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stillness-in-green · 3 years

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The MLA(/PLF) Headcanon Post (1/2)

In response to this nice ask about whether I have any headcanon or thoughts about the current members of the MLA/PLF, I spent two weeks blithering 16.5K words of exactly that into a Word file, because when it comes to underappreciated characters I love, I do not understand restraint. This post and its follow-up will cover all ranked ex-MLA members of the PLF, as well as Original Flavor Destro and Curious, since I wasn't going to leave them out of a project like this even if they aren't "current."

The ask only mentioned having previously read The Lore Post, the last exercise in ridiculousness that I wrote at the tail end of MLA Week, so I wrote this to summarize everything that doesn't appear there—which is to say that a lot of the material in these two posts will look familiar to anyone who's read my fanfic about the MLA cast. There’s still plenty of new material to go around too, though!

So, I don't have much in the vein of askblog-style headcanons where I can randomly tell you stray trivia about a character’s favorite foods or their love languages or what have you; that stuff either comes up when I'm writing fanfic or it doesn't. That said, below, please find a mix of thoughts I keep in mind when writing characters, facts that have only turned up in my fanfic/notes so far and not the Lore Post meta, and a selection of lightning round headcanon provided by cross-referencing a random number generator with some old questionnaires I keep around for OCs and tabletop characters.

In this post: Destro, Re-Destro and his advisors, and Geten.

Destro—

General Thoughts The whole "revolutionary leader" thing came very naturally to him. He was committed, charismatic, very willing to risk his life and safety for the cause, and he cared about his people. All that said, he absolutely had a pompous, prideful streak, especially where it came to his justification for terrorism. You only have to read his own words to see that. Still, he was in large part reacting to the world he lived in, one of greater violence and danger than the current day.

I like to think that—because he was genuine in wanting freedom for all—he would not approve of what became of his Army. He'd be able to see how they got there, and he would probably have made much the same choices if he'd been there with them, but while he would have agreed that his role should be remembered—that's just Due Credit—he would never have wanted to become the nigh-on religious figure his followers turned him into. Continuing to fight the good fight for his ideals is one thing, but secret salutes and isolated villages and being raised from infancy to know your life has only as much worth as it can contribute to Liberation… Well, it's just not what he would have wanted for his people, much less his descendants.

Family Situation Chikara was only around 7 when his mother was killed, the event that would shape the rest of his life. He wasn't hiding in the closet from the mob, either; he was kicking and punching and biting, his motivation to save her overflowing—but he was still only 7, and eventually overwhelmed. His own life might well have ended there with hers, but for a group of neighborhood vigilante types (at least one of whom probably went on to a career as a hero, after legalization).

He went most of his adolescence without getting involved with anything more sinister than student newspapers, founding a secret meta-rights "club," and attending the odd larger protest, but when the government started talking about passing laws restricting the use of meta-abilities, he started getting very radical very quickly, and when some absolute snake started to use his martyred mother's words to bang the drum for banning quirk use outside the home outright, he went off the deep end.

Lightning Round (Randomly Selected Headcanons)

Favorite book genre? Memoirs and biographies—he wouldn't have written his own if he didn't appreciate their value. The intimacy of the personal juxtaposed against the broad scope of history appeals to both his regard for individuality and his revolutionary mindset.

Most prized possession? Thoughts on material possessions in general? He doesn’t generally prize material possessions—in fact, he’s something of a skinflint. His most prized possession is an old pair of gloves that belonged to his mother, which he'd been wearing at the time of her murder. He didn't come from money to begin with, but his mother’s story made enough of a splash that his financial situation was improved by well-meaning sorts sending along donations and contributions and the like, as well as government officials knowing they needed to be sure that he wound up somewhere at least semi-reasonable lest they court further outrage by mishandling the son of a martyred woman. The money all went towards school and living expenses, though, leaving him quite experienced at balancing a budget, which would come in handy for that whole ‘leading a violent uprising against the state’ thing later on.

Academic Background: Got all the way through college! Was involved in student groups as far back as middle school, and only got moreso the further in school he got. Majored in Human Development; he was intending to go into the public health and policy sphere before the appropriation of his mother's language pissed him off so much he got into terrorism instead.

THE MODERN MLA

Re-Destro—

General Thoughts A huge amount of the way I write him is influenced by one single thing—his characterization as described in the second data book. His personality is summed up there as "sokoshirenai yami"—bottomless darkness, or, as a friend translated it for me, "unfathomable gloominess." That really, really stuck with me, because on the one hand, it's so opposed to virtually all of what we see of him on the page, where he's being cheerful or scornful or sycophantic; the closest he ever gets are his brief tears for Miyashita, Curious, and his other followers.

On the other hand, it makes so much sense that the man we see—the man who talks about the heavy burdens of his legacy, who was handed that legacy when he couldn't possibly have been any older than 6 or so, who willingly straps on a self-designed torture device to wring out more power, who all but worships the ground Shigaraki walks on even though Shigaraki is the reason Re-Destro no longer has legs to walk that same ground with—should be "unfathomably gloomy." Of course he's gloomy! He was never allowed to be his own person! He has never in his life known true freedom, only existed as a vessel to bring that freedom to others! And he can't really even talk to his closest friends about it, because his closest friends are still his followers, and he wouldn't want to weigh them down!

With that context, it makes all the sense in the world that he'd be so devoted to the man who relieved him of that burden.

Family Situation He loved his mother Yukie a great deal, despite knowing from early on that he was carrying the weight of the title because she believed she couldn’t. (Perhaps growing up hearing about the martyrdom of Destro’s mother left him wanting to ensure the happiness of his own, for her happiness was very rare.) He was 10 when she was killed in a Villain attack; she’d been on a daytrip over to a neighboring city to visit some of her erstwhile school friends. The requisite mourning period was 49 days, and as the only surviving family member, quite a lot fell to him even before considerations of his role as Re-Destro. it was perceived as better—for both the Army’s morale and for his own stability—for him to be involved with as much of the work of transition as possible, but obviously he couldn’t do it completely alone, nor should he. Thus, for two months after Yukie’s death, the previous generation's Sanctum[i] stayed with him in his family home. Afterward, he moved in with Anchor (one of his grandfather's advisors), where he would spend the rest of his young adulthood until moving away for college.

Claustrophobia The name of that literal-iron-maiden deathtrap he brings to bear against Shigaraki is no coincidence: Rikiya developed claustrophobia over the course of a stint of abusive training when he was thirteen. He generally has a pretty good handle on disguising it, thanks to a combination of people being unwilling to ask him questions they don’t actually want the answers to and the fact that he had to learn how to operate through it in order to complete the training at all. He has never told anyone, largely because he’s never been able to recognize that it was abuse, and so his abuser remains a figure of some influence.

Education He was largely taught by private tutors, in his home and in theirs, rather than attending school, but I think he probably wasn't completely home-schooled. Particularly once he'd decided that he did want to attend university—and not just some little local technical program, but a major school in a proper city—he probably attended classes a few times a week at his local high school just to get a feel for being around other people his own age. He'd been friends with Koku for several years by that point, otherwise he probably would have been pretty hopeless, but he was still a pretty odd duck by the time he got to university.

This, incidentally, is why he never pushed Geten too hard about school—his own experience of it was so weird and piecemeal that he mostly thinks of school as relevant only for the education it provides, and less so the crash course in social dynamics. Since Geten doesn't care about getting an education (nor, indeed, about learning how not to be a rude little troll), and has a strong enough quirk that he'll never lack for a position in the Army even without a formal education, Rikiya is perfectly happy to let Geten have his way and just be minimally learnèd.

Stress His powers operate by infusing his body with the characteristic black matter of his manifested stress; he can increase his size with this (his so-called Liberated Form isn't just armored up; he becomes physically taller and bulkier), as well as throw handfuls of the materialized power. A side effect of this is that his stress can also infuse itself into his bodily fluids. The stress matter is a highly dense particulate, so if Rikiya is not in proper control of himself, his proverbial blood, sweat and tears can be literally heavy with the weight of his power.

The Value of Life He cares very much about the lives of his followers, but those genuine feelings are filtered through both the mental compartmentalization required by an emotion-based quirk, and an upbringing that taught him to care about his underlings in the same way one would rare goods. Valuable goods, certainly, goods worth being proud of, goods to be maintained with care, but still, ultimately, things that can be sold or traded or bartered off as necessary to further one's goals. Even his own life, while "objectively" the most valuable of them all, isn't an exception to that policy—the Great Cause is more important than any individual life, up to and including his own.

On a Personal Note He’s something of an obvious weirdo to outsiders—his enthusiasm comes off as strident, his smiles overly polished—but despite that, he's bizarrely hard to dislike once they start spending real time with him. He's not anywhere near as prideful about himself as he is the legacy of the MLA, for a start; he's actually pretty self-deprecating when he's not performing the whole Heir of Destro's Great Bloodline routine at people. He's also happy to go along with other people sharing their hobbies (because he doesn't have any of his own). The more you get to know him, the more obvious it becomes that he's a total basket case, but “total basket case” is still an improvement over “self-absorbed 1%-er CEO” that people like Spinner come in expecting.

What Are Boundaries? He has very little understanding of how to enforce boundaries around his private life, or, indeed, of why such boundaries might ever be necessary. Oh, he can do the double life thing, keep the CEO of Detnerat separate from the Grand Commander of the Metahuman Liberation Army, but when it comes to the MLA itself, he's so groomed to devote himself to the cause that he doesn't really distinguish between the responsibilities of Re-Destro and the needs of Yotsubashi Rikiya. Rather than being the egomaniac you might expect of a man with the absolute power over others he has, he instead struggles to assert himself as his own person at all.

Issues with boundaries are not uncommon with the MLA—they're all raised to see themselves as warriors to advance the cause before they are, like, “human beings”—but Rikiya’s are particularly exacerbated because he was raised by adults who were getting pretty paranoid about his bloodline's tendency to die young, and thus were always checking in on how he was doing, dictating his schedule, weighing in on his plans, and so on. He just wasn’t raised with reasonable expectations for privacy. Even as an adult, he'll give his apartment door code to pretty much anyone in the MLA who has even a semi-plausible reason to want it—certainly quite a few of the elders know it! And it isn’t only the elders, either; Rikiya's phone and several of his accessories carry tracking chips courtesy of Skeptic, which Rikiya knows about and doesn't think is at all untoward.

While his experience dating Koku definitely taught him some hard lessons about how much he could allow himself to ask of people who would obey him without question (they broke up over Rikiya’s realization that Koku would never deny him anything, thanks to a cracked rib Koku didn’t see fit to tell Rikiya about until Rikiya hugged him a little too hard), he never learned how to value his own autonomy in turn. Oh, he's the Grand Commander, and everyone around him has been raised to venerate his bloodline, so most of them would never even think about trying to take advantage of him as such, but it's absolutely the case that people who are bold or familiar enough to try can basically run right over him with minimal efforts made at obscuring the fact. His life is full of people who do and have done exactly that, some to a net positive effect, and some—well. See again the entry about his claustrophobia.

The abjectly terrible state of his sense of self-worth is also the reason the Claustro exists. While he was relatively capable of trying to work around his phobia when he was younger, the older he got, the more it started to feel like leaving doors cracked behind him or only working in offices with big spacious floor plans and oversized windows was, in some way, Letting Down The Cause by allowing his fear to control him, rather than embracing it so he could properly stockpile it for later use. A dinnertime chat with Curious about turning one’s trauma into a weapon for the good of others catalyzed this, leading to the development of the “burden-enhancing steel pressure mechanism,” Claustro.

(It also means the clone of him made by Twice to handle Detnerat after Deika is bizarrely okay with its circumstances, which I will almost certainly write more about one of these days, but I’m still kind of reeling from that reveal, so more on that another time.)

Lightning Round

Religion? He doesn't identify as being of a religious faith, but he was brought up in the same peaceful marriage of Shinto and Buddhism that the majority of Japanese people are, and like many, he adheres to a number of traditional practices more out of habit than devout faith. There are two celebrations that demand significant emotional investment from him. First comes the New Year's celebrations, important because the MLA prides itself on looking to a brighter, freer future, and it's a period when he can let himself think that maybe he'll be just that little bit closer to Liberation by the end of the year than he was at the start. Second is Obon, a summer festival for honoring one's departed ancestors. Since his authority and his life's work derive entirely from his bloodline, he's obligated to care about this one, though in practice, he tends to shy away from thinking much about Destro (who he has very twisted-up feelings about indeed) in favor of less emotionally fraught waters.

What did he dream of being or doing as a child? Did that dream come true? He never really had a significant period where he thought about being e.g. an astronaut or a doctor or a hero; in fact, it came as something of a surprise to him the first time Koku asked him what he was planning to do when he grew up. He always just had the nebulous expectation of, "Be the Grand Commander," and the elders were happy to leave it at that until he brought it up on his own.[ii]

How does he behave around children? He likes kids! He’s wistful about the freedom enjoyed by happy children while also being sympathetic to ones that seem overly burdened. He’s not the most natural person in the world with them, but most of them can tell that the awkwardness comes from a well-intentioned place, and will treat him as a funny-looking man who’ll let them bother him at length without getting mean. It turns out he’s actually pretty good with them, then, if only by virtue of being easily bullied. (This, notably, goes for non-MLA-affiliated children. Everything’s much more formal within the cult, though it didn’t Geten long to suss out the “easily-bullied” part, either.)

Trumpet—

General Thoughts The largest factor in how I write Koku is, of course, the headcanon that he and Rikiya are ex-lovers, and neither of them is 100% over it even all these years later. Beyond that, though, Koku is the most temperate of the group, the one with the most easy charisma (MLA members are more swayed by Re-Destro, but Koku does better with outsiders who aren't predisposed to hanging on Rikiya's every word). He strives to come off as The Sensible One, and given the extremes the rest of the inner circle are capable of, it's not hard for him to maintain that title. He's as messed up as any of them, though, second only to Rikiya in levels of childhood grooming. He thinks of himself as a practical man, but he is deeply indoctrinated, the boundaries of his expectations very much defined by his upbringing, so he never really sees it coming when he gets clobbered by something from out of left field.

Family Situation: Koku has the largest family of the identified members. Aside from his grandfather (called Old Man Hanabata, the founder of the Hearts & Minds Party, and passed away by the canon era), Koku has cousins, nieces, nephews and more, courtesy of his uncle, his older sister and her husband, and other extended family.

He’s also the member most accustomed to wealth, power and influence. He's from a rural area, certainly, but being in a family of hereditary politicians (and with that family not suffering a string of untimely deaths and disappearances like Rikiya's did), he was raised from the start with ready access to money and nice things. Still, for all his family's sway in a major branch of the MLA's operations, they're not First Families, and thus don't have any elders in their ranks, making them still somewhat subordinate to said elders when it comes to orders about the Great Cause. (He’s working on it.)

Meeting Re-Destro Koku and Rikiya met at 12 and 10 respectively, when Koku tagged along with Old Man Hanabata for a meeting RD was likewise accompanying Anchor for. It had been the better part of a year since Rikiya's mother passed away, but he was still strikingly melancholy for a boy that age, which—along with all the weight given to the importance of the meeting—left quite an impression on Koku. Koku thus became Rikiya's first real friend in his own age group, a friendship heartily encouraged by everyone around them. Koku was well-behaved, intelligent, a little older but not too much so, and set to become influential without a danger of becoming too influential; he was seen as a good choice for a friend.[iii]

The Break-Up Painful as it was at the time, there was a silver lining to his and RD's post-college break-up: it got Koku out of the elders' pocket. He’s been groomed for one thing or another all his life, but after he became friends with Rikiya, he was always getting leaned on to report back to the First Families about how Re-Destro was doing, and to try to influence him towards actions the First Families approved of. In a very real sense, Koku was part of the apparatus keeping Rikiya from any real freedom. Their break-up and subsequent estrangement meant that the elders had far less to breathe down Koku's neck about, and by the time they reconciled, Trumpet had gotten his feet under him, as had Re-Destro, and they were both better able to fend off such background meddling.

This doesn't mean Trumpet's not still carrying a torch, however. He thought he was handling his long-banked feelings pretty well—being Professional, being the advisor Re-Destro needed and as much a friend as Rikiya would allow—right up until Rikiya scared the life out of him by nearly dying in Deika. He's all but glued himself to Rikiya since, as much as he can get away with given their respective responsibilities.

As an Advisor Other than leading the HMP, he does some work with internal politics and reputation. It's not, strictly speaking, his actual job as advisor—Re-Destro or the elders would probably be sought for more formal or critical mediations—but he and the people who report directly to him do enough travelling around to see constituents that they're often in a position to field those tensions before they get big enough to require attention from higher up. Koku's happy to do so, in fact—not because he just loves handling petty arguments about resources, but because the HMP is a faction of the MLA in and of itself, and mediating is a boost to that faction's standing and autonomy. (Also, it's that much less on Rikiya's ever-overburdened plate.)

Lightning Round

What would he do if he needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?Ahahahahaha, “make dinner but the kitchen was busy,” please. Any time there could feasibly be someone else occupying a kitchen he has any business being in himself, it would be a housekeeper, and s/he would be making food for him/his family. It’s not as though Trumpet has never cooked—he did live alone for some years after school—but outside of a scant few years in university, there’s never really been a time that kitchen use overlap would have been a problem for him.

Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging. Probably gourmet cuisine, especially imported stuff. He’s had tailored clothes all his life; they’re just part of the job. Expensive alcohol also doesn’t wow him; it wouldn’t be strange to find some sake maker whose family has been doing it for sixteen generations in the village he grew up in. It’s a lot harder to cultivate a true gourmand’s palate out in the sticks, though, no matter how rich your family is. Living in actual civilization affords a great deal more variety—and anyway, nice dinners are one of the few things he can reliably tempt Rikiya into accepting. As to his feelings about indulging in general, he’s broadly For It. He works very hard, he seldom gets real time off, and it doesn’t help the Great Cause for him to deny himself nice things, unlike some people. (He’s maybe a bit bitter.)

Does he like to be the center of attention all of the time? Not especially. Oh, he’s very good at it, certainly, and he doesn’t dislike it, but being the center of attention is practically always going to be tied up in The Great Work, so he desperately needs to get out of the spotlight from time to time, if only to be able to turn off the persona.

Curious—

General Thoughts There are two main factors in how I write Chitose: her practicality and her rapaciousness. I write her as having an appreciation for good moral character in other people, especially when it makes a good story, but not considering herself particularly bound by conventional morality: her moral compass is Liberation, and she follows it unswervingly. I also write her as predatory, lusty about a lot of things, often to the point of overstepping. It doesn't hurt anyone that she likes hearty foods and strong alcohol, but she also doesn't have much regard for peoples' boundaries, and even less so when she thinks they have something to offer the Great Cause.

While that trait isn't without its benefits, it can get pretty ugly, too, as we see in how she treats, and talks to, Toga. Even with Rikiya, the only person she thinks of as 'above' her in any meaningful sense, she's not at all above manipulation. She's respectful of him, but knows him too well to always take him at his word. He plainly can't always see what's best for him, but what's best for him is best for Liberation, and therefore, as a Liberation warrior, it's her responsibility to sometimes make decisions for him. He'll appreciate it in the long run—he always does. (Skeptic and Geten have similar views—Rikiya makes it easy.)

Family Situation She probably has the best actual relationship with her family of the group—her mothers are removed enough from the heart of MLA politics that her relationship with Rikiya doesn't color her family life the way Koku's does his, and she's much more sociable than Skeptic or Geten. She doesn't get home much—just the major holidays, work permitting—but she's in frequent enough communication for a grown woman, and chats with her younger sister more often than that.

Meeting Re-Destro She met Rikiya properly when they were 21 and 27 respectively. They were living in the same city at the time (him running Detnerat, her in university), so of course she'd seen him at the odd MLA event he turned up at, but when she landed an internship in her junior year, she cheekily turned up one day in her reporter capacity to interview him as “a local rising star of industry.” It was the first chance they'd had to talk one-on-one, and would not be the last, as she frankly elbowed her way into his life and gradually sussed out that here was a man with Problems. He and Koku were still in a distant patch at the time; she is largely responsible for getting them back on friendly terms as a way of showing her Pure Intentions.

The fact that her Pure Intentions both land her a square position as one of RD's advisors herself and get Rikiya to a better place emotionally is calculated, but not, therefore, untrue. Ironically, while she was concerned about looking like a gold-digger, the MLA elders were probably thrilled and relieved to hear rumors that Rikiya was getting romantically involved again. And with a lovely young MLA woman! They wouldn't even need to worry about surrogacy arrangements! (Not having grown up around the Yotsubashis, Chitose is unaware of exactly how pointed an interest the elders take in the matter of securing that bloodline.)

Feelings Today She loves Rikiya dearly, and prizes his regard more highly than anything in her life, but has not devoted much thought to the idea of being in love with him. She's married to her work, as they say, but she's also keenly aware that Rikiya would, for a great many reasons, be a lot of work to be in love with. She's decided it's generally better for his mental well-being, and therefore also better for the Great Cause (she’s much more capable of reading that relationship reciprocally than Rikiya is), to make sure he's eating at least one good meal a week and getting some proper socialization in outside of MLA meet-and-greets.

As an Advisor She handles external politics and reputation--it's her job to prime Japan culturally for the Liberation agenda in ways more wide-reaching than Trumpet (he's head of a political party, and that's not nothing, but that party is still a small minority on the floor of the Diet). She pulls attention to stories that benefit the MLA, and diverts attention from stories that don't. This is far broader than just publishing Destro's memoir; it also means poking holes in the broader Hero Society narrative. She does this by providing as broad a platform possible for stories about the tragedies of excessive regulation, the evils of quirk-related bias, the abuses of power heroes are capable of, and so on.

Lightning Round

Does she remember names or faces easier? She’s quite good with both, actually, but I’d give names the advantage because she works primarily with written rather than visual mediums. (Also, BNHA names being the ridiculous puns that they are, you can probably tell more about a person in HeroAca Land by analyzing their name than their face anyway.)

Is she more concerned with defending her honor, or protecting her status? Her status, absolutely. Impugning her honor hurts no one but her; she can laugh that off because honor is a silly social construct anyway. Threatening her status is a much more dangerous prospect—her status is long-cultivated to enable the advancement of Liberation ideology; it lets her keep an eye on Re-Destro, who needs as many people looking out for him as he can get; it’s what she’s worked for all her life. Curious will fuck you up if you threaten her status.

In what situation was she the most afraid she’d ever been? The time she got in trouble for nearly exploding some dude’s face off for stealing her purse. She was 17, had spent very little time in non-Liberated territory before, and was not raised to wait on heroes to solve her problems. She wasn’t afraid of the thief or the hero, really, but she was completely terrified that she might have just blown over half a century of secrecy by not performing Helpless Civilian well enough. The terror was pretty convincing to the police interviewing her about it, anyway. On the whole, it was a very valuable learning experience!

Skeptic—

General Thoughts Tomoyasu is a character I haven't written extensively yet, but what I think is most interesting about him so far is the contrast of his hyper-modern methods with the bone-deep zealotry for the cause. See, Rikiya, Koku and Chitose all grew up in the sticks; Rikiya and Koku had money from a young age, but it was old money, tied up in trusts. (Geten didn't have any of those, but Geten's a different story for other reasons.) Tomoyasu grew up in a major city from the start; he was a technological prodigy from practically as soon as he could hold a tablet. He has very little respect for the old ways of doing things when he knows there are newer, better ways of advancing the Cause. However, none of that makes him more likely to break from the MLA's ranks—if anything, his idiosyncratic approach just causes him to approach Liberation in really weird ways, ways no one else would ever come up with.

Pressganging Bubaigawara Jin based on a plan to clone Re-Destro? Who else would that ever even occur to, much less such that it became the basis for an elaborate psychological assault? But that's Skeptic in a nutshell—respect the old for what it did at the time, but don't think that means you have to use the same methods they did forever as you pick up the torch to carry it forward.

Family Situation He has an amicable but not intimate relationship with his family. His parents are very proud of what he's done for the cause and how he won the confidence of Re-Destro, but they don't make much claim to understand how his mind works. In turn, he recognizes the value of their support over the years—he certainly made a lot of waves with his unabashed venom for the MLA leadership's hidebound traditionalism, and his parents' staunch backing meant a lot for him being able to take the stands he did—but is not very emotionally close with them. Might find himself with an older brother, if I ever occasion to write about his family situation in more depth.

Education He graduated a four-year university program for getting his computer science degree in two very intense years, during which he did virtually nothing for the Great Cause, his intention being to better position himself for maximum ability to advance Liberation afterward. See above re: battles his parents fought for him while he was busy modernizing.

Meeting Re-Destro He met Re-Destro via Curious. He was 22, just a year out of university and already climbing the chain of command at a young telecommunications company. Rikiya was 33, working on the Claustro, and needed proprietary comms built to a higher standard of security than Detnerat was focused on. Curious, who was always better positioned to be keeping up with the local personalities, introduced them.

Tomoyasu attempted to keep a civil tongue in his head the first few times he and RD met, but he'd been running on bile and energy drinks for years by that point and was hard-pressed to stop just because he was meeting his Grand Commander. If anything, finding out that Rikiya was okay with his direction and his mouth eventually helped him chill the fuck out, marginally.

On that note, Skeptic is absolutely the advisor most willing to backtalk Rikiya right to his face. (Rikiya loves him for it.) Oh, he'll still accede to Rikiya's wishes, and Re-Destro's orders are his highest priority, but that doesn't mean he feels obligated to be diffident about it. Like Curious, he has a highly developed sense of, "It's fine if it's for the greater good," which will and has led to him taking things into his own hands when he thinks he knows best (which is always). He's not going to explicitly disobey orders, but he will creatively interpret them if he feels strongly about them, and he will try to "anticipate" orders before anyone has time to give him specific ones, the better to tailor his efforts towards proving his methods and goals correct rather than being stuck with orders he hates.

On Names I’ve definitely evolved some in my approach on this since I started writing the MLA cast, but at current, Skeptic and Geten are the only ones I consistently write as using and thinking mainly in terms of code names rather than given names. Trumpet is too familiar with the public/private divide, and has too much intimate history with Rikya-the-person, to default to Re-Destro; Curious is too trained to look for The Human Heart of the Story. Re-Destro himself, ever since breaking up with Koku, has always tried to use code names for people (himself excluded, because he has enormous self-confidence issues about measuring himself up to the original Destro), but can slip into given names when he’s vulnerable. To Skeptic and Geten, though, the code name is the real name, for all intents and purposes. The cover identity is a fake; the whole point of the code name is that you’re proving yourself worthy of taking up your proper place in the Army. Of course the name you win for yourself is the name that counts.

Lightning Round

Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen? You’d pretty much have to lock him in a room with nothing but paper and pencil in it for that to be his first resort rather than whatever item of personal electronics he’d otherwise have on his person. But assuming some actual plausible scenario—couldn’t bring his electronics into a government building, let’s say—he would find trying to do something productive on paper and pencil rather beneath him, and he’s an inveterate fidgeter. I mostly see him folding that ludicrously tall frame of his into a chair and setting to using the pencil to poke about three hundred holes in the sheet of paper, meticulous and orderly, while muttering complaints to himself the whole time until something annoys him a bit too much and he jabs the whole pencil through the page.

Who does he see as his best friend? His worst enemy? I headcanon him having a very reasonable, functional, productive relationship with his No. 1 advisor, Red, and being reasonable, functional, and productive probably goes a lot farther on making you Skeptic’s “friend” than any amount of emotional intimacy. But “best friend” is not really the kind of language Skeptic uses for his relationships; if you were to ask him who his best friend is, he’d probably tell you, “Iced coffee.” As to his worst enemy, that’s just whoever is annoying him most on any given day, from difficult clients, to people annoying Re-Destro, stodgy elders, that hero grinning like a tool, that couple walking too slow in front of him on the sidewalk, etc. And Skeptic is pretty proactive about dealing with enemies, as much as he can be.

Has he ever been bitten by an animal? How was he affected (or unaffected)? lol he is a city boy and always has been. He probably tried to pet a stray cat once out of curiosity, and because it seemed like the sort of thing people did, and then has never forgiven Animals In General when it bit him and then ran off.

Geten—

General Thoughts Another one I haven’t written a great deal about yet, particularly in the present day, though I’m looking for that to change soonish. One thing I’d like to explore is Geten when he’s not seething with rage and shame because he failed to bring Re-Destro a victory in Deika. The fandom tends to write Geten as an always-angry attack dog barely contained beneath a chilly veneer, and that’s fair—ever since we got the face reveal, ever since the MLA’s defeat at Shigaraki’s hands, Geten has been an always-angry attack dog barely contained beneath a chilly veneer.

But if you look at Geten from before we knew what was under the hood, you find a different story. “Chilly and angry all the time” is not at all how he acted when he was fighting Dabi! At that point, he was talkative, even chatty. He engaged in a lot of snide smack-talk; he was obviously confident in himself and he spoke very proudly of the MLA as a collective.

He was still quiet at the dinner he attended with Rikiya and his advisors, yes, so I don’t think Geten’s done some kind of full 180 on characterization. I do, however, think that Geten has a sense of humor in there, has a sense of camaraderie with the MLA rooted in more than just his relationship with Re-Destro, even if Re-Destro is obviously his most important person. I don’t know if we’ll ever see that in the manga proper, given everything that’s happened, but it’s worth remembering in terms of what Geten is like when he’s solely among allies.

Family Situation Orphaned at a young age, and a problem child from then on. He passed through a series of foster parents and state facilities before eventually crossing paths with the leader of the local MLA branch in Kesseru, Beacon (more on him next time). This encounter would lead to him being sent to a group home with a reputation for being good with such difficult cases, giving them Structure and Companionship and Meaningful Work. (Spoilers: It’s Liberation.)

Despite evening out considerably after a significant meeting with Re-Destro when he was 7[iv], Geten never got particularly close to his adopted family/the other kids at the group home. He's very favored by the Grand Commander, for one thing, and he has the strongest quirk in the home for another—and since he learned the quirk supremacist stuff from them, that’s a pretty significant part of the dynamic! Both of these factors mean there's some distance between him and the rest. Still, he's not on bad terms with them—indeed, his foster parents are quite proud of him—and he would probably tear out someone's throat with his teeth for threatening them, if only as a matter of pride.

There are 4-6 other kids there at any given time; for the bulk of his young adulthood, there were two older than him, the others younger. He doesn't have much time for Big Brother Pastimes, but is not completely immune to them, either, particularly where the youngest kids are concerned. His tolerance for Little Brother Antics, however, is nonexistent—if the older kids think they can ruffle his hair and treat him like a kid, they can square the fuck up; he is Number One around here and don’t forget it.

Education Geten never went to school, but he's not completely uneducated. He had some tutoring in the group home, some more from Re-Destro personally, and has a pile of books he keeps at his bedside, mostly strategic in nature. He finds them vexing at times, but is slowly reading through them anyway because Re-Destro asked him to. He’s been a bit more diligent about it since he was made a regiment leader, because lord knows Dabi isn't contributing much.

On Re-Destro Re-Destro became fond of Geten for the same reason he became fond of Skeptic and Curious—Geten was willing to push back. He really did make some attempts early on to keep Geten at a proper distance, mindful of anything that would look too much like favoritism. And Geten knew, in the hard-headed way of a child, that Re-Destro was being a grown-up about things, trying to be mature, trying to be impartial. Geten just didn’t care about any of those things. Every time, he would listen very seriously to the things Rikiya told him, nod attentively, repeat back what he’d been told, and then go on about doing his own thing anyway. And his own thing was, typically, to keep coming back.

Of course, if there’s anything we can tell about Re-Destro from the way he treats Shigaraki, it’s that Re-Destro loves people who take the choice away from him.

Eventually, of course, Geten grew up (mostly; I peg him at 19 now), joined the MLA officially, and had to settle into the structure of the Army. It began to lead to trouble for Re-Destro, when Geten blatantly disobeyed him; it stopped being cute. Still, the sense that he Knows What’s Best lingers, so Geten works himself very, very hard to be everything Re-Destro needs him to be and more, so that maybe Re-Destro’s burden will be just that little bit lighter.

On Quirk Supremacy (and Re-Destro, still) Here’s the thing about Geten and the whole, “A life without a strong meta-ability has no value,” line, and this continues to drive me mad because of how people getting it wrong influences the bad takes on the MLA in this fandom: Geten is not a reliable witness. He is not one of the leaders of the MLA, nor does he speak for its rank and file. Even if you assume the absolute worst about his implications there, far worse than is justified by the text, Geten’s very name, Apocrypha, means that he cannot be presumed to be aligned with MLA orthodoxy.

The only one of the people close to Re-Destro who wasn't born and raised MLA, he still manages to come off, in some ways, as the most zealous of the lot of them. But really, it’s very noticeable that Geten—unlike Re-Destro himself, and unlike even Re-Destro’s close cohort—never talks about the original Destro, never even mentions him. When he thinks about his leader, he only ever thinks about Rikiya. Geten doesn’t follow Re-Destro because of his bloodline, because of the tenets; he follows Re-Destro because of personal loyalty.[v]

So how best to do that? Well, think about it: Geten is not terribly intelligent, nor wealthy, nor well-connected. He and Trumpet are the ones most influenced by the quirk supremacist line of thought, Trumpet because his relatively weak quirk comes off as exponentially stronger the more he can surround himself in people it works on, and Geten because his strong quirk lets him mentally justify Re-Destro's investment in him despite his other insufficiencies.

Compare this with Re-Destro, who only ever talks about quirks in terms of freedom. Even more prominently, look at Skeptic and Curious, who are not at all defined by their quirks and how strong or weak said quirks may be. Indeed, those two devote scarcely a thought to the matter because they contribute to the cause in much more important ways and seem to be perfectly comfortable with where that leaves them.

Geten may not be very smart or influential, but he’s very capable of looking at what strengths he does have and focusing hard on those. That, I think, is what really lead to his embracing quirk supremacy, even in the face of evidence that he doesn’t have the whole picture: the search for a way to measure himself up to the movers and shakers Rikiya is otherwise surrounded with, and not come up drastically wanting.

“Apocrypha” Geten has been Geten for a long time, since long before the MLA types usually take up their code names. He’s also an outlier in the MLA for having a name in Japanese instead of in English—the only one who does! My headcanon, unless and until we get some other members with Japanese code names, is that he got the name directly from Re-Destro—possibly even in the conversation that lead to him imprinting so hard on the man when he was 7—and insisted on keeping it before any other code name that was suggested to him in later years.

But yes, he does have a normal Japanese name on file at the group home, which he’s obligated to answer to on the rare occasions that someone from Child Services is checking in or he and Re-Destro are out in public. I don’t plan to bother coming up with it unless I need to, as I expect we’ll get it in a character profile one of these days.

His Quirk While a lot of people like the vibe of Geten and Dabi being somewhat equivalently vulnerable to their own quirks, and I agree it makes for good fanart, in truth, Geten is only as vulnerable to his ice as Endeavor is his flames. Which is to say, he isn't immune, but he's certainly more resistant to it than the average person would be! There’s already plenty of good material to contrast Dabi and Geten without pretending their quirks are more mirrored than is actually the case.

Lightning Round

How does he treat people in service jobs? He doesn’t, because he’s never in a position to interact with people in service jobs. There have been times he’s gone out with Re-Destro, but in those cases he’s mostly let Re-Destro handle the human interaction.

What does he dislike in other people? Laziness; the lack of a higher purpose of some kind. (It’s possible he’d thaw out on his disdain for Dabi considerably if he knew more about Dabi’s plans to undermine the whole of the Hero System than Dabi is inclined to tell him.)

Is he always there for a friend in need? Sure, as long as by “friend” you mean “fellow Liberation warrior” and by “need” you mean “in need of an icicle punched through one of someone else’s desperately fleshy body parts.”

Footnotes

[i] Sanctum II's tastes being what they are, this probably means Rikiya is the MLA member most likely to be able to perform traditional Japanese tea ceremony.

[ii] And there were elders who would have been happy to leave it at that permanently, I'm sure. There are always going to be those regents who have trouble relinquishing power back to the boy prince when he grows up and becomes king, you know?

[iii] And, when it eventually got out that they were dating, a relatively solid match, give or take the surrogacy arrangements that would eventually need to be made.

[iv] I’m hoping canon gives us some details on this eventually, so I’m not planning to iron out more headcanon on the matter unless I absolutely have to.

[v] This, incidentally, is a large part of why Rikiya does keep him around—it’s soothing to have someone around who never brings up his ancestor. Anyway, after Geten evolved his quirk, people stopped complaining so much, even though RD never did get around to, like, giving Geten any formal responsibilities. Geten, who knows very well that Re-Destro’s real advisors have real jobs, mostly took this as reason to be all the stronger, in hopes that he’d eventually be given one.

#boku no hero academia #bnha #my hero academia #yotsubashi chikara #yotsubashi rikiya #hanabata koku #kizuki chitose #chikazoku tomoyasu #geten #destro bnha #re-destro #trumpet bnha #curious bnha #skeptic bnha #meta liberation army #my writing

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years

Text

To Tell You The Truth Part Five

Fandom: Prospect [2018]

Pairing: Eventual Ezra/Prospector!Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Dudes, real talk. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart. Your support on this particular endeavor is just mindblowing and I love you guys so much (no this isn’t the end or anything I’m just in my feels right now). This installment has a monologue in it that I'm really, really stupid proud of. I hope you guys like it. Enjoy!

Tag List: @huliabitch @renegademustelid @wrestlingfae @zombiexbody @sporadic-fics @rzrcrst @lackofhonor @the-feckless-wonder @arrowswithwifi @fioccodineveautunnale

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains vague depictions of gore. Stay safe!]

You thought you heard someone running, heavy boots pounding hard on the ground. Who even has the energy for that, you wondered idly.

Oxygen abruptly flooded back into your helmet and you inhaled on instinct, hacking and wheezing. The bayonet twitched roughly, making you sob out before some of the pressure on the blade was relieved.

"There. Detached it from the fucking thrower. You still with me, gentle soul?" Ezra, it was Ezra, talking loudly, tapping your helmet and seeming relieved when you barely opened your eyes once more. "I'm goin' to stabilize the bayonet, you understand me? We can't remove it or we'll do more damage. Have to stabilize with the patcher cream."

"Told y...you to...leave--" you gasped, grabbing desperately at his shoulder. "Miss the--sling...back…"

"Kevva was a martyr, you know." Ezra said suddenly. "A little bit Prometheus, a little bit Jesus. Shot himself into space so others wouldn't fear to follow in his footsteps, to give countless souls the chance to be reforged in booster fire. Always found martyrdom more trouble than it was worth, myself. Living on struck me as the more attractive option." He murmured, struggling with your suit.

The only reply you could manage was more of a wet gurgle of confusion. What was he even talking about?

"Now, we as human beings are taught that self-sacrifice is the loftiest of moral pedestals to stand upon. We are taught that puttin' the needs of others above ourselves is the pinnacle, the quintessential desirous trait." He carried on in a pleasant tone, like this was a normal conversation the two of you were having as he poured the antiseptic liquid over your abdomen.

It burned and stung. You wanted to scream but you couldn't draw the breath, settling for a pitiful whimper.

"I cannot tell you how many times I roundly railed against the purported divine will of that miserable martyr when I found myself trapped on this forsaken moon. The last thing I wanted was to be slain before I finally got to revel in my spoils, reduced to no more than a cautionary tale of avarice and loss in the annals of time. Lo and behold though, despite all my tribulations, it appears I was not the one in danger of being a sacrificial lamb."

The clear dome of his helmet thudded against your own, and he tried to time your breathing for a moment before he gave up and just clicked the trigger on the patcher gun. You cried out hoarsely in pain and he echoed you with a groan, shaking his head.

"Instead, that malevolent bearded bastard sent me a precious gentle soul, one more gracious and generous than any harvest, to shield my worthless body from the slings and arrows of this hostile moon. But I do not accept the debt of another's life so free and easy, especially not when it's counted against all my sins." He continued relentlessly, tossing the foam gun aside. "You can urge me until your holy heart stops, yet I refuse to indulge you in your blasted martyrdom." The word was furious, hissed out between his teeth. "You will live. If I have to drag you back from Kevva's greedy, graspin' hand myself, I damn well will. You have suffered Purgatory long enough, gentle soul."

With that emphatic declaration he heaved you upright, draping your arm over his shoulder and beginning the slow, tortuous walk back to the mercenary rock jumper. "Ez--ra…" you choked, your legs barely supporting you. "C-an't--"

"Hush, gentle soul." He said firmly, struggling to distribute more of your weight onto his shoulders. "I would carry you if I trusted my arm, but regrettably I am not at full-test. All the same, I'm putting you into that fuckin' pod even if I have to drag you every accursed step of the way."

Your fingers dug into his suit and you straightened up marginally. Just enough for him to get a better grip on your body. "M' gonna'-" you coughed, red droplets hitting the dome of your helmet.

"Keep your free hand on that blade, gentle soul. The less damage we do to your internal machinations, the better."

You obediently curled your glove around the foam-crusted bayonet, stabilizing the protruding weapon with what little strength you had left. You stared down at his leg, trying to get your own steps to match up with his so he didn't trip over the tether tube. You weren't sure whether either of you would be able to get back up if that occurred.

"Almost there." Ezra announced, making your head jerk up. You had been wavering on the edge of unconsciousness, just focusing on keeping your feet moving.

He dropped your hand onto one of the railings for the pod ladder and you obligingly tried to pull yourself into it after he gave you a boost, ending up essentially throwing your body forward and to the side on the floor of the pod.

Ezra staggered up behind you, fumbling to shift you from your fetal position. "In the seat, gentle soul, we need to strap you in. Can't have loose cargo when we take off." He muttered.

Your head felt too heavy. You let it loll against your chest while he essentially manhandled you into the passenger seat and snapped the harness around you as best as he could. "M'sorry…" Your voice was barely audible through your helmet. "Can't..."

"You manage those lungs of yours, don't worry about me." He replied tersely, yanking off his helmet and then tearing at the latches on your own. "You just keep breathin'. We'll be out of this in no time, gentle soul, no time at all."

You nodded dazedly after he pulled the helmet off over your head. "Thank…"

"Hush, damn it." Ezra rasped, pressing his lips to your forehead. "Hush. Save your energy and keep that bayonet steady. We'll be on that freighter in a tick. Get you to a proper med bay." His voice trembled.

You were vaguely aware that he had strapped in beside you. There was the soft rustle of manual pages, then the deafening rattle of the pod boosters, the thrum of the engines as it broke the atmosphere. Light from Bakhroma's sun poured in through the triangular windows overhead, all but blinding you.

Ezra weakly stripped your glove and then clasped your fingers across the center console as the freighter appeared, spindly arms of pods hanging suspended in the brilliant green and navy halo of the surrounding cosmos. "We have at last been delivered from our toilsome strife." He sighed. "Better days beckon us onward, gentle soul." He raised your hand to his lips, and you felt the brush of his facial hair when he kissed your open palm.

...

You were unsure of how much time had passed. You thought you were being removed from the pod, something about getting rushed through the triage protocols.

An oxygen mask was snapped down over your face, the whirr of an intraosseous needle reaching your ears. Conversations around you faded in and out, random voices discussing your condition.

Where was Ezra?

"If that bayonet had gone half an inch deeper-"

"I suggest you apply the brakes on that particular intellectual locomotive." You felt your fears ebb at the familiar sound of his drawl. "We are running on precious little sleep and I must confess to an unhealthy inclination towards impatience when I am deprived of my slumber. Now, my individual trauma can wait until you have available staff, but their wound will fester if it is left much longer." A large hand rested on your forehead, shielding your half-open eyes from the fluorescent lighting. "Take care of their potential pneumothorax, doctor, and I will be as docile as a lamb."

"Ez…" you whispered.

"Still tryin' to palaver? Gentle soul, now is not the time for idle conversation." His hand stroked your forehead as he soothed, "Rest now. We did it. You did it."

With his assurance, you closed your eyes.

...

You were confined to a rehabiter chamber for what felt like a short eternity as the freighter made its laborious way back to Central, Puggart Bench and the overcrowded wards that dotted the outskirts.

All you had left physically to remind you of your ordeal was a slow-healing wound on your abdomen and muscles that felt like they would never stop aching. You had one hundred percent overdone it and, if the resident freighter physician had anything to say regarding the matter, you were incredibly lucky to be alive.

The freighter's lung scrubber wasn't exactly on par with the level of sanitation either you or Ezra needed, so you were kept on it at all times until you could be transferred to the Puggart Bench medicog. You were grateful to be weathering the travel in the freighter's dingy med bay, as strange as that was to say. You weren't sure how long it would be before you could travel in a pod without feeling deeply apprehensive.

Once dropped at Puggart, you barely even got to wave at Ezra (he waved back with a drowsy grin from beneath the oxygen tent) before you were whisked away to a different room and hooked up to something a little more high-test.

Fully purging the dust took literal days of treatment. The preliminary scans of your lungs revealed what looked like thick, puffy cotton balls in the place of usual bronchioles. You could only imagine how bad Ezra's lungs must be if that was what yours were like.

The rest of your body continued to arduously heal. You spent the hours of solitary treatment quietly drawing on your memo pad. Once that ran out of pages, you began to save the napkins that came with your Pastors slurry. A kind orderly found you an abandoned clipboard and you would balance it on your knees to draw for as long as you were able before your stomach began to protest.

You did your best to not think about the Bakhroma Green moon. It was difficult, but you tried. The lushly poisonous foliage, the Queen's Lair, Damon-

Your sleep was fitfully restless, either due to the lingering pain of your wound or the nightmares that hounded you. You were unsure of the last time you had truly enjoyed a good night's sleep.

Once you had been off the scrubber for a full week, Ezra came to visit. You almost didn't recognize him sans the bulk of his suit and helmet, but the brilliant blond Mallen streak that jutted mischievously out from his right temple removed all doubt. He looked much better, which was to be expected. Clean food and fresh air had done him wonders.

"Gentle soul!" He exclaimed warmly upon entering your cubicle, his voice rasping slightly, "all those days of good behavior paid off. Your jealous warden has finally deemed me worthy of entry into your domain."

"Good to see you too, Ezra." You replied with a smile, raising an eyebrow at the flowers he carried. "I won't take up much of your time, obviously you've got places to be." What was that weird pang in your chest? Were you jealous? Why would you be jealous?

"Your modesty, while one of your finest qualities, wounds me deeply. These are for you, gentle soul." Ezra placed a hand over his heart, bowing grandly as he presented you with the bouquet.

"F-For me? Oh." You felt a little ashamed of your strange jealousy now, fumbling to take the flowers from him. "These are so beautiful, you...you didn't have to, you know." You murmured, burying your nose in the soft petals.

"What better way to celebrate you bein' on the mend?" He inquired incredulously, pulling up the chair beside your bed.

"I'm kind of surprised you're still here, honestly." You confessed.

"Whyever for?"

"Well I just...I assumed you would have set back out in search of the next big thing." You twiddled your fingers, keeping your eyes on the flowers.

"I am full of surprises, I suppose. Oh! And in that vein." Ezra tugged free a long, flat box from inside the (obviously very new) blazer he wore. "Another surprise."

The box was wrapped simply in plain paper and twine, a bit like all your sketchpads had been. "Ezra-" you began to protest.

He waved off your words though, gesturing impatiently for you to rip off the paper. "I have been burstin' at the seams to give this to you, gentle soul. Do not make me wait one iota longer, I implore you."

Laughing a little at his enthusiasm, you obliged. Your laughter caught in your throat as you turned the brightly-colored box over, the graphics on the front proudly announcing the contents. "This...Th-This is…" You stammered, swallowing hard. "I...Ezra-"

"It's the draw-pad! Y'know, the one we discussed. Brand new, hot off the line." Ezra looked insanely pleased with himself, fidgeting in the seat. "I saw it and I knew you needed it."

"Ezra, this is too much." You tried to sound like you disapproved, but you were relatively certain your fingers reverently tracing the brilliant logo gave you away. Just the box alone looked so crisp, the edges still sharp instead of crushed in and rounded with age.

"Now, this gift does come with a request." He drawled from his spot beside your bed. You glanced up, that old wariness creeping back in. "I want you to familiarize yourself with this tool. Not sure how long it'll take. I have faith in your tenacity and ability to adapt, however. Once you're confident in your skill, I would be most obliged if you would consider a solicitation of partnership. "

"Part...nership?" You repeated, thoroughly confused.

Ezra nodded. "Yes, gentle soul. I am penning a semi-fictitious memoir and it would add a certain...gravitas if your sketches graced the pages as well, you understand."

You fairly erupted with excitement, "I would love to!" Your enthusiasm jerked to a sudden stop as you remembered just where you were, and how much debt you were probably in. "But I...I can't." You finished sadly, stroking the brightly-colored illustrations on the front of the draw-pad box one last wistful time before you pressed it back into his hands. "I'm sorry Ezra, I need to hurry up and heal so I can hurry up and find another job, work through paying off this treatment bill--"

"Gentle soul, I don't think you have a full grasp of your situation." Ezra interjected. "You are an incredibly rich individual." You stared at him, not entirely registering his words. "Have you truly forgotten just how much of the Queen your deft little hands plundered?"

"That's not mine, that's y-"

"Kevva above, gentle soul. If not for your steady skinnin' and de-blisterin', we wouldn't have secured a damn thing." Ezra leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers. "I turned a handsome profit as well, mind you. I am quite comfortably off with my harvest as it is. But you, gentle soul, you…" He cleared his throat. "I took the liberty of arrangin' an account for you while you were indisposed."

"There was enough for an account?" You squeaked.

Ezra's laugh sounded raw. "The wonder in your eyes! I wish you could see yourself. Give me a moment, I'll pull up the numbers." He had apparently gotten one of those new, touchscreen Servs. He didn't even need a cable! You watched apprehensively as he tapped away at the tablet, swiping through a few menus.

When he tilted the screen to show you your account, you were relatively certain you had gone into shock. You knew your mouth was opening and closing, but you couldn't seem to form any words.

"I daresay you may be able to afford your hospital bill." The man said dryly after watching you gawk for several long minutes. "And perhaps a few meager indulgences on top of that."

"That's...that can't be right." You whispered, reaching out to touch the numbers. Ezra chuckled when your clumsy fingers accidentally brought up another menu, the older man easily dismissing it.

"It is indeed correct, gentle soul. The exchange was the cleanest I've ever done, and sported the highest rates I've ever encountered. It seems we returned from the Bakhroma Green in the nick of time, in more ways than one."

"Ezra, that's...I-I've never even dreamed of having so many points. I…" you trailed off, biting your lip. Tears welled up in your eyes and, for the first time since Damon had been killed, you started to cry in earnest.

Ezra's hand rested on your arm after a moment and you let yourself be eased into his embrace, sobbing against his shoulder. "Steady now, gentle soul. You just let it all out. It's over, you understand?" He soothed, cupping the back of your head. "Over and done with. Your perdition is at its end. You are free from those terrible burdens."

"I just...this doesn't even feel real." You hiccupped. "I feel like I'm g-gonna' wake up in that pod all over ag-gain."

"I know that sensation all too well. My sleep is poor, my dreams fraught with dark recollections." Ezra admitted quietly. "Safety and stability are luxuries I have not been able to afford for many years. Now that I have them, I am...unsure of what to do with them." He sighed, his chin resting on the top of your head. "We have endured so much worse than having a little good fortune, yet upon bein' confronted with it, we do not feel worthy."

You nodded into his shoulder. It was no surprise that he would know exactly how to put into words what you had been feeling. You jolted abruptly when you realized which shoulder you were molesting. "Oh! Your arm, I'm so-"

"Don't you fret, gentle soul." He released you and carefully slid his arm out of his blazer, the barest wince betraying him as he flexed the limb freely. "I'm on the mend, with a...zeal I did not realize I possessed. The matron in charge of my circulatory rehabilitation seems hell-bent on gettin' me to break a sweat." Ezra sounded rueful. "I'm just glad I can breathe unaided once more. I'll never take my lungs for granted ever again."

...

You doused the eggs with the brilliant orange sauce, shoveling a forkful into your mouth and groaning in appreciative delight.

"Now normally, condiments are a compliment to the dish." Ezra delicately gestured at your orange-stained plate with his fork. "With you however, condiments appear to be the main course." He teased. Ezra had offered to take you out for breakfast on the morning of your release, he called it a daring escape from the confines of modern medicine. Hence your current locale. You had, however, insisted that the two of you split the bill.

"After so long eating Pastors Calori-pouches and bits bars, I...I need the color just as much as I need the flavor, y'know?" You mumbled around your mouthful. "My tastebuds are all brand new again."

"I meant no disrespect, gentle soul." Ezra reached across the table with a paper napkin and you jerked back on reflex, laughing awkwardly as you tried to play off your sharp reaction. He cocked his head, eyebrows drawn quizzically tight. "I said I would not ask, and I will not break that promise." He murmured, tucking the napkin into your limp hand instead. "If ever there is anything I can do though, anything I can say to...to ease these burdens you carry on your body, all you need do is ask."

This was far too serious of a topic to be discussing in a greasy diner with bright orange hot sauce dripping off your chin.

Ezra skewered a bite of flapjack with his fork, dipped it in the vibrant condiment that smeared your dish and then popped it into his mouth. You gawked at him as he chewed, his eyes idly roaming the diner. You could take the man out of the communal mining canteen, but you couldn't take the communal mining canteen out of the man, you supposed. You remembered all too well the stands worth of others pilfering off your own tray.

"I know you are no doubt eager twice over to get your mitts on my draft and begin your creative process, but I must insist we allow you the time to reacclimate to city livin'." He changed the subject deftly, his fingers drumming on the scarred diner table as he spoke. "Elsewise you may just end up sealin' yourself into a studio like a cask of Amontillado and drawin' the day away." His eyes wandered back to your face. "Have you given any more consideration to which ward you might prefer to hang your hat in?"

You gulped down a bite of toast before shaking your head. "I...I looked through the listings two days ago but I don't...I mean, I know I can afford to, but…" you trailed off.

"Livin' alone holds no allure." Ezra's tone was sympathetic. He steepled his hands on the tabletop. "Permit me to suggest an alternative, gentle soul." You inclined your head. "We are two wandering drifters that, through sheer grit and a healthy sprinkling of providence, have managed to slog through hell together and survive without growing to loathe each other's company."

You stared at him blankly, sponging the sauce off your chin. Ezra settled back in the booth, his body language enviably relaxed.

"I am more than willin' to open my humble abode to you. For a few stands or simply until you find yourself despising my lugubrious company." He held up a hand as you opened your mouth. "I offer without any malice or intent of predation, gentle soul. I know that the return to non-floater spaces is not often an easy one, and I strongly suspect that you have been preyed upon in the past."

"I know you're not like that." You blurted out, flushing immediately afterwards.

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "I am grateful you don't lump my gregarious self in with the refuse, gentle soul."

"I just...I mean you've done so much for me already." You continued helplessly. "I'm in your debt, Ezra. By a lot."

"Nonsense." He scoffed. "Without you, we never would have escaped the Green! If we are to speak of debts and debtors, I must reason that I am still in yours. Shooting me would have been a ludicrously simple task, as I pointed out when we were still in that Kevva-forsaken place. Never mind the steady-handed salvage of my arm, your heroic duel with Inumon-"

"Oh yes, nothing more heroic than getting three-quarters killed by a grungy Krebine bayonet." You interrupted him dryly. "While hopped up on Brism."

Ezra chuckled. "Modest as ever!" He quickly sobered, his eyes serious. "My lodgings are more than adequate to house another individual, should you decide to grace me with your presence."

...

You didn't really have any possessions, which made your move relatively straightforward. All you had was your helmet, your suit, your underclothes and the contents of the pockets of said suit. Mercifully, everything had been decontaminated, so you didn't have anything to fear from throwing your familiar kit back on.

"I will offer you a change of clothes, but! We must venture out and acquire you new attire at your earliest convenience." Ezra insisted, already rummaging through his laughably barren closet even as you protested. "I doubt you wish to eternally linger in my dubious, threadbare garb." He suddenly stopped, snapping his fingers. "Wait. No. Kevva, we can order on the Serv. Unless you prefer the torment of physical fitting rooms?" He queried with a grimace, making you laugh.

You found yourself curled up on the couch several hours later, clad in one out of his two 'casual' shirts and your thermal leggings. You held the Serv tablet carefully in your hands as Ezra swiped through page after page of various clothing, the precocious man enthusiastically supporting any item you expressed interest in.

"This will at least tide you over until you feel more comfortable wanderin' the streets of the Pug again. We should also find you some underthings and socks." He mused, tapping the appropriate area on the screen to bring up the search option. "I'll leave you to that, gentle soul." You hesitantly took over from him and he rose from the couch, stretching with a quiet groan. "Tea? I feel inordinately cozy right now." He offered cordially.

"Mmhm." You nodded, a little distracted by the waves of choices available to you. Granted, at this stage all you needed were a few essentials. Undergarments that would hold up in the wash, good socks to ward off the chill. "Should I get shoes too, or wait until I go out for that?" You called.

"I feel it would be prudent to dally on that particular front." Ezra drawled from the kitchen. "It's best to ensure a proper fit in person if at all possible. Though, I hardly need to tell you that." He stuck his head back out through the doorway after a moment. "Toiletries tab should be the second to last on the right."

"I mean, I took the toothbrush from the hospital so I'm probably fine for-" His raucous laughter interrupted your reasoning and you scowled at him, uncertain of what could be so funny.

"You've got more funds than most people would see in six lifetimes, and yet you purloined the toothbrush from your hospital room." Ezra managed to say after a few moments. "Floater habits die hard, eh gentle soul?"

Against your will, you felt giggles bubbling in your chest and you huffed out a breath, trying to ward them off. "Shush, you...you!" You retorted lamely, losing your battle with your own laughter. "Stop judging me, your moral high ground is subterranean."

"Subterranean, I like that!" Ezra exclaimed, his eyes shining with good humor as he passed you a plain white mug full to the brim with tea. "I'll have to pilfer that for my illustrious tale. Give you full credit, naturally."

You smiled at him over your mug. "You'd better."

He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. "I am a man of subterranean high ground, true enough. But I am a man of my word!"

Part Six

#ezra (prospect 2018)#ezra prospect #ezra prospect x reader #ezra x reader #ezra prospect imagine #ezra #pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #I'm in love #this is a lot of fun #prospect 2018 #SPACE #I love space #I love you guys #slow burn #eventual romance

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lobster-tales · 3 years

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The Moon - Yueki

Day 6 of Winter ATLA Femslash Week. This work is available here on AO3.

Prompt: The Moon or Ten years later... / Post-Canon

Suki makes a choice that will save the world, but at a steep price. But what she must lose, Yue is grateful to gain. Also they totally fall in love. Based on the song "Hijo de la Luna" by Mecano

Night became necessary for Suki. Her days belonged to the Fire Lord and officials, ensuring the Kyoshi Warriors were at their posts. The only time she had for herself was bathed in darkness, when she scaled the walls of the palace and perched on the tiled roof. Most nights, she was content to sit under the stars, letting the sky swallow her whole.

This was not one of those nights. Suki pulled her knees closer to her chest, her eyes downcast. Around anyone else, even her warriors, such a vulnerable posture would betray her, compromise her strength in their eyes. She could only let down her guard when she was alone.

A cloud drifted past the strongest source of light. Suki looked up at the full moon, relaxing in the silver glow. Well, she was almost alone.

“Hey Yue,” Suki said. “Me again. How are you?”

She was met with silence. Suki never received an answer from the elusive moon spirit, but she made sure to ask anyway. “I’m sorry, but I don’t really have any good news. Everything’s still the same. Fire Lord Zuko’s been bedridden for nearly a week now. Yesterday, he looked like he was getting better, but his fever went up again today.” Suki paused, unsure how to proceed. “Aang is a wreck. Katara has barely slept. She and the other healers have been working to find a cure, but so far they haven’t succeeded.”

Suki slid her hands down her calves, the fingers of her left hand gently grasping the wrist of her right. “I um… I overheard some officials in the hall. They were talking about who's next in line just in case…” She squeezed her eyes shut. “They mentioned Azula’s name, but she’s still recovering. She won’t be able to run the nation in her state. Which leaves… no one.

“I know what happens when there’s no one to take the throne. I’ve read about coups before, and even all of my warriors wouldn’t be enough to stop the Fire Nation officials, or at least,” Suki said darkly, “whoever poisoned Zuko.”

A breeze ruffled her hair. In the distance, far beyond the palace walls, a dog barked. And still, the moon said nothing.

Suki pressed her lips together, fighting back the wave of feelings. Tears already welled in her eyes as she said, “And… I don’t know what to do.” She looked skyward, her cheeks wet. “I know… you grew up during the war too, Yue. We all did. I don’t know what it was like in the Northern Water Tribe, but for the rest of us…” Suki began to shake, her voice trembling. “I don’t want it to happen again. It

I don’t think the world could survive another war.

“And it’s not just that, it’s…” She began sobbing, burying her face in her knees. She whispered hoarsely, “Zuko’s my friend. And I don’t want him to die.”

Suki wept openly, letting the feelings tear through her. She had spent countless hours fending them off, forcing through the pain. She had to be a leader, to stay positive in front of everyone. Now, she could release those thoughts, each ragged breath a testament to her fear.

A hand pressed against her back, gliding gently across her shoulders in a show of comfort. Suki froze. Who could have followed her this high up? Maybe the Avatar?

She lifted her face, the cold light spilling across her features. Her mouth dropped.

A girl sat beside her. Physically, she looked to be 16, but her eyes betrayed centuries of knowledge. Her white clothing contrasted her dark skin, the fabric floating around her. Her white hair was pulled into two loops, a water tribe band holding the style in place. The girl smiled, a hint of uncertainty in her blue eyes. “Hello Suki.”

Suki’s breath escaped her in a single word. “Yue!” She tried not to gawk, reigning in her expression like she did around the Fire Nation officials. Unsure how to address a spirit, Suki rose to her feet and bowed respectfully.

Yue remained seated, nodding. “Please, sit.”

“Yes, your… spiritness.” Suki lowered herself onto the tile, crossing her legs beneath her and keeping her spine straight.

“No, just… call me Yue. Please.” Yue considered her carefully. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“Yes. I am.” Blood rushed to Suki’s cheeks as she began to think. After the war, she’d spent countless nights beneath the moon’s glow, pouring out the feelings that she couldn’t share with anyone else. What had Yue heard? What secrets did she spill by accident?

“I know this must be a shock for you,” Yue murmured. “But… I know everything that’s going on. About Zuko, the poisoning, and I want to help.”

No amount of diplomacy training could stop Suki from staring. “You… want to help? I thought spirits didn’t interfere with human affairs.”

“I’m not all spirit,” Yue said. “I actually used to be human. Part of me still is. And as someone who used to live in the material world, I want to do something to protect it.”

Suki had heard the story before, of the water tribe princess who sacrificed herself to become the moon spirit. Yue’s act had been described like death. She never thought Yue had retained any of her humanity, much less enough to intervene.

“How?” Suki asked.

“Well, I actually can’t do it alone. You see, the moon spirit has the power to grant a wish.” She hesitated. “But at a steep price.”

Suki searched her face, trying to guess what a spirit could want, or even possess. “Anything.”

Turning her head, almost ashamed, Yue murmured, “For someone to get help from the moon spirit, they must give up their first born child.”

Dread washed over Suki. “Zuko can’t. His first born child… He needs an heir.”

Yue nodded slowly. “Anyone can make the wish to heal him. Anyone can make the deal.”

A thought struck her. One that put the sour taste of martyrdom in her mouth. She had told her pupils a thousand times: the greatest strength of a Kyoshi Warrior is her warrior’s heart, because not all battles needed weapons.

Suki straightened her arms, hands on her knees, and she took a deep breath. “I’ll do it. In exchange for his life, I’ll give you my first born child.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Yue bowed her head reverently. “Consider it done.” Suki expected her to disappear, but instead Yue leaned forward and embraced her. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “But also… thank you…”

Her skin was cold, but Suki didn’t mind. Without thinking, she lifted her arms around Yue. The moon spirit stiffened at the human contact, then relaxed into her embrace. Yue pressed her nose into the crook of her neck.

Suki asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you thank me?”

“Oh!” Yue pulled away, averting her eyes. “I… Sorry, that was inappropriate.” She tucked a loose strand of white hair behind her ear. “I know it will pain you to lose the child, but… it gets lonely, up there.” She nodded towards the full moon.

Suki searched Yue’s blue eyes. She realized the opportunity she’d been granted. After years of telling Yue all of her secrets, now she could return the favor. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Yue frowned. “What… it’s boring. Really.”

“Come on,” Suki said, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “You already know everything about me. Now I want to know about you.”

“Oh.” Yue glanced at the sky, biting her lip. “Well… I guess I could stay for a few minutes…”

***

Violet dawn crept over the horizon. Yue surrendered to the hour, wrapping her arms around Suki again. Their laughter still hung in the air around them.

Suki murmured, “Will I see you again?”

“Only once, when you…” Yue paused. “When you… finish the deal.”

The thought sent a jolt through Suki. Over the last several hours, she’d forgotten the terms. Yue was such a lovely distraction.

“Goodbye, Suki,” Yue whispered, and her form disintegrated.

Suki lowered her hands. Yue’s smell lingered on her clothing, the soft scent of moss. When the first beams of sunlight touched Suki’s skin, she still faced the space Yue had taken up. She waited a few more seconds, exhaustion setting in.

In the palace below, someone shouted Zuko’s name. Suki rose to her feet. She would go see him. Katara would cry, Aang would hug her. None of them would ever know the cost of his recovery.

Suki looked at the moon, still hovering in the morning sky. Then she descended.

***

The hills of Kyoshi Island were short relative to other ranges in the Earth Kingdom. The highest point on the island was shorter than the lowest in the nearby Patola Mountains, home of the now empty Southern Air Temple. This summit was named Hei-Ran Peak, after the mother of Avatar Kyoshi’s wife. A wooden hovel had been constructed on the flat top. Rumors said Kyoshi would meet with her enemies here, away from civilians.

Suki sat several yards in front of the hovel, legs crossed, facing west to watch the sunset. The winds of early spring bit at her, but the bundle strapped across her chest kept her warm. The trek to this spot had rocked the child to sleep, and she could feel his steady breathing.

A few minutes passed, then an hour. The sun and all it’s light disappeared. The stars became visible, and Suki saw her shadow lengthened by a brightness behind her. She remained seated, still.

A hand pressed against her back, gliding gently across her shoulders in a show of comfort. Suki relaxed into the touch, rising to her feet and facing Yue. Two years had passed since their first meeting, but the moon spirit hadn’t aged at all.

Yue grinned, almost sheepishly. “Hello Suki.”

“Hey Yue. How are you?”

For the first time, she got an answer. “I’m good,” Yue said with a smile.

Suki wasn’t sure how to proceed. She felt like there must be some ritual, some rite she had to perform, but hours of research on the subject had revealed nothing. Apparently, very few individuals in the history of the world had accepted the deal with the moon. “I brought him.”

Yue’s eyes widened, and she reached a hand towards the bundle across Suki’s chest. “Is this him?”

“Yep.” Suki carefully removed the fabric concealing his face.

Yue leaned in, gasping at the sight. The infant had the dark skin of a water tribe descendant, with snow white hair. He slept soundly.

“He’s… he’s beautiful,” Yue said. “Who’s the father?”

Suki chuckled to herself. The question was fair, but that part of the process had been the easiest. “Sokka.”

Yue froze, meeting Suki’s eyes. “Oh? I thought you two weren’t...”

“We’re not, but we kept in touch after the break up. Besides, I thought if you had the choice, that’s who you would have gone with.” Suki gazed down at the boy. Though she’d known his fate for years, no amount of preparation could soften the upcoming loss. “So um… how does this work?”

“We don’t have to do it right now,” Yue said. “I was thinking maybe we could… talk? Like last time?”

Relief washed over Suki. Not once in the last few years had Yue left her thoughts. In her dreams, she still heard the sound of Yue’s laughter, smelled her mossy scent. Suki outstretched her hand, indicating the hovel. “I can make us some tea?”

The night passed easily. Yue told Suki that the tea was delicious, withholding the fact that she’d long lost her sense of taste. A few hours in, the child woke up crying, and Suki showed Yue how to change his cloths and feed him. Yue learned diligently, though in the spirit world, he would not need any of those things.

The three of them laid together on a bamboo mat, the boy in the middle. Yue had not stopped smiling, her eyes on the boy. Suki trained her gaze on Yue instead, focusing on her face, filling in the gaps of her memory.

“Did you name him?” Yue asked.

“No. I thought you would want to.”

Yue considered for a moment. “How about Arnook? After my father?”

“You don’t have to ask me,” Suki said with a smile. “But that is a good name.”

A moment of stillness passed.

“He made the deal, didn’t he?” Suki asked. “Both of your parents did.”

Yue pressed her lips together, her eyes solemn. “Yes.”

“But you grew up in the human world.”

“When I was born, the spirits gave my father a vision. He knew I would become the moon spirit,” Yue said. “So… he negotiated with the moon. I would get sixteen years in the material world, then spend the rest of eternity as a spirit.”

Suki nodded thoughtfully. “I see.”

A thought crossed Yue’s mind. “Did you want to? Negotiate, I mean.”

“No,” Suki said, tracing her fingers over the baby’s small hand. “He was never my son. Always yours.”

“He could be yours, too.”

Suki frowned at her. “What?”

Yue shifted, leaning on her elbow. “You could pass over to the spirit world, live with us there. Humans have done it before.” She tilted her head. “Actually, I know someone who is planning to, when his time here is done.”

“Who?”

“Zuko’s uncle, Iroh.”

“Iroh?” Suki’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

Yue smirked. “You think you’re the only one who talks to the moon?”

Heat raced across Suki’s face, but she pushed through the embarrassment. “Oh.”

“Do you want to? Live with us?”

Yue looked at her so earnestly that Suki hated her next set of words. “I can’t, Yue. At least, not yet.” She sighed. “I still have work here, unfinished business.”

“Ah. I see.” Yue’s face fell. “Well, when you’re done… come find me.”

Suki grinned. “That won’t be a problem. You’re hard to miss.”

“How dare you.” A playful look flickered across Yue’s features. “It’s not polite to comment on a lady’s weight.”

They chuckled together. In a movement so natural that Suki felt she was born to make it, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Yue’s. The kiss was soft, not hungry or needing, and Yue hummed contentedly.

“The sun’s about to rise,” Yue whispered against her lips.

“Damn.”

Yue scoffed, pulling away. “Not in front of the baby.”

“He can’t understand me,” Suki said, leaning in and kissing Yue again.

“Suki,” Yue giggled. “I have to go.” She ran her fingers through Suki’s hair, murmuring, “I’ll see you again?”

“Of course.”

Yue reached for Arnook, taking the baby into her arms. “Say goodbye, Arnook.”

He gurgled at Suki, and she held up her hand in a lame wave as a response.

“Goodbye, Suki.”

“Goodbye-” but both Yue and Arnook had already disappeared.

Suki rolled onto her back, gazing up at the ceiling of the hovel. Sunlight peeked through a few holes in the wood. She closed her eyes, and slept.

#winter atla femslash week #suki #yue #hijo de la luna #yueki #the moon #my fic

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ships-n-giggles · 4 years

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Paperback Prophets: Platonic Aziraphale/Reader

Summary: Aziraphale forms a symbiotic relationship with you. Platonic Aziraphale x Reader, friendship fic. Nerds bonding over books.

Author’s Note; Thanks so much to those who liked my previous work. I like these platonic stories since I think it’s underestimated how interesting and enigmatic these characters can be when you don’t have all the facts about them. In a lot of ways, Aziraphale and Crowley are like people you can’t exactly put your finger on, but know there’s something special about them. I know a lot of reader-fiction likes the drama of the big reveal, but I think the subtlety of secrets never revealed lends its own flavor to fiction.

Just a heads up, this Reader-insert is not defined as male or female in comparison to my previous work, which was more directed towards a female character. Some of the works described do not exist, but were rather made up by me based on historical events or people whom I think would lend to the eclectic tastes of Aziraphale.

Again, if I owned Good Omens, there would be real dinosaurs and I would live in a castle by the sea. Thou shalt not sue.

____

Your family based their business on the martyrdom of your great grandfather….a victim of the Nazi Party when he refused to surrender his bookshop in Krakow, Poland. He was no stranger to the fascist movement and threw out the first attempts by the police to seize his books. He chased them out with a club, and was joined by his neighbors, and stood his ground.

There was no rude interruption in broad daylight next time. The next time, they burned him, and his books, and the entire block for his defiance.

“He was burned for protecting the language of the Jews, of Poland. Of the world.” Your grandmother told you, sitting in her lap as a small child. You knew this story by heart, but your grandparents told it so well. “His books disavowed the reign of dictators and terrorists, and they could not stand for it.”

Defiance ran in the family. And for the next three generations your family rescued more books by taking up that noblest of crimes…the theft of books.

_______

Your grandfather had founded the idea, when the ashes of his father’s shop left only a ledger of the books that were destroyed, kept in the safe along with the family tree and a Star of David that had belonged to him. The books he had kept in his shop were very old, and came from all across Europe. Some of them were even brought over from imperial Russia, before the fall of the czar. Not many copies of them were left in the world.

But your grandfather knew where the copies were.

He fled to England with his wife and opened a restoration firm to spit in the face of the war. It was only partially a cover for his real business. He did have the knowledge to restore books back to their original state, with tricks passed down from generation to generation. But with each restoration, he also meticulously copied the contents of the book, using a special trick involving wax, glue and cheesecloth to make a print of the papers and their imagery onto a fresh book. Then he would return the original book unscathed back to the owner, none the wiser. Your grandfather’s real job had been in building up the secret archives of the British National Library and making copies of the great universities works. No book was too rare or obscure for him. Even the controversial Hammer of Witches was copied, though your grandfather noted that the pictures were better than the instructions.

Your grandfather also had a long memory. When he saw a bookseller that dared have Mein Kampf, he would have to be held back by friends to avoid from brutally beating the clerk and smashing the windows of the establishment. In time, he has a son and his temper cools. He tended to conveniently not notice your father’s mischief, such as when your father writes rude words on the glass window of an offending bookshop.

He’s almost too cheeky to be real, and often was chased by your grandfather for his jokes and pranks. But it only endears him to others, making it easy to divert shipments of banned books.

A Clockwork Orange turns your grandfather’s stomach, but your father takes a shipment meant to be burned, creates a nonsense excuse of recycling the materials for book repair, and the publisher believes him right away. When your father first reads a nicked copy of Ulysses, he is so enchanted he actually dupes a government official into paying for the family to dispose of an intercepted shipment of the book. Your parent’s basement, your uncle’s basement, and your older cousin’s basement is full of copies of material banned by the government. But under the family firm is the treasure trove. The books copied from some of the rarest material on earth. Some of their original material have been destroyed since then.

But you save sacred trips to the secret basement for when life hits you hardest. It’s important those copies survive in the world to come.

_____

You receive the call on a Monday morning. You can hardly believe who it is before passing the phone to your grandfather. He is less involved with the business, but he might have been tempted into throttling you if you hadn’t let him talk to Mr. Fell.

A.Z. Fell and Co. was notorious among the antiquarian community. Not only was his collection as eclectic as they come, but it was also a gold mine of rare books, out of print bibles and religious texts, and treasures of the literary world that likely had no equal. How he stayed in business was the subject of fervent gossip, as he kept odd hours and was very passive-aggressive…and successful….in discouraging would be buyers. Your father’s joke was that he might let you read a few books if you caught him at the right time. But even those rare moments were tinged with a lot of rules.

Your grandfather enjoys the conversation immensely, and when he hangs up he calls for a family meeting over dinner.

“He asked for you. By name!” Your grandfather is just as in shock as you are. Though it is clear that he reveres Mr. Fell with the same kind of respect one would give a saint, he can’t help but sound a little jealous. “He wants to discuss the restoration of his collection this week. As soon as possible.”

You meet on a rainy Wednesday, scampering in the side door per his instructions at teatime.

The smell is just like the private archive below the firm, though lightly tinged with the scent of hot cocoa. More than just books are on the shelves. Reprints of paintings and illustrations, framed tapestries and busts sitting on the tables, even a tarnished suit of armor with chainmail, dressing up a half sculpture of a Greek youth.

“Pleasure to meet you.”

Mr. Fell looks like many other retired antiquarians, except he didn’t have the same strain of arthritis or suffer from a draft in his bookshop. He was in fact, far more rosy, lively, and brighter than most other people, even in occupations that were arguably more pleasing or easy. His coat is perfectly straight and tidy, though the velvet buttonholes in his vest have since lost their color.

The two of you shake hands, and you accept a mug of cocoa seasoned with a dollop of vanilla paste. In time he pulls out a ledger twenty pages thick, with tidy handwriting scribbled on a hand drawn spreadsheet.

“Given the state they’ve been in, I think it’s time the books got a bit of a good pick-me-up.” He giggles as if he’s told a private joke, and continues. “Most of my collection is in tip top shape, but I’ve put the ones worse for wear on the list. What do you think?”

The list of books makes your jaw drop. He has a Nostradamus original…never been copied! And a rare copy of a controversial Gnostic bible, one on the golden list of books not yet copied by the family. These were books that had been floating unknown, with a cringing fear they were decaying in an attic or hoarded in a bookshop with someone unaware of their value.

However, Mr. Fell was only too aware of their value.

“My only request is that you do your work here.” It’s a condition that leaves you a little nervous. Does he know your family’s secret business? “Not to be the suspicious type, but I have had attempts on these books, in both the legal and the far less legal.” He huffs into his drink. “I can set up a cozy little corner for you and give you as much room as you need. Fair enough?”

“I think so.” You empty your cup. “I’d have to ask Grandfather first. Our preservation techniques are also something of a trade secret.”

There’s a bit of a silent visual exchange. If Mr. Fell’s eyes said “what do you think you’re doing”, yours are replying with a certain “I don’t know, what do you think you’re doing” right back. But he did not invite you in to get a prime list of his collection, drink cocoa, and discuss business just to end rudely. The two of you shake hands and promise to get in touch later, and you urge the cabbie that picks you up to drive you as fast as physically possible back home.

You hesitate to show your grandfather the list of books to repair. You’re certain he’ll have a heart attack. Instead he only faints into his fussing wife’s arms.

“An original print of Goethe’s work!” He gasps, the rest of you scrambling to pass him an inhaler as he takes a breath and regains his composure. “The things I would do just to look!”

“I’d have to work in his shop. That’s his condition.” You remind him. “It would be easy in our workshop but under his nose-”

Your grandfather isn’t a pushover however. He knows that with great gambles often come great rewards. If you throw the dice right. All of you exchange looks of unease when he asks your grandmother to set an extra seat for dinner and goes to make a phone call. You’re hanging in anticipation when he asks you very calmly to work on the normal restorations.

Mr. Fell arrives very eagerly for dinner, like a schoolboy just released for summer break.

He is almost unusually excited. He is very complimentary to your grandmother’s special lamb stew, exchanging culinary stories from a visit to Rome. He and your grandfather get along like a house on fire, swapping admiring rhetoric on the evolution of Romantic-period literature and emptying out a bottle of wine on their own. Your grandfather gets to the point over a dessert of strawberry mess.

“Mr. Fell, I am unashamed to say it.” He leans back in his chair, and makes a boastful confession that puts you in shock. “I am, very proudly I may say, a most excellent thief.”

Even Mr. Fell is unable to recover his expression. “I beg your pardon?”

“What pardon? I am not ashamed!” He untucks his napkin, wiping his mouth. “I am an extraordinary thief in the meaning that I steal for a generation that has not yet been born. And I steal a medium that never loses its value, no matter how long the years may toll.”

“I see.” Mr. Fell is unsure of whether to be impressed or concerned, and you wonder if your grandfather has lost his mind. There is an entire collection of rare works waiting to be copied and he seems to be throwing out all pretenses of pretending not to want to take it! “Is this in regards to the private collection you mentioned?”

“Yes. Moreover, I stole all of those books without ever taking the original copy.”

“…forgive me but I don’t understand.”

Your grandfather stands up and hobbles to the workshop in the back. Awkward looks are exchanged at the table and you try to busy your face with scooping some of the strawberry mash into your mouth when your grandfather comes out with a yellowed manuscript. “Here. See for yourself.”

Mr. Fell hesitates, his fingers doing an odd wiggle as if to insure they do not smudge the paper. But as soon as he glosses over the title on the cover it’s his turn to gape with his jaw ajar. “But this is the Constitution of Freemasons! Those were stolen by the Nazis years ago!”

“Who do you think stole this copy eh?” Your grandfather boasts. “I insured a friend of mine who owned a copy kept it hidden long enough for me to copy it. When it was stolen, I already had this! And that is only one of many.” He crosses his arms. “I am trusting you with this family secret because you appreciate the kind of effort put into preserving the history of literature.”

Mr. Fell takes a moment to whip out a pair of spectacles, looking over the contents very intently. He must be convinced it is a real copy, because a few pages it he closes the manuscript, whipping his glasses back off and letting out a ‘whoosh’ of air through his teeth.

“I think I’m in the mood to negotiate.”

______

The Setup is arranged.

The number of books that needed repair were quite extensive. It would doubtless be a three year work involving many, many hours a day of repair. However you are only too happy to report to A.Z. Fell and Co from eight to three, everyday. Your workstation is a restored folding desk of fine cherry wood, with an engraving from the carpenter dating back to the 1700s. You have your case of tools, which you decide to leave there each day. No point in covering up anything to Mr. Fell anymore, now that your grandfather has whipped the curtain open on your family secret.

“Aziraphale please.” He insists. “Mr. Fell is so terribly formal.”

Your family’s fee for repairing the books is remarkably cheap, a cover of course to lure in potential owners of rare books not yet copied. But the real payment comes with the copies you make while you mend. Books to be saved for the future.

Aziraphale gets free access to your family’s private library and once he’s permitted a list of what’s actually in the vault, you have several copies brought for his enjoyment and to join the collection as manuscripts. You know it’s not the full list, according to your knowledge of the library, but Aziraphale is hiding a few of his own rarities, you’re sure.

You find that mending old books is a bit like surgery. You have to wear latex gloves (no powder), and pick away rotting fibers with a set of tweezers, painstakingly removing the dry rot and mending it with new thread and leather. The pages that are withering are given a careful coating of your family’s recipe for “magic paper maiche”, which is more of a joke than an accurate description of the goopy liquid. Patience is the key, and when some pages dry, you work on the bindings, resewing and completing the methodical process of putting books that are falling apart back together. Luckily these books were well loved and kept away from arid attics and damp cellars. Aziraphale locks them in their cabinets with care in-between visits, and though you do not see an alphabetical order that makes sense, you’re keenly aware he could pick the right book off the shelf with his eyes closed.

You’re not used to people hanging over your shoulder while you work. In fact your grandfather was tested severely when you crouched over him to learn how to do it, and his fitful temper sometimes made him very annoyed when you didn’t get it quite right. However Aziraphale has a way of making his presence very welcome. You attribute it to his boyishly eager expression, fascinated with the process. It’s quite flattering after all, to hold an audience so interested in the nitty, gritty details of book mending.

“This isn’t so bad.” You tell him over lunch. Your grandmother packed you both sandwiches, perhaps to continue earning Aziraphale’s good graces, and the cold cuts are served with chilled gazpacho while your host makes tea. “Father had a very graphic encounter with an unusual medium when he found out a book had been bound with human skin.”

Aziraphale is short of spitting into his cup at that, and you can’t help but admire his restraint. “Animals. Human skin? What on earth kind of book was that?” He is aghast, but clearly intrigued.

“A historic account describing the execution of the Yorkshire Witch, Mary Bateman. It had details of her life, trial, and the subsequent catastrophes that were left in the wake of her execution. It’s her own skin they bound the book in.” You shiver. “Father was glad to return it after copying it, but when he spritzed the leather and saw what it was made of, he jumped out of his seat and near gave up.” The book hadn’t sold at all, but had been more or less a memento from the court official who had recorded the trial.

Macabre stories aside, the bookshop was a temple to the things that mattered to you.

-----

“Your grandfather is quite the hot-blooded trickster isn’t he?” Aziraphale noted with a strange fondness. He had been invited for dinner on multiple occasions to talk the better half of the night about books, history, and debating the quality of culinary publishers based on their country. You knew exactly what he meant by having attended last night’s dinner. Your grandfather was so old, but he still went to work, banging his fist on the table when he laughed, and arguing his point to the bitter end. Only your grandmother could soothe his hot temper with a bit of dessert or by humbling him with a pinch to the ear and a playful reprimand. “He would have been an absolute hoodlum if not for books.”

“No, I think he’s a hoodlum even with the influence of books.” You joke. “He and his friends used to hold bridge parties until the chief organizer died, and those were some wild parties. Nowadays they like to visit for a drink at a bar and talk about their hobbies, but I think grandmother might have been a little more than relieved to know they got canceled.”

“Oh how bad could bridge be?”

He himself has never played it, so propping up the extra cards against a pair of busts, you teach him the ropes. You sometimes play with your family at big events, holidays, and birthdays, and with your grandfather as your teacher, you also are a rapacious cheat. You teach it fairly the first time, both you and Aziraphale sharing a pair of cards for the others, but the second time you destroy him completely.

He has a good sense of humor about it and concedes defeat, promising to get more friends over and try again.

The first book that is finished is Aziraphale’s first edition copy of a biography dictating the life of Oscar Wilde…written by a friend of the famous poet. You think you see Aziraphale’s name scribbled in the cover, but the name is faded out and could very easily spell Azekiel if you squint. The cover had been rotting (from what he claims was a freak incident with a cold cup of tea) and the pages were badly stained and threatening to crumble. It did look as though it were brought back to life by a miracle, and Aziraphale tells you so.

“Oh it’s just like when I got it!” He says with glee. Though it’s strange how he feels the need to cover for himself. “Not from the author of course! No, no, that’d be silly! From a friend. Bought it from a friend.”

It strikes you as bad manners to pry, so you don’t. Fortunately, you are the restorer in this case and follow certain etiquette. Your grandfather would have wheedled him for hours to get the full story.

___

You only miss one day of work when a family emergency happens. Something you and your family have been dreading.

It’s been over a year. Aziraphale’s books were resurrected from the brink of decay, you enjoyed the lunches and the visits for dinner, and the conversation. He had even let you (to the shock of all family) borrow his copy of Book Trails: Through the Wildwood. It is not a particularly well known or rare find, and he confesses with eagerness how it was a personal favorite found completely by accident. But you do not take advantage of his generosity. You read it in one night, and return the next day with a tin of cookies as a thank you. The saffron and orange shortbreads go over extremely well at tea time, and you promise to bring a favorite book of yours to read. In due time, you have loaned him all of your Walter Moers books to read, and he sometimes giggles in his chair at the antics of Thirteen and a Half Lives of Captain Bluebear. He probably can view himself as the intrepid hero in that case, who had an equal fondness for food.

It should not have come as a surprise. But you were hoping maybe your grandfather was too tough to actually fall sick.

He had been complaining of a wheezy cough after opening up a chest of books he’d procured from a friend, though he complained more of their condition…with pages that had to be replaced outright. He had labored hard with your father over the books, squawking about how normal people need to be educated in the care of antique belongings.

When you come home from the bookshop, he has already gone to the hospital.

You hurry over to take your grandmother with you, who has been whimpering softly into her hanky ever since your father caught him in midfall, choking on a breath. He didn’t wait for an ambulance, but bodily carried him to the car and likely broke half a dozen traffic violations hurrying him to the hospital. Soon the whole family is informed, and crowds into the hospital waiting room. Taking turns.

You miss your turn when visiting hours are over and are so tired that you send your father and grandmother home to take care of things while you made phone calls to his friends. Before you can finish however, you fall asleep in the drivers seat of your grandfather’s car, and remain there until late in the afternoon the next day. You’re awoken by a phone call from your father, but decide to wait to return later. A quick wash in the bathroom and satisfying your hunger from the vending machine, you take your turn at last.

“I shouldn’t be here.” Your grandfather grumbles. But he is not speaking in his big voice, energetic and impassioned. He sounds too soft, like a kitten and can’t even sit up straight. “Neither of us should. We should be working.”

“You worked for sixty years. More than that.” You remind him. “Life has a way of hitting the brakes on you.”

“Bah. You know what I mean. Our kind were meant to work.” He runs a hand over his face, though it is made awkward as he avoids the clip in his nose keeping him breathing. “How many hundreds of thousands of millions of books are there in the world? How many have been written and swallowed up by time?” It’s clear the hospital is getting to him very deeply. You don’t think he would be happy to die in this place, all clean, white, and too new. He wants to be with his wife, sleeping in his big old bed with the antiques on the wall, the cheap carpet he got on a bargain when he was still young, and his books. He wants to peer up from his desk at the family photos and eat what your grandmother cooks.

“You’ve got to take me home. A couple extra months in this place is no way to live.”

You’re planning his escape when Aziraphale calls, sounding worried. “You didn’t come in so I thought I’d check. Is everything alright?”

It isn’t. And you say it as it is.

Aziraphale arrives in a cab soon after, squeaking in a short visit with your grandfather alone. There is some form of healing presence you must miss, because when you dip back in, your grandfather is asleep and looking much more healthy and at ease. “You said you were planning a hospital escape?”

____

One of the rumors in the literary circle of friends your family keeps is that Aziraphale’s father was a British secret agent stealing books from the Nazis. You think this is more or less an endearment to your grandfather, but there were additional claims that he had gold hidden under his shop from recovering treasures and reclaiming wealth from the Germany treasure vaults.

You think it’s a little more than true when, miracle of miracles, the three of you are all in the car, driving home.

Aziraphale asks very little of you. Put this on, and don’t look suspicious. Please take the patient from his room to the examination area. Whoops. There’s been a mixup, he’s transferring to another hospital. Thank you, we’ll take him there right away! He shucks off a doctor’s coat and giddily climbs into the passenger seat as you all take off, your grandfather snoring in the backseat.

“Well that was very exciting. Hope you all don’t get into too much trouble.” He seems to be bouncing in his seat at the “heist” of sorts.

“Grandfather would likely curse me on his deathbed if I kept him in there.” You remark, pulling into the driveway. “Besides, the doctor can come see us, and he wants to be with his family.” There’s a lump in your throat, and you know where it’s coming from. “When…when his time comes.”

The silence that hangs is very sad, and you’re not sorry to get your grandfather into his wheelchair and take him in. Your father is a little more than shocked that you achieved, or would even do, all of this, but laughs anyway and puts his father to bed.

You drive Aziraphale home and thank him for his efforts.

“Anything for a friend.” He smiles brightly, but there’s a cloud over his face.

It is not easy waiting for a friend to die.

____

It’s clear that the clock is ticking for your grandfather. Aziraphale makes the most of his time and hosts a bridge game.

Your father passes it up to take up the bulk of restoration, catching up where the old man left off. But your grandmother does not fuss at the idea of her husband playing, with so little time left for him, and sends you with a wheelchair and a stockpot of soup, fresh bread, meringues and a couple bottles of wine.

The fourth player is a friend of Aziraphale, who looks as different from the portly, chipper bookkeeper as a house wren does from a vulture. “S’ alright. I know how to play.” Mr. Crowley promises, grinning as he opens the first bottle of wine while the table is set up. In spite of promises to your grandmother not to gamble, you don’t think the game is quite the same betting over cookies or candy like you do for family events and you bring a few wads of cash from the bank.

You knew your grandfather would cheat, but Aziraphale and Crowley are so rampant in their sleight of hand, round after round, that you’re certain all four of you have your own games you are playing. The rules of bridge aren’t just flouted, they are flipped upside down as each of you take turns calling the others out, sometimes failing. Crowley groans aloud when Aziraphale “magically” reveals a card hidden under your collar, and you snort with laughter when your grandfather states you all had seen it peeking from the cuff of his jacket for the past five minutes. The money switches hands so frequently that there is no clear winner by the time the food is eaten and the wine is drunk. Your grandfather had far more glasses than he needs, but he has regained his fire for the night and Aziraphale plays his collection of records in the background.

The Glenn Miller Orchestra is still playing in the background as everyone’s energy slows. Dirty dishes are stacked next to a set of books, and you absently hope they don’t join the list of books to restore when Aziraphale holds up his glass, with barely any wine left, tipsy and flushed with enjoyment. “Well that was a wonderful fiasco. Absolutely tickety-boo.”

“Tickety-boo?” You and your grandfather say at once. It is just so inherently British that it doesn’t occur to you that it might be a real word. Crowley rolls his eyes and finishes off the wine straight from the bottle, stumbling to stand up. “Right, that’s the end of the night for me. ‘M off.”

There is clear endearment as Aziraphale walks him to the door, and you see the drowsiness in your grandfather’s eyes as you help clean up and wheel his chair to the car. “This really was fun. Grandmother would be livid at all the cheating.” You remark, rubbing your eyes. It isn’t a long drive home, and your bed beckons. “But it isn’t really bridge without cheating.”

“No, I suppose not.” Aziraphale chuckles. “Do you…need some time off?”

You’re confused. But it’s clarified that he wants you to spend some time with the old man dozing off in the backseat.

“No.” You turn down the offer. “He’ll let me know when he needs me. But right now he needs these books to be alright.” You climb into the drivers seat, and wave goodbye as you pull from the curb.

_____

It’s all very normal until one afternoon when you get the call from home. To your surprise, he asks you to bring Aziraphale along.

“This house used to be a cooper workshop. For casks and things like that. They rented out the space to wineries to store their vintages.” Your grandfather explains as you push him along a familiar route away from the workshop to a back room saved for storage. “The levels go very deep, and on paper it’s supposed to be full of ducts for heating and conditioning and all that. Me and my friends worked years to get it sealed up and safe. Before we all had to collectively hide our books under our beds or in fake book covers.”

He fishes out a key hidden under his bed-shirt and unlocks a hidden door behind an old, old bookshelf.

The elevator is noisy, but it’s brief. When Aziraphale catches sight of the dark room, you can see him taking in what is decades of work. Everything organized and sorted, and packed in rows of shelves listed by author, print date, and title. “There must be at least half a million books in here at least. I could do that much.” Your grandfather muses. “I keep the ledgers secret to know for sure, but I’ve spent more money on this room than I have on my own wellbeing.”

There is a safe in the back he shows to Aziraphale. No one outside of the family has ever seen its contents before…not even his closest friends. It is the same one rescued from the smoldering wreckage of his father’s bookshop, still somewhat melted on one side. But the lock still works and your grandfather turns the well memorized combination and the safe clicks open.

Inside there is no rare book. Instead, it is the family tree, hand written with photographs leading up to the present. Marking the page with your birthday is the Star of David, still on its gold chain and kept safe all these years.

“No one else can have this.” Your grandfather states. “This is something that cannot be bought or sold. Our memories.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “Our legacy. Criminal as it may be, I’m not ashamed of how I lived my life.” Inside there is a picture of your great-grandfather before he died, in front of that little corner shop in Poland. A boy is sitting on the stoop by him, with a glimmer in his eye. Neither of them know their fate, and are frozen in a past vision of joy.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of.” Aziraphale says, very softly. It’s strange. He seems to recognize the figures in the photo. “Life is meant to be enjoyed.”

That is the last time your grandfather ever sets foot in the secret library. You all share books, stories, memories, times when life and limb were at risk, and books that changed you. Two nights later, your grandfather falls asleep in his chair after lunch and does not wake up.

____

The funeral is crowded. Even though most of the attendees are very old, your grandfather’s death draws a mass of friends, colleagues, and all of the family. Former officers of the British Secret Service, librarians and antiquarians, the entire staff from the Oxford Literary Club. You haven’t really started crying yet, though it seems your grandmother and father can’t stop.

Aziraphale shows up, with flowers, and catches you after the service is done, rubbing at your eyes and trying to regain your composure. As soon as he rubs your back and gives you comfort, there is an ethereal presence you can’t quite name that dries your eyes and lifts your spirits.

“I imagine my great-grandfather will have a laugh when he sees him.” You still have red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose, but your heart is on the mend. “His naughty son, stealing books for a living.”

Aziraphale is close by when the procession goes to a cemetery outside of London, and your grandfather is buried on the coast that he first stepped foot on when he escaped to England. Your grandmother may never fully mend from this, the love of her life, but you know she will remember him well.

When the rest of the guests depart with their condolences, Aziraphale waits longer until your father gives him leave to go, and even then he watches in worry on the sidewalk while waiting for his cab.

____

Life is quieter. But little changes, except now the key to the family secret hangs on your neck.

Aziraphale surprises you with another treasure, first edition of Treasure Island with fantastic illustrations. When you try to return it after reading, he shakes his head and pushes it back. It was a gift to keep. Not for the vault below the firm, but something that is well looked after on your shelf, with a scribbled note from Aziraphale inside the cover. It’s the kind of compliment that would make your grandfather blush with pride.

A story for the rebels and thieves. A.Z. Fell

In two more years the work is done. You have more copies in the vault than you started out with, and Aziraphale has more manuscripts for works he had not had before. Sometimes you break up work to play cards, with the enigmatic Crowley passing through just when Aziraphale mentions the idea of playing, and sometimes you both just sit in silence to read your new copies or something else on the shelf. You’ve tried to extend the lease of work to do, offering to put new covers on the manuscripts for Aziraphale to enjoy and to keep them alive for longer, and the two of you deeply enjoy the fine art of tartan printed covers. There are so many conversations. So many books.

But you cross the last book off your list and pack the dusty suitcase with your tools. There’s a fine ring of dust from where they have been removed, and you wait even longer to dust it off and give it a good polish.

“You don’t need an excuse to visit, I promise.” Aziraphale states. “And I expect you around for tea, as often as you can.”

“Same.” You smile brightly. You’re a little rosier now too after all. Who wouldn’t be with a place like this? “Grandmother wants you around for dinner more often. Don’t worry about calling ahead, she always makes enough.” You two are still shaking hands goodbye and do so until finally you know to break it off. He follows you outside to the side of the car before you finally ask.

“When we broke Grandfather out of the hospital-“ You finally express your curiosity. “-how did you get them to do it?”

Aziraphale wiggles his finger. “Just a miracle or two.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes.

You suppose he will always be something of a mystery.

The car starts up and you wave out the window as you drive away from Soho. Back home, where you have your family and your bed with all your books. Home where you keep your secrets close and remember them well.

And in his shop, an angel opens a chapter on a new book and begins to read.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #good omens aziraphale #good omens crowley #aziraphale/reader #aziraphale x reader

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blissfulalchemist · 4 years

Note

"Did you expect this to turn out better?" for Cat angst!

Okay let’s start out this angst Friday strong! Uhm trigger warnings for mentions of death. It’s angst and gets deep. So uh yeah. Sorry.

Their footsteps are slow, steady...hollow as they bounce off the wood of this hallowed ground. His hair is still soft as she runs her fingers through it, head cradled in her lap as the steps move closer to her. The chains clink as they hold the empty bird cages above her, tears falling in time silently, the sobs having passed long ago. This isn’t real. It can’t be real, her eyes can’t focus on his features as they are, bloodied, bruised...pale. All she can see is the brown eyes that shined when he smiled at the world, his hair a mess when he woke in the morning after having slept with it wet, the lean muscle that held her close or teased her when they found themselves in the kitchen together.

How did they end up here? How did she end up here all alone? The plan was fool proof everything went as planned….and then….it didn’t. The Saint was the first to fall when reinforcements no one anticipated came at them from all sides. She was never meant to run into the battle but she did, watching him stumble to the ground, a hope that if she made it fast enough he could live. Misplaced hope as she had seen the three bullets hit him in places that one could never survive even if he made it to a hospital in time. The distance she made him walk didn’t grant him any more time with her either.

The edge of the battle field was met with words of comfort and reassurance while trying to stop the inevitable. Bandage after bandage was wrapped around him, her hands still working on placing more when she heard a commotion in the middle of the field. She looked up, there in the center was the Sinner, arms held behind his back by three men. He trashed against them his gold earrings flashing in the afternoon sun, dragged to his fate, forced to join like she was. Even after John’s death, one everyone blamed him for, it was still Joseph’s will to bring him into the fold, a fate worse than death for him. Mercy, swift, given as a falsely loyal follower took it upon themselves to shoot him….point blank.

Hesitation rooting her to the ground, eyes wide, as his captors half threw him to the side to yell at their fellow member, her scream silent to her ears, rough and rattling her vocal cords. Her heart pulled to bring him back home like he would have done, overpowering any voice to stay with the love of her life. Lungs burning she made it to him, avoiding the blank gaze his hazel eyes held for the sky, she pulled, lifting him to her back. “I’m here. I got you,” repeated like a prayer as gravity from the hill helped her bring the two of them together once more.

The three of them needed safety and only one place close enough to offer them that. Stretcher attached to her back with Wes lying on it and Rafael clinging to her, his steps faltering holding more of his weight, she walked, leading them to the church.

Back to where it all began.

That same church she sits in now, clinging to the last memory of him, the words he spoke softly, his thumb still trying to wipe her tears when it was obvious the two were going to part. “Tenerte y amarte significa que mi corazón está en paz. Nunca fuimos destinados a igualar las historias que adoramos porque somos nuestro propio romance épico,” his last words to her. The first declaration of love he spoke that she had understood fully after months of only ever putting pieces together. A tear in her chest with each word he spoke, breathing slowing down, heart in shreds. Clinging to him, rocking him, she waited until his last breath to scream out. Deafening in the empty church.

She only let go of him long enough to try and fight off those that came to drag Wes’ body from her. He was to become a display. A warning. She put up a fight, best she could keeping Wes as close as possible, but when it was five against one, she was easily tossed to the side. Her friend, best friend, the older brother she never had, and wanted back, “You just be careful out there. Can’t stand to see you lose.” “Always careful, Cat.” She couldn’t remember if she reminded him that he was loved by her as he had been taken, stolen, to be desecrated.

Alone.

Left to cry and apologize to deaf ears. Back at square one sitting in silence until those footsteps joined her. He finally stood in front of her, tattoos and scars on full display, hair tied back, and yellow glasses that turned his blue eyes green. She pulled Rafael closer to her, gripping as tightly as she could as he kneeled down to meet her eyes. “You can’t have him too,” she whispered, “You’ve already got the one you wanted.”

His breathing was even, she knew his face would have sympathy on it, the same look he gave Catlina when she first found herself in the middle of Montana lost and alone. “My child,” he reached out to her, she pulled back from his touch, his hand falling. “Did you expect this to turn out better?” Yes, “After everything that’s happened to you.”

“It’s not fair,” her voice is soft.

“I know,” she looked up slowly meeting his eyes briefly, “This world has been unfair to you. To us both.” His words were calming, drifting to her ears with a summer breeze guiding them. “Come with me. We can make this world a better place.”

She shook her head, fingers tracing her love’s features, “I’d rather die,” she brushed his curls from his face, “I think I just might.”

“You’re not destined to die yet,” the flame that sparked when he spoke of her destiny, her fate, remained cold now, embers fading. “How many times have you defied death in your life,” she kept her mouth closed, throat closing in on her, “Four times now?”

Catlina was twenty-two the first time, her mother left her behind, admitting that if she couldn’t be cured then she was no longer capable of loving her. Then again three years later, neighbors found her lying on the floor of her living room clutching the picture of her husband, pill bottles tossed to the side. Finally, months ago when she found there was no way out of Eden’s Gate, Catlina threw herself from the bridge. Each time someone was there in just the knick of time, saving her, granting her another chance at life. A life she no longer wanted, if she ever really did.

“This last time, God spoke to me,” I don’t believe in a god, “Showed you running to your friend through the gunfire. So many bullets you missed, knives grazing your clothes and not your skin.” She wanted to cover her ears, stop his false prophecies from reaching her brain. Too late though, her soul tired and saddened let his words sink in, little by little. “And then an image of you below the cross cradling the Saint,” Rafael, her savior. The one she placed all her faith in.

“I don’t want a purpose anymore,” she mumbled under her breath, sobs that had started to form, dissipating.

“I compassionate thee,” a sermon, a prayer, “sorrowing Mary, for that martyrdom which thy generous heart sustained,” she’d been to many services, “in being present with thine agonizing Jesus.” Never once had Joseph quoted this. There was never anything about Mary ever said. Not since she baptised before being married off. The change of her name and her first purpose given to her, “O dear Mother, by thy heart undergoing so severe a martyrdom,” this wasn’t the Mary she knew though, “obtain for me the virtue of temperance, and the gift of counsel.”

Tears fell silently looking up to Joseph curiously, “What are you talking about? You never speak of Mary.”

He held out a scorched thin paper out to her, she took it gingerly looking it over, “Because I misunderstood her purpose.” There was only one line that was complete, “35 so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too.” “Luke two, thirty five.”

Catlina shook her head handing it back, “I don’t want this life. I never did.” She looked at Raf’s face, she’d be joining him soon, “Please,” she tried to plead again, “just leave me be.”

“You want to die,” his hand brought her face up to meet his eyes, “and I can help you with that.”

Her chest felt so hollow, and yet….something spoke to her, “How?”

“We bury you with him,” she searched his face for any indication of lies or ill intent. Nothing. “And once he’s been laid to rest next to you, we give you a new life. One where all this pain makes sense, has meaning.” Metaphorical death, that’s all he could offer her. Another fake life, one where she was open to the pain of being hurt again. Catlina was tired of living….tired of being. “You’d never be alone ever again. You’d never live a life feeling lost. Catlina could be free from that life.”

Catlina….that’s who held all this pain. She was the one that was forever destined to end up alone. Always lost. Catlina was the one that wanted to die.

Did she want to die?

“You promise I can give Rafael a proper burial?” Joseph nodded, her mind straying to the horrors that awaited her brother. “I want to bury Wes too,” her eyes met Joseph’s with determination, “He deserves to leave this world loved and cared for.”

There was no hesitation, “Yes,” relief creeping in her chest, “Mary was always a symbol of love and compassion for all people. We should follow suit.”

“I want to oversee it all with my own eyes,” or no deal.

He gave a slow nod, “Of course.” He stood holding his hand out to her, “Come. We must prepare them.” She looked longingly at her heart committing his face to memory, etching it onto her soul. When it finally cemented she inhaled deeply.

Mary gently laid Rafael’s head on the floor, her blue sweater softening the wood below him. She closed her eyes, placing a kiss gently on his forehead, “Till we meet again, amor de mi vida,” she whispered, letting go. Mary looked up to Joseph, placing her hand in his standing, the setting sun silhouetting her frame in golden light. Giving him a small nod Mary followed him out of the church to recover Wes and lay the three of them to rest.

#tw death #tw mention of suicide #I am so sorry this hurts my heart too #I just must have been in a mood a bit #idk but any way #x: top chefs #brotp: red brooks bros #yeah okay I'm glad this is something I'm q'ing so i'll be sleeping while you read it #brains and disaster

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archadianskies · 4 years

Text

Whumptober Day 23

Exhaustion + Sleep Deprivation → part of the MT-RK900

Whumptober Masterlist | 23/31 of RK900 short stories ↳ on Ao3

Tags: Post-Pacifist Best Ending x Exhaustion x Sleep Deprivation

{Character sheet + bonus art here, and here. }

It starts small, starts as barely noticeable symptoms that can easily be mistaken for something else. Nothing is easily mistaken to him, nothing is ever dismissed casually, not when he deals with people’s lives on a daily basis. That includes the lives of his colleagues too, and today, specifically, it involves the lives of his human colleagues.

“Dr Fitzpatrick, you are exhibiting the initial signs of influenza.” He tells his senior, the Director of the trauma unit and his attending leader for the shift. “It is best to take precautionary measures and time off to recuperate whilst removing yourself from possibly infecting others.”

“What?” She blinks at him, brows creased and lips pursed in a frown. “It’s been a long shift, that’s all.” He says nothing, though his expression must say a lot because her frown deepens. “You’re sure?”

“With adequate care you will recover much quicker and stop the spread amongst our colleagues, than if you were to continue working and possibly, quite rapidly, infect others.” Ronan says evenly. “Influenza season is already underway, we are treating more and more patients everyday and we have had three deaths already.”

She gives him a long hard look, searching his face for some sort of reaction before she sighs tiredly. “Are there others on the team you think might have it?”

“There are four possible nurses, one clerk, and two registrars also exhibiting early signs.” Ronan informs her and she groans into her hand, rubbing her temples.

“It’s not up to me to give others time off, you know.”

“I know. But you can speak to the right staff, and I can give them my findings.” He nods.

“We’re run off our feet already, and you’re rostered at Jericho for the next three days!”

“I can change that. Androids are not susceptible to influenza, and aside from the cold weather affecting some of the older models, we weather winter well.” He glances at the door. “If you can help arrange it, I will stay on for the week and use mainly a team mostly made up of the other android nurses here, minimising the risk of infection amongst the staff.”

“Ronan, you- that’s insane! No one can work an entire week, especially not in trauma!”

“No human can, but I am not human.” Ronan reminds her gently, and he knows she is tired and she knows he is counting on this. She relents, shoulders sagging.

“Four days. Not seven. Four, and I will aim to be back by then.” She points her finger at him accusingly. “Don’t you dare take on more than you can handle. You’re the best trauma surgeon I’ve ever worked with, so god help me if you run yourself ragged because you’re too damn nice!”

So it begins. After careful negotiations the ration rises from five human nurses for every one android nurse, to two humans per one android. Ronan assigns various amounts of memory in his processing core to take over the clerical duties, and the E.D. phone is now answered by an ST300 temporarily stepping in from reception. This means she can answer the call and feed the information directly onto his HUD for ease of triaging. He keeps patient charts in a digital folder, and medication schedules, and theatre bookings.

He utilises programming that would normally be used for listing mission objectives and keeping tabs on the status of other soldiers in his battalion, for good instead, for saving lives and managing their care. At the seventieth hour mark, one of the android nurses pass him a bottle of thirium and he drains it, belatedly realising his levels are below optimum given how fast he is burning through it due to the high number of processes he is running. No matter. He will continue.

At the eightieth hour, he receives a concerned message from Simon while he is operating on a stabbing victim. The knife penetrated into the victim’s small bowel and it is a race against time to repair the damage. He manages to send Simon a quick reassuring message that yes he is fine, but will not be able to come home for some time yet. Dr Fitzpatrick had said four days but he knows it will not be four days. He will need longer because the humans will need longer. It is alright. He is an RK900, CyberLife’s latest cutting edge android. He can manage.

As predicted, Dr Fitzpatrick does not return after four days. No matter. Ronan powers on, temporarily rotating out the last of the human nurses as a precautionary measure as a surge of new influenza patients floods the hospital. Humans are woefully unprepared for the season due to a lot of factors, be they socio-economic or just plain ignorance. There was a pandemic his father lived through, with many wild tales of humans simply ignoring even the basic, primitive safety measures attempted. It does not surprise Ronan to see so many victims this season either, given all that Hank has told him about those ‘unprecedented times’.

There is no time to stand under the charging bay downlights. There has been a shooting and there are multiple victims en route to the hospital. And hours before that, there had been a multi vehicle crash on the highway. And hours before that, there was a case of food poisoning at a children’s party which meant Ronan had to call the paediatric registrar for extra help. There is never a good time, and so he has to be conservative about power usage to ensure he can still handle the workload safely.

“Your hair is white.” One of the nurses whisper to him as they’re scrubbing up for yet another surgery. Ah. His stress levels must be high. He hasn’t checked- he turned off his notifications ten hours ago.

“I am functioning adequately. It is only cosmetic.” He reassures them with words, and he’s glad there’s a mask over his mouth because he hasn’t quite mastered how to give reassuring smiles to match.

“You’ve been on call for five days, nearly six now.” They’re brows crease in concern and beneath their mask Ronan knows they are frowning. “You’ve given all of us an hour break every eight hours to ensure we have enough time to charge adequately. You’ve done this for all android staff except yourself!”

“There is no other android qualified for surgery.” He reminds them, flicking through the patient’s stats and passing them on to the surgical team. “So I cannot rest.”

On the first surgery on his sixth consecutive day as the trauma surgeon on call, Ronan finds that the bulbs in the surgical downlights have been replaced with UV charging lights. The same nurse who raised concerns earlier gives him a somewhat stern, no-nonsense look.

“So you can charge while you operate.” A compromise, he realises, and a very kind one too. He gets to work, and he feels the tension unwind from his shoulders, his battery core soaking up the charge as the lights bear down on him. It’s not quite stasis, not quite reprieve from the onslaught of duties, but it’s close.

“Simon?” Dr Anthea looks up from her tablet, blinking in surprise as the Jericho leader stands in the doorway of her office. “What can I do for you?”

“Ronan is still at Detroit Metro.” The PL600 chews his bottom lip, wringing his hands together anxiously. “It’s been six whole days straight and he stopped answering my messages on the fourth day.”

“Yes he’s temporarily removed himself from our roster to manage Detroit Metro ED while the human staff recover from the flu.” She sighs, shaking her head. “He’s very much like you, you know: he’ll work himself ragged for the sake of others.” Not quite the answer Simon hopes to hear, she’s sure, but it’s the one she’s giving because she’s right. She’s heard the tales from Professor Joshua. She knows during Jericho’s early stage, Simon nearly died keeping everyone safe and functioning.

“I just- I’ve left so many messages at reception and though the receptionist assures me she’s passed them on, I can’t help but feel like he literally won’t stop unless he’s physically unable to keep working.” Simon gives her a pained look to which she can only reply with a cocked brow.

“Like you, Simon?”

“Well- alright, yes, like me!” Simon huffs, and it coaxes a laugh from her as the PL600 looks torn between embarrassment and determination. “You are the only android surgeon still qualified to work at human hospitals. To work at that human hospital.” He says it quietly, with caution, because they both know that was a different part of her life. Not an unpleasant one, definitely not, given she deviated out of empathy, out of kindness, but still a different chapter now put behind her. She has the qualifications because she never bothered to give them up like the other medroids. Sentimentality, perhaps, because Detroit Metro had been her home for so very long and to still see a valid ID badge gives her a little spark of joy whenever she opens her drawer.

“Please?” Simon of the Jericho Four is pleading with her and she knows she cannot deny him a single thing, lovely and courageous and prone to martyrdom as he is.

It’s been eight days, twice the number of days she thought she’d need, but she’s feeling strong and healthy and definitely not weighed down by any symptoms anymore. Damn that android and his perceptive, persuasive ways. She both hates and loves how he’d been right, and yes he’s been running an incredibly tight ship here in her absence, though she wonders which other staff he’s rostered on to replace him because obviously he hasn’t been working the entire eight days straight. Right? Surely not. Obviously not. She warned him she’d be Very Cross if he worked more than four days.

“Nicola?” She turns at the voice and there, right there is Medroid Anthea. The surgeon she shoved into an ambulance with as many android nurses as she could find when racing through the unit after that horrible announcement androids had to be surrendered to the police. Not on her watch, no damn way.

“Anthea.” She smiles, though a little puzzled. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, you’ve worn my best surgeon down to his bones here so I’m coming back as a favour, just so he gets rest.” There’s a pause as she lets that sink in.

“Are you telling me Ronan’s been here the entire time?! All eight days?!” She nearly explodes with anger and Anthea cocks a perfectly arched brow in that gesture she hasn’t realised she’s missed seeing so much. They made such a great team.

“Why do you sound like you didn’t know this?”

“Because I didn’t! I’ve been on sick leave, recovering from the flu! Oh that boy, honestly!”

“Simon’s here to drag him home, and I’m here for his shift.” Anthea smiles as she clips her ID onto her scrubs. “Just like old times?”

She’s smiling so hard her cheeks ache. “Yeah. Just like old times.”

Simon can’t even stay angry with him. The anger just seeps out of him the moment he sees how exhausted Ronan looks, his hair stark white meaning his stress levels are at their peak given the weather isn’t cold enough to activate his tundra camouflage. He’d demanded his stats and the RK900 had given them with great embarrassment and Simon realised he’d been so very close to just shutting down to conserve what pitiful charge he had left. Honestly.

“You’re mad at me.” Ronan says quietly as Simon ushers him inside the apartment.

“I was.” Simon hangs up their coats before wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing his cheek to his chest. “Couldn’t stay mad, though. I know why you did it.”

“I had to help.”

“I know, love. I know.” Simon sighs, looking up at him fondly. “Because you’re a good, kind person and a wonderful colleague.”

Ronan says nothing, only offers a small smile before leaning down to bump his nose against his fondly.

“Right.” Simon declares with a nod, stepping back, grabbing his wrist and tugging him to their bedroom. “I’m putting you under the lights for a six hour charge and you are not leaving the bed a second earlier.”

“Yes, doctor.” Ronan smiles tiredly, pausing only to press their lips together in quiet gratitude before he lays down and closes his eyes.

#rk900 #simon pl600 #simon900 #Detroit: Become Human #whumptober #annie writes: dbh #yes i ship anthea and nicola #they can be doctor wives

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hudsteith · 4 years

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5 😀

5. Secret affair

Roger played with John's chest hair, curlying it with his fingers, while he rested his head over John. He didn't want to say anything.

Actually he wanted to say, but he shouldn't. The drummer knew pretty well where he was getting into when he decided to shag his married bandmate.

It was meant to be an one-time thing. They were drinking at Roger's place when they're sitting in the couch. One bottle of whiskey became three and they were laughing and then they kissed. They liked what they felt and finished in the mattress.

And it's been this way for two years.

Two years of John sneaking to Roger's everytime he fought with Veronica. Two years of quick blowjobs during Brian's guitar solos or Love of My Life performances. Two years of the bass player muffling Roger's moans while he fucked him at parties.

But the drummer never was a person to hide his feelings. He wanted to hold hands with John everywhere he felt like, to kiss him without fearing someone to see and to call him pet names beyond the mattress.

''Roger?'' John called. ''Why are you crying?''

The blond was so far away that he didn't even notice that he started to cry.

''It's nothing.'' Roger sat up and tried to look away, but John touched his arm.

''It's not nothing. Tell me, love.''

'Love'. This always melted Roger's heart.

''You said that you'd leave Veronica soon. When is 'soon', John?'' Roger looked into his lover's eyes, clear sadness on his eyes.

John bit his own lip. Robert was already one year old, and he's always making excuses to not break his wife's heart. She's a wonderful woman and always supported him.

But he saw Roger's eyes, he could feel he's unhappy.

He couldn't stay at a home where's he not truly in live with the person he lied down every night.

''Give me a week.'' John said, touching the blond's chin, the latter's face glowing up with his answer.

And they glued their lips, Roger finally sensing his martyrdom was going to an end.

#joger #dealor #ask prompts

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justjessame · 4 years

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Dr. Tali Sullivan Chapter 5: Choices

“Tali,” Dean’s voice followed me to the kitchen, but I was intent on ignoring him and whatever awkward bullshit that would come from what he’d woken up to. “Damn it, Tali.” He was standing in the doorway of the room, still in just a t-shirt and his underwear.

“Put some pants on, Dean.” I growled back as I started opening cabinets. The issue with making breakfast was that I didn’t usually eat breakfast. I had Pop tarts. I had some cereal that I didn’t remember buying. But that was pretty much it. Wait, I had bread and butter, so toast.

"You’re in your pajamas,” his voice was closer than I expected or wanted. “Besides, all my important parts are decent.”

I snorted. Dean Winchester didn’t have any decent parts, no matter how toned he’d felt when I woke up pressed against him. Fuck. “My house, my rules.” I offered, but knew he hadn’t left, he couldn’t have, since I could feel his body heat closing in. I sighed, pulling out the Pop-tarts and bread. “Dean, whatever you’re thinking, it isn’t a good idea.”

I felt his chuckle, just like I felt the breath he’d let out during it flutter my hair. “Good ideas aren’t really what I’m known for, Tali.” I closed my eyes, begging for a patience that I’m not sure I ever possessed. His body was close enough to feel the burn from, to smell that same familiar scent of his dad rolling off of him. His hands were on my shoulders and I sighed again. “Please, just talk to me for a minute.”

I turned with the same type of grace that I’d shown the first time my mom wanted to parade me through our family telling them about my choice to go away to school and become a teacher. Heavy on the martyrdom, low on the enthusiasm. “Pop-tarts? Or-”

I never got another word out, because Dean Winchester decided that ‘talking’ involved mouths, but not words. His lips touched mine, and my mind was screaming to push him, to pull away, to do a hell of a lot of not what I did. I dropped the Pop-tarts, the bread fell from my hand and then my now empty hands were on his shoulders. My nails were digging into his skin through his t-shirt, but as much as my mind was telling me to use them to get him away, my body seemed to disagree, because I was pulling him closer.

Dean’s hands were sliding up my back and then they were tangled in my hair and my mouth opened under his and we both moaned at the touch of the other’s tongue. I was wrong. He and John were nothing alike. John took what he knew we both wanted. The fires of hell were jealous the night we first kissed. And then it slowed once we ended up in my bedroom. Dean wasn't sure, he left me room to push him away, to take a moment to decide if I wanted what he was asking for. Dean was a slow burn, building as we got to know the dips and curves of one another’s mouths. There wasn’t a rush, even if it had seemed like there would have been in how he'd taken the first step.

He pulled away first, or pulled back a bit so we could catch our breaths. Giving me and my brain a moment to reflect, to think about what I was doing. What was I doing? I saw Dean swallow, the uncertainty of how I was going to react clear on his face, in his green eyes that were so dark. I licked my lips, wondering how he could taste good in the morning? “Shit, Tali, I didn’t mean to-” He started to pull away further, but my hands stayed on his shoulders stopping him. “I know you need time, I do, but Tali I,” he huffed out a breath. “When I saw your name in Dad’s journal. When I saw what he wrote-” His eyes pinched and I waited, Dean needed to get whatever he’d been holding in off his chest before he exploded. “I was pissed. Not only did he just fucking go off on his own without a word, but he took-” Dean’s eyes locked on mine. “He knew how I felt about you, Tali, he had to have.” His hand left my hair and brushed through his own. “You were supposed to be MY first everything Tali Sullivan.” Wait, what?!

“Dean.” I tried, but the look he shot me stopped me.

“I know you didn’t-” he sighed. “I know that we got pushed together all the time as kids. I know that wasn’t your choice, but those visits to your house? Between those and Bobby’s? That made the rest of it worth it.” His hand came back to my cheek, and he was brushing the skin under my eye. “I wanted to take time, Tali, when Dad-” He saw my flinch at the memory of John again. Another sigh. “When he died, when I knew what you felt for HIM, I couldn’t come here. Not at first, I couldn’t see YOU grieving for HIM.” His thumb touched my lips and I stayed quiet. “You were right, Tali, my dad was a master at shitty communication and you told me NOT to follow him in that. This is me not being John Winchester. I want you to give me a chance. Give us a chance. Give me something to come back to after the hunt?”

We both heard Sam stumbling down the hallway. Dean pulled all the way away. I looked down at my bare feet and took a beat. “Later.” It was quiet, it was simple, but it was a promise. We would talk later. We would sit down, alone, and discuss it. I looked up and met his eyes again where he’d moved to the table in the kitchen nook. A smile, a nod, and we were back to as normal as it would get between me and a Winchester. “Pop-tarts or toast?” I asked as Sam loomed in the doorway, blinking sleep out of his eyes.

After our ‘meal’, I took them into the living room to hand off the research packet I’d put together, then headed back to my bedroom. Dean, clearly assuming that Sam was nice and diverted by the new information, followed me.

“When I said ‘later’,” I shot him a look as I pulled clothes out of my dresser. “I meant, after I took a long hot shower. When my hair looked more like hair and less like a clutch of shredded wheat.” He chuckled. “We will talk, Dean,” I turned and leaned against my dresser. “Just give me a few minutes alone, to process, please.”

Dean was still in his boxers and t-shirt and I shook my head. “I should probably-” He gestured behind him.

“I have a huge hot water tank,” I smiled as he shot me a look. “You can get a shower in the other bathroom, it won’t take anything away from mine.” I went back to pulling clothes out for me to change into, when I felt him against my back again. “Dean-”

“I know, Tali,” his lips brushed the back of my neck and I swallowed hard. “I just, I had to-” And then he was gone. His heat, his scent less like John now, heavier on the leather scent less smoke and mirrors, gone. I shut my eyes and took a breath. Damn it.

I took my time in the shower. I needed to think about John. Really think about John Winchester and the ONE weekend we’d had physically versus the calls and texts. I needed to think about what might have been, or would there have been anything at all?

I could still see him sitting on the top row of seats in my classroom. Him standing over me by my desk. The bright silver of his wedding band catching the overhead lights. The band he wore for longer than I’d been alive. A band that he wore to his funeral pyre. A band that he never took off. Not once, not during the nights and days we’d shared. Not before or after we shared them.

My back pressed against the cool tiles of my shower, my head finding purchase too, and I considered that. Would he ever really have been done? Has any hunter ever finished the hunt? How many hunters had I met, first timers who came in with a vengeance and needed to kill whatever had brought darkness and loss into their regularly scheduled life, that stopped after they met it? None. Hunters ended when they took their last breath. That was a truth that I’d known my entire life.

It’s what happened to my grandparents. It was how my parents will die. It was our universally known truth. Hunters didn’t retire. They died. At the very hands, claws, paws, or teeth of the monsters they hunted. I turned off the water and sat down on the bench in my shower and thought about what that meant.

Dean was just as much of a hunter as John had been. He’d been raised in the life, reluctantly when John had become just as obsessed with avenging Mary’s death as any other newbie hunter would. He’d followed John around like a puppy. Looking up to him, beaming at any soft or kind word, any sweet moment that he could tuck away. Not that John was a bad man, but he’d been a difficult father. Maybe any man who lost his wife that way, who took up a mantle that he wasn’t prepared to, would have had the same reaction.

I hadn’t lied when I told John that Dean idolized him. He did. But he also took every damn word that John Winchester ever said to him all the way down to his fucking marrow. He would protect Sam. He would save him come hell or high water, and he’d do that with or without me. Would he have to? Would he have to do it without me?

When I suffer a loss, and as a kid in a hunting family I’d suffered plenty, my first knee jerk reaction is to shove it down. Deep deep down and away. I’d deal with it, eventually, but not now. I hadn’t done that with John. I’d let it overtake me. I’d wallowed. I’d felt the loss down to my bones and I let it overwhelm me in so many ways.

I dried off and pulled on my clothes without noticing. I brushed my hair, my mind still working through the Winchesters and what they meant to me. My fingers worked my untangled and still wet hair into a long braid as I thought about where John and I may have been right now if he hadn’t made the deal. Would we still be texting and calling? Would he make time to visit? Would I go to him?

What would have been enough or too much? Would killing this demon, the same one that Sam and Dean were now focused on, have let him move on? Would Mary finally be laid to rest in his mind? Would the ring have come off? Or would he still pine? Was I a delusional little girl that fell into bed with him over a crush that he’d shared, a diversion and nothing more? I'd never know. John wasn't available to answer and I had wasted the time I had to get those answers.

I pushed my glasses up my face and contemplated hiding in the bathroom until Dean and Sam gave up and left on the next hunt. Because I knew one thing was more than certain. There would always be another monster to hunt. Another call, another trail. They were hunters, and I had given it up willingly to be this version of helpful.

#supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester #dean winchester x ofc

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