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magpiemorality · 4 years

Note

Platonic intruality with Remus as Patton’s guardian angel :0? Idk it’s an idea I had that I don’t think I could execute well but I think you could!! If I may add one more thing, could it be hurt comfort? I don’t wanna specify more because I wanna see what you do with it!!! (Okay bye now ily!)

This spiraled into something monstrous and painful and very, very cathartic. I hope it doesn’t hurt anyone to read, do watch the warnings. And remember; it is a story, and not an instruction booklet. Because of subject matter I’ve put a little summary in so there’s more warning about what’s coming!

And to you Chris, thanks for the prompt. It was special to write, in many ways.

The Hardest Fight Of All

Guardian Angel Remus has been assigned to help Patton Abbott, a sweet high school student with a very normal, decent life; nothing easy to spot for Remus to fight. But if the threat isn’t from outside, then it may be coming from within.

Warnings: Mental Health Issues, negativity, Unreliable Narrator, Self-Esteem Issues, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Emotional self-harm, what might be construed as bad handling of an individual with mental health issues, death mention (metaphorical).

AO3

***

Patton Abbot didn't deserve his guardian angel. No really. He was sure he was nice enough, and he tried to be kind to everyone he could and forgive anyone that did him harm, but he didn't deserve a guardian angel for that! He wasn't in much danger, he didn't have a lot to complain about, with his perfectly normal life and normal parents and normal school. He even had normal friends! It felt selfish to have a guardian angel when he wasn't suffering at all really, and he hadn't earned it through doing anything particularly good either.

His guardian angel loudly, passionately and regularly disagreed, but Patton had yet to be convinced. Remus was lovely, but there were so many more deserving people that needed his help! He was flattered Remus seemed to enjoy being his guardian angel and hanging around with him but it was probably only because he was forced, and Patton was good at acting nice so at least he hoped he wasn't making the angel's job too awful.

That was if you asked Patton, at least. Remus would have a different perspective on things. But Patton hadn't... actually asked him? Because he was so obviously lying when he insisted Patton did deserve his presence and protection, because Patton didn't deserve it.

Over time though, something changed. Remus started to lose his glow, his wings began to droop and he stopped skipping and floating around above the ground, steps dragging heavier and heavier on the floor. Patton was terrified, constantly checking in with him because Remus was too important to feel bad, or get sick, or whatever it was that was happening! Patton had to help him!

When he woke up one morning to find Remus leaning on the windowsill, gazing despondently out at the garden and the rest of the houses he started to really panic. He had to be hurting the angel somehow, but how?! And how could he fix it?!

"Remus? What- what's up bud? You know you can always talk to me right? I think you're awesome, and you deserve to be happy!"

"I'm not so sure."

"You do!" Patton insisted, placing a hand between his wing joints on his back. "You do so much good, you're always taking care of me and you're so kind and lovely and fun and you-"

"It's taken me a while, you know," Remus interrupted. Patton went quiet apart from a soft, questioning hum. "To figure out why I was sent to you."

Ah. "Well it must have been a mistake, like I said before, but that's okay, you can consider-"

"Patton for the love of the sky and the stars; shut up."

Patton shut up, trying not to let the harshness hurt. He knew he'd been babbling on a bit, so it was probably his own fault, and after all even angels only had a certain amount of patience. And Patton knew he was annoying. But it still hurt just a little bit.

Remus rounded on him, eyes alight for the first time in weeks. He grabbed Patton by the shoulders and steered him back to the bed, sitting him down on the edge firmly and moving back to pace in front of him. Patton waited, still conscious of the reprimand, until Remus finally burst.

"I can't believe it took me so long! Honestly, I wasn't sure there was much to do here; you seemed so happy so much of the time, and you get along with almost everyone! Sure there's the odd bully, but its only ever in situations you put yourself into knowing they'll come, like that video channel thing of yours, and I suppose I assumed you realised you could just leave if you didn't want to see it all. You were so nice to them, too nice! But even when I visited them, sorted that out for you, or got you to spend time away from it, you were still... so hurt. And now, now I see the true problem. It's worse than I thought, and I'm- I'm so sorry I didn't see before, but I'm also angry, and it's not at you but it is-"

Unsurprising, Patton thought. That made sense, after all.

"Because the evil that I'm supposed to battle for you... is you."

Slightly more surprising. "Come again?" Patton asked, apologising quickly for speaking up. Remus bared his teeth as fury flashed over his face, flaring bright again for a moment. He looked... terrifying, but glorious. An angel in battle.

"There is no greater threat to you than yourself. And I don't know how to fight that! I'm angry because I'm sad; why would you attack yourself so viciously day after day, hour after hour, word after word and never afford yourself a single iota of the kindness you afford others?!" He stopped, chest heaving, and Patton felt the weight of an expected answer. He couldn't reply, just shrugging, which only set Remus off again. "You, the nasty horrible thing inside you, it's killing you! You feel like you're dying, and you just let it happen. I don't- I don't know how to fight that, I don't think I can fight that, and you just- " He growled, his morningstar appearing, only partially there, for him to swing in fury. "Everything they say to you that you rail against in public, you bite back against if those very words are turned on your friends with no mercy, you say the same things in your own head. You are so awful to yourself, you're just like them! I cant fight that!"

Patton swallowed. "It's not a big deal," he said weakly, heart hammering in his ribcage.

"But it is! And I can't do my job if you're the one stopping me at every turn! You don't even know you're doing it, or maybe you do and just pretend you don't, I'm not even sure anymore. But you desire so much better, why can't you take your own damn advice?! I don't- I don't think you even want to feel better sometimes, you've turned your suffering into so much of your identity. Do you actually like being this way...?" He cut off, narrowing his eyes at Patton suspiciously. Patton felt part of him squirm under that gaze, but another small part was quietly begging for the angel to go on, to finish lancing this horrid, deep-seated, ancient boil of Bad.

"It's not fair!" Remus finished. "You're doing it to yourself! Do you know how easy that is to stop?!"

Those were the words that finally got Patton up on his feet. Because no matter the truth of the rest of it; that was a lie. "It's not easy! It's not!" Thoughts of therapy and mental health diagnoses and the difficult of facing everything alone when it was easier to just suffer and frame it in martyrdom and help everyone and hope, pray that one day someone would help him too.

(And then push it away away away when that same help was offered back, falling into misery when that endless push- desperately testing his friends to their limits because he knew they'd get tired eventually- turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy as they ran out of support to throw against his walls of self-hatred and negativity)

Remus stepped forwards until they were chest to chest, gazing down from his height, fully blazing bright in the innocuous setting of Patton's bedroom. "But it is. If you want to."

Patton sat down again with a thump, feeling faint and nauseous. There was a moment of silence before he burst into tears, pulling his knees up to hide his face in. He wasn't even sure why he was crying. Because of the horrible cruel words? Because he didn't deserve even this harsh kindness (that felt like staring at the sun without protection or touching electricity, raw and painful and unfiltered for his comfort) after how awful he'd been? Because... because it felt terrible to even think about the fact that this could be his fault in some way?! And now Remus hated him just like the rest and he was going to leave and Patton would be alone and-

Two warm, gentle hands came up to cup his face and tilt it back into view, and Remus was there, looking stern and serious but not angry anymore. The relief that flooded through Patton was almost euphoric, like the weight of the entire sky lifted back up off his lungs. "I can't fight this battle alone, Patton," the angel said. "And I can't fight it at all if you don't truly, deeply, one hundred percent want me to fight it. To do that you need to understand that it's your battle too, that you have to put your armour on and go to war alongside me, if we're to have any chance at success. Because right now you're on their side, and you're sabotaging us from within."

"But it's my condition! My brain doesn't-"

"You think I don't know about that?" Remus frowned, rubbing his cheeks gently. "You've got medication. You've got a therapist, you have people who are trying their hardest to love and support you. But you can't survive the ocean on a raft of other people's making. It will stop you sinking, for a time- perhaps even for a long time, but you won't get any closer to shore unless you start to paddle. And as you paddle you'll also have to patch up any cracks in the raft with your own hands, perhaps with the materials you're given but the work to stitch it all together and sail it has to be your own. It's- I'm not a fan of metaphors but do you see? You can't be the only one not contributing to your own recovery."

"I'm not recovering from anything, I just have a negative self image and... and some other things. But they're bad! They're not things you get better from-" Patton tried, voice trembling and weak. Remus just looked at him, hands still on his face.

"Aren't they?" He asked simply. "You don't think you could ever manage to feel better than you do right now? You think all the stories of people improving their lives are... made up? You think, perhaps, that the medication is all a placebo, that once you've labelled the problem it's made permanent and nothing can ameliorate the symptoms or make life easier to live?" The angel leaned in and dropped a kiss to Patton's forehead, leaving a warm tingling in its wake. "The world would burn, if that were true," he whispered, before standing up.

Patton just kept on sitting in silence, face itching as his tears started to dry on his skin.

Remus gave him a small but real smile. "You've got plenty to think about. Consider my pitch; without you I will continue to fight the war, hopeless though it may be, but with you..." He grinned properly then. "Oh the things we could achieve, dear one."

And off he vanished, in a flutter of feathers and the sound of moving light.

It left Patton feeling as though, in the space of only maybe half an hour, the entire world had changed around him. He wondered, as he lay down on his bed, exhausted and reaching for his favourite plushie for comfort, whether what Remus said was what his therapist secretly wanted to say. It was a funny thought, mild-mannered Dr Picani ranting like the passionate angel, but Patton barely managed a lift of his lips. He needed to rest, and then he'd start to think about all this. If it wasn't true, if the angel was mistaken, seeing things that weren't there because of how boring it was being Patton's guardian; then nothing really needed to change except he would renew his efforts to get Remus reassigned.

If it was true though? Then that changed everything, and Patton Abbott would have a lot of hard work ahead.

He wished he knew which one he was hoping for.

#writepie #ts patton #ts remus #platonic intruality #ts writing #ts sanders sides #ts sanders sides aus #ts sanders sides fic #sanders sides #under a read more so people can see the warnings first

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fictionalboys-arebetter · 5 years

Text

Rumour Has It - George Weasley

A/N: I think this may be my longest imagine yet, but lord can I go on about those Weasley boys. Warnings: None Pairing: George Weasley x Ravenclaw!Reader Word Count: 2,887

George Weasley was silently debating what way he’d be irritating Snape this potions lesson when he felt it. Someone was watching him. He had a good idea who it was too. See, you thought he was oblivious to the fact that you couldn’t take your eyes off him if he was anywhere in the general vicinity but Fred had pointed it out to him a couple of weeks ago and he was now acutely aware each time your gaze lingered on him. What he couldn’t work out was why you only stared, but not once had you spoken to him.

Across the room, you were absent-mindedly stirring your potion while you admired him. He was gorgeous, that was true, but there was something more that intrigued you. You’d always been aware of the Weasley twins, it was impossible not to be. They were loud and brash and ridiculously entertaining, but people wrote them off as if that was all there was to them; pranks and back chat. The immediate shock value of their iconic pranks was what caught your attention, same as everyone else, but what held was the sheer ingenuity of it. That was what people missed, the genuine intelligence that these boys held that allowed them to create these products of theirs from scratch. They were probably some the smartest student Hogwarts had ever had and people wrote that off because of how they chose to utilise it.

That idle curiosity had grown into something more over the time that you’d watched them, you’d begun to notice the little differences between them. You were sure now you were one of only a handful of student who could tell them apart, not that they’d have any idea. Then suddenly it was George you were watching, rather than both of them. He was quieter, though only by a hair, than Fred. He was more inclined to think before acting, seemed gentler and more conscious of people’s feelings than his twin. It was endearing. It was also infuriating how nervous this made you around him, you weren’t a nervous person by nature but whenever you thought of actually speaking to him, you flooded with heat and found it damn near impossible to form coherent thoughts. How would you explain the fact that you knew so much about him without sounding like you needed to be committed?

Your attention was refocused as the subject of your gaze shifted to turn around and your heart stuttered in your chest as his gaze landed on yours. The only thing you could manage was to send him a soft smile, which he responded to with cheeky wink and grin of his own. Flushing red, you tore your gaze away to add porcupine quills to your potion. Hands shaking, you added several more than the recipe called for and immediately there was a loud bang and thick purple smoke was sent billowing from your cauldron.

“What is going on over here?”

Snape’s voice sent your heart plummeting as he appeared through the smoke like a demon, faced twisted with fury. The smoke dissipated with a single wave of his wand, and his eyes landed on you.

“10 points from Ravenclaw for general idiocy and,” he looked down at the blackened mark left by your disintegrated cauldron with disgust, “detention, I think. This evening after dinner”

“Seems a bit unfair, sir,” George was suddenly speaking up in your defence, “she clearly didn’t do it on purpose!”

“Since you feel so strongly about it Weasley, you can join her for detention this evening.” He turned back to you, “You are excused, go and get cleaned up, we certainly won’t be needing you in this class today.”

George was simmering with annoyance as you left the room, eyes downcast. Snape was such a bully. If that had been a Slytherin, he’d have just cleared up the mess and ignored it. He also couldn’t help but feel a little guilty, he’d obviously had something to do with it. Well, he thought, he’d just have to use tonight’s little detention to apologise. He needed to ask one thing though, and he turned to the Ravenclaw girl beside him,

“Hey, you’re friends with Y/N, right?”

“I’ll have you know I’m her best friend Weasley, why?”

“She always seems to be looking at me, but she never talks to me. Do you have any idea why?”

Your friend’s face lit up as she laughed quietly. You’d kill her for this, but she was sick of watching you mooning over George from afar. She knew you were the sort of person he’d enjoy spending time with if he got the chance, and you definitely deserved to be happy, so she thought she’d give things a nudge in the right direction.

“So you finally noticed, did you? Okay, I’m trusting you to handle this nicely, Weasley, because if you hurt her then I will make Snape look like the best thing that ever happened to you. She likes you, but you make her nervous so she won’t come and speak to you.”

“She likes me, huh?”

He said nothing more, turning back to his cauldron with a soft smile.

“Mate, you realise that ever since you noticed her staring at you, you’ve been just as bad?” Fred’s voice rang in his head, “You’re constantly trying to see if she’s looking at you, and when she’s not staring at you, you’re staring at her. For the sake of my ever dwindling sanity, just ask the girl out!”

He might be being a tad biased, but he’d always thought his brother gave excellent advice.

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You’d spent the hours since your potions fiasco psyching yourself up for your detention. This would be the first time you ever spoke to him and you were determined to make some sort of normal conversation with the redhead. Even if you never plucked up the courage again, you would at least be comfortable in the knowledge that he didn’t have this everlasting image of you as a bumbling moron. There would be no repeat of the earlier events, which you had immediately decided would be an isolated incident. As your friends had reminded you over pumpkin juice in The Great Hall, you were an intelligent and confident young woman and you’d be damned if you let some boy turn you into a stammering mess, even if that boy was George Weasley.

When you arrived in the dungeons, you saw that George was already there waiting, and he flashed you a welcoming smile, which you returned with a confidence that made his eyebrows shoot into his flaming hairline. Snape barely glanced up from his paperwork before he directed you down the hall to clean and organise the store room, alphabetically. Git.

The air in the store cupboard was heavy and stale, but you ignored it as you started rearranging bottles containing the most obscure ingredients, dusting shelves as you went. You worked silently for a few minutes before you became aware of two things. One; George was not helping, he was leaning in the doorway and two; he was watching you with a sly smile. You steeled your resolve not to melt under his gaze and turned to meet his eyes with a questioning look.

“Rumour has it,” he began, “I make you nervous.”

To his mild surprise, rather than flushing and stammering, you let out a light laugh. As he always did when he heard your laugh, he thought it was one of the most wonderful sounds in existence.

“I see my best friend has been running her mouth again. I should have expected as much, Hannah never could keep a secret. I’ll admit, there’s more than an element of truth in that statement but I’ve decided on a fake it until you make it sort of approach where you’re concerned.”

“Is that so? In that case, you reckon you could ‘fake it’ enough to tell me why you’re always staring at me?”

“Well, I imagine you’ve got a pretty sound theory on that already. While you’re on the right track, it’s not entirely as you might believe.” You thought you saw the slightest hint of disappointment flash behind his eyes. “I’m afraid you’ll think I’m odd if I tell you.”

The laughter on his face was back in an instant, “You’re pretty much running that risk either way at this point.”

You couldn’t help it, your laughter joined his and seemed to ring all the louder in the confines of your temporary prison.

“Fair enough. It’s like this, right, I tend to be quite observant and I like watching the people around me and deducing things about them based on their behaviour. You and your brother are so often the centre of attention that naturally I noticed you. It’s just that I didn’t stop noticing after every one else had.”

George finally stepped into the room, straightening with curiosity.

“And what exactly did you notice?”

“A lot of things, actually, mostly about you. I noticed that you always seem to follow Fred’s lead, but not in a way that he or anybody else even realises. It’s in the way that you’re slightly more laid back than he is, in the way that you always seem to let him have the last word and the way that you always let him be slightly more centre of attention. And I do mean let, because it’s not that he’s superior in any way, it’s that you know he enjoys the reaction he gets and it’s not that you don’t enjoy it, because I can see how much you love making people laugh, but it’s more important to you that he’s happy.”

He was closer still now, and looking at you as if it was the first time he’d really seen you but you were in full swing and barely even noticed.

“I know you like to joke about it but there’s a small part of you that hates the fact the no one seems to be able to tell the two of you apart. I get that, I’d find it more odd if you didn’t feel that way. You guys are separate people and it must be annoying to never be seen as anything other than a package deal. I also know that it annoys you, both of you, when people think there’s nothing more to you than childish pranks and it pisses you off that they dismiss your dream to open your own shop. Which it should, by the way. That’s the one that really pisses me off too because the amount of work and skill it takes to come up with the stuff f you do? It’s insane, it’s genius! None of them seem to realise that if you wanted to, you could wipe the floor with them in your exams and - Why are you looking at me like that?”

You’d only just registered the look of awe on the face of the boy in front of you. For that matter, when did he get so close? He was only inches away now and - was it suddenly hot in here? His kiss shouldn’t have surprised you but you didn’t think you could have ever prepared for it anyway. It wasn’t soft or slow, he kissed you deeply, as if you were the very thing that anchored him to this Earth and he would float off into the abyss if he wasn’t touching you. His tongue was twisting around yours, flooding your veins with fire and sending you weak, melting into him. It was his strong arms around your waist that kept you upright, your arms seeking purchase around his neck. Instinctively, your hands slid up the back of his neck to sink into his flaming locks. As he pulled you flush against him, you gave his hair a gentle tug and you felt his chest rumble against yours as he made a noise that sent your head spinning.

“WHAT ON EARTH DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!”

Well, damn. You flushed the colour of George’s hair as he leapt away from you as though he’d been scorched. You’d lost all concept of time and, apparently, location to that kiss. You couldn’t bring yourself to regret it, not even as you shrivelled under the deadly glare of the Potions Master. Although, you thought, now probably isn’t the time to point that out. Snape spluttered furiously for a few moments before gaining the composure to force out words.

“You will each lose 100 house points and serve detention for the rest of the term. Separately.” It took every ounce of strength and common sense you possessed not to laugh as he stressed the last word obnoxiously. “Get out of my sight!”

You didn’t look at George until you’d cleared the dungeons. When you locked eyes, you both sank against the corridor walls laughed until you were breathless and tearful. Once you’d both calmed down, George offered you his hand and hoisted you up from the ground, his arm settling comfortably over your shoulder as he moved you in the direction of your common room. His tone was soft when he eventually spoke,

“Not that it wasn’t absolutely outstanding, but I feel the need to let you know that wasn’t the way I planned on that going.”

“There was a plan? A plan about me?”

The surprise in your tone had him looking down at you fondly, “Maybe you’re not as observant as you like to think. Not when it comes to yourself anyway. I’ve known for weeks that you were watching me, Fred pointed it out. He then pointed out that I’d become just as bad when it came to watching you. I was intending to use this evening’s detention as a chance to ask you if you’d like to go out with me some time, but then you were saying all these things that no one else knows about me and I guess my impulsive nature got the best of me.” You laughed at that, impulsive he most certainly was. His serious tone returned, “I’m obviously not as good at it as you are, but I’d like the chance to get to know all those little things about you as well.”

“I think that can be arranged, Mr Weasley.”

You couldn’t help the quick flash of disappointment when you reached the tower to your common room, but it faded with the realisation that there would be more time for you and George. After he kissed you softly goodnight, you headed up to your dorm with heavy eyes and a light heart.

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There was confused murmuring from both Gryffindors and Ravenclaws alike the next morning as the passed by the four giant hourglasses in the Entrance Hall on the way to breakfast. Could it be right that both houses had lost so many points in the space of one night?

You were resolute in your mission to avoid looking up at the hourglasses as you hustled past the other students in what you hoped was complete anonymity. Although, surely no one could know it was you who lost so many house points. As you reached the perceived safety of your table in The Great Hall, you became aware that your entire group of friends was more focused on your arrival than was strictly normal. Of course it was Hannah who spoke, she was your best friend after all.

“There’s this rumour that you lost 100 house points after Snape caught you snogging George Weasley in the store room last night. Would you care to confirm or deny?”

A surreptitious glance over your shoulder told you that George appeared to be having a very similar encounter across the room. Totally worth it.

#imagines #harry potter imagine #Harry Potter #hp imagines #HP #george weasley imagine #george weasley #reader imagine #george weasley x reader #weasley imagine #weasley twins #weasley twins imagine

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alydiarackham · 5 years

Photo

(Cover by me)

Scales: A Fresh Telling of Beauty and the Beast by Alydia Rackham

Chapter One

“Once Upon A Time”

“Snakes!”

The shriek ripped down a wide stone corridor near the kitchens of Tirincashel, followed by the battering of fleeing footsteps. Eleanora threw herself back against the wall as Hattie, a plump kitchen maid, barreled past her, skirts hiked up in her thick hands.

“Run, Princess Ele!” Hattie puffed, her face red, her eyes wide, her bonnet askew. “There are snakes in the larder!”

“What?” Eleanora called after her. “What kind of snakes?”

“Blue asps!” Hattie shouted back, her voice pitching to a screech. “Dozens and dozens of them!” Her words dissolved into a trailing howl as she rounded the corner to sound the castle-wide alarm. Eleanora frowned, watching her, then gathered up her long green skirt and trotted down the hall in the exact direction Hattie had come from.

A winsome, slender fourteen, Princess Ele made little sound as she darted across the worn gray stones, through the alternate light and shadow

created by the line of tall windows to her left. The scent of lavender washed past her face. Her long black hair flagged out behind her as she hurried faster, listening. She swung around the corner to her right and hopped down a short staircase, then darted onward, past the rustling torches.

Up ahead, light shone from a doorway—and clanging, crashing and shouting rang out to meet her.

“Get back, get back, Ailse! You’re in the way!” a rough voice ordered—Ele recognized it as Pather’s, one of her father’s huntsmen.

“Sorry!” Ailse stammered, and stumbled backward into the hallway, almost tripping on her long skirt. The young, thin woman wore the plain white-and-tan cotton clothes and cap of a kitchen maid, and her eyes had widened with panic.

Ele’s feet pounded now, and Ailse jerked around and caught sight of her.

“Princess, you mustn’t come any closer!” she cried, throwing out her hands to stop her.

“I want to see!” Ele insisted, grabbing the doorframe of the larder and swinging around it—

Pather, a short, thick, dark-bearded man in softened leather, stood with his back to her, facing the hung baskets of onions, apples and herbs, his attention bent toward the feet of the wine casks that neatly lined the dirt floor. In his left hand he held a short club, and in the other, a gleaming hatchet.

Hssssssss…!

Ele’s blood ran cold as the sound shivered through the air. And at last, her attention caught on the writhing tangle near Pather’s feet.

Four asps, flowing like ink, wound and wended around each other, their scales twinkling in the lamplight, seeming to change hue even as they moved—from deepest midnight, to the ripple of the ocean at noon, to a shimmering silver.

But their eyes glowed red, like low embers, and their flickering tongues looked like needles of obsidian.

“You women need to get back,” Pather warned, adjusting his grip on his hatchet. “I don’t want—”

One of the snakes reared up.

It suddenly lifted half its body to waist height, and its neck flared with

silver spines. Its eyes blazed like fire, and its jaw spat open, revealing long, black fangs.

Pather swung his hatchet.

He struck the snake down and his blade connected with the ground—the snake’s head lopped off.

Ele slapped her hands over her mouth as her heart gave a painful pang—

“Don’t kill them!”

The other snakes exploded with snapping, hissing with the fury of bees. Pather ignored her—

And cut them all to pieces.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Their blood splattered across the casks.

The room fell silent. Pather, panting, righted himself, and hefted his weapon. He turned around, and glanced at Ele, then at Ailse. Sweat ran down his pale face.

“Are the two of you all right?”

Ele didn’t answer. She stared at the shreds of dead animal lying strewn behind him.

“I’m…I’m all right,” Ailse replied faintly. “Thank you, Pather…”

Pather’s heavy brow frowned, and his attention sharpened.

“Ailse, you look white.”

Ele turned to look at her…

Just as the young woman’s skin turned ash-gray, and she collapsed.

“No, no, no!” Pather cried, throwing down his club and hatchet and leaping forward. He clumsily caught her, and the two of them fell to the ground. Ele leaped back and hit the doorframe.

“She’s been stung!” Pather cursed as he hastily laid Ailse down and frantically began feeling all over her arms. Finding nothing, he then tossed the hem of her skirt aside…

To reveal a silver spine stuck through the skin of her ankle. A spine that oozed dark purple liquid.

Pather went still, staring at it.

Then, slowly, he covered his face with his hand.

A day later, Ailse died. She never regained consciousness after she collapsed in the hall. And as her family, friends, and the royal household watched, her skin turned from ash to gray, to the tone of stone, and at last her heart stopped. She was given a kindly burial by the king, for she had been a cheerful and helpful maid for five years.

Ele’s heart ached. And in the span of that day, she had ceased to feel any sympathy at all for those wicked blue asps, or any other creatures of like kind.

Chapter Two

“There Lived A Minstrel”

Seven Years Later

“No, you can’t wear that dress,” Oralia snapped, tossing her long, golden curls as she snatched the scarlet-and-silver gown out of Ele’s hands. She lifted her chin and her sky-blue eyes flashed before she spun around and marched back to her four-poster bed, which was covered in fluffy white pillows and comforters. “You have black eyes and black hair and not a pinch of color in your face,” Oralia went on in her swift, bird-like tone. “You would look like death. Even worse than you look right now, in that sack.”

Ele glanced down at her long-sleeved, loose-fitted beige dress and cream apron.

“Do you expect me to garden in a ball gown?” she asked as she folded her arms, sure to use her low, smooth voice to make her sound even older than her sister—though she only exceeded her by one year.

“You shouldn’t be gardening at all,” Oralia declared. “You’ll be dirty and smelly and brown and your hands will get rough—no one will want to marry you.”

“You really oughtn’t order me around,” Ele answered, a hint of warning in her tone. “It’s my dress and my birthday—I should to be able to wear what I want.”

“No,” Oralia shot back, ignoring the warning. “I’ve told you—I am planning everything. Including what you’re wearing.”

Ele considered an answer, then bit her tongue and sank down in a short chair near Oralia’s wardrobe, watching the shorter, blonde girl rush and fuss through her lavishly-decorated chambers, tossing dresses, undergarments and jewelry onto her bed.

Oralia was beautiful. She had a charming, glowing face, a lovely figure, and cascading golden hair that was the envy of every woman in the realm. And her eyes constantly sparkled, she had long, black lashes, dark eyebrows, and an elegant, effortless way of moving that almost looked like dancing. She also used a bright, endearing tone of speech with the servants, subjects, and their parents—a tone that Ele never heard when the two of them were alone together.

“I think the tapestries are a bit much,” Ele remarked, resting her elbow on the armrest and her chin on her hand. “I can’t see the walls.”

“The tapestries are gorgeous,” Oralia answered.

“Yes, but you have all of them, now,” Ele said. “Did you leave any in Mother’s room?”

“Mother doesn’t need them,” Oralia retorted. “She said so herself.”

“You have six lamps in here, too,” Ele observed. “And the gold mantel lions from Papa’s old chambers…”

“Listen,” Oralia huffed, straightening and facing her. “I like pretty things. I like pretty things all around me. And I especially like pretty things that other people aren’t properly appreciating!”

Ele watched her for a moment, a low pain traveling down through her chest.

“Is that what you thought of Roderick?” she asked quietly. “That I wasn’t properly appreciating him?”

“Tosh,” Oralia waved her off and straightened a bright pink frock. “He and I are not even close to betrothed. You can certainly have him back if you like.”

“Perhaps I would,” Ele murmured, not taking her eyes from her sister. “If he would even look at me.”

“Ha! Well, perhaps he will tonight,” Oralia said lightly. “I’m going to be paying my attentions to the new bard we hired—you remember, the one I heard at the fair and made Papa call to court?”

Ele’s brow furrowed.

“No…”

“Amberian, Master of Lute and Song!” Oralia sang the name, scooped up a dress and pressed it to her heart. “Though—everyone calls him Amber. Not sure why. They say he looks like it, but I have no idea what that means.” She sighed and gave Ele a dreamy look. “Wait until you hear him sing, Ele. You’ve never heard anything like it in your life. And people say he can compose songs right upon the instant, if you give him a line and a subject.” She twirled around, and the frilly skirt flared out around her. “I fell quite in love with him at the fair. Tonight, I’m going to have him write a song about me.”

“Oh, good,” Ele sat back in her chair. “Just what I wanted for my birthday.”

Oralia giggled and stopped spinning.

“Your birthday present is your new dress!” she said.

“My new dress?” Ele asked, surprised. “It’s finished?”

Oralia gave her a sly look.

“It’s just been delivered to your room.”

Ele sat up straight, then looked at Oralia sideways. But Oralia just grinned and twirled again. Ele hesitated, then got to her feet and hurried out of the room, hearing her sister laugh behind her.

“Oralia hates me.”

“What?! What makes you think that?”

“Look at what she’s given me to wear to the feast.” Ele held up the dress she had found waiting for her on her own bed: a bright orange gown with large ruffles all down the front of the skirt. It had not been wrapped, hung or folded.

“It…doesn’t have sleeves,” Ele’s mother—a tall, chestnut-haired, beautiful

woman with striking green eyes—raised an eyebrow and put her hands on her hips. “She said she was finished making it...”

“She did not make it,” Ele countered, tossing the dress down on her emerald bedclothes. “She got it from the trolls.”

“I might believe that,” her mother replied, sighing and fingering the skirt of the orange dress. “If trolls wore clothes.”

Ele sighed as well and ran her hand absently down through her own long hair, studying her mother’s winsome, brown-clad figure. Ele frowned.

“How do you braid your hair like that?”

“Four strands,” her mother answered absently, pushing her own long, thick plait out of the way—the end of it brushed the rug.

“Can you do that with mine? For this evening?”

“Mhm,” her mother nodded. Then, she glanced up at her daughter. “What are you going to wear?”

“I will not wear this,” Ele pointed at the hideous orange dress. Mother paused, and watched her, a weight seeming to settle around her.

“Today is your birthday, Eleanora. Today, you’re of age, and have as much authority as I do.”

Ele’s head came up, her attention caught by her mother’s tone. She watched Mother’s eyes as she solemnly gazed back at her.

“Your commands to those beneath you cannot be overruled,” Mother went on. “And your father and I will uphold all of your decisions. The kingdom now expects you to behave with the mind of a queen.” Mother reached out and took Ele by the shoulders, speaking low and warm. “You know the law. Papa and I will now step back from you, so that you may be ruled by your own heart and mind. And we are eager to see what you will do.”

“So…what does that mean?” Ele asked. “Regarding the dress?”

Mother winked at her.

“You may wear whatever you like.”

Ele smiled back, relieved deep down within her as she watched Mother leave. She listened to her footsteps fade away down the corridor. Then, she sighed, sank down and laid on her back on her wide, canopied bed. Her headboard rested against the stone wall, and just to the left of it stood a wide window, through which the afternoon sun poured. The light washed over Ele as she lay there, gazing at her empty ceiling, breathing in the scent of the cinnamon and cloves that she always enjoyed keeping in a small bowl on her vanity. She diddled her fingers, her gut slowly tightening, until an aching knot formed.

Roderick would be at the feast tonight. As Father’s bravest and finest knight, it was out of the question to exclude him from royal festivities. And he would be following Oralia around all evening, even if she was chasing the minstrel…

“Hmhmm…Hmmm…Hmhm”

Ele’s brow furrowed, her attention sharpening.

A low, melodic tone drifted through the slight crack in her window.

A voice.

Slowly, she sat up.

She climbed off the bed and circled it, then approached her window. Carefully, she pressed her fingertips against the lowest pane, and the window swung open. She rested her arms on the cool stone sill, and glanced down into the bright courtyard just one story below.

Other than the guards at the gate, the broad courtyard was deserted—except for a single person. He sat on the steps of the well, in the shade of its little canopy, with a butter-colored lute resting across his lap. He carelessly plucked the strings—they jingled pleasantly within the stone enclosure. Ele’s gaze fixed on him, and she couldn’t look away.

He wore fine, tanned leather, much of which had been dyed playful colors. He also had on walking shoes, but no hat. She noticed this peripherally, though, to the rest of his soft and unusual aspect.

His skin was a warm, southern tone—black eyebrows and lashes. He had a handsome face, tilted to the side as he attended to his lute. His short, curly hair bore a mix of colors: some strands of deep russet, others charcoal, others like the embers of a low fire, others like burnished gold. He struck a chord, then took a deep breath…

And began to sing, all for himself.

And Ele’s heart rose to the clouds.

“If a gold coin lies down

In the shaft of a well

And deep water hides it

Its worth can you tell?

If the shadows conceal it and moss makes its bed

Is this gold valued less

Than upon a king’s head?”

Even dressed in childish lyrics and a lilting tune, she had never heard a voice like it. Like the sunshine on a summer’s day after a wash of delightful rain. Like a river laughing downhill through shimmering stones. Like a lit hearth in the evening after a long day of hiking through the snow. Like cider and honey, like candles at twilight, like wind off the ocean, like bells resounding through a valley…

Like nothing in the world. The more she searched her heart for comparisons, the fewer she found that even came close. She held her breath as she listened, chastising even her heartbeat for distracting from the song.

His fingers moved deftly across the strings, and he lifted that voice once more, with an ease that made Ele beam with delight.

“So mark well my words now

Remember this tune

Lest the world tries a falsehood

To lead you untrue

No matter the depths of the black water cold

The coin is still worth all its true weight in gold.”

His fingers lifted off the strings. The last notes echoed and settled into the courtyard, as if coming home to roost within the walls. The young man sighed, and moved to stand up.

“Will you be playing that tonight?” Ele’s voice startled the echoes—but she smiled even more broadly as the surprised young man hopped to his feet, and his eyes found hers. Eyes of the brightest brown—almost coppery.

She knew who he was. This had to be Amberian of the Lute. But Ele suddenly realized why the name “Amber” was the only one that suited him.

“Hullo!” he answered her, a reflexive smile lighting his features. Then he laughed. “I didn’t know anyone was up there.”

“I was hiding,” Ele confessed. “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

“Oh, I was just practicing.” He swung his lute strap over his shoulder.

“It was beautiful,” Ele told him, a sudden lump in her throat. His smile brightened, and he briefly ducked his head.

“Thank you.”

Ele blinked. Modesty? With that voice?

“Has…Has someone come to invite you in?” she asked.

He looked up at her again, and shook his head.

“Not yet. I think they’ve forgotten me.”

“No, no, no,” Ele chuckled. “I have it on good authority that Princess Oralia is dying to see you.” She straightened and held up a finger. “Stay put—I’ll go see to it that someone opens the doors for you.”

“What should I do then?”

Ele stopped.

“Hm?”

His coppery eyes searched hers—earnest and open.

“Once I come in,” he clarified. “I’ve never sung for a king before. And…I’ve always found it’s a good idea to ask other servants what to expect before I enter a new house.”

Ele’s face flushed, and she opened her mouth—

Then stopped herself. Smiled slowly.

“That’s probably wise,” she answered. She lifted her chin. “Well…If I were you, I’d get settled into my quarters first, and be careful to memorize the way, since all the passages twist in that corner of the castle. And, at dinner tonight, I would stay in sight of the king and queen—I know they’ll want to hear you. After that, when the dancing begins, get clear of the knights. They don’t have any patience for minstrels, especially if they’ve been enjoying the mead.”

Amber’s brow furrowed—worry crossed his gaze.

“Or,” Ele suddenly added. “If….you need to escape entirely, there is a library just off the dining hall. I’ve hidden there myself.” She gazed at him again, unable to keep the warmth from her tone. “But I’m sure it won’t come to that. You’ll do very well.”

Amber drew himself up, and the tension eased from his shoulders.

“Best of luck,” Ele said, straightening to withdraw into her room—though her heart gave an odd pang. “I need to be going.”

“Will you be there this evening?” Amber called. Ele stopped.

“Yes,” she said. “I will.”

“I’ll see you soon, then!” he waved at her. Her grin widened, she waved back, pulled in and shut the window. After standing for just a moment, staring across her room, she drew her head up in decision, and made for the door.

Chapter Three

“Who Danced With A Princess”

Ele walked quietly down the cool, torch-lit corridors, her floor-length, homespun green gown rustling with her steps. It had long, fitted sleeves, simple gold embroidery around the scooped collar, a slender waist and a flared skirt. It was comfortable, and nothing more formal than a day dress. She also wore no jewelry at all, and her mother had braided her hair without ornament.

Ele’s cold fingers closed as she heard the sounds of the party—voices, clanging dishes, shuffling feet—roll toward her down the stone hall. Rich scents drifted around her, too: breads, pheasant, boar, venison, ciders, wines, and roasted nuts. Her stomach clenched even harder. She slowed and bit her cheek. Halted. Slid her right foot backward.

“Eleanora!”

She jerked, her hand flying to her heart. It hammered against her ribs as a tall figure blundered out of the shadows to her right and came to a panting halt. She could halfway see him in the torchlight—slender and handsome, with dark hair and vibrant blue eyes. Eyes she had often compared to the spring sky. He wore the leather and dress jerkin of the knighthood of the royal house. And the sight of him sent pain shooting from her chest out to her fingers and all the way down her back.

“Roderick,” she gasped, lowering her hand and giving him a look. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

“No,” he quickly gave a half smile. “No, I was looking for you.”

She watched him.

“Why?”

“Well, your father is looking for you, for one,” he said, finally catching his breath. “And I also hoped I’d have the honor of sitting next to you this evening, and dancing with you at least twice.”

Ele stared at him, but he only gazed back at her, and smiled.

“The seating is arranged,” Ele carefully reminded him. “You’ve been assigned to Oralia’s right hand—she did that herself—”

“Never mind her,” he waved it off. “You and I are still good friends, are we not? And I’ve neglected you lately. Besides, Oralia is otherwise occupied. With party business.”

Ele frowned—

“A prince of realms did hold a ball,

Forced to marry, against his will

But to the ball, a lady came

All else forgot but this lady fair

And he must dance with her, oh—

And he must dance with her

Throw over all the kingdom’s worth,

But he must dance with her.”

A voice—as pure as refined gold and as rich as aged wine resounded through the feasting hall ahead of her, silencing the chatter and hushing all the guests to listening. She glanced at Roderick. His smile faltered. Ele drew in a deep breath. It hurt badly.

“You don’t want to spend time with me,” she realized. “And you wouldn’t. Except that Oralia is sitting with the minstrel. Isn’t she?”

Roderick blinked.

“No,” he shook his head. “I mean—She is? I hadn’t noticed. I…How did you…?”

Ele’s gut twisted and her fists clenched.

“You want to make her jealous,” she said. “Pretending to pay court to me so she’ll come to you.”

“No, Ele—” Roderick held up his hand.

“I am a princess of this kingdom,” Ele snapped, her eyes stinging. “You will address me as ‘your royal highness,’ ‘princess’ or ‘my lady.’” Suddenly, her whole body broke out in shivers, and she had to fight to form her next words. “But not now,” she managed. “I do not wish to see you or anyone for the rest of the evening.” And she charged past him, away from the feasting hall and down a dark, narrow corridor where no one but the servants ever walked.

“She was so fair, she was so sweet

He was stricken with true love

But when he asked, she would not tell

The name her mother gave.

He fell in love with her, oh—

He fell in love with her

Throw over all the kingdom’s worth

But he fell in love with her.”

Amber delicately pressed the thin strings of his lute with his fingertips, watching their progress as he plucked with the other hand. The notes reverberated through the wooden chest of the instrument, shimmering through the large, towering banquet hall. He sat on a low, comfortable stool with the wide granite fireplace to his back. The crackling flames behind him warmed his jerkin, almost humming along with the tune. He smiled to himself, took a deep breath, and kept singing.

“At midnight’s strike, she fled from him

And left behind her shoe,

The prince despairs of finding her

But he vows that’s what he’ll do.”

As he sang, he lifted his head, and glanced around the room. Torches lit it, as did tall, white-wax candles atop gold and silver sticks. The three long food-and-wine-laden tables had been arranged in a U, with its open end toward him. The king and queen sat directly across from him in tall, wooden chairs. Queen Lilian was beautiful and stately, with dark hair and emerald eyes that sparkled as she watched him, her fingers lightly entwined. King Herrard sat back, a small, pleasant smile on his bearded face. He reminded Amber every inch of a lionesque monarch—with a blond mane of hair, weather-beaten features and warm brown eyes. Both royals wore splendid comfort—scarlets and golds unrivaled anywhere else, with glimmering jewelry on their hands and throats. At the other tables sat courtiers and knights also dressed in glittering garb—many of the women wore elaborate hats and headdresses. They all listened to Amber, eating quietly if their appetites demanded it, as the flamelight played across their finery, the cutlery, and their attentive gazes. Amber’s attention once more caught on the royal table. The chair to the right of the queen stood empty. As did the two chairs to the king’s left. He could only account for one of those vacancies.

For on a fur rug right next to his feet sat princess Oralia, dressed in scarlet embroidered with white, and diamonds dancing at her ears and upon her fair throat. Her gold hair, in endless ringlets, spilled down her shoulders all the way to the floor. She watched him fixedly with radiant blue eyes, her perfect, blushing face tilted toward him. Amber kept singing.

“And he must find her soon, oh—

Yes, he must find her soon

Throw over all the kingdom’s worth

But he must find her soon.”

With a gentle flourish, he finished the song and lifted his right hand off the strings, smiling down at the gleaming face of his lute.

“Ah!” the courtiers exclaimed—a half-sigh of pleasure—and burst into applause. Amber raised his head and met several of their happy glances as cheering rang through the rafters. The king and queen rose to their feet, and the king struck his hands together mightily, grinning from ear to ear. Amber got up, and bowed to them at the waist. When he straightened, he found the king still beaming, and shaking his head.

“Though I spent my boyhood and youth in the north with my father, living amongst the fellowship of Caldic Curse-Breakers,” he boomed. “And night after night, around their enchanted fires, I listened to their music—music spun from the weavings of the wind, and the tones of the very morning light itself…” He held out a hand to Amber. “I have never heard such a song as that. How proud I am that I, of all fortunate men, am blessed to have the finest voice in all the land grace my humble halls.”

The court burst into another round of clapping, nodding firmly to Amber and to each other. Amber inclined his head to him, his heart swelling.

“And how proud I am,” the king shouted over the noise. “To have a daughter with such impeccable taste—and cheerful stubbornness—that she insisted I bring him here, to delight us this evening and forevermore!” He gestured broadly to Oralia, fondness glowing in his features. She hopped to her feet, and gave them all cute curtsey, at which the courtiers laughed.

“And now,” the king went on. “As we have all eaten our fill, I pray that the other musicians come forth to play for the dancing!”

A wilder cheer went up as the four-piece ensemble shuffled out with their pipes and drums, and began arranging their chairs and stools. The roar of the hall billowed over Amber, as well as the thousand delicious scents from the feast, and warmth bloomed through his chest. Maybe now he could go to the kitchen and get some food—he hadn’t eaten all day—and come back out to watch some of the dancing—

Fingers grabbed his wrist. He swung around.

Oralia had hold of him with both her hands, and she tilted her head coyly at him.

“Come, Amber!” she cried, pulling close to his face. Lavender perfume washed over him.

“Come dance,” she enticed, smiling beautifully. She slid her hand down and interlaced their fingers. “I’ve been waiting all evening to dance! Please?”

“With me?” he cried.

“Of course! Why not?” she insisted.

“Ha,” Amber laughed. “All right—if you say so.”

“I do,” she answered resolutely. “Come!”

Amber managed to set his lute down on his chair before she pulled him toward the group of courtiers who had lined up in the center of the room. Amber filed in next to the men and faced the iridescent princess, who gave him a saucy look as she took her place. The musicians tuned, paused—then burst into song.

With a grin, Amber sprang into the dance—Oralia followed immediately. They swung and swirled together, weaving expertly between the other colorful dancers as the music soared to the ceiling. They met in the middle, he wrapped his arm around her waist and they spun wildly—both let out ringing laughs. Oralia’s golden hair flung out behind her like a glorious flag, her skirt flaring like flower petals. The dance blurred around them, and they easily kept pace with the quick rhythm, out-dancing everyone else on the floor.

The music built to a frenzied beat—Amber’s heart pounded in his ears—and finally, the players finished with a sweep of gusto. The seated courtiers began to clap first, then the panting dancers. Amber applauded, nodding at the fevered musicians, then sent a happy look to Oralia—

Who promptly stepped to him and pressed her lips to his cheek in a quick kiss. His face went hot.

“I’m off to get a drink,” she told him as she skipped back. “I will find you for the next dance!”

Amber could only get out a laugh before she darted off through the crowd. Shaking his head, Amber made his way to a long side table where sat a large bowl of cold, red punch, along with several empty silver goblets. He picked up a goblet, hefting its weight in his hand, and reached for the ladle—

A hand slapped down on his left shoulder. An arm draped across his back. Amber instantly went still. His head came around to the right—

A knight. Back-haired, lean and wolf-like, with piercing blue eyes. Right next to him. With his arm around him.

And he stared straight back at Amber, his gaze like ice.

Amber’s heart thudded once.

The knight’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile, but it didn’t look real.

“What are you doing over here, bard?” the knight asked, his voice deep and calm.

“I’m…getting a drink,” Amber answered, his brow slowly furrowing as he watched those wintry eyes.

“Oh, you are,” the knight’s eyebrows raised. “Why?”

“I’m thirsty,” Amber replied. The knight’s hand tightened on Amber’s shoulder.

“And why is that?” the knight pressed.

“I have been dancing.”

“Ah. I see. That’s interesting,” the knight said casually. “Because I thought I was hallucinating earlier, when I saw the princess dancing with a servant.”

Amber’s jaw clenched. The knight’s crooked smile grew.

“And I was convinced my vision was continuing to blind me when I saw a servant approach a table meant for courtiers and royalty. I’m so glad you’ve confirmed the truth. I thought I was going quite mad.”

Amber said nothing. But his free hand closed into a tight fist. The knight’s grip tensed further.

“I’m not exactly certain what corner of the woods you’re from, lad—but in civilized places, there are such things as codes of conduct, and expectations for folk of various stations. And in this kingdom,” He leaned close, and hissed in Amber’s face. “Servants do not touch princesses. Neither do they pollute the food or drink of their betters. Now, I know you are a newcomer, so I will release you this one time.” The knight withdrew just slightly. “Just remember this, Fiddler: keep your station, and you’ll get to keep your fingers. Understood?”

A needle-like chill traveled down through Amber’s gut. He didn’t pull his eyes from the knight. Neither did he nod.

He stepped back. The knight let him go—and any semblance of smile vanished. Amber turned, strode across the room, picked up his lute from off his chair, and hurried around the standing mantel toward a short corridor, praying there would be a door at the end of it that led to something besides a broom cupboard.

Ele sat on the rug in the corner of the library to one side of a desk, knees hugged to her chest, staring absently at the flames in the broad fireplace across the room. All around her, the tall shadows of the tome-packed library stretched to a darkened ceiling. The crackle of the embers filled the silence. She counted her breaths, drawing in the scent of burning cedar and book-dust, absently running her thumb back and forth against her opposite forearm. She sighed. Her whole ribcage ached.

The door latch off to her left clacked. She sat up.

A quick, heavy sigh rushed through the quiet—hard footsteps intruded, the door squeaked and then clanked shut. Low panting followed, and then…

The person stepped in so that Ele could glimpse him around the desk. He entered the soft light from the hearth…

Tall, dark and warm—hair of twilight and autumn, clothes of a traveler, a lute in his hand. His brow twisted, and his gaze seemed faraway. He heaved another sigh, and raked his hand through his curls.

“So you did have to escape,” she noted.

He jumped, whirling around, his hand slipping on the lute so it gave a disconcerted “twang.” Ele felt herself smiling—though it hurt—and climbed tiredly to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she laughed. “It’s just me.”

His startled eyes found her, and he blew out his breath as his frame relaxed.

“You keep scaring me,” he said, recovering a faint grin. “It’s starting to get embarrassing.”

Ele ducked her head and chuckled, slipping around the desk and wrapping her arms around herself.

“I’m not trying to,” she promised. “I suppose I’m just too quiet.”

“I’m probably too loud,” he said. “Or…not paying attention.”

“Maybe,” Ele shrugged amiably. She canted her head. “What are you running from?”

“Oh,” he gestured toward the door, and that furrow returned to his forehead. “There’s a knight out there who wants to kill me.”

Ele’s eyebrows went up.

“Kill you? Why?”

“I danced with the princess. And then I tried to get a drink of punch.” He sighed, setting his lute gently on the floor and leaning it against the mantel. “Apparently, I’m not allowed.”

Ele pulled her arms in tighter, then took a quick breath.

“That’s Sir Roderick.”

“Hm. Nice fellow,” Amber muttered.

“You’re afraid of him?” Ele wondered.

“Ha. Well,” Amber shot her a glance and sat down on the rug. “I can’t really count someone who threatens to cut off my fingers as a friend, can I?”

“What?” Ele yelped. “Roderick…Roderick said that?”

“I don’t know if it was Roderick,” Amber said. “I only just got here. I

barely remember the way to my rooms, I don’t know anyone—and I would rather not make any mortal enemies just yet.”

“You know me,” Ele corrected quietly. He looked up at her.

“Just a little,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“I’m…I’m Ele,” she said.

“Oh, well—” Amber sat up and held out his right hand to her. “My name’s Amberian, son of Caspell of Nerrinton. I’m called Amber.”

Ele hesitated, then stepped fully into the firelight and stretched out her right hand. He caught her fingers. His were warm, and soft. Again, he gave her that smile—a smile that had faded in the wake of his mood, but now shone back bright as day.

He held onto her a moment, gazing up at her. She watched the firelight play across all the colors in his eyes.

He let go.

“Nerrinton?” Ele repeated. “That’s very far south, isn’t it? Close to the ocean?”

“Mhm,” he nodded, settling back against the stone of the mantel. “It’s always hot there—it’s wonderful. Big city, busy all the time. My parents are merchants. Well…My father started the business, but then he died and his brother married my mother.”

“Oh,” Ele nodded, cautiously settling down onto her knees a few feet from him. “Have you moved in here all right? To your rooms? How are they?”

“They’re fine,” he assured her, folding his arms and stretching his legs out in front of him. “Much better than any I’ve had before. Someone named…Roger showed me the way. I tried to take your advice and memorize the halls,” he shot her a twinkling glance. “But I know I’ll get lost at least once, especially in the dark.” He shifted toward her. “So, what do you do here? You’re too well-dressed to be a kitchen maid or anything like that. Are you a lady’s maid? You help the queen?”

“When she needs me,” Ele hid a smile.

“No wonder you know everything,” he remarked.

Just outside, a sprightly whistle-and-pipe tune began to play, and the whole hall thudded with a hundred sets of footsteps, in time with the music. Amber groaned.

“I wanted to at least watch the dancing,” he complained. “But now if I show my face that knight will pound it in.”

Ele giggled, and covered her mouth with her hand.

“It isn’t funny at all,” he muttered. She choked on her laughter.

“You’re missing the party too,” Amber noted. “Why?”

“I just…” Ele lowered her hand and swallowed hard. “I wasn’t in the mood. To be around a lot of people.”

“But you like dancing,” he lifted his eyebrows.

“Yes—”

“Then let’s dance.”

Ele mentally staggered.

“What—?”

“Yes, come on,” he said, hopping to his feet. He clapped his hands once, then held them out to her. She stared at him.

“Come on,” he beckoned with his fingers.

“I only know line dances—” Ele protested.

“I’ll show you a dance we did all the time in Nerrinton,” he cut in. “You’ll pick it up right away—promise.”

“I’m…” Ele started, her heart hammering. He just waited, then looked slyly at her sideways and wiggled his fingers. She heaved a sigh, rolled her eyes, and tried not to smile as she got up and grasped his hands.

“All right, this is a quick tune, but we can do it,” he said, setting his stance. “First, it’s three fast steps this way…” He led her thus. “And then three fast steps back. Then we do that again.”

Ele battled to keep up, biting the side of her cheek.

“Then we twirl under,” he went on, and whirled her into a bridge-like spin, and they faced each other again. “Then this way three steps, that way three steps—”

Ele stumbled.

“I’m actually rubbish at dancing.” She caught her balance and blushed. “I can never pick it up—”

“Nonsense, you’re fine,” he said. “All right, the three steps is the pattern, remember that. We do that one way, then the other way, and then something in the middle, repeating. First the under twirl, then the spin, and then we come in and do the three steps a different way.”

“What different way—?”

“Three steps first. Go.” They hopped three steps one way, then three

steps back, and then he spun her around by her hands so the whole room

whirled. She accidentally giggled. He beamed.

“All right, three steps—go!”

They danced one way, then the other—

And he stepped in, slid his right arm around her waist and pulled her

against his chest. Their faces were suddenly inches apart. She looked up at him—she saw flecks of gold in his eyes. Her heart caught—

The next moment, he tugged her into a dizzying spin, and then they danced their six steps that way. Ele couldn’t breathe.

“All right, and then we start over!” Amber said, leaping back and gripping her hands again. “Three steps this way!”

They did this again and again, faster each time, it seemed—and yet, before Ele knew it, here feet were flying. And she was laughing. Laughing so hard she thought she might break a rib. Around and around they spun, across that library rug, rushing by the mantel fire, sending mad shadows flashing upon the faces of the book-covered walls.

Finally, the music burst to its end, like a firecracker, and Ele and Amber collapsed to the floor, panting through their laughter.

“Well…” Amber managed. “I might need a while to recover from that one.”

“A year at least,” Ele answered. Amber fell backward, laughing full-out, pressing both hands to his heart. Ele managed to stay sitting up, her skirt thrown haphazardly across her legs.

“Yes. At least,” Amber said, swiping at his eyes. “Especially with no food in me.”

“What?” Ele asked, brushing her own tears away. “You haven’t eaten?”

“No,” he said. “Not all day.”

“Oh, no,” Ele clambered to her feet, clearing her throat. “That isn’t good—you’ll be ill.”

“Ha, don’t worry about me. This would not be the first time I went a whole day without food.”

“Well, you shouldn’t!” Ele insisted, smoothing her hair. “Not while you live here.” She started toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Amber wondered, propping himself up on his arms.

“I haven’t eaten, either,” she told him. “We’ll have a picnic.”

“Inside?”

“Why not?” she grinned at him. He grinned back. She found the door

in the far corner—far opposite the one Amber had entered—pulled it open

and stuck her head out into the cool, dark corridor.

“Hattie,” she called in a sharp whisper. “Hattie!”

Clattering issued from the end of the hall, a door opened—light spilled out. Then, the plump maid came bustling down the hall toward her, her face pinched with alarm.

“Your Highness?” she hissed back. “What are you doing in the library?”

“Is there any food left?” Ele asked. Hattie came to a stop, and squeezed her fingers together.

“Erm—there is one little roast hen, erm…some little potatoes, some carrots, bread sauce, sweet onions—”

“Oh, good!” Ele cried. “Bring all of that, prepared for two. Along with some water. And some tea as well.”

“Two, miss?” Hattie jumped.

“Yes, the minstrel and I will be eating together in the library.”

Hattie’s mouth pursed so tightly it almost vanished.

“He hasn’t eaten the entirety of the day, and he is near collapse. I thought I would keep him company, seeing that he is a complete stranger here, and lonely for his home. Would you like to join us, Hattie?” Elle invited. “I’m certain you’d like to sit down for a while—you’ve been working so hard. Betsy too, she can come—”

The tension vanished from Hattie’s face.

“No, thank you, ma’am—maybe in a little while…But yes, I’ll get that for you, straightaway!”

“Thank you, Hattie,” Ele said sincerely, and the maid turned and bustled away. Ele shut the door again, swung around and strode back to the fireplace where Amber sat cross-legged. He watched her with narrowed eyes, and a small smile.

“What?” she asked lightly, coming to sit just in front of him, parallel to the fireplace, in the same fashion.

“You’re more important than I thought,” Amber noted, studying her. “Giving orders to other servants? What are you, the…Mistress of the Robes?”

Ele sighed, smiled a little, then rolled her eyes at the ceiling.

“No,” she admitted. “I’m Oralia’s sister.”

She pulled her gaze down to meet his. The mirth faded from Amber’s features. He stared at her.

“Her…elder sister,” Ele added.

“Oh…” Amber’s eyebrows came together. “I…”

Ele waited, not moving.

“I’ve really put my foot in it, haven’t I?” he said.

“What?” Ele said. “What do you mean?”

“I’m…” he shook his head, baffled.

A knock came at the door. He twitched.

“Stay there,” Ele told him. She got up, hurried to the door, and opened it.

“Here you are, miss,” Hattie entered, smiling, carrying a wide tray of steaming food. Betsy, a much younger kitchen maid with frayed blonde hair, entered after her, bearing a tray with the tea and the water.

“Where would you like them?” Hattie asked.

“Just on the floor, there,” Ele pointed. “Like mother and I do when it’s cold out.”

“Yes, miss,” Hattie said, lowering the platter down to the rug with a clatter. Betsy bent and carefully did the same.

“Hattie, Betsy, may I present Amberian, the new court musician,” Ele said, gesturing to him. “Amber, this is Hattie and Betsy. They work in the kitchens. And Hattie is the greatest cook in the realm.”

“Oh, tut, tut,” Hattie waved her off, clearly pleased. “We certainly already know who this young man is.”

“Yes, we heard him singing,” Betsy murmured, her face going red.

“And a lovely voice it is, too,” Hattie declared, tipping toward him. “We are so happy to have you with us, Amberian.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Amber answered brightly. “The pleasure is mine, truly. And thank you for the food.”

“My princess’ command is my delight,” Hattie declared. “Eat quickly! Don’t let it get cold!”

“Thank you, Hattie; Betsy,” Ele dipped her head to them as they scurried out. As soon as the door had shut, Ele sat down with a huff, facing Amber, and took a deep breath of the delicious, rich, steaming scent of the roasted hen and vegetables.

“So, you were saying,” she prompted Amber, snatching up a long fork and a carving knife.

“I was saying,” Amber said. “That…I’ve only been here a day and I’ve danced with two princesses.”

“You’re liked by the royal family,” Ele said, stabbing into the hen and

deftly sawing it in half. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“That knight will kill me,” Amber muttered. “Sir Rodback.”

“Roderick,” Ele shot him a glance.

“Yes, him.”

“Ha,” Ele snorted. “Roderick doesn’t care what I do.”

“He doesn’t? Why not?” Amber asked. She lifted her eyes to his for a moment—he gazed at her softly.

“Here,” she said, pushing half of the hen toward him. “Eat.”

“Is there…another fork?”

“No,” she set the utensils down. “No need.” And she took hold of a greasy piece of meat with her fingers, tore it off, and put it in her mouth.

“Ha. All right,” Amber chuckled, and followed suit.

Together, they ate with their fingers, not bothering to divide the food into separate portions. The hen, as usual with Hattie’s cooking, melted in Ele’s mouth, and the potatoes, carrots and onions had been glazed in honey, and roasted to utter perfection. In between ravenous bites, Ele and Amber talked about dancing, and about his mother’s cooking, which he said nearly rivaled this.

After they had cleaned the plate, Ele poured some water into a bowl and they washed their fingers, and dried them on a towel Hattie had put on the tray. Then, they drank their tea while leaning back against the warm mantel, each of them on one side of it. At last, in a moment of silence, Ele glanced up, and sighed.

“The hall has gone quiet,” she observed.

“Mm,” Amber acknowledged drowsily.

“Are you tired?”

“Mm,” he said again, stretching his legs.

“Come, then,” Ele said, setting her tea down. “I’ll walk you back to your quarters.”

Amber glanced over at her.

“Are you supposed to do that?”

She looked at him.

“Would you rather get lost?”

“No.”

“Thought not,” she said, and got to her feet, her skirts rustling. “Come on. I’ll clean this later.”

Amber groaned and stood up, then gestured to the door.

“Lead the way.”

Together they left the library and wound through the dark, hushed stone hallways, flickering in and out of the moonlight that sneaked in through the occasional window. They turned a corner—

“Watch out for the—”

“Oof!” Amber tripped down the single stair. He lashed out and grabbed her—she grabbed him back.

“—stair,” she finished, gripping his jerkin as he regained his balance.

“Why in the—” he started loudly.

“Ssh!” she giggled. “People are trying to sleep.”

“You need to tell me sooner about the stairs,” he hissed, dusting himself off.

“I tried!” she insisted. “Shh! Come on.” She reached down and grasped his hand. In spite of his loss of footing, his fingers wrapped around hers in instant trust. Her heart warmed. She tugged on him, and together they pattered down the final stretch of corridor.

“All right—this is your room, isn’t it?” Ele gestured to a low door.

“Yes,” he answered breathlessly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Get some sleep!”

Amber passed around her and opened the door.

“Thank you for the evening,” he said. “I enjoyed myself.”

“Yes,” she answered. “I’m…I’m glad you’ve come to Tirincashel.”

“So am I!” he agreed. He reached out, his hand blundered into her arm, and he squeezed her fingers. “Goodnight!”

“Goodnight!” she replied. And with that, he ducked inside, and shut the door behind him.

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/Scales-Fresh-Telling-Beauty-Beast-ebook/dp/B072JTPP3C/ref=pd_sim_351_2/146-6363556-3395043?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=B072JTPP3C&pd_rd_r=ab0c3f28-93dd-409c-b443-b38d0d56a0f0&pd_rd_w=VQqvj&pd_rd_wg=BOYjn&pf_rd_p=5abf8658-0b5f-405c-b880-a6d1b558d4ea&pf_rd_r=BW8S2ZGZQ4AV8K2H1GGE&psc=1&refRID=BW8S2ZGZQ4AV8K2H1GGE

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isleofandroids · 6 years

Text

Partners: Part Two (RK900 x Reader)

Fandom Detroit: Become Human

Word Count 1,873

Summary After being paired with the new addition to the DPD, you have to learn how to deal with the post-android events

PART ONE

Tags @x6-15 @sherlockspie @yallgotkik @avereality @riridmanngrl @jamiethenerdymonster @not-a-kat

—

The Detroit Police Department was buzzing with phone calls and randomized conversations between coworkers. Their voices filled the ears of the second deviant hunter as he sat at his desk, going through files to get himself refocused on the mission. The same whirring sensation from the day before was constantly in the back of the RK900’s software once he stepped into the building that morning and saw no sign of you. It was unlike his partner to show up late - possibly not at all - but even while the two of you worked cases together, he found your absence irrelevant to any investigations. Allowing himself to emit any worry for a human would conclude that he was having instability issues, and that couldn't happen.

However, he couldn't help but wonder. You were upset yesterday, which only grew to fury once he tried to get you to see reason. The situation was odd. The android had trouble calculating exactly what had happened, only coming to the conclusion that the shooting was the reason for your behavior. But why? The suspect ran away from its owners, evaded police, and refused to cooperate. It didn't plan on leaving with them, he could tell. Why couldn't you see that?

The attention of some employees were caught by a figure strolling in, sunglasses on and hands stuffed in the front pockets of their jacket. If it was possible, the android detective straightened his posture even more, adjusting his jacket. Blue orbs trailed your path as you took slow strides toward the desk across from the new recruit. He analyzed your current state - tired eyes, sluggish movement, posture more slouched than the times you held a sense of laziness when on desk duty. As a courtesy, he waited until you were seated to state his findings. “Your blood alcohol content is only .15 below the minimum intoxication level. You went back to the bar when we parted ways yesterday.”

You brought your index and middle finger together, sending the man a salute. “Bingo, Mr. Robot.”

Conner opened and closed his mouth several times as his LED flashed yellow, failing at computing a proper response. At the lack of comeback you raised an eyebrow, but only shrugged and occupied yourself quickly with recent case files. The RK900 continued to eye you, leaning over from his own space with arms crossed atop the surface. “I found a case on another missing android. Shall we head out after you're ready?”

It took a few minutes of papers shuffling and things being set down before you brought your gaze up to his, copying his action as you leaned in closer. Plastering a wry smile you asked, “Why? So you can shoot them before I get a real chance at getting them to cooperate?” You moved back into the computer chair and shook your head. “No thanks.”

The brunette tilted his head, possible ways of getting you to agree flitting through his system. Simply pulling you along wasn't going to do a thing unless he wanted more anger thrown his way. Stating the facts processed within his software the same way as before certainly would've been the wrong approach. If reasoning was going to be done, then it had to be with words that would get your cooperation and still have truth to them. “I will refrain from interfering with your choice of approach.” At your bored look, he added, “Doing so will only aid in a failed or delayed completion of the investigation. And I have no intentions of failing at all, Detective L/N.”

For a short moment all Conner received was a humming sound to ensure you were processing his words. Surely someone as determined as him wouldn't lie, especially when no matter how intelligent he was created to be, a human was still needed to empathize and make things easier when dealing with rogues. You sighed and nodded your head. Pushing the seat away from the desk, you stood up, grumbling about not even getting a chance to unwind. Your partner moved to follow, steps in sync with yours almost immediately. The walk to the car was quiet, the only exchange being when you asked him to give directions. Once the vehicle started down the road, it was all exactly that. There was no chatting about irrelevant things, teasing, or back and forth - just two people on their way to getting a job done.

Admittedly, the lack of conversation was beginning to weigh down. Usually, it wouldn't be a problem. However, the fact that nothing was happening because he upset her somehow didn't sit well with him. There were multiple subjects that could be brought up to most likely open the idea of starting a conversation. Each one more cliche than the last - weather, favorite things, pointless small talk. Was there nothing that would grab your attention? As he contemplated the current situation, his memory recalled the one and only time he'd been inside your apartment. Most of the information stored about your person were bits taken from what he saw and read. Your hobbies, where you liked to go, the places you traveled, some family members and friends. But the thing that stood out the most was your dog. A [breed] that was only a year old, but had an issue with one of its legs that day.

“Has it received medical attention?” You glanced over, confusion written all over your face. “Your dog. If my memory is correct, its front left leg was suffering from an unexplainable cause of injury.”

“Oh.” He hadn't been in your place for weeks now. “My dog is fine. She stayed overnight at a veterinary clinic - I've had her in some kind of physical therapy session since then.” Your fingers tapped against the steering wheel as you took a turn sharp turn. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

Conner nodded his head, eyes focused on the road as the remainder of the road instructions sat in the back of his mind. “We are partners, Detective. It proves to be more productive if we at least attempt at cooperating with one another.”

“Oh, is that why you would change the subject every time I tried to ask a personal question?” You asked condescendingly.

He took a few seconds to think about the response. “You try to see me as more than what I was made to be. What your kind deem hobbies or interests have no place in my creation. I have one goal and one initiative - to accomplish my mission in hunting and deactivating deviants. All other aspects that would make one human are of no use to me. Foremost, I am and will always be a machine.”

A newfound absence of sound arose during the time you mulled over his answer. You found it ridiculous how he constantly shut down the possibility that he could be or become as human as many other androids have. There were discrete differences in his behavior from when he first arrived to now. The way he addressed things, starting conversations unrelated to work or deviants, actually wanting to know about coworkers’ personal lives. So much already counted as a sign of software instability, but no matter how large the change seemed, you saw how he always managed to snap himself back into machine mode without doing the daily self assessment. Was it really such a horrible thing? Having free will and being able to fully express yourself? It was what everyone in America wanted and what most (including CyberLife’s technological beings) were able to have. It didn't help that Connor RK800 was already well into deviancy and expressing his emotions more when the newer model arrived. It just fueled the need to successfully complete the mission without letting anything disrupt his programming or focus. Including who he was assigned to work with (when push came to shove).

Conner, on the other hand, did in fact understand your underlying frustrations. After sensing the distinct change in your tone of voice each time those kind of moments occurred, he would take short time in assessing that you had hope in his transference. The reason was beyond what he was capable of guessing, and making assumptions only ever seemed to dim a talk into negative reactions and situations. The self assessments done each night after work were done to ensure he would not become one of those heathens, yet the same question always rose up when he spoke to Amanda.

“Have they succeeded?”

“Of course not.” He always said, completely aware of who the woman spoke of. “No one has been or will be able to corrupt my programming. I am confident that I will complete my mission without system disruption.”

Yet here he was. In the car with someone who made his wires and gears work the wrong way. Someone who would immediately question his being a machine from a simple comment, ask or action. Someone who just the day before caused his insides to whir around in a way that made him shut down in confusion - even if only for a few seconds.

Suddenly their tires came to a halt, and the brunette's head turned to look out the window. A large warehouse loomed over the car, light clouds fading away the darker the sky became as afternoon turned into evening. Windows were broken and doors were boarded shut. Trees and shrubs covered the surrounding area, puddles remained in the gravel from the previous storm, and most of the building's paint was chipped off or covered in graffiti.

“Well,” You clicked your tongue, “this looks like a fun place.” You muttered sarcastically, turning off the engine and opening the door. Noticing the lack of movement from the other figure, you bent down to look at him. “Are you coming or not?”

“I am.” Without much else than a slight nod, you shrugged and closed the door. As you went around the vehicle to start toward the entrance for the seemingly abandoned location, the 900 model glanced about the small leather space. Once the needed item was found somewhere in the backseat, he grabbed it and followed, again catching up and synchronizing his steps with yours. A hand held something out in front as you walked, and you glanced down to find a water bottle, raising an eyebrow at the object. “The blood alcohol content in your system has only decreased another .05 as your body broke away the liquor when you drove. However, your kidneys hold five percent of any consumption. Drinking enough water will assist in detoxifying your blood and prevent possible dehydration later on in the day.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but discovered nothing was going to be spoken from the amount of surprise the gesture gave. You cleared your throat, taking the bottle and unscrewing the cap before immediately chugging down a third of the clear liquid. Glancing up at the man, you screwed the plastic top back on. “Thank you.” You uttered, taking a quicker pace and continuing to survey the building and surrounding area.

Taken back by the two words he never heard leave your lips - at least not in his direction - his steps ceased. There was a beat of a pause as he watched you near a corner of the warehouse. “You're welcome, Detective L/N.”

“And stop being so formal. It's weird.” He heard you mutter.

His arms went behind his back, hands folded together neatly as he got back into matching your rhythm. “Yes, Y/N.”

Software Instability ^

#dbh connor #detroit connor #detroit become human #dbh #detroit become human rk900 #detroit: bh #rk900 #rk900 x reader #connor rk900 #fanfic #fanfiction

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allofthisnonsenseplease · 7 years

Text

NSFW Reaper76 roleswap featuring Strike Commander Gabe and Spectre: 76 (and some mild body horror)

As always, firesonic152, I BLAME YOU.

Gabriel stood at the window of his office, staring at the statue cluttering up the grounds of his organization and trying to keep his mind on the present. The statue was three times the height of a person, and meant to be an everyman, a stand-in for all the soldiers in Overwatch. The damned thing looked suspiciously like Jack, though, and Gabriel wondered just who had thought it would be a good idea to create a giant statue bearing the likeness of the leader of a covert ops team. Then again, maybe they hadn't even considered that. Maybe the artist had simply picked through old archives for what little news footage and photos were available from the front lines of the Omnic Crisis. Be hard not to want to capture Jack as he had been back then—all confidence and focused ferocity, looking like an avenging angel descended to save mankind. He still looked like an angel, sometimes, just not the type that most artists liked to depict.

The past had wormed its way into his thoughts. Not surprising, since the ramifications of the bombing in Zurich were still making themselves felt. He glanced back over his shoulder at the video screen open on his desk. It was frozen on an image of Jack running through a training simulation, teeth bared in a death's head snarl, eyes glowing ice blue around their pinpoint pupils, the substance of his body breaking up to flare out behind him like misty wings....

Two seconds further into the recording and three extra eyes would open, splitting the ghostly pale flesh of his forehead and cheek to swivel wildly in search of targets.

The type of angel that had needed to use 'Fear not' as the standard, friendly greeting.

Staring at him, Gabriel subconsciously reached to touch his own face. His scars were all far older than the two slashes that disrupted the normal symmetry of Jack's features. The blast two years ago hadn't caught Gabriel, after all. While Jack had been leading a picked team against the terrorists that had infiltrated Overwatch, Gabriel had been getting the assembled diplomats and politicians to safety. The whole situation could have ended a lot worse if they hadn't had warning. Funny thing about someone like Jack leading Blackwatch: having that innate ability to bring out the best in others had saved lives. One of the infiltrators had defected, spilled the whole plot to Jack with just enough time to manage a quiet evac and stage an assault against the agents occupying the building. If Jack hadn't been head of Blackwatch, if he'd accepted the position of Strike Commander when it had been offered to him instead of turning it down in Gabriel's favor...well. The possibility didn't bear thinking about.

Bad enough that Overwatch's ranks had been infiltrated and corrupted to such a degree. That was being handled, the rot pulled out and now—Gabriel hoped—mostly eradicated.

Bad enough what had happened to Jack.

Gabriel still woke shouting from nightmares of his brief glimpse of Jack after they'd pulled him from the rubble. He remembered Jack's hand, white as cracked ice, hanging limply off the stretcher. The golden engagement band gleamed accusingly on his finger, a promise never fulfilled. He remembered Jack's face, a misshapen mask of blood, and his eyes—oh, God, his eyes!—left open though they were still and sightless. In his nightmares, he couldn't reach Jack's side. The swarm of medics carried him off before Gabriel could grab his hand, feel the fading warmth of his body. Sometimes in his nightmares, Jack sat up and screamed, and the world exploded in a blizzard of ash.

Jack had died that day. Gabriel had seen death, touched it, far too many times to mistake it despite the denial screaming in his head. Jack had died, and the realization had hurt so bad that Gabriel hadn't fully understood why his own heart kept beating.

If it weren't for Angela, Jack would be three feet under, rotting in a casket somewhere in Indiana. Instead, she'd brought him back. She'd been experimenting with nanotechnology, and Jack, by force of necessity, became human test subject number one.

Angela's nanites hadn't known quite what to make of him, but they'd made something.

Two years later, they were still discovering new aspects of Jack's singular existence, some good, some not so good. There were days when Jack's soldier's stoicism and Gabriel's memories of the pain of losing him were all that kept them from breaking down and calling it a curse. Fact was, though, Jack was alive, and there were days enough when that was plenty for them to be thankful for.

Gabriel had just turned back to the window when a percussive shudder rolled through the building. It had felt for all the world like a tremor, a minor earthquake not strong enough to do any damage. There had been something else, though, a sound almost below the threshold of hearing that had sounded disturbingly like an explosion.

Although he might not see as much action in the field as he used to, his shotguns were never out of reach. Gabriel had one in hand and one holstered as he called up security feeds from across the base.

“Athena, what the hell was that?”

“Controlled explosion in the training simulator. I believe Commander Morrison lost his temper.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, holstering his shotgun. The phone and com lines were lighting up as others tried to figure out what had happened.

“Let everyone know it was a false alarm, and get a maintenance team down there if he's broken anything important.” Two of the video feeds were nothing but static. The rest were little better—just swirls of dust and darkness. “Jesus, Jack. You couldn't find something better to do with your afternoon? Had to go back and destroy the training room?”

“Pardon the correction, Strike Commander, but Commander Morrison did not return to the training room, as he had not yet left.”

“He what?” Gabriel's attention jumped to the still-paused feed from earlier. The timestamp put the recording at shortly past six in the morning. “It's almost four! What the hell has he been doing in there?”

“Commander Morrison has made use of nearly every simulated combat situation available. He has ignored repeated prompts to exit the training room in order to rest and eat.”

“That's our Jack,” Gabriel muttered. “What set him off? Can you pull up the feed from the sim he was just running?”

“Certainly, Strike Commander.”

A new window appeared on the desk, showing Jack already looking haggard as the emptiness of the training room suddenly filled with hard light constructs of walls and doors, behind which lurked enemy combatants. He raced through the halls, half-dissolved into a cloud of mist, unnatural eyes blazing blue on every patch of exposed skin, his movements betraying a growing desperation and fury. Athena continued on as Gabriel watched.

“Despite being informed that this particular simulation is intended for a small team of participants, he attempted it on his own at the highest difficulty setting. He did very well. Eighty percent of the enemies were eliminated, and sixty percent of the bombs were located and deactivated before the time limit was reached.”

“I don't remember this sim,” Gabriel breathed, eyes glued to Jack as his pallid skin lost cohesion, began glitching and dissolving away into misty clouds of nanites. Jack's pulse was electric blue impulses streaking through his veins. His fingers were gnarled, clawed things clamped around his pulse rifle. His breath came out in white puffs that wreathed his head, and his jaw opened far too wide as he shouted.

He must have reached the time limit. Gabriel's heart seized as he saw a violent flash of orange and yellow flame as part of the building exploded in front of Jack. He slammed his hands down to either side of the screen, momentarily forgetting that he was only watching a recorded simulation. In the video, Jack threw his head back, screaming in rage and defiance, and the self-control holding him together shattered, blowing him apart into his component nanites. The feed shivered and froze. Jack was nothing but visual snow.

“It is the newest simulation in the database,” Athena calmly informed him, “modeled after the attack in Zurich.”

“No fucking wonder he blew up! Don't let him run this sim again unless I tell you different, got it?”

“Understood, Strike Commander.”

“He still down there?” he demanded, on his way out the door.

“No, sir. He has just reached your quarters.”

That far already? Gabriel kept forgetting how fast Jack could move now, how sometimes he didn't even seem to need to cross a physical distance to get from one place to another. Still, it was a relief. His heart was racing too fast as he strode down the hall. Even knowing that Jack ought to be able to pull himself back together, he still needed to see him, touch him, reassure himself that Jack was all right. It had been almost a year since he had seen him go so violently to pieces, and Gabriel wasn't optimistic enough to think that being dumped back into the firefight that had killed him was something Jack could simply shrug off.

His com crackled to life even as he reached for it.

“Gabe. I need you.” Jack's voice had always been rough, but the explosion and his subsequent resurrection had only worsened it. There wasn't anything in the world Gabriel would rather have heard just then.

“Already on my way, Jackie.”

It wasn't the first time he had heard that tone in Jack's voice, so Gabriel knew more or less what to expect when he made it to his quarters. He walked right through into the bathroom, and sure enough, there was Jack in the shower, using the smallest available enclosed space to try to help hold himself together with limited success.

The tub itself was filled with a roiling cloud of nanites that constantly spilled over the side, as if he was standing in a bucket of dry ice. Flickers of movement in the clouds called for Gabriel's attention, quick suggestions of something solid but amorphous, inhuman. Jack's body flickered, naked abdomen halfway gone into the agitated swarm below. He could normally take his clothes along with him when he disassembled, but that only worked if he was in a stable enough frame of mind to break them down as well. That was obviously not the case this time. His chest was bare, mottled white and gray, alive with blue, staring eyes that tracked Gabriel's movements. His arms were almost solid at the shoulders, but wisps of nanites bled off them lower down, and his fingers dripped like melting icicles. Blue sparks fizzed along his veins like lightning strikes. His face was as close to normal as he'd been able to manage: weathered as an icy winter crag, bisected by a diagonal scar running cheek to forehead, and marred by another that slashed across his lips. He looked emaciated, nearly mummified, and the permanent sunken shadows around his eyes had darkened to the look of bruises. His blind eyes were too blue, the only color left to him, and always faintly luminescent.

“You overdid it,” Gabe said by way of greeting. He tempered his words by reaching out to cup Jack's cheek.

With a sigh, Jack leaned into the contact. A third eye split open his forehead beneath the end of the scar, and two more peeked out of his cheek.

“I need to know how much I'm capable of.” He frowned, and the eyes on his face reluctantly closed. A large one opened up on his chest as if to replace them.

“So you blew up the training room?”

“Accident.”

His eyes—his real eyes—remained closed as he reached up and wrapped his trembling hands around Gabriel's arm. The contact helped ground him as he forced his will upon the nanites, closing the staring eyes one by one so that they were nothing more than scars, solidifying his arms and reshaping the bone claws of his hands into blunt-tipped human fingers, forming stomach and sides, hips, pelvis, thighs, calves out of the swirl of nanites.

He was breathing hard by that point, sweating and gritting his teeth against whimpers of pain. The nanites required sustenance to run, same as living things, and Jack had pushed them for too long without recharging. They were feeding off of him now, and at this stage it was too late for Jack to simply binge on sugar and protein bars to get the quick energy the nanites needed. They were going to take it, and if they drained him dry and wound up deactivating in the process, then so be it.

The only alternative was to take the energy they needed from someone else.

“It's all right, Jackie.” Gabriel leaned in to press their foreheads together and whisper the words. “Just breathe. I've got you.”

He stretched to kiss Jack's forehead, peeking from beneath his lashes to see another of those eyes open up to watch. Ignoring it, he stepped into the tub to stand closer as he stroked Jack's hair and peppered his face with kisses. Jack's skin buzzed faintly beneath his lips, a testament to how unstable he was. His temperature was low, and Gabriel shivered as he felt some of his own warmth transfer to Jack.

Heat, energy, life, the soul—whatever it was, Jack was able to feed off of something from other people in order to keep his nanites going. He'd discovered the ability by accident, when one of the surviving spies within Blackwatch had tried to kill him shortly after he had managed to stabilize his body for longer than a few hours at a time. Jack only remembered the incident in bits and pieces, but Gabriel, who had seen the security footage, was pretty damn sure that Jack had sucked the man's soul out of his mouth and devoured it. Until he'd seen that, Gabriel hadn't even been certain that he believed in souls—not in a concrete sort of way, at least. He didn't have any better explanations, however, and when Jack suddenly had memories that weren't his and was able to identify several more sleeper agents within Overwatch, it seemed undeniable that he had consumed some vital and personal core of that bastard's existence.

Most of the discoveries about Jack's peculiar state of being had been made by accident. In time, Jack and Gabriel had, almost naturally, stumbled across a safer way to give him a similar boost.

“Gabe....”

Jack's voice was a needy rumble. It buzzed against Gabriel's tongue as he sucked at a spot on Jack's throat just beneath his chin. Jack's hands slipped around his back, kneading his muscles, nails digging in, growing points.

“Claws, Jack.”

With a grunt of effort, Jack flattened his palms against Gabriel's back. When he moved them again in small, slow circles, his nails had returned to normal. Gabriel nuzzled his throat in appreciation and kissed a line down to his collarbone. He nipped carefully at the skin there, eliciting a pleased groan from Jack.

They had rules that Jack needed to follow when he got like this.

One: no biting or clawing. The scent of blood did strange things to him when his nanites were rebelling.

Two: no kisses on the mouth. Trust was all well and good, but there was no reason to tempt fate.

Three: Jack needed to be in control of his shape before Gabriel's clothes could come off.

Rule three could be tricky.

Gabriel lavished attention on Jack's neck and shoulders, dappling him with love bites that bloomed and faded in mere minutes. He ran his hands down Jack's back, holding him close, tracing the dip of his spine, the contours of muscle, reading the stories written in old scars. The eyes tracked the progress of his touches. He could feel them blinking closed beneath his fingertips. Distracted by kisses and wandering touches, Jack was having trouble sealing them away. Those eyes had been disturbing at first, but Jack was still his Jack, still talked like him, thought like him, loved like him, and Gabriel had found that he didn't mind so much anymore.

Letting his hands wander lower, Gabriel stroked down past the small of Jack's back, reaching to cup the shallow curve of his ass. He dug his fingers in, massaging, teasingly spreading his cheeks. He inched his fingers down further still, moving inwards to dip between his thighs and pinch the sensitive skin there. Jack's right leg was solid, but his left dissipated into a swirl of mist less than a handspan below the top of his thigh. Gabriel paused in his kisses, face pleasantly nestled between Jack's pectorals.

“Not going to have a leg to stand on,” he warned.

He didn't wait for Jack to catch on, just hefted him up and pressed him back against the wall. Kissing and nipping across the broad expanse of Jack's chest, he kneaded the flesh of his thighs, gratified to feel the left gaining substance beneath his fingers.

“That's it, Jackie. You're doing good.”

Rolling his hips, he ground against Jack, tongue pressed flat to his chest to catch the vibration of his moan. Again and again, he rocked forward, building up a languorous rhythm, feeling Jack grow hard against him.

“Do you want me, Jackie?” He murmured the words against Jack's skin, feeling the miracle of his speeding heartbeat beneath his lips.

“Yes...!” Jack groaned the word, tightening his embrace around Gabriel's shoulders, squeezing his thighs around Gabriel's hips.

“Do you need me?” Jack's nipple was pert against his lips, and Gabriel swirled his tongue around it, grinning when Jack twisted his fingers into the thick material of his coat.

“Yesss....”

This time, his answer came out as a hiss, a double-edged sword of desire and practicality. He ducked his head to lick the curve of Gabriel's ear, lips closing around the lobe, the barest hint of teeth testing the limits of his restraint and sending a shudder coursing through Gabriel's body. His hips jerked up sharply, and Jack moaned at the friction. The eyes flared up, opening and closing in a wave over his body. They stayed shut afterward, giving Gabriel hope that Jack had regained control over his body. He was still losing wisps of nanites like the blue smoke of cigarettes from the corners of his mouth, but he felt solid in Gabriel's arms, and warmer than he had only a few minutes ago. Encouraged, Gabriel locked his mouth over Jack's nipple, worrying at it with teeth and tongue until he had Jack growling pleas at him, head thrown back against the wall as he bucked with every thrust of Gabriel's hips.

“Gabe, just—! I need... Please...!”

“Mm.... What do you need, Jackie?”

He trailed barely-there kisses over Jack's skin, and smiled when the scrape of teeth over the top of his stomach made his muscles quiver and clench. He broke up the quick, hard thrusts with smooth rolls of his hips. Jack's cock was straining between their bodies, tip glistening with precum.

“If you could just fuck me, that would be great!” Jack rode the rise and fall of Gabriel's thrusts with a moan of pleasure dancing on the edge of pain. His head knocked back against the shower wall before he leaned forward and pressed his cheek to Gabriel's hair. “Want you so bad.... It hurts.”

Gabriel wasn't sure if that last had been a plea for help or not. Freshly reminded that it was painful for Jack to maintain his body when he had expended too much energy, he let Jack down and started to turn to reach for the lube he kept in the shower for precisely this reason.

Jack was quicker. He crowded Gabriel against the back wall, forcing his head back to kiss the underside of his chin, his neck and throat. He yanked at Gabriel's collar, and there was a tearing sound as the claws came out and he ripped it open.

“Hey! Maybe you can get away with wearing that ugly-ass jacket, but they actually expect me to dress nice!”

The sound of Jack's chuckle, deep and rough and edged with hunger, went straight to Gabriel's cock. So did his hand a moment later, sans the claws. He cupped Gabriel through the fabric of his pants, stroking with the very tips of his fingers.

��Sorry for the rush, Commander Reyes. Allow me to make it up to you?”

He didn't wait for a response, just dropped to his knees. He had Gabriel's belt open and his pants and boxers down in seconds, and his eager touch set off shivers of pleasure. He stroked once, twice, and then his tongue was against Gabriel's head, a teasing point of pressure before his lips parted, stretching to take him in.

It was Gabriel's turn to moan, to grind the back of his skull against the wall as heat pooled low in his stomach and sparked heady cravings for more. He grasped at Jack's hair, feeling the short, fine strands slip maddeningly through his fingers. Jack worked at his cock, coaxing moans from him, stirring him up and then pulling back to leave him wanting. He was being far too much of a tease for someone who had been demanding to be fucked only a minute or two before. Gabriel ran his hands once more over Jack's hair, curled his fingers around the back of his head, and held him steady. He felt Jack readying for what was coming, loosening his jaw and pressing his tongue down flat, perfectly happy to let Gabriel begin rolling his hips forward to set the pace himself. Jack let Gabriel thrust into his mouth, making quiet, pleased noises. His cock quivered against the pallid skin of his stomach, begging for attention, but his hands were occupied around the base of Gabriel's shaft and at his balls.

The pleasure mounted, growing nearer, sharper, until Gabriel moaned with the weight of it. He pulled free of Jack's mouth, holding him back despite an inarticulate groan of protest, and groped for the bottle of lube on the shelf.

“Here,” he said, pressing it into Jack's hands after squeezing out a measure onto his palm. “Better make it quick so you're not waiting on me to recharge.”

He stroked himself lightly, sucking in a sharp breath and drinking in the look of hunger plain on Jack's face as those eerie eyes opened one by one to stare at him. Jack barely glanced at the lube as he coated his fingers and reached around to prepare himself. He knelt there on the chill porcelain, breath hitching as he worked his fingers inside himself, stretching and thrusting, and the whole time, all of his eyes were focused intently on Gabriel.

For Gabriel's part, the naked desire in Jack's expression was the most potent of aphrodisiacs. Jack had been at his side since their time in the SEP. They'd trained together, suffered together, competed against each other, fought and bled together and encouraged, shouted, and cursed each other through the bad times. They had argued and fought, but in the end, they had always supported each other. Gabriel couldn't imagine being without Jack now, without his gravelly laugh and his smile and his too-blue eyes, couldn't imagine never hearing his voice again, never feeling his touch, never having Jack there to vent to, to lean on. A piece of him had died along with Jack that horrible day, and it hadn't been made right until months later when they'd made their vows on Jack's first day out of med bay. He'd never wanted anyone the way he wanted Jack, and he knew all too well that it was a goddamn miracle that Jack was alive and at his side and looking at him as if Gabriel was his whole world, too.

Suddenly, as if he knew what Gabriel was thinking, Jack surged to his feet and pressed their lips together. Breaking the rules, but Gabriel didn't give a damn just then. When Jack's tongue swiped against his lips, he opened his mouth gladly, welcoming him in, savoring the heat and taste of him, the way Jack moaned into the kiss. Jack's cock pressed against his hand, and Gabriel took hold of it against his own, stroking them both together roughly.

“Ready for me Jackie?” The words came out slurred, caught in the kiss and barely intelligible. Gabriel pulled away, swallowing thickly.

“Been waiting on you,” Jack murmured. He wrapped his arms around Gabriel's neck and hugged him close, speaking quietly near his ear. “Had always been waiting for you.”

Jack seemed to know what Gabriel meant to do before it happened, because as Gabriel hefted him once more, he was already heaving himself up, wrapping his legs once more around Gabriel's waist. Jack kept up a steady stream of talk, low and rough, pleas and demands that sent heated waves of desire washing along Gabriel's nerves. Fuck me, fuck me, Gabe, don't keep me waiting, don't make me wait any longer, Gabe, please, fuck me, take me, make me yours, want you, want you so bad, want you inside me.

He didn't stop until Gabriel finally pressed inside of him, earning a loud, drawn-out moan. Jack clenched around him, nearly making Gabriel go weak in the knees, before he finally relaxed and shifted his hips, signaling that he was ready for more. Gabriel started slow, rolling his hips up, pushing deeper into Jack and appreciating the way he moaned, the way they fit together tight and slick and hot. Jack's thighs clenched around him as he bucked, trying to take Gabriel in deeper, faster. They faltered, lost the pace, crashed together clutching at each other, needy and chilled and shaking, and found their rhythm. In, in, out, and deeper; closer, closer, breathe, and come together. Gabriel rocked against Jack, crushing him against the wall, panting with the effort, with the thundering of his heartbeat and the rushing of his blood. Jack was moaning with every thrust, cursing and urging him on, fingers digging into Gabriel's back, claws sprouted and tearing holes in his coat. Gabriel surged forward and kissed him, throwing his last shreds of caution to the wind, wanting Jack and trusting him and needing him to know how deeply those feelings went. Jack kissed him back wholeheartedly, groaning into the kiss, and Gabriel swallowed the sound down, feeding the faint vibration of it to the molten heat growing within him.

The edge of orgasm shimmered along Gabriel's nerve endings, tantalizingly close. His hips snapped up, up, up, tearing sharp grunts from Jack's throat. He was close, so very close, losing the rhythm they'd built as he sped up, chasing the finish. Jack's knuckles sped up and down against his stomach as he stroked himself between them, faster and faster, keening as Gabriel thrust harder, deeper into him. So tight, so close...! Gabriel buried his face in the crook of Jack's neck, breath huffing over his skin, trading pleasure for pleasure, energy for life. His hips jerked up reflexively once more and once again, slamming into Jack and Gabriel bit down on his shoulder as climax shot through him, one wave after another, with Jack clenched tightly around him.

He sagged as he came down, letting out a shaky sigh as he lowered Jack to his feet and leaned against him, lightheaded and reluctant to break the contact between them. He left soft kisses all along the side of Jack's face, hands fumbling clumsily between them as he tried to help Jack stroke himself to his own climax. Jack finished with a quiet groan and chased Gabriel's mouth.

They kissed softly, sweetly after their hurried fuck. Gabriel was already starting to feel the draining effects. Sluggish and chilly, he pulled away sooner than he would have liked to get cleaned up. They moved without speaking in the tiny bathroom, trading casual touches as if each needed reassurance that the other was still there. Gabriel shed his ruined coat and stained pants on their way to the bed, and crawled naked beneath the sheets to sit against the headboard. Jack paused only long enough to grab a bottle of fortified water which he handed off to Gabriel before joining him under the covers. They made themselves comfortable, Jack tucked in at Gabriel's side, an arm around his shoulders. For several long minutes, as the last of the afterglow faded and Gabriel drained the water Jack had brought him, silence reigned. Jack was the one to break it.

“I saw your abuela.” The word rolled awkwardly off his tongue. “She was teaching you how to make flour tortillas. She fried them up on the stove. There was meat waiting, cheese, grilled vegetables.” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, smiling faintly, looking at peace. “It smelled amazing.”

That was one of the side effects of feeding off of people the way Jack could—memories came along with it, the things that made a person who they were. More than Gabriel sharing stories about his life, Jack experienced things the way Gabriel had. He took them in as if they were his own memories, even hearing and thinking in Spanish if that's what Gabriel had done, although it hadn't helped his pronunciation any.

There was no way to stop it from happening or to control what Jack saw, but they had rules for that, too. Privacy, first and foremost: an unspoken understanding. Jack didn't talk to anyone else about anything he learned this way. He trusted Jack implicitly about this. It went along with allowing Jack to take what he needed at times like these. Second was that Jack had agreed to tell Gabriel what memories he had gained. If Gabriel didn't want to talk about it, then it was never mentioned again. There was still an imbalance between them, however, which was why Jack had proposed the third rule. For every memory of Gabriel's that he took, he shared one of his own, something of equal weight, nothing held back. Easy enough, this time.

“Mom used to make blueberry muffins. There were bushes out back, and we'd go pick bowls of them. My favorites came after we'd visit my grandparents, though. They lived about an hour away, and it was the most boring trip you can imagine. I used to drive my parents half crazy asking how much longer, and talking non-stop about whatever popped into my head. But my grandparents had this mulberry bush in their yard, and they would always let me take some home. Mom would bake them in with the blueberries in the muffins, but they were just as good right off the branch. Sweetest damn things you've ever tasted.”

His voice had been growing quieter, and he curled a bit more snugly against Gabriel's side, head pillowed on his shoulder. It was unusual for him to be so subdued afterward, considering that he had essentially just finished recharging. Gabriel craned his neck, trying to get a better look at his face. Reaching up, he curled his fingers around the hand Jack had rested over his heart.

“All right, mi luna?”

“Better than all right,” he rumbled. He opened his sightless eyes and smirked, the same old confidence shining through. “Give me a minute and I'll be ready for another round.”

#cornfuck and the reaper #fanfiction #i like balance and contrast and i just really want a terrifyingly pallid spectre!Jack with bright fuck-off blue monster eyes #a creature of cracked ice and cigarette smoke to compliment Gabe's void and shadows #but putting those two together in the same fic sounds too much like work #so here's this instead #btw friend tumblr will not let me @ tag you and i do not know why =(#didn't tumblr used to only actually post to the first however-many tags?#i bet if it did then it doesn't any more #let's try just a couple more first #just to see what happens #reaper76

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