#just them at an impasse of like...... neither able or willing to ACTUALLY hurt the other??? despite constant threats from both of them? idk

[helennorvilles]

i REALLY wanna read something dealing with like....... dhawan!masterdoctor and yaz. like yaz being stuck with him for longer as she tries to fix the situation and then there's like, hectic kind-of-bonding happening. like the doctor leaks through in mannerisms and thoughts and feelings and none of them are handling that very well but they're trapped together and it's awkward and terrible for them all? yeah

#just them at an impasse of like...... neither able or willing to ACTUALLY hurt the other??? despite constant threats from both of them? idk #just a bit more than just what we got in those couple of scenes between them both #its always just vibes with me you know how it is #my post tag #dw spoilers #nia watches dw

[dying-suffering-french-stalkers]

For the ship game: prime numbers for Lupin x Jigen!

HERE YOU GO GHOST, THIS WAS FIVE PAGES IN A GOOGLE DOC AND TOOK ME SEVERAL HOURS

Under a cut, allegedly, though mobile has been known to just IGNORE THAT. Sorry in advance if this gets goofed for anyone.

2) Who is always horny and will have sex at any time, in any place?

Lupin, obviously (and canonically). Just the horniest man you ever did see. Jigen knows what he wants and when he wants it, but he has difficulty keeping up with Don Juan Triumphant over there. Lupin is also far less picky about locations and times than Jigen is. Jigen still has a FEW standards, thank you, and also a stronger sense of self-preservation. Lupin sometimes tries to start shit in public or during a heist and Jigen is like “I REALLY, REALLY APPRECIATE THE SENTIMENT BUT CAN WE NOT.” The closest to public anything Jigen will put up with is bar bathroom/back-alley hookups, and he doesn’t really tend to do that with Lupin or Goemon since they have secondary locations far more suited to such activity (or at least the damn Fiat, if nothing else). That said, Jigen is a spiteful bastard and gets a huge kick out of riling Lupin up over the walkie-talkie during jobs. He is more than happy to get jumped by his boss after they make it out and secure the loot.

3) Who is more into taking showers/baths together? Who tries to make it relaxing and who tries to make it sexy time?

Honestly, while I can totally see Lupin and Jigen doing this with their other partners, I have a harder time imagining the two of them doing this together and I’m not sure why. I feel like these two on their own both like the privacy bathing gives them, whether it’s to clean wounds or decompress from a job.

On the occasions when they do bathe together, I feel like it’s an unspoken kind of thing, where the other person quietly slips in the tub/shower with them and they just don’t bother protesting. I think Lupin is more likely to join Jigen in his bathing, but if Jigen is sleepy enough or lonely enough he might do the same. There is a lot of mutual appreciation of scars. They’ve definitely smoked in the tub before (Intricate Rituals™). Lupin is probably more likely to get handsy, because Lupin, but two can play that game if Jigen is feeling it, and also Jigen gives Lupin a run for his money in the staring department. No hat to hide behind now.

Lupin has also 100% done the whole “Hey Jigen, do you know if—stop screaming, it’s me—do you know if we have any more instant dashi? Goemon’s gonna slice up the sofa if I ruin soba night again.”

5) Who sleeps on the couch when they get into a fight?

Jigen, but to be fair, he canonically sleeps on the couch most nights (possibly to keep an eye on the door, possibly because he knows that place, at least, is always “acceptable” for him to occupy). It’s an odd night if you don’t see Jigen out there with a glass and a bottle of scotch and an old movie on TV. The main difference is that if he and Lupin have been fighting, he won’t bother with the formality of a glass and the TV will be playing far louder or not at all.

7) [A] Who said “I love you” first? And [B] who ends their arguments in a fight with “Because I love you”?

I hate to take the coward’s way out here, but I think the answers are A) either one - depends on the headcanon/fic/version of the characters I’m feeling that day, and B) both.

For A, they’re both the sort of people to show their love—true love/affection, not just flirtation/infatuation, LUPIN—in action, not words. Lupin is a man of many words to a fault, generous with his verbal and physical affection, so Lupin has to find a way to make sure Jigen knows he means it and how he means it. He may rightly fear that Jigen won’t believe him (or else believe him but take it platonically) if he says “I love you” to his face, so first he’ll show him through every little action he can. Jigen is a man of few words to a fault, so saying personal stuff like that out loud is both a last resort and the point of no return. Getting him to say it at all, unambiguously, and while sober is like pulling teeth. Once one of them finally spits it out, though, I think the other is quick to reciprocate (again, if they manage to say it clearly and under good circumstances and not ambiguously/while drunk or wounded/etc. They’re both idiots and selective cowards so this is a big if). The mutual relief is palpable and immediately followed by sex, because they’re both (horny) idiots and selective cowards who do not want to talk about Emotions and Personal Things any more than strictly necessary.

For B, ohhhh man, if it isn’t that same emotional avoidance coming to bite them in the asses! Looks like talking about deep emotions is strictly necessary after all! You know it’s a Big Important Argument for them if this is what it comes to. This is going to tie in somewhat to the answers for 11, 17, and 23, so stay tuned. “Because I love you” coming from either of them should give the other pause, but if they are angry enough, they’re both quite likely to storm off after that declaration anyway. They’ll come back and have a real discussion later, but the shock or frustration of that arresting declaration dropped in the middle of an argument is something neither of them are great at dealing with. Hearing that from Jigen might be enough to stop Lupin in his tracks, but Lupin might also be so dead-set on something that he’ll steamroll right over it even if he knows he’ll regret it later. Hearing that from Lupin probably only makes Jigen angrier because of his awful self-esteem (see answers 11 and 23), and even if he’s been working on that, his instinct will be to snarl “Yeah, right” and storm out the door. I like to think that one day they are able to get to the heart of the argument sooner (because this is almost always it) and work on the behaviors that worry the other so much, but alas, they are a mess.

11) Who makes fun of the other for having a crush on them, and who has to remind them that they are in a relationship?

Once again, either of them depending on the day.

As you mentioned in your JiGoe post, Jigen says it partly because he thinks it’s funny (“You have a crush on me, Boss? Fuckin’ embarrassing”) but also because he’s fishing for validation. His self-esteem/confidence in anything outside his shooting skills is shit and he still can’t quite believe that Lupin isn’t lying/he hasn’t conned Lupin into something. This is rather overestimating his conning skills and underestimating his many good qualities, but, well, genuine, lasting affection is kinda new for him. Much to Jigen’s annoyance, Lupin figures out exactly what Jigen’s up to after the first few times and answers him seriously (and positively) instead of continuing the “joke”. Lupin loses patience for this particular tactic over time but I like to think that Jigen finally begins believing in the affection, too, so it comes up less and less and one day Jigen might actually play the quip straight without the self-deprecation. Ideally he would just take the damn compliment, but it’s LupJig and banter is one of their love languages.

When Lupin says it, he typically is playing the quip straight and fondly giving Jigen shit for showing an Emotion and motherFUCKER I just realized Jigen could probably be considered a tsundere. I hate this. ANYWAY. Jigen then immediately snarks back that yes, Lupin, considering we’ve been travelling the world together and actively fucking for X years, it’d be damn awkward if I didn’t by now.

13) Who initiates duets? and who is the better singer?

Lupin absolutely initiates duets, or rather, he tries to; whether or not Jigen actually chimes in is another matter entirely. Lupin is also the better singer by far (when he’s sober). He loves singing along to pop and rock in the car (“This is the reason God invented America!”).

Much as it would please me personally to give Jigen a smooth operatic baritone, there’s no way in hell he sounds good after smoking a pack a day for twenty-something years. I think Jigen can carry a tune and he’s a decent hummer and whistler, but his singing voice isn’t spectacular.

Lupin occasionally succeeds in getting Jigen to join him in car karaoke, though as in all things, Lupin is much louder and more impassioned. Jigen frequently hums along under his breath, though, and Lupin loves hearing Jigen’s a cappella renditions of classical music (complete with hand motions).

When Queen starts becoming popular, car singalongs become much more involved because it’s MY silly headcanon and You Are Not Immune To Queen. Jigen cried the first time he heard “Bohemian Rhapsody” and he will kill Lupin if he ever tells Goemon or, God forbid, Fujiko. When the four of them are in the car it’s a full-on Wayne’s World headbanging party. (Pops is the drunk guy they pick up along the way. Also, seeing Payless Shoe Source in this clip dealt me psychic damage.)

Lupin and Jigen (and Goemon) are the living embodiment of the drunk friends singing “Sweet Caroline” post, and Jigen is specifically this version of “Sweet Caroline”.

17) Who is more protective?

THAT IS THE QUESTION, HUH, GHOST? Jigen’s job and, to a certain degree, raison d’être is protecting Lupin, but (to cheat slightly and quote your own DM to me), if you think Lupin won’t raze everything to the ground to keep Jigen (and the others) safe, you don’t know him at all. They are this meme to the deepest of faults. They are both so desperately afraid of losing what they have (and in Lupin’s case, this is tinged with a bonus, even more concerning “what is his”) that they will go full self-sacrificing, scorched-earth policy. This is, in fact, my favorite reason for Lupin to do the worst thing he does: fake his own death to protect his partners. Lupin never stops to think that maybe, JUST MAYBE, he should trust his partners to fake grief and keep the secret long enough for whoever’s on their tail to give up or let their guard slip. Lupin is willing to hurt them in an effort to protect them, so in that way, I suppose Lupin is the “most” “protective”. Jigen’s self-abasement to the point of unhesitating and perhaps even hasty sacrifice is painful, too, but Jigen would never dare go to the same level of deception (except in Goodbye, Partner, apparently? But 1) I haven’t watched it yet and 2) while awful, I still feel like fake betrayal pales in comparison to very convincingly (AND MAYBE REPEATEDLY) faked death).

19) Who drives and who has the window seat?

They split driving duties, but Lupin genuinely loves driving and Jigen is more than happy to prop his feet on the Fiat’s dashboard and smoke or sleep the hours away.

23) Who thinks they are not good enough for the other’s love? and who’s more afraid of losing the other? Who thinks they keep messing up, only for the other to tell them they don’t need to worry?

HERE WE GO AGAIN!!! I think the answer to all of these is ultimately Jigen, but that’s not to say Lupin doesn’t share the exact same worries.

Jigen has a very difficult time believing that his partners’ love is genuine, and since Lupin is the one he knew first, that’s where it first manifests. Jigen has had very, very few good romantic connections in his life (if any). He doesn’t know what Lupin could possibly see in an older, prickly hired killer with a drinking problem and a head full of demons. He’s willing to believe that Lupin keeps him around for his skills, for protection, and for sex, sure, but anything past that? Doubtful. This ties into the other two parts of the question: Jigen is afraid that if he fails in his sharpshooting or his protection, he will be cut out of the gang, or worse, Lupin will end up dead because Jigen slipped up. As mentioned in question 17, Jigen cannot bear to lose Lupin and he would never forgive himself if he believed it was somehow his fault. Accordingly, Jigen takes “failure” that exceeds his usual margin of error very seriously in the early days. Later, he is better about this, but the worst-case scenario still stands.

Lupin, on the other hand, has had plenty of romantic connections, some good, some bad, though it is perhaps telling that Fujiko is his longest romantic relationship other than Jigen. He is afraid that if he doesn’t put on the world’s greatest show at all times, no one will give a rat’s ass about some scrawny grandson of an old French thief (or the perhaps unwanted/disliked son of a ruthless crime lord, because I love that fanon for Lupin the Second). He must live up to and indeed surpass the previous Lupins, he must shower his partners in money and adventure, he must always, always come out on top no matter how south the plan goes, or else what is the point of him? It takes time for him to turn his persona off for more than a few seconds, to let the quieter, sometimes contemplative side that slips through the cracks come to rest out in the open. Years down the road, Jigen finally gets up the courage and the words to tell Lupin that he would love him no matter what he did or where he went, even if that was nothing and nowhere. And again, see question 17 re: losing Jigen.

29) Who does some crazy stunt to try and impress the other and who ends up driving them to the emergency room after it backfires?

Lupin is by far the most guilty of this. He’s constantly pulling dumb shit, whether that be for World-Renowned Gentleman Thief reasons or just He May Be Stupid reasons. Case in point: the tunnel scene in The First, after which Jigen was duly impressed. Fortunately for Lupin, Lady Luck must be head over heels for him because the bastard keeps surviving, but sometimes even she can’t save him from medical consequences. Jigen bulk-ordered “Stupid Hurts” band-aids specifically for Lupin. Jigen’s bad choices are more likely to literally backfire on him, but Goemon more than makes up for Jigen’s slack in the Crazy Stunt department.

#I CARE THEY #hope this is comprehensible bc i honestly cannot tell #i have many thoughts on these two human disasters #lupin iii #jigen #asks #the-golden-ghost #long post #meta #I GUESS #can you believe i wrote five pages of meta about 1970s comedy anime characters? fucking hell. i love this fandom. #ship meme

[too-gay-for-marvel]

is it you?

a/n: am i late for @hopingforbarnes​ writing challenge? absolutely. am i gonna learn from this? definitely not. but now you all know that i live by the motto of “better late than never” and i’m not sorry 😬 oh, also, the prompt will be bolded!

Prompt: You’re gonna have to limp faster than that

Word Count: 2629

Warnings: swearing, canon-typical violence

Pairing: Natasha x Reader

It was supposed to be easy.

Then again, it was always supposed to be easy.

And yet, you found yourself struggling to stay aware as bullets continued to slam into the metal desk you were hidden behind. Which, to be quite frank, you shouldn’t have been surprised about. If anyone was going to get you in trouble, it would have been Nat.

Don’t tell her, though.

“Just like old times, right?” Nat called from across the room, ducked down behind her own table.

“I don’t remember “old times” being this dangerous,” you called back, trying your damnedest to keep the pain in your voice to a minimum.

Okay, so maybe you hadn’t told her you had gotten shot yet. But it was fine. It was a simple through and through, it wasn’t like it was that bad. Maybe your leg was throbbing and maybe you couldn’t stop the bleeding from your side, but those were minor details. You could tell her after you got out of this cluster-fuck of a mission.

You knew better, you really did. Nat had always told you to tell her if things went wrong because she just wanted to help. Which was precious considering she was actually pretty useless at anything other than her job. Not that you minded because it was a nice shift in dynamics at home. But this was different.

Not that different, you thought to yourself as the table behind you shook with the impact of more bullets.

As soon as there was a lull in the barrage, you shared a look with Nat before the both of your fired over your respective tables. Nat had stood up to actually get a better look, but you stayed down. The odds of you actually hitting someone were slim-to-none, but it was the thought that counted, right?

You only stopped firing when Nat did; it wasn’t like you could see anyone anyway. Nat made her way around the tables to go… you didn’t know where, but she was out of sight. And as soon as she was out of sight, your arm fell and you let yourself just hurt.

And gods did it hurt.

“It’s not here.”

Right. Intel.

You slid that impassive facade back on your face before Nat got around the tables once again. She was doing her best to hide it, but you could tell she was pissed. Her jaw was clenched just a little too tight and her stance was a fraction too wide.

“But Steve said-”

“-I know what Steve said.” Her eyes squeezed shut and she lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose before letting out a single, deep sigh. “Apparently he was wrong.”

“Fuckin’ yankee,” you mumbled to yourself as you fell back against the table, jarring your side and sending a sharp ache up to your chest. “Leave it to a New Yorker to be wrong.”

“We can’t stay here and mope,” Nat said, even though you both knew it was an obvious observation. “The sooner we get to extraction, the sooner we can regroup.”

“And the sooner I can bitch at the Man with a Plan,” you agreed. Nat was already moving when you tried to stand up and realised a very big problem.

You could barely stand up.

Even putting all of the weight on your good leg wasn’t good enough, and the pain was enough to make you dizzy. Or maybe that was the blood loss? No, no, it was the pain. Maybe? No. Well. Whatever it was, it was making you sick and dizzy and how were you going to walk to extraction?

“You coming?” Nat called from the doorway, not looking back.

“Right behind you,” you called back, already steeling yourself to try and walk as normally as possible.

With blood streaming down your leg.

And more blood pooling between the fingers of the hand pressed tight to your side.

And everything spinning. Were things supposed to be spinning?

“We don’t have all day!” Nat called again, this time from further away, and you knew you didn’t have time to stand around.

Okay, I can do this, you thought to yourself. It wasn’t going to be easy but you were tough, right? You could make it to extraction, it wasn’t that far away. Was it? No, it couldn’t be, you had both walked here. Well, now that you thought about it, the extraction point wouldn’t be in the same place because it was never in the same place.

Hey! Quit stalling and get a move on! Right right, you were supposed to be following Nat. If you didn’t start moving, she was going to come back and see the growing stains on your suit. You looked down at your legs, mentally willing them to just move on their own, but it didn’t work. And as stupid as it was, you were surprised.

But you had to get moving. Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest as you considered which foot to start off with. Leaving the weight on your injured leg would probably make you fall before you could even start, so… bad leg first.

It ached when you lifted it but it wasn’t unbearable. You hadn’t put it down yet but you were feeling confident. This wasn’t so bad, you could move, it would be fine. But then you put your foot down and tried to keep moving, and that ache turned into an inferno.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to grip your leg and fall to the ground and scream. Curse AIM and the gods and the weapons manufacturers and maybe even Steve for getting you in this mess in the first place. But you couldn’t, because you couldn’t let Nat know. You needed to get to the extraction point.

So you kept going.

One foot after the other, no matter how slow it was. Your limp was probably greatly exaggerated, but it was the only way to make sure you could keep going and wouldn’t stop from the fire consuming your entire leg. It would have been easy to just stop and admit you couldn’t do it. But instead you counted the steps - 13, 1415, 16, 1718 - and continued to follow Nat.

By the time the both of you had made it outside of the small AIM base, the pain wasn’t too bad. In fact, you were practically numb to it. It was a bad thing, you knew that, but it had been so extreme that now your brain refused to register it. But that being said, your leg itself was getting weaker and you weren’t sure how much longer you could go.

“A few more hours and we’ll be able to go home,” Nat said, just loud enough for you to hear. You hadn’t stepped up beside her in fear that she would turn and see the injuries you had half-heartedly tried to hide.

“Hours?” You choked, your heart already starting to drop.

“You know this, don’t act surprised.” She started walking once again, but you stayed still.

You couldn’t make it a few more hours.

“Nat,” you said softly, knowing she couldn’t hear you but hoping that she would anyway. But she just kept going.

“Nat, please,” you said again, a little louder. Except this time, you hoped she couldn’t hear you.

“If we stop now, they’ll have time to regroup,” she called back to you.

And you wanted to keep going because she was right. A signal had been sent out from the base and neither of you knew what it had said, but you guessed it was calling for reinforcements. If you called it quits right outside the door then neither of you would be getting back home.

But you couldn’t. Your legs felt like lead and your feet had grown roots past the foundation and into the ground. The blood from your wounds was littering the ground with crimson flowers that were almost beautiful. Your body had left its mark in that base and was pulling you to stay.

“Can you quit fooling around and come-” when Nat’s eyes landed on you, she froze. “-on,” she exhaled, finishing her thought, eyes glued to the blood that refused to clot.

“I was going to tell you,” you said softly, but Nat had already rushed to your side, hands hovering uncertainly above your own.

“When?” She asked even though she now refused to look you in the eye. “Right before you bled out?”

“Actually, when we got to extractio- fuck!” You cried out when Nat’s hand finally stopped shaking long enough for her to press your hands against the wound. Only then did she finally look up into your eyes, and you saw something you didn’t ever think you would see in Natasha Romanoff’s eyes.

Fear.

“If you let up, I’ll kill you,” she threatened with shaky words. You wanted to answer but she didn’t give you time. Instead, she went to your good side and slung your arm around her shoulders.

Then it was time to get moving.

It should have been easier with Nat practically carrying you. You technically didn’t have to put much weight on your leg. But it was so much worse. Having your arm around her shoulders stretched your side just enough to feel like you were being torn in half, and you almost started to think you preferred walking on your leg than whatever hell this was.

“You’re gonna have to limp a little faster than that,” Nat teased with a nervous chuckle after what had felt like an eternity.

It was probably only 20 minutes.

“I’m sorry, is this an inconvenience?” You asked through gritted teeth, trying not to focus on the pain in your side or the way the world was spinning just a little faster with each step.

“Yes actually.”

“Oh fuck off,” you mumbled, but you could feel Nat’s shoulders shake ever so slightly from a silent laugh.

“Just a little longer,” she said quietly, mostly to herself. But you knew she was lying; you weren’t even close to the extraction point.

And with that little fact, you could feel yourself slowing down exponentially with each new step. You knew you weren’t going to make it to the extraction point, not at this rate. If either of you wanted to get home, you would have to drop the dead weight.

Even if Nat didn’t like it.

“Nat, stop,” you said after another step sent that familiar fire up your side.

“I know it hurts but I can’t carry you that far. Hold on just a little longer.”

“No, stop.”

“We just need to keep moving-”

“-Nat!”

Her shoulders slumped at your tone but she stopped nonetheless. She didn’t turn her head from where she was staring into the distance in front of you, but you could feel that she knew what you were going to say. After all, she wasn’t stupid. Quite the opposite.

Which meant she knew what had to be done.

“Get to extraction,” you told her, looking down at her even though she wouldn’t do the same.

“We’ll get there together,” she said as if there wasn’t any other possibility. And it made your heart hurt even more than your side or leg.

“By the time we get to extraction, there’s gonna be too many reinforcements,” you said softly. “We’ll be overwhelmed.”

“We could get there if you would just keep mov-”

“-Get your ass to the meet-up,” you interrupted, and she finally turned to look at you. Really look at you.

“Y/N-”

“-You can come back for me,” you tried to say. “It’ll be faster.”

There was a certain resignation that washed over her face. You both knew you were right, and as much as she hated to admit it, it was what had to happen. If there was any chance of getting you back with a chance of getting help, she would have to leave you.

Leave you alone in the middle of AIM territory.

But it would be worth it, right? Even if something happened to you, at least Nat would get away. She would be safe. You two hadn’t been together for too long, but definitely long enough for you to know that you would rather lay down your life than have her get caught or hurt. And maybe that meant you would get left behind.

And that was okay.

“You need to go, Nat,” you whispered. In the few seconds it took Nat to nod, you knew she was going through some wild emotions. What exactly those emotions were, you had no idea, but it didn’t matter. The way her eyes glassed over was enough.

She guided you over to the nearest tree and help you sit down with your back against the trunk. It hurt, and you could feel a fresh swell of blood push past your fingers, but then there was a silent relief. A relief that you weren’t on your feet, that you didn’t have to keep going, that you could just breathe.

“I’ll get to the jet and come back,” Nat said seriously, but she hadn’t gotten up from her kneeling position in front of you.

“No rush,” you chuckled with the best smile you could muster. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Nat lifted her hands to cup your cheeks, and even though everything was swimming and spinning and fading, her eyes were as clear as day. The eyes you saw before you went to bed, the ones you saw when you woke up. Her eyes that sparkled when the guys were fucking around at home and she could just relax.

Now those eyes were trying to impart something into your soul.

“I’m coming back for you,” she said with no hesitation, no fear.

And then her lips were on yours, soft yet so full of all the emotions she was feeling. Fear, desperation, passion, maybe even love. But before you could return the emotions, she pulled away and started walking, her yellow AIM suit a stark contrast to the green and brown blur of the forest. She didn’t turn back.

You didn’t blame her.

It wasn’t long after she left that you felt yourself fading. Quickly. It started with a coldness in your hands and feet. That quickly turned to your heart trying to beat out of your chest, and then you blacked out. Not for long periods of time - at least you didn’t think it was - but for a few seconds.

Then it got longer.

You noticed because you could vaguely see the light streaming through the trees at different angles. It would have been beautiful if you had been able to focus on it. But all you really wanted to do was sleep. Just let go and sleep, because at least you knew Nat was safe. Maybe she was almost at the extraction point by now.

And just that thought was enough for you to be okay with closing your eyes. Nat would be safe, she would be okay, and that was what mattered to you the most. You wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore because she was safe. So you let yourself close your eyes and listen to your heart slow down in your chest.

One.

The sound of someone stepping on twigs nearby got your eyes opened, but you couldn’t see anything. Not really.

Two.

Arms slid under your knees and behind your back, and then someone was picking you up. You just let your head rest against their chest.

Three.

Your eyes started to close again. It was impossible to tell who had found you, but you didn’t care anymore.

The last thing you remembered was that yellow suit underneath your hand.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #black widow imagine #natasha romanoff imagine #marvel #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #my writing

[kelpiemist]

Feat. Supreme Chancellor (AKA, the Sith Lord) VS The Negotiator (who's still a little salty about the war)

"You know.” Palpatine said finally, settling his teacup down with a hard clink. It was not a question, and they both knew it.

“I know.” Obi-Wan agreed.

“You know that I know.” The Sith-disguised-as-a-Chancellor stated, an utterly affronted look on his face.

“I know that you know that I know.” The Jedi smirked, before leaning forward and taking a deliberate, slow sip from his cup.

(The utter bastard, Palpatine raged, feeling the Force swell into filtering the poison that he had so helpfully laced the cup in. Kenobi couldn’t even have the common courtesy to fall over and die!)

There was a long pause. Both of them understood that they were at an impasse and neither really had the option of killing the other. Palpatine was the Chancellor, and Obi-Wan knew that assassinating him would not reflect well on the Jedi Order. The Senate would have a hissy fit.

On the other hand, Palpatine couldn’t kill him yet either. Because, well, Negotiator . Plus being one of the leading generals.

Plus, Anakin would be the one to have a hissy fit. 

“I’ll kill you.” The Chancellor sniffed darkly. His long, spindly fingers tapped on the desk in a series of menacing thuds. Tap. Tap .

“You will try.”

Tap, tap, tap, taptaptap taptaptap. 

They glared at each other.

 

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

 

The door to his office opens, and Palpatine sighs as he puts on his ‘kind face’. A smile spreads across his face, as he turns around, radiating happiness and joy into the Force. “Anakin, my bo-”

The smile slips right off his face, replaced by a dark scowl. “You.” He growls.

Kenobi grins, striding into the office with a purposeful motion. “Me.” He agrees.

The blasted Jedi settles himself comfortably into the seat. Palpatine seethes in rage, as his face contorts into murderous anger. A sudden idea comes to him, and he pulls out his comm.

“Amedda.” He snaps. “Bring us some tea. Now.”

A squeak from the other end of the comm tells him that Amedda is doing the menial task and is coming soon. 

“You are too kind, Chancellor.” Kenobi purrs, and Palpatine flinches in sheer horror. Force, was this how Ventress and Grievous felt while facing this… this filth? The sheer audacity!

Jedi and Sith stare at each other silently, one glaring the power of a hundred Death Stars and the other radiating pure smugness. The door opens once more, and Amedda scurries in, fear written clearly across his face, and Palpatine relaxes fractionally, energised by the terror that his aide is leaking into the Force. The Chagrian politician places the cups on the table and flees.

Palpatine’s hand hovers over the cup, discreetly slipping another poison inside. Kenobi’s eyes very carefully focus on his own, and Palpatine resists the urge to fidget. The vial disappears as quickly as it appears, vanishing back into his robes with a quiet chink. 

“Tea?” He grits out, hand actually shaking with fury as he holds out a cup of tea.

“Very well.” Kenobi sighs, accepting the cup. 

They drink quietly. It irks Palpatine because the Jedi actually drinks the entire thing. The audacity! How dare he?!?

The Sith's eye twitches after several long moments of silence because the damned Jedi still does not immediately keel over and die.

“This is… very interesting tea.” Kenobi finally says after several infuriating minutes of nothing happening . “I take it that it’s made from senflax?” The Jedi chuckles. “I take it that you haven’t heard the story of how my Master made sure I was resistant to it after several rather nasty incidents where this particular neurotoxin was involved.”

Kenobi chortles quietly, shaking his head in fond remembrance. “The Cadanna mission was one of the more, ah, interesting missions.”

Palpatine’s face twisted, contorting into several varieties of a pissed-off expression before finally settling on murderous rage.

WHY WON’T KENOBI JUST DIE ?!?

 

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

 

“What sorcery is this?!?” Palpatine howled, even as he directed his Sith lightning towards the defenceless Jedi that had just walked into his office. The lightning was being absorbed into Kenobi’s clothes.

The look that Kenobi shot him was one of utter innocence. “What, haven’t you heard of electrical-proof clothes? I hear that rubber is very efficient...”

 

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

 

“Get out.”

“Tell me, Chancellor. Is tea an Anakin-only privilege or do you so kindly extend this gracious gift to people of the lesser-Midichlorian variety?”

 

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

 

“Will you stop flirting!” Palpatine shouted, slamming down his data pad with a thud.

“Chancellor,” Obi-Wan gasped in exaggeration, fake-hurt on his face. “Your accusations are unfounded, my dearest Sheev.”

Palpatine gagged.

“Shut up!” The Chancellor hissed, still retching. “I’m not even your type!”

Obi-Wan blinked, startled at the sudden change in conversation. “Why do you know my type?” He asked suspiciously.

That’s it, Palpatine decided. He was going to kill this Jedi, and he was going to enjoy dipping his hands in Kenobi's blood and painting the walls with dead Jedi and - 

“What do you think my type is?” Obi-Wan asked, frowning, and breaking Palpatine's line of deliciously dark thought. “Your information may be entirely incorrect, you know.”

“Blond,” Palpatine spat, shuddering, remembering the time that Satine Kryze gave him a killer stink-eye when he nearly invaded her planet. “And crazy.”

Siri Tachi came to mind too, though… how in the galaxy had she even managed to destroy his best sculpture and then thrown him off his own balcony by accident in one night?

“Wrong.” Obi-Wan sat back gleefully, interrupting Sheev’s thoughts once again. “ Willing. And with a pulse.”

Palpatine put his head in his hands, and screamed.

 

—-------—- ——------

 

“Hello there, Chancellor.” Obi-Wan says cheerfully, waving. 

Cody and Anakin stare at him in utter confusion. They both knew very well that Obi-Wan harboured some sort of disdain for politicians, and even more so for the Supreme Chancellor.

What was even more odder, was the fact that the Chancellor’s face immediately turned an alarming shade of puce.

Anakin watched with morbid fascination as his Master skipped over to the Chancellor. They exchanged a few words, Obi-Wan’s face becoming more smug while the Chancellor’s features became an increasingly agitated purple.

A beat. 

The Chancellor and the Negotiator stared at each other with a look that Anakin couldn’t quite decipher.

Then:

“Arghh!” Palpatine gave up all pretence of patience. He gave a scream of frustration and tackled the Jedi.

Anakin stared in amazement while Cody’s eyes bugged out in shock. Behind them, the Senators and Aides watched in stunned confusion as their Leader and their War-Hero started re-enacting a Ubardian oil wrestling match on the marble floor.

It took half-a-second for Cody to react.

With a loud battle-cry, the clone charged forward. He dove forward, ramming straight into the Chancellor. With a quick move, he dug his heels into the Chancellor’s limbs, tightening his grasp on the elderly man’s neck as he clone-piled the man.

The end result was that he ended up clinging on to the Chancellor’s back.

For a brief second, the commander’s eyes were wide with indecision. Then, his jaw set firmly, a hard look entering his features.

Oh shit, Anakin thought faintly. The Chancellor was in deep bantha poodoo now.

Palpatine yelled in shock, as Cody started noogie-ing him, rubbing a tightly-clenched knuckle over the Chancellor’s greasy hair. 

“Don’t you dare.” Cody snarled fiercely, diving in mercilessly for another attack on his campaign to destroy the Chancellor’s scalp. “Hurt my general ever again.”

Obi-Wan paused, still sprawled out on the floor. An utterly soft and adoring look passing over his face as he smiled sappily at his commander.

 

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

 

“Your thousand-year old Sith plan is incredibly stupid.” Obi-Wan drawled out. There was a solid ten beats of silence.

Palpatine paused his typing and started to breathe heavily, closing his eyes as he forced down air into his lungs. 

Deep breaths, Sheev, deep breaths. That’s it.  

He shoved the urge to kill the Jedi to the darkest recesses of his mind. 

“Wine?” He asked, holding up a goblet. 

Obi-Wan shrugged, taking the offered cup from the Chancellor’s hand. “Is it poisoned? I fear that Cody will not be pleased if I died.”

Palpatine gave him the Look, reaching down and taking a pointed sip of his own goblet. Obi-Wan sighed, and to Sith’s surprised glee, knocked it back.

“A toast.” Palpatine said, “To your death.”

“Back at you, dearest Chancellor.” 

They drank. Palpatine was slightly disappointed that Kenobi didn’t show any outward signs of reaction.

"Did you know that Stewjoni’s are resistant to this particular strain of Chee Berry Poison?”

“Die. Now .”

 

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

 

Somewhere in the ethereal planes of the Force, Qui-Gon Jinn stared in horrified silence.

 

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

 

“Trust me, you don’t want Anakin as an apprentice.” Obi-Wan finally said, after Palpatine had finished highlighting his master plan to make the Jedi die ‘like the scum they are ’ and to make Anakin into a glorious Sith Lord.

“No?” Palpatine asked, arching an eyebrow condescendingly. “Tell me, Jedi. What would you know of what it takes to become a Sith?”

Obi-Wan took another gulp of poison before looking back at the Chancellor with consideration. Slowly, he nodded.

“Not much, Chancellor… But personally, I would prefer it if my newest Sith Apprentice knew how to put on both his socks by himself.”

“Hmm.” Palpatine frowned, and tapped his glass for a few minutes. “Fair point.”

There was a silence.

“He really is quite powerful in other ways.” The Chancellor finally spoke up. “Don’t think you’ll be able to stop me from stealing your apprentice.”

Obi-Wan’s lip curled up into a challenging smirk, practically daring the Sith Lord. “You will try.” He repeated fiercely.

 

--———— —---———

 

“As Supreme Chancellor, I command you to shut up.”

“Request denied, and moving on, did you know that tooka’s enjoy eating Nuna Turkey Jerky? Fun fact, the Nuna are also called Swamp Turkeys and are well-known for their inability to fly and their stupidity. By the way, the stupidity part reminds me of you, dear Chancellor. Anyway, Nunas are omnivores and an average Nuna feeds -”

“Shut up.”

“- and Ewoks are a species of tiny killer bears that live on the incredibly minuscule moon of Endor-”

“I will bisect you.”

“ - Bantha are native specifically to Tatooine although they are bred on many planets, and are used for both mount and resources blah blah blah -”

* Unintelligible noises of rage and items being destroyed *

 

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

 

“I’ll find a way to kill you.” Palpatine snarled, throwing the data-pad via Force at Kenobi’s head.

 

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

 

“I saved Anakin so many times!” Obi-Wan protested. “Are you even aware of how much stupid stuff he does?”

Palpatine sneered. “He is the most powerful Force user, you fool!”

“He thinks that nobody knows about him and Padme.” Obi-Wan told him flatly.

There was a horribly awkward pause.

“... He really thinks that?”

“Yup.” Obi-Wan sank back onto the seat tiredly. More silence.

“Ah. I see.”

 

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

 

“Dear lord, that boy is an idiot.” Palpatine muttered, watching Anakin make starry-eyes at Senator Amidala again in front of the whole Senate at their annual dinner party.

“... Can’t argue with that.” Obi-Wan groaned, having overheard the comment and was now taking a long swing from a bottle of Alderaan wine.

At the other side of the room, Cody twitched. He had just spent the last five hours of his life watching his General empty bottles faster than a clone could disassemble a rifle. 

Rex had to physically restrain him from marching over there, although the poor clone looked ready to tear out his precious blond hair after watching General Skywalker make a general nuisance of himself as he gave Senator Amidala numerous cheesy pick-up lines and regaled her with tales of the tragic events of sand .

 

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

 

“Chancellor Sheev,” Mace Windu intoned dramatically, pointing his lightsaber directly at a gaping Palpatine. “You are under arrest.” Behind the Jedi Master, several other Jedi stood, lightsabers tensed and ready to make minced-Sith sauté in case things went south.

“You can’t do this!” The Sith wheezed, panicking as he hurriedly put on his old man act. “This is a conspiracy! This is clearly a Jedi plot to overthrow the Senate! This is treason !”

Nearly everyone in the room gave him the bitch, really face. 

Kit Fisto held up a small holo-recorder. He pressed the play button, and a very familiar voice came out of the small device.

"I am a Sith Lord, you fools! I orchestrated the war to kill the Jedi and make my Empire! Mwahahahahahaha.”

Palpatine blanched. That was his! It was his victory day celebration speech! A gasp of horror escaped his lips before he could stop it. How the hell did the Jedi manage to bug his office without him noticing -

“This is awesome.” Obi-Wan remarked from one side, pointing a holo-cam directly at the Sith. “Nice touch on the Sheev -emphasis, Mace. Greatest day of my life, really. Say hello to your adoring public, Sheev .”

Palpatine did the only logical thing left to do.

He put his head in his hands and screamed.

#obi wan kenobi #star wars tcw #palpatine #crack #pure crack #fanfic #commander cody #anakin skywalker #mace windu #kit fisto #fix it

[connorandersons-blog]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Connor/Gavin Reed, Connor/others (mentioned) Characters: Gavin Reed, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Interrogation, Handcuffs, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Table Sex, Strength Kink, Self-Lubrication, Semi-Public Sex, Riding, Mirror Sex, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Power Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Safe Sane and Consensual, Exhibitionist Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Summary:

Connor is brought in to be interrogated after the revolution. He isn't all that surprised to find that Gavin Reed will be the one talking to him, but he is surprised to find out a few things about the man.

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

Connor sat in the cool metal chair, waiting to see who would get to interrogate him. He knew Hank was out, he was far too close to Connor. Miller was nice to him, and after what happened he doubted it would be him. Fowler could do it himself, but Connor didn't see him doing that.

The door slid open and he glanced at it, trying not to smirk when he saw Gavin Reed shuffle in. He had a few bruises and Connor almost felt bad about that. Almost.

"Detective Reed, how's your face?" He asked, tilting his head. He shouldn't have been all that shocked that they chose Reed, he wasn't a bad choice. Perhaps Reed even volunteered to do this, get back at Connor a little bit.

Reed sat down across from him, glancing at Connor's cuffed hands. Was he worried Connor would try to get out? "Connor. You were surprisingly easy to bring in. You didn't resist at all, why's that?"

Connor gave a slight shrug. "I didn't want to cause any damage." Androids may have just gotten recognized as a sentient lifeform but that didn't mean they had rights. The arresting officer was kind enough to still offer a lawyer and a phone call, but Connor turned down both. He could have called Markus, but he could do that now if he wanted. He also had absolutely no need for a lawyer, he could do this alone.

"Yet you broke into Cyberlife, stole… it's property and threatened the US government with war." Gavin said. Connor bit at his tongue, why did Gavin hesitate? For someone like him, saying androids were property should be as easy as breathing.

"It was not meant as a threat, I was simply freeing my people." He'd do it again too, even if it meant he was actually going to get arrested. This just seemed like a show, going after one of the few leaders (though he still didn't consider himself one).

Gavin huffed, leaning back in his chair. "Right, marching hundreds of androids through the street isn't a threat. Even those models are stronger than plenty of humans." Gavin's eyes slide down Connor's body then back up to his face.

"As I said, it wasn't meant as a threat. If I wanted to threaten someone," he pushed forward, smirking when Gavin jerked back, "they'd know."

Gavin gaped at him like a fish, and with a scan, Connor came up with some very interesting results.

"So Detective, why don't you ask me what you really want to know?" He leaned back, crossing his legs as if to get comfortable.

Gavin glanced at the two-way mirror, before looking down at the table. When Connor scanned the window, letting him see through he was a bit shocked to see only Fowler there watching them. He gave the man a little wave and chuckled when he facepalmed. Did they not know he could see through it?

"Why didn't you kill me? You had the chance, hell you have the strength." Gavin's voice was quieter, and he rubbed at the scar on his nose before wincing at the pain. Shit, he hadn't meant to hurt Gavin at all.

"I didn't want to. You did your job, nothing more, and I respect that. I respect you, even if you're crude and snide. You seem to honestly care about your job, the city, and those that live in it. How could I kill a man like that?" He didn't mention how his only mission regarding Gavin was at first to get along, and then to find a way to subdue him. He was never told to harm or kill him.

Gavin let out a huff, shaking his head. "So the only reason I'm alive is that you just… didn't want to? Jesus fucking Christ."

Connor stood up, easily popping off the handcuffs. He tried to keep his face impassive as he watched Gavin's pupils dilate, his skin got a pretty flush, and he let out a small whimper. That confirmed one thing.

Connor gently rubbed at his wrists before sitting back down. "I apologize, those were a bit too tight for my liking. Now, the reason you are alive is that many people failed at killing you, I'm sure you have many scars to prove it. I didn't even intend to harm you, is your head alright?"

"I'm not qualified for this damn interrogation," Gavin muttered, glancing down at his lap. Connor looked over at the mirror and was a bit shocked to see Fowler had left and no one came in to take his place. "Fuck. Yeah, my head is fine Tincan. You punch like a nine-year-old girl."

Connor raised an eyebrow, pointing at the completely broken handcuffs. "I was holding back. Should I do the interrogation myself, we aren't getting very far."

Connor slammed his hands down, face turning serious. "You fucking did this! You killed those you humans." Then he shrunk back in his chair, looking terrified. "I had to! They were going to kill me."

"What the fuck," Gavin muttered.

"Then you should have let them! I doubt you would, you can't seem to stay dead anyway!" Connor snapped before he cowered in the chair. "I- how, how did you know that?"

"I've seen inside your head, I've seen-" before Connor could keep going Gavin cut them off.

"Ok! Wow, let's not do that again, Connor." Gavin shook his head while rubbing at his temples. "I'm not going to yell at you."

Connor bit at his lip, trying to stop himself from giggling. "Ah, why not? Are you scared I might like it?" He winked at Gavin, pleased when the human got even more flustered.

"I- um, I… we are getting off-topic." Gavin shook his head again. "I'm not here to flirt with you." He pushed away from the table, trying to hide the tent in his pants.

Connor moved quickly, slipping in front of him before he could reach the door. "You know I can turn off the cameras, Detective." He purred, his LED flickering yellow as he made the system go on a loop. "I could tell you were turned on from the moment you came in… I wasn't sure why until you kept mentioning strength."

He trailed a hand down Gavin's chest, feeling the man's breath catch. "You like me being strong, you like that I could lift you and toss you across the room like a stick."

Gavin gaped, leaning into the touch. "I shouldn't," Gavin whispered.

Connor gave a small hum. "I could ride you on the table, you won't have to do anything. I won't get tired either. But… if you want this to stop, I will. Just tell me and I'll move out of the way and never mention this again."

"Have you ever done this? Fucked someone or been fucked?" Gavin asked, but still hadn't given any indication he wanted this to stop.

Connor smirked slightly, before nodding. "Yes to both. You'd be surprised how willing and excited other androids are to express their freedom. I can give you a list of the people if you're interested." It was quite extensive, sometimes more than one at a time. Even with little time he still got plenty done.

"Fuck, wow. I uh, don't need the list. You fuckers can't carry STDs and that shit, right?" Gavin asked, pressing up against Connor.

Connor gently pushed them back towards the table. "I cannot carry or receive. It's a moot point to ask you if you are clean."

Gavin's back bumped against the table, and then he was pushing himself up onto it, Connor fitting perfectly between his thighs. "I am, I don't have any lube though."

"You really think a bunch of broke androids had access to lube? Don't need it, self-lubricating." He nuzzled at Gavin's throat, pushing off his leather jacket. His skin was so warm, his stubble tickling his lips pleasantly. He wanted more so he dropped to a crouch, pulling off Gavin's belt with deft fingers, glancing up at Gavin. "How do you feel about not being able to use your hands?"

Gavin nodded instead of answering, holding out his wrists. Connor snickered, making the belt into makeshift handcuffs. He pulled Gavin's hands behind his pack and slid it on, tightening it so he couldn't get out.

"Let me know if you need to be released… perhaps a code word?" He had used safewords before, some of his sexual partners were rather surprising in their sadism. "Do you have one in mind, or would you like me to come up with it?" It would need to be something simple and easy enough to remember, but it also needed to be something neither would normally say during sex.

"Blue for good, yellow for slow down, and red to stop." Gavin rattled off before flushing. Connor raised an eyebrow, but his fingers unzipped the pants and yanked them down.

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised. Is that off of the LED?" He let Gavin sit there while Connor's hands rested on his thighs.

Gavin glanced at the one-way mirror, but Connor reached up, grabbed his chin, and tilted his head back towards him. "Um, yeah."

Connor nodded, moving his hand up to rest over Gavin's bulge. He didn't put any pressure, but Gavin's hips still tried to buck up into his palm. "We aren't being watched, Fowler left a while ago. Do you like that idea, though? You want people to watch as I fuck myself onto your cock? They'd get to see how you whine and take it, unable to move as I hold you down." His smirk grew as he felt Gavin's erection twitch under his hand.

"No," Gavin whimpered. Connor tutted before pressing down on Gavin's cock, rubbing it a bit too harshly, yet Gavin threw his head back with a whine. Interesting.

"Your body says differently. Don't worry, I rather like it too. I got to show off a few times, not everyone likes to touch and participate, they just like to watch." Mirrors were also fun, and damn he was glad the room came with one.

He stopped rubbing abruptly, dropping his hand down to his own tented pants. He let out a breathy moan, eyes shut as he just basked in the pleasure. He could feel Gavin's eyes on him, shuddering at the sensation, and he only stopped because he had more plans.

When he opened his eyes Gavin was indeed staring at him, his own pupils blown so wide he could barely see any color. His face had a nice flush to it too, and Connor couldn't wait to see it contorted into absolute pleasure.

He nuzzled against the bulge, licking over the fabric. He kept giving little licks and kisses, looking up at Gavin through his lashes. He knew exactly what that was doing to the man. "You want more? Do you want me to take you in my mouth, I'll make it feel so good too."

He was very proud to say this was something he was a natural at. He'd gotten so much praise from it that it had his head spinning.

"Fuck, Connor you are… yes, just yes! You do whatever the hell you want." Gavin spread his legs wider, head resting on his chest to watch Connor.

Connor took his time pushing down Gavin's boxers, licking his lips at the flushed cock in front of him. Androids came in many sizes, some inhuman, but he liked Gavin's length, it was thick enough to fill his mouth and long enough to bump the back of his throat nicely.

He wrapped his hand around him, spitting on the head and using that to ease his slow strokes up and down. He bent his head to lick over the head, tasting that saltiness he'd grown accustomed to. Hell, he even looked forward to it, being able to taste those he pleasured.

Gavin inhales sharply, hips jolting up for more. Connor rolled his eyes and pressed his hips down with one hand, he was definitely going to leave very pretty bruises.

He very languidly licked from the base to head, finding the large vein that made Gavin bite back a moan. He took him into his warm mouth, his lips were already red and swollen. He gently sucked on the head with a low hum, dipping his tongue into the slit quickly.

Gavin templed until his skillful tongue, mouth hanging open while he panted. "Shit, fuck Con, just like that!"

Connor hummed again, repeating the action before taking him all the way down. He didn't have a gag reflex so he had no need to slow or stop, but he did give Gavin a very short moment to get himself under control before he started to bob his head.

He kept his gaze up on Gavin as he hollowed his cheeks, making a low sound purely for Gavin's pleasure. He felt so perfect in Gavin's mouth, but he pulled off just as fast as it all started. "Lay on the table, I want to be able to see myself in the mirror." He commanded, standing up and working on his shirt buttons.

Gavin scrambled to do as told, fumbling a bit when he couldn't use his hands. Connor did help him get his hands in front of himself, but he left the rest up to him.

He took his time folding his clothes and putting them on the chair while he had simply tossed Gavin's to the floor. He took himself in hand and pumped a few times before getting on the table too, the cold steel digging into his knees, straddling Gavin's lap. "Can I kiss you?"

Some didn't want to kiss, finding it too romantic, while others sought it out. Connor was the latter, he loved using his mouth and tongue so kissing was absolutely wonderful.

"Yeah, that's ok Con. Like I said, do anything you want." Gavin pulled himself up slightly to meet him for a kiss. It was gentle and curious, Connor gently running his tongue over Gavin's lips, asking for permission.

Gavin eagerly let him in, moaning when Connor massaged their tongues together. He ground down, their cocks sliding together deliciously, and both moaned into the kiss.

Connor wasn't gentle, he nipped at Gavin's lip and was pleased when it got him little whines and moans. He kept grinding down, feeling how slick he was already getting just from this.

He pulled back, but kissed his way down Gavin's throat, not leaving any marks where people could see. He didn't want Gavin to get in trouble for doing this, not when it was very happily consensual.

Gavin reached up, but Connor slammed his wrists back onto the table. "Hands on the table, Detective," Connor purred. Gavin nodded, straining against Connor's strong hold. "Are you testing my strength?" Connor sneered, tightening his hold on his wrists enough to be slightly painful.

Gavin whimpered, hips pushing up but that only made him outright moan. "N-no! I just wanna touch, you're so beautiful."

Connor silently preened but kept up his kisses and nips down Gavin's chest as far as he could without having to move down. He cupped one of Gavin's firm pects, squeezing it. Damn, he had a nice chest, he could just bury his face in there. His fingers skimmed over Gavin's hard nipples, tweaking them and grinning when he got another delicious sound out of Gavin.

He was close to dripping, so he sat up, reaching behind himself to prod at his entrance. His finger slipped in easily and the second slid in alongside it. He pumped his fingers in and out quickly, back arching at the feeling. "You ready?" he asked, glancing down at Gavin who still hadn't taken his eyes off of him.

"I should be saying that to you," Gavin rasped. He kept his hands above his head, though Connor could see his fingers twitching.

"I've taken much more than this, I'll be fine." He pulled his fingers out, wrapping his slick hand around Gavin's length, and lined himself up. He dropped down, taking it all without stopping.

Gavin hissed, back arching off the table and let out a beautiful strangled sound. Connor sat still, hands resting on his own thighs. Once Gavin seemed to control his breathing he lifted up before sinking back down, rolling his hips just slightly as he did.

He looked up at the mirror, seeing how Gavin's cock disappeared into his body as he bounced. He barely even looked disheveled while Gavin was a pure mess. He could smell the scent of sex and sweat and was almost overwhelmed by it. He never smelt the latter when with androids.

The sound of skin hitting skin filled the room and he was so glad he didn't have to focus to keep the cameras on a loop. He wasn't sure he'd be able to concentrate enough with how good Gavin felt inside him.

He tilted his lips just slightly and bit back a moan, finding that little bundle of wires that always made his head spin.

He sped up, not even giving Gavin a warning as he fucked himself on him, taking his pleasure with greed. Gavin's little sounds were so cute and needy, begging him to not stop, and so he didn't. He scrapped at Gavin's chest, leaving angry red marks that would be there that night when Gavin went to bed.

He could feel Gavin's heart pounding under his hands, and his own thirium pump seemed to want to beat in time. Gavin's muscles tensed under him, his breathing seemed to barely be able to come out and Connor knew he was close.

He grabbed at Gavin's wrists, getting them out of the makeshift cuffs. "Fuck, touch me. You can't come until I do." He ordered and Gavin was quick to comply. Gavin's thumb smeared the precome over the head and down his length, stroking in time with Connor's relentless pace.

Connor shivered, but his pace didn't become irregular like humans did, his thighs only shook from pleasure. His toes curled and his head fell back with a moan as he crested over the edge, his whole body squeezing around Gavin.

Gavin kept stroking him, Connor's own come covering his hand and dirtying his chest. Connor didn't stop bouncing even as he felt Gavin go completely tense, coming deep inside of him.

Connor seated himself down as the two panted, Connor couldn't help but grin. He always knew Gavin was somewhat sexually attracted to him, and now he finally got to know what it felt like to be fucked by him. Connor was very pleased to know Gavin exceeded his expectations.

"Holy fuck," Gavin murmured, eyes closed peacefully. He looked… beautiful like this, his body completely lax, his hands resting on Connor's thighs. It was the calmest and most tranquil he'd ever seen him.

Connor gently traced his jawline, then leaned down and gently kissed him. "Thank you," he said, pulling back, "for that. I'm sure you have more work to do and I need to get back to my people."

He very gingerly pulled off, glancing at the mess he made. That certainly wouldn't do. He took Gavin's hand and licked it clean before doing the same for Gavin's stomach and chest. He chuckled slightly when it got a groan out of Gavin, but then Connor offered a hand to help him up.

"Shit, yeah. I'm sure I can just blame Cyberlife or some shit for your 'crimes'. And uh, yeah thanks. If you ever wanna do that again…" Gavin trailed off as he grabbed his clothes.

"I know where to find you, Detective." Connor nodded, pulling on his own clothes.

"Gavin."

"Pardon?"

"Well, we fucked. You can call me Gavin, not Detective or some shit." Gavin shrugged, yanking on his pants.

Connor bit his lip as he nodded. "Very well, Gavin, I know where to find you. Oh, hand me your phone?" He held out his hand, hoping Gavin would just do it, and was surprised when he did.

After a very quick interface with it, he handed the device back. "There, I added the way to contact me directly if you wish to find me first." He rarely gave that out, but he didn't think Gavin would harm him, not anymore.

Gavin nodded, pocketing his phone. Connor sat back down on his chair, only sparing the broken handcuffs a glance. "Thanks, Connor. Uh, I guess I'll see you later."

He really hoped so, that had been incredibly fun but there was just something. He couldn't describe what it was, but he felt drawn to him. He wanted to see him again, like that, more than he wanted others. "You will." It was a promise. Whatever this feeling was, he knew it wasn't going away anytime soon.

#convin #reed800 #gavin reed #convin fic #gavcon #gavin reed x connor #gavin x connor #gavin x rk800 #connor rk800 #rk800 #gavin800 #connor x gavin #dbh gavin reed #detroit gavin #connor x gavin reed #Connor Anderson #connor army #detroit become human rk800 #RK800 Connor #rk800connor #dbh fanfic #dbh fandom #dbh fic #connor dbh fanfic #detroit connor #Detroit: BH #detroit become human #detroit gavin reed #DBH #gavin reed800

[averykedavra]

Leave No Trace (Chap. 9)

[Masterlist] [Ao3]

Being so high up, Patton saw the moment the sun peeked over the edge of the horizon. It was flaming red and sent little shivering streaks of color through the air. Patton waited until the whole peak of the mountain was bathed in sunlight before walking over to Virgil.

"Hey." Patton shook Virgil's shoulder. "Get up, okay, kiddo?"

Virgil mumbled something but opened his eyes.

"Good job!" Patton walked over to Janus. "Hey, you—"

"Already awake," Janus snapped.

"Oh!" Patton laughed. "My bad! Can you get up?"

Janus sighed and climbed to his feet. It was always a production watching Janus stand upright. His knees unlocked and his arms twisted up and his legs stretched, since every part of his body was a little too long for the other parts. He ran a hand through his hair and unknotted a few of the tangles before adjusting his shirt, pulling the yellow beanie over his head, and turning around. The morning light played off his nose and splashed around his mouth and made his eyes gleam.

"What are you looking at?" Janus asked.

"Oh—" Patton flushed. "Nothing! I—let's eat."

"Eat what?" Virgil asked, turning his knapsack upside down. A small shriveled apple bounced on the rock. "We're fresh out."

Patton checked his own knapsack. Yep, nothing. "Janus?"

Janus dug out a few bits of bread. "I still have some."

"Well, we'll eat that," Virgil said, grabbing the bread. "You can starve or whatever."

"Virgil!" Patton protested, crossing his arms. "That's not very nice! Janus is just as important to the group as us!"

Virgil gave Patton a long look. Patton glared back.

"He can take it," Janus said. "I need food less than you anyway. And everything you packed tastes like sawdust."

"I didn't pack any meat, I know," Patton said apologetically. "'Cause I didn't eat meat. Maybe you can go, um, find some?"

"Doubtful, unless a sheep falls out of the air and lands on the path."

"Well, finding food can be a later problem." Virgil tossed Patton the bread. Patton fumbled with it and it fell onto the rocks. He picked it up, brushed it off, and ate it anyway. He was hungry! And germs were the least of their worries right now.

"What's the now problem?" Janus asked.

Virgil walked over to the cliff and pointed down.

Patton joined him, a few feet from the edge to be cautious, looking out over the path. It was narrow and crumbled, winding down the side of the cliff to the trees far below. They couldn't be more than several hundred feet up. That's what Patton told himself. Still, it was definitely enough to kill anyone on impact.

Janus glanced over. "I don't see the problem."

"You're kidding, right?" Virgil waved his hands at the cliff, the sky, the Woods, and basically everything. "It's a very large problem."

"I'll just fly over—" Janus cut himself off, staring at the cliff. "Right."

"Right," Virgil mimicked. "You can't fly, idiot. And neither can we."

"There's a problem," Janus admitted. "A large problem."

"Hey, it's not—" Patton glanced down and his stomach made a little swooping motion. "Not that bad," he finished, scooting away from the edge.

"Is there another path?" Virgil asked, looking around.

"I only see berries," Janus said.

Virgil stared at the berries. "I want to eat the berries."

"What?" Patton grabbed Virgil's hand. "No eating the random berries!"

"They're probably poisonous," Virgil said. "But I'm hungry and we're going to die by falling in like thirty seconds, so who cares?"

"No possibly-poisonous magical berries." Patton tiptoed closer to the edge of the cliff. "We can do this! Just…don't look down?"

He promptly looked down, squeaked, and scrambled away from the edge again.

Virgil nodded, looking somewhat terrified. "Snake, I don't suppose you magically healed overnight and can fly us out of here?"

"Would you be willing to ride on me if I did?"

"No," Virgil admitted.

"Let's not worry about what-ifs," Patton said, approaching the cliff for a third time. This time, he managed to balance on the edge and ignore the screaming of his mind—you're going to die you're going to die you're going to die—so he counted that as a win. Third time's the charm!

"I suppose there's nothing else for it," Janus said. He looked the least wary, but he could also fly, at least in theory. "Who first?"

"Anyone but me," Virgil said. "Maybe you two should just go rescue Logan and Remus. I can camp out on this neat mountain. See you later."

This was where Patton would usually say that was perfectly fine, Virgil could do what he liked, and that he just wanted to see Virgil safe. Instead, he said "Not an option, kiddo. You're not safe on your own, and we need you here, so give it your best shot, okay?"

"Great." Virgil gave Patton a thumbs up and a grimace. "I'll try my best. Always wanted to die with my bro—best friend. And my worst enemy. A fun story to tell the grandchildren I won't have because I'm gay and about to die."

"Maybe we should attempt to tie ourselves together," Janus said. "Is there rope?"

"That's a nope on the rope," Patton said, giggling at the rhyme. "I forgot it."

"Any climbing tools? Like nails?"

"They're all metal," Virgil said, "so you guys stole them."

"Right," Janus said, not looking abashed. Then again, did he ever? "I should have known these knapsacks were useless. Onwards?"

"Onwards," Patton agreed, inching closer to the lip of the cliff and trying to keep his knees from knocking. He turned around and got down on his knees, scooching his way to the edge. When his first foot dropped off the cliff, he almost shrieked. He glanced behind him—mistake, there were the trees far below, some birds wheeling beneath him, he was up so high and he was going to die—and put his foot on the start of the path.

"Let's do this," Patton said to himself, trying to smile. Okay. Just inch that foot down—nope, too far, why were these rocks so slippery—yeah, he could stay there, his hand was firm—was it firm? Maybe it would slip—okay, don't look down, don't—oh goodness, he didn't want to die, he couldn't help picturing himself broken on the forest floor—

"You're doing great," Janus said.

Patton blinked up at him. "I climbed one foot down."

"You haven't died yet," Janus pointed out. "Just trying to be encouraging."

"Yeah, 'you haven't died yet' is very encouraging," Virgil groused from where he was standing behind Janus, hands in his pockets, scowling at nothing in particular. Janus barely bothered to roll his eyes in response.

When Patton had somehow managed a few feet down—it took him a few minutes, it would take forever to get down the cliff, he'd slip and mess up and fall to his death—Janus slipped down the cliff above him. Janus was much smoother and stronger with his climbing than Patton, although he was probably just as tired and in pain from his broken wing. Patton envied his ability to keep an impassive face even when overlooking a steep drop to certain death.

Virgil, however, did not keep an impassive face. He started swearing as soon as he placed his feet on the first rock and shuffled down the path. The swearing was near-constant. Occasionally it pitched upwards or grew louder during a difficult section, and once in a while it was just a hiss when Virgil lost his step, but it became a steady rhythm. Patton found himself moving to the rhythm of the cuss words, nodding his head along. They were very creative. They also helped him keep his mind off the yawning abyss below them.

So there was Patton, grabbing at the cliff so desperately that his fingers were already scratched and bleeding, sidling his way down the narrow path and reciting I-have-Fae-luck-I-will-not-die in his head. Then there was Janus, who was completely silent, eyes narrowed and focused. Finally was Virgil, swearing almost cheerfully, his breathing shallow, occasionally flipping off the drop below them.

Patton would have chided Virgil for all the bad language. But he figured in this case, it might actually be justified.

Patton tried not to look behind him. Or down. He just focused on the rocks in front of him. It was like climbing the little rock pile by the mason's place! Except very large and deadly. He found out he could slip his hands into cracks in the rock and keep them steady. Then he found out that if he stumbled while doing that, his hand twisted and got lodged in there. He dangled for almost a minute before Janus was able to help lever his wrist back out. Patton cradled it for a second then kept climbing down. Yeah, it hurt, but so did the rest of him.

He had no idea how far along they were. It felt like it had been forever. His knees and feet already ached. Maybe they were almost halfway down. Maybe they were almost down! Patton would just have to turn around and check—no. Nope! Not looking down. Not today.

Patton looked down.

They were barely a quarter down the cliff. No, not even that. They'd made it about fifty feet. Birds still wheeled below them, large and bulky, screeching wildly.

Oh, come on. They'd never make it!

No. That wasn't optimistic. Everything would be fine! He'd never get anywhere with that kind of naysayer attitude. He was starting to sound like Virgil, and although Patton's kiddo was wonderful and special, he wasn't always the best role model.

Virgil's swearing grew louder and more frantic. There were several loud thunks from above. Patton looked up and sideways but only saw Janus' pale hands and a snatch of Virgil's shirt.

"You okay?" Patton asked.

"Crossbow," Virgil said with the same vehemence and venom as all the swear words. "It keeps bonking me in the head or trying to fall off my shoulders or getting in the way of climbing."

Janus crossed his hands and kicked off a rock to reach another one. "Drop it."

"What?" Virgil asked.

"Drop the crossbow."

"Why would I do that?" Virgil spluttered. "It's my only weapon!"

"Weapons don't do any good against magic."

"Oh, really? Didn't I save all our lives with this crossbow? Shot a snake in the eye?" Virgil huffed. "Or did you forget already?"

"If it's going to get you or one of us killed, drop it." Janus' voice was cold. "I'd rather worry about one of us probably dying now than some of us possibly dying later."

Virgil was quiet for a long time. "I like this crossbow."

"Good for you," Janus snarled, "but if you're going to fall into me and send us all tumbling, I don't like the crossbow."

"I don't want to lose it." Virgil's voice was quiet. "It's my parents'."

Janus huffed. "I'm sure they'll forgive you if you break their crossbow. Better than a broken ribcage."

"No, that's—" Virgil swallowed. "My parents aren't…alive. Actually."

"Oh." Janus paused. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Did you like them?"

"My mom used to bake me blueberry muffins," Virgil said. "My dad spoke three different languages and he would read bedtime stories in all different voices. My mom was the one who taught me how to shoot and my dad was the one who taught me when."

"So…good?"

"Yeah." Virgil nodded. His voice was tight. "The best."

"What happened?" Janus asked. To any outside observer, he appeared entirely uninterested. But Patton noticed the way his eyes flickered over to Virgil, the way his top lip covered his bottom lip slightly. He was interested.

Virgil's brittle voice gained a new strength. A new anger. "Dragons happened."

It was Janus' turn to be silent.

"Not just my parents," Virgil added, and Patton could hear the hurt underneath the anger. He wasn't sure if Janus could. The anger was loud and crackling and easy to hear. The hurt was quiet and buried and faded. But still strong, if you knew where to listen. Patton knew where to listen. He'd been there when the hurt was all there was, when Virgil cried more than he smiled, when Patton would drag him out of bed and crack jokes and laugh enough for the both of them. Patton was always the positive one, because if Patton wasn't happy enough to lift Virgil's spirits, Virgil would just fall back under.

Those were bad days. Virgil had moved forward, and Virgil had grown up, and Virgil had been stronger than anyone Patton knew. Virgil had learned how to smile. Virgil had started to call Patton's moms Mom and Mama. Virgil had gone outside, made friends, rubbed shoulders with Roman and talked books with Logan and chased frogs with Remus. Virgil had—Patton hesitated to say gotten better, but gotten happier. He was alive now in a way he hadn't been back then. He was grumpy and cynical and still a little scared, but he had kept fighting, and he was still alive.

Their friendship was shaped by that. Even though they had changed so much, deep down, Virgil was the quiet little boy sitting in the guest room with his head tucked between his knees. And Patton was the one using every pun in his book to get Virgil to eat.

Patton was the helper, plain and simple. It was his job to make Virgil feel better.

Virgil would hate to hear that. Especially now, when Virgil had mostly overcome his grief. But it was true at heart. Patton was the one who helped. He was friends with Virgil because he made Virgil happy. If he failed, if he put Virgil in danger or made Virgil upset, he wasn't Virgil's friend anymore. Friendship was about helping. So Patton helped.

It was so much easier to help Virgil now. But it was also harder, because without a single problem—lost family, vicious nightmares, destroyed town, anxiety—Patton never knew what to focus on. He helped Virgil indiscriminately, but he always felt like he put emphasis on the wrong things, badgered Virgil about the wrong problems, showed affection in the wrong ways. Just helping wasn't enough anymore. Patton had to learn to talk to Virgil as a friend and not just someone who was hurting. It was a long process, learning that, and sometimes Patton wondered if he'd ever learned it at all.

One of the rules for Virgil? Virgil never talked about his family.

Good job, Janus! You managed to be annoying enough to get Virgil to tear down his walls in order to spite you!

And Virgil was tearing down all of the walls.

"Two sisters," Virgil said to his hands. "One brother. He was a few years older than me, and my sisters were younger. I—" A rock fell from near Virgil's feet, and he yelped, scooting away from it. "I had friends, too. Cousins. Aunts. Uncles. When you're little, your town is the whole world. The only person I knew outside of it was Patton."

Patton tried his hardest to figure out what Janus was thinking. But his face was blank and every step was still sure on the rocks.

"It's terrifying, when you're a kid," Virgil said, "to lose all that. It'd be terrifying for anyone, but—it was all I had, basically. I had nightmares for a while afterwards. It was so hot and bright and I couldn't breathe—it felt like the world was on fire. And it was, sort of. My town—my family—yeah." Virgil swallowed. "I fell down the well. It's the only reason I survived. I fell and broke my leg and waited there. People from other towns came the next day, and I screamed so they could find me. It took them hours to figure out how to get me back up to the surface."

He'd never heard all of this before. At least, not at once. He didn't know about the well.

"It's funny, kind of. Any other day, falling in the well would be dangerous. We always got warned about it as kids." Virgil laughed a little. "But y'know, dragons are more dangerous. When I finally got out of that well, everything around me was smoke and ash. There wasn't any color for miles. It had been a dry season, and most of the houses were wood, so…yeah. The fires spread before anyone could stop them."

Patton really, really wished he could give Virgil a hug. But he was climbing down a cliff. Virgil was too far away.

"Why are you telling me this?" Janus asked. There was a strange note in his voice. Patton was pretty sure he was really saying stop. Stop telling me this.

"I dunno," Virgil admitted. "You asked about my parents. And…you asked me to hate you as a person. Not a dragon. I—I can't do that. And that's why."

Patton slipped on a rock and Janus caught him around the waist, not meeting his eyes. Patton flushed at the sudden contact and steadied his feet. Janus let him go far too quickly.

"I didn't personally kill your family," Janus pointed out, and Patton could almost hear the defenses rising up around him.

"I know."

"Not all dragons are the same."

"I know."

"They probably didn't even mean to cause those fires. We don't kill people unless intended."

"I know!"

"Generalizing an entire species based off of one experience is like hating all humanity because once in a while, one of you kills another one! It's ridiculous—"

"I know!" Virgil yelled. "I know, okay? I know! Can't you shut your stupid face for one second?"

Virgil grabbed a rock and chucked it off the cliff. It sailed past the birds squawking below and crashed through the treetops.

"I don't even know why I tried to talk about this," Virgil muttered.

"You're looking for someone to blame." Janus took a deep breath, balancing on the path, the wind whipping his hair. "And you're scared of me, so I'm the perfect target. I get it. Just—don't let it get in the way of what we're doing. No, say, having emotional conversations while dangling off a cliff."

"I'm not scared of you!" Virgil protested. But the little crack in his voice said otherwise.

"Kiddo," Patton started to say.

"It's fine, Pat," Virgil interrupted. "You heard Janus. We should focus on climbing."

"Right," Patton said.

So he focused on climbing. It was already getting warmer. The cool wet surface of the cliff was rapidly heating up, and Patton knew that soon, it would be uncomfortably hot. He tried to stick to the shadows, but there were few. The cliff faced due east and was getting a full blast of mid-morning sun. Sweat trickled down his back and pooled in the dips in his palm. He stopped to wipe his hands off, but it never lasted, and it made climbing even more dangerous. His hands kept slipping on the rocks. Janus always reached out to steady him. Patton couldn't see if Janus was doing the same thing for Virgil. It didn't seem like it. Virgil was up higher than Janus, and Janus liked Virgil even less than he liked Patton.

The birds circled below them, getting steadily larger, their raucous screeches always catching Patton off guard. He hummed a lullaby to try and tune them out. It didn't really work. He didn't know what kinds of birds they were—knowing the Woods, it could be anything from eagles to flying horses—but he had the sickening feeling they were vultures. Waiting for Patton to slip. Waiting for Janus to be just a bit too slow.

The path widened, the path narrowed, the path crumbled at the edges and forced Patton to lean against the cliff and inch along a tiny sliver of flat rock. Every time he thought he'd gotten used to the height, he looked down, and his head spun. The trees were closer but not nearly close enough. He'd still plummet to his death if he made the wrong move.

Patton was glad that climbing took up so much of his attention, though. It meant he couldn't dwell on what had just happened. He felt like he should have done more, intervened somehow. Virgil was clearly upset. Janus was not helping. There was a problem and Patton should have fixed it. Instead he'd just stood by, afraid to intervene.

If he wanted to be a peacemaker, he had to try a little bit harder.

Patton was making his way over a collection of reddish rocks when he noticed the path bent into the cliff and disappeared. It took him a minute or so to reach it. The little ledge they had been following dipped into a large cave, then came back out again a few feet away.

"Why aren't you moving?" Janus asked.

"There's a cave," Patton said slowly.

"So? Walk past it."

Patton nodded and approached the cave. It was dark and cool with jagged edges and a few boulders around the sides. On one hand, he longed to stop and rest. His hands and feet were sore, his muscles were tight, his face was sweaty. But the cave made him shiver. He didn't want to find out what kind of animals lived in that cave.

"Keep walking," Janus told him as Patton glanced to the side and scanned the darkness for any sign of movement.

"I am," Patton said.

"Wait." Virgil had reached the edge of the cave. "Guys…can we stop here?"

"Yes, at the mercy of whatever could possibly be living in this cave," Janus said. "Keep walking."

"Sorry, kiddo," Patton said. "We need to keep moving."

"I'm dead on my feet." Virgil stopped walking and crossed his arms. "I bet you're the same, you just won't admit it. If we keep stumbling down that cliff all tired and sore, we're gonna slip and die."

Janus looked at the dark maw of the cave. "We could die waiting here."

"Dying in cool, quiet darkness? I'm okay with that." Virgil shifted. "Please? I—I think it could do us all some good. Pat's been stumbling, and Janus—you've already got that wing injury. We all need the rest."

Patton looked to Janus, who sighed. "Fine. A brief rest."

"You're my new favorite person," Virgil declared, immediately crumpling to the ground and spreading his arms out. "Sweet, sweet solid ground."

Patton sat down at the edge of the cave. He had to admit, the shadows were extremely refreshing. It felt like getting dipped in a lake.

However, the last time he was in a lake, it hadn't ended well.

Janus stayed on his feet. "Are you rested yet?" he asked after maybe two seconds.

"Sit down," Patton encouraged. "We don't want you falling, right?"

Janus hesitated before sitting in the middle of the cave entrance, a few feet from the edge of the cliff. He kept his hands on the ground, ready to spring upright at a moment's notice. Patton wished he could reach out and remove the tension from Janus' shoulders. Janus was always ready for a fight. Admirable, and understandable given the circumstances, but it made Patton kind of sad.

A gust of wind blew out of the cave, sending Janus' hair rustling around him. It looked like a waterfall, the same color as dark chocolate. A bit of it fell away from his face and Patton saw the mottled pink edge of the burn. He quickly looked away.

"I'm hungry," Virgil said to the ceiling of the cave.

"Too bad," Janus said. "We're out of food."

"No, I'm hungry because I smell food." Virgil sat up. "That's not my nose playing tricks on me, right?"

Patton sniffed. There was a distinct smell of fresh fruit. A combination of apples, plums, and cranberries, plus a tart thing he couldn't name. He sniffed again, sure it was a fake scent, but it only seemed to get stronger.

"Trap," Janus said without hesitation.

"Probably," Virgil agreed.

"Yeah," Patton said.

Virgil paused. "Still wanna look, though, 'cause I'm hungry."

"It's coming from inside the cave," Patton said, standing up. "That's strange—why would there be fruit in there?"

"Because it's a trap," Janus said, standing up as well. "Do I have to spell it out for you? T-R-A-P trap. It's no scales off our skin if we just stay here. Or better yet, get moving again. We have more than half of the cliff yet to climb."

Virgil bit his lip. "Can we check it out? Just for a second?"

Janus stared at Virgil for a long time. "You know what? Sure. Go get yourself killed. I don't care. It'll deprive me of listening to your idiocy for one more second."

"Thanks for the seal of approval." Virgil climbed to his feet and started walking into the cave. His steps rung out against the stone. "Wish me luck."

"I'm coming too," Patton said, rushing over to Virgil. Together, they looked back at Janus.

Janus sighed so loudly that flames flickered at the edges of his mouth. "I hate both of you."

"Come on!" Patton hurried into the cave, waving a hand.

The first thing he realized was that the cave was dark. He probably should have thought of that sooner. A few steps in, and the light from outside was already dimming. Patton looked back at the opening and saw blue sky, wheeling birds, and Dragon Mountain in the distance. It wasn't too far away. They'd be able to run if they needed to.

He knew he was kidding himself. Anything could be lurking in the shadows of this cave—it was taller and wider than all of them, dwarfing even Janus in his dragon form, filled with pockets of shade and nooks of shadow. A flicker of cold, damp wind ran down Patton's back. He shuddered and pressed closer to Virgil, who reached out and took his hand. Janus came last, fists clenched, watching the walls warily.

Then the cave twisted around a wall. Patton looked at the others—if they went in there, they'd be completely cut off from the outside light. He had a feeling that was not a good sign.

"It doesn't seem to go too far back," Janus said, squinting. "There's something in the way of the wall, though. I can't make it out."

"What?" Virgil asked, pulling out his crossbow.

"It's not moving," Janus said.

"I'll take your word for it," Patton said. He couldn't see anything but darkness. "We should light a candle."

Virgil frowned. "Don't candles, like, explode in caves sometimes? If there's weird gas?"

"I don't smell any weird gas." Patton opened his knapsack and pulled out a candle. "And we've made it this far! Where's my flint?"

"Give it here." Janus took the candle and blew on it. A small spurt of fire flashed from his mouth and caught on the wick. The candle flame grew, stuttering and stammering in the occasional winds, but a mostly steady orange glow.

"Thanks," Patton said. "Hold it up for us?"

Janus stepped forward and held out the candle.

A large shimmering spiderweb stretched across the back of the cave.

Patton squeaked and stepped backwards, stumbling over his feet. Virgil held him steady. "It's fine," Virgil whispered. "No spiders. Just web."

Well, there had to be a spider to make that web, right?

"There are fruits." Janus lowered the candle and cast its light over several piles of things beneath the web. "And bread. And meat? A lot of food."

"I changed my mind," Virgil said. "No food. That's creepy food. Let's get out of here."

"Wait." Patton frowned at the spiderweb. The usual pattern of polygons and striped edges was disrupted by thicker lines that crisscrossed haphazardly. "Is that…is something written on it?"

Janus raised the candle again. Light gleamed along each thread, revealing a message haphazardly scrawled in the webbing.

FOR THE LITTLE FAE AND HIS FRIENDS. EAT WELL. I'LL SEE YOU SOON.

"Huh," Virgil said, breaking the silence. "That's really terrifying. Let's go."

"It's poisoned," Janus agreed. "Definitely poisoned. I have no idea how she found us, but if she's capable of leaving a message, she's capable of getting us here. We should leave."

"Wait," Patton said, stepping forward. Something didn't add up. "Why leave us the food if we'll 'see her soon?'"

"Because it's a trap to get us stuck in the web or something." Virgil primed his crossbow and fired it at the web. The web immediately wrapped around the bolt, cloaking it in silver threads several inches thick. The bolt fell to the ground, smothered in spider silk.

Virgil fired another bolt. That one just bounced off the cave and disappeared.

Patton nodded to himself and stepped forward, grabbing some of the food and putting it in his sack.

"What are you doing?" Janus hissed.

"Pat—" Virgil stepped forward. "Get back."

"We sprung her only trap." Patton slipped a few bunches of grapes into his knapsack. "She wants us to have this food."

"Yeah, because it's probably poisoned or something!" Virgil glanced around. "Pat, don't you remember the rules? Never eat food—"

"—given by a Fae. I know." Patton stared down at the loaf of bread in his hand, hot and steaming. "But…I have a feeling it's safe."

"Gut feelings," Janus snapped. "I told you not to follow those!"

"No, not a magical gut feeling. Just…a hunch." Patton bit his lip. "She wants us to survive. She's got some sort of trap laid, and she wants us not to starve so she can spring it."

"Reassuring," Virgil said.

"Look." Patton stood up and tied up his knapsack, full to bursting with fruits. "I'm taking the food, and so far, it hasn't hurt me. We can decide whether to eat it later. Just—it can't hurt to have it with us, right?"

"It'll weigh us down," Janus muttered, but he was already kneeling.

Virgil grumbled for a few more seconds before reaching out and sliding a few pears into his knapsack. "You'd better be right about this," he said to Patton.

"I hope I am," Patton said.

When their knapsacks were full, Janus ushered them out of the cave. For a horrible second, Patton was afraid that they wouldn't find the exit, that the cave had closed and blocked them in forever. But they turned the corner and saw the light, the edge of the cliff, the dazzling blue sky. Virgil almost ran forward.

"See?" Patton asked. "Not so bad, Janus."

"We'll regret this," Janus warned, but there was no bite to his words.

"I feel kind of good now," Virgil said, walking over to the cliff. "Like I could tackle the world!" He glanced down and swallowed. "Whoops, okay, never mind."

"We made it this far," Patton said, adjusting his knapsack. "We can make it the rest of the way. Right?"

"No time to waste." Janus slipped past them and balanced on the edge, walking towards the other end of the path. He grabbed the side of the cliff and managed to walk in a straight line for a few seconds, before giving in and turning to face the cliff again. Patton followed him, feeling a little more rejuvenated. Virgil came last, already starting to swear.

Immediately all the rest fled Patton's bones. It took about two seconds for his feet to start hurting again, and five seconds for the scratches on his fingers to open up and sting again, and ten seconds for his entire body to ache with tiredness. He was back in the glaring sun, burning up like an ant under a magnifying glass, pressed to a searing rock wall with a dizzying drop below.

Virgil swore cheerfully as a small rock fell past them towards the birds below. The birds seemed to be closer, or they were just larger than Patton had thought. Or both.

Janus was practically hugging the cliff, fingers digging into the rock. With Janus taking the lead, Patton's own steps became more sure, since he could watch Janus' feet and follow his exact path. But he didn't have Janus there to catch him. Virgil did his best, but Virgil didn't have the quick reflexes that Janus did. So Patton felt more marooned than ever.

But when Janus stumbled, Patton reached out and caught him. It was an instinctive response. He wrapped his hand around Janus' wrist, dug his feet into the path, and leaned towards the cliff. Janus caught the edge of the cliff and found his balance. Patton let go of Janus' wrist like it had burned him. He felt like it had. Janus' skin was cool and somehow more searing than the sun itself.

It was silent, except for the occasional gusts of wind over the treetops, Virgil's merry swearing, and the squawking of the birds below. The birds seemed to only be getting louder. Patton risked a glance down, and saw that they were congregating even closer. They…were they birds? They didn't look like birds. They had wings, but those were four legs. And was that a tail?

"Jan?" Patton asked.

"What," Janus snapped, trying to squeeze between two rather large rocks.

"You know those birds we keep hearing?"

"Yes?"

"They're getting closer?" Patton gathered his courage. "And, um, they don't look like birds."

"What do you mean, they don't look like—" Janus glanced down and his eyes widened. "Those definitely aren't birds."

"What are they?" Virgil twisted around and almost fell off the cliff. "Okay. That's…that's weird. That's not good. Janus, what are they?"

"Gryphons." Janus started to climb faster. "This is not good."

"Gryphons?" Patton repeated, his voice pitching up. "I don't like that!"

"They're nasty," Janus agreed. "Pack animals. Their beaks are sharp, but it's the claws you really need to watch out for. Hopefully they haven't noticed us."

"We've been up here all morning." Virgil's voice shook. "They've definitely seen us by now."

"They must be waiting." Janus looked down again. "I don't like this at all."

"Maybe they won't attack?" Patton asked, knowing he was grasping at straws. "Maybe they're bored or don't believe in violence."

"They're scavengers," Janus said. "So they will only not attack if they think we're falling anyway. Since we're not?"

The screeching below them was reaching a fever pitch. Patton's hands slipped from the cliff and he steadied himself, trying to breathe.

"When?" Virgil asked, his voice shaking even more.

"Any moment now."

"What should we do?" Patton asked. "Stop moving? Keep moving?"

Janus opened his mouth and closed it again. "Nothing. If I could fly, we might have a chance, but—there's really nothing we can do. Not on a cliff."

"We can't just wait here!" Virgil said, fumbling for his crossbow. He teetered on the edge of the cliff and Patton grabbed his shirt. "We gotta—"

There was a loud swoosh and Virgil swore. Patton blinked. Whatever had happened, it was too fast for him to see. Just a flash of feathers and talons.

Virgil bent over, cupping his face. Blood dripped between his fingers. It splashed onto the rocks. A few wayward drops plummeted to the trees far below. They were so close—Patton could make out the path twisting through the Woods, could see where the cliff leveled out—but there was an hour of climbing between them and the ground.

Another swoosh, this one nearer. Patton tried to flinch away. By the time he moved, the gryphon was already gone, leaving a few bloody scratches on Janus' wrist.

"Keep moving," Janus managed, wiping the cuts off on his shirt. The stains were vibrant against his yellow shirt. "That's all we can do."

"Keep moving. Easy." Virgil inched forward. A flash of wings so close that Patton felt them on his nose. Virgil swore loudly again, diving out of the way.

And Patton saw the gryphon. It perched on a rock above Virgil's head. It was large, larger than Patton expected. Its fur was sleek and black with a coiled tail and a large golden beak. Its claws dug into the rock, little bits crumbling off and falling down below. It opened its beak and screeched.

Patton winced and tried to cover his ears. The moment he shifted, he almost fell off the cliff.

The gryphon dove again. Patton's heart stopped. He stumbled backwards aimlessly, clinging to the rocks. A blossom of pain formed on his chest. He gasped as blood began to soak his shirt. The gryphon wheeled away, still screeching, golden claws tipped with red.

"You okay?" Virgil asked.

"It only skimmed me," Patton said, his voice shaking. If he had been a second slower, it could have ripped his heart out.

"Keep moving!" Janus ordered. He took a step forward and another gryphon divebombed him, claws outstretched. Janus batted at it, lost his hold on the rocks, and teetered over the cliff. Patton grabbed him. His hand left bloody fingerprints on Janus' shirt.

"We can't," Virgil said, priming his crossbow. The tip wobbled. He aimed it at the gryphons above, the gryphons below, a gryphon that nicked Patton's cheek. One bolt was fired. Miraculously, it hit the wing of a gryphon, sending the animal caterwauling its way down the cliff. The other gryphons didn't seem bothered by the loss of their friend. Why would they? There must have been two dozen of them. Maybe three dozen.

They dove. They dove again. Virgil fired randomly. Janus doubled over from a slash to the gut. Patton got a cut across the forehead. Virgil lost a chunk of his ear. Virgil's swearing was loud, but louder was the calls of the gryphons, and loudest was Patton's blood rushing in his skull.

Patton tried to scoot along the path. Blood dripped down his face and splattered on the rock. It was sticky and slippery at the same time. It kept him in place and loosened his grip. He fell backwards and steadied himself, miniscule pebbles away from empty air, Janus bleeding and Virgil running out of bolts, gryphons diving in a flurry of wings.

Swish. Virgil yelped and pressed himself into the cliff.

Swish. Janus batted at the wrong side of his face.

Swish. Patton tried to kick a gryphon and teetered in place.

Swish. A cut lip.

Swish. A bleeding shoulder.

Swish. Claws grabbing for a throat, too close for comfort.

Swish, swish, swish.

Blood, yelling, the last bolt disappearing to the forest below.

They were going to die here. They were frozen, pressed against the cliff, and they were going to die here.

Patton's eyes stung. He barely noticed. His chest hurt far worse. His whole body hurt. He felt slippery and shivery and one wrong move away from coming apart.

"What are we going to do?" Virgil asked, his voice raw. "Janus, please, tell us what to do."

Janus ran a sleeve across his face. It only smeared the blood down his cheek. The blood mixed with the burns, pink and red and yellow eyes and a half-open mouth. His knuckles were white on the rocks. He stared down at the gryphons. He swallowed. There was a little catch in his throat.

"I don't know," Janus said.

Patton didn't hear him over the ruckus. But he could see the little shake of Janus' head and figure it out from there.

"I don't know," Janus must have said, and now they were going to die.

Patton looked down at the trees and wondered if he'd survive the fall.

There was another swish. He didn't bother to move out of the way. What good would it do? The gryphons were swifter than Patton by far. Claws sliced through the air next to his leg. They missed by an inch.

He could barely stand, much less walk. Much less climb down the rest of a cliff.

Virgil was swearing again, his voice breaking on every other word. Patton was tempted to join in. But his mouth was dry. Funny, the rest of him was slick with blood.

"Leave us alone!" Janus yelled at the gryphons, trying to throw a punch. Janus still fought to the end, didn't he? Admirable. Useless, but admirable.

Virgil's swearing grew louder and louder. It mingled with the shrieks and Janus' own yelps of pain and Patton's pounding heartbeat. It was a cacophony of sounds. Patton closed his eyes and pressed himself against the cliff wall. He didn't want to see the world anymore. He wanted to try and magic their way out of this. He was a Fae, after all. Why hadn't he gotten any useful powers? Why was it only weaknesses? Why couldn't he teleport, curse the gryphons, keep his friends from harm? Useless. Useless. All he was good for was being the support, the backup chorus, the helper. And he couldn't even do that. When it came down to the line, Patton was a failure.

He clenched his teeth and tried to draw on magic. There had to be some. There had to be something to save them. It couldn't just end here! They couldn't die thanks to gryphons. Logan and Remus still needed them.

Swearing. Shrieking. A swish that made Janus yell in pain. Another swish.

A scream.

Not the scream of a gryphon. A person's scream.

Virgil's scream.

Patton's eyes flew open.

Virgil was falling. His crossbow slipped from his hands. His face was sticky with blood. His eyes flashed with terror. Patton seemed to watch in slow motion as his feet left the ledge.

Patton didn't even think. He lunged towards Virgil, arm out.

His fingers met fabric. Virgil's jacket.

Then Virgil fell against the cliff and Patton almost yelled. He fell to his knees, grasping at Virgil's jacket, his fingers refusing to stay still. Virgil was slipping. Patton's arm ached like it was tearing apart at the joints. Virgil was still screaming, scrabbling wildly at the cliff, unable to find a handhold.

"Stay put!" Patton pleaded, trying to haul Virgil up. It was a no-go. Patton wasn't strong enough for that.

A gryphon divebombed them, and Virgil twisted to the side to avoid it. Patton stumbled and found himself leaning towards the edge.

He was going to fall. They were both going to fall.

"Let go!" Virgil yelled, grabbing at Patton's hand.

"No," Patton insisted. He needed to pull Virgil up. Virgil couldn't fall.

A hand grabbed the back of Patton's shirt. Janus.

A swish. A stabbing pain in Patton's arm. He fell forward, leaning on a rock, trying to catch his breath. Everything was spinning. Virgil was still dangling. The fabric was slipping from Patton's fingers.

Virgil slipped.

Patton grabbed his hand.

The hand slipped.

Patton held tighter.

Patton slipped.

Janus' hand tightened on Patton's shirt.

Patton scrambled for a purchase.

Virgil hung at the end of his arm, kicking wildly, batting at the gryphons who circled them, a few curiously flying through and slashing Virgil in the leg. Blood dripped from him all the way down to the trees. Such a long way down.

A swish. Patton fell forward.

No!

"No!" That was Janus. "Pat—"

"Pull us up," Patton pleaded. He knew Janus couldn't. He knew Janus wasn't strong enough to save two people at once.

"I can't." Patton managed to twist around and look Janus in the face. Blood and burns and gashes along his hairline. He somehow managed to look in control, even balanced on a cliff, arm trembling. His eyes flashed as a gryphon skimmed his head.

"I can't," Janus repeated. It looked like the words caused him physical pain. Or maybe it was the injuries.

"I know," Patton whispered. He tried vainly to tug Virgil up. But his muscles wouldn't work. His body had given up already. It knew he wouldn't be able to find his balance. Wouldn't be able to save Virgil. Wouldn't win this. All he could do was hold on and balance on the edge of a cliff. All he could do was stay put.

"I—" An emotion flew over Janus' face, quick as a gryphon. "You need—fall."

"What?"

"Fall. Let yourself fall." Janus stared into Patton's eyes. "Both of you. I will catch you, but you need to fall."

"You're kidding," Virgil yelled, his voice raspy. "We're gonna die!"

"We're going to die either way!" Janus yelled back. "It's dangerous up here! On any other day, I wouldn't risk it, but the only way to survive is to fall. Sometimes that's what you have to do."

Virgil was quiet.

"I promise I'll catch you," Janus pleaded. "I promise."

Did Patton trust Janus? Sure. With a plan. With a witty retort. With being a jerk.

With his life?

Janus needed them. Janus wanted to get them to safety. Janus wanted his own safety.

And Janus looked desperate. Afraid. Close to tears. It was the kind of thing nobody could fake.

"Catch me?" Patton asked. His voice barely reached above the screeching. He was sure Janus hadn't heard.

But Janus nodded.

"Now?" Patton asked.

Janus nodded again.

Patton closed his eyes. Screeching and swearing and—no. No sounds.

He felt, instead. He felt Virgil's hand in his, tight and warm. He felt Janus' arm around his back. He felt the rocks digging into his feet. He felt the burst of air on his neck as a gryphon passed by. He felt the blood pooling on his skin.

He felt the place where he needed to let go. Where his hand was dug into the rock. Where his nails scraped the dirt. He just had to unclench that hand.

He was dangling, he knew it. He was going to fall. He was going to fall and die and kill Virgil and why was he trusting Janus—

"Please," Janus said again, placing one hand over Patton's. Prying at his fingers. His hand was cool and covered in little scratches and unclenched Patton's knuckles, one by one.

Patton breathed out.

He let go.

And the world fell around him.

[Masterlist] [Ao3]

#leave no trace

[lisatelramor]

Be a Better Me Ch3

AN:I know having Kaito's robot self have more or less biological functions is a little weird. But someone, even Kaito, woulda noticed him not eating. Or bleeding. Or sleeping. So weird almost biology it is.

Chapter 3

Surprisingly it’s Hakuba, not Jii, who barges into the room first.

His hair is a mess and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows with stains on his shirt that can only be ‘blood’. There’s something fragile in his expression like he’s expecting to find Kaito on his deathbed and a deep relief when Kaito meets his eyes with an impassive stare.

“You’re okay,” Hakuba says.

“For a certain value of okay, sure,” Kaito says.

Hakuba scowls. “Don’t even start. You almost died in my arms.”

“I didn’t know you cared that much,” Kaito says, only half sarcastic.

“Of course I care,” Hakuba says. “I might want to arrest Kid, but I never would want to see you dead.”

“Funny,” Kaito says drily, “because that’s what an arrest would get me.”

Hakuba bites his lip, tense as a riled cat. Kaito half expects to be pounced on like a mouse, but Hakuba takes a breath and settles. “Are you in pain?”

“I have a leg that got vivisectioned and reconstructed, a bullet hole in my shoulder and a chest full of dented ribs,” Kaito says. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Hakuba says, “since I don’t know how much you feel in the first place.”

“What, the screaming didn’t make it clear?” It’s cruel to say that probably, and Hakuba goes grey-white, looking sick.

“Right,” he says. “That was a foolish question.”

“It hurts but not unbearably,” Kaito says, taking a bit of pity on him. “Like a deep bruise so long as I’m not moving. I don’t know if I’m on a painkiller or if my system’s just…filtering it out for the moment. I don’t know if I can even be affected by pain killers.”

“You can,” Hakuba says, still pale. “Some. The Professor—you can.”

“Ah.” Kaito doesn’t want to know what Hakuba saw. Well, he knows some of what he must have seen. “I haven’t taken anything since… I wasn’t sure.”

Hakuba swallows, shaking off horrors of Kaito in pieces. “You weren’t always like this,” he says.

“A robot? No.”

“When… How…?”

“Before you met me. As for the how… I can’t exactly say I get the science of it.”

Hakuba’s face pinches. “The whole time.”

“The whole time,” Kaito says tiredly. “I didn’t know for a long time, so don’t feel bad about not noticing. So far as I can tell, the whole point of…whatever it is I am was to mimic human life as close as possible.”

“You didn’t know.”

“Imagine my shock,” Kaito says, “when I found my own corpse.”

Hakuba pales impossibly further looking like he’s going to be sick. He sits heavily. “Corpse.”

“I have all the memories of Kuroba Kaito,” Kaito says as detached as he can make it. “Up to and including the moment of his kidnapping. I don’t have any memories of how he—I died.” He takes a breath. “The body’s in the basement of this building actually. His body. My body. However we’re framing it.”

“Why?” Hakuba asks horrified.

“Kuroba Kaito’s just fine,” Kaito says in a flat, dead tone. “He’s right there, going to school, living his life. Surely the body’s a mistake. It’s not like there could be two of him.” Or three. He still doesn’t know what happened to the remnants of the other robot. He doesn’t really want to look either. More honestly and openly he adds, “I don’t know what to do with it. Him. My mind says I’m him, but he’s dead and I’m not human so who the hell knows.”

Hakuba shakes his head.

“The person who made me and killed him is dead,” Kaito says. “There was another robot, a less…human… robot. It killed the doctor. Tried to kill me. I think something went wrong with its programming or maybe it wasn’t meant to mimic a human like I was. I don’t know. I know I don’t have skin that peels away or rockets in my elbows.” He sees skin peeling in his nightmares often enough.

“It feels like… there should be something…”

“To do?” Kaito gives him a cool stare. “There isn’t. There’s no justice here. There’s a corpse and there’s me, a poor replacement with a dead man’s face.” Doubly true with Kid.

Hakuba’s face twists. “You’re the only Kuroba I know. You said you didn’t even know the difference so how the hell does that make you a poor replacement?”

“Because I’m not him,” Kaito says, voice breaking, mask shattering. “You found me and you saved me, but why? The wires had to be obvious.”

“How could I not?” Hakuba says. “You were dying and aware and bleeding out in my arms, how could I not do everything to keep you alive? You might be mechanical, but you still have breath and a heartbeat and a sharp, human mind.”

“What does it say that a person can be reduced to numbers and code?”

“What does it say that emotions are just collections of chemicals and thought and memory just electric firing in the brain,” Hakuba shoots back.

“I took his place.”

“From what I can tell it sounds more like you keep him living on,” Hakuba says boldly.

Tears well up and Kaito stubbornly doesn’t shed them. “Why does everyone keep acting like I’m human?” he asks.

“In your mind are you any different?” Hakuba asks, like it’s a genuine question.

“I don’t know,” Kaito says feeling small. “I just know that physically I am.”

“Well,” Hakuba says, “I for one can’t believe a mere robot could possibly outthink the entire Japanese police force.”

Kaito snorts bitterly. “Like bots haven’t been beating humans in strategy for ages. Chess masters weep. Try again.”

“Fine,” Hakuba says. “I don’t think a robot would cry from fear and pain and express terror over dying. Or do magic tricks just to see Aoko-chan smile. Or give a damn about whether it can run circles around the Japanese police force, but we both know you have an ego that loves to be satisfied doing just that. You’re as human as can be given the circumstances.” Hakuba boldly sets a hand on Kaito’s good shoulder and Kaito stares at the point of contact. “Regardless of how your current existence started, you’re as alive as I am so far as I can tell, Kuroba-kun.��

It’s profoundly weird to be touched by Hakuba’s words, but Kaito is. It’s almost like they’re friends at the moment, not rivals. Kaito has to look away. “Thank you for not letting me die,” he says after a moment.

“There wasn’t any other choice I would have made,” Hakuba says seriously.

There’s a cough from the door, Jii standing there with a phone in hand and a tense expression. Hakuba looks at him and draws back.

“I should go,” he says. “Now that I know you’re going to survive.” He nods to Jii and walks toward the door, and a tiny part of Kaito wonders if he’ll go looking for Kaito’s body or not.

But that’s not really something important. Hakuba seeing it or not can’t bring back the dead. Jii takes Hakuba’s place at Kaito’s bedside with a sigh and slow, heavy movements that make him look every bit as old as he is.

“You’re not arresting me?” Kaito calls after Hakuba.

Hakuba glances back with the familiar expression of disdain on his face. “Kuroba, if I catch and arrest you, it’s not going to be because you’re bleeding out and vulnerable.” Like it’s obvious that he won’t take advantage of what he knows and yet also isn’t going to stop chasing Kaito. Kaito blinks. Well, Hakuba always has had his own system of honor. Kaito can’t say he understands it though.

He waves and leaves and Kaito looks at Jii to see him watching Hakuba vanish with a conflicted expression.

“Jii?”

Jii shakes his head. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Jii says quietly. “I should have been there last night, ready for anything that went wrong.”

“I’m the one that told you I’d be fine on my own,” Kaito says. “And they hit me six blocks from the heist, it’s not like we were expecting that.”

“Still. I should have been there for you.” Jii passes a hand down his face. He’s old enough to be Kaito’s grandfather, looks every year of that age, worn down and exhausted. “I spoke with your mother.”

“Oh.” Kaito tries to curl into himself but can’t and so just hunches his good shoulder and ducks his chin.

“You didn’t talk with her.”

“I… I meant to eventually.”

“Kaito-bocchama,” Jii sighs, a reprimand and exasperated care all in one.

“It’s not really something to bring up over a phone call,” Kaito says. “I was hoping…” Chikage hadn’t visited in months. When he was sixteen she’d come back every other month for a week or so, but since he turned seventeen… It was a conversation he’d hoped to have in person, or perhaps never at all if it could be avoided, no matter how much it was a needed conversation.

“She’s coming home,” Jii says tiredly.

“For Kaito,” Kaito says, meaning the real Kaito.

“For both of you,” Jii says. “You could use your mother’s support.”

There’s no point in protesting that she isn’t really his mother. Kaito just nods. “Is she… Will there be a burial for him?”

“It’s too soon to say.”

They can’t just keep Kaito in a glass box, forever preserved like some messed up Snow White tribute. It’s not what he’d have wanted. It’s not what Kaito wants. He’s not sure what he does want, but leaving his body in a box like a specimen isn’t it.

“The Hakuba boy has a surprising amount of medical and chemical knowledge,” Jii says after a moment. “There were some things he cleared up from the doctor’s notes last night. He might be able to understand them better than Hiroshi-san.”

“Are you suggesting making Hakuba a proper ally?” Kaito asks with brittle humor. “Hakuba. Hakuba whose father’s the head of Tokyo’s police forces Hakuba.”

“Hakuba-kun isn’t his father,” Jii says, “and he’s proven to care enough to ignore the legal scope of right or wrong.” He sighs again. “Kaito-bocchama, the fact of the matter is neither Hiroshi-san nor myself is an expert in this field, and you’re likely going to need more than what our knowledge can provide long term.”

“Hakuba,” Kaito stresses.

“If he’s willing you might as well take advantage of it. Otherwise we’ll have to start looking elsewhere and it’s harder to be sure who you can trust.”

Trust Hakuba or trust a stranger? Well, irritatingly, it’s pretty clear who he’s more likely to trust. It’s some kind of cosmic irony. The world, Kaito’s learning, seems to have a sick sense of humor or he wouldn’t exist at all.

It’s a scary thought though, the idea of handing over what made this body work and letting Hakuba study it. It might be more trust than he can give to anyone. With Jii he didn’t have much of a choice.  “I’ll think about it,” he says.

o*O*o

It takes three days—an astonishingly fast time—for Kaito be up and walking again. In part this fast recovery is thanks to the fact that he doesn’t actually have to heal a bone; a bonus for metal bones he guesses. But on the other hand, the internal healing is taking time. The Professor had tried to explain his understanding of how Kaito’s bio-mechanical processes worked—the synthetic blood, tissue, and skin all having a self-replicating and repair process to keep him operational without needs for frequent major repairs. The technicalities go in one ear and out the other, and Kaito will have to do a lot of reading to get a better idea of how his own body works.

In the time Kaito’s stuck at the Professor’s home, Hakuba visits every day, somehow managing to be far less abrasive than normal, and maybe even verging on friendly. It’s kind of creepy and Kaito will be relieved to get on with their usual bickering banter the moment Hakuba gets over whatever weird combo of guilt and pity he seems to have for Kaito at the moment.

Most of his visits also lead to him studying Kaito though, so maybe Hakuba’s just got science on the brain instead of detective-ing. It had been more than a bit uncomfortable to have him on his knees, examining Kaito’s leg and knee joint.

Kaito’s still not sure if it was because it was Hakuba doing it, or if it’s the implications of having someone on their knees at his feet that was the bigger discomfort, and he’s not going to examine that too closely. The last thing he wants to do is find out how this body might differ on hormonal levels. He’s spent this long pushing those sorts of thought out of his head, he can keep doing that.

His leg’s in a light cast, just to ensure that everything heals up correctly, and Kaito’s already finding it obnoxious. He’s broken bones before, but every time it’s a hassle to deal with. He hobbles in circles on crutches, resigning himself to a week of this at least probably, knowing it could be a lot worse.

Most of all he just wants to go home. No offense to the Professor, but he misses his house and his bed and his doves. He’s always hated being a guest and he wasn’t exactly an invited one this time.

There’s a soft knock on the door to the guest room Kaito’s using and he sighs. Probably Agasa again. He keeps double checking Kaito’s healing and Kaito gets it, really, it’s all experimental and new, but it’s annoying and he’s vibrating out of his skin with how he can’t even literally climb the walls.

“Come in,” he says, less graciously than he should considering he is, of course, a guest. But if Agasa had a problem with Kaito’s attitude he could take it up with Jii because Kaito’s been through so many emotional rollercoaster moments lately he’s done. Just done.

There’s silence and Kaito glances up from trying to see if he could get the crutch to work more comfortably with his still healing shoulder and looks straight into familiar blue eyes. “Kaa-san,” he says numbly.

She stares, doesn’t come closer to hug him or say anything and Kaito remembers; he’s not her son.

“…I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” Kaito says to break the silence.

“I’d have been here sooner if I could,” she says. There’s nothing in her voice to let on what she’s thinking and Kaito can’t remember ever seeing her so closed off. It’s her version of Toichi’s poker face and it’s an iron wall.

The silence stretches and the guilt rises back up in his gut. “I… should have said something as soon as I re—”

“What did we do for your last birthday?” Chikage asks, cutting him off.

Kaito blinks. “We… went out to dinner with Aoko to that Korean barbecue place. We shared bulgogi and you took me to get a tailored suit because you said it was a good time to have nice formal wear that actually fit.” She’s almost cried because he looked so much like his dad when he was younger.

“When did you lose your first tooth?” Chikage says, showing no reaction.

“When I was six and a half,” Kaito says immediately. “I lost both my front teeth because I messed up a flip and landed on my face.” It had hurt and he’d cried, terrified that he’d lost them for good until his mom explained he was going to lose them anyway. They hadn’t even been very loose, just starting to wiggle. “I drank from the gap with a straw until they started to grow back in.”

Something in Chikage’s shoulders loosens, but her face still remains a wall. “Why are you afraid of fish?”

Kaito flinches, instinctively trying not to remember one of his childhood traumas. “C-can I not answer that? F-finny things are evil and whoever created koi ponds is a sadist.”

“And what wat your first magic trick?”

“Vanishing coin,” Kaito says. “Only I had trouble with it so Oyaji had to show me about four different ways to do it before I was able to get one I could make work. Of course then I had to get all of them right over the next month.”

Chikage closes her eyes and lets out a slow sigh. “Kaito.”

“Yes?”

She shakes her head. “No, you don’t understand. You’re still Kaito.”

He realizes she was testing him. Testing how close to Kaito he was and he curls in on himself. “I’m what’s left of him.”

She shakes her head again, but finally crosses the room to pull him into her arms. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Kaito asks, off balance and vulnerable, feeling like a child in her arms. He has the memories but technically he’s never been a child. Or, well, technically he isn’t even a year old yet.

“I wasn’t here when you needed me,” she says. “You’ve always been so self-sufficient that I forget sometimes you’re not an adult yet.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“Well you’re my kid, and I haven’t been a very good mother.” She holds him a bit tighter. “I’m going to try to do better.”

“But I’m not your Kaito,” Kaito says.

“You’re not,” she says and it’s almost a relief to hear it even as it hurts, for someone to acknowledge that he isn’t the same. “But I’ll mourn him in my own time and you’re him in every other way that matters. You’re not a replacement,” Chikage whispers, voice shaking, “but you are a part of him.”

“Have you seen…?”

“No. I wanted to see you first.”

And make sure he really is her son, in a way. Kaito closes his eyes. He can feel her shake, crying silently, but he makes no effort to move from the embrace. He needs this too. This is a situation where there is no winner. Her son is dead, and there’s an identical false copy in his place, like Kid pulling of a jewel heist. Kaito just isn’t sure what his flaws are yet, apart from the physical, that mark him out as the fake. He’s lucky that they seem to love him anyway.

Chikage pulls away, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. “Thank you. I know it’s been you I’ve talked with for months now, but…”

“You had to be sure,” Kaito says, understanding.

Chikage nods. “Are you well enough to come home or are you still under observation?”

Kaito pouts. “I think I’m fine, but Jii and the Professor want to do another day of tests just to make sure my leg is healing right.”

“Jii mentioned it was bad.”

“Well, they replaced the fibula in my leg and had to fix all the connections and my knee joint so…”

She looks a little paler, glancing at his walking cast with new understanding. “You shouldn’t be walking at all.”

“I don’t heal like a human does,” Kaito says with a grimace. “It’s…faster. You’d think I wouldn’t need to heal at all but the bastard that built this apparently liked realism.”

“That’s probably for the better,” Chikage says after a moment. “If you functioned too differently…”

He’d what, stop feeling human? Kaito’s already there, feeling like some unholy science experiment most of the time instead of a robot, but that’s honestly not really better. He’s not going to say that to his mother though. If he was a little more robot he’d hurt less, probably feel less… and possibly end up exactly like the other robot. Shit. Okay, yeah, maybe the realism is for the best.

“Jii said you haven’t had lunch yet,” Chikage cuts into his thoughts, “and that it’s important that you do.”

Kaito grimaces again. “Yeah. Funnily enough, my system processes food for fuel just like a human’s. It’s no wonder I never noticed anything was different. But they have me on a weird diet because apparently the fake skin and all,” he gestures at his leg, “it can self-repair, but it needs certain building blocks to do it. If I see another kale protein shake I am going to throw it at them.”

Chikage laughs, wiping the last of her grief from her face. “I’ll have to see if I can put together something that tastes better.”

“Please. Also I haven’t had sugar in days. I’m having withdrawal.”

“…Can you get withdrawal?”

“I have no idea, but I’m craving chocolate like crazy.”

She snorts. “You always have liked chocolate.” Her hip bumps his good side gently, like the times growing up when he helped in the kitchen. “I’ll see what I can do.”

While Chikage works her magic in the kitchen with help of the Professor and Jii, Kaito gives in to the restlessness and hobbles back and forth around the wide open living area. The Professor, for all he’s an inventor and scientist, seems to also be a bit of a mystery and romance geek. He has a collection of hard-bound novels on a bookcase, and while there’s a few science books in the mix, most of it’s fiction.

Kaito would like to be playing with a deck of cards, or spending some quality time with his doves, but since his cards were ruined along with his Kid suit and he doesn’t have any of his birds on hand, a novel isn’t the worst way to pass time. Although Kaito’s never been a huge mystery fan. He wrinkles his nose at the Sherlock Holmes collector’s edition. Hakuba’d like that.

Kaito has just started in on a romance instead—very tasteful cover full of wistful stares and absolutely no nudity—when his mom wanders out of the kitchen with a blender full of something that looks chocolatey. Jii follows with his hands full of kale like he expects Kaito to choke that down raw. Gross.

“Well, I couldn’t get a concession on the shake, but this will taste a lot better,” Chikage says with a grin. “Plus, chocolate.”

“Heck yeah,” Kaito says.

“You really should,” Jii starts, but Kaito’s mother waves him off.

“One meal isn’t going to hurt.”

So Kaito puts down the book, hobbles over to get a glass, and that’s when the front door opens without even a knock, and a child wanders in with a scowl behind oversized, thick rimmed glasses.

“Hakase, I need a breath of sanity and some help with the watch,” the child says, not looking up as he kicks off shoes like he lives here. “It keeps sticking when… I…” He catches sight of the group standing in the hall between the kitchen and living room. His eyes flick from Chikage’s pitcher, to Jii’s handful of kale and land on Kaito’s crutches, following up to his face where the gaze freezes. “What the hell?”

“Well,” Kaito says, “that’s the first time an elementary student’s sworn at me.”

“Aoko-chan swore at you all the time,” Chikage corrects.

“That was when we were both in elementary school. There’s a difference.”

“Hakase?” the child calls a bit louder, uncertain.

The Professor bustles out of the kitchen. “Ah, S-Conan-kun, I didn’t know you were coming over!”

“What’s going on?” Conan asks. Kaito realizes this is the kid he saw from the Professor’s roof that one time. Clearly he’s pretty close to Agasa, but it’s not like Agasa’s going to go around spilling secrets to a six year old.

Agasa looks between Conan and Kaito’s group. “Ah, I have a few guests at the moment, Conan-kun, and I’m doing some work as a favor for a friend.”

“A friend,” Conan says, his shock turning sharper.

Kaito shivers as those eyes pass over him again. It’s like he’s being dissected by a laser beam, and Conan’s weirdly interested in his face.

“Yes.” Agasa laughs awkwardly. “Jii Kounosuke is an old friend, and the others are…”

“More or less his extended family,” Chikage cuts in cheerfully. She glanced Conan over. “He looks just like you did when you were that age, Kai-chan,” she says. “Well, a bit neater than you ever were.”

“Are you saying I was a slob?”

“Kaito, honey, your hair has never laid flat a day in your life. Add that to your tumbling and getting into trouble…”

Kaito scowls. The kid looks like someone stuffed him into nice clothes like they’re trying to make him a mini adult, what with the blue suit jacket and tiny bow tie and how his hair’s carefully combed. Can’t help having a cowlick though. And those shorts… What a dorky sense of style. Conan catches him looking and scowls right back. Defensive little guy.

“Who are they anyway?” the kid asks, his voice tilting up like he’s trying to sound younger than he looks, which kind of fails with his entire body language, but Kaito’s not going to be the one to give him acting lessons. It probably works on some people, but that’s because a lot of adults barely look twice at children. “He looks a lot like…”

“Ah, this is Kuroba Chikage and her son Kaito,” Agasa says. “And that’s Edogawa Conan. He’s—”

“Related to the Kudos isn’t he?” Chikage says, looking at Conan intently. “He looks so much like their son Shinichi did as a child.”

Conan blinks rapidly. “Uh. Shinichi-nii-san is my cousin,” he says. “Wait, Kuroba as in the magician Kuroba Toichi?”

Chikage grins. “Exactly the one. You remember Yukiko don’t you, Kaito?” she asks tilting her head in Kaito’s direction.

“Uh.” Yukiko, Yukiko… He had a vague recollection of an actress and a smiling woman with ringlets in her light brown hair. “Not well.”

Chikage pats him on the shoulder. “You were five, so I’m not too surprised. You were such a charmer, giving her a flower and everything.”

The memory comes into focus, handing off a flower to a beaming woman because his father had said that’s what you do when you met a pretty girl; you were polite and gave them flowers to leave a good first impression. He’d done the same to Aoko not long after too. “Oh yeah.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet a relative of theirs at any rate,” Chikage says. She finally hands Kaito a glass of protein shake and he almost fumbles it before holding it with his bad arm and keeping his good one for the crutch.

“Yeah,” Conan says, flicking Kaito yet another look.

“Is it the injuries?” Kaito jokes, “because I assure you it’s normally my charisma drawing attention.”

It’s both hilarious and cute how Conan’s nose wrinkles for a split second before he covers it up again—definitely needs acting lessons—and shrugs. “You just look a lot like Shinichi-nii-san.”

Chikage laughs. “They would wouldn’t they?” she says, and Kaito doesn’t get the joke really, but fine. There’s apparently a guy running around with a face that could be his own. At least this time it’s not another murder-bot so he’ll take it.

Of course, face doubles make him think of the corpse downstairs, and that’s… Yeah. Yeah, no, not thinking too close about that. At least this double must be running around alive and well he supposes.

Well as interesting as being confronted by a child half his size is, Kaito has other things to be doing. Namely eating, sitting, and trying to convince his mom and Jii to take him home. “Right,” Kaito says. “We were going to have lunch, but that’s taken care of.” He mock toasts with his glass as much as he can with his arm in a sling. “It looks like you need to talk, so we’ll be in the kitchen.”

Conan shuffles like he’s feeling a little guilty for barging in, but it’s not like he interrupted anything actually important. However he’s feeling, it isn’t enough to keep him from gripping the Professor’s sleeve and pulling him off to have a private conversation.

Kaito sinks into a kitchen chair and takes a sip of his shake. Mm, chocolate. “This tastes ten times better than what they’ve been feeding me.

“It’s not nearly as healthy,” Jii says with a sigh.

“You know, you absorb more nutrients when you enjoy what you eat,” Kaito shoots back. Humans did anyway. But since there's no way of knowing if that applies to him, he’s just going to claim that factoid as valid.

Jii sighs like he’s the victim. It’s not even his taste buds.

Chikage snorts and pours herself her own glass. “He’s always been picky,” she says to Jii.

“I’m not picky.”

“You cut most seafood out of your diet and you live in Japan.”

“I’ll eat ffff—seafood,” he grumbles. “But only the kind I like. Shrimp and crabs and clams are fine. And it’s not like I boycott anything that has finny things as an ingredient, it’s just the less it resembles them the better.”

“See?” she says to Jii. “Picky.”

Kaito rolls his eyes. The chocolate shake, whatever else is in it aside, helps. Sitting here with his mom helps. He hadn’t realized how much he missed her actually being there, but it’s calming. Even though he knows it doesn’t work that way, having a parent present makes him feel a bit more like things are going to be okay. Like somehow Chikage will fix things even though he knows full well that’s not how it works. She can’t just sweep in and fix the Kaito downstairs or make Kaito actually human. She can’t wipe away any new traumas either. Couldn’t when Toichi died, can’t now. Parents aren’t all powerful and don’t have all the answers. But it’s pretty nice to let her take over being the adult for the moment.

He’s tired.

The last swallow of shake is rich on his tongue. He could probably pick apart what’s in it, but he’d rather enjoy it. Especially because life keeps reminding him how fleeting the good moments are lately.

“So, could I go home if I promise to let Hakuba look me over every twelve hours or something? Pretty sure I’m not going to fall apart at this point.”

Jii looks heavenward like he’s asking for patience. Chikage pats Kaito’s shoulder. “One more night,” she says. “I’ll talk to Agasa-san about what we can do to keep track of how you’re doing at home.” Her smile slips a bit. “I have a few arrangements to make before we move you anyway.”

“Ah.” Right… “Do you want me to come with you to…?”

She shakes her head. “I’d like a bit of privacy if that’s okay.”

“Yeah.” Kaito looks at the empty glass in his hand. “He’s your son so…”

Jii coughs softly and takes their glasses to wash them and Chikage stands to go face her dead son. She gives Kaito a wan smile and he wishes he could keep her from going and looking. She needs to look, but if it haunts Kaito, it’s definitely going to haunt his mother.

Kaito flees for the roof for lack of better places to go. He takes the romance book with him but he kind of doubts he’ll end up reading it.

It’s another beautiful day. It feels like the weather should reflect such heavy things like dead sons and imperfect copies, but nature doesn’t care what the piddly beings scrambling around on the earth’s surface are experiencing, it just does what it always does.

He ends up pulling out his cracked cell phone, now with a strip of clear tape across its front to keep from breaking worse until he can get a new one. There’s an unread message from Hakuba that goes on and on about the chemical properties of Kaito’s blood compound. Apparently Hakuba must have borrowed his grandfather’s lab space again. “So glad I’m providing you entertainment,” Kaito texts back sarcastically.

“You should know how your body works,” Hakuba sends almost immediately.  “I’ll be over tomorrow to go through more research notes.”

It’s Hakuba who’d eventually hacked into the doctor’s personal computer. Kaito doesn’t doubt that the facility upstairs had been full of even more detailed information, but there had been enough filed in the remains of the living area and foundry for everyone to work with. Agasa might have been able to use the synthetic blood from the chest freezer and patch Kaito’s skin with similar samples, but it’s Hakuba who’s intent on understanding how they work and can be reproduced. It’s just weird how Hakuba’s not hounding him about the Kid thing at all.

“I might go home tomorrow. I’m trying to make it today, but they’re not budging.”

“Kuroba, don’t be an idiot. Your leg is still in a delicate state and we still don’t know if the loose wire in your head he fixed was the only one.”

“Vision has been working normal and no brain problems here. Besides, my mom is here and she’s going to be watching closer than Jii probably.”

“It’s good for there to be another set of eyes,” is all that Hakuba sends back and Kaito scowls at the message.

There’s a few from Aoko, worried about him, but he’d made it sound like he had a bit of an accident and was fine but not really up for visitors. It would only work for so long, so that is another reason to return home. Kaito’s life is a mess these days. Just one lie after another.

Although… less lies at the moment than there have been. He wants to believe that’s a good thing, but less lies mean more people hurt with the knowledge that Kaito’s dead. It’s a tossup whether it’ll be a relief long term or just another problem.

#detective conan #magic kaito #robot kaito #fanfiction #my writing #chapter breaks are all roughly 5000 some words btw #if anyone was wondering at arbitrary cut off points

[interrogatormentors]

Event Twelve: Underhanded Tactics

Eridan woke up in the medbay, a common occurrence these nights. His whole head throbbed, and he slid his tongue along the roof of his cotton-dry mouth. He cracked open an eye only to screw it shut again, head panging again as a jolt of fear rattled through his gut. The phantom scent of antiseptic teased at his memory, the sound of hair clippers and the saw discordant and lingering as the Empress crooned at his side. You are my confidante, she’d said. You must keep my secrets close, locked tight so no one can pull them from you. Stop crying, guppy, brain surgery ain’t so bad. 

He took a deep breath through his nose, gills flaring as he struggled to avoid hyperventilating. The past couldn’t hurt him, initial panic notwithstanding. His arm itched, a faint movement confirming the IV needle sunk into a vein. He felt around for the needle, ripping it out of his arm and clamping his hand down to stem the resulting spurt of blood.

“Sir!” Eridan ignored the alarmed squawk of a nearby mediculler, sitting up on the medical platform and peeling his eyes open. “You should be resting--”

“I didn’t give nobody permission to bring me in, Icrusa,” Eridan said, voice a rough croak. He cleared his throat, replacing his whole hand with his index finger to put pressure on the IV site instead. The mediculler swallowed hard, shrinking back as Eridan shot him an icy glare. “Told you this the last time.”

“You keep passing out, sir,” Icrusa said. His ears flushed a brilliant yellow as Eridan glowered. “You really shouldn’t be drinking so much, not with your pan in such a delicate state.” Icrusa stopped speaking as Eridan gripped onto the side of the medical platform, highblood strength twisting and warping the metal frame.

“My pan ain’t delicate,” he said. “I’m no different than I was a sweep ago. I’m not some delicate pissblooded helmsman. I can handle it. And the next time you try an’ give me some holier than thou bullshit regardin’ my drinkin’ habits, I’m setting you out the airlock. I didn’ ask for you to give me fuckin’ unsolicited health advice an’ you’d fuckin’ do well to remember that.” He reached for his glasses, shoving them on his face. His finger skipped over the false slap of skin at his temples, hiding the new port for a biowire. His stomach rolled, and he shoved it away. Don’t think about it. Don’t feel. Shut off your emotions, guppy, like a husktop. “I can’t get work done in the medbay. Sign my release form.”

Icrusa hesitated before bobbing his head, scurrying back to his office. He knew better by this point than to point out that yes, actually, it was his job to give health advice considering his status as the ship’s official mediculler after the last time Eridan woke up hungover in the medbay. Eridan watched him the whole time through narrowed eyes, foot tapping at a near frantic pace as he waited. He left the medbay even before the mediculler left his office, lifting the cape folded at the end of the platform and swinging it back around his shoulders. A sweep ago he would have felt childish, wearing a cape again, haunted by wiggler memories of immature games and lofty aspirations he could never hope to reach. But the Empress had given it to him, just for him in her color, gold woven into the hem with his sign etched into the embroidery, marking him as hers. 

He went to his block, avoiding the stares from crew members as he swept past them. He didn’t need their concern or their pity to do his job. The moment he entered he snatched a half-empty flask from his desk, draining the rest of it and sighing as his throat burned. Nothing beat a hangover like a bit of hair of the woofbeast, and a few minutes later his panic faded back into the background. Everything was okay. He was fine, everything was normal, and he could get to work.

Eridan sank into his chair, fumbling around for a bottle of soporific and refilling his flask as he eyed a desk drawer with distaste. He sucked in a breath before opening it, picking up the squirming biowire pinched between his index finger and thumb. He gritted his teeth before flicking the false flap of skin back, putting the wire to his temple. The biowire squirmed and sank into the port, and Eridan flinched as pain shot through his brain. The Empress had assured him the procedure was safe, convenient, but every time he hooked up to a computer Eridan felt like death clawed at his pan. He didn’t have psionics, he didn’t have all the electric pulses constantly thrumming through his body and shortening the neural pathways so the biowire could work efficiently. The biowire twisted his thoughts into agonized tendrils, every transfer of encrypted data giving him a migraine for hours. 

Still he hooked himself to his computer, taking another draft from his refilled flask as he opened up his alerts and tasks for the day. A download automatically started-- a security update for the ship itself, procedures for lockdown in case of a hijacking. The rebellion kept forcing the Empire’s hand, this latest security update a response to the more frequent hijackings by the movement that drew closer and closer to the heart of the fleet. Eridan bowed his head as the details wove their way into the meat of his pan, sinking into the hardware and locking themselves away. His hands shook, and he had to take a few minutes before focusing back on his tasks. His duties as Head Admin hadn’t ceased. Supplies needed ordering, personnel needed allocating, and patrol routes needed vetting. The duties never stopped, they never stopped piling up, and the notifications at the bottom right of his husktop screen with the sheer number of them seared their image into Eridan’s eyeballs.

Eridan leaned back in his seat, scrubbing at his eyes and then staring at the ceiling. Turn off the emotions. He could do that, he needed to do that, in order to keep going. He couldn’t waylay the demands of the Empress, and he had a responsibility to his ship to keep it running. Wasting time freaking out about the lack of time and lack of autonomy held him back. Besides, he never made good decisions for himself in the first place.

The intercom crackled on his desk, and Eridan snarled as he depressed the call button with his finger. “The fuck you need, Shakes?”

“Uh. Sorry to bother you, but we got a docking request,” Shakes said. “You good?”

“Not relevant. The BC Condescension is a galaxy over until the end of the perigee, so tell whoever we ain’t dockin’ for shit.”

“No, no, boss, this ain’t just any old request. It’s, uh, an interrogatormentor cruiser?”

Eridan lifted his head where he’d been resting it on his hand, blood crystallizing into icy shards of fear. “What? Why?”

“Beats me,” Shakes said. “They’ve got all the required security codes all lined up neat for me. I couldn’t get a bead on the helmsman either-- It’s like they don’t even have one. Do I let them dock?”

“It’s th’ bloody interrogatormentors. Do we have a choice?” Eridan plucked the biowire from his skull, shoving it back in his desk and smoothing his hair flat once again. “Let them on. I’ll let the Captain know.”

He met the interrogatormentors in the docking bay as they disembarked their tiny cruiser. The two purples stood out, towering high above the third, weedy troll between them. Eridan had to shake himself as he took in the yellowblood, the image of the decrepit Helmsman superimposed over the far more muscled and smooth-faced interrogatormentor in front of them. The fact the interrogatormentor clearly had helming experience didn’t help, his skin riddled with resealable ports that shone in the overhead lights. That explained the helmsman, then. Of course Shakes wouldn’t be able to get a bead on a helmsman with interrogatormentor training. Eridan cleared his throat, straightened his posture, and approached.

“Are you the captain?” The yellowblood cocked his head an inch, looking Eridan up and down. Something in his tone indicated he already knew the answer to his question, and his lisp niggled at memory in the back of Eridan’s pan.

“No. I’m Head Admin Ampora. State your business and I will fetch the captain for--”

The female purple to the side of the first interrogatormentor held up a hand, cutting him off. She wore no face paint unlike her companion. The male purple in question stared at Eridan openly, twitching as he heard Eridan’s name. It took Eridan a moment to register Gamzee aged as he was, gone through his final adult molt and towering above him. He met Gamzee’s eyes for only a moment before tearing his gaze away. He couldn’t risk Gamzee opening his mouth. He only wondered how Gamzee had landed a position alongside an interrogatormentor squad considering how Eridan faintly recalled outing his rebel connections upon first meeting the Empress.

The yellowblooded interrogatormentor cleared his throat. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. His fangs flashed as he spoke. “You’ve been compromised, Admin Ampora.”

The voice finally knocked something loose in Eridan’s pan, unlocking memories of voice calls at midday and filled with shouting wigglers spouting heresy. “TwinArmageddons?”

“CaligulasAquarium,” the yellow interrogatormentor replied, without missing a beat. 

Eridan stared at him, and stayed silent. They stayed at an impasse for a few moments, neither of them willing to out the other's rebel ties without revealing their own as Gamzee kept looking between them as the treasonous icing on the cake. It was as if Eridan had handed the interrogatormentor a grenade, and the yellowblood had pulled the pin while the grenade sat in their joined hands.

The female purple looked to the yellow, who cleared his throat. “I read his file. He read mine.” Eridan didn’t like how easily he lied, terror still prickling at the base of his skull. He scratched the back of his head, trying to ignore the wicked scar there. 

“So. Right. You here to torture me?” Eridan asked. “Interrogatormentor…?”

“Captor,” the yellowblood said. He indicated the female purple, and then Gamzee. “Interrogatormentor Davrot, Security Officer Makara. We’re responding to an alert your ship is harboring rebels and they are attempting to remove you from your position as the Empress’ consort.”

Eridan’s brows furrowed, and he shook his head. “No. You got the wrong ship. I ain’t recruitin’ rebels. Especially none tryin’ to undermine me.”

Captor snorted, lowering his chin in a clear sign of arrogant condescension. He waved a hand and the two purples separated from his side where they’d clung like remoras to a shark’s parasite-ridden gills. “Strange. The report said you’re the one that caught the alert and brought it to the Empire’s attention.”

Eridan stared, trying to knit together the holes in his memory and recall ever summoning interrogatormentors. He did a lot of his work drunk now, true enough, but he had a handle on it and remembered the important information. If anything he only remembered the Empress, a foggy memory of her praising him for his work against the rebellion. Was this what she meant?

He turned as he heard yelling and a distant commotion, but Captor waved a hand. “Ignore this and get back to whatever you Head Admins call work while we deal with your infestation,” he said. “You’ll be updated when we get what we need.” 

He walked away, silent as before as he ghosted after the two purples. Eridan watched him go before shaking himself back into reality, looking around to see a few crewmates halted in their duties and watching him. “You’re not paid to dick around,” he said, baring his teeth. “Unless any of the rest of you want to be investigated for rebel leanings. Might as well make use of the interrogatormentors while they’re here.” The idle crewmembers jumped back into their work, avoiding Eridan’s eye as he left the room.

Hours passed, and Eridan wanted to throttle something. Everyone wanted to know what the interrogatormentors wanted or needed, and he had nothing to give them. He didn’t even know the name of the troll being investigated, and he didn’t care. As long as the interrogatormentors weren’t knocking at his door and asking what he knew of Feferi and her rebellion, he didn’t care.

Someone knocked on his door. Eridan jumped, almost knocking over his flask onto his keyboard and only just managing to catch it before it fell. He swore and stood, opening the door to see the trio of trolls from earlier, Interrogatormentor Davrot dragging a fourth, barely conscious troll behind her by the hair. Olive blood oozed from multiple lacerations across the troll’s face and arms.

“Bricks?” Eridan tried to not sound so betrayed, but his voice dripped with it.

Bricks stirred, groaning before opening an eye. His other eye was swollen shut. “I’m not a rebel,” Bricks said. He yelped as Davrot yanked his hair up, clinging to her wrist for dear life in a feeble attempt to alleviate the pain.  “I’m not. Don’t listen to them-- I just tried to get you help!”

“Help with what?” Eridan’s fingers curled in the hem of his cape, and he let go only when he caught Captor staring at the gesture like a predator eyeing its prey.

Bricks stayed silent, hissing as Davrot forced him onto his knees. She leaned in, grabbing him by the horn and twisting. “No. No no no-- Not again--” Bricks screamed as Eridan caught the sound of horn splintering, grinding against itself. “The Empress! Stop-- She’s killing you, Ampora, can’t you see it? Anyone with eyes can fucking see it, it’s only the rebellion that might care! I don’t give a shit about anything else they do, I just wanted them to get you out of this place before it gets any worse..”

Eridan bristled, hands curling into his fists. Captor moved forward before he could say anything, footsteps inaudible on the metal tile. He put his hand on Bricks’ shoulder. “He sold you out,” he said. “You’re preaching to the choir now.” Bricks blinked, looking from Captor to Eridan who stood immobile. Captor snorted, snapping his fingers. Davrot grabbed Bricks’ hand, linking her fingers with his and holding it high above his head as Captor leaned in and grabbed Bricks by the chin. “It’s kind of sweet, isn’t it? You selling each other out to try and save your own sorry hides. You thought you could get away with this? With trying to snatch the Empress’ consort out from under her?” Captor dropped Bricks’ face and turned his bicolored eyes on Eridan. “You employ soft crewmembers, Admin Ampora. We didn’t even have to press hard to crack him open.”

Captor moved his left hand, swiping it overtop his right. Psionics shimmered in its wake, coalescing into a solid blade of hard light. Eridan could feel the thrum of power from here, hairs on the back of his neck standing on end in the wake of this blatant flexing of psionic ability. Bricks jerked his hand in Davrot’s grip, but she stood immobile as Gamzee grabbed his uninjured horn and kept him locked in place. “Ampora. Eridan. Come on. Who the fuck do you think keeps scraping your sorry ass off the floor every time you pass out? Tell me they’re lying-- You wouldn’t throw me under like this. I know you.”

“You don’t know me,” Eridan said. He couldn’t remember telling any interrogatormentors about an outgoing message to the rebels, or even mentioning it offhand to the Empress. He didn’t know if he wanted to. The Empress gave him everything, she gave him status and gifts and he served as her comfort and her informant. Bricks wanted to take that all away-- He wanted to ruin everything Eridan had worked so hard for and send him back to step one in the dirt with rebels. Rebels that Eridan had burned so many bridges with it might as well be a scrapyard, that had said to his face and beyond that he would never be welcome until he shaped up. He’d shaped up, he’d shipped out into the stars, and crafted himself into something better that neither Feferi nor any of her other cronies could hope to touch. “I… Yeah. I did.”

Bricks’ face fell, only for him to scream as Captor swiped out with the psionic blade and separated the engineer’s hand from his wrist with crunching bone and the smell of seared flesh. The hand skidded across the floor, smearing a trail of olive blood along the floor and landing at Eridan’s feet. Eridan stared down at it as Davrot and Gamzee let Bricks crumple to the ground, clutching his arm and screaming.

He only looked up as Captor advanced on him, schooling his face back into the blank slate the Empress had taught him. A thin line of yellow blood snaked down the interrogatormentor’s face from his nose due to no doubt immeasurable strain required by him wielding that blade. “Keep this close as a reminder to your crew. I trust you’ll do the right thing,” Captor said. He bent down and picked up the hand, and dropped it into Eridan’s. Eridan’s muscles tensed to throw it away, stomach rolling, but he only stared down at it, conditioned by this point to be totally numb as every instinct screamed at him to do something. Instead, he could be good. He could do nothing. The Empress would be proud of him, or at least he hoped as much. 

He snapped back to attention as Captor inclined his head and spoke again. “Long live the Empire.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Eridan said, straightening his back as he automatically saluted, expression schooled into a blank mask, the drunken flush from earlier banished from his face. “Long live the Empire.”

Captor swiped at the trickle of blood on his face with his thumb and nodded, turning on his heel. The two purples flanked him again, bringing up the rear as they disappeared down the hall.

Eridan dropped the hand the moment the interrogatormentors went out of sight, skin crawling, but he couldn’t bring himself to so much as whimper. He couldn’t trust his crew. He couldn’t trust his memory. He could only trust the Empress, that she would recognize the dangers pointing daggers at his back and save him, as she no doubt had in sending interrogatormentors to his ship.

He shut the door to his blocks, leaving Bricks sobbing on the floor. He didn’t feel anything, anything at all. Even as he sent the Captain a message about the incident and Bricks writhed on the floor in pain outside his blocks he felt nothing, the tears that finally spilled from his eyes more a physical response to the lingering smell of charred flesh in his nose more than anything. He’d have to do something about the hand eventually, and he wouldn’t put it past a sadistic interrogatormentor to actually make sure he kept the hand on display somewhere. That definitely would not win him any brownie points with the crew, especially with how alienated he felt from them by this point. He doubted even Shakes would give him the time of day after this, with what he let happen to Bricks. Fuck, he needed another drink.

They’d told him in Fleet Academy that space was vast, that space was empty and cruel and cold. But no one had told him, they didn’t warn him, that space was so fucking lonely. 

#homestuck #homestuck au #interrogatormentors #fic #eridan ampora #sollux captor #gamzee makara #alcohol use #alcoholism #torture #amputation #for fun and profit! #and here we are #the last chapter #hope everyone had a better time than the characters here #book one is now complete!

[journeysintowebcomics]

Worm Liveblog #104

UPDATE 104: Some Peace for Once

Last time Skitter defeated the Azazel suit all by herself, and that defeat led Dragon to pull all the suits out of Brockton Bay. Now Coil has ordered everyone to stop gallivanting around in their suits, so for once they all have a few free days! Will they be able to enjoy them, or will things happen because there’s no rest for the Worm characters? Let’s see.

Imp wants to throw a part and rub it in a little, show the heroes they can’t do a thing against the villains controlling this city. Wow, that’s a monumentally bad idea, especially because Coil ordered everyone to not be out wearing their costumes. Sure’s going to be suspicious if a bunch of teenagers are partying and using fireworks for no discernable reason. The Travelers wouldn’t mind a party, and neither does Regent, so I really hope the rest of the Undersiders have enough common sense to reject this horrible idea.

Maybe a private party would be fine, though...if they all feel comfortable hanging out without costumes. I can’t imagine the Travelers would want to, though, even though the Undersiders have already seen their faces, if I recall correctly.

Skitter hasn’t been paying attention to the discussion, and here I’m waiting for her to reject the party idea.

I sighed and confessed, “I’m… I guess I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Isn’t that what happens?  The second things start to go right, the next disaster strikes?  Empire Eighty-Eight, Leviathan, The Nine, Dragon…”

Ahahaha, nice, Skitter can see a pattern where it exists. She’s already bracing herself for any trouble that’ll come now that things are supposedly going well. It’s a bit hard to imagine what kind of trouble there’ll be now, though. All major threats are gone and the heroes won’t make a move so soon. Still, something’s going to happen, right? Right?

In Genesis’ opinion, if whatever’ll happen now is very dangerous, then they can’t plan or do anything until they’re attacked, and if it’s not so dangerous, they’ll be able to fight back anyway, so there’s no point in worrying right now. Famous last words, really, but she’s got a point. It’s impossible to predict what exactly is going to happen and it’s not like there are any worldwide threats about to make a move. It’s not like Nilbog’s going to come out of his personal city anytime soon, and Cauldron’s closest forces are heroes, so...yeah, no big threats I can think of.

Nobody else except Grue is nearly as cautious as Skitter, so I’m pretty sure once everyone goes their separate way there’s going to be a few private celebrations. Skitter will be a responsible villainous caretaker and check on her territory, to make sure the recent attack Dragon made didn’t make them so discontent they’ll try to shank her the moment she shows her costumed face around. Hey, they won’t dare to say a word or be discontent once they find out what Skitter did, really. So that’s that. Time for everyone to go their separate ways!

What did it say about me that my metaphors were tending towards that kind of violent imagery?

You’re getting jaded, that’s what it means. After everything that has happened it would be surprising if you weren’t, hah.

Since there’s no TV and she can’t go party around, Regent invites Imp to go play videogames with him, much to Grue’s displeasure. He doesn’t hesitate to start voicing his displeasure, only to get interrupted.

“You’ve said enough!  You don’t want me to celebrate my first legit win where I was actually fucking useful?  Fine!  Don’t want me to go on patrol?  Fine! I’ll accept that shit because I’ll take orders from the guy who actually pays me.  But if you’re going to whine because I want to play video games with a teammate, I’m not going to stand here and listen to it!  Deal!”

Honestly I have to agree with Imp on this one. I definitely can support telling her not to be reckless, or defy Coil’s orders, but telling her not to socialize with a teammate – although it’s Regent, who isn’t really known for having good judgment and careful demeanor – is a tad too much. Let her have this much, pal.

So that’s it. Now they’re all going to do what they can. So I suppose this means this chapter will feature Skitter checking on her territory, unless she gets attacked along the way, but I’m intrigued what she’ll do afterwards.

Since they’re done with Coil’s orders, Trickster decides he’ll go check how Coil’s favor for the Travelers is progressing.

“Don’t get on his case,” Genesis said. “Whatever his plan is, he’s under a lot of pressure right now.  I’d rather wait another few days and then talk about it with him than push it now and risk upsetting him.”

“The difference between us,” Trickster said, terse, “is I’m not willing to wait.”

You know, ever since it was revealed the Travelers really aren’t in the best of terms with each other and with Trickster so many things show that clearly and without any room for doubt. It kind of makes me wonder if in the past I missed any foreshadowing about the state of their group. Perhaps I even missed signs of clear enmity. Sure wouldn’t be the first time I don’t notice something, haha

Once only Heckpuppy, Grue and Skitter are left, Heckpuppy asks if the other two are dating, and when that’s confirmed she sounds smug. Hah! Even she could notice it, I remember she noticed it loooong ago. She’s invited to tag along, as if dear Heckpuppy here would love to be the third wheel in this pair. As if! Of course she rejects the idea. She’ll spend her night taking care of her dogs and playing with them. She really doesn’t like being with people. Nothing too surprising over here, I’d have been even more surprised if she had been willing to stick around with them.

So, date night? Date night! Quite the start for her few free days!

Looks like the main reason Taylor wanted to keep Rachel around is because she wants to avoid talking about how she’s taking over the group’s leadership. I thought it was established Brian didn’t care about that too much? Or at least he didn’t seem bothered. Wasn’t there a conversation about this already? Did I imagine it?

Thank goodness, despite Dragon’s attack it seems the meal was finished. Nobody was able to work properly, but it wasn’t a terrible disaster, so let’s count it as a brief impasse and continue working the next day.

I set two servings worth of the pork onto one plate and put it in the microwave.  “They may come back, but that’ll be a little while coming.  What I’m worried about is my territory.  Were people upset?”

“Yeah,” Sierra said.  “A few people got shocked by those floating flying saucer things.”

“The drones,” I said.  My heart sank a little.  My promise to protect my people had been broken yet again.

Oh for the love of—Taylor Hebert needs to stop blaming herself for everything. I know that’s just how she is, and that showing how the residents of her territory are very important to her, but she really needs to stop torturing herself for it, or at least it needs to stop being integrated onto the text. Compared to everything else that has happened to everybody here, this classifies as a rather minor inconvenience. Getting shocked is not pleasant, but this is Dragon, who would never dare to harm a civilian. Taylor doesn’t have to blame herself for what happened as if the drones went by and chopped a few heads off.

I don’t know, her tendency to blaming herself has happened so often I just am starting to get kind of ticked off by it. Personal taste, pretty much. It just feels to me like every single arc for a while already has to forcibly include that.

Either way, nobody was seriously hurt, and Taylor tells them she’ll have to work from the background. I’m kind of worried how the residents will react when they don’t see Skitter around for a while. They may think she abandoned them. Neither Charlotte nor Sierra are confident about handling things by themselves, too, the main reason that they don’t want to be seen doing work for a criminal. Reasonable, yup. Instead of insisting, Taylor decides to give them money and ask them to get someone who can do it, because she trusts their judgment.

I’m not entirely certain how that’ll go. Not a lot of people are willing to work for a criminal just like that. I suppose there might be a chance of finding someone like that here in the territory, though.

That aside, Taylor also asks them to tell those who fought Dragon’s drones to never do that again, because getting hurt for her sake is not kosher. Reasonable, too. Makes me wonder what kind of people were the ones that fought the drones.

Something I really like of Skitter and her leadership style is that she does her best to listen to her employees’ concerns and shows a sincere desire to leave her doors open to them, wanting to know what they think and feel. That’s something admirable. Charlotte is okay with all this, but I’m pretty sure Sierra would rather bail at some point, so I’m glad that’s an option for her, and I’m sure she’s very glad about that too.

Once they go upstairs, they talk a little about how Taylor handles her employees. It’s a good way, and Grue wishes he could do the same, buuuut nobody wants to work for Grue and Imp because they’re hella intimidating. Who’d have thought the guy with the mask/helmet shaped like a skull and darkness flowing out of him like miasma was intimidating? And Imp is unnerving, hah! But yeah, they’re not getting any employees. Hmmm...the only option would be getting employees through Coil, no? But in that case they’re not Grue’s employees, they’re Coil’s. It’s just not the same, and if Coil ever gets kicked out or defeated, Grue would lose his henchmen too. He’s kind of hopeless when it’s about getting employees.

“Right.  If we had to worry about keeping our employees, it’d be good, because it’d mean we actually had some.  I’m not sure how to get underway on that front.  We’re intimidating.”

“I’m intimidating,” I said, admittedly defensive.

“You are.  But I’d say you’re more intimidating as an idea than you are in person.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Oh, but that’s actually good, no? I mean, it’s what makes the residents actually accept her and not mind too much – nowadays – her presence. I’m sure if she was more standoffish or uncaring they’d be thinking of ways to make her good away. They already showed willingness to fight Dragon’s drones, those same people would try to fight her, wouldn’t they? I bet they would.

“But my point is that people are more likely to run than stick around and talk when I’m approaching.  You can take your bugs off the table, make it clear they aren’t a threat, and people feel less threatened, they’re willing to hear you out.”

“Maybe.  But if that’s the case, don’t give them a chance to run.”

“What?  Pop out from around a corner, scare the living daylights out of them, then offer them a job?”

I had to reread these few lines because I thought I had misread something, but no, I didn’t. Goodness, Taylor, you can’t scare the bejeebers out of someone and then offer them a job. Either they faint on the spot or they leave at the first opportunity. Leaving cards in their apartments is even worse, makes you look like a stalker.

This all brings up the point if the prospective hires can’t deal with a little weird threatening crap from Grue, then they’re not cut for the job. She’s not wrong, but it’s still a tad of a weird recruitment plan, haha. That aside, mercenaries is the other option, but that ensures you’re going to get zero or very low loyalty. It’d be good for Grue and Imp to get employees with a modicum of loyalty. Mercenaries are trained and will cooperate as long as the money is flowing, though, so that’s something to consider, compared to untrained civilians. I guess in the end this all depends on if Grue manages to hire anyone.

Enough talk about villainous stuff, it’s relaxing time, says Taylor! Getting DVDs ready for a night of movies. Brian doesn’t get the message, because he brings up the topic of the leadership of the group. Hah! I suppose Taylor was pressing to watch movies because it meant maybe they wouldn’t talk about this, but it failed. It was a valiant effort. Anyway, Brian asks if she wants to take the leadership permanently, Taylor doesn’t want to. She’s just very concerned.

“When I was getting really obsessive about what I was doing, when I was losing sleep and making mistakes, I deferred control.”

“To Trickster,” Brian said.  I could see a shadow pass over his expression.

“Yeah.  And that’s a bad example because it didn’t work.  It’s just that we both know you’re not getting enough rest. So maybe I can pick up the slack in the meantime.”

She’s right, she’s very right! And among everyone in both teams, Taylor is the only one with competent leadership and planning skills. Sure wouldn’t want to let Trickster plan anything ever again, he’s just not good. Still, this doesn’t make Brian very happy, so Taylor offers them to have some sort of joint leadership so he doesn’t have a heavy burden. Her idea is that she can handle Heckpuppy – not too bad of an idea, they seem to be getting along better, somehow – and anything that involves improvisation, while Brian handles everything else. It’s a good idea! Come on, Brian, take it.

He knows she’s right, but that just makes him feel so bad. Brian has always been in an environment where showing signs of weakness means you’ll get backstabbed, and he has been on the backstabber side more than once. His current demeanor is a bit of a recent development, thanks to Aisha pointing out he was being a major jerk, to put it lightly. This pretty much means he started taking burdens onto himself, trying to help others he works with and watch out for them, and now the tables have turned and boy does he hate that.

“So it isn’t just about me trying to adjust.  Christ, it’s me having my world turned upside down.  It’s others protecting me, others helping me, others covering me in a fight, others taking charge.  Aisha’s the one fixing things for me.”

It’s rather understandable, really. Brian is used to being strong and reliable and ready to tackle anything, both for his own sake and for the sake of those he cares about. Now it’s backwards, everyone’s taking care of him and he perceives himself as not having what’s needed to be reliable or strong anymore. The mental trauma from what Bonesaw did is rather debilitating, yeah, but I’m starting to think maybe he perceives he’s being coddled or something, like they don’t trust him to handle anything and instead push him aside so he’s safer and/or doesn’t get in the way. Of course this would bother him so much.

In his opinion, Taylor seems to be taking for granted things will go well and Coil will fulfill his part of the deal, and then they all will continue to handle their territories, and everything will be peachy keen for a while. He’s pretty wrong about what Taylor’s thinking, that’s just the impression he has, and he’s afraid he won’t be able to help if things go wrong all of a sudden. Leaving aside how things going wrong all of a sudden is almost a certainty, I think Brian’s situation can only go in two ways: either he manages to give help and he realizes he hasn’t lost his touch, or he fails at that and sinks deeper into the disappointment he feels at himself. Hard to predict what it’ll be, though.

Since there’s no point in worrying about dangers that you don’t even know what they are, Taylor repeats everything Genesis said and encourages him to relax until trouble arrives. Not worrying about it is easier said than done, but they do manage to leave it aside for now, just to relax, watch movies, and generally build the romantic relationship that has been teased for so many arcs by now.

Oooh, now that their minds are off the leadership stuff Brian isn’t exactly being coy here! Nobody’s going to watch movies if he keeps dragging fingertips and kissing Taylor like this. Good for them! It’s a bit difficult to know what to say about their romantic moves, as there’s something a tad weird about commentating this as if I’m a two-bit voyeur watching from the corner of the room, so I think I’m cutting this here, haha. Oh well. Continuing next time, with the next chapter.

Next time: next update

#worm #worm liveblog #webserial #liveblog #webserial liveblog

[kiruuuuu]

Dearest @nutbrain​, I wish you also a happy birthday and all the best 💗💗 Thank you for sharing and discussing ideas and for your neverending support and kind words. This is partly a birthday gift and partly a retaliation in our kindness war, and I do hope you like it :)

In this, Bandit asks a djinn-like Doc to help win a war. Or: a lot of things are impossible. No explicit ships but you can use your imagination! (Rating G, fantasy AU, ~13k words)

.

Doc is summoned to oppressive heat.

The ritual, as always, he could’ve done without – his essence is being compressed and forced into an imperfect, almost laughable body incapable of representing his true self, the process far from comfortable. Organs are rearranged, replaced, removed, limbs melt together to form two legs to stand on, two arms; fur regresses and makes place for naked skin and fabric materialises seemingly out of thin air to match his last excursion’s fashion: deep blue adorns him as a vest, puffy grey surrounds his lower half.

It’s disorienting but that’s nothing new: taking on the form of a human usually leaves him light-headed and struggling to compose himself for a few seconds. Their sense of balance is inferior, as is their method of communicating – if he’s honest, he finds most about them distasteful, from their thinking to their deeds and yet they happen to inhabit the sweetest space of all. Breathing clean, fresh air is pure bliss, as is feeling sand and dust between his toes, the gravity just right to allow for actual jumps even in this frail body. How he loves being here and how he despises having to deal with this race of selfish, bloodthirsty predators.

Once his eyes have adapted to the brightness assaulting him (and even this is ultimately better than any alternative, he enjoys the sun), he looks around curiously to face those who decided to call upon him.

He’s confronted with just one man.

Where’s the committee, where are the sacrificial offerings? Doc is used to lavish surroundings, the secluded wing of a cathedral, a peaceful clearing in a forest, next to a gentle stream inside a decorated cave – instead he finds himself in a nondescript landscape, dunes in the distance, no more than shrubs in view which suggests they’re high up North, near the sweltering deserts of death. He’s been summoned behind a tent like a secret lover, not like the deity as which he’s normally revered.

The more he lets his gaze wander, the more indignation rises: the summoning circle below his feet has been scratched into the dry, cracked ground instead of being carefully painted on by calligraphers, there seems to be no food ready for him whatsoever and on top of that, the man looks like a mercenary. A closer look prompts Doc to correct himself, no, not a mercenary, he’s wearing a crest of some kind with pride, though his dirt-coloured clothing is ripped, his sandals stained, his sword dull and his skin marred. It’s clear what he is, becomes even clearer when Doc takes notice of more and evermore tents behind him, catches sight of other men and women clad similarly to the one before him.

“I offer you my greetings”, comes only part of the usual phrases uttered whenever Doc or one of his brethren are dragged into this world, “it is the fifth year of the scorpion, following forty-six years of the snake following one hundred and twenty-six years of the fly. We are near the numeric ocean, two days’ journey east of the capital of Qina, formerly the province of -”

Doc nods and the man stops his history lesson. He now knows when and where they are, though there still is no indication as to why.

“They call me Bandit, it’s an honour.” Instead of a bow or a similarly respectful gesture, he receives nothing. “You may speak.”

“You don’t look Qinean”, Doc states sharply as soon as he feels some of the tingling around him dissipate. For right now, he’s at its mercy, unable to act or leave either way, so he makes his words count.

“That is correct, I’m Rangiin Kamaan. The highest general there is.”

“Why do you require my services?”

A shadow flits over the man’s face but his piercing gaze doesn’t lower. He’s a prideful one, if he dares to summon the likes of Doc without an appropriate welcome – prideful, foolish and arrogant. “We are losing a war”, he replies quietly.

“Isn’t that a shame.” It comes as no surprise. He might not have visited this part of the continent in decades, possibly centuries, and yet humans are the same everywhere, all of them open books with the same kind of boring story on display. Envy, ire, hurt, arrogance – it’s all the same, whether it’s a dispute between neighbours or a widespread conflict involving more than just two nations.

Bandit seems dissatisfied with his lack of compassion but forces an easy grin nonetheless. “I don’t like being on the loser’s side. So I thought I’d ask for help. You’re good with anatomy, isn’t that right? You know how to eviscerate someone? Make them die a slow, painful death? The most efficient kinds of poison?”

“You”, Doc spits back, hardly masking his disdain, “are a warmonger. I know your kind. Do you even know who stands before you?”

“Someone who is glad to be here.” They glare at each other, neither of them backing down. They’ve reached an impasse: Doc cannot exit this world of his own accord, not with the circle intact, and Bandit wants him to cooperate which he will refuse to do. “The knowledge of summoning you has been passed down in my family and with it, your earthly name. You are Doc, one of the ancient ones, able yet often unwilling to assist us.”

“My powers are of restoration”, Doc adds with venom, “not destruction. I refuse to utilise them according to the wishes of a murderer and furthermore, I have always refrained in changing the tide of battle as have most of my kin. If your army is losing, perhaps it would’ve been wise not to go to war in the first place.”

“We had no choice -”

“There is always a choice!” More glaring. Doc silently both commends the human for his bravery and condemns him for his insolence. If he knew exactly who Doc is, he must’ve been overconfident or desperate to call on him regardless – he’s known for upholding the balance others of his kind with inferior standing might upset, known for healing rather than harming. He is no help in a war, neither willing nor capable to lend assistance and therefore surmises this foreign army is on the brink of being eradicated. “Why do you wish to conquer land which isn’t yours? Why do you cause death?”

It’s meant rhetorically, in Doc’s experience there’s only one answer: power. Expansion of territory, pre-emptive strikes, tactical weakening of potential opponents. Whatever it is, wars are never started out of just reasons. Even so, what he expected to see on the man’s face was a sneer maybe, anger too, thought he’d be confronted with a defensive stance or a self-righteous smirk. Instead – there’s nothing. A careful stony façade pulled up to hide emotions, probably practised over the years. “We won’t come to an agreement like this”, he states very correctly. “Yet I can’t let you roam free without making sure you’re not going to join our enemies instead. You’re able to do that, right?”

Doc confirms wordlessly. Enlisting his services requires knowledge of his name and other details, a meticulously drawn summoning circle, strong willpower and constitution and a keen mind. Carrying the burden of being the anchor tying a being as powerful as Doc to this world is far from easy and negotiating terms with him usually demands either for a pure heart and earnest intentions – or hidden cunning. He’s been deceived in the past, involuntarily participated in horrendous acts which have long since been lost to time; in some cases, he helped humanity forget about his unintentional crimes. He has since become considerably more reluctant to act. But yes, compared to his weaker kindred spirits, he can exert his will much more freely, even act against his summoner’s wishes and orders, against their agreement. So Bandit is exercising necessary caution in not entering a verbal contract and therefore setting Doc free.

It’s possible that his family preserved the knowledge of just how much Doc relishes his stays in this world and he’s abusing it by allowing him to taste the sweet air, feel a soft breeze caress his temporary silhouette – dangling a carrot in front of him, in a way, until Doc gives in at least partially. He has a pronounced sense of honour. If he promises to stay and assess the situation, he’ll stay.

“How about this? It’s morning now. If I haven’t convinced you by sunset that we not only require but deserve your help, I will set you free.”

A cocky proposition. Also extremely improbable, given the lacklustre greeting Doc received as well as Bandit’s questionable status and rotten attitude. Nevertheless, he’s giving Doc an out, offering him to set foot into his world properly without tricking him. At least that’s what it looks like. “Those are your terms? As long as you do not expect me to interfere in any way, I am willing to grant you more time.”

Bandit pauses. He doesn’t strike Doc as the anxious type and yet he shifts his weight uneasily, his eyes flitting from object to object for a second. “Let’s say tonight for now.”

“Accepted”, Doc replies and watches as the half-hearted circle by his feet shifts, begins glowing in a rich orange and contracts, dragging the elaborate symbols with it towards the human shape in their midst, crawling up his bare soles, past his ankles and diving under his saroual. Though intangible by itself, the fizzing around him ceases and he can now be sure not to lose a few toes or possibly more if he takes a step forwards. It’s a little like surfacing after having been underwater: he inhales deeply, shakes out his limbs and inspects the cracks lining his skin. They’re vein-like, almost akin to a precious metal shimmering through and of a bright, warm colour; they keep him manifested in this plane of existence. Sometimes, they’re more prominent than his skin, brutish and ugly in their primitiveness, but now they’re thin and look almost elegant. It seems Bandit knows what he’s doing.

“I have something to show you before I answer your questions”, Bandit announces and turns towards the camp.

.

During the short walk, Doc sates his curiosity about the rest of the continent by allowing his companion to elaborate on the events shaping the past decades. Some empires have gained or lost land, kingdoms have emerged or fallen, but he’s pleased to hear that the people inhabiting the eastern part of the central mountain range cutting the continent in half are flourishing. He helped them gain independence from all surrounding nations by arguing that their rocky terrain has nothing of value to offer and that they’d be willing to trade for goods which they can produce more easily than anyone else due to experience – in the end, they were permitted to establish their own laws and customs based on what their members deemed sensible. Doc enjoyed aiding them, especially since they welcome curious guests, migrants or refugees with open arms and teach them to carry their own weight should they decide to stay.

Much to his surprise, Bandit speaks of them favourably instead of with sarcasm, so he inquires about his own nation. He has never heard of the name Rangiin Kamaan before. Formerly part of the once glorious empire of Qina which used to span almost the entire width of the continent, from one ocean to the other, it’s now independent, became one of Qina’s smaller neighbours. He never paid this region much heed as they generally followed whichever trend allowed them to survive at the time and involvement in any of the Great Wars was minimal. Bandit speaks with reverence of a kind ruler who inspires his people by practising what he preaches yet Doc doesn’t assume he’ll get to speak with him any time soon. Weak Kings like this one tend to either die early in war or avoid fighting altogether.

“I still do not understand”, he interrupts Bandit’s wordy speech. They’ve come to a stop beside a huge tent, the largest one Doc spotted during their trip. The camp itself is well-organised and kept neat, hardly any soldier is simply lounging around or even pausing to stare at him (which in itself is nothing short of a miracle – is this nation so accustomed to the likes of him?), their uniforms seem practical and the men and women determined. Iron discipline is indubitably a requirement yet Doc fails to spot any hint of dissatisfaction with their conditions. It seems they’re all convinced their cause is virtuous. “Qina by far exceeds your troop strength, has more allies and resources and, though not the force it once was, still possesses the strategical knowledge to easily outmanoeuvre you. What do you hope to gain by fighting?”

“See for yourself.” Bandit indicates the entrance next to them. “I won’t be following you but take your time, I’ll wait.”

Doc eyes him suspiciously yet can’t imagine a way how this mere human could trick him simply by entering a tent, so he obliges and steps through the protective flaps keeping some of the heat outside.

It’s a field hospital. This fact alone is hardly noteworthy but the size of it is unproportional to the amount of soldiers he’s seen so far – surely, if this many resources are necessary to patch up wounded troops, they’re better off giving up. Not only that, literally all the improvised beds are occupied with people who at first glance don’t display any injuries, few bandages visible, hardly any limbs missing. And yet they’re tormented by something, trembling and shivering, some of them curled up and moaning quietly, others passed out entirely. Helpers hurry from person to person in bustling activity and still, they seem unable to relieve whichever ailment plagues their brothers and sisters. All they offer is emotional support, some food and water, a soothing hand on heated or clammy skin.

The atmosphere is suffocating. It reeks of sweat and disease and the collective whimpers and groans make for a pitiful cacophony. All the impressions are strengthened by the stale air and assault Doc’s senses. He’s seen worse, walked among the plague-ridden and witnessed open mass graves, and yet the suffering here is sharp, tangible, spreads further in his lungs the longer he resides. An impulse takes hold of him, urges him to leave instead of investigating more closely but he squashes it before it grows irresistible. He knows he’s too kind. He knows he’s guilty of giving humanity the benefit of the doubt entirely too often, despite all.

Looking for answers, he steps up to the nearest helper, a tall, broad-shouldered man tending to a grim-looking muscular young woman whose clenched fists are shaking. “What is going on?”, he addresses both of them softly.

As soon as the man catches sight of him, he interrupts his whispering to bow in respect. “Great One, I offer you my greetings and joyous thanks to be graced with your -”

Doc holds up a hand to silence him. With Bandit readily answering his questions more like an equal than the puny creature he is, the otherwise so pleasant-sounding phrases have become hollow to his ears. He’s always enjoyed the awe he seemed to inspire, enjoyed the way humans cowered before him, asked for permission to speak, praised him and treated whatever he said as sacred. Right now, however, it feels oddly out of place after the light conversation earlier. He wonders whether this is the so-called vanity one of his kin once accused him of. “No more of this.”

“I apologise. In my experience, Bandit struggles a tad with common courtesy, so I thought you might appreciate an official greeting. My name is Monty, it’s an honour.”

The man’s smile is warm and youthful and Doc suddenly understands why he doesn’t mind the frankness and general nonchalance with which his presence is being met as much as he thought: it’s a good sign that he’s getting an authentic insight into these people’s lives instead of being shown a carefully staged play intended to sway him the desired way.

“If circumstances were different, you’d be offered a banquet to rival all you’ve had before but rations are tight enough already.” He turns back to the woman and massages her upper arm, loosening the tension in it a bit. “It’s going to start working soon, relax. You’ll be alright. Sleep will help. Will you allow the Great One to examine you? I assume that’s why you’re here?”

Blue eyes peer at him, similarly unwavering to Bandit’s – yet where the warlord’s gaze had been firm and at times even cold, this man’s is confident and calm. He seems pleasant to be around, much more composed than the other people flitting about the field hospital. Once the woman has affirmed her cooperation, Doc reaches out for her hand, gently uncurls her fingers and takes them between his – wounded, humans strike him as fragile and delicate, like a young animal which overestimated its abilities. He has mercy on the weak and injured, has always shown compassion for the unfortunate even if he likened it to nurturing a snake. By helping humanity, he probably aids it in harming itself further.

The almost golden cracks running over his skin brighten as soon as he heightens his senses but he pays no attention to the familiar sight, instead closing his eyes to see with his mind. A heartbeat overlays his and thumps until both have synchronised, his lungs fill with air at the same time the woman’s do, his sense of gravity flips, the temperature increases even more – and then he barely resists making a noise when they finally melt together.

The pain is blinding.

He’s trying not to upset her, so he keeps quiet and doesn’t cause her throat to produce sound without her approval, yet it gets more difficult with every passing second. He needs to be quick about it. Her organs are weakened, some of them not working as they should, her pulse is quickened, skin sensitive and sore, muscles only just shy of cramping, her head muddled – though this might be the aforementioned medicine – and above all is brilliant, cutting pain. Its origin, however, remains a mystery, no matter how much he searches. He calms her racing heart, removes the exhaustion holding her back, but it’s obvious he’s merely addressing symptoms and not the cause. There are no broken bones, no disease nesting in an unexpected part of her body, nothing he can pinpoint.

Nothing he can cure.

Puzzled, he does whatever he can for her and withdraws once she’s fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. Separating their physical senses is uncomfortable as usual, like leaving a warm bath to throw himself into the icy white desert of the South. He’s sat down on the bed without realising and looks down on the tormented body, watches as a mere minute later, the tension returns.

He’s powerless. Utterly incapable of healing whatever is slowly eroding this human in front of him.

“Would you like something to drink?”

It’s the man again, someone so filled with a sense of duty that he left Doc by his patient’s side to help others in the meantime. Mutely, he nods, accepts the mug handed to him and shudders as he feels the liquid fill his mouth, slide down his throat, arrive in his stomach. Ingesting anything for the first time in this form is usually a joy but as refreshing as the water is, the shock dampens the experience. “What is this?”, he wants to know quietly, gesturing at the entirety of the tent. “How did it come to this?”

Monty deflates visibly and follows his gaze with a defeated sigh. “We call it the divine disease. A second visit at night would reveal why.”

Following his implicit instructions, Doc leans down, blocks out the sunlight with his hands and looks at the woman’s hand in his little bubble of darkness. Her veins are glowing.

The light they give off is faint and barely comparable to the one emanating from Doc yet it’s undoubtedly there, the shimmering turquoise unnatural and unexpected. He’s never seen anything like it before. It’s the same further up on her arm, seems to follow her bloodstream and yet he failed to detect any trace of its source. “This is impossible”, he blurts out before considering his remark – the last thing he needs is to cause a panic.

“Unfortunately, it isn’t.” Monty sounds as if this wasn’t the first time he’s had to convince someone.

“Tell me all you know.”

Another sigh. The woman between them twitches in her sleep, brows drawn together in agony. “It has several stages and begins with inexplicable pain. The initial location varies from person to person but over time, it affects the entire body, causing fatigue and severely inhibiting the afflicted, though the ultimate effects once again vary. One has gone blind, another developed a rash, there have been rotting limbs, muscle atrophy, tremors. The only common ground is the pale blue light, persistent aching and the fact that we don’t know how to cure it.”

Doc shoots up without a reply and approaches a different bed, this time with a whimpering, older man. His eyes widen once he catches sight of the orange markings denoting Doc as a higher being but doesn’t manage to utter a syllable as Doc forcibly fuses their sensations, barely avoiding throwing up in the process due to the suddenness of it. No, his powers are working the way he expects them to – he clearly is aware of all the differences between this body and the last one, instinctively repairs a few things here and there, closes a scratch on the man’s shin, rejuvenates his liver and tries to block out the omnipresent pain which presents a solid foundation to all other sensations. It’s the same as before, he finds nothing wrong except for everything being wrong somehow.

He’s frazzled, pulls back too fast and sways unsteadily until a hand rests on his shoulder. This can’t be. He’s never encountered anything like it. Just to make sure, he invades Monty as well, takes careful note of his regular heartbeat and breathing, apparently not at all perturbed by Doc’s behaviour. He’s in good shape, even better than the two soldiers, and yet Doc finds some things to improve, restores an awkwardly healed rib to its intended state, rids the man of all exhaustion and slight dizziness from spending all day in the stuffy tent, looks for any indication that his own abilities just aren’t the same as they used to be. But there’s nothing. No sign of the illness and therefore his powers are the same as always.

They’re both light-headed when he severs the connection abruptly and his tongue won’t obey him fully yet, causing him to slur his next words: “Is it contagious?”

To his credit, Monty remains by his side, doesn’t subconsciously distance himself from Doc despite the indubitably uncomfortable experience he must’ve just had. Doc shouldn’t be surprised, he’s noticed before that humans who devote their life to helping others tend to be much more agreeable. “Yes”, he responds after a short pause. “Though we don’t know how. Physical contact is necessary but not sufficient – I seem to be largely immune, for example. Some others are, too.”

Doc’s shock is still at the forefront of his mind. There hasn’t been an earthly ailment he wasn’t able to fix, some more easily than others, so this is inconceivable. He turns and marches out of the tent, feeling oddly sullied as if he had contracted the ‘divine disease’, as they called it, himself. A mockery, even an offence to all he stands for.

Bandit is yelling at a few young warriors when bright sunlight greets him again, but dismisses them immediately when he meets Doc’s dismayed gaze, turning towards him with a grim smile.

“Answers”, Doc demands with gritted teeth.

“I have but one to give.” He pauses momentarily and Doc almost grabs his neck to shake it out of him. “You wanted to know why we’re fighting Qina? Well.” Bandit’s expression hardens. “They have the cure.”

.

~*~

.

“This is preposterous”, Doc barks at the other man while walking back and forth, making no effort to conceal his indignation. “What you’re claiming is impossible.”

“And yet here we are.” Bandit inexplicably seems bored with their conversation, focusing more on sharpening his sword than on Doc’s words.

“None of us would ever go this far, no matter how much we’d believe to be in the right. You hear me? None. This must be a, I don’t know, a whim! Or an accident. Nature made an unfortunate mistake!”

“Nature has produced a variety of abominations of all kinds, I’ll give you that, but shouldn’t you be able to heal it in that case? You can take pain away, so why not this one?”

He’s fuming over Bandit’s accusations, can barely think straight. If he hadn’t seen, even felt the illness himself, he’d have silenced him on the spot, removed his tongue or his vocal chords, possibly made him die a slow and painful death for his open disrespect. As things stand, he experienced it himself, his curiosity urging him to find answers – but vehemently rejecting the one Bandit offered him. “Maybe my influence on this world has lessened. Maybe the passing of time weakened my powers to the point where I’m unable to adapt to this new malady. It might just be an odd coincidence.”

“It is not and you know it isn’t, I saw that look in your eye when you left the tent, you know it’s -”

“Do not dare to speak it one more time. I will wipe you off the face of this earth if you even imply it once more.”

Bandit drops his sword with a clatter, expression furious. “Threaten me all you want, it’s the most obvious explanation. This fucking disease which has caused so much suffering and death already, this plague which is killing the very people I have vowed to protect, is otherworldly and caused by a so-called ‘Great One’.”

Like a cornered animal, he lashes out without considering the consequences, and, like a rabid animal, he needs to be put down. Doc has come into contact with enough heresy committed by humans to know he’s not going to change his mind, but has never faced it quite as directly and bluntly as this. Blind rage seizes him, propels him forward and convinces him to try and touch Bandit anywhere so he can ravage his organs, eviscerate him from the inside out, find what’s most precious to him and gouge it out. His eyes maybe? His fingers?

The human displays an impressive reaction time, ducking away with a pale face full of terror, jumping aside yet not running away for some reason Doc can’t discern. He holds him in place with the sheer force of his will, feels an oddly triumphant excitement rise in him when Bandit realises he’s trapped standing up, incapable of moving his muscles. Doc approaches him, raises a hand and touches his temple, eager to maim and make this worm bleed, eager to -

“Wait.”

He pauses, unmoving. Bandit still looks terrified, eyelids fluttering and deathly pallid, but his eyes aren’t directed at Doc anymore. “I do not believe anything you have to say could change my mind”, Doc states loudly. Only now he realises that no one else is in sight, no wandering soldiers staring at them, no living creature visible except for Bandit and, behind Doc’s back, Monty. It says a lot about a leader when his own troops abandon him as easily as this.

“Please, show mercy. And let him explain. You’ve witnessed how my kinsmen suffer, and I don’t think you’ll give up on them so soon.”

Doc deliberates his words. He considers himself merciful, that much is true, and he wants to find a solution for this odd disease, though not for either of their sakes. Still, he removes his hold, takes a step back and watches as Bandit sags in relief. Of course he pretends not to have been affected as much as he was, waves Monty’s concerns aside but leans into his casual touch nonetheless when he checks up on him. His small smile is grateful and Doc doesn’t miss the way his gaze lingers when the tall man turns back to Doc.

“Maybe it’ll make you reconsider hearing that you’re not the first one he’s asked for help.”

“I imagine you’ve appealed to doctors all over the continent”, he responds with a shrug but is confused to receive a shake of the head.

“You’re the eighth”, Bandit admits. “I’ve summoned seven others before you.”

“That’s -” Impossible, he almost says once again. Wordlessly, Bandit lifts the hem of his top and reveals several scars on his abdomen which by themselves wouldn’t be remarkable if not for their blackened state; inflamed-looking tendrils crawling away from the wound, the dark colour sickening. Doc knows what kind of being leaves such marks. He knows because he’s inflicted them before.

“We acquired knowledge of eight of your kind, I summoned them to cure the disease or aid us in battle, and all of them refused. One of them left me this present. You’re the last one.”

Leaving aside the fact that Doc was convinced calling upon his kind several times in a row would lethally exhaust humans, this means that Bandit is currently managing to both recover from a wound like this and keep Doc anchored in this world. He must possess a greater strength and willpower than he was aware. Even so, this isn’t the time to marvel at an insignificant human’s abilities. “Why?”, he demands to know.

The two men glance at each other uncertainly. They’re familiar with each other, affectionate enough that Monty would step in and risk his life to possibly save Bandit’s, and Doc wonders whether it really was coincidence that he ended up talking to the taller one in the field hospital or whether it was carefully orchestrated. He does not see a way as to how it could be reliably achieved and therefore decides that Monty is simply someone with whom Bandit works together a lot and well. He certainly seems to cultivate close relations with the soldiers under his command, if his casual remarks to the people around him are anything to go by.

“Why did they refuse?”, he clarifies.

“I don’t know. One pretended to be bored, another claimed it was beneath her, and the most recent one said we weren’t in the right, the scales not tipped in our favour.”

“Is that so?” Doc’s eyes narrow. “Because assuming you speak the truth, there is no reason for either of them to ignore your plight. A small nation which will die a slow death seeking help from a much larger ally, being denied unjustly and then attempting to save itself warrants our meddling. Your continued existence doesn’t upset the status quo while your demise might have far-reaching consequences. None of us would decline.”

Bandit catches on first. “You’re calling us liars.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe my kind knew more than they let on. Explain to me once again why you believe that the Qinean empire possesses the remedy you seek.” Now that his immediate fury has calmed, Doc is determined to uncover the solution to this mystery. Even on the other side, he rarely communicates with his brethren but is steadfastly convinced they act the same way he does and fell sensible decisions when determining the fate of humanity as a whole. If they refrained from aiding Bandit’s people, they must have good reason to doubt his story.

“Publicly, they deny any connection to or even knowledge of the divine disease”, Monty speaks up. “Fact is that it broke out after a Qinean ambassador and his entourage visited our court. Furthermore, a servant witnessed the ambassador himself displaying the sickening glow, yet when he joined the court again a while later, it was gone. He must’ve gotten rid of it somehow.”

“Even the Queen herself paid a visit once the illness had spread and she showed no sign of worry about contracting it herself, nor did anyone with her”, Bandit supplies to a nodding Monty. “The last straw was a plea for help with further research which they denied outright under the excuse of lacking the necessary funds. We conduct regular trade with them, so it’d be in their interest to stop an epidemic – unless they already have the means to do so in their own country.”

Conjecture. Oh, how Doc despises the vagueness which encompasses this world sometimes. There are moments in which he enjoys its ambiguity, its resistance to be labelled one thing or another – almost all beings are at the very least twofold, never purely one thing or another: the sweetest honey can make him sick, and the annoying mosquito still fulfils a role in nature. He appreciates being challenged to fell the right decision, to weigh pros and cons and see which possesses more importance. But at times, he curses the fact that he majorly inhabits other worlds and therefore has to navigate the webs of lies and truths humans spin with their words. Taken at face value, he’s inclined to agree with Bandit’s interpretation of the facts, but how can he be certain of their accuracy?

“Our neighbours have reported similar inflictions. The only ones it doesn’t affect is Qina.” They seem to be sensing his hesitation yet none of what they say can sway him. Ideally, he’d need to talk to either someone unrelated or of relevance in Qina – but he knows that if he showed his face to the empire, stating that Bandit summoned him, it’ll look as if he’s taking their side, thusly prompting Qina to take similar drastic measures. He doesn’t want to provoke a great war so he’ll have to remain here.

“We’re currently on Qinean territory, correct?” They confirm with a nod, still looking unsure. “Is there a city nearby? Any place from where you could kidnap someone who can vouch for the other side of this conflict? I would like to speak with them without making my presence known.”

Oddly enough, Bandit looks to Monty for his opinion on the matter and the two of them converse quietly, gesticulating and decisively shaking their heads now and then. Doc is surprised at how casually they interact and how highly Bandit values his friend’s opinion but waits patiently until they’ve come to a consensus.

“There’s… a Qinean spy in our custody”, Bandit begins, looking slightly sheepish, “but we haven’t been able to extract anything from her. Maybe you can -”

“Take me to her.”

.

Being feared is normal. He’s always been feared one way or another, caused people to flinch away from him, leaving them tongue-tied, scared of saying the wrong thing. Over time, he got used to it and barely paid attention to whoever cowered before him, but here in this camp, surrounded by what likely are honest, hard-working, wronged people, it’s…

He doesn’t like it. His outburst was necessary and understandable, his self-defence justified. If Bandit’s accusation had been voiced not in private but so that the rest of the continent could’ve heard it, the damage to their reputation could’ve been disastrous. One of Doc’s kind, spreading disease without reason? Making it incurable? People would fear them too much to ever call on them again.

And still – watching these brave soldiers shrink away causes a bad taste in his mouth, which reminds him that he still hasn’t eaten anything yet. Despite their shocking lack of manners, he has to admit he’d feel guilty simply abandoning these people which is something he’ll have to monitor very carefully if he wants to remain unbiased.

Monty seems to be even more popular than Bandit, exchanging quick quips with passer-bys often accompanied by suspicious glances in Doc’s direction. He’s lost a lot of sympathy by attacking their leader and even more by endangering Monty. But he’s not here to develop any kind of attachment, so he ignores it. Eventually they stumble over a boy, hardly old enough to participate in a war, who’s obviously been crying but attempts to hide his tears nonetheless, and Monty promises to catch up with them later before he separates to talk to him.

“He has strange priorities”, Doc comments afterwards and earns a derisive scoff from his remaining companion.

“No, but you do. He puts others first, no matter what. You may have incredible power, but… that’s all which makes you ‘great’.”

Doc stops. There’s defiance showing in Bandit’s features, together with that same misplaced pride again he’s been displaying from the beginning. “You don’t think I’m going to help you. That’s why you feel secure enough in voicing your half-baked opinions.”

“Yeah. None of you have exactly filled me with confidence, you know.”

One of his eyebrows rises in disbelief. Bandit has – according to his own words – spoken with seven others of Doc’s kind so far on the same controversial topic and believes this to be representative of their ethical values. “This has always been the problem with you humans, you tend to think in extremes even if your world is so varied and rich and multi-faceted. You find it impossible to imagine someone might refuse their aid categorically at first but change their mind later, once sufficient information has surfaced. I might have formed a strong opinion on you yet that won’t influence my decision to either declare your cause just or unjust. That is what sets me apart from someone like you.”

“You know what, you’re really starting to piss me off with your fucking righteous attitude.” Bandit’s words are like venom which he spits gladly in Doc’s face. “Some might think you are, but you’re not a God, you’ve never been, so what gives you the right to act like you are? To decide on good people’s fate as if there was an objectively ‘correct’ solution when you’re just as fallible and closed-minded and biased as we are? You might have your own fucking ideals but don’t pretend they’re outright perfect by default.” He must’ve noticed the cold fury Doc is emanating at this point because he adds: “Go ahead, kill me if you want, hurt me, violence is the only argument you still have left.”

His bluntness is … troubling, to put it very mildly. He really does lack any kind of respect which does not help his case, no, it does not at all, and there’s an old, deep-seated voice in Doc whispering to him the same things coursing through his mind earlier. Honestly, the world would be a better place without someone as inconsiderate, as rude and derisive as Bandit, wouldn’t it? But, and this is strangely important, it’d end up proving him right. And that’s the last thing Doc wants to do. “I have half a mind to simply abandon you this instant”, he growls quietly, ignoring the worried glances they’re attracting. They don’t matter – none of these people do, in the grand scheme of things.

“Is that so?” His ugly grimace transforms into a sneer. “Wouldn’t that be the proof that you’re everything but unbiased?”

He -

Doc stares at him, thunderstruck.

He’s right.

Personal dislike must never triumph over his vocation to aid humanity as a whole. If Bandit’s nation really has been wronged, he simply can’t turn them down based on a reason as flimsy as this. But it can’t be, doesn’t Bandit’s arrogance justify his people’s demise? Does he not represent their ethical stance? Then again, who is he to determine the death of thousands, possibly more, just because they lack manners? Shouldn’t he instead show the world that his actions are justifiable regardless of his personal preference?

Frantically, he recalls former decisions, quickly tests them against this theory and tries to objectively judge whether he acted in humanity’s best interest – or out of self-interest. And even if it’s the former, would he recognise it?

“Come on. She’s right over there.”

Bandit’s softened voice snaps him out of his panicked thoughts and redirects his attention to the matter at hand. He can contemplate his words later, for now he has a spy to interrogate.

.

The woman is chained to a stake driven deep into the ground and looks as if this was all which keeps her from dismantling the entire camp by herself. Her glare is fierce and emphasised by the prominent scar adorning her face, yet her resolve wavers as soon as she notices Doc approaching. For a few seconds, she struggles with herself, probably overcome with contempt towards Bandit, but ends up slightly bowing to Doc nonetheless. A polite Qinean – in Doc’s experience a common sight.

“I greet you”, he addresses her in her mother tongue, causing her to sit up straight in awe.

“It is the greatest honour to be graced with your presence, Great One, and with deep respect I vow to be your servant. With eternal gratitude I trust that you will always act wisely and I plead for you to have mercy on us”, she instinctively replies in the same language, uttering the traditional greeting of her nation.

“Wait”, Bandit chimes in, audibly concerned, “she can speak my language, why don’t you -”

“You are being held against your will on the grounds of espionage on behalf of the Qinean empire. Is this true?”

Her eyes flit back and forth between them, calculating. Not even asking Bandit whether he speaks the notoriously difficult High Qinean is deliberate, he wants her to know that his trust in Bandit is shaky at best. “That is true”, she confirms and seems to enjoy the fact that her increasingly frustrated enemy won’t be able to listen in to their conversation.

“As for the allegations, are they true also? You act in the interest of your Queen? Tried to gather information about these troops?” She hesitates, glances at an upset Bandit once more. “If you are honest with me I will grant you the same favour.”

“Yes”, she states with a nod. So far so good.

“You know who I am and what I stand for.” Another curt nod. “Then you also know that as of yet, I am neither on your enemy’s side nor on yours, instead currently gathering information to decide how to act. It is important that you are as objective as possible as your account may turn the tide of this conflict one way or another.”

He allows for a few seconds so she can parse his words. It’s imperative she understands the gravity of the situation and simultaneously gets a chance to gather her thoughts.

“I remember your people as disciplined, honourable and well-educated but have no recollection of the Rangiin Kamaan. They strike me as very similar, from what I’ve seen.”

The woman’s face darkens. “A convincing show they must’ve put up for you. Compare it to a sinner who vows betterment behind sacred walls and relapses as soon as he’s left. Your imposing presence would inspire thieves and liars to put on their best behaviour.” She spits on the ground directly between Bandit’s feet, making him curse loudly and take a step forward. A single glance from Doc stops him, however, and convinces him to withdraw, grumbling, reconvening with the newly-arrived Monty to undoubtedly complain in hushed voices. Doc pays him no heed. “I’ve been their prisoner for a few days, and I’ve seen their real face. Hit me only where the bruises wouldn’t show, recently, before that they had no such qualms. My entire body must’ve been the colour of a rainbow.”

Concerning. Provided she speaks the truth, it’d subvert all that Doc has come to believe about the Rangiin Kamaan. “I have had similar suspicions”, he tells her calmly, “so it’s good to hear them confirmed. What can you tell me about the conflict between your nation and theirs?”

She shakes her head in regret. “It is messy and full of false accusations. They might’ve claimed it’s only them being affected by this odd illness – you have seen it yourself, correct? In truth, my motherland is ravaged by it as well, far worse than this. These snakes are trying to take advantage of our weakened state and attempt to rally our vassals and enemies alike to destroy what little is left of our empire.”

Once again, a direct contradiction of what he’s heard so far. The erasure of Qina would have unforeseen consequences and as oppressive and authoritarian the nation always has been, it is nonetheless the capital of all knowledge, has amassed countless books, scrolls and relics which, if lost, would set the entire continent back. If she’s speaking the truth, it’s in Doc’s interest to strike down this rebellion as swiftly as possible. “They claim you possess the cure to this disease.”

“They would. If we did, would an army of this size have been able to venture this far into our territory? No, we have just as fruitlessly attempted to heal our people and failed, just like them.”

“What of your ambassador? And your Queen?”

The spy once again sits up straighter at the mention of the Qinean matriarch. “I have heard the lies they spread. Ambassador Abyad has indeed been inflicted and suffers the consequences as we speak, he has not, as they claim, been cured. And our Mother took all the precautions necessary to ensure she wouldn’t suffer the same fate.”

“I see”, Doc responds, touches her temple and synchronises their senses.

Despite it being done without warning, he’d gathered the necessary focus pre-emptively and thus ensures smooth proceedings, a process much too quick for the woman to react. She’s in a state of extreme agitation, her heartbeat pounding and adrenalin coursing through her blood causing an almost painful alertness. Apart from her limbs complaining about too little movement, she’s in no pain and exhibits no sign of physical injury – broken and healed bones lie far in the past and other ailments are similarly unrelated. As soon as she understands what’s happening, she struggles against the intrusion, the first to do so this day. She must realise that her body is giving her away.

He never understood lying. Some people resort to it despite easily being disproved, they do it for sport or to feel a rush of power over being trusted blindly. It’s an ugly habit of humanity but one impossible to eradicate, Doc assumes, as it’s been around since the dawn of time. He hates it when humans lie to him implicitly, but hates it even more when they do so directly in his face.

With Bandit’s and Monty’s eyes in his back, he withdraws from the woman’s body and leaves her gasping for air. His hand travels down her jaw and forms a cup below it. “Give it to me voluntarily and I will have no need to take it with force. If you swallow it, I will make your insides squirm until I hold it in my hand.”

The Qinean glares up at him with an ironically betrayed expression, as if his deception had been in any way worse than hers. He had to pretend a more friendly disposition towards her to show she had indeed the chance to change his mind. No one is to blame for her failure other than herself.

After a few more moments, she procures a small vial from inside her cheek and drops it into Doc’s outstretched hand. With it intact, she can’t have been beaten – at least not in the face, it would’ve shattered. He wipes it off and inspects the liquid curiously, at first not understanding why it baffles him, but then it registers: it’s the same colour as the eerie glow the patients are emitting.

“Are you fucking done?”, Bandit snarls at him and is held back only by a calming hand on his midriff. “What is that?”

“You have to help my people”, the woman makes a desperate last attempt, her voice now pleading where before it’d been carefully even. “Please, I beg you. Help them. You might be the only one who can.”

Yet another reason for lying: despair. Doc is unsure of its source – the prisoner has been treated fairly as far as he can tell, and she must know he would never contribute to Qina’s downfall. Why is she discarding her pride now, after she failed to convince him?

“Let’s talk somewhere else”, he suggests. While they walk away, the prisoner’s sad wailing trails after him almost hauntingly.

.

“There are two options”, Doc announces once he and his two companions have reached a clearing of tents, the middle point of the camp bustling with activity and yet no one stops to eavesdrop. “Either this is poison which causes the cursed disease or it’s a cure. She might’ve carried it with her to afflict you, Bandit, as the highest in command, hoping you’d be unable to lead your troops into battle – or it was a precaution in case she contracted the illness herself and needed a remedy.” He hands the phial to a stunned-looking Bandit and expects him to pocket it immediately, yet instead he holds on to it, unsure what to do.

“But in either case it won’t harm anyone who’s afflicted?”, Monty clarifies and earns a nod. “So this can possibly cure a single person?”

“Yes. I can’t be absolutely sure but it is the most likely option.”

“What did the bitch tell you? Did she say anything about it?”

It seems Bandit is still hung up on the fact he couldn’t listen in to Doc’s conversation with the spy earlier. As typical as it is petty. “It is none of your concern.”

“Oh, but it damn well is. What if you made an agreement with her? What if you’re going to double-cross or abandon us, just like your other -” A hand on his wrist stops him in his tracks and Doc is once again grateful for Monty’s calming presence.

“Are you going to help us?”, the tall man wants to know and it’s not an accusation, not an ultimatum, merely an inquiry.

“I need time to think”, Doc replies simply. The accounts of no more than three people are insufficient but they grant him a foundation on which he can form his opinion, provide him with a good idea of what he can ask the other soldiers. If there are inconsistencies, asking a variety of people about the same story should unearth them.

“That is good enough for us.” When Bandit opens his mouth to protest, Monty turns to him with a gentle expression and reminds him: “Dom. We cannot expect him to trust us if we don’t show him the same courtesy. Let’s wait. Justice can’t be rushed.”

The warrior deflates visibly, slain by rationality and respect. “Yes. Alright. But here, you take it.” He thrusts the small container towards his companion, much to Doc’s shock. He does not keep it to himself?

Monty is caught just as off-guard as Doc. “What? No, you can hold on to it, I can’t decide what -”

“But your sister -”

“I won’t claim this privilege, don’t make me -”

“You have all the right to -”

“What about Blitz, he’s going to be invaluable in battle tomorrow -”

“Please, just take it.”

Doc perks up at this new information. “You are going to fight tomorrow?”

The two bickering men immediately cease their back and forth and turn to him. “We’re meeting the Queen’s legion tomorrow”, Bandit says quietly. “They’ve been gathering their troops and will meet us halfway to the capital. This is why I was unable to grant you more time than today. We’re all going to die soon.”

.

Now that he focuses his gaze, seeks out the signs, he realises they’ve been there all this time. The methodical behaviour inherent to all that the soldiers do, a grim determination lining their features, the odd kindness and forbearance accompanying those who have accepted that which they cannot change. These are people already lying in their graves, some of them going through practised motions with a blank expression, others seeking solace in mindless distractions, yet more seem to be set on making their last hours count. Doc stumbles over couples sharing secret, wistful smiles, friends reminiscing or playfully sparring, strangers opening up to each other.

They carry their doom with much more dignity than he would’ve guessed.

None of them blame him though he supposes their anger died down and gave way to resignation after his predecessors toured the camp more standoffishly than he did; it is a miracle that only Bandit carries an otherworldly scar like a battle wound. Their wariness hasn’t fully dissipated yet either, their trust still impeded which, if both Bandit and Monty really are as respected and loved as they seem to be, comes as no surprise. Regardless, they engage in conversations willingly, answer his questions with an open and authentic attitude he likes – and some of them even smuggle food into his pockets. There are dried dates, roasted nuts, even crumbly baked goods, and they’re a feast for his senses, explode into flavour on his tongue and make him curse whoever was responsible for putting this sweet nectar into this world specifically.

Most of them speak favourably of Bandit, hidden behind thinly-veiled insults lies a deep admiration and a loyalty only inspired by likewise devotion. They’re comfortable with him, are allowed to criticise and voice opinions, and even if he usually shoots them down mercilessly, he listens and considers them nonetheless. His style of leading an army is highly unconventional but he can demand discipline and absolute obedience if necessary.

Monty receives even more praise. It turns out he’s not even part of the medical personnel, yet his apparent immunity spurred him on to spend as much time alleviating symptoms as possible, bonding with the patients despite the position he holds – this part is emphasised wherever Doc goes. He supposes he’s Bandit’s second-in-command, a confidant and friend as much as a fellow warrior. It gives him faith.

Not all of it is rosy but with humanity’s past he didn’t expect it to be. Racist undertones, superiority complexes and bitterness leak through some of the more resentful comments and taint the milder ones. Even so, criticism towards their ruler is virtually non-existent and shut down quickly whenever it arises. Doc doesn’t ask any further, it’s obvious their King isn’t gracing him with his presence and so he wastes no thought on him.

The matter at hand remains … elusive. Its solution enigmatic, its cause a mystery. He’s at a loss because admitting Bandit might be right is overstepping a boundary Doc is not prepared to leave behind, especially not without any prior warning, no opportunity to confer with his brethren.

Sunset is fast approaching, the brilliant ball slipping over the horizon, threatening icy nights once the twilight has fully dispersed. Doc is perched on a stool someone gave up willingly, sits at the edge of the camp and gazes towards the source of dwindling warmth, towards where the Queen must be currently commanding her army to walk until their legs are sore.

“Do you get hungry?”

He breaks out of his half-meditation and finds himself facing Monty, holding two bowls and indubitably only just now questioning his own actions, judging by the slightly sheepish smile. “I don’t”, Doc replies evenly. “But this body does. I’m not sure how you humans manage.” Rarely does he share details as private as this, keeps his opinions largely to himself but finds that he lowers his guard around this particular human a little too easily. Under different circumstances, he’d watch his words more closely but either he’s going to aid these people or abandon them to certain death. In either case, they won’t be inclined to speak ill of him.

They eat in silence. Doc vaguely recalls previous meals and supposes the stew falls on the flavour-light side but as he only gets to eat every couple of decades, he relishes it nonetheless. He recognises coriander and savours every bite.

“How is it? Being here – compared to where you’re from?”

Very nearly his mouth releases the same platitudes so familiar to him that they’ve been etched into his tongue by now but something in Monty’s innocent curiosity quells the urge. Somehow, he deserves honesty and maybe it’s the compassion he shows all those around him, maybe his reluctance to accept the possible cure despite having a personal incentive to do so, maybe the fact that he convinced Bandit to trust Doc despite all. Whatever it is, it tips the scales in his favour and Doc knows at this moment that he’s going to assist the Rangiin Kamaan. “You have a name for the place where I usually reside. Hell.”

Monty halts but does not respond, merely waits for Doc to continue.

“This, in comparison, is a paradise. You take fresh air for granted, the force allowing you to walk the ground, all these things without which you never had to manage and thus you can never appreciate them the way we do. This is why we serve humanity. This is why we attempt to be agents of justice so that we may never side with a civilisation which could potentially perish. If we weren’t allowed this outlet, weren’t able to walk the earth now and then, we would cease to be. Our existence is so painful and so horrifying even to us that we desperately cling to the hope of being summoned here. It is our oath: by resolving conflicts we ensure humanity’s and therefore our own survival. It is why the mere thought of one of us sabotaging our collective future is abhorrent.”

Emotion colours his speech and he silently reprimands himself for it. Revealing this much, too, is forbidden, yet he felt the strange need of justifying his actions to this man. His bodily functions tell on him, let him know he’s upset even though he’s had half an eternity to come to terms with this fact. And still he harbours more anger than the soldiers awaiting their fate.

“I’m sorry”, Monty says and, oddly, Doc believes him. He’d like to provide more details because there are aspects he misses while he’s on this plane, but trusts that Monty understands. Nothing is ever black and white, is it?

“I’d like to talk to Bandit. I have reached a conclusion.”

To his credit, Monty doesn’t ask and simply points out the tent in question. “He’s given strict orders not to be bothered after sunset but I’m sure he’ll make an exception for you. Thank you for listening to us.”

Like Bandit, he seems to have accepted the possibility of Doc refusing their plea as fact and he doesn’t feel like correcting him, so he just hands him his empty bowl and gets up.

.

It’s going to be a tentative agreement, that much Doc has already worked out. For the moment he’ll do reconnaissance, buying time, assessing the situation after having talked with Qinean officials to decide on further proceedings. One step at a time, he’ll unravel this mess into its components with which he’ll deal one by one – it’s a cautious approach but one which will hopefully not end in bloodshed. He needs to decipher Qina’s motivation first and foremost.

Mulling over all the information available to him, he ignores the uneasy glances between the people outside their commander’s tent and enters without hesitation, not at all expecting to be confronted with something which makes him freeze, leaves him petrified, almost forces a noise of shock and dismay out of his throat. A cold sensation settles low in his stomach and spreads out to his limbs, takes hold of his tongue and prevents him from exclaiming, asking, accusing.

Bandit is his own source of light.

Here, in the semi-darkness of his hideout, the blue is crassly visible and almost turns the lithe man into a terrifying creature haunting a world where it has no right to be. It pulses softly in the same rhythm as his heart, covers his naked arms, feet and face in a glowing spiderweb of pure disease, his features faint against the prominent veins. He doesn’t seem human anymore, features contorted in a pitiful grimace as he sits on the floor, pressing palms against temples and breathing deeply, consciously. He is but a shadow of the prideful fool Doc met earlier this day.

As soon as he realises his solitude is interrupted, he jumps up onto trembling legs, eyes wide in shock. “You – you had until sunset”, he blurts out idiotically, as if this detail somehow invalidated the view in front of Doc.

It can’t be, and yet a sickening idea takes hold in his mind. “Why did you hide this from me?”, he wants to know, tone cold.

“No.” Bandit is shaking his head, apparently knows exactly what Doc is considering. “No, that isn’t it – I didn’t -”

“The only reason you’re doing everything you can to cure your people is because you selfishly want to cure yourself. If you weren’t afflicted, you’d act differently. Is all of this a ploy to save your own life? Have you deceived me this entire time?”

“Please. Please, don’t.” Even now with his legs nearly giving in, Bandit refuses to kneel before him. He might be begging for his life but this bit of pride will not die, no matter what. “That is not why. I kept it from you because you’d think exactly this. I didn’t want you to believe I’m only doing it for myself, I’m not, it’s -”

His voice dies in a pitiful croak when Doc grabs his jaw and uses his power to keep the man upright as well as rooted to the ground. This time, he won’t be able to evade him. “And I am supposed to believe this?”

Wide eyes are filled with fear and yet he pleads: “Kill me. Do it, it won’t prove me right, I promise – it’s – I’m a horrible human being and need to be erased from history, you need to kill me. But please, please promise me that you’ll save them. Don’t let this deter you, they deserve it. You know they do.”

Doc examines him, momentarily ignoring the sinking feeling of having been betrayed somehow. Slowly, he loosens his hold on the man until he slumps a little, fragile body shivering and teeth working to probably hold back undignified whimpers. It must’ve cost him immense willpower to suppress his symptoms all day, not let anyone see the condition he’s in, hide all this suffering from Doc and possibly his soldiers too. Even now, Bandit refuses to back away, lightly grabs Doc’s wrist to keep it in its place and stares him down in a mixture of defiance and genuine terror.

Maybe it really wasn’t deceit. Maybe him refusing to take the cure himself wasn’t a display for Doc’s benefit. Maybe he really does care about others more than himself, as showcased by him desperately trying to win one of Doc’s kind over.

And wait.

This is impossible.

This time, it actually is impossible, no human could ever carry the weight of Doc’s materialised form while simultaneously bearing the aftermath of an otherworldly scar as well as suffering from this divine disease – no one possesses the physical and mental strength necessary.

A vicious ache stabs through his head once he’s linked his consciousness to Bandit’s and he’s lost for a moment, disoriented despite being so familiar with human bodies. It’s as if there were several more limbs despite him knowing there aren’t, and yet there’s a phantom sensation of a much more expansive form, like a container which is larger on the inside. It’s bewildering and causes a painful throb under his scalp but it’s simultaneously familiar, strangely enough.

Even now, Bandit doesn’t struggle against him and instead allows him easy access to his body, yet the more Doc finds the more astonished he is. Internal organs show hardly any signs of age and are as invigorated as they would be had Doc rejuvenated them already – the omnipresent pain of the illness is prevalent but not nearly as prominent as in the other subjects Doc examined, instead it’s more an ebb and flow in the background, intensifying now and then but fading in between the spikes. As if something interfered with it.

He presses on: Bandit is distraught and his emotional state is mirrored in his body but parts of it are remarkably calm and merely trying to uphold the minimum; it takes him a moment to realise that resources are being allocated towards a very specific part in his midsection. There’s a tumour here, a growth of not insignificant size spanning the width of his belly on the inside – three, actually, and it doesn’t take Doc long to identify it as following the pattern of the ugly scars Bandit received from one of Doc’s kin. Normally, wounds like this heal extremely slowly, sometimes not even for a lifetime, but they cause no other side effect other than a persistent ache. He’s never felt or witnessed anything like this before.

Poking and prodding it reveals that it’s painless, merely causes discomfort where it presses against other organs. Is it possible that it counteracts the disease? Doc inspects the bloodstream, muscles, bones, anything he can find to either prove or disprove his theory but it seems he’ll have to rely on conjecture yet again. And then he delves into one of the non-existent limbs, body parts which should not be – under no circumstances should they belong to a human body, but they do.

It hits him out of nothing, a sudden realisation which he pushed aside out of pride, out of self-preservation instinct. …no, that is not why, and in this case it’s not righteous thinking which prevented this idea from springing up sooner. This revelation, too, is a sharp pang in his mind.

They’re left reeling once he’s severed their connection, hold on to each other like drunkards and gasp for air, hands clutching fabric, feet seeking balance, eyes unfocused. It takes them a long time to regain their composure and when they do, Bandit takes a step back, confused, embarrassed, hopeful.

“You didn’t kill me”, he states full of wonder.

“There was a human who studied us.” The non-sequitur startles Bandit into speechlessness. “He was as persistent as he was hungry for knowledge – he summoned us, one by one, travelled the continent until he had spoken with us all, even sought the help of minor beings. During his quest, he realised he gave up more and more of himself: every time he allowed one of us to walk the earth, a piece of him crumbled, irretrievable. But it wasn’t lost, instead our essence replaced it and imbued him with our nature. Once he realised what was happening, he couldn’t stop it.”

How could he have forgotten him? It’s the one black sheep, the one who doesn’t fit. Will never fit.

“He became one of us. He followed us down into our realm and felt what we feel, learnt what we know. He didn’t take it well. He attempted to convince all of us to tell the humans of him, to make them summon him to his original home so he could experience peace again, escape our reality – but he was rash, unjust, cruel. If he were allowed to roam free, he would tarnish our name; he was planning to sow discord among humanity so that our services – his services – would be required more often. We declined. We damned him to an eternal existence in our world.”

Bandit absent-mindedly runs his fingertips over glowing veins, brows drawn together. He understands. “So he’s the one who did this.” No gloating even though he’d been right. “Why didn’t you think of him earlier?”

“I believe our memories of him were sealed. You might find this hard to believe but there are beings of greater power than myself. The only possibility I see is that he found a way to escape. It explains the nature of the disease, the unnatural light, the seemingly random symptoms and its spread, and the fact that the cure seems to stem from the same source as the illness. It’s consistent with all that we know and the most likely explanation that he invaded this world and put a plan into motion to cause conflict rather than resolve it in the hopes of making us redundant and himself invaluable.”

The man before him is now pacing back and forth as if he hadn’t been in mortal danger mere minutes ago which only cements Doc’s theory. His resilience is extraordinary and only increasing. “How come the others refused their help then? If he’s a liability to you all, shouldn’t they interfere instead?”

“I can only guess as to their motives. They might’ve felt his presence and decided not to intervene.” As expected, Bandit’s expression darkens, so Doc adds: “We all have different control over the forces holding this world together and access to different layers, so while others of my kind might’ve immediately understood the situation, they’re unable to copy most of my skills. It is not impossible that they knew more than I did. As to your question – a fight between two of our kind can be devastating and cause irreparable damage to this world. They were likely scared of this possibility and thus preferred not to remain here. Additionally, the Qinean empire is worth conserving and more important than your nation in the grand scheme of things, making his transgression not as severe as if he’d tried to destroy them.”

Suddenly, he remembers the spy’s words: You have to help my people. You might be the only one who can. The situation might be more dire than he was aware – he can’t discard the possibility that the Qinean Queen is under the control of this defector, acts on his wishes and thus goes against the interests of her people. The prisoner might’ve realised someone far more powerful than any human is influencing her matriarch and that Doc can be her saviour, too.

“So”, Bandit speaks up abruptly, still fidgeting uncomfortably. He finds no solace in having been right, now that the consequences of this reality have sunken in. “Does this mean you’re going to help us?”

No more accusations, no more implied mistrust. He’s learned. “Yes”, Doc says simply. “I am equipped to negotiate, hopefully without antagonising him. And if it should come to it, I am also prepared to fight.” If it means peace in the future, he will take lives in the interest of both his and Bandit’s kind. He knows he can do it, knows he can walk the battlefield like an omen of death, slaying with a single thought and wiping out entire armies should the need arise. He hopes it won’t come to this – but if it does, he’s ready.

Bandit nods and, once it has fully registered, even graces him with a smile. “Took you long enough. Let’s go then, we need to talk -”

He was on his way out of his tent, past Doc, but is stopped by a hand on his torso. It slowly lifts the hem of his top to reveal almost vibrantly illuminated marks on his skin, three slashes frightening in bright daylight already and only more foreboding in half-darkness. “Do you not want to know what made me remember? What unsealed my hidden memories?”, Doc murmurs. This, he has to do. If he doesn’t, the collective repressed energy might tear Bandit in half eventually.

The man looks down at himself and rejects the thought, Doc can read it on his face. “No”, he says but in his heart, he knows the truth.

“You are going to share his fate. The repeated summoning, the disease born from unnatural sources, the injury caused by a being not from this world – it’s too much for your body to bear, so it’s adapting a new form which can carry this burden. You are going to become like me.”

“No, this isn’t – I didn’t want this. I don’t want this.” Once again, eyelids flutter, a lip quivers. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to be stuck.”

“You won’t. This is where you two are different. You were ready to sacrifice your own life to save those of others. Your actions speak of more honour and compassion than he ever displayed in his life as a human. I will speak on your behalf and you will not be condemned to rot like him. But for that, you need to accept it. Allow it into your mind, into your body, just like you allowed me. It’s waiting.”

He takes Bandit’s hands and calms the staccato of his heart without probing too deep, keeps their link delicate – just enough to even their breaths, relax muscles, reduce faint aching. He wasn’t present when the traitor changed forms but somehow knows that Bandit possesses the strength to begin this journey right now. It might take months, even years to fully take hold but those he’ll spend in comfort. Under his gentle guidance, Bandit lets loose and concentrates, seeks out the source of the disease in him, feels for the remedial influence of the scars. Doc’s own arms are increasing in brightness, the orange cracks lighting up in resonance.

A shockwave emanates from Bandit, no more than a momentary gust of wind yet an exceedingly forceful one, causing loud clattering around them.

When they open their eyes again, the tent is gone – and so are all the others, flattened by the power of Bandit’s awakening, leaving behind an entire army of confused and vaguely frightened soldiers, most of them gathered around what would’ve been directly outside the tent. They must’ve been waiting to hear Doc’s final verdict.

They make for an intimidating picture as a large part of them is emitting an eerie glow, unlike Monty in their midst. He looks as if someone had slapped him.

Next to Doc, Bandit seems no different to the cocky and outwardly disillusioned man who greeted him this morning, but like an utterly different person to the broken one he discovered in the tent a while ago. That Bandit had been desperate, in pain, ashamed. This one is… confident.

“It’s going to be fine”, he assures Monty, sounding very sure of himself. “I promise. We’ll be fine.”

“I will do everything in my power to resolve this matter as peacefully as possible”, Doc adds. “I am at your service.”

It takes a few seconds. Then the cheering begins.

The jubilant atmosphere sparked by his statement is contagious and even Doc feels the corners of his mouth lift up. Monty sags in relief, exchanges a slightly questioning smile with Bandit but seems content with this promise for now. He can’t have known of Bandit’s illness, not with the way his eyes keep straying to his arms, and yet he holds back on reprimanding him for keeping it secret.

Even so, the celebratory mood remains hesitant, as if the men and women believed it too good to be true, but Doc has no doubts it’ll catch on once they’ve made progress. For now, one important matter at hand remains aside from teaching Bandit about what will happen to him, which changes to expect and how to contain his ever-growing power for now.

“I need to discuss strategy”, he announces loudly over the excited chatter and waits until it has died down to a reasonable level. “Take me to your King.”

Strangely enough, people tilt their heads in confusion, exchange glances, frown. Until one young woman slowly raises her arm and points. More follow, and in the end there’s a myriad of fingers all directed at a modestly smiling Monty.

Oh.

“You didn’t know?”, Bandit asks him, surprised.

More puzzle pieces fall into place retroactively. No wonder everyone spoke of him so favourably.

Thinking back to the way Monty so naturally tended to his suffering subjects, addressed their concerns directly despite his status, settles something in Doc. Knowing this, he’s suddenly very sure he will not regret aiding these people, come hell or high water.

#rainbow six siege #doc #bandit #montagne #fanfic #oneshot #there's a whooole lot more I could've shoved in but it was so long already #I hope it turned out okay! #fancy that two of the sweetest people I know share their birthday #with valentine's day no less

[byunbyunny-blog]

On Loan: Part III

Wolf!AU

Rating: Solid M for explicit sexual content, read at your own risk!

Summary: Part III (Final Part) of On Loan

Pairings: Reader/Kyungsoo

Genre: Smut (The extra heavy smut that will 100% send you to hell)

Contains: Oral Sex

~~~

I knocked quietly on the bedroom door. There was no response. The past week, I’d become used to that. But I knew from the head alpha’s assurances that it was safe to enter. Kyungsoo wouldn’t hurt his mate, he said. I still wasn’t certain. The black wolf had done nothing but growl at me, but the growling had stopped after three days, which I considered a good sign. Chanyeol told me no wolf could hold a grudge like Kyungsoo.

“Kyungsoo?” I asked, sliding slowly into the room. I kept my voice low and calm.

I scanned the room. The sun had just set, and I had the night off of work, so at the head alpha’s urging, I had come to the pack house, as I had been doing in all of my spare time after finding out I was this alpha’s mate. In the dim lamp light, I saw him, sitting at his desk, some papers in front of him. The pack had a lot of territory that needed managing these days.

His back was turned to me. I was surprised to see what he was wearing: a white T-shirt and plaid boxers that revealed most of his thighs. I’d never seen so much of his skin. Before I’d only seen his hands, neck, and face. It almost felt intimate. I wondered if the fact that he didn’t jump up to cover himself meant we had made progress. But he didn’t look up, just fixed his glasses and kept reading.

I closed and locked the door behind me. My second time visiting Kyungsoo’s room, Chanyeol had come bouncing in, almost starting another fight. With a deep breath, I took a seat on the ottoman at the end of his bed and stared out the windows at the calm woods.

“How old are you?” I asked, looking now to the moon and stars. “I’m eighteen.” Kyungsoo said nothing. “My dad taught me about constellations,” I continued, the same way I had for many days and nights, talking to myself. It almost seemed like therapy, but I had grown determined to crack the alpha. “That one there is a wolf. I forget his name, though. He was one of the strongest alphas to ever live. He and his pack almost hunted vampires to extinction.”

“Seon.”

I jerked my head towards Kyungsoo. His voice had been soft. I had nearly missed it. He was still staring impassively down at his papers. I almost thought I had imagined it. A feint smile tugged at my lips.

“That’s it,” I said. “I always forget.”

We sat in silence for ten minutes, me staring at him, him pretending I didn’t exist. Until finally I let out a sigh.

“Why won’t you look at me?” I asked impatiently, careful not to raise my voice to the dangerous alpha. Kyungsoo said nothing. “I already apologized for Baekhyun,” I tried. “I told you, I didn’t think it was a big deal. Faeries don’t mate for life, and I had no way of knowing I’d be a wolf’s mate. At least it was someone from your pack, and not a rival pack.” I gave Kyungsoo a minute to respond. When he didn’t, I stood. The wolf looked up, probably thinking I was about to leave. I wasn’t. I walked right towards him, heart racing with each step. “Do you really have nothing to say?”

“You reek of them,” he told me. It was meant as an insult, but he had turned in his chair, and was looking at me now, staring up at me with those big, owl eyes. I refused to look away.

“You’re the only one who can change that,” I said. His face didn’t change, not even a bit. “I thought wolves were supposed to be desperate to mark their mates.” He said nothing. I took a brave step forward, and happening to glance down.

Kyungsoo was semi hard. It was easy to see through his thin boxers. I bit my lip, looking back into his eyes. They still had yet to change. I reached out a small hand. In the blink of an eye, he had wrapped a hand around my thin wrist. He held it tight, so that it was just a little painful. We argued with our eyes, neither one willing to back down. Our stare down lasted a full minute, before I felt his grip on my wrist loosen, just enough for me to pull free.

I reached my hand down. Knowing I could be attacked at any time, I went slow. I was surprised when he didn’t stop me, allowing me to place a hand on his semi hard member. I wondered if it had been my words about marking that had excited him. There was no telling with Kyungsoo. His face never betrayed his thoughts.

Feeling invincible now, I placed my other hand on his neck. His skin was smooth and warm. I continued to stare into his eyes. Then I leaned in. I placed a chaste kiss to his full lips, and then another. I began trailing my lips to his cheek, and then his jaw. Kyungsoo had yet to push me away.

When I became comfortable kissing his neck, I allowed my tongue to slip through my lips, sliding lightly across his skin. I could’ve sworn his breathing had quickened. I decided now was as good a time as any to straddle him. He seemed receptive of it, as receptive as Kyungsoo could seem. He kept his hands on the arms of his chair. At least his hands weren’t strangling me.

After leaving a love bite on his neck, I moved further down, to his collar bones. I began rubbing his body through his white T-shirt. He was muscular. Wolves always were. And not as tense as I had expected. I actually quite enjoyed the feeling of his defined abdominal muscles between my fingers, and was quite eager to remove his shirt.

As I pulled on his T-shirt, Kyungsoo surprised me, raising his arms to allow me to pull it off his body. I couldn’t help but feel as if I was being tested. The alpha wolf probably wanted to see if the little faery would run away crying, as faeries always did. But I wasn’t going to show my fear. I was done cowering to him.

I felt his bare muscles, squeezing his biceps, while I pressed my lips back into his. This time I kissed him deeper, and after a minute, he kissed me back. He barely reciprocated, but he did. And that made me feel proud. I pressed my body into his, sitting back for a moment to remove my dress, under which I wore nothing.

The wolf’s eyes widened a fraction of an inch. They slowly moved down my body, hovering on my breasts before continuing. He seemed to be memorizing every inch of my porcelain skin. I bit my lip. If he was looking like that, with dark eyes and all, he was interested, and I wasn’t just grinding on a statue. Then I felt his erection press into my ass, and I knew I was getting somewhere.

“You can touch me,” I assured him. He glared at me, and I giggled, realizing how patronizing that had sounded. Gingerly, I picked up one of his strong hands. When he didn’t resist, I moved it, placing it on one of my full breasts, squeezing. When I pulled my hand away, his remained. He was still staring at my breasts. I admired his self control. Baekhyun had never been able to just look.

His thumb grazed over my nipple. His touch was soft. I bit my bottom lip. I couldn’t help but press my hips into his. Kyungsoo gave my breast a soft squeeze. I mewled, and he looked up at me. I couldn’t tell what the look on his face meant.

I was allowed to slip out of his lap and kneel in front of him. I blinked up at the alpha with wide eyes, placing a few kisses down his abdomen. His hands went back to the arms of his chair while he watched me impassively. Of course, his erection told a different story.

I began rubbing his thighs, licking my lips. I felt him grow harder. He even twitched. I tried to hide my satisfied smirk. I tugged on the waist band of his boxers, and stopped. I looked up at the wolf.

“Is this okay?” I asked. His jaw clenched. He gave a curt nod, as if annoyed that I had stopped. I tugged on his boxers. I took my time sliding them down his legs, before tossing them to the ground with the rest of our clothing. I stared at his thick erection for a moment. When I glanced up at the wolf, I saw his eyes were closed. Was this it? Had he finally cracked?

I stared slow, dragging my fingers up and down his length. After a moment, I pulled them away and leaned forward. I started at his balls with my tongue, licking all the way up to the head. I used my thumb to spread his precum. I heard the wolf swallow. I began licking the swollen head slowly, taking my time, enjoying myself. Kyungsoo never complained, never tried to pull me closer. His self control was stunning.

“Relax,” I cooed. He didn’t react. I took the head into my mouth and swirled my tongue around. He sucked in a sharp breath.

I began working more and more of him into my mouth. It was a lot more difficult to give a wolf a blowjob, seeing as wolves tended to be quite bigger than faeries, but I did it, and was quite proud of myself when I went all the way down. I began pumping his cock in and out of my mouth, licking as pleased. It was difficult telling what the wolf liked, but I was able to gauge that from the way his fingers twitched and breathing hitched.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, letting me know he was close. I sucked harder, and his hips bucked. I placed my hands on them to hold them back. The wolf growled, but was powerless as he released into my mouth, tossing his head back. He let out a boyish moan, and then another. It was like music to my ears.

Swallowing, I stood, still naked for the wolf. I wasn’t sure what came next. I certainly didn’t expect him to yank me back down on his lap and kiss me. But he did.

“Maybe I should mark you,” he said in my ear. “I hope you didn’t have other plans tonight.”

#exo scenarios #exo reactions #exo smut #exo au series #exo au #exo werewolf!au #exo werewolf au #exo wolf!au #exo wolf au #exo #kyungsoo #kai #sehun #baekhyun #chen #chanyeol #xiumin #suho #lay #smut

[cami-chats]

The Truth About Budapest

((Which I wrote because I couldn’t find any Budapest fics set up like this???))

Fandom: Marvel

Pairings: None

Warnings: None 

"This is like Budapest all over again!" Natasha said, shooting at the aliens.

Clint made a face, pulling arrows from his quiver and releasing rapidly, dropping enemies like they were flies. "You and I remember Budapest very differently."

When the battle was over and they were all caught up on sleep and became more like a team than a group of people pushed together by terrible circumstances, everyone asked them about what had happened in Budapest.

And all the answers were different.

Steve:

Clint rolled his eyes as Natasha opened her mouth to say something, cutting her off before she could get a word out. "She was undercover, and she's still pissed off that I missed the ballet she was in. I said that I was sorry," he said, looking at her pointedly.

"I've never missed one of your cover's dates," she said haughtily.

"You did so!"

"When?"

"Paris, 2004, we were supposed to meet up for-"

Steve backed away slowly from the argument until he was out of the room. He wasn't sure the answer he got was worth what it started, but at least they were yelling at each other and not him.

Bruce: ​

"It wasn't actually anything special," Clint said with a shrug, perusing the options for new arrows that Tony had made for him. "Nat just likes to be a dick about it."

Bruce frowned. "Well what happened?"

"The safe house we were supposed to stay in was unusable. Ceiling had caved in and there wasn't a basement, but we didn't have anywhere else to go so," he shrugged. "Pulled up a blanket and slept next to the rubble and hoped that it didn't crush us in our sleep."

Bruce rolled his eyes. There was no need to be so dramatic, but he guessed that living as a spy/assassin like Clint had for over a decade would have some sort of lasting effects, and if those effects were embellishing boring stories to make them seem more life threatening, well, there were far worse things that could have happened. "Sounds pleasant," was all he said though, continuing on his way to the kitchenette.

Sam:

"Hm?" Natasha said, looking up from where she was cleaning her gun. "Oh." She snorted. "Clint fell in a dumpster in the middle of a fight."

"He fell," Sam repeated flatly. "In a dumpster."

"If you can't picture it, I can help you out. It's one of my most cherished memories; I'm thinking about commissioning a painting."

"How did that even happen? Did he get pushed?"

An amused smile quirked on her lips. "That wouldn't be nearly embarrassing enough. He was jumping out of a window, but he chose the wrong one. There was supposed to be a fire escape, only he went two windows too early and landed in the dumpster."

"Oh my god," Sam said, howling with laughter.

"It was half full, he landed in sludge, and sprained his wrist. And to top it all off, he didn't catch a shower for two days after that."

"This explains so much about him," Sam said, doubled over and wiping at his eyes.

Natasha nodded and went back to putting her gun together. "It really does," she muttered.

Tony:

Tony, being Tony, didn't actually ask either Natasha or Clint what happened; he tried to hack into Shield's servers to get the information. He'd entertained the idea of asking for a moment, but he brushed it aside when he realized that he wouldn't get a straight answer from either of them-- and if he did, it would certainly be a lie.

So he decided to look into it himself, and he tried to hack the file. Tried. It wasn't that Shield's security had suddenly gotten exponentially better, it was that the file wasn't there. There was barely even a mention of it, and that mention was in one of Coulson's reports, and it wasn't even a report he should have been doing! It was an injury report that he filled out for Clint, and it didn't say anything that Tony didn't already know. It happened in Budapest, and he had to be checked over by a medical team.

Woo, he thought dully. Clint got sent to the medical team twice for every fight-- once for the fight itself, and once for the in between times when he did something stupid like grab a pan from the oven without an oven mitt on. (And that had been a sad day. He'd put all the pizza rolls on one giant sheet and then dropped them all over the floor, and they didn't get another grocery delivery for four days. Clint basically starved in that time, and his hand was too burnt for him to use his bow.)

So, armed with nothing other than annoyance and a decade old ​injury report, Tony decided to bother Coulson for a while. Under the guise of being helpful, of course.

...Aaaand Coulson herded Tony out of his office, expression never changing from carefully impassive, although Tony would like to think that he detected a hint of frustration on the air-- and with the lack of actual answers he was willing to take what he could get.

The next approach was Clint, and he tried to bribe him with stun arrows, but Clint must have been tired out of his mind at the time that he asked because he started singing Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds and waltzed away. Tony frowned after him, frozen in place and more than a little confused. Was this how other people felt when he dodged questions? Because if it was, he owed Pepper an apology or two hundred. Rhodey too, but more like a thousand for him, since he'd been around when Tony was a teenager.

He asked Natasha after a sparring session, and afterwards asked her about Budapest. She stared at him evenly for a moment, taking a swig of water. She walked past and pat him on the shoulder. "You had good balance today."

Bucky:

"Why?" Natasha asked, glancing over at him. He was on one of Tony's spruced up treadmills next to her normal one. They usually ran in silence when they worked out together, ​but here he was, asking her about Budapest out of the blue.

"Just... r'membered somethin' I think." He had that little scrunch to his forehead that meant he was trying to dust off a memory.

"You were in Budapest?" she asked, lowering the speed on her treadmill so she didn't get too winded.

"At some point, yeah. What happened with you?"

"It was like a romance novel," she said, pitching her voice higher and putting on a nondescript accent for effect. "I saw Clint across the cafe and he offered me a flower." She put her wrist to her forehead and stopped running, letting the track pull her to the end and then off. It took her body a second to get used to a still ground, and she hopped back on once she got her bearings.

Bucky snorted. "You coulda just said no, y'know."

"Now where's the fun in that," she said, shooting him a smirk that he returned.

"You gonna tell me someday?"

"On my deathbed, maybe."

The Truth:

The truth about Budapest was that it was a mission gone horribly wrong, yet somehow neither of them came close to dying. Clint had gotten doused with a hallucinogenic gas at some point-- she still didn't know how that happened, and Clint either didn't remember or wasn't talking.  

So Clint started hallucinating and thought he was back at the circus, and he ended up all but destroying a building and blowing their cover as non-Americans. The gang they'd been there to investigate had automatically pulled out their guns, and Natasha was left trying to herd him out of the building between rubble and shrieking civilians. Luckily for them, none of the gang members wanted to risk hurting civilians either, so she was able to get Clint out of the way before anything serious went down.

Strangely enough, the gang wasn't an issue. They made an alliance against the actual troublemakers of the city, and the mission continued on. It wasn't as planned, but it all worked out in the end. (Except for the fact that Clint was out of it for their entire visit and learned about what had happened from Natasha telling him.)

So when Natasha referenced Budapest, it could mean that there were drugs, that they had the wrong idea, that Clint was being stupid, or... any number of things, really. Clint had given up on trying to figure out what the exact connection was because it changed every time.

If the Winter Soldier had been there at the same time, they didn’t run into him, and Natasha was endlessly grateful for that.

(Bucky remembered, a few years later, that Budapest had been one of the brief time periods that he’d run away from Hydra before being picked up and wiped again. He’d seen Clint and Natasha there because he was in the same bar that Clint had nearly destroyed in his delirium, and he gave them both shit for it when he got the memory back.)

#avengers #fanfic #marvel #natasha romanoff #clint barton #my writing

[hannahberrie]

Everybody Talks | Chapter 16: Epilogue

Fandom: Stranger Things Pairings: Mileven, Lumax Rating: K WC: 7,870 Summary: You can hear it in the silence. You can feel it on the way home. You can see it with the lights out. You are in love.

[AO3] Chapter Selection: [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13][14][15]-Epilogue-

It’s the 14th of December. Mike and El are seated on her bed, legs crossed as they face each other. Fat, flaky snowflakes fall against her bedroom window, dissolving into water droplets that trail down the glass. Though it’s only 4:30, the world outside is already fading into a charcoal-grey, and El has to keep her beside lamp on in order for them to see each other properly.

El fidgets with the index card she’s holding in her hand. As she talks, she flutters it back and forth, willing herself not to look at it.

“Genes are...” She begins slowly, mind working frantically. She pauses as she tries to remember the definition she’d copied onto the notecard. Their Biology oral presentation is only a few days away, and she has to have this memorized by then.

Mike smiles at her as he gives her an encouraging nod. “You got this!” He assures her.

El throws him a grateful look before continuing. “They’re…segments, segments of…” She shuts her eyes. Maybe she can see the word if she tries hard enough.

“Deo—?“ Mike offers.

“Deoxyribonucleic acid!” El exclaims, “DNA!”

“There you go!” Mike beams proudly. As El smiles proudly, he adds a hesitant offer, “Are you sure you don’t want me to start our speech? I don’t want you to feel so much pressure to say all these hard words.”

“No,” El refutes with a small shake of her head, “I want to do it. I want to get it right.”

Mike gives a nod of assent. “Okay.”

“Besides,” El adds casually, “Pressure isn’t always bad.” Her voice is light, nonchalant, unrevealing. Nevertheless, Mike seems to pick up on the coy connotations she’s purposely giving.

She really shouldn’t do this to him, but she can’t help herself. He just always gets so flustered looking and it’s completely adorable.

“Uh, yeah,” he admits, voice a little higher, “I guess pressure isn’t always so bad.”

El gives him a knowing look before continuing with her speech. “DNA synthesizes the proteins in our bodies,” she states, “Each molecule is a…a double helix shape. The helix is made of two strands, one of sugar, or…deo…deo…”

Her voice trails off as she tries to think of the proper name. Why did every word have to start with deo? After a few silent moments pass, she gives up and takes one glance at her notecard. “Deoxyribose! One strand is sugar, or deoxyribose, and the other is phosphate molecules.”

Mike is still looking pretty riled up. His cheeks are still pink and he keeps staring at her all wide-eyed. He’s so distracted by something that he doesn’t even congratulate her on her successful pronunciation.

At least, not in the way that she expects.

When he only blinks at her, El pouts a little. “I know I had to glance at the notecard,” She confesses, “But I can keep trying. I don’t want Mrs. Hawthorne to take off presentation points for reading off my notes.”

“No!” Mike finally exclaims, “You…you sounded great!”

El gives him a skeptical look. “Then why do you look so…weird?”

“I do?”

“Yes,” El smirks, raising her finger to bop his nose lightly. She turns her attention back to the index card in her hand. Maybe if she keeps looking at it, she’ll be able to memorize all the big words easier.

“I’m sorry,” Mike sighs, “It’s just…you sounded really good.”

“You said that already.”

“No, I mean like…really good.”

El frowns — not only because the words she’s reading are making her head hurt, but also because there’s no way her boyfriend is actually getting worked up over her reading off scientific terminology.

She glances up at him, just to make sure she’s not making assumptions, but nope — he’s giving her that look. The look that’s a hopelessly smitten mix of flushed cheeks, dark eyes, and a hopeful smile.

He’s seriously the biggest nerd ever.

“Thank you,” El replies dryly, forcing herself not to smile as she looks down again.

There’s a moment of silence and El can practically feel the tension brewing between them. Maybe tension isn’t the right word though. It sounds so negative, and this feeling is anything but. It’s like growing embers — warm and comforting with the potential for more.

After a minute or so of El looking over her notes, Mike interrupts the quiet. “Your dad’s not home, is he?” He asks, glancing at the doorway.

“No,” El replies, not looking up from her index card, “He has work, and then he’s going to help Will’s mom go get a Christmas tree. He said that we’ll go to Will’s house tomorrow to help decorate it.” El pauses as she processes this before adding, “You know, I think Max is right. I think he might like Joyce. He’s been acting so weird around her lately. I guess I’ll see tomorrow.”

She realizes that she’s been rambling (a trait she’s starting to pick up from hanging around Mike all the time), and probably taken the longest way possible to answer Mike’s simple question. “Anyway,” she concludes, glancing up at Mike, “He’s not home. Why?”

“Because,” Mike smiles shyly, “If he was, I’d kinda be too scared to do this.”

“To do what?” El frowns, but then without warning, Mike cups her face in his hands and pulls her in for an affectionate kiss.

Oh.

Oh.

El smiles against his lips as she uses her index card to playfully swat his shoulder. She wants to tease him for being such a big dork, or maybe say ‘deoxyribose,’ again, just to mess with him, but as their kiss increases in intensity, she starts to lose all coherent thought.

Mike is still the smartest person El knows. Not only that, but he’s also the fastest learner she knows. He’s a sponge for information. He can finish a book in a matter of hours or watch a documentary once and he’ll remember practically everything he learned.

This apt for quick learning naturally extended to everything, including kissing. The kisses they’d shared during the first couple weeks of their relationship had been soft and reserved. Neither really had any clue what they were doing, but that’s kind of what made it so fun — they got to figure it out together.

Mike was a very dedicated learner. He paid attention to every hitch of her breath, every contented sigh, every moan she blushingly tried to hide. Needless to say, his dedication paid off.

Like right now, for example. He pulls back just enough to capture her lower lip in an impassioned kiss. He uses his teeth to ever-so-gently tug and bite, and that’s when El just melts like the snowflakes against the windowsill.

Or, at least she would melt if she could get comfortable enough. Because as wonderful as Mike’s kisses are, they’re both still sitting with their legs crossed, which means they have to strain their necks to reach other, and it’s starting to get a little uncomfortable. Plus, they’re surrounded by their Biology textbooks, notes, and binders, so it’s a little crowded too.

She needs to fix this.

With a flick of her hand, El uses her powers to push all their schoolwork off her bed. It falls to the floor in a flurry of thudding books, fluttering notebook paper, and clattering pencils, but El could care less. She can always pick it up later, but she needs more of Mike now.

When their school things hit the floor, Mike pulls away in startled confusion. “What just happened?” He asks, looking at the mess.

El only grins as she uncrosses her legs and slides closer to him. “We need more room,” she says simply, obviously.

“Oh,” Mike grins back, looking unfairly adorable.

El leans in to pepper him with kisses because she really can’t get enough of him, she never will, and she doesn’t quite know what else to do with the warm, bubbly feeling growing near her gut. Her heart rate spikes as she continues to shower Mike with kisses. He’s all squirms and laughs and bashful exclamations of her name and El just wants more.

She pulls back and, with a playful smile, pushes Mike back onto the pillows. Mike falls backward, looking breathlessly excited—

—And winds up gasping in pain.

“Shit!” Mike groans, rubbing the back of his head.

“Mike?” El pales, looking alarmed. She hadn’t pushed him that hard, had she? He’d just landed on her pillow—

Shit.

“I hit my head on something,” Mike frowns, turning to look under the pillow. He retrieves the Hawkins High 1984 yearbook with a puzzled look on his face. “What the—?”

Shit, shit, shit, shit. WHY hadn’t she gotten rid of that yet!?

“Give me that!” El pleads.

She throws herself at him, but Mike shifts to the side and she falls face-first on the pillows instead.

“Jesus, El!” Mike exclaims, sounding torn between laughter and alarm, “What’s wrong?”

“You can’t look in it!” El snaps, squirming towards him.

“Why not!?” Mike asks, moving out of the way again. He looks at the yearbook more closely and spots the yellow Post-It notes. “Why do you have pages marked?”

El uses her powers to pull the yearbook out of Mike’s hands and into her own. The impact causes her to fall back against the pillows, but she doesn’t let go of the yearbook. She already had to go through this with Max, there’s no way she’s going to do it again.

However, just like Max, Mike is incredibly persistent.

“I wanna see!” He pleads, moving to hover over her.

“No!” El insists, holding the yearbook close to her heart as she looks up at him.

“Please?” Mike begs, giving her his signature puppy dog pout.

“No!” El repeats. She has to shut her eyes to avoid his pout. It’s too adorable, too powerful, and she knows she won’t be able to maintain her resolve if she keeps looking at him.

Of course, shutting her eyes turns out to be a fatal mistake, as that’s when Mike strikes. Without warning, he leans forward and attacks her sides, tickling her relentlessly.

“Mike!” El squeals, trying to squirm away. “S-stop!”

Mike only grins as he continues to wriggle his fingers over her stomach, sides, and hips. He knows how ticklish she is, because he’s done this before, and El both loves it and hates it.

As she writhes from his tickles, she raises her arms to defend herself. This causes the yearbook to fall from her grasp, and that’s all Mike needs. He catches it as it falls, straightens up, and sits on top of El’s legs so that she can’t get up to grab the book from him.

“Does this hurt?” Mike asks, looking down at her.

“No!” El huffs, trying to squirm away.

“Good — just checking,” Mike nods, turning his attention back to the yearbook.

She could use her powers to take the book back, but at this point, it seems pretty futile. Now that Mike knows about the yearbook, El can’t really think of anything she could do to deter his curiosity. So, she instead settles for crossing her arms and glaring up at him as he begins to flip through the pages.

“Alright,” Mike says, turning to the first sticky-noted page, “What do we got here?”

El remains silent as Mike looks over the page. When his gaze lands on the picture, his picture, the picture that she’d decorated with heart stickers after Homecoming night, his jaw drops.

“You were looking at my picture?” Mike gasps, glancing down at her.

El quirks an eyebrow at him. “Maybe.”

Mike’s eyes light up as his mouth curves into a smile. “Like…since when?”

Here we go.

“….Last year,” El admits.

Mike keeps smiling as he turns to the second marked page, the one with his AV Club photo. “You were looking at this one too?!” He exclaims in shock.

“Yes,” El sighs.

“Why!?”

El eyes him. Wasn’t it obvious? “I liked you.”

“You had a crush on me!?” Mike gawks.

El, still eying him warily, nods.

“Since last year?!”

Another nod.

At this admission, Mike bursts into laughter. It’s not a deriding or mocking laugh though, but rather one that radiates with happiness, like he’s stupidly, giddily excited about something.

“What’s so funny?” El asks defensively.

“I can’t believe you had a crush on me!” Mike replies gleefully, “That’s like, so embarrassing.”

“How?! We’re dating!” El exclaims, hitting his thighs (the only part of him she can currently reach with him sitting on her legs and everything).

“I know!” Mike continues to laugh, “But still!”

“I hate you,” El grumbles, poking his thighs a couple more times.

“Really?” Mike asks, turning to grin at her.

“Yes,” El insists, hating how her gaze lands on his smile or, to be more concise, his lips. She knows she supposed to be (pretending to be) mad at him, but it’s so hard when Mike sets the yearbook down, places his hands on either side of her, and hovers over her again.

El’s style is still evolving. Instead of strictly sticking to slick-backed hair and leather jackets, she sometimes opts for freed curls and soft sweaters. Other times, it’s a unique combination of both. She’s also decided to let her hair grow out — in the past, she had to trim it regularly so that it wouldn’t look too weird when it was slicked back. Now, she’s allowing herself to just leave it be and see what happens.

Consequently, her hair is a little longer, a little curlier. When Mike lowers his face so that it’s inches from hers, their curls brush in a way that almost makes El giggle, because they kind of match.

Mike has that look in his eyes as he scans her over. Still supporting himself with one hand, he carefully runs his opposite hand through her hair, over her shoulder, and down her arm. Despite the chill that seeps into her room from the outside, his touch leaves trails of embers down her skin.

She loves when he’s forward like this, when he’s not afraid to get closer. It’s admittedly rare, but lately he’s been getting better, bolder.

Except for when he’s not.

He’s leaning in to kiss her when he suddenly pulls away, leaving her high and dry.

“Mike,” El whines. She curls her fingers in the front of his shirt and tugs him back to her, “Come back.”

Mike, for once, doesn’t give into her pleads for kisses. Instead, he looks down at her torso skeptically, as if something has just dawned on him.

“What?” El asks nervously. Is something wrong?

“Isn’t this my sweater?” Mike questions, tugging on the hem of the sweater she’s wearing.

“Um,” El hesitates, looking down at the article in question.

Was it his sweater? Her favorite sweater of his? The one he’d worn when he was fixing the projector, or during their first Biology lab? The sweater she’d found crumpled up on the floor of his bedroom when she hung out at his house last weekend? The sweater that she’d hastily stuffed into her backpack, just because she really wanted it? The sweater that was impossibly soft, and smelt like his soap, his laundry detergent, and the musk that was unmistakably him?

Obviously not.

“No!” El answers innocently.

“I’m pretty sure it is,” Mike smirks, “So, like, first you’re staring at pictures of me, and now you’re stealing my clothes?”  

El feels her cheeks flush red with embarrassment. “You left me 20 voicemails!” She reminds him.

“You snuck into my house,” Mike counters.

“You got into a fight for me!”

“You got in one for me!”

“You bought me every kind of Eggos!”

“You’re still obsessed with me.”

And you’re still in love me, El wants to say, but the words die in her throat. She doesn’t know if she dares to say something so…so resonant. She knows that she’s in love with Mike, but she’s never told him. He’s certainly never told her that he’s in love with her. Even though ‘in’ is such a tiny word, to be in love with someone somehow seems so much more weighted than to just love someone.

“You’re still dumb,” she mumbles instead, averting her gaze.

“And you’re still wearing my sweater,” Mike mutters back, idly running a hand over her sleeve.

This time, the words El wants to say come out before she can stop them. “Then come take it back,” she offers, and this time, her connotations aren’t coyly masked, but flirtatiously candid.

Mike’s eyes widen in surprise, because she’s never said anything like that, they’ve never done anything like that, but when El only smiles invitingly up at him, she’s pretty sure she can pinpoint the exact moment his heart explodes.

“Okay,” he mumbles back thickly, and then his lips are back on hers, and El is pulling at the back of his hoodie, dragging him closer to her.

She can feel her heart racing faster in her chest, filling her veins with adrenaline. She’s not sure that she’s ready to go super far, but she’s definitely willing to test the waters a little…maybe a lot…

Mike lowers the arms he’s been using to support himself. He instead allows himself to lie on top of her, all the while being careful not to move too quickly or crush her under his weight. El doesn’t mind the feeling of him pressed against her though. The pressure is quite nice, actually, but it’s still not enough.

More, her thoughts plead, more, more, more.

She tentatively spreads her lips and Mike eagerly accepts the invitation. It’s admittedly a little awkwardly clumsy at first — he doesn’t know what he’s doing, he hasn’t learned, not yet — but then his tongue brushes against hers in just the right way, and El’s pretty sure that she sees stars. The adrenaline pumping through her pulsates with an electric charge, like she’s been struck by lightning or gotten her finger too close to an electrical socket.

As they continue to kiss openly, it idly occurs to El that neither of those are great analogies, as both would most likely get her killed. Then again, in that sense, maybe those are the perfect analogies, since Mike’s kisses are certainly going to be the death of her.

His fingers are just brushing underneath the hem of her sweater when the doorbell rings.

El and Mike don’t part at the sound, not at first. Instead, Mike keeps kissing her with an increased sense of urgency.

She doesn’t want to stop, but then the doorbell rings a second time, and El can’t bring herself to ignore it, especially since she knows who it is.

“Mike,” El says as she grudgingly pulls away, “We have to go.”

Mike doesn’t seem to care. He stays connected to her like static cling, moving his lips to her neck the moment she breaks their kiss. He nibbles and sucks on her skin fervently, seemingly determined to convince her to stay through his kisses.

“Mike,” El repeats. She tries to make her voice sound firm and reprimanding, but it’s so, so hard when his mouth is doing that.

“Five more minutes,” Mike pleads, breath hot against her skin.

“Our friends are here,” El reminds him.

“They can wait,” Mike shrugs, not moving away.

“It’s snowing. They can’t wait in the cold.”

“Says who?”

“Says...nice people.”

“I’m a nice man,” Mike quotes.

“No you’re not,” El quotes back, “You’re a scoundrel.”

Mike replies by smiling into the crook of her neck. He continues to kiss and bite her there with a renewed fervor, much to El’s reluctant enjoyment (also: why did he always have to get so worked up over Star Wars? He’s responding way too eagerly to her quoting it to him).

“Mike,” she pleads.

“El,” Mike whines back.

El jokingly muses to herself that her true powers aren’t telekinesis, but rather the strength it takes to pull away from Mike. She forces herself to squirm out from under him and get off the bed, making sure to step over the mess of their school things on the floor.

Mike makes a disappointed whining sort of sound, like a kid who’d just gotten a time-out. He rolls onto his back and stays on top of her bed, pouting at her.

“I have to get the door,” El says as the doorbell rings for the third time.

“Why don’t you get the door, bring them to the living room, then come back up here?” Mike suggests.

When El was in middle school, Hopper had given her The Talk. It was horribly uncomfortable for both of them, but Hopper pointed out that it was necessary because she was getting older and needed to be careful, since boys only ever had ‘One Thing On Their Minds.’

This much is evident in Mike’s case. Whenever they get intimate like this, it’s obvious that he has One Thing On His Mind: not pressuring her or going all the way, but anxiously waiting until they can kiss again and planning exactly how he can make that happen. El only knows this because she often feels the same way.

Except for right now, when all of their friends are downstairs.

“I’m not doing that,” El snorts.

“Please?” Mike pleads, “I miss you.”

“I’m right here!”

“But you’re not over here.”

“Correct!” El teases.

Mike groans dejectedly and slumps back on the pillows.

“Maybe we can continue later,” El offers.

“Really?” Mike asks, perking up excitedly.

“Maybe,” El reiterates.

“When’s later?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“Fine,” Mike sighs, rising from the bed. He moves to stand in front of her, leans in, and presses one final kiss to the tender sore spot on her neck.

—Wait a minute.

El gasps in alarm as she runs to her dresser and grabs the handheld mirror lying atop it. When she looks at her reflection, her worries are confirmed: Mike’s left a huge, mauve-colored mark on her neck, right above her collarbone.

If their friends see it, they’ll never let it go. It’d be the next Fruit Loops debacle.

“I can’t believe you!” El huffs. She turns around to glare at Mike, but he only replies with a smirk. It’s the same kind of smirk he’d given her when he’d said ‘bullshit’ just to get detention with her: accomplished, self-satisfied, and irritatingly endearing.

“Sorry,” Mike says, not sounding apologetic in the slightest.

El turns back to the mirror with another huff. She plays with the collar of her (Mike’s) sweater, trying to get it to lay over the hickey, but it doesn’t work. The sweater just slumps back down every time, leaving her neck exposed.

Damn it.

“Here,” Mike offers, walking over to her side. He peels off his navy hoodie and hands it to her, leaving him in a collared shirt. “This should help.”

El turns to accept the hoodie and slips it on. Thankfully, the hoodie is bulky enough to cover her collarbone.

It also smells like him. So, that’s like, an additional bonus.

“Thank you,” El softens, already secretly plotting how she can keep this hoodie.

“You’re welcome,” Mike smiles back, leaning down to give her lips a small peck.

El beams up at him. It takes everything within her to not lean back in for another kiss, but she knows that if she does, she won’t be able to stop.

Plus, then the doorbell rings for the fourth time, and then the fifth, and sixth, and she realizes that their friends are probably getting impatient.

“Let’s go,” El instructs, grasping Mike’s hand and leading them out of her room.

Mike follows her dutifully, interlacing their fingers as they head to the stairs. “Why do our friends have the worst timing ever?”

“They’re here at the time we told them to be,” El reminds him.

“I know,” Mike whines, “But still.”

“I still don’t see why we would couldn’t do this at your house,” El replies as she and Mike, still hand-in-hand, descend the stairs together.

“Because, Nancy just came home for Christmas break!” Mike explains, “And the last time you guys hung out together at Thanksgiving, you went through my baby pictures with my mom and it was totally embarrassing!”

“Exactly,” El replies, giggling at the memory.

“‘Exactly’ is right,” Mike huffs.

“Well, your mom invited me over for Christmas Eve,” El reminds him, “So, I’ll see her then.”

“Fine with me — that gives me plenty of time to hide every photo album we own.”

El throws him a light-hearted eye roll before she stops in front of the entryway door and opens it.

They’re greeted by the sight of all four of their friends bundled in puffy coats, long scarves, and knit hats. Their noses and cheeks are a frosted pink, and as the door swings open, a rush of icy December wind rushes into the foyer.

“Finally!” Max exclaims.

“We were freezing our asses off out here!” Dustin adds, teeth chattering.

“Thanks for inviting us over!” Will pipes up.

“Now let us in!” Lucas begs.

El and Mike move out of the way and allow their friends to hurry inside.

“I’m sorry you had to wait,” El apologizes as they stomp the snow off their boots. She releases Mike’s hand and moves forward to close the front door, shutting out the bitter chill.

“We were studying for Bio upstairs,” Mike adds, hands in his pockets.

“I’m sure you were,” Dustin smirks.

“You guys are gonna ace the human anatomy section,” Max adds wryly.

El and Mike’s cheeks flush even redder than their friends’, which is really saying something, since their friends still look like they’re freezing.

“We’re studying genetics!” El defends hotly, “Not...not that.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Lucas sighs, taking off his jacket and boots, “Let’s just get started.”

“Okay,” El nods. After her friends remove their winter attire, she leads the way into the living room. There’s a hearty fire flickering in the fireplace and a modest sized Christmas tree in the corner. The couches that normally rest in the center of the living room have been pushed to the sides of the room to make space for the folding table and chairs she and Mike set up earlier in the day. On top of the table rests the Dungeons and Dragons game board, along with all the pieces they’ll need to play.

“You have a nice house,” Will smiles, taking a seat in one of the chairs.

“Thank you!” El beams back. She motions to the coffee table off to the side, “I have some snacks if you guys get hungry. There’s pretzels and cookies and candy canes and—“

“Oh my god,” Dustin exclaims, already rushing to grab some of everything, “Your girlfriend is amazing, Mike.”

Mike turns to throw El a small smile. “She is,” he mumbles, so low that only El can hear it.

El almost starts to consider Mike’s proposition to leave their friends in here while they return to her room. Almost. But she knows that wouldn’t be very polite, and besides, she did say that she and Mike could continue things later. ‘Later’ would only come after they finished this game, so she had to get a move on.

El goes to take her seat at the table, followed by Mike and Lucas. Max and Dustin join them a few moments later, both carrying several snacks.

“So,” Mike begins, retrieving a binder from where he’d left it under the table, “Did you guys finish creating your characters?”

El nods proudly. She’d spent more time than she probably should have designing her Mage, but whatever — it was fun. Mike had helped her create a backstory for her character and everything. He also assured her that yes, her Mage could secretly be dating his Paladin, if that’s what she really wanted (it was).

“Yeah, me too,” Max concurs, “I had time to work on designing my character after I finished studying for my English final.” As the words leave her mouth, She pauses and grimaces. “Oh my god, I think that’s like, the geekiest thing I’ve ever said.”

“One of us, one of us!” Dustin chants teasingly, pounding his fists on the table.

Max flicks a pretzel at him, the first of what will probably be many.

“What character class did you decide on?” Will asks Max.

“Zoomer,” she answers confidently.

Though Mike’s face is partially obscured by the DM’s screen he’s sitting behind, El’s still able to catch the bewildered frown he makes. “A what?”

“A Zoomer,” Max repeats.

The boys exchange hesitant glances. They all look like they’re deciding whether or not to tell her something.

“That’s not a real character class!” Dustin finally blurts out.

“So?” Max shrugs, “You said I could create my own.”

“Your own character,” Mike clarifies, “Not your own classes.”

“Is there a difference?” Max asks flippantly.

“Kind of,” Lucas admits.

“It’s okay,” Will assures Max, “I think it’s cool that you created a new class.” He turns to give the other boys warning looks, to which they reluctantly relent.

“Yeah,” Mike sighs, “I guess it’s cool.”

“Super cool!” Lucas adds, sounding far more believable than Mike.

Dustin manages to not say any further challenging comments, but that doesn’t stop him from shaking his head forlornly. “Anyway,” he says, turning to Mike, “What’s the name of this campaign?”

Mike clears his throat and replies in a dramatic, theatrical sort of voice. “Expedition to the Castle of the Forgotten King!”

“That’s the title?” Max questions, raising an eyebrow.

“I didn’t have a lot of time to come up with a better one, okay?!” Mike justifies, “I’ve been busy!”

“With El?”

“With studying for exams!”

“I think the title is great!” El cuts in, throwing Mike a reassuring look.

“Can we just start already?” Lucas pleads eagerly, “We haven’t had a campaign in forever.”

Mike clears his throat again before he proceeds to read the introduction to the campaign. He gets so dramatic about the entire thing, it’s actually like, the cutest thing El’s ever seen. He keeps reading in that theatrical voice, pauses to create tension, and uses his own sound effects to make it all feel so much more real.

El turns to glance at her friends excitedly, because this is already the best thing ever, but the rest of them are watching Mike seriously, listening closely, taking it all in. Even Max seems determinedly focused, so El decides that she better pay attention too.

As this is her and Max’s first campaign, it takes a bit for them to fully get into it. The boys have to walk them through all the gameplay, like how to take actions, how to make die rolls, and how to gain experience points. It’s all pretty complicated and confusing to El at first, but the boys are chivalrously patient with both her and Max.

As their adventure continues, the stakes grow higher. The action increases in tenfold, and soon they’re all on the edges of their seats, hanging onto every last word of Mike’s direction.

In the final moments of the campaign, through their collective skills and abilities, their party successfully slays the dragon that dwells in the dungeon beneath the castle. They then stumble across a trove of treasure, which Mike describes in vivid detail.

“You’ve found it!” Mike reads quickly, excitedly, “The lost treasure of the Forgotten King! While the dragon’s lair was dank and decrepit, this room glows with the shine of thousands of jewels. Their light reflects off the towering abundance of golden coins, goblets, and crowns. Through your face is speckled with the blood of the slain dragon and the dirt of a journey long traveled, when you slip the crown onto your head, you feel the power of success flow through your veins. Your valiant efforts have paid off. You’ve won.”

El and the rest of her friends burst into cheers. They exchange fist-bumps, high-fives, and sighs of relief.

“Holy shit! We’re freaking loaded!” Dustin exclaims, “We’re gonna have enough gold to do whatever we want!”

“What happens next?” El asks Mike enthusiastically.

“That’s it,” Mike shrugs, shutting his Dungeon Master’s manual.

There’s a beat of silence as everyone realizes that the story has come to an end.

“Wait, that’s it?” Max frowns, “That’s the ending?”

“Uh, yeah?” Mike replies, as if this was obvious.

“But we just got started!” Dustin whines.

“We’ve been playing for five hours!” Mike points out, holding up his watch. Sure enough, it’s now well past 10 PM. The once-gray sky has now darkened into an inky black, leaving the fireplace as the main source of light in the room. The reflection of the flames dances off their faces, making everyone’s faces glow with a warm amber light.

“It felt shorter,” Lucas laments, “I think it should have been longer.”

“Forget longer!” Max huffs, “It should have been better written!”

“What do you mean?” Mike asks indignantly.

“There’s so many things that you either didn’t finish, left out, or glossed over!” Max critiques.

“Like what?!”

“Like the prince!” Lucas offers, “You just left him stuck in the tower!”

“He’ll get out!” Mike frowns.

“But what about the princess and her two knights?” Dustin adds, “You mentioned them like, once, and we never even got to meet them.”

“Or the Captain of the Guard and the Halfling storekeeper?” Max says, “You kind of made it seem like they had some kind of relationship going on, and then it just went nowhere.”

“None of those things mattered to the campaign!” Mike snaps, “All of those characters were NPC’s! Why do you even care?”

“We were invested!” Dustin exclaims.

“Fine!” Mike huffs, “I’m sorry, I guess. But just because this adventure is over doesn’t mean that the story of the campaign is over!”

“Are you going to continue it?” Will asks hopefully.

“Maybe!” Mike shrugs, “I dunno!”

“Well, if you do, it better be good,” Lucas replies, “Like, better than this one.”

“That won’t be hard,” Max snorts.

“Even if it wasn’t perfect, it was good,” El says definitively, “We had fun.”

None of their friends can disagree with that.

“Yeah, I guess it was pretty fun,” Max admits. Her eyes widen as she glances at everyone anxiously, “That doesn’t leave this room.”

“Too late,” Dustin grins, “Your secret is out Max! You’re a nerd!”

“I’m not!” Max insists.

“You like arcade games, Star Wars, and Dungeons and Dragons,” El points out, counting off the items on her fingers.

“And Lucas,” Mike teases.

Lucas and Max both try to look offended, but both of them know that everything El and Mike just said is completely true.

“We’re all kind of nerds,” Will summarizes, turning to give everyone a smile, “But that’s good.”

“Only because being normal is overrated,” Max sighs, slumping back in her chair.

“It totally is,” Mike nods.

The conversation concludes when one of their parents rings the doorbell. Every member of their party jolts at the sound. It feels as if some sort of spell has broken. Their adventure really is over, and it’s time for them to return home.

Mr. Sinclair has arrived and offered to give Max a ride home, so the party gathers in the foyer to wish Lucas and Max goodbye.  

“I’ll see you Monday,” Max murmurs to El as she hugs her goodbye.

“See you Monday,” El mumbles back, hugging her friend tightly.

“And,” Max adds, voice a dry whisper, “Next time you and President Nerd decide to get busy, you might wanna bring a scarf.”

El frowns in confusion, but then she glances down and realizes that her hoodie has slipped lower, revealing that damned hickey.

El makes an embarrassed squeak as she quickly readjusts the hoodie, but Max only smiles, pulls away, and heads out the door hand-in-hand with Lucas.

Though the snowfall has stopped, the night is still bitingly cold. The streetlamp near El’s house illuminates her front lawn, causing the untouched snow to shimmer. As Max and Lucas follow Mr. Sinclair to the car parked in the driveway, their steps leave wandering trails of footprints in their wake. El, Mike, Dustin, and Will watch them from the front doorway as they leave, waving goodbye forlornly.

“See ya’ later dweebs!” Max calls out as Lucas boards his dad’s car.

“Later, MadMax!” Dustin calls back.

For once, Max doesn’t flip him off for the nickname. Instead, she only throws Dustin an exasperated smile before following Lucas into the car. Mr. Sinclair’s car backs out of the driveway, and much too soon, Mrs. Henderson’s car has taken its place.

Since Hopper and Joyce were going to get the Christmas tree today, Dustin’s mom is going to drive him home.

“We’re still gonna compare our To Kill a Mockingbird notes before our exam on Monday, right?” Dustin asks as he hugs El goodbye.

“Of course!” El nods.

“Awesome!” Dustin replies gratefully. He moves to wish Mike goodbye and Will steps up to hug El like Dustin had.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Will,” El murmurs as she gives Will a comforting hug goodbye.

“I can’t wait!” Will replies excitedly, “I made a new mixtape for you, this one has Bowie on it!”

The mixtape exchange is a thing the two of them started recently — Will makes one for her with some of his favorite songs, and El does the same in return. Thanks to each other, El’s grown an even bigger soft spot for pop, and Will has developed an appreciation for music that he likes to call ‘loud, but good.’

“Mine has Metallica!” El smiles, “I think you’ll like it. I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

“Sounds good!” Will nods.

More goodbye hugs and lighthearted banter are exchanged before Dustin and Will leave through the front door. The house is noticeably quiet once their friends are gone, and even though El knows she’s going to see them within the next couple days, she already misses having them here.

Mike returns to the living room and proceeds to pack up his Dungeons and Dragons supplies. El watches as he carefully sorts the pieces into bags and little boxes before placing everything into the messenger bag he likes to keep it all in. Once he finishes, he sets the bag on top of the table and goes to lie on top of the couch. As he lowers himself onto it, he lets off a heavy, tired sigh.

El knows that he puts so much effort into his campaigns and that he must be pretty exhausted, but she doesn’t want him to get too sleepy, not yet.

She carefully tiptoes over to him, trying to stay as stealthy as possible. Mike doesn’t hear or see her coming, and when he closes his eyes to sigh again, that’s when she makes her move.

“Surprise!” El squeals, throwing herself on top of him.

Mike yelps in startled surprise as El lands on him. “El!” He exclaims as she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling herself up so that they’re face-to-face.

“Mike!” El giggles, rubbing their noses together.

Any indignation Mike may have harbored over her surprise attack quickly melts away. His face softens as he looks up at her. Their chests are pressed together and El can feel that her heart is still racing from leaping on top him, and from just being near him.

She hopes that he feels it too.

“What time is your Mom coming to get you?” El asks after a moment, running her fingers through the back of his hair.

“11:00,” Mike replies, lips curving into a gentle smile, “So, we still have like, plenty of time.”

“Good,” El smiles back.

Despite the fact that they’re alone, blissfully alone, neither moves in to kiss the other. Instead, they take time to study each other’s faces. Their features are still shadowed in the amber light of the fireplace, but now that they’re on the couch, closer to the tree, their faces are also dotted with the colorful reflection of Christmas lights. Mike, with his warm shadows and vibrant highlights and cheekbones and effortlessly wavy hair, looks like a mosaic, like a work of art.

With the way Mike’s looking at her, she gets the feeling that he’s thinking something similar. He raises his thumb to brush against her lips, and El gives it a gentle, chaste kiss as it passes by.

The clock that’s mounted on the wall ticks as the seconds pass. It’s the only sound to be heard in this secluded living room, alongside Mike and El’s steady, even breathing.

And then it happens.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Mike whispers.

It’s simple, down-to-earth, and not incredibly romantic. Well, at least not by the standards of the soap operas and romance movies she watches. On TV, the dashing love interests always proclaim their feelings with chauvinistic grandeur. There’s sweeping music, profound and poetic declarations of love, and sometimes even a ring, depending on the situation.

All of the romance movies she watches are kind of boring like that, El suddenly realizes. The movies don’t even begin to capture what love really feels like. It’s not always dramatic proclamations of adoration from a hunky, dreamboat actor. Sometimes love was a scrawny kid covered in heart-adorned band-aids showing up at her door with an armful of Eggos. Sometimes love was that scrawny kid comparing her to a star system. It didn’t have to be poetic; sometimes it was only seven-words — tentatively whispered, yet resoundingly true.

The more El thinks about this, the more she realizes how silly she was for ever doubting that Mike loved her. That he was in love with her. The signs were right in front of her all along, she just wasn’t daring enough to admit that they were true.

And so, when Mike tells her that he’s in love with her, what else is there really to say?

“I know,” El whispers back.

Mike’s eyes widen. “Did you just—?”

—Quote Star Wars in response to his declaration of love?

Obviously.

El bites down on her lip as she tries not to giggle. “Yes.”

There’s no way to properly describe how Mike looks at her then. The only way El can really process it is in relation to other things.

He breathes out, like the way one might as a rollercoaster finally comes to an end. Like his nerves are still jumbled, his heart is still racing, but he can finally breathe again.

His body relaxes with contentment, like the way one’s might after returning from a long trip away.

He reaches out to touch her cheek and his eyes are full with reverent wonder, like the way he looks at the photographs of galaxies in his science textbooks.

He looks at her like she’s his sense of repose, his home, his world.

El knows that they’re still young, probably too young to be feeling this strongly about each other, but as El into his eyes, her mind flutters with perennial, fragmented words like binary stars, the one, and forever.

She can’t even think in complete sentences, that’s what he’s done to her.

Mike leans in so that their lips are only inches apart. His voice soft, loving — he whispers, “Hey, El?”

“Yes, Mike?”

“Is it later yet?”

In 15 minutes, Hopper will return from The Byers. Mike and El with jolt up from the couch with a start, blushing furiously and hoping that Hopper won’t notice (he will).

Tomorrow, El will spend the day at the Byers, and as she helps Will decorate his Christmas tree, she’ll notice the strange look her Dad gets on his face when he looks at Joyce, like he’s found something.

In 11 days, it’ll be Christmas morning. Mike will come over sometime during the afternoon to give her the necklace he’d gotten for her — a simple, silver chain adorned with two tiny stars. Hopper will give Mike his present — a new bike, and El won’t be able to stop herself from taking a picture of the stupidly surprised look Mike gets on his face. Mike will get all huffy, because he hates pictures, but then when El gives him her present, a limited edition Star Wars comic book, all will quickly be forgiven.

In one year, one of El’s best friends (and future step-brother), will finally confess the feelings he’s been trying to sequester. El will assure Will that he’s not a freak, that there’s nothing wrong with him, just like he’d done to her.

In less than two years, during the summer between their Junior and Senior year, El will finally grow tired of wanting more of Mike, instead needing all of him. It’ll be another learning curve peppered with ‘are you sure?’ and ‘is this okay?’ (she’ll be completely sure; it’ll totally be more than ok), but as always, they’ll figure it out together.

As time goes on, there’ll only be more things to figure out about love. Mike and El’s future, while currently unknown to the both of them, is still unfurling and expanding with every moment they spend together. There’ll be time to discover what’s in store, all the time in the world, actually, but right now—

“Yes,” El murmurs, brushing her lips against his cheek, then his jaw, “It’s later.”

Tag List: @pixie813, @lovecolesprouse, @miss-sad-marshmallow, @wrongirish, @lonewolfhard, @bbc-radio-phan, @ontariokid, @catalystofhighhopes, @iliketheinternet, @e1vn , @the-proud-princess, @bugheadqueen , @mother-harrington , @finnywolfyy, @ethoctransierit, @elevenhawkins, @kathpride18, @sherlock-salvadale, @creepyfangirlwhosucksatedits, @barbara----holland, @puzzlingsnark, @milevenbeauty , @gemel-dreamer, @itssciencefitz, @michitesoro, @jenn0bi, @miss-elhopper, @bitchin-promises, @bestmomsteve, @mileven-353, @irisskk, @lostinhawkinss, @didi-stranger-things 

#mileven #mileven fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #berrie fics #everybodytalks #I'M CRYING IN THE CLUB FAM

[lfthinkerwrites]

Aftermath

Chapter Title: Aftermath

Fandom: Batman

Rating: PG

Summary: All actions have consequences, positive and negative.

AO3 Link

Perhaps it was lingering memories of the past times he’d interacted with the man, tucked away somewhere deep into his subconscious, but Edward was instantly on the defensive at Batman's query. "I take it you heard about our old friend Tut."

"I know the situation yes," Batman answered. "I'd like to hear the whole story from you first."

As Edward recounted what had occurred over the past two days, he kept an eye on Batman's expression. The vigilante remained impassive behind that cowl of his, not even reacting as Edward threw in a few (In Edward's opinion deserved) jabs at Gordon. Finally, Edward concluded his tale. "...So I successfully apprehended Goodman and rescued Dr. Young. Your presence wasn't required."

Batman's expression didn't change as he seemed to process everything that Edward told him. "I see.” He said finally. “Do you really think that will be the end of it?"

Edward raised an eyebrow. "Goodman's terminal. He'll be dead before he can try anything again and Carson's no threat on her own. What more can they possibly do to me?"

"You need to look at the bigger picture Edward. Goodman and Carson themselves are out of the picture, but there are going to be serious consequences for what you did."

"What I did?" Edward repeated. "What I did? I'm not the one that killed three people and caused chaos in the city!"

"Five," Batman corrected. "Two GCPD officers died in the bombing. Another dozen were injured."

Edward frowned. "That wasn't my fault-"

"I'm not saying that it is," Batman interrupted. "You aren't responsible for what Goodman did, but Bullock isn't going to be the only person in this city who will blame you for it. You can't afford to be making any more enemies by taking the unnecessary risks that you did."

'Any more enemies'. Did Batman know about Strange's interest in him? Even if he did, would he care? "And just what was I supposed to do?" Edward shouted. "Stay hidden away in my office until Goodman came after me? He targeted me! He made it very clear that he wasn't going to stop until I was dead!"

"Tell me: after Goodman attacked you in Zeus' old club, why didn't you go to Gordon with what you knew?"

Edward narrowed his eyes. "Does that cowl block your hearing? I told you, Gordon didn't want me anywhere near this case. If I'd gone to him, he would have kept me away!"

"Maybe he would have," Batman conceded. "But he might have been more willing to work with you on flushing Goodman out if he knew what you did. There would have been no need for Dr. Young to be put in danger."

Edward felt his face flush. "I didn't and I would never willingly-"

"I don't think you intended for to Goodman to target her. But it still happened, because you let your ego get in the way of actually solving the case. That's why Gordon didn't think he'd be able to trust you."

Edward huffed. "I think this latest incident proved that no matter what I do, Gordon will never trust me. So why should I even bother?"

Batman took a step forward and for a moment, Edward tensed up, waiting for the vigilante to strike him. His body often remembered what his mind couldn't. The blow never came though. Instead Batman sighed. "There are a lot of people in Gotham who don't want you to succeed Edward. Gordon's not one of those people. Neither am I."

He sounded genuine, but Edward didn't believe him for a moment. If that was true, he would never have been in a coma in the first place. If that was true, Jonathan would still be-"If you're quite done lecturing me," he drawled, "I've had a long day and I'll have a busy morning. I'm not just a private investigator any more. I'm an actual hero now. Gotham's press corp won't get enough of me."

Batman's eyes narrowed and he stalked off towards the open window. Before he left, he gave one last look at Edward. "It won't just be your name that gets put in the papers Edward. Think about it." Before Edward could say anything in response, Batman was out the window. Edward slammed it shut behind him and stormed off to his bedroom. The absolute nerve of him! Couldn't he let him enjoy just a bit of the well earned success he'd achieved without breaking in to remind him of every mistake he'd ever made? As he flopped down onto his bed, Batman's last words nagged at him. 'Not just his name in the papers...' Well of course, Goodman would be there too, but why would the Dark Knight bring him up? But who else could he have meant-

Edward sat up with a start. Penelope. As Goodman's last victim, she'd be caught up in this too. It would be the second time this year that she'd be connected to him in a big news story. He'd already been fielding questions about her from too many people. Best case scenario, she'd be the target of all sorts of media gossip. Worst case...Edward clenched his fist. Worst case, she'd become a target for anyone of the long list of people who had a score to settle with him. Either way, their ability to work together would be compromised. And he'd promised her...Edward sighed and lay back down. He was too tired for this.

Edward managed to drag himself out of bed and to GCPD at noon. The waiting room was still cordoned off and the area around the bull pen was being swept up. Any other town, Edward would wonder why the building was still even operational. This was Gotham though. GCPD had seen worse the last three months alone. Frankly, the only thing that remotely surprised him was the fact that the tree in the front parking lot was still standing. Edward ignored the glares he received from the police officers as he strolled up the hall towards the Commissioner's office. The glares he was used to.

Gordon's office door was closed when Edward approached it. Not for the first time, he wondered if he'd done the smart thing by coming alone. Edward scoffed. He'd never been intimidated by GCPD before and he'd be damned if he would be now. He knocked on the door briskly. "Come in!" he heard on the other side. Edward swung the door open wide.

In Gordon's office was the man himself, sitting at his desk. He looked up and visibly sighed when he saw who was standing before him. "Come in Nigma," he said. "Shut the door behind you."

Edward did as he asked. "Good afternoon Commissioner!" he chirped, as if he were actually happy to see the man. "You look tired. Long night I take it?"

"Don't you even start," Gordon growled. "Take a seat."

Edward sat in the offered chair in front of Gordon's desk, noticing the bandage wrapped around his head for the first time. He thought about commenting, but decided not to. Gordon would regard anything he said as insincere. He'd be right too. "So," Gordon said, pulling open his desk drawer. "I take it you're here for your phone."

"Well done Commissioner," Edward responded. "Among other things."

Gordon's eyes narrowed as he pulled out Edward's cell phone. He handed it over to Edward's outstretched palm. For a long moment afterwards, the two men sat in silence. Finally, Gordon spoke. "Let's be completely honest," Gordon said in a gruff tone. "Neither of us handled this situation as well as we should have. That being said," he raised his right hand up, cutting off Edward's imminent protest. "Bullock had no right to detain you. I sincerely regret that happened. He's been appropriately disciplined."

Edward raised an eyebrow. This was more than he expected from Gordon, and the thought of Bullock getting even a taste of what he so richly deserved was satisfying. "Well, thank you Commissioner. I appreciate it." He lowered his voice slightly. "I'm sure you'll understand though if I'm a bit hesitant about collaborating with GCPD again anytime soon."

Gordon sighed and nodded. "I understand. I'm sorry to hear that too Nigma. I hope you'll reconsider at some point. Despite how this went, you have done some good work."

Edward suspected that Gordon knew as well as he did that any chance of a working partnership between him and GCPD, remote as it was before, was moving into the realm of impossibility. Still, it didn't hurt to be polite. "Commissioner," he said, tipping his hat. As he turned to leave, he heard Gordon say one last thing.

"By the way, thank you for saving Dr. Young. I really appreciate it."

I didn't do it for you, Edward wanted to bite out. Instead, he walked out the office without another word. As he made his way down the hallway and out into the bullpen, he caught Bullock on the other side of the room, glowering at him. Edward let out a sardonic smirk in his direction. Bullock's face purpled and he looked like he was about to walk over when Montoya caught his arm and whispered something in his ear. Whatever she said must have worked, for Bullock remained still, settling for glaring at Edward as he walked towards the exit. Moron.

Edward was almost out the door when he almost collided with another familiar face. "Edward? What are you doing here?"

Edward was just as surprised to see Penelope as she was to see him. "I could ask you the same question. Don't tell me Gordon has you working today!"

"No," she answered. "I'm here to give my statement about what happened last night."

Of course. Edward had given his to a uniformed officer before Bullock had begun laying into him. "Ah. I was here for a more mundane reason. I had to get my phone back. Cash took it from me last night when Bullock had me detained."

Penelope's gaze darkened a bit when Edward mentioned that. "I see. What are you going to do about that?"

Edward chuckled a bit. "I'm not going to sue the department, if that's what you're asking. But I don't think I'll be working with them anytime soon."

Penelope nodded. "I see. I can't say I'm too surprised by that, to be honest."

"Well," Edward said. "It's a good thing for us that technically, you don't work for GCPD. You're just a consultant. Not that there's anything wrong with that."

Penelope shook her head. "Edward," she said. "I'm still not going to undermine Gordon. Not even after what happened."

Edward's tone grew serious. "And I'll never ask you to. I mean it." Edward wet his lip. "Going forward, I think we should stick to meeting in your office. Wouldn't want to compromise you again. How much time will you be taking off?"

"Just the rest of the week. You can come by my office Monday morning, if you want."

It was already Thursday. Edward blinked. "Not to sound patronizing, but you were just in a life and death situation. Is four days enough time?"

Penelope shrugged. "It's...not the first time I've been in a life and death situation Edward. Not by a long shot. And I don't like to waste time when I could be doing something productive instead. Are you going to take any time off?"

Edward chuckled a bit again. "No, no I'm not. Speaking of which," he looked down at his phone. He had 10 missed calls from the various news reporters in Gotham, not to mention messages from Oswald, Dierdre and Nina. "I should get going. I'll see you on Monday Penelope." He looked up and the look on her face was surprised. "What?"

Penelope shook her head. "I'm sorry, it's just...you've never called me by my first name before."

Edward cocked his head. Had he crossed some boundary and not know it? She referred to him by his first name almost exclusively. "Is it a problem?"

"No!" Penelope said. "No. It's just..different. I'll get used to it."

Edward smiled a bit then. "Alright then. Good bye, Penelope." He walked away from the GCPD building, just as his phone began to ring. "Edward Nigma, Private Investigator."

"Well, look who decided to finally pick up!"

Edward's eyes narrowed. "Hello Ryder," he said. "Run out of tabloid gossip to peddle for the day already?"

"I was wondering if I could get a comment on what exactly happened last night. How did Goodman escape GCPD custody after you caught him? Is it true he had a hostage? And how exactly did you catch him the second time?"

Edward looked behind him. Penelope was long out of sight, probably in Gordon's office now. Edward sighed. She was the one good thing that resulted from his encounters with GCPD. She didn't deserve to be scrutinized by the likes of Ryder. "Well Ryder," he said with bravado. "My comment is this: No Comment. Goodbye Ryder." Edward hung up, contenting himself with the mental image of Ryder's smug face being outraged at being hung up on.

"'No comment.' That was all Edward Nigma had to say today regarding Victor Goodman's final rampage. Although Goodman and his accomplice Leigh Carson are in custody, there are still many unanswered questions surrounding their recent crime spree. How was it that GCPD had no idea what Goodman was planning? Where was his parole officer? Should Goodman have even been released in the first place? Finally, what impact will this event have on Mayor Quincy Sharp's upcoming first term in office? We'll be discussing these topics and more tonight, on the Jack Ryder Show."

"No comment," Gordon said, shaking his head. "Edward Nigma not taking credit? Now I've seen everything. Whatever you said to him last night must have actually humbled him somewhat."

Bruce very much doubted that. "How was he when you saw him today?"

"He acted as smarmy as he usually does, but I could tell he was angry." Gordon sighed. "And for once, I can't say that I blame him. What in God's name was Bullock thinking detaining him? We're lucky Nigma didn't decide to make a fuss about it! We were actually making progress I thought with forming some kind of working relationship with him, but he'll never try to collaborate with us again." Gordon lit his pipe and began to smoke. "It's my fault," he said finally. "I should have either let Nigma work the case with us or done a better job at keeping him away."

"It's not your fault Jim," Bruce said. "Goodman was obsessed with getting revenge on Nigma. He was going to get involved no matter what you did." I should have been here, Bruce thought. Maybe he could have helped contain Edward.

"I know, I know." Gordon took another long drag on his pipe. "I've realized something during this case. All the talk we do about how we want the Rogues to be treated and reformed and what happens when one of them finally does? We have no idea what to do with him. God knows I'll never like Nigma, but sometimes I feel sorry for the bastard. He's not really part of either world in Gotham anymore."

No. No he really wasn't. Apart from Cobblepot and Selina, Edward was almost completely isolated in Gotham. That made him vulnerable, which was probably why Strange had targeted him back in May. His reformation was a tightrope. One false step or sharp shove and he'd be back into the abyss he'd narrowly escaped from. Bruce wouldn't let that happen. "What about Dr. Young?" he asked. "Would he still work with her?"

Gordon paused. "He might," he said carefully. "He did risk his life his life for her after all. He must have some regard for her. I don't like the idea of using her to keep tabs on him though. Poor woman's been through enough. And I don't think that's why you suggested I use her as a consultant either."

No, it wasn't. Edward had been just about the last thing on Bruce's mind when he'd suggested it. But it seemed that decision had led to unforeseen consequences for everyone involved. Bruce just wished he could be sure whether they were positive or negative. One thing he was certain of though. Edward Nigma, reformed he may be, required more supervision.

"This is absolutely disgraceful," Sharp fumed, watching the news coverage. "To be beholden to a vigilante is bad enough, but for GCPD to be shown up by Nigma! It's galling!"

"I agree," Hugo Strange answered. It was disgraceful, but it was also useful. Public confidence in the GCPD was already low enough. Nigma's latest stunt wasn't helping matters. One more incident like this and the public would be clamoring for an alternative. Strange smirked. The so-called Private Investigator was proving to be most useful indeed.

"When I take office, the first thing I'm going to do is demand Gordon's resignation," Sharp said vindictively. "Then I can appoint someone competent!"

"I wouldn't advise that," Strange answered. "Gordon is popular even if GCPD as an institution is not. It wouldn't look good to start off your administration by firing him. It would serve us better to create a situation where he resigns on his own accord."

Sharp's shoulders slumped. "Very well...I'm going to form a commission to examine parole practices then. And demand greater supervision of paroled inmates. If Goodman had been a patient while I was warden, he never would have gotten out! And if that insufferable Edward Nigma thinks he'll be able to do as he pleases in my City, he's in for quite a shock!"

Strange ignored the fool as he continued blustering. He already had policy changes in mind when he finally officially took control of the Asylum.

#PI verse #from the case files of edward nigma #Oh wow look who finally updated

[northeasternwind]

heyho more jack crushing on reaper prefall stuff

The first half was written at work and the second half hasn’t even been proofread so have fun with that lol. this is the version where they actually do end up banging, as opposed to the other version which is a comedy consisting of gabe trying to fight off jack’s only-obvious-if-you-know-already advances while trying not to let on that he knows SHOUT OUT T SOLRIKA FOR THE HELP AND PROVIDING LINES HEHEHEHE.

Walking into a firefight with no weapons or armor was not, sadly enough, the worst idea Jack Morrison had had lately. But a quick peek into Gabriel’s files revealed that Reaper was in town again, and that his next probable target was significantly more competent than his last. Reaper had a proficiency in battle so impressive it made Jack hot under the collar, but knowing he was so close to home made him worry, and so he’d made some excuse about fresh air and went out in his civilian clothes to loiter nearby.

Maybe he would spot Jack and give up this particular criminal pursuit in favor of something they’d both enjoy a little more. It was a nice thought.

What actually happened, unfortunately, was less pleasant than either of them had hoped: it ended with Jack weaving his way silently through the battlefield, heart pounding, dragging the wounded Reaper quietly out of sight while their enemies picked through the rubble to finish him off.

Jack couldn’t very well take him to headquarters; that was bond to set off an alarm or two and cause trouble for them both, authority be damned. Once out of earshot of the battlefield he turned instead to one of Gabriel’s safehouses, a precaution Jack had considered overly paranoid before but now appreciated.

Gabriel. Jack was probably undermining his best friend’s efforts to bring Reaper to justice, and now using the man’s own safehouse to do it. But, Jack thinks, his grip on Reaper tightening, even if Gabriel would disapprove he might at least understand, because if there was anything Gabe excelled at it was reading and acknowledging Jack’s feelings—

Pain lanced through Jack’s side, punching the air out of him and stopping him dead in his tracks. He didn’t have to look down to realize what had caused it: Reaper had dug his claws into Jack’s shirt as hard as he could, and was currently doing his damndest to squirm free of Jack’s grip.

“Hey—” Fortunately Jack was stronger, hitching Reaper more securely about his shoulders. “Cut that— Ow! What’s wrong?”

Reaper’s ragged breath was the only answer he received, but the trembling fist in Jack’s shirt spoke volumes. He was definitely anxious about something, but without a voice there was no way for him to indicate what.

“I’m taking you somewhere safe where I can patch you up, and then you can leave,” Jack promised. “You’re not in any position to be doing it yourself, buddy.”

Reaper’s shoulders slumped and his grip loosened, leaving Jack to assume begrudging acceptance. Without any further complications Jack lugged his companion to Gabe’s safehouse, depositing him carefully on the nearest couch and leaving to fish the first aid kit out of the bathroom.

“This place isn’t actually mine,” Jack called back to him as he searched. “So we’ll have to get you out of here as quickly as possible. Which seems to be what you want anyway, but you’re not going until I know you’re not going to bleed out in a dark corner somewhere.”

Reaper had barely moved an inch when Jack returned, a bad sign for one who had presumably seen his fair share of injuries. The furniture had been specifically chosen to make cleaning up less of a hassle, but that only made the amount of blood staining the couch look even more alarming. Jack swallowed against his will and settled in on the floor next to Reaper, getting to work on all the belts holding his coat closed—

Suddenly there were claws on Jack’s wrist, and when he started and looked up the other man shook his head furiously.

“Oh come on,” Jack said. “If you die I’ll find out who you are anyway.”

Reaper shook his head again, reaching up with his left hand to take a fistful of Jack’s hair. Tapping once on his skull. Reaper’s pantomime for no.

“It’s going to be hard to wrap you up with that thing in the way.”

Jack winced as Reaper’s grip tightened and he tapped on Jack’s head again. No.

“…Suit yourself.”

With a tightness in his throat he couldn’t explain Jack went back to work, disinfecting and binding Reaper’s wounds as best he could with the coat in the way. Sometimes there was simply no getting around cutting pieces off first, but Reaper shied away from the knife every time Jack brought it close and tapped no if he cut off too much.

“Hey,” Jack said with a softness he hadn’t intended. “I already said I wasn’t going to take it off.”

But Reaper did not relax, and no amount of gentle reassurance could make him do so. His whole body was pulled taut, ready to defend himself at a moment’s notice, and Jack couldn’t stop the wave of helpless frustration the thought sent through him.

He’s just being cautious with a natural enemy, Jack reminded himself. Like I should be. But that knowledge didn’t change the irrational pain of knowing how little Reaper trusted him with this—his identity or his life.

Reaper’s obvious suffering and fear struck deeper, however; no matter how many times Gabriel and Torbjörn warned against a bleeding heart it was simply impossible to restrain his need to help, to do something even if he could regret it in the future. And Reaper especially was…

Without warning Reaper surged upwards and toppled Jack off the couch, pinning him on the floor with his claws around Jack’s throat. For a moment Jack knew a blinding fear and bitter regret, but when Reaper didn’t take the opportunity to slit his throat he restrained the urge to defend himself. Reaper shook so violently he risked cutting Jack open by accident, and after hastily sorting through his distracted memory Jack caught the problem.

“I—I wasn’t going to take it off,” he said. “I was trying to get at your shoulder—I wasn’t trying to touch your mask at all, I swear. I’m sorry.”

Reaper’s chest heaved in his distress, but such a sudden exertion seemed to make his decision easier; he slid off of Jack with more effort than it should have taken and collapsed onto his back, throwing an arm over his face. He trembled pitifully, and something in Jack’s chest tightened.

For all that Jack had every right to know who Reaper was under the mask, he’d said sorry. And he meant it. He… would rather go on not knowing than see the man so upset.

Fuck.

“Hey. Let’s get you patched up, alright? I don’t want to hurt you, so try to relax.” Jack pushed himself upright and carefully scooped Reaper into his arms—the couch was still the best place to take care of him. He offered no resistance at all, only stiffening as Jack inevitably jostled his wounds placing him back on the couch. “I’ll try to move more slowly from now on. Come on, just rest…”

Reaper made a noise that could have been either frustration or pain. Jack bit his lip; he should have known better than to think not being able to see Reaper’s face would make this easier to bear. He took a deep breath and reached for Reaper’s shoulder. “Alright, I’m gonna need to see that shoulder. Try not to panic this time, you hear?”

It was a wonder Reaper had any movement at all in that arm, Jack thought idly, reminded of his own accelerated healing. “I’ll get you something for the pain when I’m done—if you’ll take it while I’m still here. Although I bet a guy like you would knock them back dry under these circumstances.” Talking would probably keep his mind off things better… “You’re a real headache, you know that? Getting up to mischief less than twenty miles from Overwatch HQ. I can help you out on the streets, but you’re more likely to get the fake combat routine the minute you step inside.

“Hell, you’d better not step inside at all, because if you do I’m going to assume you’re there to kill more of my people.” Jack paused for a moment, willing the anger out of his limbs so he wouldn’t hurt Reaper without meaning to. “…We’ve been through this before. There’s no point in saying it all again.”

There wasn’t. Reaper could neither justify his actions nor apologize for them, and Jack had a feeling that even if he could he would do neither. Was it because he believed himself morally justified, or because he simply didn’t regret the loss of life? Jack didn’t know enough about him to tell.

Jack’s teeth were ground together so tightly his jaw was beginning to hurt, so he took a deep breath and tried to relax. “…Sorry. I don’t know whether I have the right to take this all out on you.”

Even Jack wasn’t foolish enough to admit it out loud and give Reaper the chance to betray him, but for all his anger the thought of Reaper in any kind of pain, physical or emotional, made him sick. He didn’t want to turn a blind eye to Reaper’s crimes. He didn’t want to betray his friends like this. He didn’t want to bite his tongue and smother his own discontent, but the only person he could speak to about it was Reaper and he didn’t want to hurt Reaper.

“Whatever,” he said gruffly, finishing up with the last piece of gauze. “I just hope you appreciate what I’m doing for you. You don’t have to thank me, but you’d better understand—”

Understand what?

“—how much effort this took,” he finished, rising to his feet. “You can leave if you want to, but you’re clearly in no state to go anywhere and I’m not leaving you in a friend’s safehouse by yourself, so I’m gonna get some shuteye. I suggest you do the same.”

He turned to go, but a hand on his stopped him. He had half a mind to shake it off and continue, but in the end he turned to see what Reaper wanted. The mask leered up at him impassively. The hand tugged softly.

“…You want me to stay with you?”

Two taps. Yes.

Jack hesitated, then sighed. “I’m carrying you to the bed. There’s no way we’ll both fit on that thing, so don’t complain if it hurts.”

For the third time that night Jack lifted Reaper into his arms and carried him to the bedroom. Getting the sheets off with his hands full was unlikely to be worth the effort when neither of them had any intention of getting undressed, so he simply laid Reaper upon the bed and kicked his shoes off before settling in next to him, tucking Reaper’s head into the crook of his shoulder.

“G’night. You bastard,” he added as an afterthought.

Reaper’s shoulders shook in what might have been a laugh, and slowly, laboriously he brought an arm around Jack before going still.

Jack closed his eyes. He’d think of a suitable excuse for the others in the morning.

Jack woke to an empty bed, a spotless safehouse and a note on the table.

Be fine. Thanks.

#north writes #ryuu ga waga teki go fuck yourself #I'LL POST IT IN PROPER TAGS TOMORROW AFTER PROOFREADING

[soartfullydone]

A Deal of Knives and Ash

I posted this first chapter of my self-insert ACOTAR AU about a year ago and just wanted to update it with new canon names, characters, and the like. But if you’re reading this expecting Book 2 and 3 stuff, don’t. I’m ignoring all of that and writing about actual Fae stuff now. Book 1 characterizations or bust.

Melody could say, with utmost certainty, that she despised the Children of the Blessed. She wouldn't even be in her current position if it weren't for them, wouldn't even be in Prythian of all places. If she hadn't needed somewhere to go, if the timing had been just a little different, if they hadn't caught her so lost and desperate.

If she hadn't been so desperate to begin with. Children of the Blessed. Melody scoffed. Children of the Cow-eyed Fools was more like it. 

She wished she could say the same of her faerie masters, but after spending close to a year in their company, Melody found they were neither cow-eyed nor foolish. Instead of being the merciful, benevolent gods their idolaters promised, they were cruel, capricious, and unforgiving. They were also unfailingly arrogant, and as much as their behavior irritated her, it also worked to her advantage. Still, she despised the Fae with equal fervor behind her mask of cool indifference. All save one. "Quick! Don't fall behind now!" a faerie with skin of gnarled wood and tendrils of tiny leaves for hair half-hissed, half-barked at her. "I thought we were trying for discretion. I'm right here, Lyra. No need to shout." "You picture me for a fool? I know how you like to wander." Lyra grabbed her gently by the wrist, not letting Melody leave her side. "Cauldron boil me! The drums have already started." "You sure no one will mess with the horses?" Melody glanced back to where they were left tethered, barely discernible in the darkness. "I'm not worried about the horses. They can take care of themselves." "Implying that I can't?" Melody’s lips quirked to the side wryly. "I was asking more for escape plans than anything." Lyra laughed under her breath. "Of course. I should have known." They ascended a sloping hill, crouching low to peer over its crest at their surroundings. Bonfires were scattered across the dark green landscape like stars and gathered around them were faeries—so many faeries—both High Fae and otherwise. Melody's eyes strained as she took them all in, her senses assaulted as she saw through glamour after glamour. A pounding started in her head, matching the beat of the drums in the distance. "We can always go back." Lyra's voice was kind and deliberate. "I shouldn't have brought a human here, and on Calanmai of all days. It was a mistake." Melody smoothed her scowl of pain into a steady, impassive mask. "I'm fine. Besides, we had to come, and I didn't ride for five days, earning myself a sore ass, for nothing."

"Just don't get discovered, or else you'll be wishing a sore ass was the worst of your problems." Lyra's eyes trailed guiltily to Melody's back, where they both knew a wicked scar rested along a shoulder blade. Melody pretended not to notice. With a huff, Lyra straightened her spine, businesslike. She leveled a cool stare at her mortal friend. "Let's run through it once more." Melody nodded. "You gather information on the Spring Court for the little lordlings while I find our favorite plant." "And remember: pull the root. It's useless otherwise." “It’ll be a full-grown tree here, though, right? Not the measly shrub we have.” Melody grinned. "Are you sure you're not just saying that because you love to eat the roots?" "Because everyone knows that all faeries have a steady diet of roots, twigs, and berries. Don't sass me, mortal." Lyra swatted her playfully before making eye contact and holding it. "Listen to me. I used the last of the blossoms to mask your scent, but your body's grown used to it. It's weaker now. Up close, anyone will be able to faintly smell your humanness, enough to make them look at you twice. Don't let that happen. Do not make eye contact or speak to anyone. Keep moving. The night's festivities should distract them." "Should?" Melody whispered back, finally feeling trepidation coil like a viper in her stomach. "Is the Spring Court's Fire Night like Autumn's?" "It used to be worse, but the new High Lord is very different from his father. The crowd, however, is still relatively untamed. And there are many beings here who shouldn't be." The pair watched the crowd shift, more and more Fae gravitating towards a cave entrance in the distance, away from the estate. The drums pounded louder, more urgently. Melody felt the pull, but steeled herself. Resisted. It was only magic, nothing she hadn't encountered before at the Autumn Court. Slowly, the crowd before them began to thin out. It was as safe to descend as it would ever be. Lyra spoke as Melody threw her cloak's hood over her hair, shielding her features. "Go back to the horses when you're done. If I finish first, I'll wait for you there." "So long as the High Lord of the Spring Court doesn't select you as his Maiden." Melody's voice slid out teasingly. Lyra elbowed her in retaliation. "You're so funny. Have I told you how funny you are? Next time my Lord Beron requires a court jester for entertainment, I'll send you his way." "Oh, but I'd hate to take that position away from his sons." Melody sobered as she looked over at her faerie guide. "Be careful down there, Lyrie." Lyra smiled fondly at the nickname. "You, too, dear one. May the Blessed Mother grant us good fortune tonight." Together, they rose and walked down the hill, the faerie heading toward the crowd congregating at the mouth of the cave, and the human toward the gardens of the Spring Court estate. The latter did not get far.

It was worse up close. The drums seemed to pound into her very soul, calling to her, determining even how her heartbeat pulsed. For every step Melody took towards the Spring Court estate, she seemed to take two steps back toward the cave and the faeries waiting there.

Cheap faerie tricks, she groused, once again shaking herself from whatever hypnosis the drums and the magic in the air stirred within her. She’d handled worse. Even with the headache, she would still keep it handled. She had a mission to complete. They couldn’t return to the Autumn Court without at least the flowers from the plant. Melody could’ve laughed to herself at the irony, for it was the Flowering Ash that kept her identity as a human secret from even the sharp-eyed nobility of the Autumn Court. No wonder the Fae had burned all the human’s ash trees across the border; too much of it could be used against them.

But while the Autumn Court’s Flowering Ash tree was small, wilted, and thoroughly harvested, it was said that the Spring Court harbored their own deep in the gardens, behind a stone wall, and that tree was large and thriving still.

Melody pulled herself from her musings, only to find in her distraction that she’d wandered—not toward the gardens—but toward the cave entrance yet again. Cursing, she spun on her heel, ignoring her muggy thoughts and the hostile eyes she felt on her when a voice like liquid velvet spoke in her ear.

“Oh, my. Imagine a mortal all the way out here on Calanmai. Are you trying to be part of the buffet?”

And despite Lyra telling her otherwise, Melody turned to look at who spoke, at who had seen through her deception, felt compelled to do so. Behind her, standing far too close, was a Fae who was so beautiful it hurt to look at him. Seeing through his glamour, Melody was mentally slammed with the sight of his true form, of the pale skin that shown as bright as moonlight, of the eyes that glowed like blue-violet stars, of the tendrils of darkness that seemed as much a living part of him as his growing grin.

To give herself some peace, she willed herself to be taken in by his glamour, but the moment she did, she felt adrift. The magic around her was too much, too alluring. She had a beautiful stranger before her, and she didn’t want to leave.

No. No, that wasn’t right. She needed to leave. Now.

“Not hardly,” she answered him, despite everything telling her to run and run fast. She edged around him, aware of how they both followed the other’s movements. “Besides, I’m certain I’m not to anyone’s…taste.”

Take the hint. Walk away from the evasive, flighty girl.

The stranger took a step forward, and Melody swore it was a prowl, made worse when he smiled at her. “And a presumptuous one, too. There are all sorts here, you know.”

An alarm went off in Melody’s head about what he said, but before she could deduce why, she felt herself trip on something. The stranger readily caught her by the arm.

“Ah, mind that root—there we are. Since I already have your arm, I might as well escort you around, don’t you think?” It was less a question and more a seduction.

Though upright, Melody still felt unbalanced. That root had not been there. He hadn’t even been close enough to grab her, and then suddenly he was.

Normally, she would pull away from him immediately, except she noticed one very important thing. While she remained in this Fae’s sphere of influence, the other faeries who watched her with their keen eyes, gleaming smiles, and gnarled features gave them both a wide berth.

“Oh, yes, I suppose you might as well,” she replied flippantly. Feeling uncharacteristically combative, she muttered under her breath, full well knowing he could hear, “Though I doubt you’re concerned with what I think.”

His condescending smile was answer enough. Melody took in the shadows around him, how even with the glamour he still simultaneously blended into the night and bent it to his will. “So what sort are you?”

“What sort, she asks?” He laughed, and it wasn’t kind. The sound sent a rush of heat through her the same time it chilled her heart. “Do you want me to sit you down and tell you the Cauldron story, or shall you figure it out like a clever little girl?”

She might have tried to trip him while they walked. What was wrong with her? She never attempted this kind of behavior with the Fae of the Autumn Court. Never.

“I think you’re the ‘answers questions with a question’ sort.” She narrowed her eyes at him, saying with finality, “Night Court.” It was obvious by his state of dress alone, but as for the kind of Fae he was…

Because she wanted to wipe that smirk from his face, she said, “Perhaps you’re an elf, it would certainly explain your rudeness. Or a Banshee with how your voice is grating on my nerves. Or maybe you’re some manner of wisp or spirit designed to lead me astray. Or perhaps…”

An idea flashed in her mind. Could he be High Fae? If he were, he would have killed her by now. She dismissed the idea immediately, because humoring the alternative caused her need to flee to be almost unbearable. Because if he was, and he hadn’t killed her for her disrespect, then that would mean that he was planning worse…

“Or perhaps you’re nothing so impressive at all.” Melody wished she felt as confident as she sounded.

“Or perhaps,” he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “I’m something much, much better.” He pulled back from her, and the smirk returned, his eyes flashing with something mischievous and cruel. “In any case, you better hope so. Otherwise, these revelers might be tempted to get a bit too greedy with you.”

Aren’t you being a bit too greedy with me?

Aloud, she said, “They certainly seem to think you’re something. They’re staring but not coming any closer.” The stranger, for all his threats, walked with her with his lean frame between her and the other faeries. He wasn’t drawing her farther into the revelry, but neither was he leading her completely out of it.

“Where are we going?” she finally asked, trying to mask her features back to indifference.

“Would you bolt if I said somewhere private?” He hummed, finding amusement in something she couldn’t quite perceive. “No, I am escorting you away from becoming the snack table.”

The niggling suspicion—of something not being right with the conversation—bothered her.

“How generous of you.” She smiled, and it was all teeth. “But why? What do you want? I’ve never known your kind to do anything for free.”

Not even Lyra had taken her under her wing solely out of the goodness of her heart. The scar on her back attested to that fact.

“Oh, can it be? You’re not entirely ignorant? Half an education is a charming thing.” His eyes glinted with mirth, and Melody resisted the urge to stab them. “Since you ask, no, we rarely do anything for free, and I especially don’t see the point in it. Be assured I will be bringing this up later,” he ended with a satisfied purr.

Melody dug her heels in, twisting her wrist out of his grip. Brief surprise may have flickered across his face, but amusement quickly followed as he took in her defiant stance, the one that said she wasn’t moving, not without significant force.

“No. I asked for nothing from you. And quid pro quo is something I only humor with friends.”

She didn’t know this stranger well, but she sensed that she’d finally angered him. A long pause settled over their conversation. Then, he moved, but her senses blurred. Was he stepping closer or drifting?

“Oh? You’d rather I demand something of you right now?”

“I’d rather have a choice. It’s more gratifying that way.”

The human stayed steady, with considerable effort. Her smile held no warmth or humor. She knew the gossip, and what was the point in knowing if she didn’t use it? “Is that what you have to do? Force your company on people? The Night Court is feared, but not exactly loved, is it?”

He ignored her jibes and stalked closer. “Choices are not for girls who come to Calanmai.”

It was time to leave.

“What a convincing lie! I’m impressed,” she said with false delight. “But you always have a choice, and I’m always up for challenging convention.”

She turned from him, fully intending to walk, not run, to the Spring Court estate, ready to show any faerie pursuer just how vicious a human girl could be on Fire Night. Above all, she didn’t care if the beautiful Night Court bastard followed her or not.

He let her go.

But his voice called after her from writhing shadows, dripping with caresses and amusement once more. “All by yourself? Does that mean I should come back later for seconds?”

“I don’t care what you do. But the fact that you think there’s going to be something left of me after all is positively moving.”

She broke away from her stalking shadow, discreetly feeling for the weapons Lyra had given her, and ran through the conversation in her head. Something still bothered her about the whole thing, something he’d said early on. When she recalled the part where he called her “presumptuous, too,” she came to a halt, realizing.

That Fae could read her thoughts.

And he’d gotten in when she’d accepted his glamour.

The knowledge froze her to her bones, like being held under ice water. But her mind sharpened at last. The spell of Fire Night and her headache vanished as she refused to be fooled, as she closed the door to her mind, a door not made from solid iron, but of mighty ash.

Proud, she turned her head and found a spot where the shadows appeared darker. She snarled in its direction then marched away.

Despite what the stranger implied, no other faerie crossed her path. Lyra had been right.

The night’s activities proved to be far worthier distractions.

"Gathering these on Calanmai turned out to be a good thing, even if seeing Lucien almost gave me a heart attack," Melody noted one morning in Lyra's quarters. "One plant lasts us for four weeks. And it's more potent." Lyra bustled around, still getting ready for the day ahead. "I bet that was a fright, but none of the young masters have any reason to visit Spring. Only the disgraced son. I’m not even certain if they would survive it. But it'll be good once we host our own Fire Night. The plants will be restored, and we can harvest our own supply again. No need to go back to the Spring Court." Melody caught the edge of trepidation in her voice. "I told you to stop worrying. That Fae isn't going to suddenly be lurking around a corner to snatch me away. He doesn't know what court I'm from. We didn't even exchange names." "That's what's worrying me. The way you described him, on top of him being Night Court of all things." Before Melody could reassure her, another faerie poked his head into Lyra's room. "We need someone to send a tea tray up." "Fine," Lyra sighed, rolling her eyes skyward. The faerie vanished, and Lyra gestured to Melody. "I should have never let you make the tea that day. She can't get enough of it. Well? Why are you still here? You know what to do." She did. Prepare the tea the way the Lady of the Autumn Court liked, deliver the tray unseen to her rooms, and come straight back. Nothing more. "How do I look?" Melody asked, wanting to make sure her disguise was properly in place. "Hmm." Lyra gazed at her haphazard appearance critically, then promptly scooped up a layer of dust and dirt from the floor and smacked Melody in the face with it. The human flinched back, sputtering and coughing as a satisfied smile curved Lyra's lips. "There. No one will want to look at you now." A final cough escaped Melody. "Thanks very much."

A few months later, Melody woke up on her small, makeshift cot in Lyra's quarters alone. Not unusual. Lyra sometimes had to manage the kitchen staff earlier in the mornings than her typical schedule called for. But there was something different about this morning, something wrong. It was too quiet. Tentatively, Melody slowly uncoiled herself and rose. Rotating her stiff joints, she made her way over to the entrance and leaned out of the doorway, taking in the corridor on either side. Empty. Not a single faerie came or went, and the air was dead. No magic to be sensed. The human didn't know what time it was, having no windows to consult on the matter, but it felt later than usual. Certainly later than Lyra ever allowed her to sleep in. She turned back to Lyra's rooms, shut the door, and walked over to the small table where they took their meals. That's when she saw the hastily scrawled note written in Lyra's curvy hand. Melody snatched it from the table, her worry cascading into a heart-racing fear as she read: It's finally happened. The fifty years are up, and the Spring Lord did not break his curse. She's decided to call us to her. All of the courts have been summoned Under the Mountain. I do not know why or when we will return, if we will return. I’m sorry I did not wake you, but I didn’t want you involved, and everything is happening so fast. Take the rest of the Flowering Ash and flee—as far as you can. Travel by daylight, cross the border, and go south. She means only death for you and your world. I'm so sorry.

All she felt was cold. Amarantha, the Deceiver, had actually won. Prythian was fully under her control, just like the lordlings had wanted.

Melody clenched the note in her hand, fell back into her cot, and tried not to panic.

It wasn’t working.

No, she had to think. Assess. It took five days to get to the heart of the Spring Court by horse, another three days to reach the border from there. And then she would have to find an opening, and there was no knowing how long that would take if she wound up near a part of the Wall without a breach. Melody only had a week left on her current batch of lotion before it would be used up. She would need to make more. She’d watched Lyra make it from the flowers and bark of the Flowering Ash tree (while eating any roots that could be harvested) dozens of times.

Melody remained in the Autumn Court for another three weeks, and she still hadn’t perfected it. In fact, the concoction never turned out right at all.

A month passed. Then another. By the end of the second month, she’d given up on making the lotion from the Flowering Ash, having already ruined most of the flowers. No one ever came or went into the Court, and Melody became braver and braver, roaming into the nobility’s rooms, stealing weapons, food, clothes, anything she needed before returning to the sanctuary of Lyra’s quarters in the lower levels. Every morning she woke up, she told herself that this would be the day she would leave, that she would brave the wilds of Prythian, that with everyone Under the Mountain, there would be no safer time.

She stayed for another month, convinced that Lyra would return and that things would return to normal.

And return, the Autumn Court did, but it wasn’t Lyra who found her.

It was the Eldest Son.

Eris.

He found her outside at one of the training grounds. Melody hadn’t run three steps before he was upon her, hoisting her in the air by the throat.

“What is more human filth doing here?”

She gasped for air, unable to answer, unable to explain, or beg, or whatever she had to do to save her life. He wasn’t built like a mountain, but he held her in the air effortlessly. He threw her down to the ground like a ragdoll.

Melody tried to crawl away, to get to her feet, but he planted a foot on her back and held her, crushed her, in place. She didn’t dare move when she heard a blade being drawn, didn’t react when he spoke again.

“This seems familiar.” His tone was cruelly nostalgic, like he was recalling a fond memory.

The scar on her back seemed to burn. Despite everything, it gave her the courage to speak.

“Please. I don’t—”

A blade slashed down, grazing her cheek the same time another voice cried out.

“My Lord, please have mercy!”

Lyra.

Melody heard more than saw Lyra appear and throw herself at Eris’ feet, could barely make out the faerie’s explanations through the rushing in her ears.

She jumped, though, when she heard the slap and felt the dust kick up when Lyra hit the ground next to her.

They were attracting an audience. Autumn Court faeries were murmuring, some laughing. She heard one say, “Another human? It’s an infestation.” Then came a retort. “But we wouldn’t be back home if it weren’t for—”

The faerie was silenced when Eris hurled a knife into his gut. The rest of the faeries took that as their cue to leave. When the area cleared and all that could be heard was Lyra’s sobs and Melody’s own stilted breathing, that’s when Melody knew through the cotton in her mind. Both she and Lyra were going to die here.

Very shortly.

Before Eris could deal out his punishment, a mocking laugh as dark as midnight and as smooth as silk broke the silent tension. Melody finally felt her numbed shock give way to shuddering fear at last.

She knew that laugh.

“What a sight. Did you know I was coming, that you prepared a little show for me?”

“Now is not a good time, Lord Rhysand.” Eris’ controlled posture slipped into acute rigidness. It took a moment to realize that he wasn’t fearful, but angry. “If you’re here to see my father, I’m afraid he has yet to return to court.”

The beautiful stranger, the one she had met at the Spring Court, the one she had once sworn would never find her, appeared in her line of vision. Tendrils of darkness still coiled around him, blending in with his dark, fitted, resplendent clothes, and though he gave the same cool smile, Melody knew there was something different about him.

She couldn’t explain it, but he seemed freer. Power rolled off of him, like his body could no longer contain it. He was utterly relaxed and unquestionably invincible.

Like nothing could touch him and live.

She hadn’t detected this from him before. He had felt dangerous, certainly, but this was something entirely different.

What had happened during those three months Under the Mountain?

“As it turns out, you’re the one I’m looking for.” Though the stranger—Rhysand—spoke to the Eldest Son, he turned his gaze on Melody.

Eris did the same. “Human vermin found its way into my court.” He sneered at Lyra. “And this traitor helped.”

“I see. Now how could that be when the Autumn Court is so well-guarded?”

Melody felt Rhysand’s gaze on her, and she willed her mind blank, willed anything anyway that could incriminate Lyra further. Risking a glance at him, she saw his brows furrow with sudden surprise. His gaze flicked to Lyra, and by the grimace on her face, Melody knew Rhysand had been successful with reading the faerie’s mind.

But not hers.

“Flowering Ash,” Rhysand announced, half-surprised, half-intrigued. “They created an ointment to mask her human scent, then masqueraded her as a servant.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“A year and a half.”

Eris laughed, and its mirth promised nothing good. “What clever rats we have. I can only hope you’re as clever with your screams.” He pressed harder into Melody’s back until she cried out. “I admit, I’ve been in a terrible mood lately. Perhaps this is just what I need. Permitted, of course, that the High Lord of the Night Court allows me such an indulgence before we discuss business?”

High Lord of the Night Court? Melody thought dazedly, her despair mounting with each passing second. All that time, she had been talking with…?

And he hadn’t killed her, which meant he was planning something worse.

“By all means. Only—wait a moment.” Rhysand crouched down in front of Melody and forced her to look up at him with a hand under her chin. Her muscles and spine strained, close to breaking. She watched those sensuous lips curve, watched as something worse formed itself in his violet eyes. “Mmm, I thought so. I was hoping we’d run into each other again, love.”

“Why am I not surprised that you know this human? You seem to know all the mortal women lately, my lord.” No one could miss the accusation in Eris’ voice.

“Blame that love-struck fool, Tamlin. He seems to draw them. I met her at Spring’s Fire Night, only now I know why she was really there.” He smiled at her, and it was slightly wild. Melody recoiled back, but his hand grasping her face squeezed, holding her in place. “And it seems I can finally collect my debt for saving you, can’t I?”

He released her and stood in a smooth motion, facing the Eldest Son. “I don’t care what you do with your traitor, but the human belongs to me.”

The amusement died on his face, replaced by cold fury. “You cannot be serious.”

“You dare question a High Lord of Prythian? A High Lord restored of all his powers, no less?” Rhysand’s laugh was a rumble of dark promise. “I wouldn’t.”

Eris stared the High Lord down, then kicked Melody in the side, like a spoiled child does a toy after being told he has to share. “Have her, then.”

Rhysand looked bored with the whole display, but the line of his shoulders had gone taut. He watched dispassionately as Melody rose on her side on one hand, her eyes only on her faerie friend.

“But Lyra—”

“Don’t worry about me,” the faerie hissed back, her eyes dry now that it appeared Melody wouldn’t die by Autumn hands. Though her dark skin was much paler.

And because it seemed worse to go with the High Lord of the Night Court than to die by one of the Autumn Lord’s sons, Melody cried out, “I will take it!”

The grounds froze. Melody felt every eye on her. “Whatever punishment you intend to give Lyra, I’ll take it all.”

Behind her, Rhysand heaved a sigh. Lyra called her a fool. But Eris considered her thoughtfully. Then he smiled.

“It seems we’ve reached an interesting situation, Lord Rhysand.”

“More like an idiotic one.” He waved a careless hand. “Her life belongs to me. Death is off the table. But exile is obvious.”

“Obviously.” Eris didn’t roll his eyes, but he looked like he wanted to.

Rhysand appeared to ponder something, then he said, “Five lashes should do nicely.”

“We’re agreed.”

And Melody watched in horror as a whip appeared in Eris’ hand, did nothing as he hauled her to her feet only to tie her by the wrists to a post in the center of the grounds. She jerked in fear when she felt him rip the back of her tunic in half, revealing her undergarments and her scar.

“Ah, I thought so. We’ve punished this one before.” He looked back at Lyra, a knowing glance. “The way it’s curved here. Wayward. Like it reached an unintended target. She took that for you, didn’t she? That’s why you sheltered her. Why you betrayed your court.”

Lyra, who was now on her feet, clenched her fists, the muscles of her arms protruding slightly. Melody had always believed that Lyra was a warrior at one time. It was only her discipline that held her back.

Melody faced forward as Eris’ footsteps receded. Her back was to the three other occupants on the grounds. She tried to control her shaking. She failed. So she tried to clear her mind, but memories of her first scar resurfaced with a vengeance. She’d gotten it from the High Lord’s second son, who’d been drunk on his own cruelty, punishing servants as it pleased him. Phantom pain rippled down her scar, and no matter how she lied to herself, she couldn’t believe that the next five lashes would hurt less.

So she tried to withdraw into herself, to go to a place so deep in her mind that she wouldn’t register the pain.

She failed. When the first lash tore diagonally across her back, she nearly fell to her knees, her screams echoing across the grounds. The second slash occurred a hair’s breadth away from the first, and she collapsed, her legs unable to hold her. Tears fell like a torrent down her face, and she nearly tore her throat with her scream when the third slash crossed the other two.

All of it was deliberate. He was aiming to cause as much pain as possible, to make the healing process as difficult as possible.

The fourth slash cut down her lower back, and the fifth followed close behind, tracing the outline of her old scar, reopening it. It hurt so badly she forgot to scream, didn’t have a voice left to scream with. Her body, her pants, everything felt soaked with blood. The ropes bit into her wrists as she hung limply from them, but she didn’t feel it. It was nothing compared to the fire that raged all over her back.

Just as she relaxed and felt like congratulating herself on weathering the punishment, the whip snapped into the air and a sixth slash was cut deep into her, and Melody found that she could still scream.

“That was six, by my count.” Rhysand’s voice cut through the air, somehow even sharper than the whip could ever hope to be.

“Forgive me, Lord Rhysand. I must have gotten carried away.”

Melody felt a brief flair of smugness as Rhysand dismissed him—in his own court, no less—when movement at her wrists caused her to lift her head. She found Lyra there, tearing through the ropes. She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat was hoarse. Lyra shushed her, shaking her head.

“Can’t believe you did that. Fool! What were you thinking? You and your stubborn, human heart. Idiots, both of you!”

One of her wrists fell free then the other, and Melody found herself falling forward, unable to find the strength to stop. Lyra caught her by the shoulders. Melody felt her hands tense and could only surmise that Rhysand had approached.

“That was quite a spectacle. I’d forgotten how fun humans could be.”

“Please, Lord Rhysand! Show some godforsaken mercy and heal her!”

Rhysand tutted. “You know how this works, Lyra, dear. She must agree to my terms first.”

“She’s barely conscious!”

“All the more reason to make her decision quickly. These wounds didn’t kill when they were inflicted, as agreed, but they will if remained untreated.”

Melody raised her head and rested her forehead against the post. Half delirious, she mumbled, “What decision?”

“For saving your life on Calanmai, your life belongs to me now, to do with as I wish. You can either live in my court as you did here, nothing more than a slave—” He cut himself off with a laugh. “Excuse me, a servant. Or you can live almost like an equal. All I would need from you in exchange is for you to perform some tasks for me, whenever I ask, without question.”

Melody fought to follow him. Still the fire on her back burned, reminding her the clock was ticking. “What kind of tasks? And what use could you have for human vermin, anyway?”

“I don’t know about human vermin, but perhaps I have use for a girl who can see through glamours, resist faerie magic, and live among them for over a year without detection. The thought of all you must have heard while here, where they thought you were one of them, where they thought you were loyal. The possibilities are delicious.”

“…For how long?”

He picked a stray piece of lint off his jacket. “Until I grow bored with you.”

His face—his beautiful, merciless face—swam in her vision. He’d given her answers, which only gave her more questions. But one thing was clear, at least to her.

“Lyra comes, too.”

A flash of teeth. “Of course.”

“Not as a servant. As a guard or—or whatever she wants, so long as it’s her decision.”

Lyra clutched her tighter in warning, but the damage was done.

“Such care you have for each other. One would almost say you were lovers.”

Melody would later blame the pain. “It’s called a best friend, you patronizing jackass.” Lyra sucked in a breath, but Rhysand only laughed.

“So, do we have a deal?”

Melody would have drawn it out, just to make him work for it, but the pain was too great. “Yes.”

“Wonderful,” he purred, then his hand spread across her back. Melody threw her head back and screamed as her pain reached new heights. It felt like all of her wounds were being ripped open wide, like he was filling them to the brim with salt. Then, they were knitting themselves back together, slowly, the creeping, unnatural feeling almost as terrible as the pain itself. Then it was over.

“I do believe this is my best work yet,” Rhysand said, languid with satisfaction.

Melody opened her eyes and felt a drop of sweat fall from her face as she craned her neck to see what he was talking about.

The tops of her shoulders no longer sported white, unblemished skin. Whorls and sharp lines resembling Flowering Ash blossoms and knife blades rested there in dark navy ink, and Melody could only assume her whole back featured the rest of the design. Reaching behind her, she determined that she had no scars—even her old one had been completely healed.

The human felt like she was out of her body, like she was observing her life’s events from someone else’s eyes. Disjointed, detached, she watched Lyra kneel and swear an oath of fealty to the Night Court and its High Lord, demanding instant death if she wavered. A tattoo spread, covering the palm of her right hand after her pledge, sealing the contract.   Lyra exchanged a glance with Melody as the young woman rose to stand beside her, the latter clutching her torn tunic across the front of her body. Not even phantom pains disturbed her. In truth, Melody didn’t feel anything at all. Was she in shock again?

“Come.” Rhysand turned on his heel, expecting them to follow. “It’s time to return to my court. I’ve been away from home for far too long.”

“Can’t we stop for—”

“No,” Rhysand interrupted Lyra. “We cannot. Now, stand close to me.”

Melody watched as pure darkness spread from Rhysand’s feet and quickly climbed higher, soon covering all of them. They were pulled under, and Melody drew back, taking in a quick breath when total darkness blocked out every shred of light that there was. She flinched when she felt a cool hand on the small of her bare back, but Rhysand didn’t remove it. Instead, he began tracing the lines of her tattoo.

It didn’t reassure her. Instead, she kept thinking about what her tasks could possibly entail, what the feel of his hand touching her so familiarly could potentially promise.

Until I grow bored with you.

When the shadows fell, they were somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere dark, but wholly, unquestionably beautiful.

“Welcome to the Night Court,” Rhysand breathed into her ear, pride coating every syllable of his voice.

Melody took in the palace before her, the snow-capped mountains, and the gorgeous starry sky all spread out like a panorama around them, and agreed that Rhysand had much to be proud of.

The Autumn Court, for all its splendor, never stole her breath like this.

As they entered the palace, Rhysand turned to Lyra.

“You’re dismissed.”

She straightened, threw one last glance at Melody, then strode away. Melody watched her, wondered how she knew where to go. Before she could ask, two shadows broke from a dark corner and coiled toward them. When the shadows reached them, they took the forms of two women. Were these Rhysand’s servants? His shadow harem?

“Take this one upstairs. Get her cleaned and dressed.” Rhysand pushed Melody forward towards them.

She wheeled around, still holding what was left of her tunic. “This one?” She glared at him. “You offer me a deal, and you don’t even know my name?”

Rhysand shrugged, like it didn’t matter, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I forgot to ask. Very well, what’s your name, darling?”

She stayed stonily silent.

His lifted a brow, and she could tell he was frustrated. “Fine, then. If you don’t want to tell me your name, I’ll just have to call you my pet.”

“It’s Melody.”

“Mmm.” He moved toward her with effortless grace, viewing her with half-lidded eyes. “Melody.” Rhysand said it with the kind of reverence lovers reserved for each other, like suddenly it was the only word that mattered. Chills erupted down her spine, down her arms. She told herself it was because she was standing in a palace resting on top of a snowy mountain, at night, and she was half-naked. “I think I still prefer ‘my pet.’ ”

Melody glared at him until the shadow servants dragged her away, his mocking laugh following her.

Honestly, she’d had better baths. The shadow servants weren’t what she’d call tender.

But she would gladly go back to the harshest bathing of her life if it meant that she didn’t have to wear this dress.

“Where’s the rest of it?”

“That is the rest of it,” one of the servants hissed at her in a disembodied voice.

Melody scowled. “That bastard.”

“Do not address the High Lord so disrespectfully,” the servant snapped again. “You have no idea what he has done for his people.”

“I’m just calling it as I see it.”

Her dress had been designed to cover the bare minimum of the parts most important to her. The front was short, stopping mid-thigh, only for the back to gently flow down to her calves. Her breasts were half-heartedly covered with straps that thinned to tie around her neck. Naturally, the dress was backless, displaying the tattoo, which did cover her entire back for all to see. On top of everything, the color of the dress was a deep wine red, rounding off the harlot look for her quiet nicely.

‘’I want to go to bed,” she groused.

“You must attend the party,” the second servant hissed back, for the third time. “The court has come to celebrate our lord’s return.”

So Rhysand’s court was going to see her, the High Lord’s newest, mortal plaything, like this. Swell.

She took one last look in the mirror, at her long, brown hair spilling over her shoulders, the dark makeup, the dress, the ridiculously high shoes, and straightened her spine, holding her head high.

“Let’s get this over with.”

When she rejoined Rhysand, he was in the ballroom, where more servant girls were flitting about, setting up a line of covered carts on wheels. Melody hoped that’s where the food would be, if there was food. Rhysand conversed with two other Fae. The first was a dark-haired, clean-cut male with an expression that only seemed to move from serious to more serious. Melody blinked at the impressive, leathery wings he had tucked close to his back. Was that…a normal feature here? Perhaps not, for the stunning blonde woman next to him was wingless, though she did possess an ever-present smirk on her face that was endearing until one met her sharp brown eyes. It reminded her of another certain infuriating smirk.

The conversation stopped when she entered the room. Melody pretended not to notice how Rhysand took her in, almost appreciatively, like he was preening. She was much more interested with the reactions of the Fae male, who closed his eyes as if praying for deliverance, and the woman, who hid her smile behind her hand, never taking her eyes from Melody.

Well, she supposed, in a few years, this would all be funny to her, too.

“Azriel,” Rhysand said to the male. “Mor.” The female Fae inclined her head. “I’d like you to meet the Night Court’s newest asset. The girl who can resist magic: Melody.”

Melody nodded her head but said nothing, assessing them just as they were assessing her.

Finally, Azriel said, “You can’t read her.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not yet. She’s blocking me somehow,” Rhysand replied, smirking. “But I’ll find her weakness soon enough.”

Melody snorted. “Good luck with that, Your Worship.”

“Your Worship?” Mor let out a delighted laugh, turning to Rhysand, whose grin had spread at Melody’s mocking title. “Oh! This is going to be so much fun, Rhys.”

Rhys?

Melody wrinkled her nose in mild disgust. “You know what would be fun? Returning to matters of state,” Azriel said, moving to ignore Melody entirely. Good.

She needed a breather.

The pounding in her head was starting again. There were faeries here, all over the palace. She could sense them. They just weren’t allowed into the ballroom yet. She knew she should be listening to the conversation, but in truth, she was tired, so tired. Melody kept her gaze settled on a spot just before her, not really seeing anything. Not wanting to see anything. Everything felt scrubbed raw, especially her mind, and every new sound, smell, or sight that involved a faerie had her nearly on the ground. Melody knew the signs well, having experienced it before at the Autumn Court and at Spring's Fire Night. Over-stimulation from all the glamours and magic in the air. And the Night Court was so much bigger, so much more populated, especially now that their High Lord had returned. Briefly, Melody considered giving in for a moment, dampening her will to allow the glamours and spells the faeries so desperately wanted to fool her with to do their work. But then, Rhysand laughed at something Mor said, the sound sliding over her nerves like velvet, and she knew she couldn't. If the force of her will wavered, even for a moment, he would know. He would see everything, why she had even come to faerie lands in the first place, and would be able to discern her thoughts again, maybe worse. And he was much stronger now. Just as she was about to beg Rhysand to let her leave and rest, a series of movements across the room caught her eye, moving separately from the natural energy of the room. Two of the shadowy servant girls wheeled yet another cart, this one also covered with a sheet, on the end of what she still took to be a banquet. More shadows appeared from nothing, and at once, they began removing the covers. Though there hadn't been anything there before, the cart's surfaces flat, as soon as the sheets were removed, mountains of food appeared. Once more, the last cart the servants had wheeled in caught her eye, and Melody couldn't stop her gasp, welcoming the sudden burst of energy at the sight of— "A cheese cart!"

Food. Without even thinking, without even remembering who she was with or where she was, Melody slipped away from Rhysand to begin her journey to happiness. 

From beside him, Rhysand heard her gasp and exclamation and tilted his head to find the human's face shining with wonder. The stark contrast between this and her usual guarded coldness gave him pause, so much so that he let her leave his side. Rhysand only half-listened to the ongoing conversation, his amusement focused steadily on the mortal as she practically skipped to the cheese display. He watched with growing fascination and surprise as she perused the selections with a critical eye—his servants darting around to avoid her—to finally settle on a soft cheese. After spreading it on a cracker with acute deliberation, she popped it in her mouth, and Rhysand was caught by the look of rapture that stole across her face. Then she let out a moan so erotic it made his ears tingle. Rhysand no longer cared how obvious it was that he was staring. He wanted to see what else she would eat, wanted to see what could stir her sense of pleasure. She chose a cube next and tossed it into her mouth with zeal—only to screw up her face in disgust. As a look of utmost betrayal widened those deep, blue eyes, Rhysand heard a low laugh escape him. "Something you find amusing, my lord?" Rhysand snapped his attention to his shadowsinger, whose features were blank and controlled as always. "Only that my inner circle is so worried about the other courts' reactions that they've chosen to bother me with them, on a celebratory night no less." "Two dozen of the Winter Court's younglings dead, meanwhile our court prospered under the Deceiver's rule. Even despite your actions protecting the Summer Lord and Tamlin's mortal woman, there's been a lot of talk. Mostly concerning calls for retribution." "So things are finally getting back to normal," Rhysand flippantly remarked. With palpable disinterest, Rhysand waved the words away. "I did what was necessary. I can't be bothered with High Lords who were too cowardly to do the same." "But—" "Azriel," Rhysand admonished, his smile growing at the shadowsinger’s narrowing eyes. "I plan on enjoying my homecoming tonight. Perhaps after imbibing a few glasses of wine, you'll do the same?" Azriel was kept around for more than just his efficiency. He knew a dismissal when he heard it. Rhysand watched him stalk off then turned to Mor. "And you are being far too quiet." She smiled sweetly at him. "I think I'll go bother your mortal." Rhysand stopped her with a hard grip on her arm. "You can play with my toys when I am done with them, Mor." His smile was all charm, but his eyes were knives. "And not a moment before." Mor matched him, smirk for smirk. "Of course." She glided off, all too sure of herself. Rhysand wondered how this was all going to play out as he rejoined the mortal. "Do you plan on leaving any for the rest of the guests?" he purred in her ear. She spun around, mouth full of the telltale cheese. Swallowing with effort, she pointed at the cubes. "You can have those. They're horrid." "The generosity of mortals always manages to stagger me. But I think I'm more interested in this spread." He served himself a cracker-full and didn't take his eyes from hers as he took a bite. He swallowed. "It's good. Hardly moan-worthy, though." Her face was a little pink as she broke eye contact with him. "Ah, right. The hearing thing." One by one, her walls came back up, and her tone was defensive when she said, "I just really like food, okay?" He wanted to bring that delightful flush back to her cheeks, so he leaned in and purred, "What else do you like that makes you moan like that?" "A return to country, family, not to mention extended freedoms and liberties," she rattled off with ease, her skin still frustratingly pale. "I have need for little else." In his annoyance, Rhysand nodded mock-understandably. "You will, of course, be granted none of that." She moved away from him, and he got the impression that she was trying to hide from him. "Don't worry. I wasn't holding my breath." An uncomfortable silence passed between them. Melody filled it by eating more cheese. "There will be roasted duck served, too." He wasn't sure why he said it, other than to ignite that visible sense of passion within her. Rhysand reminded himself that human feeling was fleeting and weak. Even so, out of the corner of his eyes, he watched her freeze then look at him. "…Are you serious?" "Deathly so." He grinned. She leaned back from him slightly. "And will I be allowed to sample it along with you and your toadies?" So distrustful. He wondered which had caused this, her living among her own people or his. Still, her distrust would serve her as well as it did him. "Of course." His grin widened as he stepped forward, trapping her between himself and the cheese display. "Provided your cooperation." "With what?" She said, an annoyed slant to her voice and her brow. "That when I ask you to dance with me tonight, you won't look so obviously miserable." The tension released from her shoulders, and she gave him a searching look. Not for the first time, Rhysand felt a wave of frustration that he could no longer read her thoughts. But that, he vowed, would change. Finally, she said, "I suppose I can manage that. For roasted duck."

He smiled, knowing just how much she would despise said dance when she realized what it entailed. This wasn’t the human realm, after all.

And he wasn’t a gentleman. He was Fae.

#just a repost but #maybe second chapter up in a moment? #a prison of words #a court of extreme sinning #otp: i come with knives