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fresh-prince-of-denmark · 3 years

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Interpretation of V’s Mikoshi Poem Pt1: Life is Murder

Cyberpunk spoilers ahead:

Let’s talk about Cyberpunk’s literary references and what they mean for the story, coming from a former English professor/teacher.

Alt will read you one of two poems you cross the bridge to the Mikoshi depending on who is in control. Johnny is read an excerpt from Sailing to Byzantium by Yeats, while V is given an excerpt from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot. For now, let’s focus on V’s poem:

“Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question. . . .

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.”

Cool. Some English majors (derogatory) work at project red. So why should I care?

Well I’ll tell you:

First, a summary: In this story, the narrator is on an evening stroll with a woman he most likely has a romantic relationship with although the vibes are far from a romantic love sonnet. Interestingly enough, the first few lines of this poem have been cut from Alt’s reading; including the epigraph from Dante’s inferno, which translates to the following:

“If I but thought that my response were made

to one perhaps returning to the world,

this tongue of flame would cease to flicker.

But since, up from these depths, no one has yet

returned alive, if what I hear is true,

I answer without fear of being shamed.”

This missing piece from Alt’s poem can be read several ways; most of them drawing a parallel between the Blackwell and hell. In fact, Dante’s inferno has a lot of similarities to the story. One can make a comparison between Virgil and Alt, leaving a debate on who plays the roll of Beatrice (the one being saved) and Dante (the one doing the saving) between Johnny and V. I have to wonder at the writers choice to leave this portion out, as there’s a lot to be said here about who truly comes out alive: who’s flame will cease to flicker? V, for obvious reasons, does not return to the world of the living the same. She will not live much longer, and is dying despite being temporarily “saved.” However, if Johnny returns to the body, he is no longer the Johnny we know; arrogant, self-assured, and more than a little narcissistic. The will to fight seems to have died within him; he leaves Night City, presumably looking to start over. While V clearly changes him before Mikoshi, he is a broken and somber man after returning to life, a flickering flame of who he once was. There’s also a connection to be made about Johnny/V dying and returning to life, literally rising from hell. The next part of the missing introduction is as follows:

“Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;”

I can’t think of a better way to describe what is happening in Mikoshi aside from the line “Like a patient etherized upon a table.” Johnny and V, in this moment, are suspended in an almost dream-like state. In Eliot’s poem, the “treatment” this patient is awaiting is presumably an examination/reflection of the self, which will lead to the narrator making a major decision. In this scenario, V is being forced to make a very tough choice, one that will take a lot of reflection as they decide what (a few months) of their remaining life is worth.

On to the actual portion of the poem that Alt reads:

“Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent.”

While Prufrock is taking his lover on a romantic stroll, they are hardly walking through rose gardens. They are traveling through the unpleasant parts of a city, and he is noticing all the unsavory parts of his world. Obvious references to night city include one-night hotels (such as the no-tell motel, the Pista Sofia, or the hotel that Johnny and V stay at after the parade, which Johnny gripes about and asks ‘what kind of losers stay in a place like this?), and ‘the sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells,’ which is possibly a reference to the fact that food in Night City is real sketchy (odd things like synth-milk, which Takemura complains about throughout the game). The streets like a tedious argument works on several levels here; both the crime of night city’s streets, which is relentless and quite literally never-ending (V can’t walk two blocks without an assault in progress task spawning), and the socio-economic ecosystem that threatens self-combust at any point. There will always be conflict between gangs, between corpos, between Arasaka and Militech, and between the nomads and the Raffins/Wraiths. In one mission with Padre, you find out that Arasaka and Militech are on the verge of waging another war. None of this conflict is positive, and always ends in bloodshed, often of the innocent. One can argue themselves in circles trying to find a solution to NC’s problems, there is no win-win situation. It’s a bit of a damnned if you do, damnned if you don’t situation. This comes up in conversation with Takemura on his career with Arasaka, as well as several other missions that involve those who choose to work for corporations to survive. This is also a point of conflict between V and Johnny a multiple times, one that never gets an answer. A literal tedious argument, tedious because there are no ‘happy endings for all involved’ in Night City. The final lines of Alt’s reading have more to do with V/Johnny’s final choice:

“To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.”

All the unsavory things V has to do to survive, all the people that have died to get to Mikoshi, lead up to one ‘overwhelming’ question: who will live on? There are so many other questions that should be answered: what is beyond the Blackwall? Are Johnny and Alt real, or is the soul truly dead, and are they just a copy of the people they once were? What happens to the idea of God and the afterlife when you introduce the idea of Soulkiller? But much like in the poem, we don’t get these answers. In fact, we are barely given time to contemplate the question as we fight for survival. A decision must be made, despite not knowing or even having time to dwell on these answers. Similarly Johnny, when presented with these questions in several side quests, refuses to even entertain the question, much like the poem’s narrator.

The rest of the poem, which is not included in Alt’s reading, is full of allusions to the story. The “yellow fog,” which persists across the poem is full of cat-like imagery, conjuring the bakaneko, the spirit of misfortune that can bring people back to life that Takemura mentions (coincidence that V/Johnny can adopt a cat? Keeping death as a close companion? I think not). Prufrock spends the rest of the poem contemplating his question, talking himself in circles, and the only thing that changes is his age as time slips by. Just as he seems to be making progress, he talks himself back to square one and begins again. Much in the same way, Johnny and V go in the same circles. Their journey begins with their deaths, and to death they will both return no matter what. Nothing they did really mattered, the world remains the same, broken and unfair. As Prufrock later contemplates: “Do I dare/ Disturb the universe?…Would it have been worth while/ To have bitten off the matter with a smile,? To have squeezed the universe into a ball?” Johnny loses his life trying to strike against an unjust world, yet he is scarcely a memory to most residents of Night City, who do not have time to contemplate what is right and what is wrong; their focus must be on survival.

Interestingly enough, both the poem and Cyberpunk reference similar secondary materials. Prufrock references Lazarus and Hamlet as he contemplates how he will never lead an exciting existence. Lazarus, much like V/Johnny, famously rose from the dead. Hamlet is a reoccurring theme in the storyline; Prufrock, V/Johnny, and Hamlet all are faced having to inevitably make a very difficult decision, the latter two involving tragedy for all no matter what. It’s also up for debate whether Hamlet is turning mad, similar to how we can’t be sure how much Johnny is driving V “mad” by taking over their mind. Despite this comparison, V/Johnny are no Hamlet/Lazarus. They are Prufrock; their lives, and their deaths, are meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Despite their efforts, they will simply fade away until they remain only in the memories of those they left behind. The play is further referenced as Jackie’s grave reads “Goodnight, sweet Prince,” and in a deleted audio file Johnny tells V “Sleep well prince/princess” before taking control if V chooses to attack Arasaka with Rogues help. What makes this more interesting is when you look at the line in which Hamlet is mentioned:

“No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.”

The Fool, which is mentioned several times by Misty, represents V and Johnny, in the journey that is told by the major arcane in tarot. The beginning of a journey — of a cycle — while the Death card symbolizes the ending of one phase and the beginning of another. An often painful transformation into something new. The main theme of Eliot’s poem is cycles; he talks himself in circles, never making a choice, always ending up where he begins. Circles are mentioned once again by Kerry during his personal mission, when he talks about beginning a new cycle in his life. V/Johnny’s journey together begins with death, and so it must end that way for them; whether it is a physical death, or a death of the self. No matter what, V’s fate is inevitable; they will face death again head-on, just as they did at the beginning of their story. The chosen passages of this poem asserts this cycle — the first three words of Alt’s first and last sentence are the same:

“Let us go.”

#cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk #johnny silverhand #cyberpunk v #v cyberpunk #arasaka #cp2077 #cp 2077 #cyberpunk2077 #cp project red #v #Alt Cunningham #cyberpunk spoilers #insufferable former English majors unite #please add your own thoughts to this #and thank you for coming to my dissertation defense #my posts #cyberpunk meta #cyberpunk 2077 meta

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maximusthewolfe · 4 years

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Letters I Never Sent

We all want to know what’s in that envelope, right?

Here are a bunch of things Eliot Waugh wrote and didn’t send. And one that maybe, just maybe, he will.

Also on AO3

Eliot pilfered a stack of parchment paper from the drawer of an old desk in a room where he used to sleep as High King. He grabbed it and ran. Down a hall, around a corner, his feet skittering over one another as they tapped down a spiral staircase and skidded into a hallway. Moments. He only had moments. If he was gone too long, Margo would ask questions he wasn't willing to answer. If he stayed in one place for too long, he risked getting caught. He unfolded the paper, pulled a pen from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and....tried.

Don’t do it. Please don’t do it.

Love,

Eliot.

It wasn't enough. Of course it wasn't enough. He crumpled up the pathetic attempt and started on a new sheet, his hand shaking slightly as he set it on the smooth, cream-colored surface.

Quentin,

We both know I’m not going to send this. So why the fuck am I writing it? Words are - fucking stupid, right? It’s all fucking stupid. I have to do the right thing. I can’t be selfish here, and I know that because of you.

I hate you for that.

I love you for everything.

Fuck.

With a short, soft grunt he pulled this one up, too, balled it, and threw it across the hall where it settled a few feet from the discarded first attempt. How, how was he supposed to do this? How could he convince Quentin Makepeace Coldwater to not save the world. The one thing he'd wanted to do from the moment he found out magic really existed. The one thing he believed would give his life meaning. Was it even possible? What could he possibly say that would change that stubborn man's mind?

Peaches and Plums. We get proof of concept like that. We can have it again. Fuck the seam. We’ll figure it out. We always do.

Love,

Eliot

He felt raw, ripped open for the world to see, as he read the words back. Like two fucking fruits could somehow encapsulate an entire lifetime spent together, or like they could explain why he'd said no when they returned. As if anything could manage that Herculean feat. He heard rustling somewhere in the distance. He folded the remaining parchment and tore a stamp off the sheet, sticking it to the outside of an envelope and stowing it alongside the parchment inside his jacket. He ripped the letter attempt in half and returned to the dungeons, his heart aching and his head swimming.

Quentin,

I wrote....a lot of versions of this. I told Margo I already sent it. She thought I told Josh to drink himself to death. In her defense, I'm not sure that was an entirely unfair accusation. I let it go. I just wanted to save a stamp.

She wrote one for the last stamp. She told Josh goodbye.

It’s not the same.

But I get it.

I don’t want you to do what you’re about to do, Q. I don’t want you to throw away the chance I have to be braver. I don’t want you to throw away the chance WE have at proving that concept once and for all.

But I get it.

Save the world and all that, right?

But. Q.

I love you.

I really fucking love you.

If you're gonna die, at least die knowing that.

Love,

Eliot

He should have been making quick work of his time by this god forsaken time-jumping mailbox, sending the letter he was writing to a dead man about, but instead it was tucked into his back pocket. And here he was, kneeling beside a boulder on the outskirts of town, rushing to summarize the whole contents of his heart in a way that might - not even guaranteed, just a might - get Quentin back. He had time, but it wasn't his. It was borrowed from Margo, borrowed from Whitespire guards, borrowed from any absently wandering questing beasts or gods who might come across his path at any moment. Borrowed time. The only kind of time he knew, it seemed, when it came to Quentin. Borrowed time, but he was determined to make something of it for once.

I know you have to.

Please know I love you.

We had one lifetime together, I’m sure we’ll find another.

Peaches and plums, motherfucker. I’ll see you in the next one. I promise not to fuck that one up.

Eternally yours,

Eliot

That felt - closer, somehow. Maybe it was the copious swearing. But it didn't seem right. What if there wasn't a next one? And besides, he didn't want a fucking timeline 41. He wanted this timeline. This life. He didn't want the slate to have to be wiped clean in order for him to get it right for once. And suddenly, just like that, he was mad again. More than mad. Furious. A strangled something-like-a-yell fought its way out of his throat and he ripped the parchment from the stack and tossed it across the expanse of the forest, as far as he could. "Fuck you, Quentin," he shouted, and the echo of his voice against the trees betrayed him. It mirrored his own brokenness back at him, and he hated it. Hated everything. He scribbled down one letter, and then another in quick succession.

Quentin,

For fuck’s sake, don’t be the volunteer tomato. You’re smarter than that. You don’t have to be the chosen one.

-Eliot

*****

Quentin,

You know I don't give a shit, right? I don't give a flying fuck if you love Alice. If you love me. If you love both of us if you love neither of us if you if you if you.

I don't fucking care.

I just want you here to love at all. I want you here to be floppy-haired and doe-eyed and full of belief and faith and YOU underneath all that pain.

I want you here so I can look at you and you can look at me and we can know we're not alone.

I want you here so you can love Alice, if you want to.

Or you can love me, if you want to.

Or you can love someone else altogether. Or no one. Whatthefuckever, you know?

Just. Be here. Come back. Don't do this to us all.

-Eliot

Neither of those were right. Jesus. He made small paper projectiles out of them both and threw them, twisting his fingers as the flew through the air so that they caught fire and turned to ash before they ever reached the ground. The magic felt good - terrible, but good. Controlled chaos, he'd heard Fogg say once. The problem was, Brakebills expected chaotic creatures to understand control. Eliot had increasingly prevalent doubts about whether or not that was possible. Whether or not human nature and magician nature diverged in this very specific way. Wherever magic went, tragedy seemed to follow. Whether it was the chicken or the egg, he didn't really care. All he knew was the pain of the heartbreak and the way it made his chest feel hollow at the same time it made his head feel like it was about to explode. He inhaled, closing his eyes as the breath moved out of his lungs. He bent down to grab the pen where he'd dropped it in favor of the spell and knelt down to try again.

Some of us need you more than we know how to say.

Some of us fuck up because we’re scared of being happy.

Some of us can’t imagine having something so beautiful in our grasp and not breaking it.

Some of us need you to prove us wrong.

Prove me wrong,

Eliot

Prove me wrong. As soon as he wrote it, he knew. Maybe he'd known the whole time. He was, so very fucking often, a mystery even to himself. But Quentin wasn't a mystery to him. That's how he knew. Quentin would have loved to prove Eliot wrong. It was, in fact, one of his favorite pastimes. On Earth, in Fillory. Quentin lived to tear down Eliot's carefully constructed charisma. He relished any opportunity to break past Eliot's masterfully-placed cynicism. If he sent that letter, it might just work. But what did "work" look like anyway? If Quentin didn't go to the Seam, what would happen? What did Jane Chatwin mean when she said they won? Hadn't they won before? Couldn't they win again? What was so different about this time? Eliot didn't know. But he couldn't know, either. He folded this one and stored it in the free pocket of his pants. Maybe he didn't need Quentin to prove him wrong. Maybe, for once, he needed to prove himself wrong.

It went against everything in him. It laughed in the face of his pain and it ripped and pulled and cut at the already very ragged, very wrecked shreds of his heart. It was exactly the opposite of everything he wanted to do, in this moment. Which was exactly why he wrote:

Quentin,

Jane Chatwin told me something I don’t know how to live with. Something I don’t know how I ever lived without.

We. We are the reason you ever went to Fillory in the first place. In the first timeline, you ran away to escape the grief of losing me.

In the first timeline.

Maybe it’s always been us. Maybe we’re the Romeo and Juliet. Maybe we have the great love. But the great love always gets the tragic ending, right?

I asked her to save you again. She said no. I thought I could find a way to do it anyway. I'm wondering now if she was right.

If I saved you, could I live with myself? Knowing the win that we'd be giving up? Honestly? Probably. Because I'm selfish like that, you know?

And that's the difference, I think. Between the two of us. The difference that counts. If I could save you, you wouldn't let me.

I know what you’re about to do. I know I can’t stop you.

I also know we found each other. In the first timeline. In this timeline. In the timeline we created for ourselves.

I didn't mean it when you said we should try and I told you neither of us would choose each other. I was scared. You scare me. You make me feel alive, and that - scares me shitless. But I suspect you maybe knew that. I'm sorry I didn't make it easier for you to call me on it.

We’ll find each other again. Do what you have to do.

We are the proof, Quentin.

Yours,

Eliot.

P.S. Maybe I wasn’t your first choice in every timeline. Maybe you weren’t mine, either. But Quentin Coldwater, you are the love of my lives. And I’ll be damned if you go to the grave not knowing that.

Before he had a chance to think himself out of the moment. Before he could let his wants catch up with the tiny seed of rightness he felt in his gut, he hastily folded the paper and placed it in the pre-stamped envelope. And then, with slow, deliberate strokes, he addressed it. He wrote Quentin's name with reverence, feeling every line like the cipher to a code that his heart understood when his head would not. When he was finished he stood, brushed the dirt off his pants, and delivered Margo's final letter to Josh.

His borrowed time was up, for now. So he stowed the letter in his pocket and returned to his last real lifeline. The one that still existed, in this plane. He'd have his chance soon enough. And maybe by then the seed of rightness would have grown into something courageous enough to do something with that chance.

To: Quentin Coldwater

Before He Went to the Seam

God, he hoped that seed would grow.

#the magicians #s5 #eliot waugh #quentin coldwater #queliot #queliot ff #eliot ff #the magicians ff #queliot fanfiction #the magicians fanfiction

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heyyyharry · 6 years

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Idol

(from the Flatmate!Harry Series)

...in which everyone’s obsessed with the new star on campus, and Y/N is no exception.

Warning: mention of sex, jealous Harry, and a bit fluff as usual.

Harry's not foreign to seeing people walking around campus with their face glued to their phones. It’s 2018 now and obviously everyone prefers social media than real life interactions, that’s fine by him. However, today as he’s walking to his favorite food court on campus to meet his friends for lunch, Harry finds it unusual as almost everyone he passes by are watching the same video on their devices. In fact, now he has the audio stuck inside his head and he hasn’t even watched that viral clip yet.

Is this the part where everyone turns into zombies and he has to save the world on his own?

“What’s up with everybody today?” Harry asks the girl friend next to him while scanning his eyes around the room.

“Oh, some guy posted a clip of himself playing instruments and now the whole school is obsessed,” she replies, making him furrow his eyebrows in confusion.

“What’s so special with that?”

“The fact that he plays 90 instruments and can sing very well,” the girl says then shows Harry the clip on her phone.

It’s a three minute cover of the song God Is A Woman by Ariana Grande, played by 90 instruments, and it was creatively arranged. Harry’s got to admit this guy is talented.

“But I still don’t understand all the hype for him, sure he’s good but...”

“Okay, honey, Lemme educate you real quick!” The girl snaps her fingers as she clears her throat and sits up straight. “This man is anything but ordinary, he recently moved here from France, he was very popular there because he won a national talent show, got here on a prestige scholarship, blessed with a look of a Greek God but like...French, and he plays all kinds of instruments you can think of, and has a voice of an angel, most importantly, he’s an Aquarius, which is perfect for me!”

Harry widens his eyes whilst his mouth falls open, unable to believe she just said all that in only one breath.

“I don’t understand how you don’t get it, he has zero, ZERO flaw!”

“Who has zero flaw?” Niall returns with his tray of food and joins his two friends at their table.

“Layla’s telling me about this new French guy everyone’s obsessed about,” Harry answers, holding the straw between his teeth, smirking like what he just said was most ridiculous thing ever.

“Oh, so you’ve seen the clip then?” Niall sits down in front of them and nods his head knowingly. “Eliot Thériault, we had a class together this morning, cool dude, he’s hilarious.”

Layla rests her chin on her knuckles and her elbows on the table. Her eyes twinkle with excitement. “What class? I’m gonna take it, gonna be his new ‘study buddy’, if you know what I mean.”

“Jesus, calm down woman,” Niall chuckles before turning to Harry, who’s cringing at Layla so hard. “By the way, Y/N was in the same class with us, I think you should hold on to your girl, she’s one of the victims, like Layla here.”

“Oh please, Y/N’s not like that.” Harry snorts, but right after finishing that sentence, he hears his name being called from a few tables away. His girlfriend’s walking fast towards them with that familiar big smile on her face, which alarms him that she’s here with some news, it’s either really great or just severely terrible.

“I just met a Greek God, but he’s French!” Y/N announces once she stops at the table.

That is, apparently, all Layla has been waiting for just so she can shout out, “see??? That’s what I fuckin’ said!”

Harry facepalms himself, while Niall bursts into laughter, and Y/N finds it amusing though it’s not the first time she’s seen these reactions from the two of them simultaneously.

She takes a seat next to Niall and reaches forward to pat her boyfriend gently on the cheek as a loving gesture.

“C'mon, H, I had to fangirl a little bit,” she reasons. “It’s not every day that I’ve got to sit in class next to a viral star!”

“I second that!” Layla cuts in. “But please stick to Harry so I have a shot with a hot guy.”

“Wow, Layla!” Y/N chuckles at the girl’s statement. Most of Harry’s friends are not very supportive of his relationship with Y/N since the two of them are poles apart, so to hear his friend say something like that is a whole new experience to Y/N.

“That doesn’t make me your new best friend, princess.”

“How unfortunate.” Y/N rolls her eyes in a sarcastic way, which makes Harry snigger. He likes how sassy she is sometimes, as a matter of fact, her eye-rolling never fails to turn him on.

“Niall, have you told Harry?” she suddenly asks. No matter what that news is, she sure looks very eager for her boyfriend to know.

“Oh, right, Eliot has a live show tonight at a restaurant downtown, Y/N and I are invited but we’re allowed to bring some friends.”

“I’m gonna cancel my family dinner!” Layla immediately unlocks her phone and stands up right away which surprises the other three at the table, “mum, yeah, I cannot come tonight-”

“I think she hasn’t had sex in a while,” Niall admits once his female friend is gone, then he asks Harry if he wants to come as well.

“No, I’m good, I don’t even know the guy so,” Harry replies with a shrug, promptly given the look of doubt from his best friend and girlfriend.

“You sure, mate? Because I think he’s quite fond of Y/N.”

Niall’s assertion causes Harry to nearly choke on his water.

“I’m going,” he declares in less than no time. “I’m definitely going.”

...

Eliot is...nice. Harry was hoping he would be an asshole instead, but he looks exactly like the perfect human being his friends described, which makes him a lot more intimidating, because he could be faking his down-to-earth personality and nobody would know for how well he does it.

“That was great, mate!” Niall compliments Eliot who just leaves the stage to another performer of the night.

“Merci! I’m glad you guys enjoyed it!” says Eliot in a thick French accent, and whilst Layla obviously swoons, Harry has to take a glance at Y/N to see her reaction. She has her usual smiley face on, but who knows what on earth she’s actually thinking about.

“And don’t worry about dinner. My uncle’s the owner of this restaurant. You don’t have to pay.”

“Looks like I’ve found my Christian Grey.”

“Damn it, Layla!” Niall cries out as he throws his head back and everybody else laughs, except for Layla, who rolls her eyes in a sassy way and tells Niall to fuck off.

“So Y/N...” Both Y/N and Harry flinch when her name is called. “Did you like my performance?”

“Yeah, I love it, I think it’s great, you’re so talented.” She sighs, holding both of her hands together.

Layla slightly nudges Harry, then leans over to whisper to him, “if you’re secretly plotting his death, you gotta be more discreet than that murderous look on your face.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, though he cannot deny he’s been giving Eliot the death stare ever since their first met, just to clarify that his Y/N is untouchable.

He has no idea whether it’s just his imagination playing tricks on him or he just thinks that way about every guy around Y/N, but Eliot’s been extra nice to her compared to how he treats others. This guy would always make eye-contact with only her when he speaks, only ask if she’d like some more water (as if nobody else drank water besides Y/N)! Then he would find some lame excuse to touch her in some ways, either it’s a supposedly ‘friendly’ hug or him brushing his fingers against her arm during a conversation. Harry’s not usually short-temper, but tonight he has to tolerate a lot!

He’s told her about it, but she shrugged it off as always, telling him that he worries too much. How can she blame him? He has a solid reason to worry. He knows what Eliot wants by the look on his face because, before Y/N, Harry himself used to look at the other pretty girls just like that. His instinct is never wrong.

As the group walk back to their cars parked a few blocks away, Harry has his arms secured around his girl’s shoulders and doesn’t let go for even one second. It’s apparent enough for everyone else, but he just doesn’t see why Eliot cannot stop coming for Y/N. Maybe the guy is not perfect, after all.

“I just can’t follow Dr. Friedrich’s lectures! Those concepts are so hard to grasp,” Eliot complains while looking at Y/N, who’s just awfully sweet as always (sometimes Harry hates how nice she is, ironically that what made him fall in love with her in the first place).

“If you don’t understand anything Niall and I can help.”

“Oh, leave Nialler out of this please. All I did was sleep in that class,” Niall’s response makes Layla snort.

“Then I think you’re my only hope now, Y/N.”

“It’s an easy course,” Harry speaks up all of a sudden, watching in amusement as Eliot’s expression hardens. “I mean, I don’t even need to attend those classes to understand what’s in the text-book.”

“I find it more challenging to learn something entirely in English.”

“Really? Did you get your scholarship by doing an entrance exam in French?”

Niall hurriedly steps in between the guys, holding up his hands in the air as he tells them both to chill. “Are you guys seriously gonna fight over a university course?!”

"They’re fighting for Y/N, actually,” Layla corrects and all eyes are on her. Y/N looks utterly confused and surprised, but ironically now neither of those two guys pays attention to her.

“I was speaking to Y/N, do you know how rude it is to interrupt people, Harold?” Eliot asks with a smirk, clearly starting a war for saying so, and Harry’s just so fed up right now.

“Do you know how rude it is to flirt with someone’s girlfriend right in front of them?”

“Not when your girl is thirsty for a bit of my attention.”

Just as Eliot finishes that sentence, Harry’s fist knocks him onto the ground! Y/N and Niall have to hold Harry back from causing more damage to the other guy’s face, and if it’s not for them, Eliot would probably end up in the hospital for what he said.

“Harry, leave him!” Y/N tugs on her boyfriend’s arm and looks worriedly at Eliot sitting on the ground, painfully cupping his bruised eye. She’s not worried for him, she’s worried for Harry, if his fans know Harry did that to him, she’s afraid something bad would happen. But Harry doesn’t seem to give a damn, he turns to Y/N, asks if she’s alright then tells her he’ll take her home.

“Are you fucking filming this?” Eliot asks as he sees Layla pointing her phone at him.

She gives him a smirk. “The new viral star getting punched in the face for being an asshole, that, I would pay to watch.”

“What the-”

“Sorry, handsome. If I had to pick between you and Harry, you wouldn’t stand a chance.” Layla puts her phone away and walks off, leaving Harry and Y/N shocked as hell. Niall, on the other hand, looks particularly impressed as he hurries up to catch up with Layla.

...

“Are you mad at me?” Harry finally dares to question when he follows Y/N into their shared flat. She throws her bag onto the couch as well as herself before turning her head to him.

“Not at you, at myself!” she answers.

Harry takes a seat next to his girlfriend then asks her why she said that when she didn’t even do anything wrong, it was him who punched someone in the face.

“I’m so easy to be taken advantage of! It seems like everyone’s an asshole to me and I just let them!”

“That’s not true, he kind of had Layla and Niall fooled too.”

“Not just him. Everyone! And every time you warned me about it, I just completely ignored, now I’ve got you in trouble! How can you walk around campus tomorrow if Eliot tells his fans you hurt him?”

Harry chuckles at her facial expression. “Baby, I don’t even show up at school to begin with.”

“Are you seriously making a joke right now?”

Harry laughs as he apologizes and lies down on the sofa with his head on her lap like a little boy. Sometimes it’s still overwhelming for Y/N that Harry can just go from the guy who’s willing to punch anyone he dislikes, to the guy who lets her paint his nail and cries while watching rom-com, and it makes her feels like the luckiest for she’s the only person who gets to see the soft side of him.

“Thank you for looking out for me,” she breaks the silence between the two of them after a while, fingers gently running through his dark locks. “You’ve been doing that ever since we met, I know you don’t have to, but you do it all the time.”

“What do you mean I don’t have to? You’re a baby.”

“Said the one lying on my lap so I can stroke his hair.”

“Alright, I’m gonna let you win this time, only because I’m enjoying this.” Harry closes his eyes and chuckles when Y/N leans down to kiss him on the cheek.

“But you’ve got to learn not to trust everyone you meet, for when I’m not around.”

“Then I have to make sure you’ll always be around,” she tells him, her eyes flicker with joy, but Harry doesn’t say anything back.

He just hopes she doesn’t notice how his smile slowly fades away.

...

Y/N wakes up way too early the next morning because of Harry’s alarm. Somehow he never wakes up before 9 o’clock but always has his alarm set at 6 AM.

Harry’s still deep in his sleep to be bothered by that annoying sound. He has one arm locked around her waist, both of them naked, tangled up under the wrinkled sheet as a result of their crazy night.

Careful not to wake Harry, Y/N reaches over him to grab his phone on the bedside table on his side. She turns the alarm off, then it hits her like a train when she sees multiple notifications on his locked screen, all tagging and mentioning him in an Instagram post. Quickly, she grabs her own phone to check if she’s received any notification as well; and she has.

Apparently, Layla wasn’t kidding when she said she would post that video.

“Harry, wake up!”

“What?” Harry groans and buries his face into his pillow, but Y/N shakes his shoulders even harder.

“Wake up! Harry, you’re famous!”

“Nice try.”

“No, I’m serious, Layla posted the video!”

Harry immediately sits up straight and his eyes bug out when he looks at the screen of his phone. Holy fuck, Layla!

“Ugh look at these angry people. Eliot’s so canceled.” Y/N cringes when she scrolls down the comment section on the clip.

“No, look at all these girls calling me hot, I guess I don’t mind being famous.” Harry gives Y/N a toothy grin only to have his girlfriend skew up her face at him.

“Not funny!” She curls her lips. “Well, but at least they’re in love with you not hating on you so I think that’s good.”

“Aww, look at you being supportive.”

Harry laughs and goes ahead to check the rest of the notifications. That’s when he realizes how lucky he is that Y/N hasn’t seen all of them, because there’s a new message from Niall earlier this morning, which would get him in so much trouble if she was to find out.

Congrats on that internship! But how are u gonna tell Y/N that you‘ve got to be in Japan for 6 months?

#not the best one but #harry styles #flatmate!harry #harry styles one shot #harry styles one shots #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfics #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfictions #harry styles angst #harry styles blurb #harry styles fluff #boyfriend!harry #bestfriend!harry

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fandom-of-the-day · 5 years

Text

it was real and it was beautiful

Link at AO3

“I’m Team Eliot.”

The words stood between them like a physical boundary. What more needed to be said? Alice had saved Quentin’s life, but was one action enough to undo broken trust? No. And Q couldn’t afford to get distracted by hurt feelings right now. Not now that he knew Eliot was alive.

Peaches and plums, motherfucker.

The words rang through Quentin’s head.

I’m alive in here.

Thirty seconds. Thirty seconds was all it took for his world to turn upside down and his heart to hope. But no…that was getting to far ahead. Right now they needed to start thinking of a way to save Eliot. Knowing he was alive…

Q barely noticed Alice grab the book and leave. The silence following her departure was deafening. With Alice gone Quentin was alone with his thoughts and all he could see was Eliot. Eliot when he saw him that first day at Brakebills…Eliot opening up about his childhood trauma to reassure him…Eliot teasing him about the mosaic…Eliot that night on their first anniversary stuck in Fillory…

“Q?”

Quentin looked up to see Julia standing by the kitchen counter. She must have come back out after Alice left. Q couldn’t blame her for not wanting to be around Alice. Julia had sacrificed everything to restore the keys and Alice had been the one that had destroyed them. That was a pain that was not going to be undone with one action.

“So we need to talk strategy.”

“Q…” There was hesitancy in Julia’s voice.

“We don’t know when the Monster will be back and we need to start thinking of a plan to stop it.” Quentin felt himself getting anxious. His hand twitched. He lifted it to run it through his hair. “There’s got to be a way to stop him.”

Julia was looking at him unsurely, like she was trying to figure out a puzzle. She often looked like this when they were learning the quadratic formula in high school. At the time, Quentin had thought that would be the hardest problem he’d ever have to solve…

“We had a way to stop the Monster.” It wasn’t an accusation, but it felt like one.

Quentin shrugged before throwing his hands up. “It wasn’t good enough. It would’ve destroyed Eliot’s body and we can’t allow that to happen.”

Julia nodded. “Because Eliot is alive.”

She didn’t believe him. Q could hear it in her voice.

“Yes. He is.” Was he being short? He didn’t mean to be. But she wasn’t helping and Eliot needed them. “I spoke to him.”

Julia paused for a minute, watching him. He wished she wouldn’t. What good was standing around, staring going to do? Who knew how much time they had left to help Eliot?

“So,” Julia finally said. “What do we need to do?”

Wasn’t that a good question?

Julia watched Quentin. He was sitting on the floor with a book propped up on the coffee table in front of him. It had been two hours since she’d heard him speak too engrossed in the research he’d set out for himself. She’s seen him like this before, obsessive over something, desperate to prove it true. Lately life had thrown so much shit at Quentin. She had been afraid he was on his way to a breaking point. This was always the first step. He’d hyper-fixate on something and pour all of his energy into it. Then when it didn’t work out the way he had hoped, when it didn’t stop the pain, the next step would come.

Talking to Q had proven futile at the moment. He wasn’t listening to anything that wasn’t a plan to save Eliot. So for today she would sit by him, pouring over ancient books that got them no closer to an answer. Because there wasn’t an answer.

Julia had been worried from the moment Q had brushed off sealing away the Monster. He wasn’t dealing with his friend’s death and he wasn’t ready to let him go. Julia was almost glad Q had stopped the sealing from happening. Almost. He wasn’t ready to let Eliot go and doing so in that moment might have destroyed him. At least now Q could work through some of the trauma he’d been dealt lately and then they could come up with a way to get rid of the Monster permanently.

Which did need to happen soon if they wanted to keep him from killing more innocent people. Hopefully he was too focused on the gods to waste any time on mere mortals. Unlikely.

Julia looked at the clock, surprised that it was late in the evening and no one was back at the penthouse. Kady had been in and out for days now, but Julia had expected Penny to be back by now. He’d been hovering ever since Shoshana’s ritual and it felt odd that he had been gone for so long. He was over earnest when it came to helping, but right now that would be really nice.

“Knock knock.” The voice was sing-songy and Julia tensed automatically. It was only a matter of time before the Monster was back, especially since it seemed to view them as some kind of weird friends. Or maybe they were its playthings?

Julia looked over at where the Monster was leaning against the couch. He had appeared out of nowhere and was currently hovering over Quentin’s shoulder, reading whatever ancient words were written on the page. “What are we looking for?”

Julia continued to stare at the Monster, not speaking. How could someone who managed to thrust his fist into a gods chest and pull out their heart speak in such a childlike manner? How could someone so childish be so evil? A spark of an idea flickered at the back of Julia’s mind.

“We’re uh…” Q was stuttering. He had immediately frozen when the Monster reappeared, his hands gripping the edges of the book he held tightly. “We were just…looking…for a way to help you.” He was floundering for words to say.

“We want to help you find the other gods.” Julia piped in. The small idea she’d had taking root. The Monster turned to look at her.

“The other gods?” There was no emotion on the Monster’s face, but his voice sounded skeptical.

Julia nodded. “We already found Bacchus and Iris, we can help you find the others!” What was she saying?

“YES!” Q shouted, jumping up from his spot on the ground. Julia was startled by the sudden movement, and it seemed the Monster was too. “We can help track down the other gods. We have books…and..and…the magic. We can help you build a body.” Quentin was starting to talk faster. Suddenly he was the most animated Julia had seen in weeks. “If we keep looking through all of this we can find the next gods. Won’t that help you build your body?” Q sounded desperate. How did they go from silently searching through books minutes ago to desperately pleading with a murderous godlike being to let them help him? The sudden change felt like whiplash, yet it wasn’t so different from anything else that had happened in the past two years.

“Right. We can see what other gods might have had a reason to lock you away.” Julia winced, wondering if the reminder of what the gods did to him might upset the Monster. No matter how childlike the creature acted, they had witnessed him murder a goddess easily just that afternoon.

The Monster nodded nonchalantly. “If you say so.” He then sat down on the edge of the couch, watching.

Julia looked at Quentin. What were they supposed to do now? Q just shrugged and cautiously sat back on the ground, eyeing the Monster. He slowly picked up a book to start reading. Julia followed suit and watched as the Monster stayed in his spot, staring. Clearly he was going to be making sure they did what they offered to do.

Julia tried to focus on the ancient texts, but they were on a hopeless search and it was stupid to think there was even a chance of finding something in a random book pulled from the Brakebills library. Every so often she stole a glance over a Q and more times than not he wasn’t reading. No, he was glancing over at the Monster, a pain etched across his face that she could not remember seeing before. Her heart jolted as she realized Q’s quick agreement to help the monster came from wanting to save Eliot. If they got the Monster a new body, he could leave Eliot’s. At least that’s probably what Q was thinking. But Julia doubted the Monster would truly leave Eliot’s body. And wouldn’t there be consequences in helping him build this new body?

Right now we just need to stall. And hopefully come up with a better solution. While the Monster was there, they’d need to focus on a way to help him. But as soon as he whisked away to wherever the hell he went, Julia would be putting every effort into finding a way to get rid of him. Even if she had to look for a solution alone.

A loud slam startled Julia from sleep. For a moment, she looked around disoriented at the grand room around her. What the fuck was she doing in a room that would��ve gone for at least $5k in Queens? Her back hurt and she felt her spine pop as she moved. Right. She’d fallen asleep going through old books to find an impossible way to help a killing machine become an even worse killing machine. Because this was her life.

She stood up and stretched before remembering the loud slam. With so many people using the penthouse it barely even registered that she should be cautious. Maybe she’d gotten too used to the stupid shit that had been happening?

Walking into the kitchen she saw Kady digging through the refrigerator.

“Where have you been.” Julia asked as she sat down on one of the stools.

Kady gave her a hard look. “Didn’t know you were my mother now.” The words had a bite to them and Julia internally winced at the reminder of Kady’s mother. They had worked past that, but lately they’d fallen back to the tension they’d had at the start of their friendship.

“I’m just worried when people disappear for a long time.” Julia said cautiously. She knew Kady could take care of herself. She’d seen it plenty of times. But right now everything was halfway to hell and it would be nice if she just knew where everyone was. Like Penny, who was also AWOL at the moment.

Kady took a long swig of whatever juice was in the fridge. She screwed the lid back on before speaking. “I had an old acquaintance reach out about some hedge stuff. Just looking into it.” There was a lot Kady wasn’t saying, but Julia felt grateful she’d at least gotten that much.

Julia nodded, watching as Kady moved to the other side of the kitchen. “What you’re not going to ask more questions?” Kady said sarcastically as she started to pull on her jacket.

“No.” Julia said. “I’m here if you want to talk, but I’ve kinda got a lot going on now too.”

At that Kady nodded, giving her an almost understanding look. They weren’t exactly friends right now, but there was a mutual understanding that they both had their own shit to work through and that was that. Perhaps there would be time to repair their relationship another time. Right now she had to figure out a way to somehow research both ways to help and ways to stop the Monster currently living with them.

And I thought Monster’s living under the bed were made up stories. Julia laughed dryly. If magic was real, of course monsters were hiding in the dark. Sometimes they weren’t even hiding.

Reynard’s face flashed through her mind.

She shook her head at Q walked into the kitchen.

“Any luck?” He asked as he made his way over to the cabinets and looked inside. “We’ve got to figure out what this next step is.”

Julia hesitated. “I don’t know, Q.”

Q closed the cabinet and turned around. “We have to help him get these stone...organ...prizes so we can get him out of Eliot. It’s a good plan.”

“Unless we help him build a completely indestructible-titan-god body.” What were they doing? They needed the Monster off their backs, but could they really help him become even more dangerous? Her morning thoughts felt much clearer than last nights desperation.

“Well he’s already pretty murdery. It can’t get much worse.” Q shrugged, leaning back against the counter.

How could he be so casual about this now? “You say that like we can just risk people’s lives!” She didn’t mean to get angry, but how could he be so careless when people were dying. Stalling was one thing, but actively deciding that helping the Monster was their plan?

“We’ve taken down gods before.”

“And we end up losing every time!”

“It’s Eliot.” The firmness is Q’s voice gave her pause. Again, the focus was on Eliot. Because Q was still convinced he was alive. She’d seen last night how he’d become convinced of this and if there was one thing Q would never do, it was give up on a friend. “Right now we can’t fix everything, but I think that we can do this.” By the end of his sentence, Q’s voice was softer, less sure despite the words he was saying.

She considered her next words more carefully. “Okay. For now we help the Monster. But we also have to figure out what our next move is going to be.” Q had to know that they couldn’t just go along with whatever the Monster demanded of them. She could help him help the Monster, but it would really just be another way of getting that Monster off their backs so they could figure out a real way to stop him. Surely Q would start to realize that.

He sighed. “Thank you.” He walked over to the counter and waited on her to add to the conversation. He knew her well.

“I don’t know, I guess I’m just worried. I can’t help you if…” She hadn’t wanted to think about it. How useless she was. How everyone around her could perform magic and actually fucking do something and all she could do was sit and not die.

Quentin brushed her concern off “You’re helping a lot.”

“I was a goddess and now I’m just your friendly, neighborhood bullet proof vest.”

Q fought back a smile. “You would be a very high level X-Men.”

“Hmmm?” She couldn’t help the responding grin. Her nerdy best friend.

“Like a Emma Frost Diamond Form.”

“A mutant.”

“A mutant.” He agreed.

Julia used her chopsticks to throw a bit of noodles at Q. “Like the Indestructress. PEW!”

Julia laughed for a moment, thrown from how quickly she and Q had gone from nearly arguing to making nerdy jokes. She was so thankful for growing up with Q in her life. The world was full of shit, but right here, right now she had her best friend. And for a moment it felt like things were going to be okay.

“So about the page you gave the Monster…” Q started. The illusion of happiness crashed and the reality of the tasks before them set in.

#queliot #queliot fanfic #the magicians #the magicians fanfic #if you saw me post this yesterday #this is a longer version #so there's more to it than just the first scene

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secretlystephaniebrown · 6 years

Text

The Red Room Job

Parker is a Red Room escapee. Years later, she and the team encounter Natasha Romanov on a job.

I don't know, I've had this idea about Parker being from the Red Room for a long time, and I wanted to play with it a bit. And then Eliot got involved, and well. Things got complicated. First time writing for Leverage, but it was a lot of fun! Hope you enjoy!

Also on Ao3

When Eliot first meets Natasha Romanov, she’s calling herself Nicole Richards and they’re after the same target.

The unfortunate man is a former member of the Russian mob who has managed to piss off enough people that two separate organizations have hired both the Black Widow and Eliot Spencer for a considerable price.

They meet on a rooftop outside of the target’s apartment, and size each other up.

Eliot isn’t fooled by the name she introduces herself as. He’s heard of the Black Widow; he knows her reputation. She knows his as well, and she’s as curious about him as he is about her.

They’re professionals. They compromise. Sure, there’s an itch beneath both their skins to experiment, to see which of them could win in a fight, but the process would be loud and messy, and could alert the target. Better to work together. They’re both on salary, not fighting for a bounty as it is. There’s no reason to compete.

They kill the target cleanly and quickly, send evidence to their employers, collect their payment, and share a bottle of excellent wine in a Parisian café.

“I wouldn’t mind working with you again,” she says, and it’s a lie.

Neither of them are built for teamwork. Neither of them are wired for trust. They could handle this one time because it was better than fighting (and possibly killing) each other, but no more.

(Neither of them are sure who would win)

Maybe they will work together again. They clink their glasses together and smile at the possibility.

They both doubt that it will ever happen.

Both of them start to think about how they would kill the other, choreographing out the fight in their minds.

Eliot is grifting.

The mark is a wealthy businessman who’s been stealing college funds and draining savings accounts, leaving plenty of families in painful places. Luckily for them, he also has a taste for art, which leaves him plenty vulnerable to Nate’s machinations.

Eliot is playing a distinguished art dealer with an impressive collection. (Most of it assembled from Sophie and Parker’s stashes.) The mark is on the hook, and now Eliot just needs to lure him to the warehouse, where he’ll be caught with a stolen painting. Then the police will come crashing down, and he’ll go away.

Normally, this is Sophie’s part, but she’s playing a rival bidder this time around, so it falls to Eliot to play this role.

The final stage for the con is a fancy charity gala the mark is attending and Hardison managed to score Eliot an invitation to. Eliot’s taking his time, drawing it out. It needs to be natural. The mark knows who he is, knows what he’s selling. Sophie’s going to be walking in soon, pretending to make her bid, and then he’ll panic and approach Eliot.

He’s flirting with a pretty young actress when he sees her.

Natasha Romanov.

And she’s looking right back at him.

Her hair is blonde now and she’s wearing a ridiculous dress that’s meant to distract, but she’s armed to the teeth and there’s recognition and surprise in her face, although well-hidden.

A few years ago, that wouldn’t be a problem, but now the entire criminal world knows that the Black Widow is an agent of SHIELD, and SHIELD is a problem.

They both turn away. Eliot’s heart begins to hammer in his throat as he snarls, “Nate, I’m blown.”

“What happened?” Nate demands.

“An old acquaintance of mine is here. We’re fine, but I’m not. I’m going to have to make sure she doesn’t follow me back to you guys.”

“Can’t you shake her?” Sophie says.

“No. Hardison, I need you to do something.” He quickly underlines what he needs. An airtight cover would make SHIELD suspicious. They probably haven’t run him yet, because they don’t have a name, but they will as soon as possible.

They can’t know about the team. The last thing they need is to get on SHIELD’s radar.

He takes out his comm and puts it in a pitcher of water. No way for SHIELD to use it to trace the others.

He takes two flutes of champagne and carries them over to her.

“Long time no see.” (Not since a bar in a small town in Idaho, where he’d been playing body guard to Sophie’s latest character and pretended he didn’t know about the SHIELD issue earpiece in her ear. He couldn’t get away with that anymore. Everyone knew about the Black Widow changing sides now. She’s been noisy, these past few years.) He smiles his most charming smile at her. “Ms...?

“Natalie Rushman,” she says with a smile that’s perfectly charming and completely deadly.

“James Cortez,” he says. His smile is the same as hers, although probably less pretty.

She accepts the champagne and pretends to drink.

Parker divides her life into categories.

There’s before the Red Room. That time is a blur. Her memories overlapped and contradicted each other and blurred around the edges. There were lullabies and smiles and fire and kindness and death.

Out of all of her memories, she knows only three things for sure.

Bunny had been there the whole time.

She had a brother.

He had died on a bicycle and it was her fault.

Then there is the Red Room. That part of her life is painfully clear in her memories. There were lessons and people who looked at her with eyes that saw too much and handcuffs and not enough food and needles.

Parker didn’t like to think about it.

Then there was after the Red Room. Foster Care and running and exploding houses, and being chased and always running, never stopping.

Archie finds her, after foster care. Archie changes everything. He teachers her, and there are rewards instead of punishments and there is a warmth and he is hers. He knows, too, he knows enough about the Red Room. He hides her, gives her a new name and a new reputation. No one will ever draw the connection between the skinny runaway and Parker, the master thief.

In the Red Room, she had been ordinary, slated for death, to be killed by the top of her class at some point down the line. She would never have been a good Widow, she had heard her teachers say it. She’s too soft,

But she is the best thief.

And then there is the Crew.

She doesn’t know how to think about what happens after that. She doesn’t want it to end. She wants to keep going forever and ever. Now has Hardison and Eliot. It has Nate and Sophie. Now has Lucille and helping people and learning new things.

But when she looks over Hardison’s shoulder and sees a familiar face with Eliot, Parker knows, suddenly, that things are about to end anyways, no matter what she wants.

When Eliot Spencer first meets Clint Barton, they’re both soldiers.

Eliot is almost done with his first tour and already knows there’s going to be a second. His gun is comfortable and familiar and it feels good to have a flag on his soldier. His hands aren’t clean but they’re also not quite dirty. The blood hasn’t soaked in yet. He hasn’t realized it’s starting too.

They’ve been sent out on a dangerous mission with the men he calls his friends (they’ll all be dead within a year). They’ve been on dangerous missions before. But this is the first time the brass sends a special sniper.

Clint Barton is young (too young to be a killer, possibly too young to be a soldier) but his hands are steady and his aim is true, so Eliot and the others like him well enough. He keeps to himself, but he does his job and keeps them alive and keeps watch and beats them all at darts.

Eliot and Barton exchange maybe a dozen words over the course of the mission. Then the mission ends. Barton gets reassigned and Eliot’s tour finishes.

They both forget, and think nothing about it until years later.

Criminals like to talk hypotheticals, matching each other up against each other or against law enforcement. Could Hardison hack Tony Stark? (Sometimes.) Could Parker break into Fort Knox? (Yes.) Could Sophie Deveroux infiltrate SHIELD? (She has. Multiple times.)

Who would win in a fight, the Black Widow or Eliot Spencer? (That depends.)

Everyone in the Red Room knows Natalya Romanova. She’s the best of the Widows, the best one ever produced. Each group produces one Widow, and one Widow only. Most Widows die after a year or two.

No one knows how long Romanova has been a Widow. She’s mysterious and distance, and she’s only seen by most of them once a year, when she goes through the ranks, and picks two students. She kills one to demonstrate some advanced technique, and then she takes the other on a mission. That student will return, covered in blood and silent, and excel in their lessons for the next year.

Parker is called Tatiana, in those days. She’s pretty sure it’s not the name she’s born with. It doesn’t quite fit around the edges, chafing like the cheap clothes she wears. When she gets away from the Red Room, she sheds it immediately. She’ll go through many different names before she settles on Parker, with Archie’s help.

(Archie finds her, and he knows what she is. He used to know a Black Widow, he tells her. Her name was Dottie. It’s because of Dottie that he keeps her away from his family. Because the Red Room will kill his family, if Parker is there. Parker understands. He’s protecting them. He trains her to be a thief, and that’s more than enough.)

Tatiana is known as Tanya to those familiar to her. (Those are few and far between. Tanya’s friends die a lot, in the Red Room.)

Tanya is not the best at fighting, but she is easily the best at sneaking. She always has extra bread for herself, and sometimes for the others if she’s feeling generous, and none of the teachers have ever caught her. By the time she is nine she can escape the handcuff that keeps her to the bed, although she usually doesn’t, because she does get caught there, sometimes.

The Red Room is tough, and it’s made Tanya tough. She wakes up early and dances until her feet bleed, she fights until she is covered in bruises, she learns languages until her tongue is numb. Tanya is bad at the other lessons; pretending to be other people is hard for her, lying is hard, killing is hard.

Tanya slips away during their reading lessons in Japanese. She can get away with it in that class; the teachers don’t count the students in the back, only the front. Tanya knows that Marianna, who is the best student in her group, will be killing again tomorrow. Tanya wants to know who. She wants to know if it’s her.

Marianna is pretty and tall and black haired. She is also cruel and hard, never weeping once, not even the first time she was told she was the best of the students, and told to kill one of the others. She is terrible at ballet but excellent at killing and fighting. She will be an artist instead of a dancer, their teachers say. It is a pity that she cannot dance, but not everyone can be Natalya Romanova.

The names are in a box in Nicolai’s office, and Tanya knows her way in there easily.

It’s that day when she meets Natalya Romanova. Natalya moves like a dancer, her muscles liquid control and danger. Her hair is red, long, and beautiful, her eyes cold and impassive. She’s not armed, but that doesn’t mean she’s not dangerous. Tanya has heard every rumor, has memorized all of them and used them to scare the younger group of Widows when she used to break into their room to visit. But they’d started to tell, and there’s only so many Widows who look like her, so she stopped visiting.

Natalya comes into Nicolai’s office, and Parker nearly doesn’t hear her, nearly doesn’t hide. But she does, and she thinks Natalya didn’t see her, because she doesn’t kill her, doesn’t call her out. Instead, Natalya sits in one of the chairs, has a drink with Nicolai, and then leaves. It would be nice to think that Tanya is good enough that she could evade the gaze of the famous Black Widow, but she’s not sure if that’s true. But maybe Natalya Romanova knows what Tanya knows, clutching the sheet of paper to her chest.

Maybe she knows that Tanya will be dead tomorrow.

But if she thinks that Tanya will accept that, she is wrong.

Tanya escapes that night. She hasn’t tried to run since she was small, so they won’t expect it. It had been stupid to try and escape then, but the experience had been informative, if painful. She knows now, what they will do. She can take precautions.

She breaks open the door to the youngest Widows, the ones she hasn’t visited, the ones too young to know better than to run. She undoes their handcuffs and then breaks the window to wake them up. They scatter in all directions without questioning her, seizing the chance she has given them. They’ll mask her trail, she hopes. And maybe a few will even get away.

She never finds out what happened to them.

Alec Hardison meets Clint Barton when they’re both kids. Clint is drifting, and Nana brings him home for supper, piling his plate high with all kinds of food.

The table is crowded; it always is. Neighborhood kids and Alec’s foster siblings and Nana’s two grandkids all sit, elbows jostling. The food is good and there’s enough of it to go around. There’s been even more lately, since Alec has started siphoning off money from Janey’s bio-dad’s account. Nana had been mad at him, but Alec argued it’s child support.

Money’s not so good that Nana couldn’t make good use of what Alec stole, but her lips get thin sometimes, when she thinks about it. He promises her he’ll get a real job, help her pay the bills legally. He’s not the oldest; the oldest of Nana’s kids is old enough to have kids herself, and the oldest of the foster kids was already grown by the time that Alec had shown up in Nana’s life. They all help when they can, but Nana’s heart is just too big. She’s always helping people, always taking more.

Clint doesn’t talk at all during dinner, just eyes everybody suspiciously while he bolts down his food. He’s about sixteen, a few years older than Alec. Nana tells Alec while he’s clearing plates that Clint just got out of jail after getting into a fight.

Clint won’t stay, Alec knows that. He has all the age and wisdom of his twelve years of age, and so he walks up to Clint Barton and asks him where he’s going to go next.

The guy practically jumps out of his skin, then squints at Alec. “I’m going to join the army,” he says.

It’s Alec’s turn to squint. “You’re too young.”

Clint’s chin goes out. “I’ll manage.

Alec shrugs. “If you’re sure, I’ll get you the papers.” He can too. Faking IDs is one of the easiest things he’s learned to do. He makes good money that way, but for one of Nana’s strays, he can do it for free.

Clint Barton stays for the full week, giving Alec the time he needs to fake all the paperwork, digital and physical. Nana takes the opportunity to feed him up, but Alec never gets the story out of him. Not that it matters.

He sees Clint off at the end of the week, papers in his bag and a grin on his face.

Natasha Romanov pauses the moment she sees Eliot Spencer.

He’s dressed in a suit, the image of respectability. He even holds himself differently; he’s learned to change himself, to blend in. (Grifting, it’s grifting, but Natasha lives in a world of spies, not cons.)

He sees her too, and he has the same panic that she feels on his face for a single moment before he conceals it.

Her mind races, going through the guest list. Who could be his target? He has to know she works for SHIELD; her work with the Avengers has scuttled her anonymity on that front. She’s good enough that she can still go undercover, but being made as the Black Widow means everything’s blown.

He turns away, and for a moment she thinks he’s running. She loses him in the crowd for a moment, before he returns, walking towards her, holding two flutes of champagne.

His smile is pretty as he offers her a drink. Poison isn’t his style, but there’s no reason to take risks. They exchange the names of covers, pretending as if both of them aren’t coiled, ready to strike.

He’s very good; he wasn’t like this last time they’d met. His accent is buried, his posture is different. Whoever he’s been working with has taught him well.

She wonders who he’s here to kill. He’s apparently off Damien Moreau’s leash, but he could be working for anyone. The rumors surrounding his activity these past few years have been… odd, to say the least. There’s enough targets that he could be here for any of them.

But he’s as jumpy as she is, despite his cool exterior. He leans in, against her ear, and whispers in her ear.

“Shall we get out of here? No reason anyone else should get hurt.”

Eliot Spencer is a man with the strangest of honor codes, she thinks. He hates casualties, unless they’re specifically ordered. He’s no stranger to them, but he doesn’t want it here. Perhaps he thinks he can beat her, return to the party, and kill his target, and no one will be any the wiser. Arrogant. In her ear, she hears Clint hissing, telling her to take him out to the alley so he can get a shot.

Natasha inclines her head, and leads him. He follows, even though he has to know SHIELD would have at least sent a handler to go with her.

The moment they’re out of sight, they’re on each other. Hands go to throats, and they slam against the walls of the outside building, each scrambling for control of the fight.

He’s good, he takes hits like they’re nothing. She’s almost offended by this, this and the fact that he can actually hit her. He knows how she fights; he’s probably watched videos. But she knows how he fights, and the two of them keep at it, each of them going to incapacitate, not kill. He must know killing her is at the least highly unlikely, and if he could succeed, it would only bring SHIELD crashing down around his head.

(Natasha Romanov has a ledger dripping in red ink. Eliot Spencer has the same. It does not occur to her that he is also trying to blot it out.)

Finally, she has him pressed up against the wall of the alley, a knife to his throat. “Who are you here for?” She demands.

“No one,” he croaks. She snarls, wordlessly. “I’m on retrieval, that’s all.”

“I don’t believe you,” she says. “But SHIELD will get the truth out of you.”

It seems wrong, that Natalya has dyed her hair blonde. She is red, in Parker’s mind, seared that color. Not red like blood, not red like rubies or paint, but a horrifyingly dangerous human red. Red like the Red Room.

Everything’s gone wrong; the Black Widow is here, SHIELD is here, and it’s okay, everything’s okay, they’ve got a plan. Black Widow will take Eliot into custody, she’ll break him out on his way to the holding cell, Sophie will have to sell to him directly, but that’s okay, Nate’s already setting the scene.

But then Hardison sees a sniper on the roof, and Eliot is in his sights.

Parker knows that Natalya is supposed to be a good guy now, but Eliot is a bad guy, and Natalya is the kind of good guy who doesn’t have a problem with shooting bad guys like Eliot. Parker cannot let Natalya hurt Eliot.

Nate would have a plan, but Hardison is yelling in her ear, and all Parker can think about is Natalya, watching as they kill each other. Parker wants to run, like she used to do, every time the Red Room found her, before Archie hid her so well that she couldn’t be found. But if she runs, Eliot might be hurt. And Parker can’t let that happen.

Parker bursts into the alley, and throws herself at Natalya Romanova, the terror of the Red Room, the Black Widow, and pulls at her hair and scratches at her face.

“Run!” She yells at Eliot, who doesn’t, because he’s Eliot, and he instead attacks Natalya too, fighting like he’s scared, all swinging fists and desperation, trying to keep himself between Parker and Natalya after Natalya throws her off her back.

“Tatiana?” Natalya breathes, when she catches a glimpse of Parker.

Eliot swears, and attacks Natalya again. “Parker! Run!” He yells at her.

Natasha sees red when she realizes that Eliot Spencer is here with Tatiana.

Tatiana, the girl who ran, the girl who ran so fast and so well that the Red Room thought she was dead, willingly exposing herself to a Black Widow to save him meant one thing.

He was her handler.

Eliot Spencer was a man who did not balk at blood. She had seen records of the things he has done, especially for Damien Moreau. His bloody past is almost as bad as hers. He was willing to kill children.

He is definitely the sort of man who would have worked for the Red Room, had he been born in another nation, in another time.

She lunges for him, thoughtlessly going for the kill now. Rage fills her being. How dare he?

“Parker!” He yells again, and she grits her teeth. He changed her name? “Parker, run, goddamnit, why don’t you listen?”

“I won’t leave you with her!” Tatiana yells, and she’s grown up, Natasha thinks. She’s so different from the skinny, scared child she’d once seen slipping around the corners of the Red Room.

“Damn it Parker!” He throws a trash can at Natasha, and she sidesteps it neatly. Only then does she realize that Clint is silent in her ear, and fear rushes through her.

This is so much bigger than she had realized. She knocks Spencer to the ground, and prepares to advance. Her temper has cooled. She’ll take him into custody, get answers about who has had Tatiana, who has managed to keep her hidden from the Red Room and SHIELD alike for over a decade.

But there’s a blur of action, and Tatiana is between her and Spencer, fury in her eyes.

“Tatiana,” she says, making her voice soft. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Parker,” he growls. “Run.”

“She has a sniper,” she says.

“Of—of course she does, Parker, she runs with Barton!” He snaps. “I had it under control.”

“She was going to kill you,” Tatiana insists, and Natasha says nothing. There is no reason Tatiana would think otherwise. She’s misjudged things. Spencer talks to Tatiana… like a partner. She talks to him the same way.

Things are different. Eliot Spencer does not work with partners, would not look at a woman like Tatiana with such concern, would not be the kind of man who Tatiana would try to protect.

“Tatiana,” Natasha says, not sure what to make of this.

“Parker,” she spits, her face twisting t her old name. “My name is Parker.”

“… Parker,” she accepts. The name is familiar, but she can’t place it, not now. “He’s hear to kill someone. I can’t just let him do that.”

Parker twists to look at Eliot. “Are we killing him now?” She says, honestly curious.

“No Parker,” he growls.

“Oh. Good. Because we don’t do that.” She nods seriously, then turns her attention back to Natasha.

We? Eliot Spencer has never worked with people, he’s famous for it. And since when is he part of a we that doesn’t kill?

Is he trying to change? She wonders. Is Parker his Clint?

It’s then that she realizes that Clint not only still hasn’t responded, but Coulson hasn’t asked for a check-in either. Her hand goes to her earpiece. “Report? Report!”

“Sorry,” a voice drawls from the end of the alley. “We’re in control of the radios.”

She spins. A man in a tacky suit stands there.

“It seems like there’s just been a misunderstanding, Agent Romanoff,” he says. His accent is thick, butchering her name. “Our business here is done.”

“Is it?” He’s smart, she realizes, watching him. He’s like Coulson, planning, seeing, evaluating.

“It is,” he says. “In fact, if you hurry back, you’ll probably be able to still ensure that Mister Johansson will open that safe. Although,” he adds, thoughtfully. “Waste of time; he moved the plans last week.”

Her stomach drops. “How could you know that?”

“Because we are very good at what we do,” he says. The pattern on his suit is almost blinding. “Parker. Go get the car.”

Parker moves away from Spencer. (She brushes against Natasha for a moment, and Natasha knows that there will be something in her pocket when she checks later.)

“What am I supposed to tell SHIELD?” She asks, curious.

“You tell them that you happened to run into the famous thief Parker, and her bodyguard, Eliot Spencer,” the man says, hands in his pockets. “She made off with some very expensive jewelry, and you were able to disable Spencer, but he was rescued by Parker when you had to return to the ballroom. “Where,” he holds up a piece of paper. “You discovered where Johansson had moved those plans to.”

Parker, the thief? It all makes sense now; the mysterious, odd thief.

“Clint’s been watching,” she points out.

“He’s already agreed,” he says, like it’s simple. “And there we go, Agent Romanoff.” He drops the piece of paper to the ground. “A nice, clean solution.”

“What were you really after?” She asks.

“Well. Parker did steal some jewels,” the man hedges. But then he smiles. “We just emptied a rich, corrupt man’s wallet. No concern of yours.”

He’s telling the truth, Natasha thinks. She inclines her head, and moves to let Spencer stand up.

“A pleasure, Agent Romanoff,” the man in the awful suit says, walking out of the alley.

Spencer gets up, inclining his head to her. He doesn’t begrudge her the victory, it seems. “No offense,” he says, and his southern accent is back in full. “But I hope I don’t see you again.”

“Same,” she says.

And then he leaves. Her comm flickers back to life, and Clint is swearing, grumbling about snot-nosed kids who know too much. She doesn’t say anything, just checks her pocket. A phone. It’s pre-programmed with a single number.

When the mission is done, and she’s sitting in the hotel room, holding the phone.

She should just throw it aside. Parker is a thief, there is no reason that she should contact her. But…

Natasha longs to know more about the girl she had once known. She wants to understand, to see how it is that Parker has found this little makeshift family. The names that Clint has given her beat through her mind. Eliot Spencer, Alec Hardison, Nathan Ford. And Coulson has given her one more, the one she didn’t meat. Sophie Devereaux, who had been in the party, and hadn’t left until the others had all left. A famous con artist and swindler, or, as Coulson called her, a “grifter”.

What had happened, to the little girl who had been so good at sneaking, and when did she become the world’s greatest thief?

She makes the call.

“Hello?” Parker’s voice says. She sounds wary, but she also sounds alone. Natasha wonders where she is. What is her life like, this other girl, who understands the urge to handcuff herself to the bed some nights?

“Hello,” Natasha echoes. She tries to think about what she should say next.

Finally, she settles on. “Do you want to meet sometime to get coffee? I’d rather catch up in person.”

Parker seems to hesitate. “Sure,” she finally says.

Natasha takes a deep breath, and feels herself smile.

It’s a start.

#Steph Writes #Parker #Eliot Spencer #Natasha Romanoff #Alec Hardison #Let's Go Steal a Tag #MCU

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