the shadows, if he’s there in the room then it would all feel a lot more normal.” The hand falls for his eyes to linger on the doorway. “And if he’s there in the room then maybe we can show him that I really can handle myself. There’s nothing for him to worry about. Or maybe convince him to get help or some shit.”

The two of them share a look. Madara holds the other’s eyes for as long as he can but in the end he is forced to concede to this as well. It isn’t like he has any better plans himself.

Eventually Izuna wanders off back to his own office as well, leaving Madara alone to stand by the window and look out over the buildings around them without truly seeing anything. All he sees is the sky, blue and never-ending, a freedom he might never have been able to admire again if not for the last piece of his family left in this world. Izuna isn’t the only one who can see merit in Tobirama’s motivations, hard as that is to admit.

Something dark and heavy lies faint on the edge of the horizon, a storm that looks to be coming their way. As he examines the shape of it Madara can’t help his inner Hashirama from comparing it to the climate hanging over the near future. Life promises to be very strange for a while, stranger even than it has been for the last few months, and it chafes that none of them can predict what the outcome will be. He knows as well as any farmer that a storm does not have to be a bad thing. Crops need the rain, summer heat needs to be broken, assassination targets need to be driven off the road in to vulnerable places like roadside inns. Many things might follow a storm.

He can only hope that when the rains pass the sun will come again for all of them. Strangely, against everything he has been raised to believe, he finds himself hoping the same for Tobirama.

#rae writes #madara #izuna #hashirama #tobirama #fanfiction #that's it for this installment of the ATTD series #already started on the next one lol

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eirabach · 5 years

Text

Dangerous Games [1/2]

Hi. I don’t want to tell you how shockingly hard I fell for this ship, but suffice to say this started as a tiny wee one shot somewhere mid season two. And now it’s uh... none of those things. Enjoy? I hope you like tropes...

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go!

Rating: M [eventually]

Word Count: 13.8k ishhhh

AO3: Here

Summary:

In which Penelope plots, and lives to regret it. Possibly.

But then again, possibly not.

[or, Pen and Ink versus TOS episode The Cham-Cham. Except with hardly anything in common with The Cham-Cham. I don’t make the rules. They do.]

There is a peculiar sort of etiquette to tea.

Penelope prides herself on knowing all the funny, fusty old rules that most of her generation have no idea ever existed. The rules she’d learned at the knee of a paper-skinned grandmother, her bony hands holding Penelope’s shaking ones as black lace had blurred her vision, and her mother’s teapot had seemed unbearably heavy in the shocking finality of her absence.

“Careful now, Penelope. A lady must not be seen to tremble.”

Of course according to her dear departed Grandmother, a lady ought not do a great many things.

Ought not make a scene, nor involve herself in politicking. Ought not wear a skirt above the knee, nor ingratiate herself with men whom she’d do better to avoid. Ought not to smile beguilingly. Ought not to welcome such overtures in return.

At least Penelope has always obeyed her in regard to tea.

It comes as easy as breathing; the perfect four minute steeping of the leaves, the gentle six o’clock folding in of the milk, the way she lifts the porcelain to her lips and sips delicately. She’s a study in ladylike composure and British reserve.

If her grandmother knew how hard her heart was beating, how she struggled to keep her hand steady, if her grandmother knew why -

Somewhere in the distance, she imagines she might hear the sound of the chapel’s flagstones rippling as her grandmother’s bones spin wildly in the vault beneath.

A giggle bubbles helplessly up from behind the rim of her teacup.

“Something funny?”

“No I - Would you believe I was thinking of my dead grandmother?”

“Oh yeah? Hilarious. Almost as funny as this - thing . What is it?” Gordon holds up one of the delicate little crustless sandwiches, the ones she’d made herself after sending Parker and the cook away, and peers at it with a disdain she finds offensive.

“It’s Coronation Chicken,” she says with a sniff. “It’s a classic filling.”

Gordon drops the sandwich back on the plate and nods solemnly “Of course it is. Mind if I stick to cake?”

She giggles again. Giggles, for goodness sake. The chapel shudders around her grandmother’s post-mortem assault. “Not keen?"

Gordon appears mortified, shaking his head frantically. “No it’s - I mean - This is, nice? You know. The tea, it’s nice.” He pats his belly and leans back like a man truly satiated. “Really great tea, Penelope. Really.”

Penelope hums politely, sets her teacup down with a final sounding clink , and takes a moment to observe her guest.

Sat on the little velveteen loveseat Gordon looks awkward, cumbersome, in a way he never usually does. His eyes are bright, his mouth as quick to smile as ever, but there’s a tenseness in his jaw she doesn’t remember from before the incident. A twitch in his fingers that she’s never noticed before.

And if there’s one thing Penelope has become good at in recent months, it’s noticing Gordon Tracy.

He might be free of the casts and braces now, but he still holds himself as though his body might betray him at any moment and send him sprawling at her feet. She’s heard the stories. Been pre-warned. She knows it might.

(She doesn’t know if his heart is racing like her own. Doesn’t know what she's supposed to do if it isn’t.)

He’s fiddling with the tea cup now, back ramrod straight in a way that absolutely cannot be comfortable but is surely demanded by the shades of older brothers and a military father when one is invited for tea with a Lady. And maybe she knows the etiquette, but Gordon is following the rules.

Penelope makes her own rules.

She takes a breath and reminds herself that she’s not the only one out of her comfort zone here. If they can take down international criminals and rescue recalcitrant Frenchmen they really ought to be able to manage a civilised cup of Assam.

“Well that is a relief,” Penelope sighs, and sits back a little in her seat, feet crossing and uncrossing at the ankles. “I am rather an expert at afternoon tea.”

“Really?” Gordon sounds genuinely surprised, but quickly schools his features into something that he probably thinks looks neutral. Penelope doesn’t think Gordon could wear a neutral expression if his life depended on it.

“Surprising, is it?”

Gordon shrugs his good shoulder. “I thought that was what Parker was, y’know. For.”

“Never let him hear you say that,” she scolds, only half joking if that. “And to be perfectly frank with you he’s rather a philistine when it comes to tea. Would you believe he puts the milk in first?”

“No,” Gordon gasps, mock scandalised. “The audacity.”

He leans forward then, closing the distance between them and casting a shadow over the now neglected cups. “Bet I know someone worse.”

Penelope raises one eyebrow. “Indeed?”

“Ever met my Grandma?”

“Touche.”

He grins. "Thought so.” Then, slightly chargrined, “Don’t tell her I said that.”

“I’ll never tell,” Penelope agrees.

“Thing is -” he picks up another piece of Victoria sponge and studies it as he speaks, “she’s been great recently. She really has. And it must be boring for her stuck following me around all day - or not. I mean she can’t even follow me half the time I’m just sat there. Beached. And I love her and all but jeez - ” he puts down the cake and looks at Penelope like a man condemned. “I can’t eat anymore of her cooking, Pen. I’ll die.”

“Somewhat dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Have you ever eaten her meatloaf, Pen? Have you? No - “ he holds up a hand “no you haven’t, because if you had you’d understand.” He sighs dramatically, picks the slice of cake back up, and stuffs it in his mouth.

Penelope watches him chew with narrowed eyes, the germ of an idea forming in her mind.

It’s probably not a good idea.

It’s objectively a terrible idea.

Gordon’s still healing.

Her heart rate still won’t settle.

Her superiors will be furious.

His superior will lose his mind.

But Penelope is Penelope. And Penelope lets the words fall from her lips regardless.

“Gordon, have you ever been to Geneva?”

----

Last time Gordon had been to Geneva, Scott had helped drop him into the centre of the supreme hadron collider.

Scott’s got a case of deja vu.

“Geneva. With Lady Penelope.”

“Yeah,” Gordon grins at him from the other side of their father’s desk. “Pretty awesome, right?”

“Pretty,” Scott agrees, eyes wandering over to the half drunk bottle of scotch he’s going to need after this conversation. “Is it uh, a personal trip?”

Gordon’s ears flush pink, and Scott finds himself wishing for a full bottle.

“Penelope’s working.”

That’s not exactly an answer. It’s probably the only answer he’s going to get.

“And you’re going along for the scenery?”

“She asked me,” Gordon says, as though that’s all that could possibly matter. To him, it probably is.

Not for the first time Scott wonders if there’s anything Lady Penelope could ask of Gordon that he wouldn’t agree to in less than half a heartbeat. Not for the first time he sends a silent prayer of thanks that she’s on their side.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Gordon.”

“Why not?” Gordon’s smile fades into a scowl. “I’m no good to anyone here. You’re sick of the sight of me”

“That’s not true,” Scott says, reassuring. False. Because the truth is Gordon is grounded. And a grounded Gordon is a bored Gordon. And a bored Gordon is little better than a menace. But a Gordon halfway around the world and embroiled in what Lady Penelope calls work sounds a lot worse.

There’s only so much Colonel Casey can cover for them. They need the GDF onside.

And it isn’t that Scott doesn’t trust his brother, it isn’t, but he’s been Gordon’s big brother for twenty five years now, and the kid has form . Form and a fractured spine. Form and legs that can’t quite hold him steady on the other side of the desk.

When it comes to Gordon life is entirely heart over head, and that’s a risk Scott just can’t take.

He shakes his head, watches Gordon’s face fall, and swallows the guilt as he speaks.“You can’t -”

“No.” The venom in Gordon’s voice is enough to stop Scott in his tracks. Gordon leans forward, pressing his weight into his knuckles where they’re curled at the edge of the desk. “No, Scott. Just listen to me ok? I’ll tell you what I can’t do. I can’t sit here any longer just - just watching . I need to do something. Be useful.”

“You can be useful here!”

“Can I?” Gordon rocks back on his heels, and Scott can’t help but notice the unsteady little sway that follows the action. “Because all I’ve done for the past six weeks is sit on my ass , Scott. Grandma won’t even let me run dispatch for God’s sake. You let EOS run dispatch.”

“EOS isn’t injured.”

“EOS isn’t even human!”

“Fine, you want a job? I’ll find you a job.”

“I’ve got a job. Penny’s - “

“Penny.” Scott half scoffs. “Listen, what Penelope gets up to is only as much of our business as it absolutely has to be, I can’t have you compromising International Rescue’s reputation.”

Gordon’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Penelope would never -”

“No.” Scott stands, and the height difference between the two of them is suddenly as pronounced as it was ten years ago when the rows were over innocent things that felt so dangerous at the time. “She wouldn’t. Which is why I can’t figure out why the hell she’s invited you along.”

This time the sway is more pronounced, a bodily ricochet from words that Scott already regrets. “I didn’t -”

Gordon brushes off the hand reaching for his shoulder, eyes suddenly darker than Scott remembers seeing them in years. That would have meant tears once, he remembers. Now it’s the herald of something far worse.

“Right,” Gordon says, voice unnervingly steady. “I hear you. Loud and clear.”

“Gordon I didn’t mean -”

“Mean what?” the false jollity is somehow worse than the anger he’d expected. “That I’m not the obvious choice for a covert op? Well jeez, Scotty, the thought hadn’t occurred to me!”

“That isn’t what I mean and you know it. ”

Gordon twists his mouth into an approximation of a sneer that sets Scott’s teeth on edge. Somewhere beyond them he can hear the chime of an incoming call, but he can’t quite bring himself to break from Gordon’s glare to answer it. John will redirect it. Scott has his own situation to deal with.

“Isn’t it?”

“I just don’t like the idea of it, Gordon, You’re not a spy. It could be dangerous.”

Gordon does laugh then, a great belly laugh that has him clutching at his knees and wheezing from damaged lungs. “Dangerous. You’re funny, Scotty. You should be the funny one, you’ve a real talent.”

He turns to leave, and Scott tries not to wince at the stiffness he sees, the mental load he’s dropped on already physically pained shoulders.

“Gordon, wait.”

To his credit Gordon does, but he doesn’t turn around and Scott is forced to deliver his next words to his back.

“If you go, just swear to me you won’t over do it, okay?”

Gordon’s shoulders drop as he turns and throws Scott an exasperated look.

“It’s just a party, Scott. I’m great at parties. The best. It’ll be fine .”

Yes, Gordon is great at parties. Really great. Too great. International news making great. That is a further complication he hadn’t wanted to dwell on. Scott sighs.

“Penelope’s parties are never just parties , Gordon. Remember that.”

Gordon clearly takes this for the implicit permission that it is, throwing Scott a distinctly poor salute and - if not beaming, exactly - smiling more broadly than he has since he woke up in hospital blues.

“Scouts honour!”

“Weren’t you expelled from the Scouts?”

The grin’s a little wider, now, and Scott’s heart a little lighter for seeing it. “I’ll never tell.”

Scott watches him leave, still leaning a little on the railing to help him up the stairs, then flicks the comm on his father’s desk over to the secure line. Penelope doesn’t take kindly to either instruction or demands, but if she wants to drag Scott’s wounded brother out of his sight she’d better get a handle on both.

She must be expecting his call, the comm chiming out only once before she’s hovering above the manila file that contains Gordon’s hospital discharge papers and the details of Tracy Industries latest bequest.

“Scott.”

“Lady P. I expect you know why I’m calling?”

One perfect miniature eyebrow rises slightly. “I assure you, I haven’t the faintest. Business or pleasure?”

Her Ladyship loves to play this game. Normally there’s some urgent disaster relief effort or international criminal conspiracy that prevents the two of them from taking pot shots at each other. But occasionally she’ll get in a dig about old money versus new, or he’ll cast aspersions on the validity of the English aristocracy in the twenty first century, and their conversation will devolve into the sort of sniping battle of wits that only two people with their history and connection can enjoy.

It’s been months, though, and maybe Penelope has forgotten that Scott can play this game too.

“You tell me,” he says, “what exactly are your intentions toward my little brother?”

And maybe Scott’s forgotten the rules, because small and blue tinged she may be, but Lady Penelope is absolutely hovering above his father’s desk and blushing .

“Jeez, Penny,” he says, somewhat taken aback by her reaction but somehow also not altogether surprised. “Did I strike a nerve?”

Penelope’s face fades back to its normal porcelain and she sniffs in that haughty fashion that she only ever uses when she’s trying to get one over on Scott.

“Nonsense, Scott. I have no nerves, you know that. I simply thought Gordon could do with getting off that island for a little while.”

“He came for tea, didn’t he? He’s not a prisoner."

“No?” There goes that eyebrow again, and even though she’s looking up at him Scott has the distinctly uncomfortable impression she’s actually looking down on him. Penelope makes him feel uncomfortable a lot. It’s a skill not many people possess, and one that she has in common with the brother in question. “I don’t think the realities of Gordon’s current situation are entirely in line with how he feels about it. He came for tea and quite frankly he was such a misery I didn’t know what to do with him. He’s bored witless, Scott.”

It’s Scott’s turn to raise an eyebrow, but Penelope doesn’t rise to the bait.

“So you thought you’d involve him in a little light espionage?”

“Well yes,” Penelope says in that gleeful sort of tone that means she’s got an idea and Scott is about to agree to it. “I thought it would do him good. Exercise his mind.”

“Yeah his mind , Pen. You know he’s nowhere near 100%. If it comes to a fight -”

“I’m perfectly capable of dealing with any threats that may appear.”

“And if you need back up?”

Penelope smiles, small and secret. “I’m perfectly capable, Scott.” Then, harsher. “Don’t you think Gordon can look after himself?”

“That isn’t the point."

“Actually,” Penelope says, not unkindly, “it rather is. Let him feel useful, Scott. I’ll keep him out of trouble.”

Scott doesn’t even know why he’s arguing. Gordon has already received his tacit permission and will no doubt be already be throwing his belongings into a case with as much joyous abandon as a half healed broken arm and fractured cervical vertebrae will allow. It’s as much of a waste of breath as Penelope thinks it is, but he tries anyway.

“I’ve been attempting that his entire life, Pen. Current events notwithstanding, my success rates have been pretty poor.”

“Then let me try.” Penelope crosses her arms and lifts her chin in that way that always means that she considers the conversation finished. Her rule, law. “I will return him to you in no worse condition than I receive him.”

“How encouraging,” Scott deadpans. “All right. Fine. You can have him. On two conditions.”

“I’m listening.”

“One, you keep an open comm to Thunderbird Five at all times. If anything goes wrong we will extract you both and we won’t care about your cover, understood?”

“Unnecessary, but understood,” Penelope says. “And the second?”

Scott takes a moment to think how to phrase this oddest feeling of requests. More than hospital next-of-kin, more than field commander, this feels most like a job that Dad should have had and he feels a brief frission of irritation with Penelope for not just waiting until Dad was back to do it. He takes a deep breath.

“When I say look after him, I don’t just mean don’t let him get into a bust up with some mafioso. I don’t pretend to know what’s going on between you two, and frankly, I don’t want to, but -”

Penelope holds up her hand.

“If this is the part where you threaten to have me killed if I break your brother’s heart then, please, stop there. You have nothing to fear in that regard, Scott. I promise you.”

Her tone is cool, her words more so, but that faint pink flush is on her cheeks again and Scott can’t help but test her one more time.

“You know for a good spy you’re a horrible liar."

The scoff and the snapping off of the comms link is really all he needs to prove him right.

----

It really ought to have been Scott.

If it were to be any of them, of course, and perhaps in a different world it wouldn’t have been. Perhaps there would have been someone else, if she’d been someone else. If she hadn’t been his daughter, and they hadn’t been Jeff’s boys. If the world was kinder, perhaps, and hadn’t taken them all for its own. But she wasn’t and there wasn’t and it wasn’t. And it really had ought to have been Scott.

He’s six feet plus of all-American primogeniture topped with blue eyes and dimples and filled with a sense of duty so finely tuned that sometimes it makes her teeth itch to hear him. And she, well. She’s old money to his new. Pretty and pink cheeked and connected. A perfect little love story boxed up and beribboned and really not a love story at all.

Love stories aren’t for the likes of them, after all. Much better to be practical than romantic, when one distracted moment might get you killed.

It makes sense. Scott. Her father had thought so, and his. Parker still does, and her refusal to agree is a needle in his side.

( “H’I won’t live forever, M’lady,” all too often muttered under his breath as they wave Thunderbird One off from the manicured lawns, though she suspects he will, regardless. On purpose, even. Determined to see her down the aisle on the arm of someone he deems h’ppropriate.)

It isn’t Scott though. It was never Scott.

As long as it’s been anyone, it’s been him.

Which makes this all the more inauspicious a beginning.

Penelope is used to travelling under the radar as and when required. The economy seating and stretch polyester are a small price to pay for the anonymity they can afford her on the flight from London to Geneva. Any faintly curious glances sent her way are soon dissuaded from further investigation by her day-three hair and shiny leggings. That girl might look like Lady Creighton-Ward, but she wouldn’t be caught dead looking like that. Simple. Effective. Utterly depressing when Gordon turns up looking like that.

He practically bounds out of arrivals, all bright yellow glee, his case swaying on the trolley as he drags it along behind him, and the dreadful Swiss grey neutrality of the airport brightens like sunshine at his approach. If no one looks twice at her they crane their necks to look at him, and maybe she hasn’t quite thought this through.

Gordon has never really been one to blend in.

“I’ve never seen anyone look so happy after an economy flight,” she says wryly as he sweeps her own cases up and balances them precariously on top of his own. “Doesn’t your back ache?”

The smile shifts into a grimace, followed by a one shouldered shrug.

“I’ll live.”

“So you’ve said.”

She really hasn’t thought this through. Not when she was talking her superiors into allowing him to accompany her, nor when she was trying to convince Scott of the same. At no point in her appeals to his bravery, his quick wit, his need to do good, had she outright considered the truth of the matter.

Penelope hasn’t the faintest idea what is supposed to come next. Outside, of course, the clinical and satisfying success of a job well done. This - whatever this is - is a mystery.

And the other passengers filter away, leaving the two of them standing, silent, three feet apart and breathing the same recycled air.

“So,” he’s still grinning at her, waiting for her. Always waiting for her and she with no clue how to proceed. How inconvenient. “You ready?”

----

There’s no FAB1 waiting outside Geneva airport. No Parker to glare meaningfully into the rear view mirror and set her at ease with his usual maudlin complaints about Swiss road systems. Instead the two of them make their way toward the long line of automated taxis provided for the airports regular clientele.

There’s a long and rather embarrassing moment of confusion when it turns out that neither Penelope or Gordon have the faintest idea how to program one. Money, it seems, does not buy everything, or in this case perhaps it has brought them both a little too much.

After much poking, prodding, and occasional language unbecoming to a Lady, they eventually pull away from the airport and away from the beaten track. The car makes its way through twisting mountain passes, the low afternoon sun barely visible through the peaks until they begin their final descent. The valley before them is lit up as the little vehicle makes its way along a narrow, rock-strewn path before veering left into a cleft that had lain hidden in the shadows. The ride through the narrow little crevasse is less than comfortable. Gordon turns paler with each jolt of the suspension and Penelope winces in sympathy.

“It isn’t much further,” she offers as helpless reassurance, but he doesn’t answer beyond a tight nod and gritting of teeth. She wants to tell him that it will all be worth it but that seems like an arrogant presumption, at least that is until they emerge from the crevasse into a secret pocket of unutterable beauty.

Then, at least, it feels more like an observation than a promise.

“Now, wasn’t this worth the trip?"

The car stops a few dozen metres from the shore of a crystalline lake, its waters liquid gold in the sunlight, the mountains rising around it pink as rose quartz. At the Northern shore stand a cluster of traditional alpine chalets, the largest of which is built into the mountainside and rises above the others capped with a blanket of undisturbed snow. It is, Penelope concedes to her own satisfaction, truly lovely.

Perhaps this whole thing may work our rather well after all.

“Wow.”

“Wow, indeed.” Almost without thinking about it she takes him by the hand and tugs him behind her until they’re stood at the foreshore, the setting sun burnishing the edges of the mountain above them. “It feels like we might be a million miles from anywhere.” Then, at his hummed agreement. “Not that you’re not used to that, of course.”

“I dunno.” Gordon leans forward for a better view of the water. “No rockets taking off during swim practice? No Scott hovering around like a bad smell? No John in charge of the TV repeats?” He straightens up and grins at her. “Sounds like paradise to me.”

“Am I to assume that my company is preferable to Scott’s?”

“Penelope I mean this in the nicest possible way, but I would rather spend a weekend caged with starving piranhas than spend another ten minutes watching Scott give himself a hypertensive crisis every time I sneeze.”

“Is it truly that bad?”

“It’s worse .” Gordon swings their joined hands and she tries to relax into the motion, but this sort of easy affection is as alien to her as the good natured way that Gordon scoffs, “he’s a goddamn nightmare when he’s worrying. I don’t know how Alan puts up with it.”

Penelope, who rather suspects Alan quite likes being smothered in affection no matter how oddly expressed, lets go of Gordon’s hand in order to tuck her arm through his.

“I’m afraid I did have to promise Scott I’d look after you.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Like a pet?”

“Like someone recovering from a rather ghastly accident, which -” she holds up a finger to silence him before he can begin to protest, “I am afraid that you are.”

“I’m practically better!”

“Practically won’t get you back in that submarine and it won’t wash with me either. Now come along, it’s cold.”

He mutters indictments under his breath, but allows her to keep her arm tucked through his until they reach the door of the smallest chalet.

“Better bring the cases,” she tells him as she enters the keycode, “these automated taxis run strictly to time and we wouldn’t want to send all our clothes back to Geneva.

He opens his mouth. She raises an eyebrow.

“Fine, okay, but I thought I was an invalid? You’ve brought enough cases to clothe most of Switzerland.”

“And I thought you were practically better, and a gentleman.” She shoos him off, he rolls his eyes, and the little chalet that will be their temporary home is revealed just as the taxi begins its lonely journey back to the airport.

The two of them stand alone at the threshold, cases piled at Gordon’s feet, and a little warm flame of satisfaction grows in Penelope’s belly and spreads to her hands, her chest, her face.

Perfect.

She steps into the room, turns to him, and smiles.

“Well? What do you think?”

-----

Gordon does not read romance novels. Doesn’t read much of anything if he’s being totally honest, not unless Brains’ manual updates and John’s debriefs count. And even if they do - well, John’s couldn’t be further from romantic if they tried. Brains’ gushing prose is usually directed towards things beyond Gordon’s personal proclivities. So he doesn’t read Romance novels. He never has.

Grandma loves them.

And maybe it’s by osmosis, or maybe it’s because he seems to have spent an alarmingly large period of his life confined to bed and her tender mercies, but Gordon knows quite a lot more about romance novels than he’d really care to admit.

He’s rich. She’s feisty. There are love children and doctors and sheikhs and vestal virgins with the sexual appetites of extremely rampant rabbits. There are misunderstandings and malicious exes. Elevator breakdowns and holiday romances and office politics.

There’s only ever one bed.

There isn’t an induced coma on Earth that could stop him from figuring out where that particular plot point goes.

There is, however, a non zero chance that he’s still unconscious somewhere on the seafloor or battling his way out of a coma, because there’s no way, absolutely no possible way that this could actually be happening. This must all be some sort of dying man’s daydream, albeit one with a depressing amount of physical therapy and way too many annoying brothers.

Penelope’s still standing there, waiting, and she probably thinks he’s gone insane and that’s okay because he probably has and he knows that Alan must have set this up somehow. Someone is bound to come bursting through the curtain at any moment and did you see his face, Lady P?

Gordon? Are you quite alright? You look like you may be about to have a stroke.”

Oh, beautiful . What phrasing. It gets better.

"I uh - I think there might have been some sort of mistake?”

Gordon stutters his way through the question, frozen in the doorway with nothing between them but the mound of cases and a signal fundamental fact: the bed is not a mistake.

Penelope Creighton-Ward doesn’t make mistakes.

“Hardly, darling,” she says, sashaying into the room proper and pulling a small black box from the front pocket of the leading suitcase. “We are supposed to be playing a couple, you know. Separate rooms lead to gossip. Gossip leads to suspicion.” She presses a couple of buttons on the little box and the room is bathed in a soft blue glow and a high pitched sound that fades away to leave ringing in Gordon’s ears.

Or maybe that’s just his brain finally disconnecting from reality. There’s no way this is actually happening. This is a prank. The worst prank. He’s going to kill Alan. Kill him.

Penny looks at him with an expression of pinched concern.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

No. Yes. God he didn’t think this through. Scott was right, this is a dangerous game.

He doesn’t think he can manage to answer, so instead he nods at the black box.

“What was that?”

Penelope slips the device back into her suitcase and busies herself with the bedside holocomm.

“A broad spectrum communication blocker,” she says, turning the holocomm over and examining the base. “It will prevent anybody listening in on us.”

Gordon’s mouth goes dry at the implication that there might be an us to listen in on, but Penny seems unfazed. She concentrates on peeling a small silver disc from the bottom of the holocomm and pockets it swiftly.

“There,” she says, “much better."

She drops to sit at the edge of the bed, folds her hands in her lap, and smiles up at him beatifically.

“Well?” She pats the bed beside her. The ringing in Gordon’s ears is starting to sound like the emergency alarm. “Are you going to stand there the whole time?”

Gordon doesn’t move. Can’t. “Probably, yeah.”

“Gordon.” She’s stern, but not unkind. “I feel fairly confident a lady has invited you to sit on a bed before now.”

Oh, sure, yeah. Ladies. Plural. Several. But a Lady? Capital L? Penelope?

“Not as often as you’d think,” he says, then wonders why the hell he said it. This is going to be a hell of a long weekend if he can’t even get a grip on his mouth.

But Penny laughs, and when Penny laughs his own inability not to humiliate himself feels slightly less of a burden. “I promise, your virtue is safe with me.”

Penny bounces slightly on the bed, the springs squeaking beneath her, and smiles wickedly when he groans.

“I’m fucking all this up already, aren’t I?”

She unfolds her hands and smooths them over her knees.

“Stuff and nonsense,” she says, not quite meeting his eyes. “I have every faith in you. You only have to pretend to be utterly devoted to me, how hard could it be?”

He doesn’t even begin to know what to say to that, but luckily she doesn’t seem to expect an answer - just shakes her head a little bit and reaches out to pat him on the knee.

If Virgil ever found out how close he comes to falling over at that moment he’d never ever live it down. Ever.

“Oh, Gordon. Honestly. I’m just teasing you.” She stands and moves to drag the cases onto the bed. This at least reminds some primordial part of Gordon’s brain that he’s supposed to be a gentleman.

“I got it -”

Penelope lets him take the case from her, but watches him hoist it onto the bed with a furrowed brow.

“I don’t think you do, actually.” She catches hold of his sleeve as he turns for the next case. “Sit.”

“Not Sherbert,” he grumbles. She twitches a single eyebrow. He sits.

“We have until tomorrow morning to make sure our cover is air tight, and to do that I need you to listen to me.”

“Just as well I’m great at taking instruction.”

“Is that so?” And she’s blushing, just a bit, just at the crest of her cheekbones, and this is better. This Gordon can do .

“Ask John, oh, wait,” Gordon grins and holds up the holocomm. “You can’t. Guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“Hmm,” Penny taps her fingers on her hip bone and holds up the tablet between them. “Speaking of situations.”

“I thought we were speaking of John?”

“Is there a difference?” They grin at each other, and the hysterical butterflies calm, just a little bit. Okay, so he’s sat on a bed with Penny. So he might be sleeping with Penny (the butterflies mount a resurgence just at the thought, no matter how literally meant), but it’s Penny, and it’s him. They can do this. They’ve been beating around this particular buddleia bush for years. Nothing’s changed.

Then Penny scoots just a little bit closer, lays the tablet across both their thighs, and - maybe.

Maybe things are changing, just a little bit.

“Here.” Penny opens a file and the room is bathed in soft green light. Above them hovers a man on the wrong side of middle age, head polished to a gleaming shine, moustache bristling above unsmiling lips. “Recognise this gentleman?”

Gordon squints up at the image, a tickle of recollection at the back of his mind.

“I think - yeah, maybe. I think I’ve seen him before. Hey,” he lifts his chin and peers a little closer. “Wasn’t he at that shindig you took Scott to? The one with the Russian incident?”

“The less said about that the better,” Penny mutters, but then, “Yes. He was there. He’s Colin Vishkin.”

And Gordon might not be too great at faces and he might spend most of his life forty thousand leagues under the sea, but he doesn’t live under a rock .

“As in -?”

“As in,” agrees Penny, and skips to another file. This is a news report, looming over them with Vishkin’s still unsmiling face projected over the anchor’s shoulder.

Mr Vishkin, who manages some of the music industry’s brightest talents, was unavailable for comment after today’s revelations. Sources say -

“Hang on.” Penelope pauses the playback and looks at him expectantly. “ Colin Vishkin is coming to this party?”

“Gordon, you really should know by now, my parties are rarely ever just parties .”

“That’s what Scott said,” Gordon says, begrudgingly. “But he’s just some showbiz guy, he’s not a spy. Is he?”

“If he was, you wouldn’t know,” Penelope says with that small secretive smile that she always seems to wear when it comes to her work. “But no. No I have no intelligence to suggest he’s working for any governmental organisation. I’m very much afraid Gordon, that Mr Vishkin is our bad guy.”

That makes him sit up a little bit straighter, sends the butterflies into retirement as Gordon Tracy Lovesick Idiot is pushed to the side by the somewhat more capable Thunderbird Four.

“Bad guy how?”

Penelope flicks through another few files. News reports, mainly. The odd magazine article lifted from the cloud. Vishkin’s artists, all falling out of one bar or another. All caught with powdered noses. Glassy eyes.

Dead at twenty five .

And then flight logs. Hundreds of them. Bogata. Kabul. Los Angeles. London. Sydney. Jakarta. Concert venues interspersed with trips in the dead of night. No overnight stays. Land and go.

“See a pattern?”

“He’s running something, all right.”

“Oh, certainly,” Penelope agrees, but then she flicks over again, and this time it’s an image created to tug on Gordon’s heartstrings. People. Dozens of them. Young and younger still with wide desperate eyes, crammed into a container the like of which he hasn’t seen since commercial shipping was done away with. “Not just some thing, though. Some ones .”

“People smuggling?” Gordon practically spits it out. “It’s the twenty first century, Pen!”

“Indeed it is.” Penelope is looking at the picture, lips pursed in concentration, but there’s none of the rage in her expression he feels in his heart.

“How can you just -” he waves his hand at the image. Wills it to disappear under his touch. “It’s inhumane!”

“Man’s inhumanity to man is nothing new, Gordon. It’s been here as long as we have as a species, and it will remain until we are all gone.”

“Why hasn’t the GDF taken him down?”

“The GDF have neither the evidence or the jurisdiction.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Penelope turns to him and he expects a rebuke for his language, but instead she’s just looking at him. Considering.

“Indeed.”

Ah. There’s a stiffness in his spine now that has nothing to do with compound fractures or economy seating.

“So that’s where we come in? Catch him at it?"

“He’s highly unlikely to bring a crate full of human cargo on an alpine holiday, Gordon.” She smiles again, and this is a new one. A cold one. “But don’t fret. After all, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

“Care to share?”

“Certainly.” She flips to another screen, and this person Gordon does recognise. He lets out a low whistle.

“Margot Mearns.”

“The very same. Did you know it’s her birthday this week?” Penny flicks through a few more screens until she settles on the one she wants. It’s a mass of words and letters that make minimal sense to Gordon. “Hence the little trip out here. Vishkin was convinced that a nice holiday might be all she needs to begin work on another album.”

“I thought she’d retired years ago?”

Penelope mouth narrows grimly. “So did she. But if Mr Vishkin wants you to do something, you usually do it.”

Gordon looks again at the tablet’s projection, notes the flight times interspersed with dates. Places. ‘MM’ over and over and - “You think he’s blackmailing her?”

“I think she may be willing to share a few secrets if the price is right,” Penelope says, swiping the file closed and dropping the tablet onto the bedside table. “These people can always be brought, Gordon. Always.”

"But Vishkin is rich as hell, he can -”

“I don’t mean with money.” Penelope sighs, and tilts her face up to look at him. “This is why I wanted to bring you,” she says. “You’re just so terribly good . You remind me what I ought to be, perhaps you will be more successful than I in appealing to Ms Mearn’s better nature."

“Don’t be stupid,” he scoffs, “you’re a good guy. The good guy. Capital G’s. Good Lady? You’re the best, Lady P.”

“If you say so.” Penny seems to concede the point, but then, “I’m afraid there’s more, and this part I suspect you really won’t enjoy.”

----

He takes it surprisingly well, the lengths they are expected to go to to keep Vishkin from realising he’s been led into a trap. He accepts the case full of bulky skiwear and acrylic sweaters with good grace, even though the palette is rather muted for his taste and they both know he won’t be going anywhere near the slopes. He does grumble just a little when she pulls out the hair dye,

What’s wrong with holotech, Pen?

(Pen, for goodness sake. Pen. Penny . Like he’s already ten pages ahead of her. Already crossed the rubicon into something that Penelope herself is only just beginning to name.)

Dampners, remember?

However, he disappeared off to the bathroom without any further complaint. He’s still there now, she can hear the shower running, which is advantageous in that he’s not witnessing what might be the closest thing to a panic attack Penelope has ever had.

That’s not quite true, of course. She’s felt worse, trapped in safety on the deck of the Solar Explorer. In the belly of ancient mine. Curled up on the back seat of FAB one en route to the hospital.

These events all seem to have one common denominator, and now he’s turned off the shower and is shouting through the door.

“It’s okay! I still look amazing!”

“Of course you do, dear,” Penelope mumbles, eyes fixed as they have been for the past ten minutes at least, on the silver bands in her palm.

“Dapper as hell!” He bursts out of the bathroom, arms outstretched in a tada ! Gesture, and really, really this would have been just a touch easier if he’d at least put his clothes on.

“Really Gordon?”

He does have the grace to blush then, she can see the way it spreads down his throat and along the ridge of his collarbones.

“Sorry, got excited.”

She doesn’t think she could formulate an answer to that if she tried.

“Looks good though, right? I could totally have been a ginger. Except for the sun thing, that would suck. I reckon that’s why John chose space. Keep him pale and interesting.” He spins on the spot to show off his new hair - auburn, a shade or two darker than his brother’s - but does at least hold on to the towel as he does so. “Well, interresting-ish, I suppose.”

It’s a small mercy. Penelope closes her fist over the rings and steels herself as best she can against the assault of his smile as he turns to face her again.

“Will I do?”

A terribly pertinent choice of phrase, that.

“Lovely,” she says, hoping against hope he doesn’t notice the crack in her voice. “Now be a dear and put on a shirt.”

“Spoilsport.”

He snatches up one of the sweaters from where he’s dumped them unceremoniously across the top of the dresser, and disappears back into the bathroom long enough for Penelope to physically shake some sense into herself.

This mission is shaping up to be far more dangerous than she might have expected. Or just as dangerous as you ‘oped , pipes up a familiar little voice in her head. One that has had far more to say about this trip than is warranted, in her opinion.

But then Gordon is back, and she can’t keep a neutral expression to save her life, and God knows if she’s fooling anyone anymore but she certainly isn’t fooling herself.

He looks ridiculous in knitwear. Utterly ridiculous. It is entirely too unfair that a man she sees so often in skin tight neoprene can look like that in a cable knit sweater that isn’t even cashmere.

Gordon frowns.

“Penelope? Are you okay? You’ve gone a bit pale.”

Well. Isn’t that just smashing.

In for a penny, as Parker says. She goes in for a pound.

“I’m afraid you have to marry me.”

It’s Gordon’s turn to go a rather odd colour now. In his case it’s a rather fetching shade of puce that clashes horribly with his newly dyed hair.

“Uh.” He says. Freezes. Then, “Are you asking ?”

“I’m afraid GCHQ have beaten me to it.” Penelope finally unfurls her fist and holds her open hand out between them. Gordon stares at the two slim rings as though they might, in fact, be tiny metallic alligators. “Not the nicest quality,” she says, both by way of breaking the silence and genuine apology. “Budget cuts. I’d have brought some myself, but I don’t think my cover and I have similar tastes.”

Gordon’s head snaps up then. “Right, yeah. The cover. So we are?”

Penelope lets out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, and slips the smaller ring over her finger before holding out the other for Gordon to do the same. He hesitates only a moment before doing so, then turns his full attention back to her as she begins to unpack the minutiae of their cover lives.

She has a wig, brown contacts, a collection of extremely frumpy fair isle sweaters, and a passport in the name of Pauline Jones. Pauline is a strict vegetarian, an excellent cook, and well known in the hospitality business for her professionalism and discretion.

Pauline’s husband is a ski instructor turned chalet host, banished from the slopes after a nasty accident the season previously. Very much the junior partner in their rental business, he’s still learning the ropes.

His name is Greg, and he has three juvenile convictions for possession of narcotics and terrible taste in music.

(“Hey!”

"I don’t make the rules, darling.”)

Penelope piles up the belongings of these people who don’t yet exist, and atop it all she lays a holopad already pre-loaded with photographs they’ve never taken. There’s a wedding dress in there, she knows that. A hideous meringue affair that Penelope would never be seen dead in.

She tells herself that’s the reason she bats Gordon’s hand away when he goes to open the files.

“Time for that later,” she says, only too aware that she’s been the one insisting on getting their cover straight. “Are you hungry?”

“Are you an accomplished chef?”

He has the good grace not to call her on the change of subject, at least.

“I’m whatever I need to be,” she tells him truthfully, and gestures to the far wall of the room where an understated metal box protrudes from the wall. “but at least in this case I do have a little back up.”

----

The replicated food is warm and tasty enough, but it doesn’t do much to help the unsteady lurch of his stomach as he watches Penelope tidy away her - sorry, Pauline’s - clothes into the room’s only dresser.

"Why Greg?” he asks her, mostly for lack of anything else to say that won’t lead to more extremely awkward silence. “Greg’s an old man’s name.”

Penelope pauses her folding and rolls her eyes.

“Says the man called Gordon .”

“Hey, could have been worse.” He smiles, and she turns from the dresser to face him properly. “Could have been Deke. Or Wally. Or Virgil.”

Penelope tilts her head very slightly to one side and crosses her arms.

“You look nothing like a Virgil.”

“Nah you’d have needed a different dye job for that one,” he agrees, taking both their plates to the automated kitchen module and dropping them in for recycling. “And maybe some stilts.”

“I don’t think they’d have fit in the case,” she murmurs, attention back on the dresser, her palms smoothing over fabric.

“Hey, I brought my own case,” he nods over to the Tracy Industries industrial number that’s still lying where he dropped it by the door to the room. “You could have saved yourself the effort, you know.”

“And what did you bring?” Penelope arches an eyebrow. “Hawaiian shirts and Neoprene?”

“Long sleeved Hawaiian shirts,” Gordon says, mildly offended. “It’s cold here. I’m not an idiot.”

She looks at him as though that may be somewhat debatable.

“And I look great in Neoprene. Really makes an impression.” He risks a wink because, well, he’s still not sure exactly what’s happening here but he’s pretty certain she won’t mind .

She pauses, as though considering, then, “Rather depends on the impression you want to create. I’m not sure the bright blue skin tight wetsuit is the most subtle of disguises, Gordon.”

He hums, and nods solemnly. “It is tight.”

Penelope blushes, a bright, fierce red that clashes with her pink sweater, and Gordon’s heart soars.

“Distracting.” He emphasises the consonants and watches with disbelieving fascination as the blush spreads down her throat.

“Oh hush,” she splutters eventually, balling up one of ‘Greg’s’ ugly sweaters and launching it at him. “Parker will have you shot."

Gordon grins and drops back on his elbows, kicking his stockinged feet off the floor.

“Worth it.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You invited me.”

“And I so rarely make decisions I regret.” Penelope lays the final item of clothing in the drawer and turns to him with narrowed eyes. “But there’s a first time for everything.”

Gordon bites back the urge to ask is that so, and sits up straighter.

“Seriously, though,” he says. “I don’t -” he flails about for the words to say what he means without offending - or worse getting an answer he won’t know how to live with. Not that he knows what that answer might be. Not that he knows anything , and Scott’s never been more right and he can absolutely never know. Whatever Penelope says next he will have to carry to his grave. A place, that going by the thudding in his chest, he’s approaching sooner rather than later. “What is it you expect of me, exactly? Because Pen I swear whatever it is, I’ll do it, you know that. Whatever you want. I just -” he shrugs, and she’s frowning, and he feels small and stupid and young .

He doesn’t feel like a Thunderbird. He definitely doesn’t feel like a spy.

He feels like a boy faced with the girl of his dreams, and only one bed.

“Think of it as a rescue,” Penelope says, and that’s enough of a non sequitur to have his head spinning again. “We don’t know what will happen with Vishkin, it’s better to follow my lead and -”

And oh god. Oh god she thinks he’s talking about Vishkin.

He ought to be talking about Vishkin.

She’s stopped. That funny little frown right between her eyebrows again and he decides then and there that he hates it. Hates it directed at him and hates even more that he’s put it there.

“You keep calling me Pen.”

“I - what?”

“You keep calling me Pen.” She’s shaking her head and that little frown hasn’t shifted and wow, wow he’s bad at this.

“I’m… I’m sorry?” It’s his turn to frown now. “I hadn’t realised.”

“It’s quite alright. I quite like it.” She smiles again, still small, still secretive, but nothing like the cold twist of her mouth from earlier. “Don’t tell Parker, will you.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

And then she’s laughing, and then he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s really, truly, fucked.

“Hold on a moment, let me introduce somebody.” She pads her way into the bathroom carrying a small pile of clothes and a little black bag with a golden zipper and shuts the door behind her. He doesn’t hear the click of the lock. If she decides to get her own back and appears in a towel, he will absolutely, definitely die on the spot.

When she does reappear what feels like half a lifetime later, Penelope is transformed. Dark where she was fair, lips chapped and nose pinked like those of a woman who spends her life on the slopes, and it doesn’t so much impress Gordon as it terrifies him.

“There.” Penelope steps back from the mirror to admire her handiwork and holds out a hand to him. He takes it and rises to stand beside her as though he’s on autopilot. Maybe he is. He certainly doesn’t feel like her has any control of his limbs or the thundering of his heart as her fingers wrap around his. “Now look, Greg meet Pauline.” She beams up at him. “Don’t we make quite the pair?”

Gordon reaches up to adjust his new red locks, but Penelope bats his hand away and turns him to face the mirror. Two strangers look back at him - one reminds him of John, though not as tall or as scrawny but just as badly dressed, and a girl with dark hair and dark eyes rimmed thick with kohl and crinkling at the corners from Penelope’s smile. Almost ordinary, he thinks, except for that smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we do.”

----

It’s getting late.

It’s getting late, and it isn’t that Penelope has a habit of retiring early - quite the opposite in fact - but they’ve an awfully busy day tomorrow cosying up to international criminals and the flight had been so very terribly uncomfortable and -

And Gordon is clearly so very uncomfortable with the idea of sharing her bed that she isn’t quite sure yet whether she ought to be offended.

She’s packed away Pauline’s belongings, and usually she’d have packed Penelope up right along with them, but she’s not quite ready to let go of herself yet. With Vishkin still comfortably settled in his London abode, she has time to indulge herself just this once, surely?

But it’s been rather a long time, and she's rather embarrassed to admit that she’s somewhat out of practice.

There is a distinct possibility that she hasn’t had any practice at these particular sort of bedroom shenanigans. For fun, for information, for something to do after another interminable gala perhaps, then yes, plenty. But she’s becoming more certain by the day that whatever this thing is between Gordon and herself it doesn’t fall into any of the categories she’s comfortable with.

Gordon sits on the edge of their soon-to-be shared bed wearing Greg Jones’ pyjamas and socks with goldfish on and smiles at her. A new category indeed.

“Something funny?” she asks. He shrugs, still favouring his right shoulder.

“Nah, not really,” he huffs out a laugh. “This is weird, right? I feel like this is pretty weird.”

“Rather the usual for me I’m afraid,” she says mildly. “International drug-dealing people smugglers are my bread and butter.”

“Yeah, that isn’t what I meant though, is it.”

She stiffens slightly, unused to being called out in such a way, but then she sees the way he can’t quite meet her eyes and maybe she isn;t the only one skirting at the edge of their comfort zone tonight.

“It’s a little weird,” she admits. “Do you prefer the left or the right?”

“Eh?”

“Side of the bed.”

He shrugs again, but he meets her eyes this time. “Rarely get the choice. International Rescue only supplies singles.”

“Well we wouldn’t want you boys to get a reputation would we.” He grins, and she drops down next to him and rests her hand on his knee. “If that’s the case, I’m afraid I really must insist on the right.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“Is it?”

She would be proud of the way she can strike him silent, but it’s not exactly helping the awkwardness of the situation so instead she squeezes his knee and says seriously, “I’m also afraid that I snore.”

“Really?” Gordon shakes his head, but the smile’s back and that’s what matters. “Lady Penelope, a snorer ? Whatever would the tabloids say.”

“They’ve never been so fortunate to find out,” she leans up toward him and lowers her voice conspiratorially. “I trust I can rely on your discretion?”

She watches the bob of his throat as he swallows. “Scout’s honour.”

“Weren’t you expelled from the Scouts?”

Gordon sighs dramatically, “One time. You flood a hut one time .”

“Then I’ll allow it.” She rubs at the edge of his hairline where a little of the dye has sunk into his skin and left a bruise-like stain. “Are you sure you’re ready for all this?”

“That’s a loaded question.”

“It’s just a bed , Gordon.”

“Oh,” he’s smiling though, a dangerous smile. She likes it. “And here I thought you were talking about the whole being a spy thing.”

She lets her finger run down the side of his face and then taps it against his mouth. His eyes follow it and her breath hitches.

“I have every faith,” she says, the words catch in her throat and come out as whispers. “In your complete and total professionalism.”

That wicked little smile feels like a promise against her skin. “Shame.”

“You know Scott would be utterly horrified if he heard any of this conversation, I do think he’s afraid I might be out to corrupt you, you know.”

“Did you tell him about the one bed?”

“Need to know basis, darling.”

Gordon laughs then, drawing back and letting the moment drift away into something less like a promise.

“No doubt John will fill him in, he’s probably having kittens right now.”

Penelope is a spy, and spies are liars by habit, so it hardly even feels like one when she says, “And how would John know?”

“Thunderbird Five? The all-seeing eye?” Gordon waves up to the ceiling. “If he hasn’t got a line in this room right now I’ll eat Greg’s woolly hat.”

“No one gets a line in unless I want them to, that I can promise you.” Penelope says, ignoring the gnawing feeling in her stomach as she follows his gaze. “Can’t have my sleep habits disseminated to the media, it wouldn’t do at all."

“Really?” And luckily she doesn’t have to answer, luckily because she doesn’t want to take away from the way Gordon relaxes next to her, all the stiffness and nervous energy draining from him. “You know, I don’t know if I can remember a time one of them wasn’t watching me? I’m pretty sure Scott had tabs on me in the womb.”

“They love you.”

“They’re terrified.” He stretches his arms out in front of him, then twists his neck and winces. “I give them plenty of reason, I guess.”

“You do have a terrible habit of chasing down danger,” Penelope agrees. “It’s most inconvenient, you know. Does awful things to our blood pressure.”

“Tell me about it.” He drops his hand on top of hers. “I would say I don’t do it on purpose, but -”

“But,” she agrees, and winds her fingers between his. “I think it’s time for bed, don’t you?”

“Jeez,” and he’s smiling, squeezing her fingers between his, “I thought you’d never ask.”

----

Morning breaks, bright dawn light making its way through the gauzy curtains and alighting on Penelope’s back as she sits at the dresser.

Sorry, Pauline’s back. Penelope had been gone before Gordon opened his eyes, her side of the bed smoothed flat and cool to the touch, and he’d been half convinced he’d dreamt her by the time a stranger exited the bathroom.

Gordon sits up in bed and watches as she puts the finishing touches to her transformation, the wig and contacts and polyblend sweater topped with enough makeup to fool even her own father and practicing a fake French accent so convincing that it makes his skin crawl.

It’s all just a little too good. A little too sharp a reminder of what Penny actually does day to day. Of what he’s about to do alongside her. Gordon Tracy. Spy .

Wherever dad is, he hopes he’s laughing.

Penny blots her lipstick and tucks the wig’s dark curls behind her ears.

“There,” she says, “lovely.”

“You are really, really good at this,” he tells her. “Scary good.”

“I do aim to impress,” she says and okay, okay it’s pretty weird to hear Penelope’s voice coming from someone else’s face. Maybe the accent isn’t so bad after all. “Vishkin’s flight arrives at fourteen hundred hours. Feel free to familiarise yourself with the files and be ready to meet me in the main chalet at thirteen thirty.

She smiles at him, that last lingering vestige of the Penelope he knows, and leaves him alone for the first time since he’d boarded his flight in Sydney.

“Fucking hell,” he tells his reflection - red hair and redder eyes because God as if he could ever have actually slept next to her - “fucking fucking hell.”

And he opens the file, because what else can he do but dwell on the feeling of her breath on his neck until he curls up on the spot and dies ?

Because it turns out that Gordon, when it counts, has absolutely no game whatsoever and if his brother’s ever find out -

If his brothers ever find out, Greg Jones might just be a better guy to be.

Luckily, Greg’s life has been that of a pretty average guy. The sort of guy Gordon might have been, he supposes, if his mother hadn’t been dead and his father hadn’t been rich as fuck. Greg’s father had served in the military during the war. He has an obnoxious overachiever for an older brother with whom he apparently does not have to live with on an isolated island. Sure, he had a misspent youth, but Gordon thinks Greg’s version sounds a hell of a lot more fun than spending High School in training for the Olympics and then nearly dying a bunch .

Greg Jones is emphatically not a billionaire.

Greg Jones has married the girl of his dreams.

Gordon Tracy doesn’t know whether the roiling in his stomach is nervous nausea or bitter, bitter jealousy.

“Get a grip,” he tells his reflection regardless. “Do not fuck this up.”

Despite the impossibility, he almost thinks he can hear John’s long-suffering sigh in his ear.

“Alright, alright.” He swats at his imaginary earpiece and turns his attention to Vishkin’s file. There are dozens, maybe hundreds, of people out there relying on this guy being taken down, and this, this Gordon knows he can do. “Lets get on with the rescue.”

---

It’s a bitter cold morning, the mountain air sharp in her lungs and against her flushed cheeks. The lake is a flat blue with ice glittering at its edges, the sky cloudless perfection.

Coward. Coward. Coward.

It rings through her, up through the soles of her heavy boots as she stamps through the snow, in every ridiculously loud thud of her heart.

Somewhere up above she imagines John, bagel in hand, judging her and finding her wanting.

A coward and a fool .

By the time she reaches the great hall of the main chalet she may actually be able to catch her breath. Which is just as well, because as she steps through the door she’s greeted by the hustle and bustle of her undercover team running final checks. She’s pleased to see people she’s worked with before and found to be reasonably competent. There’s Lester, tapping tiny screw-head bugs into place along the edges of the wooden bar, and Verne, his erstwhile partner, running loops of false footage on the large holovision screen. A few others too whose names escape her - a young girl she’s seen in the corridors of GCHQ, a chap she knows to be on his first mission wiping the bar top over and over with a dirty cloth - but they all stop and turn as soon as they see she’s entered the room.

She takes a deep breath.

This, she can do.

“Ah, good. You’re all here. I imagine everything is in order?”

“Absolutely Ma’am,” Verne assures her, flicking the screen over to some newsreel footage. “False flags in place.”

“Excellent. And our guests’ facilities?”

“Only the best, Ma’am,” affirms Lester, tapping the bar top. “All top quality.”

“Lovely.”

A light knock at the door, and Gordon peeks his head around. When he sees her he beams as though he hasn’t laid eyes on her for months rather than minutes. Her heart stutters, and she finds herself fiddling pointlessly with the ends of her wig.

“Hey,” he says, slipping into the room. “All ready for launch?”

“Hey, yourself. You look… warm.” He’s wearing a neon yellow ski jacket that she’d chosen as a nod to his own rather garish taste. It’s bulkier than she’d imagined. Much bulkier than the t shirt he’d slept in, the one that stretched over his shoulders and made her fingers twitch against the covers.

“Thanks, I think.” He looks around at the gathered staff in their borrowed uniforms, and waves. “Hey guys, how’re you doing?”

Lester and Verne look at each other, then at her.

“Uh,” says Lester. “Alright, sir?”

Okay, perhaps there are reasons Penelope rarely socialises with her undercover teams.

“Good, good.” Gordon claps his hands together then sways back on his heels. “Do we get discount at the bar or -”

“I should bleedin’ hope not!” It comes from the shadows, from a man who she’d barely noticed upon entering but now can’t believe she’d missed. A man, she’s fairly certain, she left behind in London with very specific instructions regarding Bertie’s feeding schedule and her father’s upcoming meeting with the Princess Royal. A man, she’s even more sure, hadn’t looked like that .

“Parker! What on earth have you done to your face?!”

---

“Fancied a change, M’Lady.”

Parker’s moustache bristles magnificently beneath that giveaway nose. It makes Gordon’s face itch just looking at it. It looks uncannily like something Brains might use to unclog Four’s inlet pipes. Perhaps, he thinks with a grimace, it is.

“Parker,” he says in lieu of greeting, “I didn’t think you were coming.”

Parker’s answering glare could cut glass. In fact Gordon’s sure he hears a distant tinkling from the back of the bar as he replies, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean Mr Gordon, sir .”

Gordon shrugs. “Not really your scene? I thought you were dog sitting?”

“Wherever ‘er Ladyship is my scene ,” Parker hisses. “And when she’s insisting on putting ‘erself in danger -”

“Penny can handle Vishkin.”

“Ain’t ‘im I’m worried over.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to - “

“That’s enough,” Penny snaps and both men stand a little straighter. “Parker, there will be time to discuss why you felt inclined to disregard my request after we’ve brought Mr Vishkin to justice. Gordon? Are you ready?”

Gordon blinks, looks down to where she’s rested her hand on the fist he hadn’t even realised he’d clenched. Beyond the doors he hears the tell tale thrum of engines, the sound of grit under tyres. He nods, and Penny motions to the man behind the bar.

All at once the men and women scatter, disappearing almost as swiftly as they had appeared, until it’s just Gordon and Penny and the lurking figure of Parker in the shadows of the furthest corner.

“Honestly,” Penny mutters under her breath as the engine noises cut out. “Men .”

A heavy knock at the door, and she steps forward to fling it open her scowl shifting into such an expression of rapturous joy on her face that Gordon almost gets whiplash. Again.

“Ms. Mearns!” she cries, Pauline’s accent bell-like in the echoing room, “such an honor!"

That is, Gordon thinks, one word for it.

In the brief few months young Gordon had had to be a regular teenager between swimming and WASP and agony, he’d had a terrible crush on Margot Mearns. An international singing sensation, she’d been the entertainment at one of Tracy Industries annual fundraisers - one that dad had allowed him to come to in one of his occasional, brief efforts to ‘bond’ with his most unimpressive son. (Although Alan had still wet the bed at that point, so Gordon may have had a brief rise in the rankings). His main memories of that night are of the constricting nature of his first ever penguin suit, and the glorious sight of Margot Mearn’s thighs gyrating within thirty centimetres of his spotty, flushed cheeks.

It had been a defining moment, alright. Even dad had listened to his teenage gibbering afterwards with good natured indulgence and cheerfully purchased a lifesized poster that young Gordon had hung in every closet he’d owned ever since. It had even come to the island with him, afterwards. A reminder of a time before IR and sleepless nights, when pretty girls with pretty thighs had been something he’d had time to dream about.

Now Penny - Pauline - is taking the hand of his childhood crush and shaking it gently, and it’s an awful long way from any kind of dream. More of a nightmare really, because Gordon has been in the rescue business all of his adult life. He knows desperation when he sees it, and it's written all over Margot Mearns's face.

Penny is slim, but the bones beneath are steel, her grip firm, all lithe muscles shifting beneath a porcelain shell. Margot seems brittle in comparison, delicate, her veins blue beneath translucent, clammy skin.

Her smile is too tight and her forehead is too smooth, and when she walks she seems to half fall from one foot to the other, lurching along like something undead from one of Alan’s favourite games.

He thinks of that poster, still hanging behind years worth of outgrown neoprene, and feels suddenly, terrifyingly, old.

“Christ,” he mutters. “Penny, Christ .”

Penny isn’t looking at Margot anymore though. Penny has much bigger fish to fry.

The man at Margot’s side isn’t the type to draw many second glances even in those with far more time to spend on celebrity gossip than Gordon ever has, but Penny makes a beeline for him, cooing greetings in that voice that he hates and snapping her fingers until the ‘staff’ reappear and begin busying themselves with the guests’ coats and luggage.

Vishkin.

He reaches for Penny’s hand and lifts it to his mouth sending a visceral shudder through Gordon’s body even as she slips free and beckons him forward.

“My ‘usband,” she says, and he wishes he hated that accent a little less because honestly he could dwell on those words forever. “We are so very honoured that you have chosen to stay with us Mr Vishkin, sir.”

Mr Vishkin, sir, looks down at them from his stacked heels with rheumy eyes set in a face like cracked leather. He wears enough gold to drown him in six feet of water, and this is a fact Gordon tucks neatly away in the back of his mind for safe keeping.

“I demand discretion,” he says. “Complete and total. Do you understand? I have guests attending who the media would just love to spread tall tales about. I would hate to think any came from you.”

“Of course! We pride -”

“Total. ” He turns his watery eyes on Gordon, and smiles coldly. “I have heard about you Mr Jones.”

Ah, right. Drug dealers. Misspent youths. Gordon isn’t yet quite sure how Greg Jones reacts to veiled threats, so he channels John Tracy instead.

“Honoured, I’m sure.” Vishkin’s eyes become slits, and Penny glares at him over his shoulder. Maybe not John, then. Maybe Alan. “I’m like - such a big fan,” he gushes and if the change of tone is enough to make him dizzy Vishkin at least doesn’t seem to notice. “A guy like you coming to stay here? Wow. Really. Amazing.”

“Yes well, we wanted somewhere a little off the beaten track as they say.” Vishkin puts an arm around Margot’s shoulders and pulls her into his side. She wobbles at the action, as though her legs can’t quite hold her up. “Isn’t that right Margot dear?”

Margot says nothing.

“‘Ow lovely,” Pauline coos. “Please, anything you need, we are absolutely at your service. Anything at all.”

Vishkin lets Margot go, and puts one gold-bedazzled hand on Penny’s cheek. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says.”Tell me, do you sing?”

Pauline blushes prettily and looks at Vishkin through lowered lashes. “Oh no, Mr Vishkin, I am - ‘ow you say - a strangled cat.”

“Shame, and so pretty.” He tugs at one of her curls as he moves his hand away. “A little hair dye darling, and I could make you a star.”

“She’s already a star.” Gordon reaches out and grabs Penny’s hand. “To me at least."

Pauline’s mouth twists into a scowl, and Gordon has a sinking feeling that it’s actually Penelope’s. “Greg! Don’t be rude!”

“Nonsense.” Vishkin pats him on the shoulder - the bad one - hard enough to make him stagger. “Good to see a bit of loyalty, you don’t get much of that in our line of work, eh Margot?”

Margot smiles, a fragile little thing, and speaks for the first time, her voice barely more than a whisper. “No, Colin.”

“Let me show you to your chalet,” Pauline says, disentangling herself from Gordon’s grip. “Come, come, I ‘ope you will find it all to your satisfaction, I followed your particulars most closely…"

She leads them both from the hall and out into the winter air, the frigid gust she leaves in her wake makes Gordon shiver even through Greg’s neon yellow ski jacket.

“Great start, Mr Gordon,” Parker mutters sardonically as he follows the rest of the staff into the chalet’s backrooms. “Very subtle, that.”

“I was being a gentleman,” Gordon grumbles after him, but it’s too late. The staff have all disappeared like the spooks they are, and Gordon is left alone with a stack of cases and the sinking feeling that Vishkin’s about to be the least of his worries.

He takes the closest case in his good hand, and heads out into the storm.

---

He’s been watching all afternoon. He hasn’t said much - which, honestly, is starting to feel like a blessing - but he’d lingered in each room as she’d shown Vishkin around, neither as subtle nor as comforting a presence as Parker would have been in the same situation. Instead he makes her feel off-kilter. Pauline’s laugh is too loud, her accent too harsh. Penelope is trying too hard and it shows. The truth is that she’s hardly slept, the bed both far too large and not anything near large enough, and instead she’d lain awake counting the cracks in the ceiling and letting her imagination run away with her.

It’s stupid. It’s ridiculous.

It is, she decides, all his fault.

“You are risking our cover!” she spits after hours of his nonsensical glaring, the door to their chalet locked behind her before she turns on him.

Gordon scowls right back at her, his arms folded across that stupid ski jacket she’d insisted on packing. Its cheerful brightness is giving her a headache.

“Don’t talk bullshit!” Gordon growls, “So what, ‘Greg’ lets idiots like Vishkin throw his weight around, does he?”

“‘Greg’” Penelope’s finger quotes are even more violent than Gordon’s, “knows that his wife can look after herself perfectly well, thank you very much!” She stops. Jabs him in the chest with a finger and the polyester jacket crackles like static between them. “I thought you’d remember that. If I wanted a bodyguard I’d have married Parker!”

“Maybe you should have,” Gordon snaps back, “I thought you said he wasn't coming? He your back up for when I screw up is he?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I didn’t even know he was coming, he shouldn’t have come!”

“Well he has, and if I’m gonna be accused of breaking cover what the hell was all that muttering about? Does he think Vishkin’s deaf?”

“I’m not privy to the inner workings of Parker’s mind, Gordon. And it hardly matters anyway, not if you insist on all this stupid manly posturing -”

“I don’t posture!”

“Oh no? Then what on earth was all this about?” She grabs at his hand and tugs it toward her. “Pauline is not Greg’s possession .”

“It’s not - that isn’t what I meant! He’s a nasty piece of work, Penelope!”

“Yes,” she keeps her grip tight. “Yes, I know that Gordon. That’s the point. But he can’t know that we know that, that utterly defeats the object. He has to believe that we are star-struck by him, he has to believe that he has some sort of power over us. It’s arrogance that destroys men like him, Gordon. Your father knew that.”

“And look where that got Dad,” Gordon mutters, and pulls his hand free. “I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it. A whole bunch.”

“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t,” Penelope agrees. “But sometimes we must do whatever is necessary for the greater good. And if you think Mr Vishkin’s flirting is the worst thing I’ve put up with in the pursuit of justice, I very much hope you never read any of my other files.”

Gordon’s face twists unpleasantly and he turns away.

“I’m going to get some air,” he mumbles, and disappears through the french doors. Penelope watches his back as he hunches over the balcony railings. Takes one breath. Two.

This wasn’t the plan. None of this was in the plan. She’s going to have to have some firm words with Parker at the very least.

She’s probably going to have to have a few with herself while she’s at it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, moving into the doorway and speaking into the night air. “This is all terribly strange to you, I’m sure.”

“I’ll play nice.” He doesn’t turn to look at her though. “I won’t like it, Pen, but I swear I’ll play nice.”

“Pax, then?”

He nods, and she takes it as an invitation to join him on the balcony. The air is bitter, the sky above nothing but a carpet of stars.

She lets out a long sigh and leans back against the railing. Gordon’s hands dangle over the edge and his face is turned to the canopy of stars above them. It changes him, this light. Washes the colour out of his hair and casts his features into sharp relief. He watches the stars silently for a moment, and in return she watches him, watches the rise and fall of his chest and the bob of his throat as he swallows. The pull of the hideous jacket across his shoulders as he lifts an arm to the sky and waves.

Penelope follows the line of his gaze then, turning and wrinkling her nose as she squints up into what, honestly, is to her usually little more than a brightly glittering backdrop to her much more interesting plans for the evening.

“See the little blinking thing up there? Just left of the pleiades?”

It’s not an apology, but then she isn’t sure if she wants one. Not now. But she doesn’t want to fight, doesn’t want to spend another night lying in that too big, too small bed listening to his breathing and sinking in regret.

So she hums, twisting her head to try and better follow his finger. “If I say yes will you believe me?”

Gordon’s mouth quirks up at the corner and he grabs her hand, lifting it to follow his own. “There, look. Don’t tell me you didn’t study astronomy in your fancy schools?”

“I suspect our fathers had somewhat differing educational priorities,” Penelope says wryly. “Mine had ambitions for me that were rather more down to Earth.”

Gordon looks at her then, the starlight reflected back at her in his eyes. She’s so terribly glad she decided against giving him the contacts.

“Guess they were both disappointed then, huh?”

“Perhaps,” she says, loathe to spoil whatever passes for a moment. “Or perhaps we simply exceeded expectations. We are rather exceptional, after all.”

Gordon doesn’t answer that, only tightens his grip on her hand, his palm warm against the lakeside breeze.

“Do you see it?” he says, and for a moment she pretends not to know what he means, her gaze fixed on the side of his face, his upturned towards some invisible star.

But the silence draws out a moment too long, so she murmurs something he must take as assent, because he lowers her hand to rest gently against the railing and stuffs his own into his pockets.

“Thunderbird 5,” he says. “Weird."

“How so?”

“Watching John, when he’s not watching me. Doesn’t exactly happen often, you know?”

There’s a nasty sick little ache somewhere under Penelope’s breastbone, the sort that usually proceeds asking Parker to do something he’s spent most of his adult life trying to leave behind.

“Do you -” she pauses, and looks for a word that conveys what she means without risking another argument like the one that had seen them driven out here. “Do you miss it?”

Gordon looks at her. “John?”

“Not John specifically.”

“IR, then?” Gordon furrows his brow, his nose wrinkling. “I mean, yeah. Yeah of course I miss it. Them. My ‘bird. The sea. I could write a book full of all the things I miss right now.”

The ache intensifies and she swallows hard, pushes it down to her belly and tightens her grip on the railings.

“Of course. It was a foolish question, forgive me.”

“I like it here, though.” He smiles at her, and the honesty makes that ache just a little sharper. Penelope doesn’t think she’s ever been as honest with anyone in her life as Gordon is with everyone he meets. “It’s kinda fun in a weird way. And the company’s not bad. Plus, privacy. Kinda in short supply on Tracy Island.”

Penelope scoffs, and pushes herself back, away from the railings and toward the low light of the bedroom. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

“Dunno.” Gordon moves to follow her, his hands still stuffed in his pockets but his expression cheerfully neutral. “Did it work?”

She doesn’t grace that with an answer straight away, just lets the blind swing back into place behind her and lets herself smile at the muffled curse that follows.

“Oh, I’m sure you could do better.”

She heads to the bathroom to remove the worst of Pauline’s makeup. The wig will have to stay at the bedside in case of late night calls, but she’s determined to remove enough of Pauline to remove any doubt as to who is spending the night. Gordon doesn’t have quite as many accoutrements. He’s already sitting cross-legged and barefoot on the bed when she returns, two plates of something green gently steaming on the nightstands.

“An apology,” he says, holding one out. “Don’t ask me what it is, though. I leave the kitchen module to Virgil.”

“I’ll consider it,” she says, sitting next to him and bumping him with her hip, then, after a mouthful of something heavy on basil and light on carbs, “apology accepted.”

“That’s a relief,” Gordon says, swallowing. “This could have been awkward .”

“Heaven forfend.” She smiles at him and he smiles back then stretches, grumbling slightly as he turns his neck. “Are you in pain?”

“Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t sort out, if my bedmate could refrain from snoring like a wild bear.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

Penny bites her lip. If she’d had an hours sleep that was more than it felt, certainly not enough to impress her sleeping habits upon him. She doubts very much it was her snores that had kept him awake. She’d hardly considered that he may have been just as unsure as she last night. They’re anathema to her, these nerves. How much stranger must they be for Gordon, a man who spends his entire life leaping from one adrenaline high to another.

“I could sleep elsewhere,” she says quietly, a genuine offer though one she’d rather not have to follow through on. “You need rest.”

“God, no.” He rests his hand on hers, food forgotten. “It’s fine. You’re fine. Anyway the cover -”

“Wasn’t originally going to be this,” she admits. “I could revert - “

“Penny.” Gordon pushes the plates away, turns to face her fully and pulls her hands into his lap. “This is weird. Really weird. Let’s not - let’s not make it even weirder, yeah?”

“I’ll try,” she says, and squeezes his hands. “I will certainly try.”

#thunderbirds are go #penelope creighton-ward #gordon tracy #pen & ink #the ship not the artist medium #clare vs writers block #allllllll the tropes #so many tropes #what am i writing?#just tropes

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trivialqueen · 4 years

Text

39. Hero

{Here’s the next section of that original story. Still currently, and creatively called, Hospital Romance Drama. As always, I’m neither a doctor, nor British. I’m just a girl who fancies herself a writer and likes slow burns, smart women, and tall men.}

“No, not to be so odd and from all fashions As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable: But who dare tell her so? If I should speak, She would mock me into air; O, she would laugh me Out of myself, press me to death with wit. Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire, Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly: It were a better death than die with mocks, Which is as bad as die with tickling.” Sofia Grace stopped so abruptly she almost spilled her flat white. As it was the jarring motion broke the perfect little heart Helen had made with the milk. Slowly she approached, just to confirm what she was fairly certain she was hearing. It sounded like Magnusson, baritone with just a hint of Scandinavian coloring his otherwise impeccable English. It sounded just exactly like Director of Surgery Felix Magnusson reading the part of Hero from Much Ado About Nothing.

“Yet tell her of it: hear what she will say.” A younger voice replied. Sitting up in her hospital bed was a young woman, maybe sixteen. She was focusing very intently on reciting from memory her lines. Beside her sat Felix, glasses perched on his patrician nose which was firmly wedged in a tatty script copy of the Bard’s comedy.

“No; rather I will go to Benedick And counsel him to fight against his passion. And, truly, I'll devise some honest slanders To stain my cousin with: one doth not know How much an ill word may empoison liking.” Magnusson read. He made no effort to change his voice in any way – adopt an accent or sound more feminine. Sofia couldn’t decide if that was better or not. She couldn’t imagine the man adopting a falsetto and yet just thinking about it she desperately wished he had. She honestly also wouldn’t have imagined him sitting in the middle of his day with one of his patients to help her memorize lines either. And yet here he was.

“Line?” The girl had sat quietly for a few moments, staring hard into the middle distance.

“You know it, just try.” Felix looked up at the young woman, his tone encouraging. There was something different about his voice. About him. It was the same gentleness he’d shown Addie, a sort of parental mien that occasionally popped out in unexpected places. He was capable of patience, of kindness, of all the fatherly virtues. Just not when it came to anyone he worked with. Tamara had been crying in the bathroom on Harvey earlier. She didn’t even want to cry in the bathroom on Irene, just in case. Tamara had only been out of school a few months and literally looked like she was twelve. One would think such a combination would bring fatherly Felix to the fore. That was, however, not the case, apparently.

“She cannot be so much without true judgement--” the girl began. Felix clicked his tongue.

“Not quite. The line begins, ‘Oh, do not do your cousin such a wrong’.”

“Got it.” The girl gave a decisive nod. “O, do not do your cousin such a wrong. She cannot be so much without true judgment-- Having so swift and excellent a wit as she is prized to have--as to refuse So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.”

“Very good.” He returned his attention to the script. “He is the only man of Italy. Always excepted my dear Claudio.”

And so they continued, ‘Ursula’ reciting from memory and Magnusson correcting her as necessary. It was not a good performance by any means, both were too flat for that and the setting left something to be desired, even by ‘random adaptations of Shakespeare’ standards. Nonetheless Sofia felt not great urge to interrupt them. Nor was she ready to walk away either. In the midafternoon sun and the overhead light Magnusson looked relaxed, almost charming. The rays glinted off the slight red gold undertone in his curls. He must’ve run his hands through his hair recently, and frequently, it was not as tamed as it usually was. The gel was broken up and his hair was almost Byronic. Adding to the image of the hero, his aubergine colored tie was slightly loosened and the top button of his pale blue dress shirt was undone.

“… I'll show thee some attires and have thy counsel Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.” His fingers were long and slender sprawled across the cover of the script. In another context one might say he had musicians’ hands.

“She's limed, I warrant you: we have caught her, madam.” ‘Ursula’ looked up from her middle-distance staring and caught her watching. She colored brightly, her ears turning scarlet under her mop of professionally caramel colored hair.

“If it proves so, then loving goes by haps: Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.” Magnusson did not notice her, nor his patient’s embarrassment and finished the dialogue as evenly before. He slid his glasses off his nose and into his pocket. He looked up to ‘Ursula’ and then followed her gaze to Sofia Grace. Their eyes met and she could see his ears tint, yet he arched a brow as if challenging her to say something.

“What fire is in mine ears?” Ms. Hale was smirking, her cayenne lips twisting smugly and her eyes twinkling with delight.

“Ms. Hale.” He shouldn’t feel embarrassed, but her eyes pinned him.

“Go on!” Bridget chirped. She’d gone from embarrassed to intrigued in seconds. Ms. Hale smiled brightly.

“Can this be true? Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?” She had the delivery of a thespian, which he was hardly surprised. Her every day comportment was dramatic, why should she be anything less than theatrical when actually reciting Shakespeare. “Ummm…” And then she paused. Looked thoughtful for a moment. And sipped her coffee to buy some time. Being lefthanded logos on mugs never faced out when she drank out of them, but he could tell it was her Wonder Woman mug. As far as Felix could tell she didn’t own any other mugs. “Contempt, farewell! And maiden pride, adieu! And that’s all I can remember.” She gave a charming shrug.

“No glory lives behind the backs of such.” The script was still open loosely in his hand, so it was easy to check Beatrice’s next line. She stared at him for a moment and he read on, “And Benedick, love on-”

“I will requite thee!” She jumped in, clearly her memory jogged. “Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand: If thou love, my kindness shall incite thee to bind our loves in a holy band; for others say thou dost deserve, and I believe it better than reportingly! HA! Nailed it.” She exclaimed with a fist pump.

“Ah! Not quite.”

“What?” Both surgeon and student stared at him.

“If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee to bind our loves up in a holy band…”

“Oh, come on! After twenty years you’re going to ding me on two words? The spirit is the same!”

“Let’s apply to the director then.” Bridget looked between them both.

“I’d say that’s good enough after …twenty years?!” Ms. Hale gave him a cheeky smile over the rim of her coffee mug.

“I know, right?!” She preened.

“It seems like it should be longer ago, doesn’t it?”

“Hey!” Bridget dissolved into peels of laughter. Felix could feel the smile spread across his lips. It was perhaps not the best dig, but it was so perfectly set up. “Just because you’re jealous of my theatrical chops-”

“I would have you know that I made a fine Thespian in the sixth form.”

“Who were you? The messenger boy?”

“Sir Andrew Aguecheek.” Ms. Hale visibly chocked on her coffee. He couldn’t blame her; it was not the role he’d have cast himself in either. But Aguecheek was supposed to be a ridiculous man and at sixteen he had been all arms and legs and knobby, awkward angles.

“WHAT?” She chocked, thumping herself in the chest like it might help. “Was this one of those instances that it was for a class and they had to cast everyone, even if it meant combining or breaking up parts to get the right numbers?” It had been for class credit, but he would never admit that. Instead he stood and handed the script back.

“Bridget, if you need further help with your lines, I think it’s obvious who you should ask.”

“You’ve been a big help, Mr. M.”

“You haven’t forgotten our three o’clock appointment I see.” Magnusson commented as he keyed in the five-digit code to his office door.

“How could I, you’re in check!”

“Not for much longer, Ms. Hale. Not for very much longer.” They had been at this particular match for the last three weeks, ever since the machines incident and her opening move. A normal chess match should not take so long, however, they had yet to play even fifteen minutes in a single sitting. Emergencies had no concept of time so even with all the planning, getting to be in the same room at the same time was difficult. She hadn’t even realized she’d put him in check until later, she’d been distracted by her pager when she’d made the move. (Not that she’d admit that to him).

She follows him into his office, it is more familiar to her now, almost as familiar as it was when Charlotte was DOS. Over the course of their several chess moves (it’s hard to call them matches when they don’t even last as long as a cup of coffee sometimes) she and he have developed a routine. Upon entering his office he would immediately turn on the hot water kettle he kept in a discreet corner by his desk, he would then empty his pockets, carefully placing his cellphone on his desk, and then he would bring his tea set to the table. Magnusson took his fancy leaf water quite seriously, carefully choosing the tea he wanted from a selection of loose-leaf options, measuring it out precisely into the teapot, and occasionally going so far as to get up and adjust the water temperature on the kettle. The tea set would always include the tea pot, a single cup and saucer and a 350gram jar with three beautiful biscuits in it. And not the store-bought kind either, biscuits clearly made by an individual.

While Magnusson carefully matched his tea to whatever sweet treat he’d brought with him that day (florentines with Darjeeling, palmiers and chamomile, shortbread with earl grey, gingerbread and lemon tea) Sofia Grace would kick off her heels and snoop examine his artwork. All of the photos on his walls were signed works, the vast majority taken by an Ingrid Karpe. He had a small collection of sculptures as well, all contemporary looking and rather abstract, although the one on his desk was clearly a fish. Just like the photo on his desk was clearly his son. Magnusson would never say anything as she examined his small gallery, but she was aware that he was aware of where she was looking. If he wouldn’t offer, she wouldn’t ask, even if it did pique her curiosity – why did so many of the photos have seemingly the same subject? Where was that dark-haired little boy now?

Eventually, when it looked like Magnusson’s little tea ritual was nearly finished Sofia Grace would return to the sofa, curling into one of the corners, her bare feet tucked up under her as she’d lean on the arm. Rather than face off against one another over the small conference table in his office he moved his chessboard to the end table between them. He stopped offering her tea early on, since she always brought her coffee. And so coffee versus tea, black versus white faced off. She would accept his biscuits, however.

“Is that a bakery digestive biscuit?” It was. A lightly brown, crunchy-tender semi-sweet meal biscuit. It was thicker than the digestives from the store, but it was unmistakable. “Holy shit, I didn’t know you could actually makethese. You have got to give me the name of your bakery.”

“I’m allowed to have some secrets.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He gave her a smug smile over the rim of his tea. It was the sort of expression that told her he wouldn’t pressed further. At least not at the moment.

“You’ve acquired a new nickname.” They had settled into the game, digestives devoured. Magnusson had deftly saved his king for checkmate and they were now back to a nearly cat game. During her yearlong recovery she had had nothing to do but play lots of chess, learn German, and read many, many trashy romance novels. Sofia Grace knew she was good at chess, but Magnuson was something else entirely. (Not that she’d ever tell him that).

“If you going to try to get people to call me Sir Andrew Aguecheek, I’m going to have to draw a line.”

“Ooo, I hadn’t thought of that! Brilliant!” Her eyes sparkled at him, like stars dancing. It was perhaps the first time those dark eyes sparkled at him. He had seen them sparkle before, for others. But at him they only ever spat fire, or at best, flinty sparks. And now they were sparkling for him. The sight whipped through him like the first cold wind of winter – he was completely unprepared; his breath caught; senses tingled. He could feel it cut through him to the very core.

“Don’t you dare.” He felt slight pride in being able to speak like he was unaffected. Ms. Hale’s white knight retreated slightly, smartly. She smiled.

“In addition to Sir Andrew Aguecheek, you’ve acquired a new nickname.” After thoughtful deliberation he moved his bishop to C4. Felix had expected her to be as rash a chess player as she was a person. He’d heard tell that she’d once incited an abusive husband of a patient to punch her in the face in the middle of the hall so there was more concrete evidence pointing to his violent temper and to buy time for the man’s partner to finish giving their statement to the police. She had absolutely no sense of self-preservation, as far as he could tell. And yet when she played chess, her moves were anything but impulsive. He had expected this game to be over by now, but she had surprised him as an opponent.

“Don’t people have better things to do?”

“It wouldn’t be a hospital without gossip.” Her quip was only halfhearted as she studied the board. He sipped his tea and waited – for either her move or his apparent new nickname, whichever came first.

“Well, what is it?” She’d studied the board for what felt like an hour before she carefully moved her pawn. “It can’t be worse than ‘Björn the Slasher’…” A few of his monikers had made their way to his ears. None of them were good – they were both disdainful as well as lazy and stupid. A smörgåsbord of Swedish stereotypes peppered with some tortured reference to his height.

“That one’s hilarious.”

“It makes me sound like a camp horror villain.” She gave him a look over her mug that clearly said, ‘well, aren’t you?’ “If you’re going to tell me about ‘Fucking Felix’, I’m aware.” Alliterative, yes, creative, no.

“That’s hardly a nickname and more a general reaction whenever we have to work with you.” He stared blankly at her, for want of a response – other than to note that their colleagues were more than a little dramatic.

“Well what is it then? Is it the abominable snow man? The Snow King, perhaps? The Ice Giant? Felix the Herring? Hurdy Gurdy – which I really don’t get by the way. Dr. No perhaps?” And then there were the more hurtful ones like Dr. Death or the Angel of Death. But it was truly ridiculous the names he’d been called in the short time he’d been at Saint Sebastian’s.

“Don’t forget the good humor man.” She added brightly. Ah, non-literary irony. He thought sarcastically. They lapsed into temporary silence as they studied the board.

“Doctor Damocles.” Ms. Hale said after carefully removing his captured pawn from the board. It made him start.

“Dr. Damocles – That doesn’t even make sense!” He was well familiar with Damocles, the obsequious courtier of Dionysius II of Syracuse and the moral anecdote about him.

“You’re the harbinger of impending doom! Looming about, threatening everyone’s job, scaring people half to death. You’ve made five people cry since you’ve gotten here – three F1s, two F2s, plus Tamara Aquilarios just this morning!” Ah, that interpretation of the tale, he remembered it well – and paid dearly for it. Just listening he could feel the sting of his father’s hand across his cheek. His first summer home from boarding school his father had insisted that rather than make noise around the house he dedicate his time to something useful and worthwhile – translating all five books of the Tusculanae Disputationes. Every night his father had marked his translations. There had been no room for error. There was never allowed any room for error. It was one of his earliest lessons.

“But that’s not the point of the parable at all. The sword doesn’t just represent, oh, something terrible is going to happen, but it’s about realizing that what looks like an enviable life – a life of wealth, power, and luxury is, in fact, fraught with anxiety, terror, and possibly death.” She stared at him blankly for a long moment.

“God, you really are an insufferable pedant, aren’t you?”

“I’m just saying, the nickname is fundamentally wrong.”

“This would be why we call you ‘Fucking Felix’.” He had nothing to say to that and so he returned his focus entirely to the pieces on the board and his mostly consumed cup of breakfast blend (a choice he made as it complimented his biscuits, ignoring the fact it was after three o’clock). For a move they were both quiet. Focused.

Ms. Hale licked her cayenne lips, they were slightly faded, the color having transferred from full mouth to the rim of her mug in a distinctive kiss, making the cup as hers more than the motif on the outside could. There was some intimacy in seeing her without that flawless signature color, even if it was a fleeting moment before she touched it up and returned about her day.

He was distracted by the red bow of her mouth rather than listening to the words coming out of it.

“But seriously,” She was saying, “we can’t go on like the anymore. The cuts, the redundancies. Everyone in this hospital is running scared. You can’t run a hospital like it’s some company, we’re here to make people better, for God’s sake, not turn a profit.”

“You know that the hospital is not a for profit company, and I know that the hospital is not a for profit company,” She looked at him skeptically, both forgetting the chess match for a little while. “But it has been made abundantly clear to me that the Foundation Trust board does not care. They are interested in seeing healthy profit margins, strong financials in general, efficient staff, and an impeccable reputation. The austere, and only the austere, will survive.”

“Making nurses cry, terrorizing the staff, you think this is going to make Saint Sebastian’s a better hospital, this is how we achieve FT status?”

“Ensuring that the staff are fulfilling their roles and obligations, that nurses are performing proper procedures and tests and running effective bed checks will go a long way toward our Foundation Trust application, particularly since Sir Stewart Frazier, Angus Black, Tristan Guy will be looking over our shoulders for the foreseeable future. They start their on grounds audit Monday.”

Sofia Grace felt herself choke on air. Monday?! The audit starts Monday?!

“The audit starts next week, and you didn’t think to tell us yet?” She was incredulous.

“I myself did not know until this afternoon when Sir Stewart called me.”

“And you decided to read Shakespeare and play chess rather than inform us of this?!” Magnusson sat his teacup down on the table, she momentarily worried that it would have broken, the thud was so heavy sounding.

“I am not one to just fire off emails, saying whatever it is I’m feeling as I feel it. I think before I speak, and in this case, I wanted to think quite carefully about what I should put in such an email. Rest assured, there will be notification by the end of the day regarding this development.”

“You can’t just keep secrets from us!”

“I am hardly keeping this a secret.” His tone was as frosty as Lappland. “Everyone will know by the end of the day, once I have time to sit down and draft the email. Didn’t I ask you to have some faith in me?” She opened her mouth to protest, it was hardly a lack of faith when he literally said he would inform people when he felt like it. He cut off her retort, however. “Regarding Nurse Aquilarios, on the topic of having some faith in me, did you bother to find out the context in which I apparently made her cry?” His delivery was nothing like any rant she was familiar with, certainly nothing like her own style which built and built and built until she exploded like a steam engine without a valve. Instead he was cold, even, and brooking no interruption. “I asked her why a patient hadn’t had a pregnancy test performed. She had skipped the routine procedure in order to save time and because the patient had said they were not pregnant. It’s how she has been able to get such good bed check times. It turns out the patient was actually pregnant, which of course meant an entirely different treatment plan.”

“Your asking had her in tears in the women’s loo! She’s only been out of school six months you know.” Ah, to be young. She wouldn’t do it again for a million dollars. Tamara was maybe 23. It seemed so long ago now but the fear was something she’d ever forget.

“Then it should be fresher in her mind than others that routine procedures become routine for a reason: they serve important purposes and it’s not for us to arbitrarily decide what really is or isn’t important.”

“She’s a good kid, cut her some slack.” Sofia Grace was still skeptical about his just “asking” Tamara rather than yelling at her – the young nurse had been a mess of runny mascara when she had stumbled upon her in the toilet, but she was inclined to agree with Magnusson on the general point. Running a pregnancy test on anyone with a uterus was an important habit to have. There were a surprising number of otherwise competent people who nevertheless weren’t 100% up to date or correct about their current health or health history.

“She has all the makings of an excellent nurse, if she could master the basics of routine procedures and confirming what we think we know, rather than assuming or simply taking someone’s word for it.” It was perhaps the nicest thing she’d heard him say about anyone, except for perhaps immediately after she impressed him with her trick to avoid cracking the chest of a young chef to repair their punctured artery.

“Have you considered telling her this?”

“I censure when there is a need to censure and I praise when there is reason to praise. I won’t go out of my way to do either.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to be nice, you know.” Perhaps it would, it was so hard to tell. There were moments. Flashes of kindness in him. And then, well, he made grown men cry. For a long time they just stared at each other, chess match forgotten between them as a battle of wills took all of their strategic thinking. Without his glasses it was easier to see his eyes. They were nice eyes - sable colored, with long, thick dark lashes – the kind mascara companies were forever trying to replicate.

A shrill beep broke the silence – and their eye contact. Both reached for their pagers.

“Schiße.” He was grateful for the interruption, as piercing as it was. Her eyes had stopped dancing and they had taken a hard, flinty expression. They unnerved him, her eyes. He knew they could steal his soul. They were eyes that could lead a man to hell.

“I’ve got to go.” She began putting on her shoes. “Same time tomorrow?” He stood with her. In her smart heels she was still a head shorter than he was. It was noticeable when they stood next to each other, but so easy to forget given the size of her personality.

“I will have to check, there are some meetings for me to attend before the board begins their audit.”

“Well, you have my number.” She gave him a polite smile, her face a mask of professional focus. Once she was out of his office and off to Harvey, he carefully cleaned up the remnants of his tea and then sat heavily at his desk. With a sigh he opened a new message.

Dear Colleagues…

#Hospital Romance Drama #Cait writes #original fiction #Sofia Grace is Chaotic Good chaffing under Lawful Good Rules #I know nothing about Chess #much ado about nothing #Much ado about the Bard

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