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clarkimagines · 4 years

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A Needle and Thread

Part 1 / Part 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Prompt: “I’m beginning to think that maybe it’s not just how much you love someone. Maybe what matters is who you are when you’re with them"

Word Count: 1969

For @cosmicbucky ‘s 300 followers challenge! Congratulations, you’re amazing and you deserve all 300 and more!!

A/N: I figured I’d post something soft after yesterday’s angst fest. The prompt really inspired me, which is why this is the longest fic i’ve ever written ( :D!) A much shorter part two is coming tomorrow! the awesome divider was made by @writeyourmindaway!

The mission was quick and easy. Rescue the hostages? Check. Find the communications devices? Check. Take out the operatives stationed throughout the building? Already nearly done.

“Alright. Just one room left.” You waited for Natasha to give you the go-ahead over your comms.

You locked eyes with Bucky. He stepped back, prepared to kick the door down. You nodded. The wood splintered beneath his heel. The room was smaller than either of you expected, barely larger than a closet, and seemingly empty. Bucky started to turn to you, then paused when pain tore through his arm. Instantly, you sprang into action, pulling your teammate back and taking out the man who had hurt him.

“Shit, Barnes,” you muttered. “Can you make it to the rendezvous?”

Bucky just nodded. He’d had worse.

A half-hour later, you cornered him and asked to take a look at his injury.

“It’s just a scrape,” Bucky had protested. It was no use. You took one look at the cut and knew he would need stitches. Fine. What he hadn’t realized was that you would sew him back up.

“You don’t have to do that yourself,” you had insisted. “You’ve got a team, remember? We help each other.”

Any other time, he would have refused. He was used to the sting of the antiseptic, gritting his teeth and bearing it. But he was tired. He was angry with himself for worrying you and for letting you help him, but he was too damn tired to care much more than that.

There were so many reasons this shouldn’t be happening. Too many. Because he was a murderer, an assassin, because he was everything you weren’t, because he had a bloody hand and a knife at his side, because he was torn open, because he was tired of having to run, because he couldn’t outrun it anyway, because he couldn’t.

He let out a deep breath, shakier than he meant to.

“You’re doing great,” you murmured.

He meant to let out an easy chuckle, let you know he didn’t need extra reassurance, but he nearly choked on it. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with him? He actually winced when you threaded the needle through again; he had had much worse, done much worse, but he still grimaced at the sharp pain. Your eyes flicked up to his, then, brow drawn in concentration and concern. He looked away. You let out a sharp breath and kept going.

As much as the cut stung, the brush of your fingers against his skin set off a different kind of burning in him. The steady rhythm—in, out, in, out—drew him out of his jagged memories bit by bit. The roaring in his ears grew distant. Dimly, he realized his breaths were mirroring your effortless pattern. Something in his chest felt less trapped.

You kept your head down. Bucky’s eyes traveled up from his lap to your face, watching as you worked. You were close, very close. He thought you smelled nice, then thought he should try not to think about it. You had your eyes narrowed slightly, absently chewing on your lower lip in your focus. He still didn’t smile, but his eyes weren’t so cloudy anymore, his face a little less closed. He noticed a stray strand of hair slip into your face. His prosthetic fingers twitched with the effort of holding himself back; he itched to tuck it back in place, maybe even let his hand linger there…

His breath hitched with the next stitch.

“Sorry, sorry,” you apologized without looking up. “Almost done.”

A week later, Bucky’s head was no clearer than it had been in the infirmary. He had faced nazis, aliens, assassins, but nothing ever unnerved him in the way you do. His stomach was in knots whenever he saw you. Usually, he could be suave, but he felt like his thoughts got tangled together somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

Still, he had to admit, thoughts of you were much more pleasant than gnawing grief and guilt pooling in his stomach.

“How are you holding up?” A familiar, cheery voice called.

“The stitches already dissolved. I’m healed.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” You gave him a playful punch on his uninjured arm. “How are you holding up?”

Bucky shrugged. “I’m good.” His posture is a little too tense, his eyes a little too guarded for that to be true.

You scrutinized his features, stepping a little closer, and he knew you wondered what exactly he was hiding. He barely knew himself. You tilted your head; he felt his stance loosen, resolve gone just like that, but you didn’t press. You gave him a sympathetic look, one that turned his insides to putty. As you left, you let your hand gently brush against his now-healed arm. The touch made his stomach twist pleasantly, and he was a bit glad you weren’t around to see the blush spread across his face.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. He was dangerous, a repurposed weapon, a puppet assassin. You were kind and brave and everything he wasn’t. But he couldn’t deny the way he felt drawn to you, not even to himself.

You found him again in the compound’s dining area. No uniforms, no pressure to train, just the two of you bumping into each other in the lunch line. He saw you ahead of him and almost didn’t say anything, too nervous to open his mouth. Then he tapped you on the shoulder, and a few minutes later you were sat together, joking about the latest mission. You were mimicking an alien’s ludicrous threat and Bucky was nodding along, forcing down the butterflies waging a war on his stomach. Then he was laughing so hard he was in stitches. Both of you were almost doubled over, no doubt annoying the staff, but neither of you cared. The familiar flow of the conversation reminded him of the rhythm of your hands the week before, how grounded you made him feel.

It really wasn’t fair, the way you monopolized his thoughts. The room narrowed until it was just you and him, together, out for lunch. He couldn’t see anything but your eyes, crinkled at the edges from so much smiling, couldn’t hear the cafeteria over your laughter. You were taking up space in his head; in his heart, too, but he had a harder time admitting that. Every moment he spent with you, he felt a little more together, a little more right. A little less jagged. A little more complete.

Still, you were a teammate, not a partner.

Bucky only knew of one thing that could help. It was an old habit, from even before he lost his memories, that quickly became his lifeline. This time, the notebook was rich leather, crisp pages and perfect binding; he thought of the old, rough paper and thin spines from before, when he hid them in his apartment, and even earlier, when he scribbled snatches of thoughts on scrapped newspapers and napkins, hiding them so they wouldn’t be taken away from him. He sighed.

The pen he pulled out was all clean, bright metal and silky ink. It reminded him of you; it was a gift from you, after all. He smiled fondly at the memory of the little box it had come in, unwinding the neat bow to find it nestled inside. You were quite possibly the most thoughtful person he’d ever met. His warmth and guilt were facing off; surely feeling this way about you was wrong. You were his coworker, his friend.

This was precisely why he needed to write: he needed to scratch out his thoughts on paper. Clear them out so he could focus. You were always on his mind; even when you weren’t creating a traffic jam in his mind to rival Brooklyn streets, you strolled up and down the avenue of his consciousness daily, hourly, endlessly, weaving your way through the crowd, impossible to ignore and even harder to turn away from. And yet. Even when he put the pen to the page, nothing came out.

He stared at the blank paper.

Where to start? He couldn’t begin to know.

Your smile? Your gentle hands and sharp eyes? The crease between your eyebrows when you concentrate?

He started to write something, your name, he thought, but halfway through he stopped. Scribbled it out. Lost a few seconds mourning the mess on the paper. He groaned. There was no way this should be so difficult.

He tugged a hand through his hair, yanking a little too hard in his frustration. Then, as if by magic, the fragments that have slipped through his head like so much driftwood formed something solid. The pen spilled out two sentences, vague, disorderly, vulnerable, true.

“I’m beginning to think that maybe it’s not just how much you love someone. Maybe what matters is who you are when you’re with them.” His handwriting was shaky; the ink smudged. He didn’t have your steady hands. But he did have you.

Bucky frowned as Sam approached with a wide grin. That usually wasn’t a good sign for him.

“What’s up?” Sam asked. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Not much,” Bucky deadpanned.

“Oh, come on, man! I know you had a date with Y/n the other day.”

Bucky almost choked on air. “What?! Yeah, right,” he said, hoping his nonchalant eye roll would keep the truth buried.

“You two had lunch together. I heard about it from Nat.”

“That wasn’t a date.” Bucky rushed to put the words together. “We were just eating lunch.”

“Sure you were,” Sam teased. “No feelings involved. Just two friends eating lunch.”

“Exactly,” Bucky snapped. “No feelings.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Are you really telling me you don’t have any feelings for Y/n? I’m pretty sure everyone in the compound has seen you make heart eyes at them more times than they can count.”

“They have not!” he hissed back.

Sam shrugged, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Whatever you say. But I’d make a move if I were you. Y/n’s not the kind of person you want to lose a chance with.” Briefly, he glanced over Bucky’s shoulder. “Look, everyone knows you’re in love with them. Just get it over with already.”

With that, Sam strode past Bucky, who turned to glare at his back, only to find you standing there, shock and amusement flickering across your face.

“So…”

“So?”

He couldn’t look at you. Not now. He stared at the floor, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. The silence was deafening, drowning out his racing mind, overtaking the words he wanted to say. After a few moments, you sighed.

“Look, I’m sorry I walked in like that. I should go.” He wasn’t certain the disappointment in your voice was more than his imagination.

“Wait!” He said as you turned to leave, finally unfastening his eyes from his shoes. This might be his only chance.

You turned to him. The pain etched across your face was all the push he needed.

“I--I wanted to tell you, I really did. I do like you. It wasn’t just a joke.”

“You mean--”

“I love you, Y/n. I get it if you feel differently, but I’m in love with you.”

You made a disbelieving noise, then a smile spread across your face. God, he could never get enough of that smile.

“I love you, too.”

Now it was Bucky’s turn to grin. You leaned over, planted a kiss on his cheek, and threaded your fingers through his. How about that? He gave your hand a squeeze. You flashed him another brilliant smile.

“If you want to have dinner, I know a place that’s way better than the cafeteria.”

“I’m in.”

#cosmicbuckys300challenge #bucky barnes #mcu #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #mcu x reader #mcu imagine #drabble imagine

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hauntingfm · 4 years

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𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖑𝖎𝖕 𝖎𝖘 𝖚𝖕 , 𝖙𝖚𝖇𝖊𝖗𝖘 ?? it me , ur girl ... moe ! i am twenty years old , i prefer she / her pronouns , and i stay being a dumbass in the est . this is my best boy , lot . i hope you all grow to be as fond of him as i am because i am whipped for my baby . i would also just like to take a quick moment to sing my praises for reed & hannah because they have done such a good job at compiling such a god tier group of people to write this story . like , 10/10 best admins in the game . anywho ! pls don’t hesitate to drop into the read more to learn more about LOT KANG !

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒 .

full name : lancelot elijah kang . age : twenty . date of birth : november 18 , 1999 . zodiac : scorpio sun , pisces moon , taurus rising . gender & pronouns : cismale & he / him ! major : american literature . year : second year . romantic orientation : panromantic . sexual orientation : pansexual . occupation : sales associate at bookends . label : the shakespearean tragedy .

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂 .

inspiration : nick miller , freddie benson , robbie shapiro & his puppet rex , wes gibbons , that one kid in class who NEVER talks but suddenly offers up an unpopular opinion at the end of the semester & you never hear from him again , ricky bowen , and cameron frye .

aesthetics : half finished mugs of coffee with too much creamer in them , dogeared book pages , a couple handfuls of unanswered texts , barbie bandaids wrapped around bloodied fingers , crying silently in the shower , romantic lines of poetry scribbled on the bottom of a beloved skateboard , longing to wake up from a dreadful nightmare , the tightness in your chest before you have to give a presentation in class , torn denim , rain on the pavement , a backpack full of an assortment of literature from all over the world .

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓 .

so little lancelot kang was born in a tiny little town in florida after his parents moved there from south korea to start on a new adventure . they lowkey hated it but their tiny house became a home to six kangs pretty quickly - mrs . kang gave birth to four little boys !

lancelot HATED his name so he literally forced everyone to call him lot or else ! and for the most part , this demand was respected . unless you were his mother when he was in trouble or his brothers when they wanted to bother him .

but like , aside from the obvious lack of space in their house & wildly busy schedules , the kangs were pretty happy !

( cancer & death tw ) unfortunately , this happiness did not last for long . lot’s mother was diagnosed with cancer pretty late & only had a few months left to live . she told her husband & twelve - year - old lot , thinking that the rest of the boys were too young to understand . so , young lot carried around the knowledge of his mother’s illness , the information feeling like a ticking time bomb strapped to his shoulders . a few months later , mrs . kang passed away , leaving her husband & four young boys . in order to pay for the kids & the hospital bills & funeral costs , mr . kang had to pick up more jobs . this left preteen lot to care for his three little brothers , with no choice but to grow up much quicker than he or his parents would have liked .

( alcoholism tw ) mr . kang would often come home late after lot had already put all the younger boys to bed . the oldest boy knew to have a drink ready for his father when he got home , but the glass bottles began piling up . the boys’ father would often need the help of alcohol to get to sleep every night because if he didn’t black out from the drinks , he would have dreams about his wife . he couldn’t handle seeing her , even if it was in a dream . lot saw her in his dreams too , but he didn’t have the choice of alcoholic beverages to numb himself at such a young age .

so instead , the boy turned to a dream journal to write about his thoughts & experiences while in his mind . however , this dream journal began to bleed into non - dream journals . these journals were filled with poems , long - winded essays , short stories , sonnets , etc . lot was filled with too many emotions to stay quiet , but the boy had nowhere else to express himself .

lot immersed himself so deeply in his stories & poetry & raising the boys & taking care of his father that university snuck up on him . he graduated high school & had no plan for himself . so , he took a gap year to tie up any loose ends at home & get the youngest kang into high school before he even considered university . but with the help of financial aid & pushes from all of his brothers , lot decided to attend covington university & major in american literature .

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓 & 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 .

lot is a real hopeless romantic who deeply longs to love & be loved . however , everyone he asks out turns him down or he’s too afraid to even speak to them in the first place .

he’s just such a dirtbag , but a dirtbag with the kindest heart & love for books , poetry , theatre , falling deeply in love , and the like .

lot is very scared of his twenty first birthday because he doesn’t want to start drinking like his dad & he has been able to use his age as an excuse for why he doesn’t drink without giving anyone information . but once his twenty first birthday hits, that excuse will no longer be available & he is afraid of being pressured into drinking .

lot gets tired of his own face really easily so he’s always switching up his hair or getting new piercings .

as u can probably tell, lot is very strongly connected to his dreams whether he likes it or not . the man rarely gets a good night’s rest because he experiences such real shit in his dreams & it feels like information is always being communicated to him somehow in these dreams . part of lot knows that he would be very good at astral projecting, but he’s very scared of the concept .

bro idk i will be putting up a wcs page real soon . please love me & my son . thank u for reading . hope to talk to all of u soon ! pls like this for me to come bother you on discord about plotting !

#covintro

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sandstonesunspear · 6 years

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Pets

Director Sanvers, Lucy-centric

Found a prompt chart for Pride Month and figured I’d try my hand at it. I’m a day behind because life. Parings are random, but the fandom should stay Supergirl.

Thanks to @nerdsbianhokie for letting me borrow Ripley.

AO3

Growing up as the daughter of a career military man, Lucy never had pets. No dog, no cat, not even a fish or a hamster. Sure, other military families had them, but not the Lanes.

There’s no space in this house for one, Sam Lane would say.

We have the space, Lucy would think, but hold her tongue. Sam Lane didn’t welcome backtalk.

They’re a waste of resources and time.

Are you talking about a dog, or your kids? Lois snarked exactly once, following the death of their mother. Lucy could only watch with horror as the row that had erupted between her sister and father ended with a harsh slap to Lois’s face. It signaled the beginning of her estrangement from the both of them.

They’re nothing more than a distraction.

And we can’t afford distractions, Lucy would finish, careful to hide her bitterness from him.

Once she was out of Sam Lane’s house and establishing a name for herself, Lucy entertained the idea of getting a dog. As the years dragged on, though, the practicality of it died out. She wasn’t a career military person like her father, but ten years of postings in various countries, three tours in Afghanistan, and her work with the DEO meant that home was less a place to live and more a place to sleep.

Then Alex Danvers and Maggie Sawyer entered her life. It was easy to admit that she was attracted to the both of them, but she was incredibly wary of starting anything with them after her failed relationship with James. They were understanding though, more than happy to let Lucy go at her own pace. The three of them almost became something after Alex’s kidnapping, but before they could, Lucy found herself whisked away by the president and placed on a special assignment to infiltrate Cadmus.

It didn’t go well. Unbeknownst to her, Maxwell Lord had discovered the operation. He leaked information about her assignment to Lillian Luthor in exchange for Cadmus’s technology, resulting in Lucy’s capture the minute she entered Cadmus’s main base. Cadmus spent the next six months torturing her before ultimately shoving a control chip into her skull. They quietly released her, forcing her to live as an unwilling double agent. She fought it as best she could, but in the end, she could only watch as used her as a puppet to undermine Kara and the DEO. The DEO caught on and imprisoned her. Lucy looked on from her cell as J’onn and the others debated what to do.

To no one’s surprise Alex was the one who figured out how to block the control chip and remove it without killing Lucy. She placed Lucy into a medically induced coma for nearly three weeks while she worked to excise the chip. She was successful, but the treatment had an unfortunate side effect. As one final countermeasure against removal, the chip forced Lucy to relive everything she had been forced to do while under Cadmus’s control, magnifying her feelings of guilt and helplessness. She awoke three weeks later, free but numb.

At first, Lucy denied anything was wrong. Her answers during her mandated therapy sessions were terse and short. Upon finding out that it was Lord that had led to her capture, Lucy’s mood soured even further. I’m tired and angry and want nothing more than to shove a boot knife into Max Lord’s skull, she growled out in one session. Henderson had nodded approvingly at the progress, only to frown at Lucy’s declaration that, aside from that, she was just peachy.

It took 14 sessions for her to admit that everything wasn’t okay. An exhausted Lucy stumbled into Henderson’s office and admitted that she wasn’t sleeping, even after moving in with Alex and Maggie. The nightmares were still too much. On more than one occasion, she would dream of her hands closing around their throats and choking the life from the both of them, only to wake up just as the light left their eyes. She would awaken with a scream dying in her throat, frantically checking either side of her to make sure that they were okay before trying to get back to sleep. It never worked.

At least, it hadn’t until several nights previous. She told Henderson that the past few nights, Alex’s service dog had woken her up before the dreams could get too rough. Much to Maggie and Alex’s amusement, Gertrude would settle on top of Lucy before bed and refused to move.

Does it help?

The question made Lucy pause and think. Then, she nodded. The pressure that Gertrude provided was grounding. She knew, somehow, when to wake Lucy up before things could progress too far. Lucy still wasn’t sleeping great, and she was exhausted beyond belief, but Gertrude’s help proved invaluable.

Henderson nodded. She scribbled a few notes down in Lucy’s chart and leaned back. Well, Director Lane, do you want the good news or bad news first?

Bad news. Rip off the bandaid and get it over with.

You have PTSD. No pity or fanfare about it, just a statement of fact. She knew that Lucy probably knew, but verbal confirmation was always the best.

And the good news?

You remember Moira Amari? Lucy nodded. Moira had been an agent with the DEO until a fight with a Fort Rozz prisoner had left her a double amputee. She trains service dogs. I’ll be making an appointment for you to speak with her.

It was how Lucy found herself standing outside of Moira’s house three days later. Alex and Maggie were by her side. Gertrude was off to the side, sniffing around. The door opened. Moira stepped out.

“Director Lane?” Lucy nodded. “C’mon in.”

The three of them entered the house with Gertrude taking up the rear. The borzoi stayed a few paces behind the humans as she took in the interior.

“Jacqueline’s timing was perfect, Dorothy just had a litter, so there’s going to be plenty of pups around,” she informed Lucy as they walked. “There’s also a few old timers, dogs that are trained but whose original assignments didn’t work out or whose people either passed before they could go into service.”

“How does this work?” Lucy asked. “Do I just pick a dog?”

Moira shook her head. “Nope, the dog picks you.”

Lucy couldn’t help herself. “Like in Harry Potter?” She felt her face heat up as soon as the words left her mouth.

To her relief, Moira wasn’t offended. She laughed. “Exactly like that.” A thoughtful look crossed her face. “I should use that.”

They all stopped just outside of large, open room that was gated off. They could all hear the sounds of eager puppies. Moira moved the gate and led them in. Once inside, she replaced the gate before pointing to a couch.

“Alright, go sit over there, Director Lane,” she ordered. “I’ll go get everyone.”

Lucy settled in on the couch. Maggie and Alex sat next to her. Gertrude settled in front of Alex and closed her eyes.. Lucy leaned to the side and placed her head on Alex’s shoulder while intertwining her right hand with Maggie’s. Alex ran her fingers through Lucy’s hair.

“It’ll be fine, Luce,” Alex reassured it. “It’s really simple.”

“You version of simple and my version of simple are two very different things, Alex,” she drawled.

Maggie snickered as Alex huffed. Before she could say anything, loud yaps caught their attention. Soon, a flood of puppies was on its way.

The first dog that caught Lucy’s attention was like a hamster on crack. It barrelled towards Lucy at full speed before tripping over its own legs. It tumbled, rolled for a few feet, then immediately jumped back up, barking all the while. Lucy unconsciously shook her head. Moira seemed to agree. She picked the dog up before it could get any further.

“Sorry buddy, you’re not right for her,” she told it before turning it around. Once on the ground, it ran back to Dorothy.

The second dog made it further than its sibling had, only to stop short at the sight of Gertrude. The borzoi cracked an eye open, sat up, and blinked at the newcomer. The puppy barked exactly once before running back to Moira. Lucy had to fight back a laugh at just how offended Gertrude looked.

“Alright, maybe next time, kiddo,” Moira said, moving the dog back in Dorothy’s direction.

It went on for a while. Every so often, Moira would shake her head and intercept a pup before it could even approach Lucy. Lucy grew more and more discouraged as dog after dog was weeded out. Then, a black scruffy mop appeared. She was immediately intrigued. Unlike the others, this dog was calm as it made its way to Lucy. It stopped in front of Gertrude and booped noses with her. Then, it sat in front of Lucy and waited.

Lucy reached down and picked it up. It placed its paws on her shoulders and licked her face. Lucy couldn’t help it. She laughed.

Moira nodded approvingly as she walked up to the triad. “That’s Ripley,” she said. “Terrier/schnauzer mix, ‘bout a year and a half old.”

Lucy ran her fingers through Ripley’s fur. Ripley settled down in Lucy’s lap. “She’s perfect.”

“Yeah, she is,” Moira agreed. “She’s one of the calmest ones here, surprisingly enough. Gets along with everyone and rarely barks.” She tilted her head. “To be honest, I’m surprised she even came out with the others today.”

Lucy gave her a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“Ripley here was actually trained as a PTSD service dog, but the guy that was supposed to take her died about six months ago. Car crash.” She gave a sad smile. “Rip’s been pretty depressed since he died. I’ve been trying to find a new match for her ever since, but it’s been hard because she usually just stays in the back.”

Lucy nodded understandingly. “Well, what do you say, Ripley? Think you can help me out?” she asked.

Ripley barked. Lucy smiled. She looked at Moira. “She’s the one.”

Three weeks later

Lucy woke to a cold nose nudging her face and pressure on her chest. She lifted her head and blinked blearily to see Ripley on top of her. Seeing Lucy awake, Ripley glanced left and right, then licked her face before settling back down. Lucy smiled. It was Ripley’s way of letting her know that Alex and Maggie were next to her, safe. She let her head thump back softly against the pillow. She reached up and ran her hand across Ripley’s wiry fur. The touch made Ripley’s tail go haywire.

There’s no space in this house for one, her father had said.

Yes there is, Dad. There were two doggy beds, food bowls, and a wide assortment of dog toys that proved it.

They’re a waste of resources and time, he had said.

No they aren’t. Ripley was a means for keeping Lucy sane, just like Gertrude was vital for helping Alex manage her migraines.

They’re nothing more than a distraction.

We can afford some distraction. Without distraction, she would have eaten her gun out of guilt by now thanks to him.

Lucy closed her eyes. Next to her, Maggie snored quietly while Alex was cuddled against Lucy’s right. She smiled and let herself fall back to sleep. The nightmares didn’t return.

#director sanvers #my writing #fic #lucy lane #alex danvers #maggie sawyer #supergirl

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peony-pearl · 6 years

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Gifts

I haven’t written in eons; so this is a practice piece of sorts. Concrit is welcome 8)

rated T for some language I suppose

“What do you want for your birthday?”

Sephiroth barely glanced Hojo’s way as he rested on the examination bench. The slight rush that someone had remembered his birthday was welcome; only it was nearly 3 in the afternoon, and Hojo had just acknowledged it.

“Just a few gil for the night. Thanks,” Sephiroth responded shortly. Hojo clucked something under his breath as he wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Sephiroth’s arm.

“You’re getting at that age where gifts mean something in return,” Hojo said while he pumped the attached bulb to tighten the cuff. “A gift carries burdens.”

“What do you mean?” Sephiroth asked. Hojo looked at the meter on the cuff, then at his watch. After a moment, a slight shift in his wrinkles meant a satisfactory result, and he released the pressure on the cuff without another look at the silver-haired soldier.

“You’ll understand one day,” he said as he scribbled on the usual chart. Sephiroth sat, his patience now an act, but one he’d perfected. Eighteen years of tests, trials, and dealing with the cold, sterile air of the Shinra labs, followed by waiting, and waiting, and more waiting, until being thrust out into the battlefield, and returning home with his whole worldview shifted; but no one else had changed. His patience had now become a continuous, quiet appreciation for every moment he had away from those orders he’d been given in Wutai. He knew there would be more. So he waited.

Hojo turned to Sephiroth; those eyes that had once glared at him in frustration were now calm, but no less piercing than ever. He reached into his back pocket, fishing a few hundred gil out of his wallet to hand to Sephiroth.

“Enjoy your night. But I still expect you in for briefing by eight,” Hojo said. Sephiroth nodded.

“Thank you, sir.”

After a trip to his bunk and a change of clothes, Sephiroth wandered down the streets of Midgar. He was accustomed by now to the citizens stopping to watch him; or worse, trying to ask him questions; so he often traveled by alleyway. It was quieter and quicker. He’d heard of a materia shop he wanted to visit, and he rushed quickly with the worry it would close before he could get there. He noticed some lights coming from a bar ahead; he slowed down, intrigued by the location of the bar deep in a series of alleyways, and he peeked inside. Various chattering was often drowned by the sounds of billiards players or the clinking of glasses full of alcohol or utensils scraping at scraps of food. Smoke billowed out of the open doors, illuminated by neon lights, both inside and outside of the bar. He hummed to himself, remembering to hurry on before-

“Birthday boy!”

Sephiroth paused. He reversed his steps and slowly stepped inside, looking for the voice. He noticed a figure in a fenced-in nook, where a billiards table rested and an Automated Player swiveled past who had shouted out to Sephiroth.

“Hollander?” Sephiroth hesitantly approached Hollander’s table, where he watched the bearded man chalk his pool cue; in the meantime the Automated Player prepared to take a shot. “Playing alone? So that’s not just something you do at work?”

Grinning, Hollander put the chalk back before he watched the AP strike, causing a flurry on the table. “I like it,” he said before looking at Sephiroth. “It can’t talk back to me unless I program it to,” he said before the AP tucked itself into a corner until its next turn. “So. Eighteen. How does it feel?”

Sephiroth looked at him, and could only shrug. “I don’t know. It feels like last year. And the year before that. I always think I’m going to feel different. I always think maybe...”

“You’ll get more perfect?” Hollander smirked. His cue struck out in a clatter, and he cursed as his target failed roll into the aimed pocket.

“N-no. It’s... something else,” Sephiroth mused. His hands dug into his pockets as his fingers rifled through the gil he had yet to spend. He looked to the aging carpet on the floor, squinting, but in thought. He pondered his conversation with Hojo, and all the previous ones he’d known for eighteen years. Each monotone, cold conversation between him and the most consistent figure in his life. “That I might... feel enough.”

Hollander looked up from the table. Sephiroth, able to maintain his posture and dignity, spoke this with an air the scientist wasn’t familiar with. As the AP beeped it’s way to assess the contents of the table, Hollander stopped it; he turned the machine off and let it return to its nook before he slid the pool cue out of its casing, offering it to Sephiroth.

Sephiroth, unsure of what to do, slowly took the cue and looked at the table before back to Hollander, who realized his mistake.

“Use that stick to hit one of the balls on the table with the white one.”

“... You do this for fun?”

“I do this because I like it. Does Hojo allow you to have hobbies?”

Sephiroth didn’t look at him.

“I should know better than to ask that,” Hollander said as Sephiroth aimed the cue. “Sephiroth. Listen. Feeling ‘enough’ is... tricky. For someone like you who’s been taught nothing but perfection and then to get what you’re given back in return,” Hollander watched Sephiroth manage a clean shot, nabbing two targets at once on his first try, ”... It’s frustrating.”

“Hojo sees so much.” Sephiroth said. “I’ve done what they’ve expected of me-”

“All that and more,” Hollander said, rounding the table.

“But... But once we secure Wutai, what then?” Sephiroth asked.

“What do you mean?” Hollander asked back.

Sephiroth’s mouth bobbed, searching for the right words. “When do I find my... my own? My way... M-MY way! When do I do what I see fit for me?”

Hollander looked at him, trying to keep his face an empty slate as Sephiroth continued.

“All the scientists talk about their homes or apartments; their lives, their hobbies. Their families. When will I find mine?” Sephiroth asked, his usually placid demeanor now rippling with anxiety and irritation. “When will I have my life?”

It was a moment only filled with the sounds of the bar, yet even those seemed dulled by the conversation at hand. Hollander tapped his cue against his shoulder, barely glancing Sephiroth’s way.

Now he knew what Gast had meant when he suggested ‘unforeseen complications’ nearly thirty years ago.

“Perhaps now,” Hollander suggested. “You’re old enough to do many things on your own. Start making sure Hojo knows you’re not just his puppet.”

Sephiroth watched Hollander lean over, aiming his cue. “I’m not his... I can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not?” Hollander asked as he struck his aim; causing a crackle of noise as he hit his target, concluded with the thunk of a scoring hit.

“I can’t go against him-”

“Why. The hell. Not?” Hollander asked again, his sunken eyes widening. He rounded the table to approach Sephiroth, his walk loose and unrestrained as he almost pleaded with the young soldier. “What is he going to do? What can he do to you, Sephiroth? He can’t hurt you. You’re the strongest person alive, and you’re afraid of that weasel?”

Sephiroth frowned. “No, b-”

“Then tell him to back off. Better yet, put him in his place.”

“You’d like that more than I would,” Sephiroth said. Hollander slowly grinned, shaking his head.

“You know that,” Hollander confirmed. He watched Sephiroth round the table; for once he seemed in a haze. His eyes lacked focus as he looked at the table, searching for a potential move; but he wasn’t actually looking. He wasn’t focused on the game.

“Do you remember the time you sneaked some candy to me when I was seven?”

Smirking, Hollander nodded. “Saltwater candies from Costa del Sol. Did you like them?”

Sephiroth aimed his cue. “I never had the chance to try them. I hid them under my pillow, but Hojo found them while I was getting my Mako treatments. That was one of the worst lectures I’d ever received.”

Hollander’s smile dissipated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

Sephiroth shook his head as he half-heartedly aimed and struck; despite his lack of focus, he managed a perfect shot. “It’s okay. I just never understood why, when I was just trying to have a normal life, everything I did seemed wrong. That... hurt me. I tried from then on to be what he wanted, to be the perfect...”

Hollander watched as Sephiroth fought for a word.

And for the scientist, it clicked. His jaw became slack, and he closed his eyes for a second.

“I see.”

Sephiroth looked up, confused. “What?” He asked as Hollander made his way around the table.

“Listen,” Hollander started, anchoring his cue on the floor as turned his eyes to Sephiroth. “You won’t find something new until you break ties with the old. Your dependence on Hojo’s validation of you isn’t going to help you from here on out. And he’s certainly not going to change. Trust me, Sephiroth. I’ve known the bastard for longer than you’ve been alive. And the only thing that’s changed is how ugly he’s gotten.”

“Yeah but you hate him.”

“I fuckin hate the bastard.”

“Then why are you offering me all this advice?”

“Because I hate the bastard. And because you deserve it. If no one else is going to tell you, the soldier responsible for Shinra’s current successes, then I suppose I will.”

“And what, pray tell, are you hoping to achieve from it, Hollander?” Sephiroth asked. He crossed his arms, for once letting his stance loosen. Hollander smiled, looking at Sephiroth past loose strands of salt-and-pepper hair.

“Perhaps, like you, I’m looking to fill my own emotional voids.”

Sephiroth looked at his watch, unsure if the materia store was still open. Something lingered on his mind though; and now that he was in an atmosphere of being able to ask, that trip wasn’t important at the moment.

“If you’ve known Hojo that long; do you remember my mother?”

Hearing the question; Hollander fought not to freeze. He found a quick distraction in a dessert card by the table where his belongings were located, and he could feel Sephiroth walking closer.

“Your mother?”

Lucrecia. What had Hojo told Sephiroth of her? As much as Hollander wanted to tell Sephiroth every detail he could just to spite Hojo, Hollander also enjoyed not taking a trip to a gas chamber.

“Hojo’s only told me her name; and that she died giving birth to me.”

Hollander set the dessert card down. He turned, facing Sephiroth with every ounce of acting he could muster. “I’m afraid I never knew her. I’m sorry. What was her name?”

“Jenova,” Sephiroth answered. And Hollander questioned himself for expecting anything else; but still, something boiled in the pit of his stomach. For everything Hojo had taught and given Sephiroth, Couldn’t he at least have told the boy about his mother?

“I’m afraid... I was never privy to that knowledge,” Hollander said, doing his best to speak without gritting his teeth. Sephiroth’s gaze became distant again, and he clutched the pool cue as he looked back at the table. Hollander watched, slightly leaning to try and get a look at the soldier’s face. “Are you alright?”

“... It’s your turn, doctor,” he said, lowering his pool cue. Hollander looked back at the scattered table, having completely forgotten about the game.

“O-oh; right,” he said, painting a smile to hopefully dissuade any clues of what he actually knew about Sephiroth’s mother. His origins. And how bits and pieces of that origin had been picked from Hollander’s own failed opus. He scoured for a target before looking up at Sephiroth, who was taking in the scene of the bar. “Hey... you don’t have to stay, Sephiroth. I’m sorry I took you off track to what you were doing. You should be out enjoying yourself.”

“Doing what?” Sephiroth asked. “Wandering the streets I’ve known my whole life alone for the three hundredth time?” He smirked. Hollander smiled back as he leaned in to take his shot.

“So; have you met those other two boys up for First Class? What are they names... Hewley and Rhapsodos?”

“I have. I was hoping to spend today with them but they were assigned to Wutai a week ago. So... it’s just me.” He watched Hollander’s cue strike, and listened to his curse as it missed it’s target.

“Well.” Hollander said as he walked to his coat, rifling through it. He pulled something out and returned to the table. “It doesn’t have to be like that.” He tossed something Sephiroth’s way, and the soldier gracefully caught it; when he opened his hand, he saw something he never thought he would see again. A candy wrapped in neat foil; one of the saltwater candies he’d never been able to have.

“Happy birthday.” Hollander said, taking one out for himself. “I’ll buy you a box.”

“And what if Hojo finds it?”

“Hit him with it.”

Sephiroth laughed, popping the candy into his mouth; a salty-sweet shell encasing a creme center tingled at his jaws; he usually wasn’t allowed sweets, and the subsequent rush was foreign to him, but he smiled.

“For that? Yeah, I just might have to.”

Hollander laughed, watching Sephiroth aim for his next turn. Sephiroth landed another score, and as Hollander readied himself for another turn, he eyed Sephiroth with an air of caution.

“No, uhh... questions about your father?” Hollander asked. Sephiroth continued to gaze at the table.

“No questions needed. Or wanted.”

A smirk, followed by a nod, Hollander pressed no more.

The night came to a close, and the two finally parted ways. Sephiroth made it to the materia store in time, and with spare gil, he bought a small can of soda at a machine tucked away in the store. He hid it within his jacket and rushed back to the Shinra Building.

He awoke on time for his 8 AM briefing with Hojo. He prepared his standard oatmeal breakfast, got dressed, and reported punctually, as usual. Hojo was waiting for him outside of the lab, pouring over his clipboard.

“You weren’t out too late last night, were you?” He asked. Sephiroth’s posture remained at-the-ready; appearing the perfect soldier.

“I was out all night.”

“Goo...” Hojo caught himself as he looked up at Sephiroth, who smirked.

“That was a joke,” he said, knowing what was coming next. Hojo’s face remained ever-perturbed, and he simply shook his head.

“Do not.”

“My apologies, sir,” Sephiroth said, still wearing a ghost of a smile. As the rest of those involved in the briefing stepped in, the day commenced, and life resumed as usual. Sephiroth would, at times, see Hollander in the halls of the science department. A knowing nod would be exchanged should they have caught a glance at each other before returning to work. One night, Sephiroth had free time after hours to go into town, and he sought out the bar, only to find few patrons and no one he knew. He still tried a game with the Automatic Player, and he promised himself to bring Angeal and Genesis here one night.

It was a week later, and Sephiroth was waiting for Hojo to dismiss him from his mako treatment. He sat, looking through his phone, and soon received a message from Angeal that he and Genesis were boarding the plane to return to Midgar. Relief and excitement took Sephiroth by surprise; he wasn’t used to feeling this way with others. He received a photo of the two, Angeal wearing a smile, and Genesis trying to appear photogenic despite their muddy conditions. Sephiroth beamed, almost confused by his own happiness; but this new emotion was as welcome as it was needed.

Finally, the door slid open; and Hojo walked inside, his eyes ever glued to his clipboard. He peered up at Sephiroth for a moment.

“I noticed you bought a new materia,” he said. Sephiroth nodded.

“It was what I bought with my birthday money.”

Hojo’s face remained unimpressed as he set the clipboard down to remove the last of the tubes and wires from Sephiroth’s arms. “I wish you’d told me that was what you were getting.”

“Like you said; gifts are a burden-”

“We could have made that for you and we wouldn’t have had to waste giving money to a run-down shop.”

Sephiroth stopped. He stared at Hojo; something about his tone created a divide in what Sephiroth wanted to say. Something about the way Hojo continuously provided for the young man brought him comfort; yet his chastising nature caused Sephiroth to bristle.

“I wanted to buy it. I wanted to make it my own.”

“Your own?” Hojo asked. “Don’t you have enough? Do we not provide you with everything you need?”

Sephiroth stared at him, words failing. But instead of falling back on apologies, his brow furrowed and he dug into the well of unsaid frustrations.

“You’re the one choosing what to provide me. I chose what I wanted.”

Even as calmly as this was said, Hojo halted what he was doing and he stared at Sephiroth, his eyes almost burrowing through the soldier.

“And what is it you want, boy?”

Sephiroth felt as though he was reverting back to childhood, yet he remained confident.

“I want my own choices. I want... to live.”

“You want to be like one of those reckless third class mutts? You want to lower yourself to that of a common creature? Is that it? Sephiroth, you’re better than that.”

“Then why do I need you to command my every hour?”

Hojo stood straight up, and as Sephiroth sat, he towered over the soldier; and despite his relaxed stance, Sephiroth could tell he was livid.

“You need me.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore-”

“You can’t stop being a SOLDIER.”

“That’s not what I mean!” Sephiroth finally stood, towering over Hojo. “I’m... I’m capable of doing this on my own.”

Hojo hadn’t flinched at Sephiroth’s true height. He crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Oh really? You’re already such an adult you can make it without me?”

“I’m ready to try, at least,” Sephiroth said, and with that, he proceeded to where his shirt hung on the wall, quickly slipping it on. “I’m... I’m tired. I’m going to go rest.”

“In the bunk that we provide you with? I thought you didn’t want that,” Hojo spat.

Sephiroth continued on his way out of the lab with Hojo furiously following him.

“You can’t treat me like this, Sephiroth. After everything I’ve done for you-”

“What about everything I’ve done for you?! For this company?!” Sephiroth shouted, reeling around on Hojo. “I’ve given my entire life, I’ve risked everything, I’ve killed for you! I’ve seen and heard things that would drive you mad-”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Hojo sneered. “You take me to be that weak? Boy, I thought we stamped this behavior out years ago.”

“Behavior? I’m not a hound you can keep caged up until you need me!”

Hojo opened his mouth; yet he relented.

“That you are not.”

“Then please,” Sephiroth said. “Please. Let me be.”

With that, Hojo stared silently at Sephiroth. He took one step back, and, with a tautness to his posture, he motioned for Sephiroth to proceed down the hall.

“By all means. If you want to isolate yourself, so be it.”

Sephiroth felt something churn in his gut; fear started to spread. Was this worth it? To damage his ties with the most consistent figure in his life just for a bit of freedom?

He shook his head; he fought to press on, and he walked forward. Just as he did, the elevator rang, and out walked Hollander, who almost reeled at the sight of Hojo.

“Ugh, God,” Hollander said before turning to find Sephiroth. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Excuse me?” Hojo asked as Hollander approached Sephiroth. He tossed something towards the soldier, and Sephiroth caught a small, wrapped gift. With a nod from Hollander, he opened it, finding a package of the Costa del Sol candies.

“I told you I’d buy you a box. Happy birthday.”

“He can’t have those,” Hojo said. “He needs to stay away from-”

Before Hojo could finish Sephiroth was unwrapping and plunking a candy into his mouth. “Thanks, doc. I owe you. Pool tonight?”

“You’re on, kid,” Hollander grinned as Sephiroth walked out of sight. Hojo cornered Hollander, aiming a fist at Hollander’s jaw.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?!” Hojo screamed. Hollander winced, looking at Hojo.

“I didn’t do anything. But you’ve done enou-”

“Spare me, Victor. What did you tell him?!”

“Nothing. But I know what you told him about Lucrecia. Or what you didn’t tell him.”

Hojo froze. Hollander’s nose wrinkled. “That’s right. Jenova? Really?”

“You’re the reason why he’s behaving this way. You’ve tampered with my son!”

“Bullshit,” Hollander growled. “Did you honestly think you could keep the most powerful man alive at your fingertips for his whole life?”

“You’re going to regret this,” Hojo snarled. Hollander shook his head.

“I’ve regretted every damn day of my life since Shinra took Gillian and Angeal from me. Try me. I live for this.”

A few more heated moments as the two seethed just inches away from each other, and Hojo turned on his heel, returning to the labs without another sound.

Hollander’s cell phone chimed, signaling a company-wide update. He opened his mail to read that another successful troupe was returning to Midgar. He sighed in relief, knowing that meant Angeal and Genesis were returning to Midgar. He rubbed his jaw, which was swelling, and he looked at his watch, remembering that he now had a game with Sephiroth later that night.

He hoped his gift would be enough to win the soldier over, so that perhaps Hollander could have a better chance of acquainting himself with his own boys through Sephiroth.

It would be unfortunate, though when his potential plans came to fruition; whatever they may be. They would not be easy on Sephiroth; or anyone for that matter. But he was prepared for it.

Gifts carried burdens. And Sephiroth’s burden was the first gift he was given by Lucrecia: His own life.

#luna writes #I apologize this is so out of practice #Crisis Core #Hollander #Sephiroth #Hojo

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marypsue · 6 years

Text

Something Borrowed, Something Blues 1 / ?

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / ?

New year, new WIP! I figured I'd start the year off right with the...uh, long-awaited? sequel to Reincarnation Blues! Special thanks to @seiya234 for helping me plot and outline this baby.

Yes, it starts with a scene you may have already...seen. Bear with me. We're going places.

I'm also on AO3 as MaryPSue!

...

“So. Season two. Any ideas about how to start it off with a bang?”

There was a general shuffling of papers and buzz around the writers’ room table. Zelda, unsurprisingly, was the first to speak. “Well, the viewers are still losing it over Bael. I thought -”

“Just a moment,” Ian interrupted. “Do you guys think we can hold off on having Bael show up again until the finale?”

Around the table, the team exchanged looks.

“What, like…like a horror movie, kind of suspense build, sort of thing? Yeah dude, that makes sense,” Ricardo said, but he still sounded uncertain. “But - all the way to the finale? That seems like too long, man. Now he’s shown his hand, wouldn’t Bael be trying to kill Stella, like, constantly?”

Ian blinked. “What? Why would he be trying to kill her?”

The look Zelda shot him was one Ian knew she only turned in his direction when he was being particularly inscrutable or ridiculous. “We did just literally finish the season with him using Sam as a puppet to try to drop her down a bottomless pit.”

“Yeah, but Stella doesn’t know that’s Bael! We revealed him to the audience through Alcor, but she still doesn’t know he even exists. Why would he try to kill her? Think about his endgame, guys.”

The faces around the table were still blank. Ian met Zelda’s eyes, hoping for understanding from the writer who was practically his second brain, but she just gave her head a shake so small it barely disturbed her bubblegum-coloured hair.

“I thought his endgame was to kill her. And Alcor. And open the gateway to the Dungeon Dimension, and unleash his true power and wrath on the world, and finally get caught up with Political Intrigue: But With Dragons,” Chris piped up, and Ian pressed the heel of his hand against his right eye.

“Yes, but that’s what he wants you to - Do you remember how we decided the Dungeon Dimension had to be unlocked?”

“With Alcor’s power, yeah.” Zelda tapped her pen against her lip piercing. “That makes sense, that Bael would want to keep Stella alive to use her to persuade Alcor to open the gateway - but then the bottomless pit doesn’t -”

“Sheesh, you guys, are you all brain-dead today?” There was a dull pressure building against Ian’s prosthetic, not quite an ache yet but definitely threatening to become one, and he could swear he caught a whiff of ozone and…margaritas?

Ricardo made a face at Zelda, who sighed. “Sorry, boss, but whatever you were plotting really didn’t come across this time.”

“What? But -” Ian shook his head, blowing out a breath that was halfway to a laugh. “We were all on the same page setting up the season finale! We all knew where this was going, right? It’s obvious.” It was, a series of simple, shining steps to world domination. They’d all brainstormed over Bael, talked his goals and motivation and personality to death - did they really not see - “Stella was never really going to fall in the bottomless pit. That was why Sam got to break through and save her, remember? It was just to show her how little Alcor really cared about her, that he could just let her fall!”

“But he does care about her,” Chris pointed out, and Ian could just strangle the guy with his own trachea, he really could. “So that’s not going to -”

“It doesn’t matter if Alcor really cares about Stella or not! Jeez, were you paying any attention when we hashed out Bael or were you just taking a nap that day? All he cares about is whether Stella thinks Alcor cares about her.” Ian leaned forward expectantly, letting out a sigh when the confused faces didn’t instantly morph into looks of realisation. Zelda looked like she might be catching on, but Ian could almost see the wheels spinning uselessly in all of the others’ heads. “Look, fine, I’ll spell it out for you. Stella’s only in this because she thinks Alcor is a good guy, that he’s on her side. Alcor would do just about anything to keep Bael locked up and the world safe, Bael’s not an idiot, he’d know that after Alcor locked him up in the first place. He’s not going to pin all his plans on another demon, even a weirdo like Alcor, being enough of a stupid sap to let him out just so one puny human doesn’t bite it a couple years early.“

He paused for a moment, feeling a hollowness growing under his feet with every note Chris scribbled in his binder and every tap of Zelda’s pen against her lip ring. "But humans are a whole bunch more sentimental, and a lot more gullible. All Bael needs to do is convince Stella that Alcor’s using her, that she can’t trust he’s got her or humanity’s best interests at heart - and Alcor himself will help out with that, he’s not exactly the most forthcoming guy, and he’s been keeping some pretty big secrets - and Stella and her soft, tender little heart will go running straight for somebody she thinks she can trust. Another human who she already loves, who understands what it’s like to be under a demon’s control - another human who’s still under a demon’s control, because no matter how powerful love might be or what it might be able to conquer, he still didn’t put a time limit on his contract with Bael. And because of her deal with Alcor -”

“Stella can use Alcor’s powers,” Ricardo said, looking like Ian had just pulled the tablecloth off a fully-set table without spilling a drop from any of the wineglasses.

“Wait, do you mean Sam didn’t actually get control back from Bael in the last episode?” Chris asked, and Ian reached for his coffee mug, only to find it missing.

“Of course he did, but only because Bael let him. That’s why that line to Alcor about love not conquering all and the code about fine print! Didn’t you -” Ian cut himself off, hearing his own voice very quiet in the suddenly-stifling stillness of the meeting room. “It’s really obvious, isn’t it?”

“Obvious? No way, man!” Ricardo was grinning ear to ear, spinning his pen between his fingers. “Having Bael use Stella to set him free is an awesome idea! The hard part’s gonna be driving that wedge between Stella and Alcor naturally and hinting at Bael being involved so it doesn’t look like it came outta nowhere when the reveal hits, but doesn’t give the game away too soon… That’s evil genius at work, man.”

Ian managed a smile, but it refused to stay on his face for more than half a second.

“Yep. Coffee,” he managed, pushing his chair out from the table and giving it a nasty shove when it caught on the carpet and refused to move. “Keep talking.”

...

Zelda cornered him in the office kitchen, drumming his fingers rhythmically against the counter as he watched the coffeemaker drip erratically into the pot. “Are you…feeling all right?”

Ian stopped drumming. “Hm? Fine! Haven’t had my coffee yet! Eye’s kind of aching, but it does that sometimes! Yup, everything’s peachy, if this coffeepot would just hurry up -” He slammed a fist against the counter, and the coffeepot shook. “Evil genius. I’m -"

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, uncurling the fingers of his fist. Zelda was giving him a look that was somewhere between weirded out and seriously alarmed, but there wasn’t a trace of pity or fear in it.

"I’m a jerk,” Ian said, instead of whatever had been running around his head. It took effort to cut the train off, but he managed it. “I should apologise to those guys. Not their fault I didn’t share enough of the plan. I gotta remember that even if this is my show, it’s not just my show.”

“Yeah,” Zelda agreed, reaching around Ian to grab the carafe and pouring herself a mug of the coffee that must have been brewed earlier that morning. She stirred in a spoonful of whitener, meeting and holding Ian’s gaze. “Look, is something going on? Because that didn’t seem like usual story frustration. And I mean we all know you want it to be perfect, but that sounds like a pretty solid plot to me, so I doubt it’s the problem.”

Ian glanced down at his hand splayed against the counter, then back up at Zelda. “You think? It’s not too obvious?”

Zelda shrugged. “Well, you stumped your own writers, so I think even your famously dedicated fans will have a little trouble with this one if we play it right. Seriously, boss, you gotta cut yourself some slack.” Her voice was heavy with admiration as she said, “I don’t know anybody else who would’ve come up with an idea that makes that much sense and is still such a challenge to figure out, right off the top of his head. It’ll be a really satisfying reveal if we build it up right and get all the pieces in place. We’ll work out how to make it amazing for the show.”

Ian blew out a breath.

Zelda tapped her spoon against the lip of her mug to shake off a few drips of coffee before dropping the spoon into the sink. “So. You still wanna talk about it, or -”

“Absolutely no way,” Ian said, and watched relief wash over Zelda’s face. “No, I just needed to take a breather. Get some perspective. But thanks. And sorry for calling you all brain-dead.” He somehow managed a smile that didn’t seem forced or too tight. “You’re the best henchmen an evil genius could ask for.”

Zelda’s grin was bright and gleaming. “We do our best. Now come on, you’ve got a bunch of henchmen to apologise to. And we’ve got a secret evil plot to…plot.”

…

The ring was distracting.

Mira kept having to stop in the middle of typing to look at it, the sparkle leaping out and catching her eye. It was strange - it wasn't like she wasn't used to wearing bright, sparkly, eye-catching jewellery. But then again, none of the jewellery she was used to wearing had been an engagement ring.

Her engagement ring.

Maybe it was normal to not be able to look away from your own engagement ring. Mira wouldn't know. This was the first time she'd ever had one. She was pretty sure, though, that it wasn't normal to feel a little bit sick every time you looked at it.

She forced her eyes back up to the screen. It wasn't like she wasn't happy about it. She was thrilled! Ecstatic, even! Not even a teeny, tiny little bit...nervous. That’d be silly. Because there was nothing to be nervous about! She was marrying the man she’d fallen head over heels in love with, the man who loved everything about her, no matter how silly or unconventional, the one other person she’d trusted with the...stranger side of her life, and who hadn’t run screaming in the other direction when she’d done so, the man who’d literally put out his own eye for her, the man who’d been completely willing to die for her -

Nope. Absolutely nothing to be nervous about there.

Mira huffed out a sigh, trying to make her eyes focus on the blinking cursor in front of her. It was almost hypnotic, the little black bar vanishing from existence only to reappear again, and again, and again...

"He's doing it again!"

Mira's strangled scream nearly covered the sound of her chair collapsing to the floor, backwards. Thin air caught her before she slammed into the ground, a soft cushion of nothing that she could feel herself sink, slowing, into for a moment before she hit the point where the air bounced her back upright. She abruptly spun around, fixing Alcor with a glare.

"What did I say about popping up behind me when I'm working?"

Alcor at least had the decency to look sheepish, though it was a little unnerving with his gold-on-black eyes. "Not to. But, Mira -"

"Ah," Mira interrupted, holding up one finger in front of the demon's face.

Alcor let out a breath Mira hadn't seen him take, slouching forward in midair to dangle by the little batwings sticking out of the small of his back.

"Sorry," he muttered, to the gold-tipped toes of his shiny black shoes.

"Apology accepted," Mira said, settling back in her chair. "So what emergency needs my special touch this time?"

“Your boyf-fffffffffiancé. He’s doing the thing.”

It took everything Mira had not to roll her eyes.

“We talked about this,” she said. “Actually, we’ve talked about this, like, multiple times. I’m pretty sure we had an entire giant fight over this. You might remember it? It ended with Ian losing an eye...?”

“That’s not fair,” Alcor grumbled, sinking lower in the air, crossing his arms over his chest and pouting like a little kid. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Mira let out a long, slow breath that she had to work hard to keep from turning into an exasperated sigh. “Right, right. You trust Ian. It’s Bill you’re worried about. Et cetera, et cetera - look, would it kill you to just be happy for me for once?”

She regretted the words as soon as they came out of her mouth. Mira huffed out another breath, shaking her head and holding up a hand before Alcor could say another word. “No, no, I’m sorry. I know why, and I know that was outta line. I’m just -”

Alcor nodded, and shot Mira a rueful smile. “Yeah. The whole wedding thing’s a little overwhelming, huh?”

“It’s a lot overwhelming!” Mira slammed both hands down beside the keyboard. “Why is there so much that needs doing? And why do I have to do it? Don’t answer that, I know it’s because Ian’s got a major deadline coming up and I was the one who decided we should try and book the Castle on the Hill and have a tea party theme and I know Rosa’s been a huge help and my parents and his parents are trying to help and we’ve got plenty of time and - !”

She stopped, breathing hard, realising that at some point she’d thrown both hands up in the air. Alcor had sat down cross-legged in midair, leaning his chin in one hand as he watched her rant.

“Okay, I came here to talk to you, but it sounds like you might need to talk more than I do,” he said, when Mira stopped and dropped her arms into her lap. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Mira muttered, glaring down at her ring. “I hate wedding planning.”

“I don’t think there are a lot of people out there who just love it,” Alcor said, reasonably.

“Noooooo,” Mira admitted. “But it’s getting in the way of anything nice I want to do with Ian, and this deadline I’ve got coming up, and - it just sucks." She huffed out a breath over her top lip, staring at her bangs as they fluttered in the draft, and then turned back to Alcor. “Okay. I think I’ve got it out of my system. Hit me. What’s Ian done now that’s freaking you out?”

Alcor took a deep breath in, opening his mouth wide, and then huffed it back out again, his shoulders drooping as his mouth fell shut again.

“I just ran what I was about to say through my head before I said it out loud, and it turns out it’s really dumb,” he admitted, and Mira couldn’t help but laugh.

“Well, you could say that about a lot of things you say,” she said, as gently as she could manage, hoping Alcor was picking up on the gentle teasing in her words.

“Yeah, ha ha ha. Has anyone ever told you that you’re hilarious?” Alcor asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because they were definitely lying.”

Mira stuck her tongue out at him. Alcor stuck his out in response, forked end waggling before he tucked it back into his mouth.

“You should keep an eye on Ian, though,” he said, after a moment, a note of seriousness bleeding back into his voice. “I mean, it sounds really dumb to be worried about him because he’s too good at his job - but, just, look out for him? He seemed really upset about this plot twist he planned that none of his writers picked up on, and I don’t think it was just because it was probably too convoluted for Gisnep.”

Mira pressed a hand to her forehead, covering her eyes. “Are you spying on my boyfriend again.”

Alcor’s wings flared. “No! Well. Maybe. A little.”

“Okay, I see a simple solution to this problem. Step one: don’t spy on my boyfriend.”

“Miraaaaaaaa,” Alcor whined, dragging out Mira’s name. Mira ignored him.

“Seriously. None of us need this right now. You’re just going to worry yourself into another fit of paranoia and do something that’ll set all of us off and we’ll all end up regretting it. Just don’t even go there, okay?” She turned back to her keyboard, huffing out another breath. “I know you’re going to bring up Area 51 when I say this, but - it’s not gonna kill you to trust him a little.”

Alcor didn’t respond. Mira didn’t look to see whether he was still there, instead turning her attention back to the seating chart. This would be so much easier if she knew whether Mythri was planning to bring a date, or a dragon.

...

"Writing your resume?"

Ian looked up from the drawing table, blinking a little to bring Xander into focus. "Hm? Oh, no, just - drafting. Scripting. Making hilarious jokes that'll probably never see the light of day thanks to Standards & Practices. Idly daydreaming about world domination. You know."

"Artist stuff," Xander agreed, with a grin. "I finished those colour keys for the haunted lumberjack camp, and you're the only other person left in the building. You planning on heading home anytime tonight?"

Ian managed to muster a smile. "Nah, there's a couple jokes here that still need tightening up, some lines I'm not sure about, and this is going to the animators in the morning. I'm just gonna stick around until I'm either sure they're good enough or I'm delirious enough with sleep deprivation that they start looking good to me."

Xander huffed out a laugh, raising a hand in a wave goodbye. "I'll drop by your office and wake you up before your first meeting, then. Night!"

"You're a lifesaver," Ian called after him, as Xander started down the hall.

He stared at the storyboards in front of him until he heard the alarm beep and the door slam behind Xander, the boom of the heavy steel echoing through the empty studio and picking up eerie, off-key harmonics in some corner somewhere. Then Ian sighed, pushing the boards aside.

A little rummaging in his desk drawers (under the piles of Mizar the Magnificent code keys, napkin sketches and notes, fan letters, business cards for people he'd forgotten to call back, hate mail, business cards for people he didn't want to call back, letters from people who really, really wanted him to know about the highly specific sexual things they wanted to do to Stella's pet platypus, and his emergency shaker of chocolate sprinkles) revealed a hard-bound book, rather shabby with age and poor maintenance, labeled MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST.

The book was so old that its maps still showed California as all part of the mainland, and it was written in a dialect that was a slog to wade through even for somebody who read codes quite literally in his sleep, but even though most of its scant number of pages were dedicated to things that really were just myths, it was still one of the best resources he'd found so far. Even the trawl he'd done online (on his work computer, under the pretense of researching demons for MtM) hadn't been able to turn up much information on the supposedly-infamous Bill Cipher.

This might have been because, according to the slim volume in Ian's hands, the demon's 'official' name in the pantheon (pantheon? Demons were beings of chaos and nightmares, spawning and devouring each other throughout eternity, sometimes going dormant for centuries at a time, what single-life-spanned idiot had thought they could catalogue all of them?) was not the incongruously mundane Bill Cipher, but the much fancier-sounding Triangulum. Still sounded stupid and fake to Ian, but whatever.

They said to 'know your enemy'. Ian still wasn't sure who 'they' were, but he had to agree. He'd been researching Cipher ever since Mira had confessed she still had nightmares about what had happened last year. The more he knew, the better he could avoid ending up in situations like - well, like the one he'd ended up in earlier that day. If he knew more about Bill Cipher, more about what he'd been like and how he'd worked and what had made him tick, maybe Ian would've been able to tell if the plot that had fallen together so easily in his thoughts had really just been the product of creative inspiration, hard work, and firsthand observation of the way demons did business, or if it was...

It didn't help that it was impossibly frustrating to research Cipher. And not just because of the scarcity and age of the resources that held even a scrap of actual information about the thousand-year-dead demon, or because Ian had to keep his research a secret from Mira so she wouldn't feel any worse than she already did (there was no hiding anything from Alcor, but he still tried). Because...

Well. If Ian was being honest, because it still felt like he ought to just know.

Rationally, he knew he shouldn't expect it, but - he still should be able to just reach out and have all the knowledge he needed, right there at his fingertips. He'd always felt that, one way or another, but... Alcor might have taken the memories of the things Bill had known, but he hadn't taken the memory of how it had felt to know them. Sometimes Ian still had dreams about rising above everything, looking down, seeing it all finally slotting together into a perfect pattern below him -

"You can't keep doing this to yourself," Ian muttered angrily to himself, grabbing the sprinkles out of his desk drawer and shaking out a handful. He shoved them into his mouth and slammed the book open before his nerve could fail him, picking back up in the section where he'd found the first mention of Triangulum.

#transcendence au #gravity falls #this is mary's fic tag

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flashinglights-rp · 7 years

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MINERVA ROSE ➝ THIRD SIBLING

AS YOU RECALL, YOU KNOW I LOVE TO SHOW OFF

◈ FULL NAME: Minerva Elaine Rose. ◈ GENDER: Female. ◈ PRONOUNS: She/Her. ◈ AGE: 23. (December 25th). ◈ BIRTH ORDER: Third. Triplet to First & Second Rose. ◈ HOMETOWN: San Diego, California. ◈ CURRENT LOCATION: Los Angeles, California. ◈ JOB ROLE: Pop Star. ◈ SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Pansexual. ◈ ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Panromantic. ◈ FACECLAIM: Melissa Benoist.

BUT YOU NEVER THOUGHT THAT I WOULD TAKE IT THIS FAR

[tw for past sexual assault]

The Rose’s piano had no life in it. Robert hadn’t touched it in years, not since his own musical career had failed. With her sister so loud, boisterous and full of life, Minnie was shy and hid behind her mother’s legs. She enjoyed being around people, but it took her a while to get comfortable with them. The one thing that did make her comfortable was the piano, looming and great in the distance, something that Minnie had always been fascinated by. She and her siblings were left alone with a babysitter when Minnie finally got the courage to sit on the bench and tinker with the keys. From then on, Minnie always was the first person to get up and play it. If Minnie wasn’t spending her time at Millie’s restaurant, she was absolutely seated at her piano and playing whatever songs came to her. When asked where she’d learned it, Minnie simply replied that she had made it up. Immediately, Minnie was enrolled in piano and guitar lessons, but what she really always wanted to do was sing. Now, when she made up a song, she made up her own words to them, too. As a child, they were complete nonsense, but as she got older, Minnie’s voice and songs became much more prophetic. She entered and won several songwriting contests in the San Diego area, and began playing at as many open mic nights as possible. Minnie was thirteen when her father walked out on the family, and even though she never speaks about it in interviews, everything you’d ever want or need to know is in her songs.

Minnie became completely devoted to her musical studies, as she got older, so much so to the point that her mother enrolled her in a performing arts high school in San Diego. Not only did she spend her time songwriting, but she auditioned for every type of musical or performance opportunity that she could. This, Minnie had reasoned, was the big time– instead of getting a traditional education, she was taking voice lessons, instrumental lessons, and had an after-school job as a secretary at a record company. Her summers were spent in LA, working at performance camps, songwriting camps, and doing every single bit of exposure she could to get herself on the map. At sixteen years old, Minnie was hired as a songwriter part-time in Sunshine Records’s stable, one of the youngest that the studio had ever seen. Even though Minnie wanted to write her own music and sing it too, she had great fun writing music for other artists. Several of her songs made it onto the charts, even if she wasn’t the recording artist who created them. Despite her young age, she was heralded as the next Carole King and her songs showed a level of emotional depth that had never been seen before from someone so young

When she was eighteen years old, Minnie was finally signed to her own record deal and moved out to LA to do so. Considering she’d had a lifetime of songs to write, Minnie had nearly three album’s worth of rep, plus an entire Broadway musical in her songbook. She was in talks with producers to put her showtunes into a cohesive book and story when her first single shot to number one. With that, her love of musical theatre fell to the back burner as she decided to pursue another side of her career. With her fame star rising, Minnie wasn’t sure how to handle all of the pressure. She loved the fact that she had so many fans, and all she wanted was to do right by them. Minnie’s own insecurities would sometimes come out and rear their ugly heads, but she loved her work. Her first album came out to commercial success and critical acclaim. She won a Grammy for Best New Artist at the age of nineteen, and Minnie didn’t think her life could get much better than that.

The trouble started happening when the Sunshine Studio changed hands. A new CEO and executive director meant that obviously, the studio was going to be changing hands. Originally, when Minnie met Declan Clifford, he promised her that he was going to make her a household name, a one track onto the A list with as many movie offers and Grammy’s as she wanted. She could win an EGOT, he reasoned, with enough training, and honestly, that was all Minnie wanted. She fell easily for his charm, his good looks, his empty promises, and his lies. He sent her on a world tour following the release of her second album at the age of twenty one, and Minnie’s star only burned brighter. With that album came five more Grammy’s, including Song of the Year and Album of the Year. Minnie was already a household name, and suddenly everyone wanted to know what she was up to– what she was doing, who she was dating, what was she wearing, what toppings she liked on her frozen yogurt. It was all quite overwhelming, but Minnie loved it. The most important thing was the fact that people related to her music, and that was all Minnie wanted.

From then on, her life became a window that only a few people could truly see into. Many things were set out to tempt her, she was often steered onto the wrong path, but Minnie persisted to stay true to herself, until she simply cracked under the pressure and fell victim to the studio’s manipulation. She dyed her hair, she lost the weight, she answered questions the way she was supposed to, and for a few years, she was a puppet. There were the parties, the vices, the perfume deal, the biography, the interviews. Minnie handled most of everything with a cool head, her upbeat and optimistic personality. People reveled in the fact that after certain legends of pop past, that there could be a nice pop star for once. That was what Minnie always held on to in discussions of her image– the label wanted her to throw shade, they wanted her to publicly feud, and Minnie refused. Something that Millie Rose had always told Minnie was to stick to her guns, and to never let someone else make her feel badly about herself or her music. Things began to get worse and worse. Declan Clifford was the negative, toxic energy that she had in her life. After working under his wing for five years, Minnie was through being silent of his horrendous acts towards her and other clients. Her final straw came one night when she was at a party. Minnie doesn’t remember anything other than how her clothes were destroyed, but once she was hospitalized they found DNA on her that belonged to her boss. The case of Minnie Rose v. Declan Clifford rose its way through the courts on account of sexual assault, battery, gender violence, negligence, and several other crimes. The court case has gained quite a bit of fame, and as a result, Minnie’s musical prowess has flown under the radar in favor of the scandal.

Minnie is wary at all of the publicity, and even though she’s proud of herself for finally standing up for her career, she’s beyond upset over what’s happened, and how far she let the abuse go before she said something. Minnie is still performing, despite being dropped by the label for “artistic differences.” She’s finally just won the battle to get her masters (the original recordings of all of her songs) back into her possession. It’s all very much an intense legal battle, and Minnie’s anxiety over the situation is great. Public sympathy for her has been high, and Minnie doesn’t really want to be seen or known as someone to pity. She wants to be known as someone strong. Now, Minnie is shopping around for a new label. She’s had plenty of offers come her way, but Minnie is relying on her lawyers and agent to help her make the right decision. She’s also tirelessly working to support other victims of sexual assault, and refuses to keep silent on the matter. When she isn’t furiously scribbling in her notebook, Minnie is an avid baker and cook, a talent learned from her mother. She enjoys being outdoors and has a great love for the ocean. Her favorite thing to do (aside from sing) is read by the beach. Despite her current troubles, Minnie is determined to do what she loves: make music.

WHAT DO YOU KNOW? FLASHING LIGHTS, LIGHTS

Because Minnie is always so visible, her outfits are always impeccable and she prefers them that way. Her makeup is soft and natural, and meant to accentuate her beauty. Minnie always smells like plumeria and pears, because that’s the signature perfume she’s launched. At one point in her life, the label suggested she dye her hair blonde, so she did for a period of time. Now, she wears her hair brunette, long, and usually straight. Minnie is absolutely more of a skirt and dress person than a pants person, but you’ll occasionally find her in a pair of skinny jeans. Most of her dresses for awards shows are designed for her specifically. Onstage, her outfits are very sparkly, on-trend, and somewhat modest. Her style is very feminine, floral, and soft.

#flrpminerva #flrpminnie #flrprose

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