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tornadoyoungiron · 2 years

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A BAD DAY - Chapter 5 - A Light in the Dark

Tornado confronts Green Arrow and The Flying Scotsman becomes trapped in a snow storm. Ao3 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/37839532/chapters/94831753

Summer slowly turned into Autumn and the air grew cold and sharp as snow began to fall and the temperature dropped.

Tornado didn't mind Winter, she thought that the snow covering the fields and hills was pretty and she liked the cold.

Still the bigger steam engines bullied her but her Blue Coat made her confident and she looked forward to the days where Tangmere or Rebecca as she liked to be called was occasionally out on the mainline.

Her yellow paintwork simply shone against the white snow and she'd often defend Tornado from the nastier snobbier engines.

Green Arrow didn't particularly like Rebecca and was often rude to her, which greatly annoyed Tornado.

Rebecca didn't care, ignoring the green engine. She was concerned as to why Tornado let Green Arrow hang around her when he was so rude but otherwise said nothing.

Friends took all kinds of shapes and it wasn't her place to tell Tornado who she could or couldn't be friends with, Rebecca had told Tornado.

Still, she still sometimes thought of Ms Olivia and City of Truro's words regarding Green Arrow.

Today the two of them were meant to pull a Winter Tour from York to Kings Cross. The snow was heavy and there were dangerous storms forecast in the evening cancelling the trains.

Tornado was disappointed but Rebecca saw it as a chance to meet some of the engines stationed at the Railway Museum.

That night at the yards, Rebecca happily barged into a conversation with the big Braunton and Bittern who were completely taken aback by Rebecca but otherwise allowed her to join them as she charmed them with her personality.

Tornado wandered the yards, happy to keep by herself than deal with the other engines. She met briefly met with the City of Truro who asked her if she’d seen the Flying Scotsman to which she hadn’t.

It had been months and she still hadn't made good on her promise to speak with Flying Scotsman to Ms Olivia.

She promised herself she would talk to him tomorrow. She was bound to run into him as York was his home grounds.

Truro however looked extremely worried for his missing friend and rushed off to ask other engines if they'd seen him leaving Tornado to ponder where to stay the night.

Tornado wasn’t as bold as Rebecca and instead chose to sleep in the sheds further away from the others. Green Arrow joined her, seeing how she was alone.

"It's freezing even in the sheds, they said it'll get below freezing tonight," Arrow complained. "I don't get why you like this weather Tornado."

"It makes me appreciate my fire more," she hummed softly. "And the snow is so pretty."

Green Arrow rolled his eyes.

"It's just frozen water," he grumbled.

"It's pretty," Tornado insisted.

"Of course someone named Tornado would think something cold and wet is nice," Arrow sighed and Tornado just giggled at that.

"Oh look Birm, it's the freak and her ugly blue paint!" A loud voice suddenly called out and Tornado scowled angrily.

She looked over and saw Clun Castle and City of Birmingham backing into the sheds with haughty looks on their faces.

"What's this pile of scrap iron doing with the real engines?" Birmingham sneered and Tornado's scowl deepened.

Clun and Birmingham had a personal vendetta against her as they'd been punished for their actions harassing her.

"Oh look her little friend Arrow is here," Clun laughed. "I knew you were trash Arrow but hanging out with this imposter is too much."

"I-" Green Arrow looked embarrassed at Clun's words. "There was no where else to sleep." He mumbled and Tornado glanced at him.

"Arrow!" She hissed at him.

"Oh dear, did you really think Green Arrow was your friend?" Birmingham asked . "How pitiful, Green Arrow only befriended you because he felt sad for the poor little peasant engine!"

"Is this true, Arrow?" Tornado snapped at him.

"I uh, I uhh-" Green Arrow stammered.

"Come now Arrow, you told me the other day that you said that the blue makes her look like an ugly freak!" Clun said with a grin.

"Arrow answer me? Do you really say that?" Tornado demanded and Green Arrow paled.

He looked to Clun and Birmingham staring at him expectantly. He faltered under his gaze and turned to Tornado, staring at her.

"I did say that it does make you look like a freak, a peasant too," he said coldly but Tornado didn't burst into tears like he expected.

Instead she looked thunderously infuriated. Dread filled his boiler as he realised that this wasn't the same quiet and anxious girl he had known.

Her time spent with Tangmere must have given her a lot more confidence.

"Seems like City of Truro and Ms Olivia were right about you," she spat angrily. "You're nothing but a two faced lying little scab!"

He heard the two other engines gasp like school girls watching a catfight.

"I bet your friendship was nothing but a facade as well wasn't it!?" She snarled.

"I didn't want Flying Scotsman to take you away from me!" Green Arrow argued and Tornado looked confused.

"Flying Scotsman has nothing to do with anything!" She snapped. She paused as she remembered his words about the famous engine. "I bet you lied about what he said about me too!"

"It wasn't a lie I just… I just… bent the truth a little," Arrow admitted.

Tornado looked heartbroken.

"I thought you were my friend, Arrow," she said sadly. "I genuinely believed that. I loved spending time with you but… but it turns out you're even worse than these two salty old cows."

Clun and Birmingham gave indignant shouts but Tornado ignored them. She rolled out into the worsening storm outside.

"Tornado where are you going!" Green Arrow called out in a panic. "It's too cold, the storm will damage you!"

"Away from you!" She snarled disappearing into the storm. "You monster!"

~~~

"What are you doing out in the cold engine?" Cain snapped at Tornado as she came into the station at York looking for another shed to sleep in.

Tornado wasn't dealing with anyone today and so she blasted steam at him in response.

"My name is Tornado and I'm not one of your engines so I shall do as I please," she snapped angrily at him.

There was a pause as Tornado gave a frown and sighed.

"Sir," she added indignantly.

Cain glared at the engine but didn't say anything.

Tornado was of the A1 Trust and they were one of the few organisations that Cain didn't want to piss off.

"I could ask you the same thing," Tornado added. "My apologises for being so rude sir, I've not have the most pleasant of evenings."

"Right," Cain said dismissively. He frowned and stared down the track with concern in his eyes.

"Is something wrong sir?" Tornado asked following his gaze. He seemed worried about something.

"The Flying Scotsman has not returned from his rail tour today," Cain explained. "He was due here over two hours ago."

"He might have been caught in the storm sir," Tornado suggested remembering the City of Truro had been looking for him earlier that evening. If Flying Scotsman was outside in this storm for the entire night… Tornado felt dread grow deep in her firebox.

Cain looked thoughtful.

"Perhaps," he said and Tornado began to worry even more.

"If he's out in the storm for too long he could get damaged, sir," she pointed out. "His crew could be in trouble too if they're stuck out with him."

Cain said nothing, only staring out at the tracks with a blank stare.

"You should send a diesel or a snow engine out to look for him sir," Tornado urged. "If he's out all night it could damage him permanently. All his coal could be spoilt if it gets waterlogged or frozen. His crew could die!"

Cain continued to say nothing but then turned to step into the station.

"While I appreciate your concern, I am not willing to risk more engines or crew to find him," Cain said dismissively. "We shall look for him in the morning."

"But sir!"

"Goodnight Tornado," Cain went into the station and nothing more was said.

Tornado stared in disbelief after Cain before turning to her crew.

"Matthias, I know it's risky but… but we have to try and find him. His crew could die, he could be scrapped!" she begged her driver. She was certain he would decline but to her surprise he didn't.

"We'll find him Ms Tornado," he assured her. "I braved storms worse than this in Northern Europe and you are a young strong engine. We just need to prepare appropriately, yes?"

Tornado gritted her teeth in determination.

"Yes sir."

They'd find the Flying Scotsman. No matter where he was.

She promised herself that.

She'd mend things with him.

She'd fix the lies that Green Arrow had told her.

She would save the Flying Scotsman.

~~~

He didn't know how long it had been since Oscar and Vincent had left him to find help. But without them tending to his fire, the cold air had curled around it and quickly snuffed it out.

Almost immediately the cold set in and he felt his entire body succumb to the freezing cold.

He couldn't even move his face anymore, every part of him felt frozen solid.

It was hell.

This was hell.

He'd been delayed by some stupid tresspassers on the track trying to take a photo of him and then ploughed into a snow drift which had fallen across the track.

He wanted to scream or even cry but he couldn't.

It was just too cold. He was completely frozen still.

The wind made things worse. It rattled and bit into his boiler and he could feel it cracking his paint.

He was getting sleepy but forced himself to stay awake.

He didn't want to succumb to the cold iron sleep here in the middle of nowhere.

He didn't want to be abandoned.

He didn't want to be scrapped.

He forced himself to stay awake, but it was getting harder with every passing moment and the night would only become colder.

'I mustn't fall asleep'

He could only hope that a train that hadn't been cancelled would pass and find him but even that seemed unlikely. This storm had been the worst one this year and there was no sign of it letting up.

If he was to go, he was sad that he hadn't mended things with many of his friends and acquaintances.

Even that bright, warm young new engine Tornado and her brothers and sisters that would follow.

He wanted to see them grow and mature.

He wanted to visit Gordon again.

He wanted his big brother.

It didn't seem like that would happen now.

'I mustn't fall…asleep'

His vision slowly began to darken and the cold began to stab into him like hundreds of cutters torches.

He felt as if he was suffocating and he began to choke and panic.

'I must-'

'I must not fall… sleep'

The last thing he saw was an orange light, almost like an engine’s lamp, swaying in the distance on the track in front of him.

'please… somebody, anyone… save me'

Something blue caught his weary eyes.

'Gordon?'

~~~

#ttte tornado #ttte flying scotsman #ttte fanfic #ttte au

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creativelyderangedme · 3 years

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The Boy in the Blizzard

Happy @mlsecretsanta to @normalfanaccount!! I hope you’ve had an amazing holiday and an even better new year! You said you were a big Mari Stan, so I focused on Adrinette! Fluff, Angst (VERY SMALL AMOUNT), Friendship/family bonding, Hurt/Comfort

Synopsis: It’s the last school day before winter break in Paris, and the miracuclass are all excited for the holidays and the time they’ll spend with family! But when the weather takes a sudden turn for the worse and half of the city experiences a blackout due to a massive blizzard, everyone finds themselves set free to rush home, celebrating the early start to their vacation!

Well - almost everyone. Adrien ‘sunshine’ Agreste finds himself left out in the cold.

But have no fear. A certain ‘Everyday Ladybug’ may just have the powers necessary to help them both brave the blizzard. And maybe, just maybe, work a little winter magic to bring them closer together than ever before.

"Class, settle down! I know you're all excited about the holiday break," Madame Bustier called for attention at the front of the room, a knowing smile on her lips even as she reprimanded the boisterous students under her tutelage, "but please keep it down while your peers finish their tests."

No one could blame Madame Bustier's students (or any student in the school for that matter) for being as rowdy as they were. Not even their teacher; despite a third of the Class still working diligently on the multi-paged literature test, scribbling their answers quickly so they could spend the rest of the period hanging out with their friends.

Even as the students quieted, the restlessness was still palpable through the room. Teenagers are itching for the day to end and winter break to begin!

Of course, there was also something to be said about the energizing effect heavy snowflakes falling and whiting out the world just beyond the classroom windows had on a group of teens.

Every few minutes, a handful of eyes would peer up at the white-washed skies, a mixture of anxiousness and excitement for what the view could mean.

"I'm still shocked they didn't call for a snow day when the forecast changed for the worse this morning," Alya whispered for the third time since their second period began to her bestie and seatmate, and Marinette did little more than nod.

As a teenager longing for that extra day off, she agreed. As a superhero in a time of magical terrorists and emotionally driven villains? Well, she couldn't fault the Mayor and Ministry of Education for that one. When classes were so often disrupted or canceled due to Akuma attacks, the Ministry was hard-pressed to meet parents' concerns. Which meant snow days were probably a 'last resort only' sort of thing.

Understanding that didn't make it any less frustrating for a teen counting down the seconds until the holiday break.

Marinette had plans, after all. And several friends (and partner) related gifts to finish and wrap before delivering them in time for Christmas day.

Of course, as she was wont to do, thinking of gifts brought her attention to the head of blonde hair in front of her—the boy of her dreams, leaning over slightly to whisper animatedly to his seatmate. A dreamy sigh would have escaped her had her attention not drifted to the carefully wrapped gift lovingly nestled and burning a hole in the backpack sitting on the floor at her side.

Given her luck (or lack thereof) when giving Adrien gifts in the past, the aspiring fashion designer had been fighting herself, gathering the courage to give him the present—and failing. Because, frankly, she was starting to wonder if she was cursed or something? How many other people could claim they'd had their handmade gifts stolen and causing the end of the world - what the hell?

Barring anything cataclysmic and world-ending this time—what if he didn't like it? What if he took one look at it and laughed and called her a joke and told his father to ban her from the industry and-

"Marinette!"

The call hadn't been loud at all, but the sudden proximity of the voice to her ear, while she'd been distracted, made Marinette squeak loudly, drawing several giggles from her classmates and a raised brow from her teacher.

Sheepishly, she muttered a soft apology before turning a pointed look on her best friend, who giggled softly behind her hand, "Sorry, Girl. You were so spaced out I couldn't help myself."

All the fight left her in one quick sigh, "No, it's fine. I should have been paying better attention."

"What had you thinking so hard over there?"

The reminder did little to settle her stomach or nerves. Both only worsened when she glanced up to indicate towards the boy who occupied most wayward thoughts and found he and Nino had turned around and was watching her, waiting for her answer.

What escaped her mouth was less of a handful of words and explanations and more like a series of mimicked animal calls.

Awesome.

If she didn't have the courage before, she definitely didn't now.

And they were looking back at her with strange looks and soft grins at her awkwardness, and she could feel her face flushing with each passing second and - dear god, could this get any humiliating?!

Marinette had just opened her mouth to explain herself when the room went dark, and everything went quiet with a dying hum.

Well, as dark as it could get with the large windows allowing muted light in past the winter storm raging outside.

A rumble of whispers and panicked looks washed over the students as they waited for the school to come humming back to life, but nothing came.

"Everyone settle down! I'm sure there's nothing to worry about! Please stay in your seats while I check in with the Principle." Madame Bustier announced as she wrapped her coat around herself and exited the room, sending a frigid breeze through the door before it closed behind her.

"Do you think it's an Akuma?"

God, she hoped not. Marinette shivered again, this time, not just because of the new coldness in the room. An Akuma meant going out and fighting in a suit less insulated than anyone gave it credit for in the middle of a storm. And being Ladybug meant she was more sensitive to the cold than she'd otherwise usually be.

"I don't think so," Adrien announced, having turned to the rest of the Class, but gaze focused on the device lit up in his hand. "There's a report that a big part of the city is experiencing rolling blackouts due to the storm. I think this is a disaster of the natural kind this time."

If she hadn't been sitting as close as she was, she would have missed the quiet "thankfully," he added under his breath as he moved to put his phone away.

The curiosity piqued by the mumbled comment vanished, though, as the buzz from his phone had him pausing before frowning down at whatever had popped up on the screen.

"Adrien?"

Emeralds darted up to meet her, and she had to swallow the rush of nerves to get her next words out with minimal stumbling, "I-is everything alright?"

He blinked momentarily before offering her a well-practiced smile, "Yeah! Everything's fine." His reassurance was quick. As was the apprehensive glance, he threw at the windows.

But the way he smoothed that nervousness over with a warm grin made her think he probably hadn't meant for her to see it. And as much as she wanted to press the issue, Marinette respected his desire to leave it be.

Cold air rushed into the room once more as the door opened and closed quickly behind a shivering Madame Bustier, patting herself off of the lingering snow that had stuck to her in her trek through the open-air commons area.

She had everyone's attention before she'd even opened her mouth to call them to order, "Alright, listen up, everyone! With the quickly turning weather, the school had already been in the process of contacting your parents to let them know that the school would be closing early, but with the Blackout, we have no choice but to send you all home as quickly as possible."

There was an excited murmur picking up as everyone began to chat with each other before Madame Bustier cleared her throat, "With that said, Happy Holidays, everyone! And I will see you all in two weeks! Please be safe getting home, and don't forget your projects due the first week back! I don't want to hear any excuses about late work."

And with that, the students clamored to gather their things and wrap themselves in their winter gear to head to the locker rooms to get any remaining materials they needed for the break.

It wasn't long before Madame Bustier's Class was all saying their goodbyes at the front gates, promising meet-ups and fun times over the break.

"Nino and I are going to head back! We've got a blizzard date! I'll catch you later, Girl!" Alya waved enthusiastically as she grappled arms with her boyfriend and dragged him away into the storm.

Marinette chuckled at the couple's antics watching until they disappeared around the next block's corner.

An uptick in the wind made Marinette take in the weather and the heavy snowflakes falling fast into the streets. Visibility was worsening by the minute. The snow fell, making the sky hazy like a heavy fog and the day darker despite being early afternoon. The frigid wind swirled around her, making her wrap her coat tighter around her body.

She should be heading home soon before she and Tikki became bug-icicles.

The class rep nodded to herself and glanced around, satisfied that all of her classmates were already mostly out of sight or on their way.

Good.

With one last glance around, Marinette was about to take a step out into the snow when she had to stop herself. She nearly slipped on the steps with how quickly she spun to what had caught her attention.

Surely she was mistaken. She could have sworn…

But no. Even when she blinked a couple of times, the scene before her was unchanged.

Right there, just hidden off to the side of the school's entrance, bundled up but still looking oh so cold as he pressed himself back under the small respite the school's roof gave the door, was Adrien.

His blonde hair was what had caught her eye. But it was the rather distressed frown he shot something in his hand before glancing between the quickly dwindling crowd of students and the streets rapidly piling with snow.

How hadn't she noticed he hadn't left yet?

And why was he still here?

A glance of her own pretty much answered her question, though, as cars that had managed to approach the school were quickly finding themselves stuck and unable to move much without some help from someone with a shovel.

His driver took him everywhere. So if they hadn't already been on the way or close, there was a good chance his ride wasn't coming.

So why was he still just standing there in the cold, she wondered.

Well, standing there speculating wasn't going to get her any answers. Marinette took a deep, steadying breath, straightening her back and glancing down to the reassuring pat and smile from Tikki before pushing herself forward to approach the blonde.

"Adrien?"

Bright emeralds snapped up to her. The way he gripped his satchel's strap and fidgeted made it seem like he was almost… embarrassed for having been found, "Oh, uh, Marinette, I thought you were headed home."

She tried offering him a soft smile, even as a wary thought that she hadn't noticed him because maybe he hadn't wanted to be seen occurred to her, "As Class rep, it's part of my job to make sure all my classmates make it out safe."

A delicate blonde brow furrowed at that, almost worriedly, "But doesn't that mean you might get caught in the blizzard?"

God - beautiful and empathetic? What a dream-boat. The man upstairs broke the mold when he made this one, she decided. Then had to quickly shake herself out of the dreamy reverie as Adrien waited for her to reply, "N-not really. I live right across from the school, after all."

He chuckled, but the mirth didn't quite meet his eyes, "Right. I almost forgot about that."

"What about you? Why are you still here?"

The fidgeting was back, "Oh, well… father wants me to wait for my bodyguard to arrive." His eyes skipped back to the device in his hand, his expression slipping back to a frustrated frown before a defeated sigh brought a tired gaze back to her. "I told him I could walk, especially when half the city is in a blackout. But he wouldn't hear it. Said there would be consequences for disobedience."

No, this was more than tired. This was the face of someone who'd fought many battles against authority and lost every single one. And it broke her heart - for about two seconds before his words really sunk in, and she was suddenly furious.

"But-but it's freezing out here!" This time, the stutter in her voice was more from the anger and less about her debilitating crush, and she punctuated her words with a wild gesture to the building snow. "And the school is going to shut down soon. Who does that to their son?"

He gave her a small smile at her outburst, after recovering from the shock - it wasn't often she would be so outspoken around him. But it was enough to get the tension to leave his shoulders, "Father's always a little uptight around the holidays. And he just wants to keep me safe. I get it. I really do. I just wish he'd… I don't know… listen to me every once in a while, I guess. Is that stupid?"

"Of course, it's not stupid, Adrien. everyone deserves to be heard."

This time when he smiles, it's warmer, more genuine, "Thanks, Mari."

But that didn't solve his problem. Adrien was still stuck waiting in a blizzard for a ride that was likely not coming.

And as the class rep (and definitely nothing to do with her crush on the guy), it was her sworn duty to make sure he was safe too. It takes one quick glance over her shoulder towards home and one back over Adrien (who is shivering but trying to hide it, the poor boy) for Marinette to make up her mind.

And grab his hand, pulling him out into the snow and down the school steps with her.

"Wait! Mari, where are we going?"

She just barely peeks at him behind her, trying to focus on not losing her footing and sending them sprawling into the snow, "To the bakery! It's nice and warm at my house, and my parents are sure to have plenty of pastries they didn't sell today! They'll need help eating them all!"

From where she's peeking at him, she sees Adrien's eyes light up, and even as he peers back at the school, she can tell his resolve is wavering. Even still, there's hesitation in his voice, "But what about my father?"

She shrugs even as a fresh wave of panic sets in. But she can't let her idol scare her away from taking care of the lo- one of her very good friends. "If he wants to blame someone, he can blame me. But I wouldn't be doing my job as class rep if I just left you here in the snow, now would I?"

He chuckled, still looking unsure, but following anyways, dragging less behind her as her reasoning set in, "I guess you're right. And I would hate to get you in trouble."

"Exactly! So off to the bakery we go!" Marinette crowed triumphantly, pumping a fist into the air, earning yet another amused chuckle from the blonde behind her.

The walk to the bakery isn't long, but it feels like it takes much longer as they navigated the slippery roads, piles of snow, and harsh winds. What would typically take no more than five minutes takes them at least fifteen before finding themselves in front of the darkened storefront doors.

"Guess the bakery was hit by the blackout, too," Adrien observed as Marinette pulled the doors open with some effort, opening them enough to allow Adrien to slip in before closing them behind them.

Darkened as it was, it was still light enough from the windows to allow them to see the empty seating area and two figures bustling just beyond the counter and register.

It wasn't even two seconds before both figures glanced up to give them happy smiles as the two teens shook off the snow from their clothes. "Hello, you two!" The calm and melodious voice of Marinette's mother rang out.

"Maman, Papa! You remember Adrien, right?"

Her mother's warmth radiated from where she stood, melting the bitter cold from the outside just with the sweet smile she gave the young man at her side. "But of course! Hello, again, Adrien. How are you?"

He smiled back, politely, "I'm good. Thank you, Madame Dupain-Cheng."

"Adrien's ride isn't here yet, and with the way the snow keeps piling up, it likely won't be for some time. Could he -"

The hulking figure of her father came to wrap an arm around her mother as he spoke, "Stay and help us eat all these pastries while the snow blows through? Of course, he can! You two take your school things upstairs, and we'll eat something tasty!"

Adrien's face lit up like a Christmas tree as he turned to Marinette - like he needed her permission too. Despite having been dragged here. Despite her less-than-necessary pleading with her parents. It warmed her from the top of her head right down to her toes to see him so happy to be accepted and wanted.

But it also made her so very sad.

What must life be like for him to be so genuinely thrilled by the idea of an offered snack shared with a friend? A place to hide from a raging storm? What kind of loneliness must he experience if this was considered out of the norm?

It was then that Marinette decided that for as long as he was there, no matter how she felt about him or how he felt about her, she would make sure that he knew how much he was cherished and wanted.

Time seemed to fly by as they rushed up to deposit their bags in Marinette’s room, before racing down to the living room where her parents had set up plates with food stacked high. Together, they ate pastries and drank hot chocolate warmed by a propane burner her mother brought out for occasions such as this. All are sitting in the living room of the Dupain-Chengs, keeping each other warm just with the company they're keeping, and while they did, watching people bustle in the storm outside.

There were a couple of families out with kids playing in the snow. Building snowmen that would be buried before the hour was out.

It was fun getting to watch them play.

Marinette peers up at Adrien, and her smile falters as she sees the longing look in his eye as he watches on, a forgotten half-eaten pastry in his hand.

"What is it?"

Adrien's cheeks warmed a bit at having been caught staring, his gaze fixating on the pastry and steaming cup clutched in his other hand, "It's nothing. I just… I hadn't played in the snow since mom- well when I was much younger."

Just how much childhood was the boy robbed of?

This wouldn't do at all. No siree. Not if she could help it.

"Would you want to?" Marinette asked unassumingly, like she asked if he'd pass the sugar, making the blonde glance up at her confused.

"Want to what?"

A playful grin broke out over her lips as she brought her own cup up to take a sip, "Play in the snow!" She takes a healthy bite of croissant, pointing it at him, "You can't not go out and play in the snow when a blizzard comes to Paris!"

"Would you really?"

He looks so excited; she has to fight a giggle. "We shouldn't right now since the power is still out. But once it's back, we could. But only if you want to."

"Mari, that would be-"

"Adrien, dear? Is this your phone?"

The festive atmosphere seems to come to a screeching halt. The blonde's face drains as he glances up and sees the device in the woman's hand. The caller ID is lit up with an incoming call, and even from here, Marinette can read the name. Uh-oh.

Adrien climbs to his feet, making his way over. He answers the phone, and everyone in the room can tell. His father is enraged. His voice is booming through the receiver, and the blonde can only open his mouth, sputtering where he can to get a word in edgewise.

"Father, listen, please-!"

"Of course not. I'm with a friend and left my phone on the-."

"Marinette. I'm with her and her family at their ba-"

Desperation and frustration are filling the boy's features quickly as he's interrupted at every turn.

"Father, please! It's too dangerous and-"

Suddenly Marinette's mother takes the phone and gives Adrien a soft smile before speaking into the receiver. "Hello? Monsieur Agreste? Yes, this is Marinette's mother, Sabine Dupain-Cheng. I'm sorry for interrupting your conversation, but it was our idea to have Adrien join us. Surely you've seen the weather? We couldn't just let the poor boy stand out in a storm waiting for a ride that wasn't coming."

While they could not hear the words, it was clear Gabriel Agreste was angry as his harsh tone came through the phone.

But it wasn't long before Sabine cut him off, ice in her words, colder than the storm raging outside.

"M. Agreste." She spoke calmly, but in that way that demanded the room's attention. "Are you telling me you'd rather your son brave, what is possibly the worst blizzard Paris has seen in decades, risking not only his health and safety but also the health and safety of those who would attempt to retrieve him? Rather than trust his care to my family? Surely you wouldn't suggest something so absurdly asinine."

The line goes silent.

The room is silent too.

Would someone dare suggest something like that? By the look on her mother's face, she hoped not.

"That's what I thought. Now, since the storm isn't set to pass until sometime late into the night, it might be best that Adrien stays with us. I promise he will be well taken care of, and once we deem it safe, he will be returned home. Is that agreeable for you?"

While it's phrased as a question, there is very little room for argument in how she presents the option.

There must have been an answer on the other end because Sabine is nothing but warm smiles once more as she says, "Wonderful. I'll put Adrien back on." and hands the device back to the blonde, who stares on like he's just witnessed a supernova.

"Hello?"

There is the briefest of pauses before Gabriel relays something and then hangs up.

"H-He said I could stay." Adrien whispers in disbelief before he turns starstruck eyes on her mother, "how did you do that?"

The woman chuckles, but the sound seems suspiciously darker than usual to her husband and daughter, "it's a skill all mothers know dear. Never mess with a mama bear."

Before he can ask her to elaborate, she changes the subject back to the two teens finishing their snacks, "Since the power is still out, it would be best if you both went and gathered up some warm blankets from upstairs and brought them down. We'll find ways to occupy ourselves, hmm?"

Having just witnessed the consequences of a mother scorned, both teens merely nod before Marinette leads the blonde up to her room, passing him her coziest blankets and pillows. She gathers up a warm sweater for herself before turning to Adrien. He looks so awash with emotion. It's bubbling just under the surface, and she knows he's just barely holding on.

If memory served, this was probably the first 'sleepover' he'd ever had.

On the other hand, he's clutching all the blankets she gave him, and he's practically nestling into them. Like a cat pawing and kneading and rubbing themselves over a spot they intend to sleep, Adrien has effectively buried himself in the pile of blankets where he stands, and she can't help but giggle.

He looks so soft and warm and cozy in the things she has to physically stop herself from joining him.

"What?"

"Sorry, it's just, you look so happy like that. And warm." A blush began to break out over her cheeks, and she couldn't quite meet his eyes anymore. Choosing instead to look down at the sweater in her arms.

Which had her gaze shifting towards the abandoned backpacks on the floor where they'd left them earlier, and the carefully wrapped gift just barely peeking out of hers.

Was it wrong to take advantage of the situation? Was it okay for her to be giving him a gift in these circumstances? What if he hated it so much he decided to leave and he got stuck in the blizzard and froze to-

"Marinette?" Adrien's soft call pulled her out of her spiral as she looked up into his concerned gaze, "Are you alright? You looked really pale all of a sudden. Do you need help going back downstairs? Is there something I can do?"

He looked a little panicky himself, and the sight made her heart sing.

He was worried. About her. He wasn't the type to be insensitive with someone - not the way she feared. And the revelation was enough to set her resolve.

She shook her head softly, smiling as she went to the bag and took great care pulling the gift out to cradle it to her chest before coming back to stand in front of the blonde, holding it out to him without another word.

Emeralds bounced between her face and the neatly wrapped box in her hands before he set the blankets on the nearby chaise lounge, "I-Is this for-for me?" his tone was a little breathy, a little awestruck.

Not trusting her words, Marinette nodded quickly, placing the box in his hands.

"Can… is it okay if I open it?"

This time the Girl giggled, nodding again before she lost her nerve.

He took great care in opening the gift wrapping, unfolding it almost reverently, before finally pulling open the lid to find a cream knit pattern inside. Pulling the garment from the box, Adrien held up a thick knitted sweater - chunky yarn woven expertly into one of the softest pieces she'd ever made. She'd been so proud of it.

And the boy holding it looked like he was nearly in tears. "D-did you make this?" He asked softly, running his fingers over the pattern.

"Do you… like it?"

"I love it. It's the best gift anyone's ever given me." He whispered, watery eyes finding hers. Lips trembling despite the softest smile she'd ever seen. "It's so warm and soft."

Before she knew what was happening, he'd engulfed her in a hug so tight she couldn't breathe, but not once did she complain.

"Thank you so much." He whispered into her hair, and if she felt the tell-tale wetness of a few shed tears, she kept it to herself as she wrapped her arms around the boy who had wrapped himself securely around her heart, "Thank you for everything."

That day, as she watched him put the sweater on over his lighter shirt, wearing it with pride to show her parents (and then the day they went back after the break, telling anyone who would listen that it was his gift from the most talented Girl in all of Paris), she swore to herself and the blonde that he would never be left out in the cold again. Every year, she'd make him something else that would be 'the best gift someone had ever given him'.

He'd always find warmth. Even if they were buried in the snow, she would be there to make sure he'd always be able to brave the blizzard.

#ml secret santa #adrienette #adrinette #adrien x marinette #so much fluff #ml ladybug #ml fic #ml fluff #adrien agreste #protect adrien agreste

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ussjellyfish · 3 years

Text

please have snow and mistletoe | gen | Skimmons, Philinda | Agents of SHIELD

written for @agentsofchallenges as a pinch hit for @maybebrilliant!!

Merry Christmas, lovely! I hope you enjoy this. We’ve had some awful weather and that just seemed to work.

read on ao3

Jemma and Daisy were supposed to go see her parents for Christmas but it's snowing and the flights are cancelled the hotels are full and they're in the worst airport Jemma's ever seen.

So May's going to come get them.

=======

"The flight's canceled," Jemma reports, flopping down on the bench, totally defeated. "So is everything else crossing the Atlantic Ocean that's not a boat, and I think they're turning those back too."

Daisy pats her shoulder and finishes the last of her cold coffee. "Guess we should call your parents."

"They'll be so disappointed," Jemma says, taking a breath. She probably wouldn't be near tears if it wasn't the middle of the night in potentially the worst airport on the eastern seaboard. Newark was crowded, so many flights had been delayed or cancelled that she and Daisy had barely gotten a bench after they'd barely gotten through customs. They'd already queued for hours, had terrible food, and the bathrooms were overcrowded and everyone was annoyed. Everyone was so annoyed that the air seemed to crack with it.

"Hey," Daisy said, smiling. "They'll understand. We can get a hotel or go back to base and we'll try again."

"Before the world ends or we get attacked by killer robots."

Daisy laughs and leans back. "We're good at that though, so it'll have to be another horrible thing."

"Like aliens." Jemma tries to smile. "Or weeping angels."

"Why are the angels sad?"

"Oh they're not actually weeping they're just covering their faces because they're evil and they're going to get you as soon as you stop looking."

Daisy grins. "Wait, what?"

"It's complicated, but the gist of it is that the angels sneak up on you when you're not looking at them."

"And they're evil."

"So evil."

"So let's not fight them." Daisy pulls her feet up and wraps her arms around her knees. "What do we do if there's no flight?"

"We rent a car-"

"Oh no, it's like The Day After Tomorrow death blizzard out there, we're not driving, you get annoyed with the traffic around the Playground."

"I'm only pointing out that roundabouts would be much more efficient."

"Uh huh." Daisy takes another sip of her coffee and frowns. It must be gone. Daisy looks for the bin, but of course there's no bin, this airport is the 8th circle of hell.

"We could get a hotel, hang on," Daisy opens up her laptop, touches something, does something else and even in hell, Daisy has wifi because she's Daisy. She's probably hacking NASA or something.

"Dammit," Daisy mutters after a few minutes.

"Let me guess, they're all booked."

"Everything. So many people are stuck here that I can't find a hotel anywhere within a hundred miles."

"And we'd have to get the hundred miles."

"Yeah." Daisy rubs her eyes. "We could just sleep here."

"In an airport?"

Daisy shrugs. "It's not the worst. It's safe, but the stupid lights are on all night and it's really not very comfortable."

Jemma sighs, buries her head in Daisy's shoulder and groans. "Spending the night in the airport on Christmast?"

"With a couple thousand of our stranded new friends," Daisy mutters. "Better call May and tell her we're not leaving the country."

It's somehow one of the shortest and most touching conversations of her life.

"May's coming to get us."

"What?" Daisy asks, eyes wide. "It's like...actual hell out there."

"She's driving, she said two hours, maybe three, but she'll be here before dinner."

Daisy shakes her head. "Okay."

"That's really nice of her."

"She is really nice."

"I know, I just--" Jemma stops, because she really can't complain about not getting to see her parents for Christmas because she's seen them every other Christmas of her life and she has parents, and a wonderful girlfriend and May who's coming to get them through the worst blizzard of the last sixty years.

She still wants to be home. She's earned it. It's been such a long year. She sniffs, and shakes herself out of it.

"What movies do you have on your laptop?"

Daisy wraps an arm around her and they settle in as best they can. May will be here.

Oddly enough, two hours later it's Coulson who comes in to get them. He's all wrapped out, parka and hate and scarf and a big smile for both of them.

"Come on, May's just outside." He hugs them, Daisy first, then Jemma, and it's so terrible outside that he somehow smells like snow and cold.

"Aren't you--?" Daisy asks and Coulson just smiles.

"I didn't want to leave May alone in the base for Christmas."

"She said she doesn't celebrate Christmas."

"We like not celebrating together," Coulson says, but there's something that makes him smile about that. "Give me your luggage."

"It's on the plane already, or not unloaded, or--" Jemma stumbles over the words, yawning, and Daisy finishes.

"I think they're going to have to drop it off with us."

"That bad huh?"

"It's Newark," Daisy grumbles, folding her arms. "I wanted to just let May fly us."

"We can't possibly ask May to fly us to my parents house."

"She'd love too," Coulson reminds them both, leading them towards the frozen hellscape of outside. They have to stop talking as they reach the doors because the wind screams around them and whips ice and snow like a sandstorm.

Hell is frozen, and all the devils are here. They hurry into the (once) black SHIELD SUV that's covered in so much ice and snow that's it's almost grey-white.

Daisy doesn't even have a hat because it was nice when they left and they tumble into the backseat, rubbing their fingers together and trying to catch their breath.

May turns around, looking at them both with a very gentle smile. "There's food in the backpack, hot chocolate in the thermos and blankets. Phil, where did you put their hats and mittens?"

"They're in the cloth bag. You didn't really take the hard core winter gear."

"Yeah, it was like 40 degrees when we left the base." Daisy buckles up and grabs the backpack. "I'm starving."

"We thought so, the food here is terrible."

"The worst," May agrees, checking that they're in before she pulls out from the curb. Another car slides past them, like actually slides and Jemma grabs Daisy's hand.

Daisy pats her knee with a smile and mouths "It's May."

It's not that Jemma doesn't have every confidence in May, she does. May is a legend at everything she does, it's just that the weather outside is actually legendarily bad. They crawl along on the freeway, surrounded by giant trucks that can't stay on the road and Jemma counts fourteen cars in the ditch before they're even out of New Jersey.

Daisy leans over, close enough that Jemma can smell the hot chocolate on her lips. "Stop panicking."

"Did you not see the cars in the ditch? The overturned lorry trucks? The complete lack of plows and gritters?"

"What's a gritter?"

"Those big lorries that throw grit on the roadway."

"Grit?" Daisy teases, eyebrows high.

"Stop making fun of me, you know what I mean."

"I do, I just like making fun of you."

Jemma rolls her eyes and tries to forget about the chance of them spinning into a ditch and spending the night sleeping in the SUV. Does SHIELD have any anti-ice and snow technology? Is there some kind of SAT NAV that May can follow out of the storm.

"Stop panicking," Daisy whispers again.

"How are you not?" Jemma snaps back in a whisper. "That car almost hit us."

"Look." Daisy points carefully in the dim light. It takes Jemma far too long to figure out what she's looking at.

Coulson's hand is on May's knee. It's innocent enough, maybe he's just- but it's right there and it looks like it's been there a long time.

"That's not all," Daisy whispers, smiling at the secret she's discovered. "Wait a minute."

Jemma curls up with Daisy and the blankets in the backseat and watches as Couls holds on May's tea so she doesn't have to look away from the road. They talk in low tones, and Jemma and Daisy can't hear them over the sound of ice thudding against the roof and the windows, but sometimes one of them will laugh.

May, laughs, while driving through the worst mess Jemma's ever seen. Time crawls, Daisy falls asleep for a while, then Jemma, but when she wakes up again, they're still driving, and Coulson's hand is on the back of May's neck.

She couldn't really tell what he's doing unless May's getting some kind of stress headache, and Coulson's hand is really hidden in her hair, except the snow's softer now and she can hear them talking.

Still not quite the words, but there's something almost flirty in the way Coulson won't stop looking at May.

Of course, they have a connection, years of history. They're really good friends.

Except friends don't really spend lonely holidays together alone at a secret base.

Jemma falls asleep wondering what they're saying, because May's laughing again and even in the middle of the darkest, most miserable, cold and wet Christmas Eve she's ever had, there's something nice about being curled up with Daisy just listening.

====

"We're home," Coulson says, shaking her a little. "Nice and safe and warm in the garage."

Jemma slowly blinks herself awake, stretching as she crawls out of the car. Daisy stands by the other door, still half asleep. They both yawn and check their phones. It's well after two in the morning.

"Happy Christmas, mum and dad," Jemma whispers to her phone and sends them a text. Maybe she'll see them by New Year.

Daisy circles the back of the SUV, whistling at the snow. "I didn't know the roads could be that bad."

"May did a great job."

Hugging Jemma sleepily, Daisy nods. "Course she did, she's Agent May."

Still arm in arm, they walk towards the front of the SUV to thank Coulson and May for coming to get them, but they stop.

They're kissing.

Not just, light, gentle, Happy Christmas, kissing, but wrapped around each other as if this kiss is the first one of the rest of their lives. There should be music with this kiss.

Daisy stops, mouth open.

Jemma should pull herself together but she doesn't. She stares too, because they keep going until both of them are gasping for breath.

"Ummm."

"Merry Christmas," Coulson says, blushing a little.

"Mistletoe," May says, pointing up at the high ceiling of the garage.

There's nothing up there. Jemma looks and Daisy looks and they both nod and May grabs Coulson's hand and they walk into the base together, Coulson's arm around her shoulders.

Daisy stares and stares and then her expression softens, warms. "They--"

Jemma kisses her, stopping her speculation. When they part, Daisy looks at her, confused.

"Mistletoe," Jemma teases and Daisy rolls her eyes.

"You know there's nothing up there."

"Maybe that's the point."

Daisy strokes her hair, then smiles. "Sorry. you're stuck here."

"I'm not," Jemma says, and now, finally, wrapped in Daisy's arms, she might mean it.

#agents of shield #agents of challenges #philinda #skimmons #maybebrilliant #fluff and happiness

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gerbiloftriumph · 3 years

Photo

The Silence Between Snowflakes

(also on ao3) ~ 3/8 - The Stories That Really Matter

~*~*~

The storm was bigger than expected. Daventry woke to a fresh blanket of snow at least two feet high in places, and more still on the way. The guards grumbled and manned their shovels.

Rosella and Alexander sat in her room while the snow continued to fall, playing the new and improved Battle of Wits—when Valanice walked past, she could hear them laughing (laughing! Her boy, laughing!) and Alexander whimpering in pain as another arrow nicked his thumb. They were playing less to win as they were to hit each other, it sounded like.

Siblings.

After a hot lunch, Graham held his usual audience hours. He wasn’t sure if anyone would show up in this weather, but if anything major was impending he needed to know about it. Between the potential goblins and the endless snow, he was sure something would come up. Alexander quietly asked if he might try sitting in, too, to see what Graham did as a king. All those walks had done good, it seemed, sparking his curiosity. Graham was absolutely delighted, stocking the lad with blankets and hot drinks and making sure he had a good view in case people came.

And they did. Crusted with snow, peeling slushy gloves and scarves from their hands and faces, they came to make their reports. They were uneasy about the weather, primarily. It was too early in the season for this sort of thing, and Graham was quite sure it wasn’t going to ease up as the winter went on—his people felt the same.

“I just don’t know if we have enough wood stockpiled,” Amaya warned.

“Whisper is happy to collect more, but Whisper isn’t sure about being able to support the whole village,” Whisper added. “But Whisper has been emphasizing arm day, so Whisper can do it.”

Graham considered. They had some options: they should definitely cancel the annual huge marshmallow roast, that was easy enough. Perhaps they could also thin out some of the encroaching trees on Pillare Hill, if she would be amenable to that suggestion. She’d complained once about how gloomy her hill was starting to look, and clearing back some of the branches might brighten it again. He made a note to talk to her about it as soon as possible, told Whisper he wouldn’t need to do everything himself, and promised they could certainly keep warm for a good long while together no matter what.

The fear about the village roofs groaning under the snow was valid—one of the older houses on the edge of the wall had snapped under the pressure, timbers shedding snow inside the rooms. No one had been hurt, but Graham immediately dispatched a team of guards to clear the rest of the rooftops now, and invited the displaced villagers to stay in the castle.

Nervous questions about goblins were repeated again and again, and Graham listened patiently to each new worry. Concerns about consumables were constant. If they were stealing clothes, might they steal food next? What might happen if the flour ran low? If they dug their tunnels into the vegetable cellars? Graham ordered another fully updated inventory done of the castle’s holdings, and walked the villagers through the plans No1 had put together, careful to point out what each villager would find most relevant.

Bramble was especially apprehensive about the wedzels trying to break into town to escape the chill in the forests. She’d heard them howling in the forest in the night, thought she heard them prowling the streets outside her shop. Graham would have the gates reinforced and extra torches placed around the paths. He explained that they tended to scare away from blue-flamed light in particular; he had learned that in the knight tournament all those years ago. She smiled, satisfied with the response.

Hours whirled past like snowflakes. Graham stretched out the knots in his back between petitioners, glancing at Alexander to make sure he was comfortable. He was curled on the bench like a cat, watchful, with an unreadably blank expression as he absorbed everything his father did. Every word he spoke, every movement of his hand.

They were prepared. Daventry was capable of surviving even the bleakest winters, Graham knew. But it wouldn’t be easy, and the wary looks on his citizens’ faces told him they knew it wouldn’t be, either. And if the second half was worse than this first, then they would want to start getting ready now.

“What did you think?” Graham asked later, breaking open a heel of bread and dipping it in his soup. No standing on ceremony or manners on a frozen night when there was no one but his family around him. The fireplace crackled and snapped behind him, pouring blessed heat into the informal dining hall.

“Interesting,” Alexander said. “You’re...very patient.” The unspoken words: Unlike Manannan.

“I’ve got to be,” Graham said. “You’ll hear a lot of the same questions again and again, but you’ve got to give them all your full attention like they’re the first person to have brought it up. It helps them trust you, shows that you’ll listen, that you’ll care. I’m not sure every other kingdom works like that, but this one does.”

“Still,” Valanice said distractedly, swirling her spoon through her bowl, “this is the strangest winter I can remember. I wonder what the Hobblepots would have had to say about this—maybe it’s like this every hundred years?”

“They weren’t that old,” Graham protested. “Still. I’ll have a look through the history books. If there’s anything like this, it’ll be mentioned somewhere, I’m sure.” And maybe give me some clue about what might happen next.

“It’s good for snowmen,” Rosella said, mouth full of bread. “Packs together really well.”

“Hard to shovel,” No2 groaned, wincing, as he carried a pitcher of water around the table. “I’m going to feel that for a week.”

“Someone needs to make sure you stay in shape,” No1 said drily from his post near the door.

Graham smiled. “I asked Olfie about hiring him and Pillare to scoop out the main roads. That should free up the guards for patrols and other tasks.”

“I can’t imagine she was best pleased at that.” No2 gently put the pitcher back on the serving board.

“As compensation, she wants the castle to fund an order with Acorn for a new winter cap and matching gloves. She wants embroidery. Birds, is what I heard last. She keeps changing her mind. It’s going to take ‘til the end of winter to get it done, Acorn says.”

“Her hands are as big as he is!”

“It’s a good challenge, is what I told him,” Graham said. “He’s even looking forward to it, I think.”

Outside, the snow continued to drift.

~*~*~*~

“Alexander.”

He didn’t look at Rosella. His chin was in his hands, and he was staring out the window with a look of intense thoughtfulness, mulling over something. His lips were moving as he thought, but he made no sound.

“Alexaaaander.”

Still nothing.

Very quietly, not sure it would work or should even be said: “Gwydion?”

He instantly leapt to his feet and tumbled into a haphazard bow, all awkward limbs and nervous babble, “Yessir, sorry, sir, what can I do—oh. Um. Sorry, hi. Sorry.”

“Oh no, no, no, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I didn’t think that you’d...I’m so sorry. But. Look, Alexander, are you okay? You’ve been sitting there for at least twenty minutes. I’ve walked past twice and tried to talk to you each time and you haven’t noticed.”

It had felt like just a minute or two. “Fine.”

“You’ve got this look on your face, though. Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Yes.”

She leaned against the bookcase. “What’s the question?”

“Sorry?”

“You always have some question about Daventry when you get that look. So, what is it? I bet I know the answer.”

He looked down at his hands. “I’m trying to figure out what this means,” he admitted, and he thumped his fist into his open palm. “The king...uh, Dad does it a lot. Especially before audience hours. I just...is it some spell, or something?” It didn’t feel magical, and he was quite sure he would be able to tell, but maybe he had missed something.

“Oh! No, no, that’s an Achaka salute.”

“A...a what? Ah—chaka?”

“You’ve been here for weeks and you haven’t heard that story yet? Dad’s slipping. Here, let me introduce you.” She went to the entrance hall, Alexander lagging behind her a few paces. “This,” she said, gesturing widely, “is Achaka.”

Alexander looked around, but the only person here was Royal Guard Number Two standing post by the door, and Alexander was quite sure his name was Matt. Not that he was supposed to call the royal guards by their real names. Rosella had told him everyone’s names but had also mentioned that No1 was pretty big on formal protocol, which made Alexander immediately want to forget them so he couldn’t make a mistake. Regardless. Not Achaka. He looked again, and then realized. “The statue?”

“Well, the real Achaka died ages ago. Waaay back when Dad first came to Daventry. They met, and Achaka helped him get through the Knight Tournament that Dad needed to win if he wanted a chance at being king. So, they were looking for an eye, ‘cos Number One said they had to have one for their entrance tickets, and Achaka hadn’t come back to turn his in, and there was this dragon, and...” she stopped, and looked at the statue. “This is a boring way to tell the story. Dad does it so much better.”

“Pardon me, Princess Rosella,” No2 said, leaning forward. “I think I know a better way to tell it.”

Ten minutes later, Rosella, Alexander, and No2 were tearing the sitting room apart, putting cushions here and there to represent different cave entrances, building up a little maze of small spaces, all the while explaining the backstory of what was going on to Alexander. Rosella handed him a decorative bowl and said, “This can be a glowing mushroom, so you can put that wherever you want.”

Royal Guard Number One said from the door, “What are you doing?” Alexander froze, almost dropping the bowl in his sudden nervousness.

“Oh! Number One!” Rosella clapped her hands. “Excellent! Will you help us?”

No1 stared at the mountain of pillows they’d stacked precariously by the window. It was teetering madly, and looked like breathing on it wrong would knock the whole thing over. “Help?”

No2 got to his feet. He’d been tying curtain pulls together to make one long cord. “We need you to be Achaka,” he said.

“...I’m sorry, I must repeat myself. What are you doing?”

“Reenacting the dragon attack for Prince Alexander. We wanted to explain what an Achaka salute was, and this is a better way of doing it, we thought. More...emotional.” No2 surveyed the pillow pile, and then began climbing.

“Indeed. And you want me to play...”

No2 swayed to keep his balance while tying the rope he’d made to the top of the window frame. “Achaka, yeah. You don’t have to say anything, or really do much. Except maybe you can say ‘Achaka’ if you really want to get into it. Otherwise, you can just stand there looking stern. Pretend to shoot an arrow. That’s probably about it for the most part.”

“Right. And who are you playing in this...?”

“Young Graham, of course.” No2 slid down the pillow mountain. “For my bubbly and likeable personality and terrific bouts of energy.”

“I’m the dragon,” Rosella interjected.

“Of course you are,” No1 said.

“Raaar.” She made a face and held her fingers up like claws, then broke down giggling, enjoying herself tremendously.

No2 clasped his gauntlets together and made a pleading sort of noise. “Please, Number One, it’s for the young prince’s sake. We wouldn’t ask you otherwise.”

“Yes, Number Two, you would. And have. And I refused last time, too.”

“Yeah, but this time it’s for a good cause.”

“The radish eating contest opening ceremony was ‘for a good cause,’ too,” he said, sharply.

“It was, though.”

“Please, Number One,” Rosella added, putting on her brightest diplomatic smile.

Alexander fidgeted with the bowl behind them, watching. There was no way. He’d seen how No1 acted around the other guards. Seen how stiff and stern he was, how dry and sarcastic and...

About ten minutes later, King Graham walked past the room. He froze mid step, then walked backward past the door again, staring at the bizarre tableau in the sitting room. No1 was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, looking like he was regretting every single decision he’d ever made in his life, while Rosella clung to his leg, pretending to bite it. No2 was running across the room holding onto a curtain rope as though he was swinging on it, and Alexander was supervising the whole thing from a pile of cushions in the corner, an audience of one.

“What are you doing?”

“Ah, Your Majesty. This...” No1 glanced at the disarray, at the princess clawing at his boot, and said, dry as bone in an unquestionable tone, “Training. We’re trying out a new form of training.”

“Rosella, is that your mother’s green eye makeup all over your cheeks?”

“No, of course not. It’s the lighting in here, it’s very dim,” Rosella said, from around No1’s leg. The room was perfectly lit with that bright, cold, sunshine-on-snow white light, what with the curtains held open with cushions. The curtain ties were all clutched in No2’s hands, a single long cord that looked like a vine in his hands. Or an escape rope.

Graham took a second look, and then dawning realization crossed his face. He grinned. “So, I’m going to guess Number Two is me?”

“Got it in one, Sire,” No2 said cheerfully. “On account of my bubbly and likeable personality and terrific bouts of energy.” (No1 couldn’t quite stop his exasperated sigh.)

“Naturally. I wouldn’t expect anyone else.” Graham looked at Alexander. “Does this...performance make any sense?”

“Um.”

“I think you need a narrator to actually explain what you’re doing to your audience,” Graham said to the three actors. “Shall we take it from the top?” He smiled. “Let me tell you a story. A story about what it means to be brave even when you don’t think you can be, even when you’re facing the biggest threat imaginable. Ready?”

~*~*~*~

A castle couldn’t be stuffy. It was huge, with spiraling passages and enormous rooms and high ceilings. It was full of the hustle and bustle of people, but it was easy enough to find quiet little corners and stay away from everyone.

But Alexander still felt hemmed in. As the weeks turned to months, as the calendar spun deeper into winter, it started feeling even more claustrophobic, somehow. Surrounded by choking tapestries and detailed paintings of people he didn’t know and endless rows of doors lining labyrinthian hallways. The walks with the king helped him feel less trapped, but he started slipping out by himself whenever he could. It was weird to have the freedom to go wherever he wanted whenever he wanted. No one ever stopped him or demanded to know what he was doing. No one ever watched him.

Except...someone was watching him now. He felt the familiar prickle on the back of his neck, a sense he’d refined over the years living with...that wizard. He pushed down the forest path a little faster, trying to act uncaring like he figured a prince probably should be. Most of the trails were too snowed under to walk, but someone had been keeping this one fairly clear—he realized he was about to find out who.

“Your form is all wrong,” a voice called out.

Alexander skidded to a stop, slipping in the snow. “I’m...sorry?”

“You’ll never manage to get to a decently paced jog with that sort of biscuit placement. You’ll trip over your toes. You must build up to the more intensive leg days, but if you haven’t got a good form, you’re defeating yourself.”

It was a booming, boisterous, braggy sort of voice. Alexander nervously stepped back a pace. “Have we met?”

“Surely you haven’t forgotten Whisper!” The voice was offended now.

“Oh. Oh!” Usually, Alexander had the shield of the king or his sister to hide behind when one of the Daventry citizens approached. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do now, by himself, without their cues. “Sorry. Whisper. Of course.” He clamped his mouth shut again, afraid he was going to do something wrong.

The knight was leaning against a directional signpost. “This is Whisper’s jogging trail,” the knight said, thumbing at the well-trodden path. He had earmuffs on over his helmet, which seemed entirely to defeat the purpose of earmuffs. “Whisper is more than happy to share the traffic, but only if the traffic stays in the correct lane. You aren’t ready for the fast track yet, Prince Alexander. Not with that mediocre run.”

“Oh, please, not...not Prince. I’m just…just Alexander. And I wasn’t actually running,” Alexander said warily. “I was only walking. I can, um. Walk somewhere else, though. Good...good day?” He tried a nervous little half bow and started to creep down the path.

“Aaah, wait, wait, wait!” Whisper said, standing in Alexander’s way. “Come now, if you have forgotten Whisper, then that simply isn’t good! We have yet to exchange tales of bravery, because had you heard such a tale then you could not have forgotten me!”

“I don’t have any tales of bravery, though,” Alexander said, sidestepping into the snow. “It’s, uh, good to see you again, Whisper. I’ll just...”

“But your tale is the bravest of them all,” Whisper said, and now he seemed confused. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Grand escapes, magic, dragons—”

“—there wasn’t actually a dragon. I don’t know why everyone keeps thinking there was a dragon.”

“Oh. But. Dragons add such a spice to a story. Perhaps we should add one.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I can help you pen your tale, if needed,” Whisper offered. “Whisper is good at adding outlandish details that grab your audience’s attention and whirl them through the tale!” He leapt from place to place as he spoke, making elaborate hand gestures, and then added, much more quietly, “Even if the tale isn’t strictly true.”

“I’d really rather not,” Alexander repeated. “Thank you, but another time.”

“Whisper shall be here! Whisper is always here! Unless Whisper is with Amaya, and then Whisper is in town. With Amaya. You understand, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Have you met the beautiful lady Amaya?” Whisper asked, fully distracted and starting up the conversation again as though they hadn’t just been moving through the niceties of farewell. “She is most delicate. The sweetest flower, the fluffiest cloud, the tallest peak, to be adored. The finest, most talented, most clever lady in all the lands! Her stories shall be trumpeted from the mountaintops! By yours truly, of course,” he added, pointing to himself so hard that his thumb bounced off his chest plate with a metallic ringing sound.

“Delicate,” Alexander repeated, wondering if he was thinking of someone else. Maybe there were two Amayas in town. The one he had briefly met could hammer together an iron gate without breaking a sweat. But maybe there were different types of delicate?

“I shall expect you to carry on her tale as well,” Whisper said earnestly. “A tale must be retold by many to become a legend, and once it is a legend, then it creates immortals, and my dear Amaya shall indeed be an immortal legend! Like me. But first you must hear the stories, since you have not lived them with us. And then we shall work on your own tale.”

Expectations. Stories. Things he didn’t know.

He thought about the story the king had told about Achaka. What that story had meant. Daventry, as far as Alexander could tell, thrived on the power of tales, perhaps in part because of its leader and his delight with words. But Alexander didn’t know any of the stories himself, and he didn’t want to tell the one that he had survived.

The problem was that everyone knew each other so well already. He felt like an intruder crashing in on a story in the third act, an audience member trying to fill in the gaps of a play after they’d missed most of it.

No one had said anything to him about it yet, but he had felt a weight of expectation settling on his shoulders the moment he’d woken up in that sickbed with his family hovering over him. His family that, incidentally, happened to be royalty. He was heir to a throne he hadn’t even known about until a few months ago. Daventry had been a name written on a map in the wizard’s office with throwing darts embedded in it, and that was about it.

Until now.

Now, he could sense the confidence from its people that he would learn the stories and tend to it, like King Graham did now. That Alexander would continue his father’s legacy. His story.

He had gone outside of the castle to get away from the sense of being tied down, from the tapestries and the paintings and the weight of hundreds of years of leadership. All the stories, endless and complicated and wrapped together and important to its people.

But the expectation of stories had followed him out here, too. Whisper was certain Alexander would listen and understand. The knight was watching him with a puppy’s eagerness, excited to explain why he loved the blacksmith so much, another story to Daventry’s history, another tale that Alexander should already know. That he would have known, if he hadn’t been in Llewdor, been a different person.

There was guilt, and frustration, and a desire to know, all shoved into a box in his mind that he dared not open.

Alexander could probably understand these people and their needs, but Gwydion definitely couldn’t. He didn’t know any good tales. He wasn’t good at playing games. He wasn’t even coordinated, apparently, as Whisper had pointed out. And he was terrified everyone was going to find out that he wasn’t a prince, wasn’t even “just” Alexander, that he was still Gwydion.

After hearing Graham’s story about Achaka, Alexander had gone to the tallest tower he could find in the castle. Standing there, alone, looking out at the snow-covered country, thinking of the expectations that were starting to press on his shoulders, he had tried out the salute. It hadn’t felt like anything at all. It had felt pointless. Graham had said it was supposed to help center you and help you find courage, but he still felt lost and afraid.

If he’d been Prince Alexander, someone who belonged there, maybe things would be different. But Gwydion didn’t deserve the salute. Didn’t deserve to be in Daventry.

Still.

Whisper wanted to tell him a story right now. And enough stories, enough knowledge, could change things. He had taught himself magic and escaped the wizard’s manor. Maybe more stories about Daventry would help him escape Gwydion. And, cautiously, he nodded. He let Whisper tell him another story, and he listened, and he learned.

~*~*~*~

Gwendolyn lifted her head. “Grandpa? Did Dad really say all that?”

Graham smiled. “Later, he did mention some conversation with Whisper, and the general gist of it. I confess, I wasn’t there. Storyteller’s discretion, you know.” He sipped a glass of water and waited for her to continue. She had a look on her face that said she was possibly finally ready to explain what had been bothering her earlier.

“It’s just.” She had been sitting on the bed, holding the canopy’s bedpost and running her fingers along the carvings as she listened, but now she slipped down, wandering toward the fireplace. “It’s just. That’s. Kinda what Gart said to me.”

“What did he say?”

“That I don’t belong here.” She sank into the rocking chair and started kicking herself back and forth, back and forth, while Graham blinked, at a complete loss for words for the first time that night. “He said...that I shouldn’t be too comfortable, that I’d be going back to the Green Isles with Dad again soon. I don’t think he meant to be mean about it. I think. I don’t know what I think. I don’t think he likes me in Daventry very much.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Graham said, after a pause. There was anger in his voice, a sharpness that felt too cold for the storytime bedroom.

“Please, don’t!” Gwendolyn said, looking up quickly. “I don’t want him to know that I took it wrong. It was probably just nothing. Just talking.”

Just shouting, if I remember correctly, Graham thought.

“I do belong in the Green Isles, though, he’s right.” She drew her legs up onto the chair, squeezing herself into a little ball, and dropped her head onto her knees again, staring at the floor.

“You belong wherever you want to be, my dear,” Graham said, gently. He cursed his weak knees and broken arm and inability to rise and go to her, like he would have gone to her father. “It can be here, there, or anywhere. We Crackers are pretty good at figuring out who we are and going where we’re needed.”

She hesitated. Then, clearly wanting to go back to the story and stop talking about personal things, she said, “So...what happened after that?”

Graham distractedly pushed away thoughts of his grandson and spread his arms (arm, singular, the other being broken) wide, and said, “The snow kept on falling.” And the story continued.

~*~*~*~

“I don’t understand this,” Valanice sighed, standing by the bedroom window and rubbing her arms through her night robe.

As the days faded and weeks stretched, the blanket of snow grew yet deeper. The trolls were making good on their promise to keep the main roads clear, but it was like walking through gray tunnels to get anywhere. Graham felt like his castle tower was an island above puffy clouds. This reminded him of the tower he’d been trapped in with Valanice and...well, Valanice, the two princesses who shared the same name. The day the tower had walked through a cloud and soaked them all had been quite an experience, leaving all three spluttering and shivering and laughing. He missed the warmth of those spring days.

“Maybe the villagers should all come here,” he said, wrapping his arm around her and squeezing her close in front of him, his chin resting on her shoulder as he studied the white expanse. The clouds had broken and the sun was peeking over the horizon, making the whole thing blindingly glittery. But rather than feel cheered by it, Graham felt apprehension in his stomach. The clouds would roll in again, as they had for days. This wouldn’t even begin to melt before another layer would come down. “I don’t want anyone to get snowed in to the point where they can’t take care of themselves.”

“I’m not sure they’ll agree to that,” Valanice said. “That feels like giving up.”

“It’s weather. There’s nothing to fight, and the only puzzle is how we shore up our own supplies,” Graham pointed out. He reached toward the window panes with his free hand, feeling the icy chill against his skin.

“They won’t feel that way, and you know it.”

“Soon, though, I might have to make that decision for them.”

“At least the goblins can’t strike in this,” she said, sighing. “Their escape tunnels are probably all plugged up with snow.”

“Small blessings,” Graham said, and kissed her cheek.

It had been cold (of course it had been, it was winter), but Graham's breath caught as soon as he stepped outside. The chill was so much more than expected, a bone deep ache. Despite the weak sunlight, the cold sank into his chest and made him want to cough. His breath appeared as dragon-smoke, white bellows preceding his every step. He tugged a scarf over his nose, which helped a little bit, and went to find No1.

More than the cold, more than the daily snow: the silence unnerved him most. Graham felt the stillness like a blanket around his ears. The recent threat of goblins had roused up old nightmares, and the silence of his beloved kingdom, normally so crowded with birdsong, squirrel chatter, music, life, even in winter—it reminded him of his goblin cell. Of the shadows and the stillness. Of the fear that laced his every echoing step. Of impossibilities and distress.

Valanice was right: so far, the only good result from this weather was a lack of goblins. There hadn’t been any signs of attack since the missing winter clothes and ice picks. Which meant that Graham hadn’t needed to travel down those tunnels to see the goblin king. At least, not yet. Should another instance happen, Graham knew he would have to set that appointment, and the very idea made his throat threaten to close. But he would do it, if he needed to.

Stars, I hope I don’t need to.

“Report, Number One?” Graham said, once he’d found the guard huddled over a cup of tea near the drawbridge. His mittened hands clutched the mug like someone was trying to take it from him, and he was curled over it to hold in every trace of warmth. His earmuffs were slipping.

“Not much to report, Sire. Just snow. Incredibly unexpected and surprising, I’m sure.” No1 sighed, his breath mingling with the steam of his tea and creating a white cloud that instantly froze in his mustache. “I rather think—” He cut himself off and saluted stiffly, “Sir, apologies, the cold makes me forget myself. I was thinking aloud.”

“Feels like?” Graham pressed. No1’s intuition was always sharp and frequently accurate.

“It’s nonsense, hardly worth the effort of saying it. And yet. It feels like something’s coming, Your Majesty. There’s a center to this storm, and it’s getting closer. Which is ridiculous, and I’ll thank you for not repeating it. The sort of fanciful thinking one of the younger staff might have. Who ever heard of menacing weather?”

“Stranger things have probably happened,” Graham said. “I wonder...”

“It’s colder today than it was yesterday. And there’s more snow than there was the day before. Keeping this only between us, Sire, it’s keeping me awake at night wondering if maybe I’m right.”

“You know, I really, really hope you aren’t,” Graham said, and the two men stared out across the snow hiding everything as far as the eye could see.

#i confess i can't decide: should ch4 go up thursday in place of a standard illustrated gerbil or should it wait until monday #should we just get all ye fic out quickly or alternate posts? any preferences out there?#kings quest #King's Quest #King Graham #rosella (king's quest)#alexander (king's quest)#neese #vee #this post is protected by the royal guards #fic'ing #ch4 #whisper (king's quest)

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parhelias · 4 years

Text

under the sun (oneshot)

pairing: jinsol/jungeun; mentioned sooyoung/jiwoo words: 5k+ summary: Jungeun first saw the girl in the hangars, leaping from cockpit to asphalt with grace. notes: steampunk!AU; pilots!lipsoul

ao3 or

“I feel like the moon is a jellyfish,” Jinsol said, mouth full of pork chicharrones. “A big, happy jellyfish. Don’t you see it?”

“Not really,” Jungeun supplied. She didn’t look up. Sleep was eminent, tugging at the edges of her vision from where she sprawled on her bed, toes nestled in the cotton blanket.

“Why not?” A rustle of cloth, then another crunch. Like a retributive beagle, Jinsol chewed more obnoxiously the more Jungeun ignored her.

“I don’t know." Jungeun flipped the page. It was a catalog of floral prints that had gone stale five years ago, one she saved for nights like these: all drop flights canceled, an extra scoop of kidney beans for dinner, rain pattering on the single square window of their room. "It’s a floating hunk of rock in the sky. Doesn’t exactly scream living sea organism, I guess?”

Jinsol sighed. “Then you lack imagination, Kim.”

“Not my fault I had it flayed out of me by the public education system,” Jungeun countered, burrowing her feet deeper. Winter had broke in a slurry of mudslides in the countryside, but their breaths no longer wreathed white while indoors, at least.

“Fair enough,” came her roommate's drowsy murmur.

Jungeun half-considered prodding at the her childhood, replete with tutors and ballroom dancing and crinoline skirts like the ones detailed in front of her, but didn’t. Look at you two, getting along so well, Jiwoo had whispered that morning, and Jungeun felt like she'd been caught robbing a store, arguing with Lieutenant Jung over the breakfast coffee like an old married couple.

With a sigh of her own, she shut the fashion catalog with a sure thump, shoving it away. When she glanced over, there was an unmoving lump on the other bed, a few wisps of dark hair peeking out from under the sheets.

“Please don’t suffocate.”

“...I won’t.” Jinsol peered out. “Why? Scared your life would be dull without me?” Her eyes crinkled; spidery lashes casted shadows across her skin.

“More like I’m scared someone will charge me of manslaughter and I’ll rot in prison for the rest of my life,” said Jungeun, studying the cracks in the ceiling. “There’s no bird like a caged bird.”

“Manslaughter? Give yourself some credit.” Jinsol held out a hand. “People will think it’s calculated first-degree murder. Cool and crisp.”

“Thanks,” Jungeun said dryly, and accepted the proferred bundle of oily snacks.

The choice they gave her was this: dig a grafve of debt to study zoology at the university, or enlist for a check in her family’s mailbox each month, all schooling free after her service was over. Jungeun, seeing her mother’s shell-pink hands from scrubbing the laundry of the rich five days a week, canning beer in the distillery on the sixth, submitted her paperwork on the eve of turning sixteen.

Letters from home were filled with wheedling and I-miss-yous from her younger siblings, with a page saved for last containing her mother’s halting cursive. Meat every other day, milk every day, schoolrooms for each of them, a day off to garden. Funds for a tunnel dug straight from their root cellar.

And so Jungeun shone her boots, ran laps in the sticky summer afternoons with the other cadets, learned how to wield a bayonet in a trench. She jogged in the middle of the pack, shot her rifle with adequate but unastounding accuracy. She neither failed nor aced her classes.

When the instructors took a dozen of them up in a whale blimp, she jumped, eyes screwed shut, not thinking anything besides a rush of queasiness and the howl of the wind, a mantra of reassurances that it would be over soon.

Then her parachute bloomed behind her, and she opened her eyes. Looked down.

The backdrop was this: the war between the Sky and the Earth had lasted for over a thousand years.

The flocks descended, in pale storms like locusts, in ballasts wide as hot air balloons. Towns disappeared overnight; age-old domes shattered. Kings threw themselves at the feet of the angels and were trampled upon. Years could pass in peace before the bells clanged their feared rhythm once again and the world rushed underground, where safety was hewn from stone.

The pilots arrived in a bellow of smoke at the end of her first year, tossing cadets pointed out by the sergeants into their cockpits. The bells had rung the day before. Jungeun remembered Yongsun’s pinched face, the sweat on her palms as she hoisted Jungeun into the cracked leather seat beside her, strapping the oxygen mask over with a startling gentleness. She remembered the chill of it, the mad rattling of the rivets as they flew high. She grasped the bare gist of Yongsun’s gestures: fuel gauge, accelerator. Yaw and pitch.

Clouds streaked past, scudding over the jeweled dragonfly wings of the aircraft. It was a frankenstein creation of membrane and aluminum, glucose broth and motor oil, a weapon against the heavens.

“Could you feel it breathing?” Yongsun had asked once they landed. The tarmac was bustling with olive-clad technicians and engineers. Beneath her cap and goggles, Yongsun had the head of bleach blond hair.

Jungeun looked at her, looked at the plane being whisked away, and slowly shook her head.

“Neither did I, for a while.” She had given Jungeun a rueful smile. “You’ll do, I suppose.”

Jungeun wrenched off her mask, swallowing gulpfuls of cold, sulfurous air. She unclipped her seatbelts, twisted the ignition, and snapped open the hatch, stumbling toward Jinsol's smoldering plane.

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” Jinsol coughed, batting Jungeun’s hands away.

With a canister of foam, they snuffed out of the last of the embers. The windows had cracked, standing out in ripples. The joystick, once bumpy like the skin of a crocodile, was a waxen crisp. The vice around Jungeun’s chest would not let up.

“Come on, it looks worse than it is,” Jinsol said, seeing her face. She picked her way across the field, lifting a hand to shade her eyes toward the ongoing battle above.

Jungeun shook her head at the ash coating the back of Jinsol’s trousers, and followed. As they watched, Vivi shot down another envoy in a shower of iridescent dust, shrieks of the seraphims slicing through propeller and wingbeat alike.

“How is yours?” Jinsol asked, nodding at Jungeun’s plane.

Jungeun cleared her throat. “Nothing major. The engine’s still intact. A few rolls of saline tape should fix the rudder, if even that.”

“We could share it, going back.” A teasing lilt crept into Jinsol’s voice. “No need to call a whale blimp.”

“It’s a one seater, Jinsol.” A flash of Jinsol pressed against her back, bracketing Jungeun with her knees. Jungeun resented the heat that settled in her belly. She knew better than to take her flirtations seriously.

Jinsol lifted a brow. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Not that desperate.”

“Are you certain?”

“Besides,” Jungeun said, humoring her, “They would want your scraps retrieved to build another one.”

Still smiling, Jinsol acquiesced, tugging Jungeun to the stream to wash their hands and faces. The hillock they landed in teetered on the cusp of spring, dotted with snowdrops.

Jinsol listed on her feet; Jungeun snatched up a hand to steady her. The bells had tolled that morning, then a skirmish erupted in the early afternoon, one mad dash to shield the land soldiers running the supply lines. Her shoulders trembled beneath Jungeun’s hand. Heart tight, Jungeun hobbled them over to sit at the roots of tree, feigning interest in the fight overhead to let Jinsol regain herself in peace.

As they sat, a chilly wind gusted through, and the sea of wild grass reeled before them. Jinsol would be clutching the opal brooch in her lap, a flower, the only trinket she allowed herself from her past. A brush with death was still a brush with death, even if she was the golden child of the corps and this was far from her first dogfight.

She first saw the girl in the hangars, leaping from cockpit to asphalt with grace.

The colonel giving the tour had greeted her by name—Jung—and the junior pilots swirled around rumors about her, each more nonsensical than the last. She was the daughter of a merchant family who made their fortune in cinnamon. She could compute such vast sums in her head that the universities had begged to take her. She was engaged to an rising airman until it was discovered she could outfly him, and enlisted instead. She parachuted into the ocean and swam twenty miles—where she wrestled with a kraken—to get to shore.

The base was an hour away from Jungeun’s home city, sprawled out on a plateau that overlooked pastures and hamlets, hemmed in by a poplar forest that leafed out as a box of gold in autumn. Telegraph cables braided in with the trees. Rivers spooled into the lake at its center, a placid eye trained up at the sky.

Two years, it had been. Two years since a one-way train ticket had delivered Jungeun on the lichened cobblestones of the academy across the country. Two years since Jiwoo—a medical student, unafraid of blood—had coaxed her—homesick, delirious, overwhelmed with takeoffs at dawn, takeoffs at night, lecture halls melding together in the same shade of varnished wood, aeronautic equations spiraling in chalk dust—down to the beach where they stood on the wet sand and watched planes spear the skies and Jungeun breathed again.

In this new place, suppertimes were lonely once again. Jiwoo, who had another year of medical school left, was not there to fill the space with her chatter.

“You would think they would move, after all these years.”

The voice rose from a nearby table. The girl’s table. Jungeun's childhood, in starburst: the hunched backs of the oxherds, the cry of angels miles away, the sharp metallic taste of fear when the bells rang and someone she knew was waylaid outside the city walls. Move with what money? Jungeun furiously thought. With what livelihood? The fertile delta of the east fed the rest of the country, its harbors teeming with the halibut and oysters she imagined spread out on the Jungs’ lacquered dining table like pearls, admired, scarcely nibbled upon.

She wanted to stand up, strangle them.

Another voice cut through. Jinsol’s.

“You seriously think it’s that easy, Lee? Speak again when you can land without denting your plane.”

A string of whistles and laughter, a frost seeping in. The pilot under scrutiny flushed and fumed. Jinsol’s back was to her, but Jungeun watched how the curve of her spine did not bend.

Later, when paired up with Sooyoung for the night patrol, Jungeun asked her about Jinsol.

“Oh, her? She’s alright, I suppose,” Sooyoung said. With a fond snort, she snapped her spyglass closed and set to polishing the lens. “She flew the first gunnery I was assigned on. We graduated in the same year.”

"She's rather cold, isn't she?" The plane’s engine shut off in a low purr.

Sooyoung burst into laughter, the sound echoing in the hangar. "She's pretty foolish. In a certain way, I mean. She’s one of the best pilots we have, but she’s also like a maltese that won’t let go if you’re friends.” She paused. “A puppy maggot?”

Jungeun looked up from inspecting the bat wings, appalled. The pilot with the biting words—a fluffy maggot. “Are we talking about the same person?”

“Rest assured, we are.” Sooyoung turned her attention to her rifle, uncorking a phial of solvent. “She takes some getting used to, I know.”

Jungeun digested this, trying to reconcile warm friendliness with the Jinsol she saw marching somber through the base, dark-haired and lovely, picking seraphims clean out of the sky.

“I can introduce you, if you like,” Sooyoung added, a suspicious tilt to her mouth.

Jungeun’s gut gave a queasy swoop. “No—no, thank you.”

A year, and Jungeun hunted the Sky army like second nature. They cycled her through the sleek crow scouters, the midweight interceptor, a diesel-guzzling bomber, before sticking her in a full circle to the dragonfly class. A plane that would be hers.

Told you. Had a sixth sense, Yongsun sent back when Jungeun wired her the news. Her mentor was off fighting at another front. Fly well.

In August, Jiwoo arrived at the foot of the plateau, caduceus glinting on her shirtfront.

“Ah, the great Manmyeon, in the flesh.” Jiwoo pressed her face to the bus window, craning her neck to the cliffs above. Behind them, the tin roof of the train station shimmered with heat. “Have you had plenty of fun without me? Please say yes.”

Jungeun pictured the battered copy of Evolutionary Flight on her nightstand, its binding fraying at the ends. “Yes?”

“Liar,” she sighed. “Squandering your youth to the corps won’t do.”

Jungeun elbowed her side. “I do it so the children of today can have their youths.”

“So noble,” Jiwoo sang under her breath. She turned back to look at Jungeun, eyeing her up and down. Jungeun thought she looked better, ate better, since her academy days, but Jiwoo pursed her lips. “And how is combat treating you?”

Her first dogfight had been a blind wash of panic, though the takeoff had started simple enough: Jinsol just out of sight on her left wing, their formation leader leading them through the standard maneuvers.

Then a seraphim loomed, bigger than a bear, feathers a smudged cream. A sentinel or a lone scout, searching for a drop site.

It had given their formation leader chase, clawed feet winking in the sunlight. A crackle through the radio: Jinsol shot off after it. And behind her, another seraphim leapt out of the cloud cover.

Jungeun leapt into motion, alighting her on the second seraphim’s warpath after a frozen second. Her voice that was not hers calmly called out the threat to Jinsol, blood hammering in her ears. She drew her plane up, then down, then left. She caught the seraphim in her crosshairs on a wide turn.

Her first kill disintegrated before her eyes. A moment later, Jinsol’s thanks came clear through the radio.

“It’s getting easier each time,” Jungeun replied, truthfully. Since then, the top brass paired the two of them together more often. Jungeun admitted they worked well, though Jinsol’s deftness on any plane meshed with anyone. The duty and terror melted into a thrill when weaving through the skies with her, that same heady exhilaration when the parachute unfurled and everything came into focus.

“I’m glad, then,” Jiwoo said, sitting back, a cautious smile on her face.

Jungeun relaxed as she launched into gossip from the academy, petty dramas, a graphic bout of food poisoning after Jungeun had left. The bus deposited them on base, and they grabbed plates at the canteen, talking into the night. Jiwoo had taken in the clumps of soldiers and staff strewn across the courtyard, chatting and smoking, and frowned. “How have you been in the way of making friends?”

Jungeun had been half expecting it, opening a door in the squeaky new barracks and seeing Jinsol unpacking inside.

Months of flying together, lives on the line, had made them ribbing acquaintances, rivals, almost. A bond of trust in the sky, a mere awareness on soil. They competed, one eye on the hit count, rarely speaking. Sometimes they would run into each other, nod and smile. Sometimes Jinsol would find her eyes across a boardroom and look away. A snide remark here and there.

Jungeun had not been expecting Jinsol’s reticence to have been shyness.

A question about a brooch in her drawer led to a conversation on opal mining. A tentative lunch together drew out a heated discussion on snap peas, then deep-fried pork skins. Snow cloaking the trees and rooftops one morning became childhood stories, Jinsol bursting with remarks once Jungeun gave her own.

Jungeun learned that her family made their fortune in dairy cows, a step less glamorous than the spice trade. That she was hopeless at arithmetic, but knew the path a glider would fall by instinct. She landed in the gulf once and almost drowned, if not for a passing navy ship. She escaped an engagement to a merchant prince who was later found to have poisoned his first wife.

She told her this last part in the evening light with hushed tones, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder on Jungeun’s bed to watch the blimps take off on the horizon. I could have died before I’d lived. At the chill in her voice, Jungeun reached out before she could retreat, pressing their palms together.

The sodium lanterns swayed in the breeze, dim red ghosts hovering over the city streets. Peddlers plied their wares in the demon dark. Under peacetime, the markets would be glowing with lamplight. Tonight, with the bells silent for only a month, the citydwellers did their business in shadow.

“I think I almost stepped on someone,” Jinsol hissed, too close, in her ear.

“Don’t mind them.” Jungeun pushed them through a crush of people listening to a pair of violinists play. “They purposefully do that. A claim in the courts can feed a family for a while. Stay close.”

She pinched Jungeun’s sleeve. “I’m trying. I haven’t grown eyes on my feet yet.”

It was Jungeun's first furlough home. Twenty-one year old Jungeun was vastly different from sixteen-year old Jungeun, but her ability to weave through the canals and walkways remained intact. At the academy she had the excuse of distance between her and this city, but now, on the plateau, the reason was scant. Next month, she would tell herself. And she would wile away the weekend pass in mindless card games with Yeosang and Yukhei and Jiwoo on base. Though her siblings had gradually gotten married or busied themselves elsewhere, her mother’s letters had never ceased; Jungeun kept them in the sideboard of her trunk, taking them out and smelling them for a whiff of chamomile.

They rounded a corner, crossed a bridge, and the street ribboned away to darkness.

The oak trees have doubled in size, bare-branched from the winter. The front patios boarded up. Ivy had overrun the tavern and the houses next to it, spilling into the ditches. A spate of shops had sprouted up on one side, timber sagging against each other before the waterfront. Jungeun felt a lump lodge in her throat.

At the end, her house.

“Have you been home since you left?” she asked Jinsol.

“No.” Jinsol thumbed her belt as she peered at the planters. The tulips were weeks out from sprouting. “They feel terrible about the whole marriage thing, of course. But I haven’t.”

Jungeun hadn’t written to say that she was coming. It shouldn’t matter. Maybe no one would answer. She stood there, weighing the three short steps to the front door.

“It’s alright, you know.” A click of a heel. Jinsol shifted to stand closer to her. Jungeun felt tentative fingers graze her shoulder. She breathed in the faint scent of standard-issue soap, a spritz of mint. They had braided up their hair and worn their formal uniforms for going out, Jinsol tagging along at Jungeun’s behest.

“But I dreamed about going home,” Jungeun said, looking down at her shiny boots, feeling like a child playing dressup. “Until I didn’t.”

“I know.”

“I don’t.”

Mouth set in contemplation, Jinsol kicked at a loose pebble. “You won’t go back to the girl you were by going home. Whatever you’re thinking, you won’t lose all the strength you’ve built up.” Her voice grew soft. “Crossing that doorway won’t erase what you’ve accomplished, Jungeun.”

Jungeun stared at her.

“You’re too much of an obstinate ass for that, anyways.” Jinsol smiled. “Also, close your mouth. It is most unbecoming.”

Another day, another tarmac. Jinsol had bartered a pack of cigarettes for a jar of pickles from one of the cooks, and they polished them off on the grass.

“Would they stuff you back into skirts?”

Jinsol looked up sleepily in question.

“If you went home,” Jungeun clarified, thinking of the night in the city. Her youngest brother had opened the door, and their mother had come running, drawing Jungeun up with all the force of her tiny frame for an eternity. The scent of tea on letters was nothing compared to the source. Neither was seeing her family in person.

“No. They would feed me little lemon cakes and give me back my feather bed to lie in, and train me like a canary again.”

“As if that worked the first time.”

Jinsol snorted. “I suppose they’re optimistic, if nothing else.”

“I bet you looked a fright in those gowns,” Jungeun mused. She leaned back on her palms, considering the clouds rolling past. They were allotted a prized afternoon of self-study, which translated to horsing around and napping.

“Excuse you, I looked amazing.”

Privately, Jungeun knew she did. Whether in their dress reds or everyday earthtone flight suits or brocade, Jinsol would always draw glances. Jungeun had witnessed many a soldier staring, hypnotized, in her wake.

When I joked that I hoped you would meet a handsome officer, I overlooked half of the population. I apologize, her mother had said between cups of tea, casting a glance at the doorway Jinsol left to use the outhouse, and Jungeun shushed her immediately, cheeks flaming. She had kissed a total of two people in her life, awkward fumblings, and never had she wanted so badly to protect a friendship.

Jiwoo flopped down beside them, as did Haseul, forehead dinted by the press of goggles in the biology laboratories. She tossed a pulp paperback into Jinsol’s lap, and the two of them bent over it.

“The latest batch of fresh meat?” Jiwoo nodded at the artillery soldiers on the practice range. Though her stance was casual, Jungeun knew she was sneaking looks at Sooyoung leading the drill.

“Let’s not call them that,” Jungeun half-heartedly said. Jeon Heejin had flown with her and Jinsol’s formation yesterday, executing rolls in neat strokes.

“‘Young blood?’”

“Maybe.”

Jiwoo fished out a spear of pickle. Late nights in the operating theater had left her eyes bloodshot. “Spit it out. What’s bothering your tiny brain?”

“The usual,” said Jungeun. “Am I going to fall out of the sky to my doom today, are we going to be overrun soon, et cetera.”

“Mhm.” She lowered her voice. “Do these problems include roommates and fellow pilots who shall not be named but may be in our vicinity at this moment?”

“Not you, too,” Jungeun groaned. She closed her eyes, shaking her head at Jiwoo’s eager noise of askance. “Nothing.”

Sometimes, she thought she felt Jinsol’s gaze on her. Bundled in one bed in the middle of winter, when the radiators shorted out. Touches a beat too slow in skittering away. She wanted to confront her; she wanted to never speak of it.

“Whatever, or whoever it is,” said Jiwoo in the same low tone, “Remember we could be squashed any day. You in your claustrophobic metal shells.”

“Thanks, tell that to Sooyoung,” Jungeun muttered, drawing her knees to her chest.

“Believe me, I already have.” Jiwoo winked.

Across the field, the drill ended. The soldiers were dismantling the clay targets, putting away the mortars. Sooyoung caught sight of Jiwoo, waved, and Jiwoo, despite her blustering, blushed pink.

“On your tail, Dragon Four. A pair coming up from starboard—”

Jungeun angled down, holding her breath as her plane lurched into a steep dive. The seraphims streaked past, spitting acid, missing her by a margin.

Below, the swarm—the itty-bitty angels, the other pilots dubbed them, along with other choice words—continued to flutter around them. Though much of the Earth’s harvest changed to certain foodstuffs—currants, beets, and mushrooms, plenty of mushrooms—during times of war, the amount of salt the swarm carried in their bellies spelled ruin in the fields for decades to come.

She sent out a spray of machine gun fire, felt her plane shudder as the springs clicked back into place.

Jinsol flew a gunnery, its copper plates a blaze in the corner of her eye. The riflemen on board lobbed spheres of petrol into the fray. She glimpsed Hyunjin and Sooyoung, sleeves rolled up, brows filmed with sweat, and launched herself at the next swarm.

Refueling was a harried affair, ladles of wellwater and sludge black coffee pressed into their hands. The front was close to breaking. Angels eluded the floodlights to drop regiments under the cover of the new moon. The nearby towns have been warned to seal themselves underground. The poplar forest, once placid, rumbled under the weight of tanks.

Jungeun flew her dragonfly day and night until the engineers towed it away. She hurtled through the skies on the wings of a vulture, then duralumin, baked in brown paint. Spring rains drizzled down in bursts.

Neither Earth nor Sky relented.

On the third day, the front reversed its slow crawl forward. Angel and human alike grappled in the trenches.

On the fifth day, a seraphim crashed through Jungeun’s windshield. She bailed out into the lake and tread water to shore.

On the seventh night, she woke up to see Jinsol standing at the windowsill, sipping cold tea.

Jungeun threw off the sheets to stand beside her.

“It’s over.” There were bruises beneath Jinsol’s eyes, a cut on her nose. “They’ve retreated. For now.”

Jinsol slid her the cup, and Jungeun took it. Parched, she gulped down the concoction of sugar and milk they both liked, relief and exhaustion coating her insides. For a week Jinsol had only been a call sign on her radio. A plane in her mirrors.

Beyond the watchtowers, the moon lanced the sky. The swarms had been burned, or driven back. The fields would lay ready for the planting season—if the angels gave the farmers a chance to emerge aboveground long enough and sow it.

“We should fly to the desert one day. I always wanted to see a date palm and eat cactus fruit,” Jinsol said.

“Us and what plane?” The closest desert was in the kingdom to the south, leagues away.

Jinsol shrugged, knocking their ankles together. “I’m sure they’ll let us borrow one.”

Jungeun blew out a laugh, feeling a part of her thaw after days in the air. “And who will fly it?”

“We’ll take shifts, obviously. Now that I think about it, we can do a loop around the world on a trusty steed. Break a record or two.”

“Bold of you to assume I would go with you.”

Jinsol twisted to look at her, expression unreadable. The faint light in their room lent her an otherworldly quality—Cupid’s bow stark, hollows at her throat. Hair, chopped rough by the military barbers, tucked behind the shell of her ear.

Her voice was clear. “Would you not?”

Jungeun set the cup down.

She did not know who moved first. Only that their lips brushed together, all the air forced from her lungs. When they drifted apart, Jinsol’s eyes were spindles of darkness. Jungeun lifted a hand to cup her cheek.

And Jinsol leaned in again, pinning Jungeun against the plaster wall, their lips sliding together. A palm curled around her waist.

Jungeun’s hands crumpled, limp, between their chests. Jinsol kissed her thoroughly, in a way she had not been kissed before. Jungeun lost herself in their shared warmth, struggling to keep up, the wall solid behind her, months of unspoken attraction drawn out in a rush. She was lost, going willingly.

With fanfare, the air marshal arrived the following Friday.

The windows were steamed from the crowd crammed into the hall, grates stoked with fire. They lined up in their dress reds and polished boots, the mud-colored silk of the royal flag rippling behind the podium. Beside her, Yunho was shifting in his overstarched trousers. A glance showed Vivi to be valiantly keeping from dozing off on her feet. Jungeun resisted the urge to yawn.

She had soaked in the baths for an hour that first morning, scrubbing the grease and sweat off her skin in numb bewilderment. She was alive. She was clean. Jinsol had kissed her. With heavy limbs, she donned her crimson uniform, cinched the belt closed, and joined the crowd lighting candles for the funeral biers outside. Afterwards, she had squeezed into bed with Jinsol again and they slept some more.

Now, the officers moved down the line and fastened quartz to their fronts, speaking of The Battle of the Salt, how the king in his cavern court sent his praises.

They stood stock-still as the camera flashed and preserved their worn faces in black and white for the papers. She wondered if her family would see it. At last, they were set free.

“Use your fork - like this, you heathen.” Jinsol demonstrated on her own oyster, leaning in to be heard over the clamor.

Jungeun tore a pitiful chunk of meat out. “We should just have chicken. Chicken sounds nice. And cuttable.”

Jinsol grinned, spearing a baby corn with her knife. “It’s only when the higher-ups are visiting. It’ll be back to onions and porridge before you know it.”

“I’m not sure I want to kiss onion breath,” Jungeun said around her mouthful. Around them, the soldiers and pilots broke out barrels of malt beer. Heejin and Hyunjin had found bottles of aged champagne from the stores and were pouring into any glass or bowl offered up.

“Garlic it is, then,” Jinsol said, uncowed. She rested a foot between Jungeun’s. Casually, like Jungeun’s heart didn’t threaten to burst whenever she so much as looked at her.

On the heels of summer, the Earth struck back. Orders sat as stones in their pockets. In a few hours, the trains would arrive and scatter their plateau to smaller bases. Quicker responses, aerial support for the ground armies. It was a new strategy, one where the king and his generals bid them onto the different sides of the land. Trunks were packed and locked, beds stripped bare. Jungeun tried not to feel too bitter about it.

The dream team is dissolved, Jiwoo had lamented when the news first broke, one draught of rum too many. She would be shuttled between field camps, Sooyoung off to the west. They don’t know what they undid.

Jungeun kissed Jinsol hard before they parted at their room.

“Don’t forget - we have a romantic date under the date palms,” Jinsol said, in lieu of a goodbye. "Under the sun."

Jungeun held her hands and looked away. “Just go already—”

The winds made it hard to steer, at first. I got the stink-eye from the flight lieutenant for landing his precious dragonfly too hard, but you fly it far better than him, anyways. Sooyoung says hello.

(!) Tell me how pretty your forest is. We have nothing but rusty silos and chicken wire for miles. I may have to resort to writing sonnets.

Jungeun leaned on the dirt wall tunneling down to the comms office, letter in hand, the bare electric bulbs humming above her. The forest surrounding the base was more of a swamp, peat frogs chirruping out of sight, birds in tired gray plumage pecking the ground for seeds. A handful of familiar faces were there with her: Hyunjin and Mark, Donghyuck and Handong. The rest were old crew, accustomed to the humidity and the flies, there for a fuel pump or a screwdriver or a kernel of complaint against the syrupy heat.

She picked up Choi Yerim on their landing field, fresh-faced from the academy.

“Sorry you drew the short end of the stick,” Jungeun said to say something, watching sweat bead on her arms.

“Did I? I’m here to learn, aren’t I?” Yerim replied, giving her a blinding smile that Jungeun thought was feigned before she learned, over the next few weeks, that it was a hundred-percent genuine. What did Yongsun see when she first saw me, Jungeun often wondered.

The waiting dragged on, punctuated with midnight dogfights over the neighboring parishes. She wrote letters in the light of the tunnel and flipped through outdated fashion magazines, traded a few with Yerim. Out of boredom, she tried to smoke a cigarette in her cabin and coughed for ages.

Jinsol’s poetry was atrocious, and scarcely rhymed, but brought Jungeun lurid joy whenever they came. She imagined the petulant pout on her face when she penned back her thoughts. Sketches of lizards in the margins. She told her of Yerim, who Jinsol immediately wanted to adopt. She told her of minnows in the tide pools, the time Donghyuck and Mark bickered until they both pitched into the swamp, and the memory of snow.

She did not tell her that she missed her ticklish neck kisses. She did not tell her how she flinched awake in the middle of the night and listened for another person’s breathing that wasn’t there. In her sweeter dreams, they would be entwined: Jinsol above her, Jungeun’s back arching off the mattress, moans muffled into her shoulder. Jinsol beneath her, unbound hair shining on a pillow, fingers trailing down to finally rest on her tailbone.

You’re beautiful, she had whispered.

Whenever the casualty lists went up, Jungeun always knew the world would tip beneath her feet, and, with sheer luck, right itself again.

The moon was a jellyfish, Jungeun saw. Its face peeked through in bursts, rising then sinking as her plane glided through the milk fog. It trailed after her, bright between the vapors. Either being around Jinsol long enough had addled her brains, or the other girl had a poetic streak after all.

Under the hail of fire, the last seraphim of the night crumbled away. For an minute, Jungeun let herself free-fall, propellers spinning, the earth tinged with the rosy dawn.

She guided the plane down. Soldiers across the mud were lifting their weapons to the sky, cheering for the latest battle won. Whether the war was ending for good or this was only a pause in the action, she would accept it with open hands.

A jellyfish, she thought, looking up. Really. She smiled, unhooking the straps from her arms and the mask from her chin.

The pass for her next furlough was in her room, signed and stamped, wedged between yellowing pages of Evolutionary Flight. Across the country, Jinsol saved one as well, her recent letters dotted with exclamation points and twirls. A date was marked on each of their calendars.

She would have to ask her to elaborate, the next time she saw her.

#loona #loona fic #lipsoul #my fic #fandom: loona #pairing: lipsoul #kpop #they got their first win aaa

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pigeontheoneandonly · 5 years

Text

Snowstorm

For Throwback Day of Kaidan Week (@spectrekaidanalenko), I decided to excerpt one of my favorite scenes from my first long fic, Discovery, which was the project that brought me into the ME fandom.

Set in ME1, Shepard and Kaidan are on Noveria, the day before departing for Peak 15.

“Shepard?” Alenko asked, breaking into her musing. His brow was furrowed.

She blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“You were off in your own world there.” He smiled. “I asked if you wanted to tag along, or if there was somewhere else you were headed.”

Shepard abruptly realized she’d followed him halfway across the port, leaving her rather chagrined and grasping after the conversation. “Just thinking about tomorrow. Sure, I’d love to come.”

He was surprised, but pleased. “Hey, great.”

“Don’t look so shocked.” They resumed walking towards the garage, the location of the service access.

“You do have strong feelings on weather.”

Which was when she remembered exactly where he was going, and recognized that she’d just agreed to go stand in a full-scale blizzard ‘admiring the view’. Shit. But now it would be awkward if she backed out, so she mustered what she hoped seemed like enthusiasm. “Maybe we’ll get a glimpse at this Peak 15. It would be nice to know where we’re going.”

By the time they reached the service ladder, she was almost enjoying the notion. He was reminiscing about great storms of the past in Vancouver, and it was hard not to find snowed-in days filled with steaming mugs, cancelled obligations, and neighborly company a little charming.

“Heavier in the interior, of course,” he said, continuing his rambling monologue without breaking stride. “We usually spent winter holidays at my uncle’s farm. Well, orchard. Letting a couple chickens roam through the trees isn’t really a farm.”

She didn’t mind. She liked listening to him go on like this, about a home he loved and a land-bound culture of sorts she didn’t fully understand. It made her feel warm, almost like some of the heat from his glowing descriptions got inside her despite the cool hallways.

They entered a room no larger than a walk-in closet and found a broad-shouldered man shrugging into one of the parkas lining a rack against the wall. In cubbies above them sat protective goggles, thick gloves, hats, and scarves. Boots in a variety of sizes were arrayed below. All of the equipment was an eye-watering shade of neon orange— the better to see against the snow, she guessed.

“Hey, Owens.” Alenko gave him a wave. “Got room for one more?”

He glanced back at Shepard. Owens’ face was a stripe of ebony punctuated by two dark eyes between the hat and the coat’s neck flap. He opened it to speak freely. “You didn’t mention you were working with the spectre.”

“Is that a problem?” Shepard asked, mildly. She wouldn’t be sorry to see the excursion canceled, but she felt badly for Kaidan, who was looking forward to it.

Those deep eyes studied her for a prolonged moment. “Not for me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Your management didn’t send out a persona non grata?”

“They sent it all right. I just don’t give a damn.” Owens shrugged, his mouth a hard line of disapproval. “Seems like you’re the only one around here who doesn’t see this war as an opportunity. My brother was a marine on Eden Prime. So if you want a look at the roof— all I have to say is, yes ma’am.”

She paused, and nodded her respect. “It was hell down there. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“That means a lot coming from you.” He gestured at the gear and re-sealed the flap, muffling his voice. “Get kitted up. Grab whatever fits— it’s all open season here.”

Shepard sat on the floor, removed her shoes, and started pulling on a pair of snow boots. “What was your brother’s name?”

“Sergeant Wayne Owens, 232nd Brigade, SAMC,” he recited with a touch of pride.

“I’ve run into my share of 232ers. Good men all.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Owens watched them finish outfitting themselves, and made a few expert adjustments to their gear— a few more, perhaps, to Shepard than Alenko, she noted sourly. Her lack of experience pricked at her ego.

They followed the burly man up the ladder, a significant climb in its own right, and onto a suspended walkway hanging from the ceiling. It swayed as they walked its length to an access hatch, no more than 150 centimeters tall, and held shut by a vast wheel like on the submarines of old. Owens spun it with the ease of long practice, ignoring its rusty squeal, and shouldered it open against the wind. A gust of snow smattered over the walkway as he held it open.

Both marines ducked through the hatch and out into a world of swirling white punctuated by brief lances of sundown light and glimpses of distant hills. Shepard had only a moment to wonder at it before the wind smacked her against the wall and scoured a patch of cheek exposed by her climb with razor-sharp ice crystals.

She yelped and tugged the scarf back into place. Naturally, this exposed a new area, and by the time she was through, the whole thing was altogether too loose and strands of copper hair were flying free of her hood with an electrostatic crackle. Shepard caught the laughter of her companions on the wind.

“To hell with both of you,” she said crossly, which only invited more laughter, so she ignored them and crossed the scant meter to the catwalk’s railing. It hugged the side of the Port Hanshan main building like a wedding ring. If she reached up, her fingers could curl around the lip of the roof, crusted with cakey ice.

Once she got used to the driving snow and the white film it put over her sight, her curiosity stood up in unexpected awe. It reminded her of the earthquake back on Therum, if a pale imitation— an ancient and wholly natural, unthinking phenomenon that nonetheless defied every human attempt to tame it. Their starships could cross the galaxy in a matter of days but they remained as helpless as ever in the face of planetary wrath. Her feet strayed closer to the guardrail and she shouted over the storm. “This is incredible.”

She couldn’t see any of Alenko’s face behind the goggles and the scarf and the rest of it, but she got the sense that he was grinning as he joined her, looking over the side as much as could be dared in the high wind. Owens’ chuckle carried. “We get about ten of these big mothers a year. It’s not so bad towards the ground.”

“This is my first,” she yelled. “I’ve lived in space my whole life. Never been snowed on.”

‘This is a hell of an introduction.” He withdrew an electronic instrument from his pocket and flicked it on. “I need to complete my inspection. Feel free to poke around.”

Owens ambled down the catwalk and was soon lost behind the wall of white, leaving them quite alone in the world.

She expected it would feel cold and dead and dark, this kind of storm, and certainly through the massive panes of Port Hanshan’s windows this was the case as it thrashed in silent fury. But out here it was the furthest from dead a thing could be. The wind rolled her back and forth like an oversized dog sniffing at a new toy, its tendrils tugging at her hood and hair with open mischief. Currents of snow floated on eddies in torrents at turns soft as dew and unrelentingly hard. The setting sun’s reddish-yellow glow backlit the snowfall and made it all seem warmer than it was, reflecting off the occasional glimpse of the mountainside far below. And the sound! It sang and whistled, moaned and screamed, as if it were having a conversation with itself, or perhaps with the square stubborn building it embraced.

It made her want to take readings, capture its playful fury, find new ways to test its strength. Though rationally she was aware it would eat her alive, a part of her could not help but wonder if there was some means, some apparatus, that might allow her to drift on the currents as easily as one of its snowflakes, to really feel it in her limbs and bones…

Shepard could feel Kaidan watching her despite the swirling snow and the massive gold-tinged goggles they each sported. They stood out like parrots in their orange parkas. He leaned closer, at once muffled by his gear and loud to compensate for the wind. The quality wasn’t unlike talking helmet-to-helmet during a comm blackout, touching your neighbor to communicate through vibrations. “Well?”

At a loss to describe it, she flashed him an elated grin, high on the storm’s own energy, and leaned as far over the rail as she dared, trying to see all the way down the slope. The snow spiraled in one cascade after another down into the depths of the valley. It was almost dancing.

A particularly nasty gust tore off her hood and for a fractional second questioned her balance. She felt her stomach drop out even as she knew there was no real danger of capitulating over, and then there were hands at her back and shoulder, pushing her firmly back to the ground. Her face turned towards him, amused, as her rapidly-unraveling braids whipped about her head. “I’m not going to fall.”

“No,” he said firmly, not removing his hand from the small of her back. “You’re not.”

The slight show of protectiveness should have grated, but for some reason did not, perhaps because it wasn’t in the least bit patronizing. She had been gaping over the railing like a lemming in mid-leap. Shepard shifted closer to him and he did not move away. “Is it like this in Vancouver?”

“Not like this. Never seen one of these from the top of a mountain.” His tone reflected the same wonder she was feeling, not a thought for the cold and only half of one for the risk of standing so high and exposed. “You really never felt snow before?”

She shook her head. Crackly bits of ice were beginning to form around the seals of her mask, irritating her skin with cold fire. “Not a lot of precipitation on Mars.”

“Shame. No sledding as a kid, no skiing.” His volume rose with the wind. “While you’re here, you should eat some of it.”

“Eat it?” Shepard was certain she hadn’t heard him right.

“No water tastes better than freshly fallen snow.”

“It’s Noveria snow. It’s probably radioactive.” But she pulled down her scarf and opened her mouth to the wind, feeling the flakes drift onto her tongue and trickle under it in cool streams of crisp water, just warm enough to swallow. She shivered despite herself as it hit the back of her teeth.

Her omni-tool beeped, a fifteen-minute warning ahead of her strategy session. She frowned her disappointment, but held it up so Alenko could see. He nodded, and they turned back inside.

With the hatch shut behind them, the absence of the groaning storm seemed as quiet as a tomb. Every clanking step against the metal walkway sounded impossibly loud. Her face and ears burned in the sudden heat, quickly beginning to prickle and itch with the temperature adjustment. She rubbed them mercilessly.

Alenko raised his mask to his forehead and lowered the scarf clear of his chin, brushing off the snow clinging to the parka. As he turned towards her, he was unable to keep from laughing.

She stopped scratching and eyed him. “What?”

He swallowed, gestured towards her, let out another chuckle, and was finally able to speak. “You look like a snow witch.”

Suspicious, she activated her omni-tool camera and aimed it towards herself. It showed an image of a woman with furry snow and the occasional chunk of ice clinging to every strand of hair on her head, streaky red where it began to melt. There was a snow line clear around her goggles and her cheeks were rubbed raw. Her ears were so bright they were nearly a brick red, no natural color.

She removed the mask and tried to shake off most of the snow. Mostly, she succeeded in dislodging a few icicles and striking herself with the remnants of her braids. Kaidan leaned up against the wall, hands stuffed in the parka pockets and a small smile on his face that made her warm and shy all at once.

“Thank you,” she said, stumbling, for lack of anything else coming to mind. “That was… exhilarating.”

“If I’d known you’d like a snowstorm that much, I’d have asked you along in the first place.” There was a hint of teasing, as if he were goading her for her preferences.

“Not that I want to do it often,” she quickly added. “It’s good to experience new things. No need to live in them.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who got so carried away that I’m dripping all over the floor.”

“I did not get carried away,” she said, grinning because she had, and it was wonderful.

“Adrenaline junkie,” he grumbled.

She raised her eyebrows. “Are you really that shocked?”

“No, I kind of got that from the way you make bats out of hell look like restrained, conscientious drivers.” He gestured towards the ladder, allowing her to head down first.

All the way to the ground, she kept remembering that last gust, the brief instinctive fear of falling with all its terrible freedom, the wind singing in her ears, the pressure of his hand against her spine just where it started to curve through all the layers of her parka, and even as sour shampoo-tasting water ran from her hair down her face, she couldn’t keep from smiling.

#mass effect #kaidan alenko #nathaly shepard #me1 #noveria #kaidanweek2019 #fanfiction #shenko #fshenko #discovery

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slightly--mad · 4 years

Text

{Starter for Murroyilodel:}

A chilling Autumn's breeze carried it’self mundanely throughout the streets of Gotham; crisp orange, yellow, and red hues flickered off from the leafs while projecting their warm colors upon those close enough around them. Their silhouettes swayed ravagely due to the winds that’d picked up during the coarse of the day. First, it was a small zephyr, then it grew tense before it finally progressing into that of a full blown multitude of winds coming from every which way. It made for a lovely sight; one to be gazed at and admired upon from behind closed doors, perhaps. But to be out in it? now that was an entirely different story. It felt fierce and rather bitter, but who could blame? Winter was nearing day by day, some could say this was just one of many ways of mother nature herself telling people to get ready before the real storm came.

Cruising down the streets was a somber, washed out beige and ivory 1955 mercury monterey. Peering out from the passenger seat’s window was a young, rather unkempt and scrawny looking boy; arguably underfed and malnourished. Emerald eyes belonging to the lad concentrated on all the small details that laid outside. How it looked like the leaves danced off from their once held on branches, capering and spinning their way around the gusts of air till they’d graced a harsh, yet all the while, undisturbed landing. His eyes would follow their movements all the way to the ground, before retracing his steps back up at the high branches, just to follow but another bundle of trickling leaves on their journey back down. Eventually, he found himself moving along with them. His head and body swaying left, then mollify moving it’s way to the right. The more he did these movements, the more it felt as though he was looking through a whitening tunnel, cancelling out all sounds and images around him till the only prime focus and vision became that of the leaves.

“Arthur....WHAT are you doing??!”

A shock walloped in the soul core of his body, followed by a shiver that forced his entire body to shrink in size; huddled. The little boy turned his head towards the driver’s seat, eyes staring up at the one behind the voice, and behind the wheel, his mother. She shot him a rather baffled look, gawping right through his now cow shaped eyes. There was something in his throat, something that was fully progressing himself to speak nor get out any words. All he could do was stare. Abruptly, the young lad quickly broke the gaze between Penny by turning his head back over and towards the window; with his now back facing her. This time though, while looking out, taking not to avoid all sights he’d been so fixated with. This extra chore made his body grow stiff, as if he was a statue.

The woman blinked while cocking her head back, not seeming all too pleased with the reaction from her son. But, what followed from her was set in a rather odd like mannerism. The woman’s entire aura shifted; her gaze began to lack emotion as she turned her head to face back towards the road. There was silence amongst the air; no sound projected out from the stereo, no tunes that jangled, not even static picked up by nearby radio towers. It made a heavy feeling overcome the atmosphere that’d split between the two of them, mocking the feeling of them being separated despite them being just near feet away from one another.

The further they’d drove, the more antsy his mother had grown. Her thin bony witch like fingers tapped the steering wheel frantically, while her eyes darted to all the side view mirrors, and rear view a little too frequently. Arthur knew this route she was taking... he’d been on it plenty with Penny before. He knew where she was going, but wasn’t old enough to truly comprehend what for. Gearing to the right, Penny put her foot on the break, turned her body towards Arthur, and kept a foot on the breaks instead of bothering to put it in park. Still slightly shaken up from the prior outburst, Arthur felt hesitant to face her and give complete eye contact. He’d given side glances, looking away from her every now and again in an attempt to find something to put his sights on before peering back over.

“You’re fine.” She murmured while scavenging through the middle console. Her movements were rapid, and rather sporadic, as if she was in some sort of actual rush. So much so, that she gave up on counting, and simply scooped up a single handful of loose change. “Here--” she hastily blurted while nearly shoving a fist full of coins into the twelve year old’s face. Arthur put out both his hands just in the nick of time for her to drop the change into his palms. “ Go on now-” she said “ -Mommy has things she needs to get done, adult things.” she noted to him in a strangely light weighted chipper of tone. Arthur fumbled over his own words in response only being able to let out a ‘ buh-I, whua--what about-” but couldn’t say much for once he tried to open his mouth to speak, he’d been shut down with a aggressive hand wave from his mother, gesturing for him to get out of the car.

With shaken hands, Arthur reached and swung the passenger door open before taking a leap out of the mercury. It felt just the second he’d shut the door, she’d taken off, leaving even faint tire tracks on the pavement below. Even how she’d drove, Arthur thought, you could just tell she was really in a hurry. There was one thing though, he didn’t quite know what to do, or where to go. He knew that his mother would be gone for a few hours and he would have to meet her back up roughly around the spot he’d been dropped off at. But for the time being...

He glanced down, eyeing the change that was given to him. And boy had they’d seen better days. There’d been some sort of residue left behind on them, making some coins stick together, and others, simply having small amounts of specks glued onto them; stuff like dust-bunnies, lint, and small shreds of what appeared to be wrappers, or specks of papers? he couldn’t tell. But what he could tell is that most of the money given to him came in Lincolns. He counted; 16 cents. one nickle, and the rest pennies. What could he possibly do with only 16 cents? A pint size candy bar? he was hungry. and that? It wouldn’t be enough to fill him up, but, it could get him by for now...couldn’t it?

His head dipped down, and posture hunched, while the boy traveled along the sidewalk looking rather defeated, to say the least. In the pit of his stomach he could feel an ache of emptiness. Every now and again, his body would throw signals his way, reminding him how he needed to get something, anything into his system. His gut snarled and growled with each one making him feel more and more starved than the next. So, it’d felt like a stroke of pure luck when he moved his sights upwards and away from the pavement, catching a glimpse of what appeared to be some sort of soup kitchen.

He wanted to go in, but he hardly had enough to get a snack nor treat. He felt anxious, yet curious; scared, but STARVED. It felt like a battle, but, his appetite won in the end for his footsteps began to take him up and over to the establishment. Taking a quick look back and forth, he checked the sidewalk, almost making sure to see that all ghosts had been cleared before leaning in and looking through one of the place’s windows. Big widen eyes peered through the joint, they’d been filled with interest but all at the same time drizzled with pent up fret. One could tell by the sights, he wanted in, but there was just something holding the boy back from actually going through the doors.

#murroyilodel #;;Closed Rp #;;Killing Of The Innocence;; Youth #;;Length; Long

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travelonlinetipsofficial · 3 years

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Holiday now, work later: why autumn and winter will be defined by ‘revenge travel’

New Post has been published on https://www.travelonlinetips.com/holiday-now-work-later-why-autumn-and-winter-will-be-defined-by-revenge-travel/

Holiday now, work later: why autumn and winter will be defined by ‘revenge travel’

“I was planning on buying a house, but I feel my money will be better spent taking this trip.”

In a few months, Claire Truman* is planning to quit her job at a publishing company and jet off to Southeast Asia for a six-month adventure, where she’ll weave a leisurely trail around Vietnam, Thailand, Cambodia and Laos.

Handing in your notice and putting off your house purchase for a holiday might seem extreme, but it’s the sharp end of a new post-pandemic trend: “revenge travel”. After months or even years spent largely at home, professionals across the UK are marking their calendars, totting up their savings, and extricating themselves from work commitments in order to explore the world.

“I feel overworked and mentally checked-out from what the typical 9-5 lifestyle offers,” explains Truman, 29. “With the understanding that I’ll be working into my 60s, why not take a few career breaks along the way?”

Many Millennial and Gen Z travellers are eyeing Southeast Asian countries such as Cambodia

(Getty Images/iStockphoto)

Biomedical laboratory manager Mollie Millington is getting her revenge with a once-in-a-lifetime, three-week trip to Antarctica, set for February.

She, too, cites Covid “burnout”, caused by scarce time off during the pandemic and being in the lab the majority of the time while others worked from home. During the lockdowns and periods of travel restrictions, Millington had multiple trips cancelled, including two weeks in Japan where she’d planned to go skiing and run a marathon.

Now Mollie’s ready to stretch her legs – at any price. Her Antarctic cruise has a price tag of £7,000 (“at 40 per cent off the normal price”), an unheard-of splurge for pre-pandemic Mollie.

Handing in your notice and putting off your house purchase for a holiday might seem extreme, but it’s the sharp end of a new post-pandemic trend: “revenge travel”

“This is the biggest trip I have ever booked,” she says. “The only big trip I did before the pandemic was climbing Kilimanjaro, but it cost under £1,000 and I took two weeks off work.”

Revenge travel began as an American trend. With foreign countries opening quicker to the US than to the UK earlier this summer, travellers from the States visibly shrugged off formerly conscientious work ethics or frugal principles and started booking bigger, better, longer trips.

“Americans are hitting the roads and skies in droves,” reported Forbes in June. It defined the trend as a perfect storm of pent-up demand, stored-up annual leave, saved-up cash and fully-vaxxed confidence.

“Revenge travellers can be more likely to try a more exotic location, spend more money to travel, or a combination of both,” wrote Geoff Whitmore at the time.

Professionals who might formerly have squeezed in short city breaks or spent long weekends just outside of town splashed hundreds on flights to Europe. People cashed in sabbaticals and quit their jobs. Conde Nast Traveler US heralded the rise of the “adult gap year”.

Now that destinations are opening up to the UK in earnest, Brits are ready for their own taste of revenge.

A Eurofins survey of 2,000 UK residents last week found that more than half are saving all of their spare cash for their next adventure, with an average travel fund of £2,543 already squirrelled away.

Moreover, 36 per cent have been putting off other big spends, such as home improvements, in order to funnel maximum cash into the revenge travel pot.

We’re evening the score with Covid-19 – that dampener of hopes, dreams and air miles – as well as sticking it to employers, traditional office culture, and a feeling of stifled work-life balance

All of this is helping to cook up our travel revenge. But who exactly are we taking revenge on?

The trend goes beyond the practicalities of stored-up cash and time off work. We’re also, in a way, evening the score with Covid-19 – that dampener of hopes, dreams and air miles – as well as sticking it to employers, traditional office culture, and an overall feeling of stifled work-life balance. In short: all work and no play makes Jack an itchy-footed boy.

“People are ‘taking revenge’ on Covid and the journeys they missed out on during 2020,” says Tom Marchant, founder of high-end adventure travel company Black Tomato. “For many, that means going big and booking a bucket list trip, or planning something indulgent and meaningful. There’s a strong desire to make up for lost time and compensate for lost trips.”

The operator has seen a surge of long-lead bookings for 2022 and 2023 – mostly to safari destinations such as Botswana, Uganda or Rwanda, but also to Chile, Japan, New Zealand and Southeast Asia.

TripAdvisor’s Travel Index report for autumn, released today, found that Millennial and Gen Z travellers are most committed to vengeful travels.

Italian spots such as Cinque Terre are a short-haul option while farther-flung destinations are off limits

(Getty Images/iStockphoto)

Over a third (36 per cent) of Gen Z Brits surveyed said they plan to take three or more trips this autumn, while around a third of both Millennials and Gen Z-ers (33 per cent and 36 per cent respectively) said they expect to spend more on their biggest trip than they did pre-pandemic in 2019.

For HR advisor Emily Ellwood, 29, revenge meant booking two honeymoons. Having lovingly planned three weeks off in September 2021 to explore Sri Lanka and the Maldives, she and husband Alex were able to get married, after two postponements – but the red list kept them away from the Indian Ocean.

The couple’s higher-than-usual pandemic savings meant the original trip was quickly paid off, and once it became clear that it wouldn’t happen in 2021, they moved it back by a year – an indulgent first anniversary trip to look forward to.

But Ellwood wasn’t giving up those hard-negotiated three weeks off to be employee of the year.

Covid, she says, has given her a new perspective: “You don’t know what time you will be given, so I want to enjoy the time I know I have – which is right now.”

Instead, she and Alex are spending those weeks on a grand Italian tour, hitting up 11 swish stops including Venice, Cinque Terre, Florence and Positano.

“It’s important to keep refreshed by taking time away from work,” agrees Alex. “The only time off we’ve had this year is when we had Covid, so we needed time to unwind. And we still have next year’s holiday to look forward to!”

*Names have been changed.

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#Travel News

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classic-rock-roller · 6 years

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1. QR is working on their latest album and you’re finishing up from working with Crue. You decide to surprise the boys in the studio when you finish early, and you find that Kevin’s not there, but Bonham is. “What are you doing here? Where’s Kevin?” Randy pipes up and says, “Kevin thinks he’s too good for this ‘piece of shit band’, so he stopped showing up. We’re finishing up with Bonham because it’s got to get done and she said she’d do it for free.” How do you respond and what do Bonham and the rest of QR say?

Me: Fucking Kevin...He’s going to get an earful when I get home.

Bonham: Maybe you can talk some sense into him.

Randy: I doubt it

Rudy: I wouldn’t doubt her she’s pretty pissed.

Drew: She’ll probably drag him here by the ear.

I go home and chew Kevin out and then bring him back so that he can apologize and finish the record.

2. You and Kevin are joining Bonham and Chuck on a car trip and Chuck’s driving while Bonham’s controlling the radio. QR comes on and Chuck says very confidently, “Is this Led Zeppelin?” How do the three of you react?

Kevin: This is not Led Zeppelin! This is my band!

Bonham and I groan: You just had to say that didn’t you?

3. Bonham got a new lighter and she keeps trying to light random stuff on fire until you and Randy tell her to quit it (Kevin doesn’t seem to give a shit). As you turn around, she whispers, “Don’t worry my pet, soon I will feed you the world.” Randy turns back around and says, “Did you just tell that to a lighter?” What does she say and how do you and Kevin respond?

Bonham: Yes

Me: Ok, I’m taking that now. You are not liting anything with this.

Randy: Yes, I don’t need to pay for arson damage.

Kevin: She scares me when she has that thing.

4. Randy and Bonham asked you and Kevin to help out with some outside work on their house, and when you get there they haven’t started yet. “What’s the plan?” Kevin asks Randy. He says, “I’m going to clean the gutters.” Bonham’s walking by looking for some tools and she says under her breath (but not very well) “Forget those gutters, clean my gutters.” You all hear it. How do you all respond?

Randy: Bonham!

Kevin: I would prefer that you didn’t do that right now.

I’m speechless. I don’t know what to say.

5. Bonham’s been helping your dad build a deck at your parent’s house in the middle of July, so it’s always really hot. One day at about 2:30 she comes inside where you and Kevin are and gets a cold rag and puts it on her face. She kind of groans into the rag since it’s so hot. Kevin says, “Sounds like that feels nice.” Bonham responds with, “It feels like God has kissed me with a mouthful of Scotch.” How do you and Kevin react?

Me: Drink water. Here.

Kevin: Scotch sounds good right about now.

6. Bonham went outside to empty the ash bucket from beside the fireplace, and it’s a bit windy, so it blows up by the window. As a joke, Randy says, “Hey look, it’s snowing.” Kevin says, “It can’t be snowing, it’s winter!” “Kevin, it’s July.” How do you respond?

“Kevin...why are you like this?”

7. As a joke, Bonham switched out yours and Kevin’s wine with sour cherry juice (unbeknownst to you two). You planned out a romantic dinner, and after the wine’s poured, Kevin takes a sip before making a sour face. “Ugh, this is awful what is it?” You take a sip and know what it is immediately. How do you respond and what does Kevin say?

Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is really good.

Kevin: I must be going insane.

8. Bonham and Randy are over one morning when Kevin comes storming into the living room with a bottle. “Alright Bonham, did you replace my Jack Daniels with flat diet Coke?” Randy says, “Nevermind that, why are you discovering this at 8:30 in the morning?” How do you and Kevin and Bonham respond?

Me: Because he drinks it every morning even when I hide it because he isn’t fucking supposed to because he will kill his liver.

Kevin: Fuck my liver!

Bonham is laughing.

9. Kevin’s mad one day, so when you’re at the store he starts throwing stuff on the ground. You tell him to stop but he instead just shouts, “Not illegal *throw*, not illegal *throw*, show me the law, not illegal!” How do you respond and what happens next?

Me: No, but you look like a spoiled two-year-old.

Pretty soon we hear over the speaker, “Sir in aisle two, please pick those up or otherwise we will have to escort you out of the building and ban you from coming back.”

10. You and Bonham are waiting for a flight one morning when you learn that your flight has been canceled. Instead of getting mad, she looks to you with a huge grin and says, “We have all day, and these tickets are clearance to go anywhere. Let’s go explore the airport!” How do you respond and what do you do?

“Yes, we don’t really have to be at the next concert venue for at least three days. We could go somewhere cool for like two.” We end up getting on the next available flight, which goes to Italy and spend two days there before flying to the next venue.

11. You and Bonham and the boys are eating pizza one night when Kevin picks up Randy’s piece and slaps him in the face with it. “What the hell, why’d you slap me with my own pizza slice?” Kevin says, “Well I don’t want your face germs on my pizza, so I had to use yours.” How do the three of you respond?

Me: Honestly Kevin, you are a two year old.

Randy: And this is news?!

Bonham: He has a point though.

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

1) You singer has just found out she’s pregnant with her and Kevin’s first kid. Right after she finds out, she pulls you and Kevin aside and looks at the two of you. “You two aren’t allowed to drink for the next nine months.” Kevin is about to complain but your singer glares at him and goes, “I’m going to push your kid out of my vagina. You better do what the fuck I tell you to.” How do you and Kevin respond?

2) Brit is still on tour with you and pretty much everyone, besides your singer, wants to get rid of her. She gets on everyone’s nerves. You want her gone since she hit your singer. You’re setting up for a concert one day when the two of them get into a huge argument. You’re off to the side with Kevin and you see Brit take a swing at your singer and connect with her right cheek. Your singer stumbles back and falls to the floor, you hear a crack and she screams. How she fell caused her bad ankle to break. How does Brit react and what do you and Kevin do?

3) Your singer is trying to learn guitar while on tour with Kevin, Rudy and their new drummer and guitarist. You’re sitting backstage with her as the boys are getting ready and she’s having a tough time learning this one chord. The boys come out to get their instruments and your singer goes, “God, why is this so hard? I wish Randy was here to teach me.” You, her, Kevin, and Rudy get very quiet. Carlos and Frankie look between you and Carlos asks, “What? Why are we all so quiet all of a sudden?” How do you, your singer, Kevin, and Rudy respond?

4) Your singer is taking you to her grandmother’s camper with Kevin to meet her family for the first time. How does that go and what does Kevin end up doing to get in trouble?

5) You, your singer, and Kevin are at Walmart getting groceries. You’re walking through the frozen food aisle when your singer stops, grabs her stomach, and groans. You know she’s having a bad cramp but Kevin doesn’t and he starts to freak out. How do you and your singer respond and what does Kevin say after he finds out what it was?

6) You’re sitting on the couch when your singer comes over with a bunch of colored sharpies. “Can I draw on you?” You say sure and she starts to doodle on your arm. Kevin and Randy come in a little later and ask what you’re doing and she says, “I’m drawing on Bons.” What do Kevin and Randy say and how do you and your singer respond?

7) You and your singer are at the beach. It’s a nice day and a lot of people are out. You hoped to have a nice quiet day at the beach but about an hour in, a teenager guy comes up and asks, “Aren’t you in War Angel?” You singer lowers her sunglasses and goes, “Who’s asking?” The next thing you know, he screams, “It’s them!” and a whole hoard of teenagers come running at you. What do you and your singer do?

8) Quiet Riot’s new album ‘Metal Health’ has just come out and one was sent to your singer and Kevin’s house. She immediately puts it on. You’re listening to it and you notice it sounds funny. Once Kevin comes in it’s really high pitched and your singer bursts out laughing, “It’s chipmunk Kevin!” Just then Kevin, Rudy, Frankie, and Carlos come walking in to find you looking at your singer on the floor laughing over “chipmunk Kevin.” What you say and how do the four of them respond?

9) Your singer says that she hates planes every since Randy died a few years prior. You have to take a private plane with Kevin and the boys to one of their concerts. The entire time she’s jumpy and she gets worse once you hit a really bad storm in flight. The plane drops about 1,000 feet and she screams. Once it’s righted she glares at Kevin, “I fucking told you this was a bad idea. I fucking hate flying. We’re in a death trap. We’ll end up like Randy and half of Lynyrd Skynyrd. I don’t want to be known for dying on a plane like Jim Croce.” How do you, Kevin, Rudy, Carlos, and Frankie respond to her outburst?

10) Your singer is playing some of her music and the record ends so it needs to be changed. Kevin goes to switch it but she goes, “Kevin, don’t you fucking touch that. Only two people can and that's me and Bons.” How does Kevin respond and what do you and your singer say?

11) You and your singer are roommates and you just got a new puppy. As a joke, you stage a “new family member photoshoot” and have your older dog with a sign that says “big sister” and the puppy next to her. You get the pictures printed and you show them to Kevin and Randy saying, “They’re our furbabies!” How do Kevin, and Randy respond and what do you and your singer say?

@osbournebemydaddy your move Bons

#tag game #tag war

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myrish-lace-love · 7 years

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This is the fourth installment in this series. You can read the first one here, the second one here, and the third one here. They’re also all on AO3 here.

Summary: Sansa is a physical therapist doing her clinic hours in Milwaukee for the winter. Jon, her downstairs neighbor, is a veteran who’s come back from Afghanistan. They first met during a power outage, and have been getting to know each other since then, sharing a meal every Tuesday. They’ve had some Thanksgiving and Christmas adventures, and have been friends for about six months. Now Jon’s leaving for a summer sailing vacation with his army buddies, and he wants to write to Sansa while he’s gone. He has trouble telling her how he feels when they’re together, but he opens up when he writes.

***

“I’m so jealous, Jon! A trip to the Virgin Islands with your old army buddies.” Sansa had finally gotten the news out of Jon at the end of their meal. They were sitting on the couch in her apartment. She had the AC cranked up. Summers in Milwaukee were hot and muggy. The old, single-pane windows were fogging up, but at least she and Jon were comfortable.

Plus Jon wore t-shirts all the time, so she called the summer a win.

Jon started clearing away the dishes. She followed him to the kitchen. He tried to keep her from helping, since she’d cooked. She took a towel and shot him a just you try it look, so he gave in. Her galley kitchen had a double-basin sink but no dishwasher. They formed their own little assembly line as Jon washed and Sansa dried.

“We planned the trip a long time ago,” he said. “For when Sam turned 25. We fly to Miami first. Ten days, five ports. It’ll be about three weeks total. We’re chartering a boat, so we’re not doing the big cruise ship thing. We all know how to sail. I almost cancelled, I haven’t got much money-“

Sansa put the glass down a little too forcefully. “Jon, how could you? Sam’s counting on you and you deserve to have fun, even if it costs a little more money than you can afford. You can’t put a price on-“

“Memories, I know.” Jon’s mouth quirked. “Trust me, you convinced me about a week ago.”

“You only told me about it tonight!”

“I have conversations with you in my head.” Jon sloshed the soap around. “Okay, that sounded really strange. I mean, you give me good advice, and I remember it. Sometimes I ask you questions even when you’re not there….And that sounds weird too.” He paused. “I-“

Sansa took pity on him. Actually, she was touched he thought about her when they weren’t together.

“I’m just a little mad that I’m so predictable, is all.”

“Don’t be. You’re really easy to talk to.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls who cook you pizza.”

“I don’t, Sansa.”

“Yeah, because I’m the only girl who makes you pizza.”

“You are, but–“ Jon stopped scrubbing the plate. He closed his eyes. This weight in the air between them came up more often now that they’d been friends for six months. Sansa didn’t know whether to lean into it or shy away from it.

She took the easy way out. “So when are you leaving?”

He handed her the last dish.

“This weekend. Can I – Can I write you while I’m gone, Sansa?”

“You’re only gone for a few weeks, Jon, you don’t have to go to all that trouble.” She would miss him though. A lot. She wondered if she looked distraught. He was leaving for less than a month. She was a big girl. She’d be fine.

She tried to lighten the mood. “Besides, we do this thing called texting in the 21st century, remember? I text you about a blackout in our apartment and you come save the day. You text me about a burned turkey and I talk you into ordering fried kitchen when your buddies visit.”

“You saved the day, too, on Thanksgiving,” he said.

“And we even managed to have a fight about mousetraps over text.”

“We figured it out though.” He was smiling.

“See? Texting it is.”

Jon glanced away. He took the dishtowel from her and hung it to dry, then looked at her again.

“May I write you, Sansa?”

There was so much yearning in his expression that she felt like he was asking if he could kiss her.

Read more below or continue on AO3

“Y-yes, of course, Jon, you can. You don’t have to ask. But I won’t be able to write you back, will l?

Jon shook his head. “The charter won’t take incoming mail. I’ll send the letters when we dock. You don’t – if they’re boring, or too much, just…set them aside.”

She wasn’t sure why he was nervous. “I’ll read them, Jon.” She couldn’t drive him to the airport because she was visiting her family. But she made him tell her when he was coming back, so she could give him a ride home.

***

The first letter arrived three days after he left. He’d bought heavy, ivory stationary. Or he’d bought stationary sometime in the past ten years and dug it up, she thought. Be realistic, Sansa, this isn’t a movie. It felt a little bit like one, though, when she slid her nail under the edge and carefully tore the envelope, sliding out Jon’s letter.

He had neat, sloping handwriting. The way the blue ink sometimes smudged reminded her of Arya, and she thought she’d guessed right, that Jon was left-handed.

Sansa,

I hope you are well. We’ve shipped out of Tortola. Don’t worry, I know where the life vests are. It’s good to see the guys again. We’ve been realizing how much we forgot about sailing over the past few years, but it’s coming back to us. Sam and Pyp and Grenn say hi. Virgin Gorda is next.

Thanks for letting me do this.

Yours,

Jon

Sansa smiled. She had asked him about life vests before he left. She knew she was being silly, but she was happy he’d remembered. Other than that, though…she had to admit she was a little disappointed. Jon’s letter seemed kind of…perfunctory. She’d expected more, after he’d asked whether he could write to her.

His last line stuck with her, though.

Thanks for letting me do this.

It was hardly a favor to get letters from a friend in the mail.

And his sign-off wasn’t so bad, either.

Yours, Jon.

She traced the words in the little yellow circle of lamplight by her bedside table.

She did want Jon to be hers. No harm confessing it to herself here in her bedroom, surrounded by her floral sheets and lace curtains that were completely frivolous. Even if this was the only letter she got, it would be worth saving for Yours.

***

His second letter showed up two days later. She ran upstairs to read it, opening it on the kitchen counter.

Sansa,

Virgin Gorda’s beautiful. I wish you could see it. You’d like the water, I think, how blue it is in the evening. We did some hiking around the Baths. The grottos and caves are amazing. I can’t wait to show you the pictures.

The guys have headed out to get food, so I have a few minutes to myself on the deck. It’s peaceful here. The sky is filled with stars.

How is Willas? I hope he’s trying the new exercises you gave him. If anyone can get him to do it, it’s you. No one can match you for kindness and stubbornness.

We’re headed to Anegada next. Wish us luck. It’ll be some tricky sailing, but it should be fun.

Yours,

Jon

It was lovely, how Jon asked her questions even though she couldn’t write him back. Jon let her chatter on about how her work was going at the physical therapy clinic downtown. He paid attention, too.

Willas was her favorite patient, and she talked a lot about the good progress he was making with his leg, especially now that he had a new brace to wear.

Sansa loved her job. Even her dearest friends, like Margaery, sometimes couldn’t keep their eyes from glazing over when she went on about the Pilates equipment they’d just got. Or how she hated charting progress notes, because they took away from the time she had to talk to her patients about how they were doing.

But Jon was thoughtful, more thoughtful than people gave him credit for. He was thinking about her, and her job, and how she was, while he was on vacation looking at the stars.

He’d called her kind. And stubborn. He was right, about both. But then, he was both of those things too. She stacked the second letter carefully on top of the first on her bedside table before she went to sleep. She couldn’t wait to read his next letter.

***

Six days later, Sansa’s spirits sank when she swung open the door to her mailbox in the apartment lobby and found only a few sales flyers. Again.

She knew his letters might take a day or two to arrive, and he could only mail them after they’d pulled into the slip at the harbor.

But six days….six days felt like he’d moved on.

She wound her way up the stairs. She let herself in and heated up some spaghetti. She carried it to the couch, feeling sorry for herself. Did you really think he’d mail a letter at every port? He was probably having a ball with Sam and the guys. That was a good thing for him. He didn’t get out enough as it was.

She wasn’t allowed to mope because he was finally having fun on his vacation and he’d stopped writing to his upstairs neighbor. She needed to get a grip. She pushed her food around and watched some TV before getting into bed. This situation was absolutely fine. No big deal.

And she definitely did not squeal when she found an envelope with Jon’s handwriting in her mailbox the next day. Okay, maybe she did, but at least no one was around to hear it.

Dear Sansa,

Sorry I couldn’t write. There’s been a rough storm. Don’t worry, we’re all fine, but we were all pretty seasick for a while there. Sam’s going to kill me for this, but he was the greenest of all of us. I feel bad for him, since it was his birthday yesterday.

After not eating anything for two days we were starving, so we had a big meal tonight, steaks and grilled corn. I don’t know when you’ll get this, but it’s Tuesday tonight, and although I’m having a good time (I am, really, I’m living in the moment, Scout’s honor) I miss our pizza night tradition. You make the best pizza I‘ve ever had, and I get to sit next to you and share the night with you. It’s the best part of my week, every week. I wanted you to know that.

We’re docked at Anegada. It’s secluded, and quiet. We spent some time on the beach today, and we’re going snorkeling tomorrow on the reefs.

Okay, they’re calling me up on deck, I have to go. I miss you. Hope that’s not too much. I’ll write soon.

Yours,

Jon

A storm. A storm was the only thing that had kept him from writing to her, and now he was apologizing for it. And he’d remembered the bit about living in the moment, which she’d tried to drill into him before she left. Only one 25th birthday and memories with your friends and don’t spend the whole time in your cabin and…yeah, she’d probably crossed the line from cheerleading to nagging at some point.

But Jon had taken her words to heart. She smiled at the thought of him and Sam and Pyp and Grenn checking out tropical fish underwater.

She ran a bath that night and used up one of her Lush bath bombs. The water turned pink and fizzy, and she sank into the tub with a contented sigh.

She’d double-checked the packaging this time. She didn’t want a repeat of the glitter bomb experience. She’d shown up red-faced at work the next day. It was pretty hard to help patients get the most out of their abdominal series and hip flexor stretches when you were shedding sparkles all over them.

She drew circles with the bubbles on the surface of the bathwater and let her muscles relax, thinking about Jon and what he’d said about pizza night. Best part of my week.

It was the best part of hers, too. Sometimes, she suspected Jon felt like he was on the periphery of her life. As if she only thought about him occasionally, since she was more outgoing and had a wider circle of friends.

She took Mr. Duck down from his shelf and let him swim in the water with her. “It’s not true, Mr. Duck. Jon’s important to me. He’s like an anchor. Not the kind that keeps me weighed down but the kind that keeps me steady, you know? Keeps me grounded.”

Mr. Duck bobbed his orange beak. Great, now she was talking to a duck. Maybe she missed Jon more than she thought.

He’d said that too. I miss you. And it wasn’t too much, like he thought it might be. It was just right. She had a warm feeling in her chest as she dried off and laid her clothes out for tomorrow. She wished Jon was here, so she could tell him she missed him too.

***

Margaery stopped by to visit the next night, and she was her usual whirlwind of nonstop questions. As much as Sansa loved her, Margaery could sometimes drive her crazy.

“This adorable apartment of yours. Made for a magazine. I’d kill for that clawfoot tub.” Marg stuck her head in Sansa’s bedroom. “What are these, my dear?” Margaery snatched the stack of letters from her bedside table.

“Marg! Put those down.” Sansa had planned to tell Margaery about the letters, but she wasn’t exactly sure if she wanted Marg to read them. They felt very personal, even if they were short.

Margaery unfolded the pages. “You know this is ridiculously romantic, right?” She sighed dreamily. “A sailor, writing to you from every port.”

“Marg, he’s made three stops and he’s just on vacation with his friends.”

“Please. He’s sending you handwritten letters on gorgeous paper and–“ Marg picked up one of the envelopes.

“The stamps, Sansa, did you see them? They’re flowers! Not those American flag stamps. You know he had to ask for them specifically?”

Sansa hadn’t known, but she’d wondered.

Margaery put her wrist to her brow, as if she was fainting. “He’s thought about this, Sansa, and he asked you if he could. Like he’s courting you.”

“He’s not.”

Margaery smirked. “You’re not fooling me. You’re glowing, my dear.”

Sansa smiled. “Okay, yes, it’s super romantic and I get butterflies each time I see one and – how’s work going anyway, Marg?”

Margaery turned the pages over again. “He seems to be getting more comfortable with each letter,” she mused. “You absolutely have to text me when he writes next.”

Sansa laughed and waved her off. She wasn’t sure if she would text Margaery. She wanted these letters to be just between her and Jon.

Three days later, she got two letters on the same day in her mailbox.

Dear Sansa,

How are you? Has Margaery visited yet? Is she driving you nuts? How was Arya’s swim meet?

Sorry – I fill up with questions for you, when you’re not around. I save up stories to tell you. We just got back from sailing to Jost Van Dyke Island. We managed to make it all the way up Mahjonny Hill. You can see all the way around the island from the peak. You really feel like you’re on top of the world, with all of the green hills below you and the sky like a big blue bowl overhead.

We’re back in Tortola now. We were at the market today. I didn’t want to go at first, but the guys dragged me, and I’m grateful. Like I’m grateful for how you encourage me to get out and see things, even when I feel like staying at home is easier.

The square was noisy and crowded and colorful and I think you would have loved every booth. I got you something, nothing big. Just earrings I thought would look pretty with your eyes. They made me think of the waves on the ocean, and you.

Yours,

Jon

Sansa’s cheeks were warm. She’d loved Jon’s Christmas present – a beautiful picture frame, for her holiday photo of all the Starks together. But that gift had been about celebrating her family, not about her and Jon.

She’d thought, at the time, that it was intentionally platonic. Just friends, nothing to see here. Then again, her Christmas gift had been that way too – she’d given him a tin of peanut butter cookies. They’d both been walking the friend line so carefully.

But jewelry – jewelry was intimate. More than just friends. She couldn’t wait to see the earrings. And she couldn’t wait for Jon to give her a gift that was about the two of them.

She tore open the next letter like she was having a mini-Christmas of her own.

Dear Sansa,

We’re coming to the end of the trip. We’re still docked in Tortola. There was dancing in the square tonight, after the sun went down. The streetlights came on and people came out of their houses as soon as the music started playing. There were old couples and young ones, swaying in the twilight. I only watched, though Sam teased me about it. I’m glad Sam got to dance. Pyp and Grenn did, too.

I’d like to dance with you, Sansa, take you in my arms and hold you close and sway with you. (I’m not a great dancer, so swaying is all I can manage.) I try to tell you how I feel, when I’m near you. I just get tongue-tied, and stop.

But now that it’s nighttime, and I’m back in my cabin, and I miss you so much it hurts, I can write it down. I lo care about you a lot, Sansa. There’s part of me that almost hopes you’ve stopped reading, because I’m scared of how I feel. But you deserve to know, so you can make whatever choice you want.

You’re beautiful and smart and funny and generous and I’ve never met anyone who’s so patient with me. I’d like to try to be more than friends, if that’s something you want too.

Please know that whatever you decide when I come back, I’ll respect it. I promise I will, Sansa. I’ll see you soon.

Yours always,

Jon

Sansa saw a splash on the letter and realized she’d been crying. She wiped her eyes.

She cared about Jon so much it scared her too. She kept stepping away from that feeling, because it was big, and risky. But now she knew he felt the same way. Yours always.

She drove to the airport early that Sunday, to make sure she could see Jon when he got off the plane. The airport was packed, and she had to elbow her way to the front of the line at the arrivals gates.

She kept scanning the crowd, and suddenly Jon was there. She ran to meet him. Jon saw her, and a mixture of fear and hope flickered across his face.

“Sansa I-“

She didn’t let him finish. She threw her arms around him. He dropped his suitcase and pulled her tight, his hand at the small of her back. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and breathed him in. She could smell sunblock and soap and that faint scent of pine she associated with no one but him. She held on to his shirt with one hand and looked up at him.

“Jon, they were beautiful.”

“They were about you,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “I had to go away, to be able to tell you how I felt.“ He smiled at her. “I was so afraid I’d put you off. Did you – did you read all of them?”

She nodded.

“And you’re here,” he murmured. “In my arms.”

She reached up and brushed his hair away from his forehead. They’d spent so long not touching each other, and now she didn’t want to stop.

He leaned in and she closed her eyes. His kissed her gingerly, at first, until she ran her hands through his hair, and then he kissed her deeply, hungrily, like he couldn’t stand to let her go.

“Get a room, you two!” Someone hollered from a distance.

Sansa tuned them out. She tuned out the crowd of people streaming around them, too. All she felt was Jon, his warmth and his strong arms and how he held her like she was something special, something he cherished.

When they finally broke apart the crowd had slowed to a trickle. She helped Jon with his suitcase and drove him home. They spent the night looking through his pictures, and talking about his trip. Jon blushed when he pulled the earrings from his bag. They were silver triangles, with a crescent of blue-green abalone shell. She traced them with her fingertip.

“I love them, Jon.”

“I’m glad, Sansa. I really wanted you to like them enough to wear them.”

They kissed him again and again that night, and she went to bed far too late.

Her favorite kiss was the one he gave her at the door. He��d insisted on going back to his apartment. Sansa was half-tempted to drag him to her bedroom with her, but Jon seemed to want to go slow.

“So this – us – this is all right?”

“More than all right, Jon.”

Jon kissed her cheek, then tucked her hair behind her ear. “Then goodnight, sweet girl. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Sweet girl saw her off to bed. She wasn’t sure where they were going next, but she was happy they’d go there together.

#jonsacentric #jonsalove #jonsasource #my fic #jonxsansaff

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spaceorphan18 · 7 years

Text

Finding Kurt Hummel: Girls (and Boys) on Film

Masterpost

4x15: Girls (and Boys) on Film

This was originally supposed to be a Moulin Rouge tribute episode but that didn’t happen, so they changed it to film in general. Don’t know what happened there. But anyway, this is a direct connection to I Do. They were supposed to air together but then a hiatus happened and everything got super wonky.

I don’t remember how long they say Emma is missing, but I’m choosing to ignore it and say that this is less than a week after the events of I Do.

Snowed In

Santana mentions this is her first full week in New York - so I’m assuming the wedding happened on the weekend, and now everyone’s back in New York. Except NYADA cancelled its classes because of snow and Santana doesn’t have anywhere to be - so they’re all stuck in the loft. And Santana’s feeling antsy….

Anyway, Kurt and Adam are joking around with Downton Abbey impressions. I mean, Adam is British, it was only a matter of time. And hey, they’re getting along here great. But I’m going to point out that during this entire episode - there’s a bit of physical distance between them at all times. (I know, except the couch thing, but I’ll talk about that later.) Kurt and Adam are friends - and there was always a possibility of really good friends. But Adam’s hanging around hoping for more, while Kurt’s gonna be putting on the breaks.

Santana questions whether they’re dating or not. Brittany said Kurt had a new guy - but Santana’s having a hard time believing that. Especially when (I’m guessing) Santana and Quinn’s hotel room was next to Kurt and Blaine’s and man did she hear everything that weekend. And she doesn’t hesitate to point out that it’s probably a little weird that Kurt’s still sleeping with an ex he has feelings for if he’s supposedly trying to date someone new. Instead of answering the question, and giving a definite label to his and Adam’s relationship - he shuts her down and reminds her that he and Rachel could kick her out any second.

As an aside - I’m not one of those people who believe Santana’s firmly on the Klaine Train. I think she’s indifferent at best, though she does care for Kurt and Rachel as family. I think she just likes to stir things up a little and poking at things she shouldn’t is the best way to do that. She’s bored - and Kurt and Adam are the most boring people on earth. So why not see what kind of sparks she can create. (I mean, she’d be the first to get the popcorn if she got to watch Kurt and Adam’s sad love story fall apart first hand.)

Santana doesn’t get much under Kurt’s skin, nor does she find him interesting enough - not when there’s Rachel and Brody to poke at – which she does with much more force. Not even a week in and Rachel and Santana are already going at it – and Kurt’s already in the middle, wanting everyone to calm down so they can have a movie marathon. Because that’s what you do when you’re snowed in, right? Watch a lot of movies?

Anyway, Rachel doesn’t want to watch anything Santana’s picked out. (Why, cause she thinks she’s pregnant. Oh god, I’m glad Santana’s there to help her out with that and not Kurt.) Meanwhile, Kurt has the perfect movie for being snowed in - in New York City. Moulin Rouge. Wait, why is that the perfect choice….? I don’t ask questions when it comes to Glee logic.

The point is, this is somewhat of a subconscious choice. Moulin Rouge, this classic romantic movie musical, is probably a favorite of Kurt’s – and he probably hasn’t seen in it in a while (cause I’m guessing he and Blaine used to watch it all the time). And, you know, Kurt’s in a romantic mood – so why not try it again?

Oh, and I should point out, now that I think of it, Kurt’s in a great mood. I believe this is the first time he’s been in a really great mood since he landed the job at Vogue.com. School’s going pretty well, he won Midnight Madness, Rachel’s becoming more tolerable, Santana isn’t all that bad - and at least is entertaining, Adam’s adoringly British, and cute, and they have fun together. Oh - and he and Blaine just had a ton of sex over the weekend. So Kurt’s in a good mood. ;)

So, Moulin Rouge should be fine, right? …

Come What May

So this has got to be one of my favorite Klaine musical moments in the show – which is interesting because I wasn’t a fan of the song to being with, and when fandom was begging RIB to do this one (cause it’s Chris’s favorite, c’mon) I was not there with them. I really couldn’t care less. And then they did do it - and I’m still blown away by how magical and romantic this little fantasy is. I just adore it. In the FWIW category - it’s staged to be nearly identical the scene in Moulin Rouge when the two lovers are singing a multitude of love songs to each other - high above Paris in a giant elephant. Yeah. Okay. But, man, it works very well here.

So - here’s the thing. The show tried to play it off as a Blaine related fantasy. But it’s not. It’s Kurt’s. That’s the kicker – this is what’s inside Kurt’s head – not Blaine’s. Blaine’s off having a fun time with Sam and Brittany and doing random mash up numbers. While Kurt is in New York, snowbound with the guy he’s supposed to be having growing feelings for, and instead is fantasizing about how ex-boyfriend and how much they mean to each other, and (unintentionally) letting his guard down for a moment to expose all those feelings he still has and has attempted to bury deep. Oh Kurt….

So, this starts out with Blaine singing – and importantly, Blaine singing about how much he wants Kurt. And that’s important, because real Blaine is still singing that tune, but Kurt doesn’t really want to pay attention to it. He doesn’t trust it. But in his fantasy he wants that, still. And there are flashbacks to happier times – to when they first met, and to when they first had sex. The flashbacks are when Kurt was most vulnerable to letting Blaine in - and are intimate and special to him. Kurt’s thinking about that, and all the promises they made to each other, and well – he’s certainly still got a lot of feelings about all that.

In addition – he just let Blaine back in to physical intimacy. Well, shit, maybe all that sex in that hotel meant something more - cause now he’s sitting there thinking about it, and remembering, and fantasizing, and he and Blaine are getting closer, and Blaine still wants him, but Kurt’s just not there yet. Oh the complexities.

So keeping in mind that this is a song that they used to sing to each other – Blaine starts singing and here’s what he says:

Never knew I could feel like this Like I’ve never seen the sky before Want to vanish inside your kiss Seasons may change, winter to spring But I love you until the end of time Come what may I will love you until my dying day

And this is over all the flashbacks – because it’s not just what Kurt’s wanting to hear from Blaine (again), it’s what he’s feeling, too. This wasn’t some trivial high school romance, this was a deeper love - and we made all these promises to each other – and Kurt still feels all of this, but you know – mistakes are made and growing up is hard.

And then Kurt comes in to join Blaine, and they both sing –

Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace Suddenly my life doesn’t seem such a waste It all revolves around you And there’s no mountain too high No river too wide Sing out this song and I’ll be there by your side

It’s interesting, and he rounds the corner, he’s delighted to see Blaine, and there’s this little smirk, this comfort, this oh yes - this one is the one I love. There’s Blaine and everything is perfect. But as the song goes on, and they hold each other, and dance with each other, Kurt remembers other – not so great things, too. And everything is just emotionally heavy, as Kurt moves away into the little romantic gazebo that’s set up.

We then have these lyrics:

Storm clouds may gather And stars may collide

Which is kind of where they’re at right now – that innocent and idealistic love Kurt had for Blaine has been shattered. But that doesn’t mean love is gone, not at all…

I like to think of this gazebo place as Kurt’s most secret and inner place, where he really keeps his heart. And Blaine circles around, wanting to join Kurt in there – and (fascinatingly) he’s not allowed in until Kurt turns around and directly and pointedly sings:

But I love you Until the end of time

And I love, love this ending sequence. The ‘I love you’ is assured. That’s how Kurt feels – no questions about that. But letting Blaine back in? That’s what he’s not sure about - cause he can always get hurt so badly again. But Blaine’s there, singing all these wonderful things, with his big brown eyes, coming in closer, and closer, and Kurt kind of lets him back in. His heart really, really wants to let Blaine back in - so for a moment here – feeling vulnerable and open, he indulges and remembers what it feels like to let Blaine in.

And this moment here is how you can do romance without a kiss (which totally was not needed - this moment is more powerful than that). They both declare their love for each other again, and then Kurt lets himself be held by Blaine, and curls into him, and it feels right and comfortable and safe and home and perfect. And it’s such a gorgeously shot moment.

And this is why, despite the fact that this is song is ridiculous out of context, this is one of my favorite Klaine moments ever.

Back to Reality

When we pull back to reality, we see confirmation that it is indeed Kurt’s fantasy, and he’s so deep in his fantasy that he’s openly crying. All that emotion and feeling he’s been burying has surfaced up – everything he was trying to ignore during the hotel sex extravaganza is catching up to him. He’s completely lost to his thoughts – and he doesn’t even recognize where he’s at.

I would like to point out that – Rachel’s head is most definitely on Kurt’s shoulder. But Adam, while leaning towards Kurt, his head is resting on the back of the couch. Kurt is also completely closed off to him – angling more towards Rachel and the TV. His legs are crossed, one arm across his chest, he’s physically made himself distant from Adam – who looks like he’d like to cuddle if asked.

Adam notices that he’s crying and calls him on that. Of course Kurt tries to cover with the lame ‘it’s my contacts’ line, and Rachel dumbly doesn’t understand is a cover because she trying to figure out when he went to an eye doctor and got diagnosed with astigmatism.

Santana, however, sees through the bullshit. It’s my own headcanon that she had some class with both Kurt and Blaine (or, I mean it could have been during glee club) and she once had to sit through Kurt and Blaine’s wedding preparations – and there was this one time where Kurt went into a long-winded spiel about how and why they would be singing Come What May. And Santana was probably over it the second he started talking but it was useful information that she could store away and use later. Like now….

First of all, Santana recounts that Kurt and Blaine were making wedding preparations. These two had committed long term to each other, which Blaine has already brought up, but Kurt’s always spoken in ‘forevers’, too, and this is just a third party confirming that. She also mentions that Kurt told her that singing Come What May, for him at least, was a more intimate act than sex. And judging by that fantasy – it is. It’s a song about deep emotions and committing forever, and Kurt’s opened up those feelings with the movie – and now Santana’s ripping through his defenses even more. It’s no wonder Kurt has this look of ‘if you say more I will kill you’ on his face. Man – it would have been interesting if she had continued. But Kurt gets up to leave (more popcorn!) – because he doesn’t want to have this conversation in present company.

Speaking of which…. Adam’s kinda sitting there with the most expressionless face. I mean, dude, this guy you’re trying to start something with obviously just had a fling with his ex and now is crying over an old memory of said ex, and you’re sitting there like you’re just waiting for the cue for your next line. I mean – give me something to work with!

Alright, well enough about Kurt’s sad excuse of a love life – Santana has more interesting things on her plate – like exposing Brody as a drug dealer. I love that Kurt immediately shifts gears when she starts talking about Brody. He is, clearly, not a fan of Brody – and this is Prime A gossip that has nothing to do with him. So she’s definitely got his attention.

As Santana makes her case in the way she usually does, she mentions that she’s gone through all of Kurt and Rachel’s stuff – which they both are upset about. I mean really…. During the montage, though, it looks like Santana’s mostly digging through Rachel’s stuff – I couldn’t find any interesting Kurt-ish tidbits to go through, other than he really doesn’t have a whole lot of stuff in that loft does he.

Anyway, one long speech later – Santana has at least Kurt convinced that they’re all living with a drug dealer.

Drug Dealer

So - time in this episode is wonky. The McKinley side takes place over a week-ish, while the NYC story is maybe three days? Well, Kurt says that they’ve now been snowed in for 48 hours. Which means Adam has slept at the apartment. But judging by how relaxed he is over on that couch, I’m guessing Kurt didn’t let him share the bed.

Also interestingly, Kurt’s watching the snow when the scene starts. He’s complaining that it’s getting worse. Why? Well being stranded in that loft together is probably starting to take its toll. Meanwhile, Kurt goes off to play a game of cards. Solitaire. Which is played by himself. While Adam is on the far side of the room. Hmmm. At no point have these two felt – close. And this whole being stranded together business is not bringing them any closer.

Anyway – the point of this scene is that Santana’s poking is finally getting to Rachel and so she makes a call to an incredibly suspicious sounding Brody. And that has Kurt convinced – definitely a drug dealer. I kind of like Santana and Kurt playing off each other here. I’m sad they really didn’t get a plot line together (for just them) while they were in New York. I mean - how much fun would that have been?

Rebound

So it’s…idk, later. It’s not snowing any more, and Kurt’s at NYADA practicing his dance moves. Adam sees him, and smiles gleefully – cause Kurt’s a cutie and a dork, and who doesn’t just kinda fall in love with him? The thing is – Adam’s not a complete idiot – and there are some things they have to talk about. It’s interesting that his conversation was not held earlier, when they were in the loft. I mean, Santana and Rachel being there was hard, but I’m guessing once the snow stopped Kurt was probably like - oh yeah, you probably want to get going home. And Adam left without much of a fight.

So yeah, Adam comes in, starting of with the most ridiculous of comments. But then Adam gets serious, and it’s interesting that he gets a little – held back about what he’d like to say. After all that show in Sadie Hawkins, being that whirlwind of a charmer guy, I can’t help but think that maybe Adam and Blaine have more in common than I originally thought. That that outward showmanship charming guy is somewhat of a front.

Anyway - Adam hints that he would have liked to stay snowed in with Kurt longer – cause apparently two days and nothing happened. And Adam seems to want to make something happen. Not much was going to happen with Rachel and Santana being around, but they could have snuck off to Kurt’s corner of the loft. I mean there is a privacy partisan there. But I’m guessing that at no point Kurt let himself be alone with Adam. Subconscious or not – there is a purposeful distance between these two in this episode. Kurt then deflects the conversation – joking about snowmen out in the sun instead of returning that he’d want to spend more time with Adam, too. He says it was a nice time - but makes no indication of wanting it to go on.

You know – it’s funny thinking about this in comparison to The Hurt Locker pt. 2, and that elevator. And how sometimes the universe (or, you know Sue) locks Kurt up so that he can deal with some of his feelings. And in both instances, it’s coming to terms with the fact that he still has rather strong feelings for Blaine. Sorry Adam :P

Adam comes right out asks Kurt if he was Kurt’s rebound. (It’s funny when Adam says he has a question he wants Kurt to be honest about, Kurt has a resigned look – as if he knew this conversation would be had at some point.) And Kurt tries to play it off as no, Adam’s not a rebound – but Kurt’s not really fooling anyone. Asking Adam out back in Sadie Hawkins was the story, a test to see if he could still be alive (like the song), a gesture of moving forward, a chance to see what he can do. But when confronted with what his heart is telling him – Adam never had a chance. And Kurt’s heart really hasn’t healed enough to move on with someone else.

Adam brings up the song, and how it means something to Kurt. And Kurt mentions that yes, he and Blaine did sing that song together – but sense of happiness, of innocence does feel like a life time ago. (Or - that’s my interpretation of the line.) And then Adam comes right out and asks if Kurt still loves him.

And Kurt doesn’t know how to answer. Well – the answer is yes, most definitely yes. But how to say that to Adam without hurting him? That’s the hard thing. And Kurt says he wants to be over Blaine - and it’s important to read the subtext here. Because it’s not that Kurt doesn’t want to be in love with Blaine. He doesn’t want the pain that goes a long with being in love with Blaine. Because right now, his heart is still broken, and the Valentine’s day weekend, and the movie have exposed that wound and there are all the good feelings and the bad feelings mixed together.

Kurt’s come a long, long way since the fall. It’s been four months, and he and Blaine have become friends again. They’ve begun sleeping together again. Kurt’s slowly letting Blaine back into his world. But trust is a very hard thing to rebuild and Kurt’s not quite there yet.

For some reason, I’m reminded of a random quote from the movie Sweet Home Alabama - where Reese Witherspoon says: “The truth is I gave my heart away a long time ago. My whole heart. And I never really got it back.” And I guess I just think about that here….

Adam, however, kind of goes the wrong way with trying to deal with the situation, and this is (kind of) his down fall. (I mean he never had a chance to begin with - but this doesn’t help…) Adam says he doesn’t want to compete with a fantasy - but what I don’t think he realizes is that he’s the fantasy. He’s the sweet and sexy guy with a cute accent who’s obviously very interested in Kurt. And Kurt, as much as he wants to, as much as he tries to, can’t seem to make it work. Because he’s in love with someone else. Blaine is the reality.

And Adam then tries to force the relationship to work – by saying, you know what, let’s make memories of our own. They’re going to go right now to a sappy movie and make it their own. Kurt’s not completely against the gesture as Adam takes his hand. It’s not above trying - I’m sure he did go with Adam to that movie. But. Well. You can't force love stories. As much as you might want it to work that way.

///

And that is where the narrative ends – because Rachel needs to have a pregnancy scare, and Santana needs to tell her to slow down in her life, and you know, the Brody story needs to be dragged out for two more episodes. But – I wish we had gotten that date between Kurt and Adam. Because this is the last we see of Adam, and I wish we would have gotten to see Kurt explore this semi-relationship with Adam, and see that it just doesn’t work. No matter how hard he tries, his heart is not in it. And based on the handful of mentions we get after this, after this date is kind of when things fizzled out. But yeah - just one more scene to cap it all off would have been nice, tbh.

(I’ll have more thoughts to say on this specifically when we get to Guilty Pleasures.)

Meanwhile this leaves a conversation open for – did Kurt and Adam have sex? Well, I’ve ping ponged on this issue (though I think it’s fascinating to talk about) and I think – since it’s completely left open – you can argue either way, but I lean towards no.

Judging by the fact that Kurt’s closed off physically in this episode, and that in Guilty Pleasures he’s sleeping with a body pillow instead of a willing guy speaks volumes to me. Though - I can see the argument that Kurt and Adam tried and it might have been awkward, it might have been just fine, but ultimately, it wasn’t Blaine and it wasn’t what he really wanted. Either way leads to the fizzling out. I suppose this warrants longer discussion - but I’ll either post separately, or discuss at length on the podcasts. Hmm.

Anyway, my long winded-maybe not so coherent thoughts boiled down are - Kurt kind of comes to terms in this episode that his feelings for Blaine aren’t really going anywhere, and that he’s not good at suppressing them. This is the end of the Adam story, even if they left out the actual ending part of the story. And that it does make sense that Kurt will be getting back together with Blaine in a short time – I mean I Do, GaB on Film, Guilty Pleasures, Wonderful, and Love, Love, Love all together in the span of a month makes sense. Just – between the stretched time line and the fact that we’re missing a few key pieces of Kurt’s story to fully tell the story does it feel incomplete.

Anyway – this next stretch of episodes doesn’t seem so hard when you can whip right through them.

#finding kh #kurt hummel #if you guys ever wanted to know how much I love come what may a normal amount #here you go #;)

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whatdoyouthinkmyjobis · 7 years

Text

Hunters on the Hellmouth

masterlist

first chapter

previous chapter

Warnings: discussion of suicide

AN: Inspired by BTVS 7.07 “Conversations with Dead People.” It’s the first week of December, about three weeks after chapter 22, a few days after GND9.

Chapter 23: Behind the Curtain

Months of researching other dimensions had yielded nothing on how the Winchesters had arrived in Sunnydale or if they could get back, so Sam turned to researching everything else about the world they knew versus the world they were now living in. He’d come up with vessels, or more accurately, a lack of vessels.

Over breakfast he explained, “No one’s been possessed here. (Maybe Willow, but we can’t know.) People have been remotely controlled like I was by the Luxic demon, but not outright possessed. But demons live in vampires. So maybe there’s something about human souls here that just naturally keep the demons out.”

“Or the demons are too big and horny to get in people.” Dean chuckled to himself muttering, Horny.

Excited, Sam pushed his food to the side and leaned over the table. “But get this, there’s almost no record of vessels. No one has encountered angels, so maybe there aren’t any people here who can host them. Maybe that’s why you and I are verging on the edge of super powered here.”

“Okay, I’ll ride the crazy train,” Dean said around a mouthful of bacon. “You said almost no record. What kind of vessels are there?”

“Vampires, at least. It looks like demons can’t get in a body unless it’s dead, but there have to be more, right? I found a book in Greek that roughly translates to Vessels on Earth. It’s part of a collection of rare occult texts in Mesa, Arizona. I’m thinking we can go right after work, grab a motel for the night, and we’ll be home by dinner the next day. Just like old times.”

Sam considered this the whitest of lies. He did know about one other type of vessel in this world: The Slayer.

In his research, Sam had tripped across the Slayer origin story. A young girl tied down by her tribe’s elders -- Shadow Men -- and filled with “the essence of a demon” in order to fight the demons plaguing them.

The story didn’t add up. Details were sketchy at best; the tale predated writing. How could possessing a girl with a demon possibly be helpful? Why would the demon turn on its own kind? Then there was the fact that Buffy, the current carrier of this demon essence, bore none of the signs of demon possession.

Hopefully, Arizona held some answers.

Mustard, spaghetti sauce, milk, and one serving of broccoli rice. "I don't feel Iron Chef enough to work with this," Buffy said.

“Pizza?" Willow suggested.

"Dawn is, like, ninety percent pizza at this point. It's to the store with us."

Wrapping up in their coats and hats, the girls headed into town. "Occasionally, I regret selling the Geekmobile. It’s like my summer brain blocked winter out completely."

"When are the guys coming back?” Willow asked.

Buffy sighed at the reminder she’d be spending the night alone. “They should be back tomorrow. Sam couldn’t get a lot of time off.”

The pain of separation must have shown on her face. Willow grabbed Buffy’s hand, her eyes soft and concerned. “I can cancel my plans. We can watch something funny, zany even.”

Buffy shook her head. “It’s one day. I’ll be fine. What are your big sparkly plans tonight?”

“Big sparkly library. I’m almost finished with my notes for my Art History paper, then I can start the fun paper-writing part,” she said enthusiastically. “I know I’ve checked all the books for references to ‘It is watching,’ but I may give them another look. It-ness is just so vague. I prefer the vain evils that like their names in lights.”

“Good, that’ll add some bupkis to the bupkis we know.”

“I can be your bupkis supplier.” Willow paused. “That sounded dirtier than I wanted it to.”

“Unintentionally dirty Willow is welcome any time,” Buffy said with a grin.

“Speaking of welcome and maybe dirty, I forgot to tell you about this crazy -- well, not actually crazy considering this is Sunnydale, but still loopy for me -- thing that happened last week. I was studying out in the commons between classes, and this girl walked up to me. She had this cute blonde pixie and a nose ring that I also weirdly liked. Anyway, we chatted about classes, and she gave me her number. You know what I told her, Buffy? I said, ‘I don’t need a study buddy. We’re not the same major.’ Smooth, right? It wasn’t until after she left with this hurt puppy look on her face that I even realized she was hitting on me. It’s been so long, I forgot what it was like.”

“What was it like? In the feels department, I mean.”

“It was great. Talking with her for a few minutes, I wasn’t thinking about Tara. I was thinking about me and the future of me. Of course later, I cried big ugly snot bubbles of shame over not thinking of Tara.”

“I don’t think Tara would want you to lock up your heart and hotness. You can love her forever, and still move on, snot bubble free. That’s kind of where Angel and I ended up.”

“Only Angel’s not dead. Well, he is, but he’s not and -- jeez, can’t you have uncomplicated relationships?”

“Doesn’t look like it. Dead or undead, you’ve taken some great baby steps, Will. Maybe the next step should be letting girls hit on you? How about we hit up The Bronze this weekend? Have some drinks. Get our dance on. You can practice flirting.”

“I was a little queasy when you said dancing, then you said flirting and lost me.”

“Girls’ night out it is!” Buffy said, squeezing her in a hug.

Willow was happy to spend an evening alone. The constant hustle and bustle of the house was like a warm blanket on a winter’s evening, but it was also a distraction. She still needed to head out into that storm. More like storms.

The prospect of a girl’s night out had her stomach in knots. She knew she needed to have fun more. Leave the house more. Engage more. But any form of healing felt like an unearned reward for her losing control. All of it felt like cheating on Tara.

Her second storm was Sam. Deep inside of sweet, nerdy Sam, something was wrong. Something was evil. When the pathway spell had failed, temporarily giving her insight into people, she could see a darkness swirling inside of him, tangled with the light. She didn’t think anything of it, after all, everyone’s insides looked a little different (except the matched set of Buffy and Dean), but then Spike showed up. Spike with his newly returned soul fighting with his demon passenger weirdly resembled what was in Sam.

Did he know? Willow had a million questions and theories about how this swirling darkness came to live in Sam, but she’d thought it best to poke around on her own before broaching the topic. Unfortunately, this new discovery had been quickly followed by Sam’s new relationship, so Willow rarely had the chance to do spells on the sly around him. He wasn’t charmed. He wasn’t cursed. He wasn’t controlled. So what was inside of Sam Winchester?

Sam was engrossed in one of the books they’d picked up, so Dean focused on the music pumping through the diner. Every game you play, every night you stay, I'll be watching you.

The diner lights flickered.

Dean chuckled into his fries.

Sam looked up from his books. “Did I miss something?”

“The lights flickered.”

“So?”

“Exactly. Don’t mean anything.” Before Sunnydale, he’d have reached for his gun packed with iron-tipped bullets and grabbed the table salt. He’d have checked exits and looked for suspicious behavior in the other diners.

Not anymore. A flickering light was a flickering light.

Dean wiped his greasy fingers on a napkin before tossing the crumpled paper at his brother.

“Mature,” said Sam, tucking the projectile beside his plate.

“We getting a motel, or you wanna head back home an’ spend some real quality time with that book? Slow jams. Lube. Box of tissues.”

Sam gave Dean the exact tight-lipped bitch-face he was fishing for.

“Motel then?”

“You’re worried about her,” Sam said.

“Nah,” said Dean attempting to take a sip from his empty coffee cup.

“We can head back.”

Dean signaled the waitress. “Check?”

Having stayed late at school to work on a group project for History, Dawn was surprised to find the house dark on her return. There were two notes on the counter. At the library. Where else would I be? See you before bedtime, Dawnie! Love, Willow. The other one had ten dollars clipped to it. Not for pizza. -- Buffy.

Dawn ordered a pizza. If she was going to be the queen of the usually packed house for a few hours, she would do as she pleased. This involved blowing off the rest of her homework, listening to the pop station she secretly loved, and snooping in Buffy’s room for secrets and clothes she wouldn’t miss.

Dashing upstairs, she pulled out the drawers in Buffy’s night stand. When she was dating Riley, she’d kept her diary in there. For a mystically chosen superhero, Buffy’s diary was shockingly dull. Killed a vamp. Killed two vamps. Killed a demon. Kissed a boy. The boy parts were Dawn’s favorite.

Buffy must have found a better hiding spot. The only things in the drawers were stakes, knives, sticky bottles, handcuffs, candy wrappers, and a long purple...not stake?

Not candy wrappers either.

Dawn rushed to the bathroom to wash her hands in the hottest water she could stand.

Buffy’s night had been weird. At the checkout line at the grocery store, she’d discovered she had left her wallet at home. After running back home to leave something for Dawn, she staked two vamps before grabbing some fast food. To top it all off, she’d called Spike. She hadn't even noticed herself doing it until after she’d told him where she was patrolling.

Spike walked up to her, pretension stripped. He didn't saunter. Didn't prowl. “You and the missus need a hand?”

For the first time in weeks, only one vampire (that she knew of) was likely to rise that night. “No, I just wanted to see how you are with the hand and stuff.” She tried to sound light, as if they were meeting up for coffee.

“My hand?” He held up the completely healed appendage. “Weeks go by and you only talk to me to tell me where to be at night -- always conveniently far from you. I go. I patrol. I kick some ass, thank you very much. But days after the fact, you suddenly want to talk about my hand?” He looked at her, into her, opening all the doors and drawers she wanted closed. “Guessing lover boy is out of town.”

Buffy started walking toward a new grave hoping the shadows would hide her face. “I just wanted to check on you. You seem better.”

“I'm not.” Spike hadn’t followed her. He pulled the last cigarette from his pack at glared at her across the chasm of smoke. “I’m peachy. Tip top. Practically skipping on clouds. Does that make you feel better? Lessen the guilt?”

Buffy felt slapped in the face. “Guilt? What do I have to feel guilty about?”

A smirk verging on snarl curled across his lips before he turned away. “You called me, pet. In the future, don’t.”

Willow woke with a start, a note card stuck to her cheek. She scanned the stacks around her, hoping no one had witnessed DroolFest 2002. For the moment, she was in the clear.

If she hoped to get anywhere on the elusive It, she was going to need more caffeine. Shoving her notes in her bag and putting her books on the return cart, Willow headed out into the brisk night air.

She turned off the path to the coffee house. Near a small pond the school called a lake, stood a scraggly old magnolia tree. Tara dubbed it “the most majestic tree on campus,” which was saying something as she made a point of visiting them all.

Willow ran her fingers along the low branches, feeling Tara’s sweetness in the air.

“Baby, it’s me. I miss you.” For once, Willow could say the words without tearing up.

“I'm sorry I haven't tried talking to you. I've felt, I don't know, dirty? Ashamed. Not myself. Not your Willow. I think I'm getting better though.

“Is it beautiful where you are? Of course it is, you’re there. I, uh, I haven’t gotten less cheesy.” Not that Tara would have minded. She was always one to revel in gooey affection.

“It looks beautiful from here,” said a familiar voice. An impossible voice. There, on the other side of the tree, stood Tara.

For good measure, Dawn stuck her tongue out at Buffy’s cream lace blouse before shoving it back in the closet. The closet-cleaning a month before had turned Dawn’s second wardrobe into Dullsville.

Pushing aside a tote full of purses on the closet floor, she found a forgotten black miniskirt. Dawn wiggled out of her jeans to try on the new treasure, already preparing arguments as to why she should be allowed to wear miniskirts to school.

“She’s such a hypocrite,” Dawn complained to no one as she continued to dig around the mess on the closet floor.

The lights flickered with a slight buzz.

Dawn sat back on her haunches and peered at the light, daring it to interrupt her with anything remotely similar to a chore.

Grabbing a tiny navy thing, she bounded to the mirror to hold it up. “Dress or top? I vote dress.”

The mirror cracked; blood streamed from the cracks and across her reflection.

Dawn grabbed a small dagger from the dresser and ran downstairs.

The front door blew open in front of her. Wind howled into the house though no trees moved outside. Dawn threw her weight into the door, eventually closing it.

Her heart pounded as the lights flickered again. She grabbed the phone in the kitchen and called Buffy. It rang without answer.

The back door creaked open. Dawn slammed it shut and shoved a chair in front of it.

Was something trying to force her outside? Just beyond the light of the windows, she could make out two men standing in the yard. Vampires. A vampire couldn’t have gotten into the house. A demon?

Gripping her dagger tighter, Dawn padded through the house in her bare feet, gathering books and ingredients for a protection spell.

The vampire Buffy’d just kicked in the face recognized her. This wasn’t the usual Finally, we meet, Slayer, sort of recognition. He was Jason Chen from her Geometry class at Sunnydale High. He was shy of six feet, muscular even through his suit, with dark shaggy hair.

“We sat next to each other all semester? I let you copy my test answers?” he said.

“Sorry, don’t remember.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. I wasn’t so great at math.” He ran his tongue over his fangs.

“Well, I passed, so thanks?”

He smiled at her, but not the hungry, cocky smile she was used to from vampires. “You know, I had the biggest crush on you.”

Heat rose in her cheeks despite herself. “Really? You never said anything.”

“I was pretty sure you didn’t know I existed. Looks like I was right. Plus, I heard a rumor you were dating some older guy and -- Whoa, what happened?” He ran his hands over his now smooth forehead.

“You changed back into your human face. You can switch between human and vampire. I recognize you now. You’ve lost weight!”

Jason smoothed his suit jacket and beamed at her. “Yeah! I took up boxing in college and burned off the baby fat.”

“You look good for a dead guy,” she said and meant it. He’d been baby-faced and pimply in high school; now his features were sharp, and a glint of sex flashed in his eyes.

“Thanks! I feel good, too! Like I finally have a purpose in life -- er, death.”

“I’m sorry about that,” she said, quietly.

He pointed at her cross and stake. “Guessing this isn’t new to you?”

Buffy shrugged. “Some people have careers; I got a calling.”

Jason shoved his hands in his pockets, casually letting her know he wasn’t afraid. “That explains a lot actually.”

“A lotta what?”

“You missed a bunch of classes, and you usually had cuts and bruises when you showed up. You seemed super sweet, but you were always in fights. People thought your boyfriend was some cult leader who was beating you up, but all this time you were Buffy the vampire killer.”

“Slayer.”

“Slayer?” He repeated it with skepticism.

“The girl called to kill vampires and demons. She’s called the Slayer.”

Jason grinned. “There’s a whole big world of darkness out there I need to learn about.”

Buffy shook her head. “I’m sorry, Jason, but you’re not going to survive the night.”

Quick on his feet, he spun to the side, beyond her reach. She swung into a round house, knocking him to the ground. He popped up, catching her ribs with a left hook, forcing all the air from her lungs. She elbowed him in the face, knocking him to the ground again. Buffy fell on him, pressing him into the grass with her knees, stake high.

Jason raised his hands in surrender. “I understand you have a grand scheme and all, but can’t we keep with the catching up?”

“You want a mini high school reunion in a cemetery before I kill you?” she asked, stake still raised.

“Why not? You make it sound like one of us isn’t going to make it to our tenth.”

“Who goes to the tenth? The twentieth is when people stop being fakey fakers,” she said with disgust.

He smiled, his deep dimples on display. “You’re confident you’ll live that long? Your confidence is one of the things I always liked about you.”

She climbed off of him and made herself comfortable on an elaborate tombstone. The idea of talking with a near stranger she could then kill appealed to her. “I’ve been doing this for a while. Lots of training.”

The vampire rubbed his face and shook away the blurry vision she’d no doubt doled out. “Do you just kill vampires? How did we get locked into being nemisises? Nemisi?”

“I kill lots of things that hurt people.” She was too tired for the spiel.

Jason took off his jacket, his dress shirt tight on his biceps, and sat on a nearby tombstone. “How do you know I’m going to hurt someone? This is a major case of guilty before proven innocent!”

Buffy cocked her head to the side, an eyebrow raised in skepticism. “You’re not a case; you’re a monster. You can’t tell me the idea of someone screaming and crying while you drink their blood doesn’t get you all a twitter.”

He smacked his lips. “Yeah, that does sound good.”

A question nagged at her every day, a question she rarely got to ask. “So why’d you do it? Why’d you drink the blood?”

The house was so eerily silent, Dawn swallowed to pop her ears. She tried to steady her breathing; Buffy was always on her case in training about her breathing. Closing her mouth, she took long, deep breaths through her nose and refocused on the protection spell ingredients spread out on the coffee table.

Behind her, something else was breathing.

Dawn spun around, but nothing was there.

A scream rose rose seemingly all around her before the television flicked on to an old horror movie with the volume turned up. She tried to turn it off.

Nothing.

She pushed all the buttons.

The woman continued screaming.

Dawn unplugged the tv.

The screaming did not stop.

Suddenly, everything flicked on. The radio blared a new pop song. The vacuum cleaner roared to life. The microwave began to cook. The lights burned bright until they hummed.

Dawn ran back to the spell book on the table. Lighting a dry rosemary sprig and tossing it in the metal bowl, she held a small mirror up to reflect the light. Over the screaming electronics she shouted, “I, Dawn Summers, cast you from this house, from this realm, back to the -- AHH!”

In a flash, all of the electronics exploded filling the room with shards of metal, glass and plastic.

The eerie quiet was worse in the dark.

“You think that will scare me?!” she shouted, her face and arms stinging from the shrapnel. “I’m in high school!”

Bang!

The knocking came from inside the house.

Bang!

She trembled.

Bang!

Framed against the moonlit window stood a familiar shape.

“Mom?”

Lightning flashed, black smoke surrounded Joyce, squeezing her neck and ramming down her throat.

“MOM!”

The lights came back, like someone had flipped a switch, and Dawn was alone again in the wrecked living room.

Willow felt as if the ground opened beneath her, and she tumbled forever into the dark. She squeezed the branch harder, the bark biting her skin, pulling her back to reality. But in reality Tara was dead.

“How?” Willow choked through the rising tears.

Tara, her edges practically glowing, smiled a pained smile. “This isn’t how it’s normally done, but you’re special. I always knew that, but Heaven knows it too.”

“Heaven?”

Tara nodded. “They let me come to you.”

“Oh, baby!” Willow threw herself toward the woman she loved only to pass through her. The ghost left a tingle on her skin, a charge like being dangerously close to a lightning storm.

“You know I’m only here in spirit,” Tara said.

“Tara!” Tears blurred Willow’s vision. She wanted nothing more than to hold her lover one more time, kiss her soft lips, play with her silky hair.

“I have a message for you, a warning from Heaven.”

Willow wasn’t sure if she was more shocked that anyone in Heaven cared about her specifically or that whoever it was cared enough to warn her about something.

“You have to stop practicing magic,” Tara said. “You’ve become dangerous.”

“But--but Giles said stopping would be dangerous. He said small spells--”

“No, you have to stop completely, Willow. You have to stop, or you’re going to kill everyone.”

Jason sighed. “Have you ever been in a relationship that ripped your heart out? Not boo-hoo sad, more I-can’t-breathe grief?”

“Oh yeah.”

“She left me a month ago. I had a ring ready and everything, and she ran off with my best friend.” His voice almost cracked.

“God, that’s awful!”

“Finals were coming up. I was just so stressed and sad, I thought I’d come home for the weekend. Only no one in my family wanted to hear about it. Dad only cares that my grades are good; he wants me to take over his law firm. Mom was busy helping my older sister plan this giant wedding. My little sister, well, I think she was too high to notice I was home.”

“I’m sorry, Jason.”

She’d barely noticed him in school. He’d been a convenient way to pass Geometry. In fact, she couldn’t even remember who he had hung out with. How many days did he sit by her, yet another person not listening?

“Eh, I was bleeding out in a parking lot, and the offer of joining an undead army of evil didn’t sound half bad.”

“Army? Your sire used the word ‘army?’”

“‘Sire?’ Is that what I call the guy who made me all grr-argh? Sounds so formal.”

Jason ran his fingers through his thick hair while he inspected her, the hunger growing in his eyes. He would be ravenous by now. “Was your breakup recent?”

“Sorry?”

“You look sad, and when I mentioned bad breakups...It still hurts, doesn’t it?”

Killing Angel was a wound that would never heal, but him moving away? That was more scabbed over. She loved him still, but now it was more nostalgia for first love, the thrill of infatuation. He couldn’t give her what she needed.

As far as Riley went, she’d never loved him. The timing hurt more than his leaving.

But they were old news.

“No! I’m in a great relationship!”

He snapped his fingers. “Damn! You probably wouldn’t have gone out with me anyway, since I’m a vampire and all.”

She forced out a laugh of agreement.

“If your relationship is so great, why are you so sad?” he asked.

Suddenly, she knew why she’d called Spike. “It doesn’t have anything to do with my boyfriend. Not really. It’s just that my ex -- not the one I loved -- still comes around every once and awhile. He’s going through a hard time, and I don’t know how to be his friend. We’ve been enemies, confidants, lovers, allies, but I don’t know how to help him.”

“Did you know how to be his friend before the new boyfriend entered the scene?”

Buffy bit her lip and looked away. She and Dean had talked about Spike as much as they needed to -- why he was still alive, how much he helped her after she rose from the dead -- then she dropped it. The truth was, she had a hand in Spike’s suffering and didn’t want to deal with the fall out.

Jason stood up and stretched, a warm up. “Not gonna lie, that’s kind of crappy of you, but he’s got other friends right?”

“No, Spike is --”

“Wait, did you say Spike? British guy. Bleached blonde rock and roll type. Vampire?”

Her stomach sank as she gripped her stake. “Yeah, that’s him.”

The new vampire unleashed a deep, knee-slapping laugh. “Your friend, no your EX is a vampire?! Oh God, that’s hilarious!”

“How do you know Spike?”

“Spike’s the one who sired me.”

Buffy’s arms felt weak. Her knees shook. He had a soul and a chip. “No, he wouldn’t.”

Jason wiped away his tears of laughter. “I was leaving the gym after a workout. He grabbed me in the parking lot, said I could finish bleeding out or be part of something big--”

Before he could finish, Buffy lunged.

Sitting on the coffee table bandaging her feet, Dawn tried calling Buffy again. “Please! Pick up!” she cried. Hanging up, she whispered, “Mommy?”

The lights went out, when they returned a moment later, the words Daddy left us dripped down the wall in blood. The lights died again briefly and the message was gone.

The house started to rumble and shake, her own personal earthquake.

She grabbed the phone and dialed again, barely able to speak through the fear. “Dean? It’s Dawn.”

“Hey, sweetheart. You okay?” His voice was strong and alert, comforting.

She whispered, “Something’s in the house.”

“What? Like something demon or --”

“I think there’s a ghost and a demon and there’s a bunch of vampires outside. My mom is here, but so is something else--”

“Your mom? Sorry, but that ain’t your mom. You dealt with ghosts much?”

“Not really,” her voice drowning in tears.

“Listen, Sam and I are on our way; we’ll be to you in an hour. Make a circle with some salt. Sit inside. Do not let the circle break, okay?”

The house went dark, and Dawn could hear something growling. “Okay,” she whispered before hanging up.

Dawn ran to the kitchen, her feet stinging as the growling filled her ears, hot breath on her neck. Grabbing a large container of salt, she dashed back to the living room, tracing a thick line of salt around the coffee table and chair.

BANG!

Startled, Dawn fell back and knocked her head on the edge of the table, a small cry escaping her throat. A vampire stood at the window licking his lips.

It’s okay. You’re okay. Even if he breaks the window, he can’t get in. But no matter how many times she reminded herself, she didn’t feel better.

Dumping the ashen contents of the copper bowl, Dawn started over with her protection spell. Horehound tossed to the four corners. Cumin beneath her chair. Anise, angelica, mandrake in the bowl.

Joyce appeared in the living room. She tried to run to Dawn, but the black smoke smacked her against the wall. It held her by the throat as she screamed, “Don’t hurt my girls!”

“Hang on, mom!” Dawn lit the rosemary and held up a mirror to the flame. “I, Dawn Summers, cast you from this house, from this realm, back to the darkness you came from.”

A harsh wind ripped through the room, picking up bits of broken glass.

Focused on her mother, Dawn squinted to protect her eyes. “I, Dawn Summers, call on the power of the crone, the maiden and the mother, to cast you out. You have no part of this hearth. I, Dawn Summers, cast you back to hell!”

The mirror cracked in her hand, slashing across her palm. But beside her stood her mother, glowing and beautiful as Dawn always imagined an angel would be.

“You were so brave,” Joyce said.

Longing for her mother’s embrace, Dawn tried to hug her, but her arms passed through with a slight tingle.

“I want to hold you, Dawnie, I do, but you know I’m not back from the dead.”

“M-m-mom? Why are you here?”

Her smile was warm and kind. “I knew something bad was coming for you, and I had to protect you.”

“I-I tried to call Buffy,” Dawn said with a sniffle, “but she didn’t answer.”

Joyce’s smile faded and she looked away, struggling to find words. “Dawn, honey, Buffy was killed tonight.”

Willow wasn’t sure if she’d sat down on purpose or if her knees simply gave out, but she was on the damp, cold ground, clinging to her bag like it was a life raft. “Everyone, everyone? That seems like too many ones. Anyone is too many ones. I-I don’t kill people.”

Tara’s face turned dark. “Do you think I don’t know what you did? You murdered Warren. Is that what you thought I wanted?”

Bile rose in Willow’s throat. The tears came fast and hot at she reached out to Tara. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I lost control without you!”

“You don’t have control now, sweetie.”

“I do! I do. Giles took me to this coven in England and --”

“It won’t be enough. You’re going to slip up again. You’ll get drunk on power and then… Which of your friends do you think you’ll kill first? Buffy to get her out of the way? Or will you start smaller? Will you start with Dawn?”

“No! No!” Willow’s pleas turned into a cough, a furious need for air.

“There’s a way to make sure everyone you love stays safe,” Tara said, her voice like warm honey. “If you sacrifice yourself, everyone else lives.”

Willow sat up and wiped her runny nose on her sleeve. “Sacrifice? You mean kill myself?”

“You’d die a hero, honey, and we could be together again. Forever.”

Willow stood and glared at the image of Tara before her. “Who are you?”

Tara’s lips curled in a playful half smile. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m your Tara.”

“My Tara would never, ever push me to kill myself,” Willow said darkly.

“Suicide thing too much? Damn. Gotta give me credit for trying.”

Energy ran through Willow’s body, warming her, making her tremble.

The thing noticed. “What are you going to try to blast me with one of your cereal box magic tricks? You can’t touch me. I am older than time. I am older than earth. Reckoning is here, kid.”

“Reckoning? Big talk. Is the big bad gonna make us pay?”

The thing laughed. “Make you pay? Like you could give me anything. I’m done watching. It’s time to strip you of what you don’t deserve. There won’t be enough of you left to shiver in the cold when I’m done.”

Surprise replaced Willow’s rage for a moment. “You! You’re the one who watches?”

“And I’m going to love watching this.” Tara snapped her fingers, and suddenly she and Willow were floating a thousand feet in the air, the college a scatter of lights beneath them.

As Willow raised her arms, now glowing white, her body jerked, and she was free falling, Tara rapidly becoming a pinprick in the sky. She felt as if her body were tearing itself to pieces. The fall yanked her screams away to no one. As she hurtled to the ground, her vision whited out.

next chapter

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