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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 3 years

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Visibility (Good Omens Fic)

Written for Lesbian Visibility Day, 2021

(26 April, 1972)

“What did you szzay?”

Beelzebub glared at the empty space before zir throne, listening to a pair of feet shuffle awkwardly.

“I just…woke up like this,” Crowley explained, in what was probably supposed to be a casual voice. “At first, I thought I was coming down with something. Flu. Hangover. Allergies. All very contagious this time of year. Really, if you haven’t been to Earth before, April is – just wait at least another month. But then I realized, s’not going away, and I thought: curse. Definitely a curse. Probably one of those angels, thwarting and all, you know how they are.”

“An angel.” The Prince of Hell tapped one finger on the arm of the throne, swarm of flies flitting around, trying to make sense of what zir own eyes weren’t telling zir. “Iszzn’t that hideouszz pieczze of real esztate you live in warded?”

“Probably. You know how it is. Get home late, really tired, swear you locked the door, but…” The footsteps – echoing as those ridiculous heeled boots struck the ground – began to circle the room. Beelzebub didn’t keep many possessions – at least, not the material sort – but Crowley seemed determined to touch them all. “Anyway, you know angels. Clever bastards.” An ornate dagger on the far table began to spin. “Or witches. Not quite as bastardly, but they cause trouble. Oh, or a cursed artifact.” Papers began rearranging themselves. “I just…I haven’t been thrift shopping in years, you know, not really my scene, not anyone’s scene anymore, but I saw this really spectacular jacket, I thought, what the Heaven? Might have some age-old horrific curse, or bedbugs, but it’s going to look stunning on the dance floor.”

Pinching zir nose, Beelzebub tried not to imagine the foolish way she was probably grinning. “And by complete coinczzidenzze,this angel, witch or…garment, juszzt happened to make you completely inviszzible on the day of your department budget review?”

“Yup.” A selection of goblets toppled to the floor with a clatter, bouncing and spinning across the floor. One rolled as if kicked, but not even Beelzebub’s cleverest flies could locate the blasted demon who had caused the mess. “I mean, not just a coincidence. Plenty of reasons. Er. The angel. Just last week, that – uh, that Aziraphale, I foiled one of her plans. Thoroughly. Foiled like…like leftover chicken. So. This could be revenge. Very unfortunately timed, but you know.”

“Indeed.” Beelzebub rose, stalking from zir throne across the floor to the spot that most strongly radiated incompetence. “And the curszze breakerszz haven’t been able to turn you back?”

“I mean, they tried.” More footsteps, hastier now, so that the echoes made them harder to track. “Course they tried. But,” she clicked her tongue, “couldn’t do it. Said they’d never seen anything like it before.” Ze would have to speak with them. No, too much trouble. Beelzebub would send the Hellhounds to take care of those idiots. “But, they did say it should wear off in…twenty-four to forty-eight hours. You know. With bed rest. Pity about the budgetary review.”

“How szzo?” Ze asked, lip curling. Every twenty-five years, like clockwork, like the courses of the blessed stars, the day of Crowley’s review, something – something highly improbably – tried to disrupt things.

“Well. I mean. Bed rest. Suggested by your curse breakers. And anyway. Can’t go like this, can I?” One of the goblets floated up from the floor, spinning in an unseen hand. “Might be disruptive.Wouldn’t want to draw attention away from Dagon – I heard, she has some fantastic charts this year. Pie graphs. One of those ones with the dots and the lines. Look at this!” From behind Beelzebub’s throne floated a ceramic pot filled with tall green plants, three dozen flies happily flitting around the attractively scented leaves. “Is this dill? Excellent choice. I’ve been doing some gardening lately, too, and let me tell you—”

“I cannot imagine anything” Beelzebub snapped, snatching the plant out of her invisible hands, “that could make you more diszzzruptive than you already are. But it appearszz you can szztill szzee, hear, and – unfortunately – szzpeak.”

“Just lucky I guess.” More pacing.

“Szzo. Dagon will be exzzpecting you in…four and a half minuteszz. I’m czzertain everyone iszz eagerly awaiting your planszz for the coming quarter-czzentury. Dagon, at leaszzt, could probably uszze the…amuszzement.”

“Course. Right. Perfect.” The footsteps began to lead towards the door. “I’ll just—”

“Szztop.” Beelzebub’s hand flew out, snapping tight around the demon’s wrist exactly as she walked past. “The otherszz will need to szzee where you are.”

“I could whistle,” she volunteered, launching into something that sounded like a tortured bird.

The Prince considered ripping her arm off and stuffing it down her throat, but the last time ze did that, the satisfaction hadn’t been worth the days of cleanup.

“Juszzt put on a hat or szzomething.”

A snap of fingers, and a band of glittering silver cloth appeared around where her waist should be. “Better? Can I go now? I’m…extremely eager to start my presentation. Ngk. Everyone is going to be impressed. This – this decade is going to put me on the map.”

“Go.”

The silver band of cloth sauntered out of the room, echoing the moronic way the demon walked. Checking the dill plant for damage, Beelzebub lowered zirself back onto the throne.

Which had, inexplicably, moved several inches back, causing zir to fall onto the floor, the potted plant shattering. “Crowley!”

“Brilliant, just brilliant,” Crowley muttered, stalking down the hall towards the meeting room. She’d spent a week putting this curse together, combining ones from six of Aziraphale’s most obscure grimoires, and yet she still had to make her bloody presentation. “Next time, I’ll just give myself the plague.” That had almost worked in the fourteenth century. Just needed a more impressive plague.

Ahead on the right, a door with a piece of paper taped on it reading Temptation Department Budget Group Lambda. She hesitated, fingers hovering just short of pushing it the rest of the way open. Had Beelzebub warned everyone she was invisible? More often, ze expected demons to take care of such things themselves, on pain of pain. Two minutes to spare; might as well try.

Crowley dropped the silver belt on the floor outside and slipped through the partially-open door, transforming her extremely cool boots into a pair of quieter slippers. That, at least, she could do without being sensed; shifting the shape of her feet didn’t alert the other demons the way a real miracle would.

A dozen of them sat in chairs around the conference table, grumbling about their project proposals, miracle allotments, and soul quotas. An overhead projector sat at the front of the room. It was the one with the cracked glass, projecting a broken circle of light onto a white wall. Dagon stood beside it, shuffling papers.

Crowley could try writing dirty words on a couple of the pre-made transparencies, but that didn’t seem properly demonic. Scanning the room, she spotted the wheeled coffee cart tucked in the corner, laden with a coffee pot, Styrofoam cups, plate of pastries and various flavorings. Horrid stuff. All demons were required to drink three cups of it per meeting, and to eat one of the scones, which this time appeared to be…pickled herring flavored? With orange marmalade?

There wasn’t much she could do to make that worse. She grabbed a few anyway, tucking them down the front of her shirt, and dumped the marmalade into the molten coffee, turning the temperature up as high as it would go. She’d managed to grab a fistful of wet soil and some dill from Beelzebub’s plant. Most of that went into the coffee pot, a little into the sour creamer, and the rest into the alleged sugar – probably an artificial sweetener, those were all the rage lately.

What else? She stole all the spoons, then pulled off an earring and started poking holes in the bottom of the cups with it.

With the perfect sense of timing honed from millennia of avoiding one more second in the company of her coworkers than necessary, Crowley managed to slip out the door, put on the belt, and waltz back in exactly as Dagon demanded, “Where is the demon Crowley?”

“Sorry, sorry. Feeling a bit under the weather today.” Only about three demons glanced her way with some level of surprise; the rest just got up and headed over to get their first requisite cup of coffee. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had. And the traffic! The roads just get worse every year. Anyway, here now. Ready and eager. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She snagged an empty seat and dropped into it, crossing her boots on the table with a heavy thud.

Dagon sighed. “Do I even want to know what happened this time?”

“Pissed off an angel. Utterly ruined her plans. Cursed me out in the most unbelievable language, and then, well, you see. Or don’t see.”

It was certainly true enough. Aziraphale had been very upset when the “fine dining establishment” Crowley had selected for their meet-up turned out to be the hottest disco in the city. And the way she managed to express her disappointment while technically not swearing certainly strained credulity.

“Did you kill her?” Ligur asked. So unimaginative.

“No, I did something much worse.” She’d dragged Aziraphale onto the dance floor and managed almost twenty-three seconds of enthusiastic disco next to her before the angel – now bright red and flustered – had stormed out entirely. “But, we’re not here to talk about me. Let’s have it. Numbers. Spreadsheets. I heard a rumor we might see that climate change graph.”

A general groan ran around the table.

“Shut up,” Dagon snapped. “Listen up, you lot – all you idiots, and Crowley in particular. Every one of you worthless wastes of matter needs to explain what you’re going to do in the next quarter-century, how that’s going to secure souls for our Master, and why we should waste any number of miracles on your pathetic hides. Until then—”

With an icy shiver, Crowley felt her miracles vanish.

“Now. Let’s start on the success rate of last quarter-century, and if I hear one word of complaint, you can scream it from the bottom of a sulfur pool. And don’t forget your blessed coffee.”

As Dagon started her presentation, Crowley watched the coffee cart. Someone had helpfully wheeled it next to the conference table, so the demons could more easily torture themselves. Seven managed to soak their shirts and trousers from leaking cups before the marmalade clogged the pot entirely. That, however, would never be enough to cancel the meeting. Heaven, a few of them even said it tasted better than usual. Should have seen that coming.

Still. It was a start.

Crowley played with her earring, then grinned, thinking of a possibility.

“Ow!” she shouted dramatically. “Something bit me!”

“Wasn’t me,” Hastur said sullenly.

“W—no, I mean. Some kind of insect.”

“Don’t see one,” grunted another demon called Krang, sitting right beside Crowley.

“It’s right there!” Silence. Oh, right, no one could see her pointing. “There! On the coffee pot!”

Eyes narrowing, Krang leaned forward, glaring across the table at the pot, which was rattling slightly. Crowley jabbed them in the back of the neck with her earring.

“Arg! It got me!” Krang slapped at the spot, leaping out of their chair. “Did you see where it went?”

“There! On Hastur’s head!”

“Where—?” Hastur managed before Ligur swatted him so hard he fell out of his chair.

“Ah, shit!” Crowley shouted. “It got me again! No, wait, I think it’s a different one.” The demons anxiously glanced at each other, but no one else stood up. Not enough. “Oh, no! My…my hand!” Crowley tried to think of something suitable “It’s burning! Like Holy Water!” She jabbed the earring into the arm of the demon on her other side.

“Bloody—It got me too!” He was on his feet in an instant. “I can feel it burning already!”

“And me!” That demon wasn’t even near Crowley. She grinned. It was working.

“What are these things?”

“I can feel it crawling on my leg.”

“My neck is swelling up!”

“Sit down!” Dagon snapped, baring her teeth. “I don’t want to hear another word about bloody insects. You’re demons. Act like it! Or I’ll make it four cups.”

The room froze – silent, apart from the now-continuous rattle of the coffee pot – as a dozen demons weighed the fear of some sort of terrifying unseen holy insect versus drinking more of the vile brew.

So Crowley ripped a handful of scone out of her top and crumbled it. “What – my hair!” She tossed the crumbs across the table. “Are – are those larvae?”

Everyone shuffled back a few steps.

“I don’t think you heard me—” Dagon started, in a tone that suggested Crowley was about to lose the room. So she went all in.

“Oh, Satan!” She shouted, falling dramatically from her chair. “They’re – they’re crawling into my ears!” That earned a few nervous glances, so she took a deep breath and gave her best horror-movie scream. “That angel! She did something to me!”

“Crowley!” Dagon shouted. “Stop acting out right now,or I swear to Satan, I’ll—”

She never found out what Dagon wanted to do to her, though, because at that moment the coffee pot exploded, lid flying off, scalding brown liquid splashing in every direction, along with blobs of now-runny marmalade.

Never one to let an opportunity go by, no matter how unexpected, Crowley cried, “Eggs! They’re nesting in the coffee! Who drank that?”

A perfect panic set in, and there was nothing Dagon could do to stop all the demons – including Crowley – from evacuating the room.

In the confusion that followed, everyone lost track of a certain invisible demon. How sad. And totally unexpected, Crowley thought, climbing into the Bentley. Too bad I kept the radio off and didn’t go to the cinema. Otherwise, they could summon me back. If she were careful, she could have days to finish coming up with her proposal.

But first, a little fun. Grinning, she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, wondering what kind of trouble she could get into next.

Well. One way to find out.

The London police were extremely disappointing that morning. It took nearly eight minutes of driving around at top speed, running red lights, and blaring her horn outside rich-looking homes before one finally started chasing her.

Slamming into top gear, she raced down the busiest streets, whipping around corners, weaving through traffic, making sure not to get too far ahead. The second patrol car joined in somewhere near Oxford Street, the third during a quick jaunt up towards Regent’s Park. When she’d collected four, sirens blaring as they struggled to keep up with her flawless driving, she spotted a side street and lurched into it with a complicated 270-degree-spin finished with the nose of the Bentley facing the approaching cars.

Then she settled back in her seat and waited.

The black monstrosity finally slid to a stop. Officer Mills kept her eyes on it while her partner slowed their own car to a stop.

“We sure he’s not just going to run?” She asked, trying to spot the driver. The glare off the windshield must be playing tricks on her eyes; she couldn’t see a thing.

“We surround it,” Harmon said. “Got to be enough of us, even if they try to make trouble.”

Six officers eased out of their cars, silently trying to decide who should approach the window. Mills won – or lost – and took the lead, Harmon close behind her. He was the only one armed; she felt a little better for that, in case the driver turned out to be dangerous, though most likely she figured he would try to plow through the police cars to get away. They couldn’t do much in that case apart from try to kick the tires in passing.

“Think it’s stolen?” Harmon asked as a few others moved to try and block the street beyond the idling nightmare. “Teenagers messing around?”

“Could be,” Mills said doubtfully. “It’s vintage, though. Really old. And whoever was driving knows what they’re doing.”

Anderson waved from the far side of the vehicle. Everyone was in position. Mills nodded and walked up to the window, prepared for a lunatic – or a drunk – or someone on an awful lot of drugs.

Instead, it was completely empty.

“What…” She glanced back at Harmon. “No one. Did he bail out?”

“We’d have seen. Check the back seat.”

“Nothing. Wait. There’s…a tin of biscuits. That’s all.”

Down the street, Anderson crouched, checking underneath. Nothing there, apparently. Slowly, the police approached, one by one relaxing as they confirmed that yes – the car was empty.

The driver side window was open. Mills stuck her head in, glancing up and down. Nothing. No sign of what had happened to the driver. The engine still gently rumbled, and the door was locked. She definitely would have noticed if someone had stayed there long enough to lock it through the window.

“I’ll call to have it towed,” Harmon said, stepping back. She could hear the confused frown in his voice. “Maybe we’ll find…something…when we search it.”

By this point, even the officers who had waited in the patrol cars had joined them, crowded along the sides of the black vintage monster, testing doors and peering through windows. Mills leaned in to unlock the driver side door. “But where could he have gone?”

“She,” a soft voice said near Mills’s ear, and something tapped against her nose. “And I haven’t gone anywhere.”

Mills stumbled back as the radio burst to life.

You know the day destroys the night Night divides the day…

Everyone spun in place, looking for the source of the music from a nearby window or door, shouting at shadows, so only Mills was watching as the pedals and gear stick moved themselves.

Tried to run Tried to hide Break on through to the other side Break on through to the other side…

The ghost car – what else could she be? – shot backwards up the street, faster than should have been possible, spun a full 360-degree turn, then straightened up and drove away, blending into traffic with a cheerful toot of the horn.

Mills finally blinked.

“Harmon?” She called. “You do the paperwork on this one. I need a drink.”

Crowley danced in her seat far more than she usually would, but for once no one could see her.

Made the scene Week to week Day to day Hour to – Crowley!

She nearly slammed on the brakes as Jim Morrison began to sound an awful lot like Dagon. Shit. Forgot about that.

“Ahhhh…speaking?”

“Who, exactly, gave you permission to leave?”

“Oh. Ahhh.” She glanced out the window at a row of businesses and pulled over in front of some kind of barber shop. “I thought, what with all the insects—”

“There were no insects!”

“There weren’t?” Crowley really needed to work on her innocent voice. “I must be hallucinating. Better go home and lie down until it passes.”

“Crowley. Your budget proposal is due by the end of the day. Do you want to be stranded up there without miracles? Do you know what we do to demons who fail to meet their quotas?”

She knew that. She’d been told, several times, exactly what to expect. “Nnnnnh…I’ve got – it’s going to be a big project. Very big. More souls than…than wasps have larvae. Just need to work on my proposal in a secure, bug-free location.”

“Crowley! Do you think for one second—”

“Ah! They’re coming out of the radio!” Crowley cut the sound.

She sat in the Bentley, tapping her fingers on the wheel.

I just hung up on Dagon. They’re going to kill me. Worse, they’re going to send me down to file in the archives for a thousand years.

Then again, they’d have to find her first.

And, she was finding, her current state presented the kind of temptations even a demon couldn’t ignore…

Graham Palmer had been trying to get into the barber shop for twenty minutes.

The door was stuck fast. No matter how he rattled and pulled, it wouldn’t budge, as if something enormous had pinned it shut. And yet, every time he stepped back to let other patrons try, the door opened easily, but slammed as if pulled shut whenever he approached. He even tried slipping through behind another customer, but then it stayed shut until Graham stepped back. There was just no way in.

Now he hammered on the window, trying to get his barber’s attention. “Stuart! Stuart! What the hell are you trying to pull?”

The barber looked up from his current customer, blinking in confusion, and jerked his head towards the door.

“I tried that, it doesn’t bloody work!” A young man half his age walked past, giving Graham a funny look, and pulled open the shop door. Graham dove to follow him, but again it snapped shut, almost catching his nose. He pounded the door with his fist, glaring at the customers inside. “I’m going to be late!”

Across the shop, Stuart put down his scissors and shouted something. All Graham caught was “…break my glass…”

There was an idea.

He crossed the pavement to where an ancient black car was parked, removing his jacket. Wrapping it around his arm for protection, he charged forward, bracing himself for impact.

The door swung open in front of him and before he could stop himself, Graham tripped over – something – there didn’t appear to be anything – and sprawled on his face, sliding across the linoleum floor.

“Watch yourself, dearie,” a cheerful woman’s voice said, but when he looked up, no one was there.

Crowley strolled around the park, her new domain, another time.

Over there, at the edge of the path, was the Strange Chill area. Anyone who paused there, perhaps studying the slightly askew sign that seemed to indicate the exit was in the fountain, would feel a touch on their shoulder, a tickle on the back of their neck, or hear heavy breathing with no source.

Over here, near the ice cream cart, was the Creepy Bush. Originally just generic ghost noises, Crowley eventually discovered what really freaked humans out was a disembodied voice whispering their name, or something they’d said in private a few minutes before. She followed strolling couples around, listening in on anything good, and when one stopped to by the other ice cream, just really let loose on the one standing by the bushes. They usually started clinging much more closely to their partner after that, so really, Crowley was doing them a favor. Instant relationship counseling.

Across from the fountain sat the Haunted Bench. Crowley really went wild with that one. Children’s songs in a creepy voice. Branches shaking with no wind. Possessions floating away from wherever they’d been set down. Really, anything was allowed.

The narrow path leading through the tulips was the Asshole Road. Anyone Crowley caught being an asshole in her park was subtly sent that direction, pickpocketed, and then beset by bees, or at least a very convincing humming and a few pricks from an invisible earring.

The fountain itself was Rare Coins and Lost Items. Her third pickpocket victim had been carrying a tube of very powerful epoxy, and it turns out the coin-stuck-to-the-sidewalk trick was even better when you glued it underwater. A few pieces of jewelry at the bottom were also glued in place, but most of the valuables were simply tossed in or – if they weren’t waterproof – hung from the sculpture of frolicking animals in an amusing way. Crowley mostly just kept the cash, and even then only if the Assholes had been particularly cruel. So far, she’d accumulated almost five hundred pounds.

It was either the best park in London, or the worst.

She leaned against the clock – now set forty-eight and a half minutes slow – and surveyed the chaos. Two teenagers were frantically trying to get something out of the fountain, while the Asshole who’d sworn at that lovely gay couple was now soaked through, desperately trying to get his watch back from the ear of a sculpted rabbit seven feet high. That had been hard to get into place, but certainly worth it. The couple, meanwhile, were hand-in-hand, clutching ice creams and hurrying away from what had been for them the Creepy but Oddly Affirming Bush. The lady with the dog that had made a mess by the roses was trying to report the Haunted Bench to a cop, who tiredly insisted it was her lunch break and that the lady would not believe the morning she’d had.

Crowley grinned up at the sky. This – this was what it was all about. Forget budget meetings and presentations. Who did that make miserable, apart from the demons themselves? This park had everything: temptation, fear, frustration, justice, ice cream, and perfect weather.

“Hey. Hey you feathered wankers,” someone shouted, followed by the sound of rattling pebbles and angry quacking.

Tipping down her invisible shades, Crowley spotted some young idiot chucking handfuls of rocks at the ducks. Most were fleeing, but one flapped her wings, panicked and possessive, over a nest. One of the eggs had already been broken.

Looks like another volunteer for Asshole Road. Crowley was already eying their watch.

Every bakery has that one customer. Probably every place that sold food.

The one that demands impossible standards, not because of any particular love of fine cuisine, but just because they can.

The one that counts the blueberries in their muffin and lets you know if there aren’t enough.

The one who spends five minutes shouting, “No, not that one, that one,” while providing no other information, until their server had touched everything in the display case.

The one who complains that their brownie is too chocolatey.

The customer who somehow gets away with murder on account of being someone’s spouse, or sibling, or old school friend.

Victoria Lockwood was that customer, and as Riley watched her approach, they held their breath in trepidation.

“This scone,” she snapped, dropping her plate onto the counter, “is not right.” Then she glared at Bailey, waiting for a response.

“Is it…” Bailey’s mind raced, trying to work out what might be wrong. “The wrong flavor?” Victoria’s face only darkened. “Um. Is – is it dry?” But most of that batch had sold without a single complaint. “Did you want…more lemon curd? Or—”

“It is not hot enough.”

“Ah.” Of course. They’d taken that batch out nearly an hour ago; the next was ready to go in. “If you’re willing to wait, um…twenty minutes? I can give you the first—”

“Twenty minutes? What kind of service is that? I want my scone now.” She glanced at the tray coming out of the oven. “Why are you making me wait? What are those?”

Bailey glanced back and relaxed for a moment. “Oh – yes, I can get you one right now. They’re Raspberry Almond Butterm—”

“Disgusting!” Victoria rapped her hand against the counter. “That is not what I ordered! I demand you warm this one up, immediately.”

“I…” Bailey glanced at their coworkers, but everyone was avoiding eye contact. “That’s…I can put it back in the oven but that would probably dry—”

“Fine.” She shoved the plate towards them. “Be quick about it, young lady, I don’t like to wait.” She clearly noticed the way Bailey flinched. “If you don’t want to be mistaken for a girl, I suggest you get a proper haircut. And not that hideous shade of pink.”

“Y’s ma’am,” Bailey muttered, because some arguments would never be worth it. They took back the scone and put it on a baking tray. Maybe if it was only in the oven for a minute or two—

“Victoria Lockwood!” Bailey spun around, searching for who had called out. Not anyone else behind the counter, they all had their heads ducked, concentrating on some other tasks. But there – on the counter – a scone sat on Victoria’s plate.

She looked up from her makeup compact, smiled triumphantly, and took a bite out of it.

Her face immediately went green, and she dropped plate and pastry, running out of the bakery faster than Bailey had ever seen anyone move. They rushed forward, ready to call after her, but very much not wanting to, and picked up the discarded scone – it smelled awful, like vinegar and fish.

There was also an enormous wad of banknotes on the counter, wrapped up in a scrap of paper with a note: Kid – Don’t take that shit from anyone. Flip off your boss when you quit. <3 C

The bakery door opened and shut on its own.

Well, there was an entire day’s pickpocketing gone in a moment, but it wasn’t like Crowley had a better use for it. She still had a few rare coins, but after the fountain, sticking them to the ground seemed an anticlimax. She’d had some fun modifying the haunting routine for the bus or Underground, but both would be filled with commuters now a ghost that swears when you elbow her in the ribs on a crowded train is…not as impressive.

Still. Not a bad day overall. The most expensive foods in the corner marked had all been re-priced, several examples of hostile architecture had been mysteriously destroyed, enough people would be sharing stories of “hauntings” that the whole city would need to be exorcised, and – just for the Heaven of it – she’d followed a particularly annoying human for almost an hour, up and down the streets, buzzing in his ear.

Really, it was the simple pleasures that made the world so enjoyable.

And speaking of simple pleasures, Crowley had left one particular part of the city for last.

Strolling down the streets of Soho, which was just waking up while more respectable – but far less fun – parts of the city were winding down, she kept her eyes open for anyone who might make a good target. A few possibilities presented themselves, but in the end her destination proved the stronger draw.

A. Z. Fell’s Bookshop.

It was just the right time of day, when the customers would still be bothering Aziraphale, and she would be running short of patient ways to refuse them and start turning to biting sarcasm and, on occasion, outright threats. She’d probably appreciate a little haunting to help chase them off, once Crowley had finished stealing her cocoa, moving her bookmarks, and changing the record in the gramophone.

But, glancing in the window, Crowley saw something that poured cold water all over her brilliant day.

Gabriel.

Michael and Uriel, too. Probably Sandalphon lurking around.

Aziraphale stood before her bosses, hands clutched anxiously, that eager, ready-to-please face that made Crowley’s chest ache. Some, when faced with the beings who had hurt them so many times, became afraid, or angry, or distressed. But Aziraphale…just wanted approval. A kind word.

Crowley glared at Gabriel. The Heaven are you up to this time?

For once, she would be able to find out.

“And, I really think,” Aziraphale said, hands twisting like captured rodents as she rambled, “that this past decade in particular,I’ve – I’ve accomplished many things. Um. I – I prepared a list…somewhere…” her eyes darted to the disaster she called a desk, and she started shifting material objects around, smiling nervously. Guiltily.

“Is this going to take long?” Gabriel asked with a pointed sigh.

“No! I just…one moment…”

“We’re already running late,” Uriel commented. “We’d expected you to be better prepared.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale snatched up a book and began flipping through it frantically, as if it might contain the answers she needed. “Only, ah, you didn’t actually say when you would be coming…”

“We did say between the 3rd of January and 28th of October,” Michael pointed out reasonably.

“Oh. Um. I…”

“Something doesn’t seem…right,” Sandalphon said, stepping close to Aziraphale, putting a hand on her shoulder. The book she held tumbled from her fingers. “This whole place has a…smell about it.”

The door slammed behind them. Gabriel glanced back, but couldn’t see it from where he stood. Sandalphon gave Aziraphale’s shoulder another squeeze, then headed over to check on it.

“I thought,” Gabriel said slowly, making sure the slow-witted Principality heard every word, “I told you to lock the door.”

“It was.” Aziraphale’s eyes had gone wide. “I – I mean I did.”

Gabriel pursed his lips and shook his head. This had been a particularly disappointing review. Disappointing in the sense that their agent had once again conclusively failed to present evidence of meaningful victories towards Heaven’s cause. Less disappointing in that, whether she knew it or not, Aziraphale had already given him what he needed to take the arrogant fool down a few pegs.

In six thousand years, she’d barely managed to do a single thing right, yet somehow always came to him simpering and smiling like she deserved all the accolades of Heaven. Well, he’d been patient, as suited an Archangel, as patient as he could. But once per century, he had the opportunity to make his opinion perfectly clear.

Take away her miracles for a start, he thought. Though that didn’t seem to work nearly as well as it had a few centuries ago. Maybe recall her to Heaven for a year or two, re-educate her on the basics of her duty. There might be enough for a period of isolation. With restraints. They’d done that once, about three thousand years before, after a particularly poor review. Seven years chained up in an empty corner of Heaven, and Aziraphale had been wonderfully pliable for centuries after. Perhaps it was time to revisit.

“Look – look here, I have a list of…oh.” Aziraphale held out her book again, which seemed to be filled with irregular scrawl instead of the usual neatly printed words. “I started a list of accomplishments, but ah…I became busy the last few years. Um. Quite a lot has happened since…”

Uriel took the book and studied it, face impressively calm. “Interesting,” they said, not giving anything away as they turned the pages over. Gabriel trusted them to spot anything useful.

As the Archangels waited in pointed silence, Michael walked her fingers across a table. She pressed a thumb against a book, sliding it to the edge. Aziraphale stared as it teetered, then found its balance again. Michael watched it, disinterested, then moved on to another book, sliding that forward as well.

Sandalphon stepped back beside Gabriel, shrugging his shoulders. No sign of anything. Well. More questions for later.

Uriel reached the final page.

“What happened in 1967?”

“Nothing!” At the panic in Aziraphale’s tone, all four Archangels raised their eyebrows. “I – I – I mean, yes, lots, many – many—” One of the books beside Michael fell to the floor with a slap. The Principality winced. “I – I’m terribly sorry, could you be more specific?”

“Your final entry,” Uriel held the book out to Aziraphale, “says 1967 – Prevented… Prevented what?”

“Ahhhhhh.” Aziraphale squirmed. “Well, I…I…there was…ummm…”

“As I recall,” Michael said slowly, “you briefly visited Heaven that year, but didn’t officially report to any of us. And then didn’t return for at least…six months? Very unusual.”

“You haven’t been hiding something, have you?” Gabriel smiled, his heart rising. More than isolation. He could probably take away this shop, for a start, give it to a more trustworthy angel.

“Nnnnno.” Aziraphale gave that particular smile, the one that meant she thought she was about to get away with something. The one she thought Gabriel didn’t know about. “But, ahhh, if you could, um, quite a lot happened in the world in the…the last ten years or so.”

Something crashed on the other side of the building. No, he’d have the place demolished. It was falling apart already. Aziraphale could watch. Maybe he could order her to help. An eminently suitable punishment for wasting his time. “As I understand it,” he said, taking a step forward, “the last decade saw…war, riots, assassinations…”

“Well, well, yes, I…but, if you look at progress with, um, civil rights, ahh…anticolonialism…”

More made-up human terms. Gabriel and Michael shared a pained glance. “Look. Aziraphale.” Gabriel pressed his hands together. “It’s not that we don’t appreciate you taking the initiative, but…what does any of this have to do with your orders?”

“Or, for that matter, with your visit to Heaven?” Michael moved her fingers across the table again, coming to rest on one of those stupid little figurines Aziraphale had accumulated. Like a packrat. A human depiction of an angel, as some kind of soft, happy baby with wings. Not a warrior at all. Michael’s finger tapped against it. “What were you trying to prevent?”

“Did it have something to do with…Holy Water?” Sandalphon suddenly asked.

“That’s right,” Gabriel said. Something clicking in his mind. “There was that storage jar that went missing.” Did Aziraphale look more guilty than usual? “What year was that?”

“1967,” Uriel said.

He couldn’t hold back the smile. If he could prove Aziraphale had taken Holy Water for some sort of personal use, well.

He’d pretty much be justified whatever he decided to do.

“I – I – I can explain.” The Principality tried to back away, but was stopped by her own desk. “There – there was this demon, an – an especially, ah, wily, cunning, um, crafty demon—”

“Was there?” Michael’s finger twitched, sending the false angel off the table. It fell—

Then hovered, halfway to the floor.

Slowly, it lifted, rightening itself in the air before them. There was no trace of a miracle, no power of any kind. It simply…floated. Drifting through the air to land on the desk beside Aziraphale.

“Clever,” said Gabriel, watching the Principality’s face for any sign of deception. “How did you do that?”

“I…”

The pages of a book, laid out on the stand behind her, began to turn, flipping faster and faster, slamming shut.

“This…isn’t me.” Aziraphale said.

Behind her, books began to float off their shelves. One rocketed across the room towards Gabriel. He dodged it easily, but it was followed by another, and another. The lights flickered overhead.

“If it isn’t you,” Gabriel began, but a small table by the door to the next room began to rattle. Atop it lay a black-and-white board covered with formless carvings, which lifted into the air, then exploded, pieces flying at the Archangels. Gabriel easily batted them aside, but now one of the armchairs began to shift.

Without a word, the four prepared for battle, Gabriel stepping back, Michael and Sandalphon moving to the front. At least, that was the plan – the moment he tried to move, Gabriel fell, his feet somehow tightly bound together. The same happened to Sandalphon and Uriel, and even Michael stumbled, knocking over a table in her haste to stay upright.

Glass rattled in the back of the shop.

“It’s…” Aziraphale cleared her throat. “It’s that same demon again! I thought I’d banished her!”

“What?” Banishing wasn’t exactly something angels did.

“The – the Holy Water!” A bottle of something hovered out from the back room, moving slowly but threateningly. “Did you bring any? It’s the only thing that can stop her.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael’s sword manifested in her hand. “What demon?”

“Crowley! She – she seems to have grown even more powerful!”

“Crowley?” Not that worthless snake again. How many times had he been assured – through Michael’s secret back-channel sources – that Crowley was the most useless, incompetent, lazy demon in Hell? And yet somehow, not a single angel had ever successfully dealt with her – except Aziraphale.

“I thought I smelled a demon,” Sandalphon said, pulling his shoes off and tossing them aside. “But I can’t sense demonic power.”

“Obviously not!” Aziraphale’s wings burst from her back, and she held out a hand towards the hovering bottle. It slowly lowered itself to the ground. “Why do you think she’s so difficult to defeat? The power she uses – it’s not of Heaven or Hell! I – I can barely counter it!”

“Let me, then,” Michael said, predatory gleam in her eyes. Like Sandalphon, she’d removed her shoes; Gabriel was working on his own, but somehow the laces had become wound together like snakes, something sticky sealing the knot shut.

Sandalphon and Michael stepped forward, swords at the ready. “No!” Aziraphale turned to block them, and immediately the rattling started up again – this time from the metal stairs to the upper floor. “You – you don’t understand! Wh – when she gets like this – the fires would only make her stronger.”

Something – horrible, screeching noises – began emanating from the back room, like some animal being torn apart.

“That’s – that’s why I need the Holy Water! In the proper ritual, it – it – it’s too complicated to explain!”

A cupboard burst open, revealing a display of holy items – consecrated Bibles, holy symbols, sticks of incense and jars of oil. “No!” Aziraphale shouted, genuine panic in her voice.

The largest, heaviest of the Bibles lifted and shot across the room. It didn’t reach the Archangels, but Gabriel could see smoke rising from its cover.

Next came a crucifix, spinning end over end, which Michael caught out of the air. The wood was burned all along one side.

“Don’t you see?” Aziraphale said, eyes round. “Nothing I have in there can stop her! What could a flaming sword even do? I need more Holy Water.” A jar of oil fell to the ground and immediately began to boil, bubbling and steaming. “I’ll try to hold her back as long as I can.” Aziraphale’s face furrowed in concentration as she walked across the shop. “Please, it – it’s far too dangerous for you here…”

“Right.” Gabriel glanced at the other Archangels. Something wasn’t right. But they couldn’t risk themselves against an unknown force. “We’ll…we’ll get some Holy Water. You do what you can.”

With a thought, the ascended to Heaven.

Gabriel quickly stood up, brushing down his clothing and trying to school his expression. “Well. I think the best course of action is to wait a day or two, then go see what the damage is.”

“And Aziraphale’s review?” Uriel asked, face somehow still calm, despite everything that had happened.

“I just hope we don’t have to give her a damn commendation again.”

The Arch-Wankers vanished in a shimmer of blue light.

“Ow, ow, fuck that hurts!” Crowley gasped, stumbling away from the spilled oil and shaking her hands. “What kind of stuff do you keep in there?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale started to rush forward, then froze. “Where are you? Can’t you – reveal yourself, or whatever?”

“Nnnnnnnnope. Rrrrrgh, how does this hurt more than walking in a church?”

“I…I’m sorry, my dear girl,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve been worried lately that if – if your side realized what was happening…I thought it best to have a little insurance of my own.”

“Well it works.” Crowley managed to reach one of the shop chairs and sank into it. “Over here…no, here! Where’s…” She nudged the rug with her least-burnt toe, folding a bit of it up. Aziraphale immediately ran over.

“That was – well, that was clever, Crowley, but highly unnecessary. I – I was only having my performance review. I thought I was doing quite well.” Her soft hands found one of Crowley’s and picked it up, fingers tracing across the palm.

“I…” Crowley had seen the way Gabriel’s eyes lit up at the mention of Holy Water, while she was on the ground gluing his shoelaces together, and she counted it among the most terrifying things she’d ever seen. “I’m sure you were, but vanquishing some super-powerful demon? Saving the Archangels? Well, that’s only going to help, right?”

“Hmmm.” Another brush of her fingers, and the sting started to go out of Crowley’s palms. “And, I’m sure, spark a few rumors that might help you?”

“Oh.” Crowley grimaced, looking out the windows. “Unless those rumors spread really fast, I doubt I’m going to get much benefit.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale sank to the ground, patting around until she found one of Crowley’s feet. She gently lifted it, stroking from ankle to toe and giving it the same healing treatment. “And why are you like this?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Crowley.”

“Right. Um. I…may have…borrowed a few of your books and…designed a curse to get out of my quarter-century budget review. But in my defense – it’s so boring.”

Aziraphale sighed – or possibly blew a healing breath across Crowley’s feet. No, probably the sigh, but at least they felt a bit better. “My dear, it’s only a meeting. There’s no need for these – these histrionics.”

“Histri—Angel, that is – I am not – can you grab a dictionary? I need to know how upset I should be.”

“Extremely.”

“Right. I am. And…I thought it would only last a few hours. Have a bit of fun. But…I need my miracles for, you know, ambient healing, and…look, they cut off our miracles during the review, and only give them back once you’ve wowed them with your project idea.”

“And you don’t have one, do you?”

“Not…as such.” Crowley hung her head. “I…I thought I could get an extension. Just long enough to think of something.”

“So you cursed yourself.” That pained look, the I-hate-to-tell-you-how-much-you-failed-but-also-I-love-it look. Only slightly ruined by the fact that it was aimed somewhere over the demon’s left shoulder. “Crowley, did it never occur to you that in the time it took you create such a thing, you could just as easily have come up with a project?”

“Nh.”

“And did you come up with your brilliant idea during your delay?”

“Nnnh.”

“Well. At least you’re sorry now, I assume?”

“Nope.” If she hadn’t skipped out, Crowley wouldn’t have been here to help Aziraphale. She’d saved her friend countless times over six thousand years, but sometimes…she was quite happy the angel didn’t notice. “No, demons don’t get sorry. We get…” she grunted. “We get annoyed at ourselves for…ngk…for hanginupndagonnpissinheroff.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“For hanging up on Dagon and pissing her off.” Crowley rubbed her face. “Unless I can think of the greatest project any demon ever came up with…” Her stomach dropped as the reality of it hit. A thousand years in filing meant a thousand years without Aziraphale’s bastard looks and gentle touches. “I’m…probably going to be gone for a while.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale stroked her fingers across Crowley’s foot one more time. “No, that won’t do at all.” She looked up with that icy, determined look. The let-me-speak-to-your-manager expression that made Crowley go completely light-headed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to do something about all this.”

“Like what?”

“How are your feet?”

“F—hmm? Oh, fine.” They were – Aziraphale seemed to have removed all the pain. Or at least, she’d removed some of the pain, and the fluttery feeling in Crowley’s chest allowed her to ignore the rest. “So. Um. What did you have in mind? Oh!” A grin stretched across her face. “Dagon and Beelzebub already think you cursed me. Maybe we can stage a second fight where they see it. I’ll definitely get an extension that way.”

“Or.” Aziraphale found Crowley’s hands again and laced their fingers together, pulling her to her feet. “We can go for a drive in that beastly car of yours and actually come up with a proper idea. Something convoluted, demonic, and with that…Crowley style.”

“I have a style now?”

“Hmmm. Yes. Not as refined as mine, but I think we can make it work.” Her right hand squeezed Crowley’s, and her left slid up the demon’s arm to her shoulder. “You know, I had a little over a century apart from you. And I have absolutely no desire to repeat that. In fact I…I rather think I prefer your company to, well. Anyone’s.”

“Nnnnh.” Crowley shuffled her feet and clutched Aziraphale’s hand back, guiding the angel to stand just a little closer. Needing to say something. Afraid to say too much. “Ssssss. Mmmm. Yeah. I, uh. I like it better up here, too. Y’know. Where you are.”

“Yes, I know.” Aziraphale’s left hand slid further up, coming to rest on the back of her neck. “I can see right through you. My dear Crowley.” With the lightest pressure, she tipped the demon’s head down.

And kissed her, soft lips covering Crowley’s shocked mouth.

“Oh…” Aziraphale gasped, pulling back slightly, hardly at all. “I, ah…I meant to…” Her breath still tickled Crowley’s lips. “I…forehead…”

“Nrrh.” Crowley’s free hand drifted forward, finding Aziraphale’s hip, resting on it, barely a touch. It was all she dared. “Ah…?”

Neither of them moved. Or both did. Or they stood still and the world around them shifted. Whichever way it was, their lips touched again, and held this time. Slowly, they drifted closer, caught in each other’s gravity, a decaying orbit. Crowley would surely burn up on approach, but it was worth every moment.

Eventually they parted, once more just enough to breathe, to speak, to remember that they were two beings and not a single, burning soul.

“Not…” Crowley swallowed. “Not too fast?”

“I…” Aziraphale bit her lip. “I don’t know. But…Crowley…I know…where I want to go. Eventually.”

Their foreheads pressed together. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Aziraphale nodded, dropping left hand falling away, right thumb rubbing the back of Crowley’s hand. Her eyes fluttered open and she gasped. “Oh, my word!”

“What?” Crowley glanced at herself, black cloth trousers flared wide at the legs, tight red sleeveless shirt cut scandalously low in the front and back, boots with heels that made her even taller than usual—

She was visible again.

“I…I suppose I was still healing you when we…oh…oh, Crowley…what are you wearing?”

“Angel, it’s – I look fashionable, you look – have you changed anything in the last century?”

“I…a few things! Were you honestly planning to give a presentation like that?”

“I was going to be invisible, yeah!”

“You…are…” Aziraphale pressed her eyes shut. “I am going to get my jacket. And then I’m going to get you a jacket, because it’s cold at night, and you are cold-blooded.”

“M’not,” Crowley muttered.

“And then we will go for our ride and determine what evil, dastardly plan I will spend the next twenty-five years thwarting. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” After a moment, Crowley said, “Ah, Aziraphale?”

“What is it now?”

“At some point, are you going to let go of my hand?”

Aziraphale glanced down. “Oh. Hmm. I suppose we’ll find out.”

(Fifty Years Later)

Crowley sat beneath the apple tree, her hand clutched tightly in Aziraphale’s, leaning back against her angel’s chest. “And that,” she concluded, “is why we call the 26th of April Lesbian Visibility Day.”

The Them stared at the two supernatural beings, mouths slightly open.

“You…” Pepper started, “are full of so much shit.”

“Oi!”

“Actually,” Wensley said, “that’s…one of the worst stories I’ve ever heard. How are you supposed to budget miracles?”

“If they could cut you off that easy,” Brian jumped in, “why didn’t they do it when you left Hell?”

“Oh, ummm,” she glanced up at Aziraphale.

“Tactics,” the angel said enigmatically.

Pepper didn’t even seem to be listening. “How did you know what all those people were thinking?”

“That’s right,” Wensley nodded. “Particularly Gabriel.”

“He…he has a very expressive face,” Crowley argued.

“How’d you actually move around like that, without anyone hearing you? The whole day?”

“Shouldn’t you’ve been, you know, way more worried about getting killed?”

“At least one of those bookshop attacks wasn’t even possible, unless you were in two places at once.”

“And how d’you accidentally leave your healing on?”

“How could you possibly mistake her lips for her forehead?”

“This was rubbish.”

“What do you think, Adam?”

The former Antichrist looked up from where he was playing with Dog. “I think…” He gave the angel and demon a penetrating look, then shook his head, smiling as if he’d just seen the joke at the center of the universe, and it had turned out to be a truly terrible pun. “I think you should just tell us the next story.”

“Which one’s that?” Crowley asked, settling back into the curve of her angel’s arm, fingers still twined together.

“The one with the greatest project any demon ever came up with.”

“Oh.” Grinning, Crowley tipped her head to meet Aziraphale’s shining eyes. “Wahoo.”

The song is "Break on Through (To the Other Side)" by the Doors, because Queen had not yet put out their first album, though there was a lot of pressure in the Discord to have Crowley dancing to Abba instead.

Final scene set next year because we'll all be sitting together under apple trees with our loved ones and telling BS stories to kids before we know it.

For everyone who contributed non-anonymous suggestions:

@amidst-innumerable-stars @tangle5ancer @fenrislorsrai @feuerkindjana @bowser14456 @taksez @yeahhiyellow @infinitevariety @gargelyfloof118 @lourek @soft-forest-rain @undertaker991 @jules-al-c @lov-lyness2 @thisleadstohollyhocks @marianrios33 @aux-barricades @lostmemimi @joybones @derederest @myusernameispie @mothmans-favorite-lamp and @n0nb1narydemon (yes I did find a way to level up the coin gluing!) and of course @5ftjewishcactus who encouraged me when you really shouldn't. Sorry I couldn't fit in everyone's suggestions!

112 notes · View notes

needtherapy · 4 years

Text

to be human is a haunting, Part 1

A love story for Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen

In a modern world, in a modern city that still has need for cultivators, Song Lan

(war hero, rogue cultivator, orphan)

goes for a run in the park, kills a dankang, makes a friend, and meets a beautiful man with a dog, all before he has to go to therapy. It's the best day he's had in ten years.

Read more Kristina Writes Tiny Stories

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

Read over on AO3 instead

Title from molly ofgeography’s song Runaway, Run

Rated E for Explicit sexy times, mild demon killing, and swearing.

Part 1

Song Lan wakes to the sound of screaming

familiar

too familiar

and he knows it is his own voice seconds

long seconds

before he can snap his mouth closed around the last trailing sob.

The thrum of the city leaks back in, pushing past the roaring in his ears, and reminds him to ground himself. The clean white walls of the stark room around him. The feel of the bed underneath him, the smell of lemon dryer sheets, the glow of the neon light across the street. All known. All safe. He skips the taste of morning breath.

If he could remember the nightmares, the exact details, maybe he’d tell his therapist. It would at least give them something to talk about instead of the silent hour he wastes twice a week now.

No. That’s a lie. He knows what’s in them. He still wouldn’t talk about it.

The clock by his bed claims it’s 5:04 am, a fairly reasonable time to be awake, so he gets up. May as well get his run over with.

— ⚔ —

“Do you run every day,” Dr. Wen asks.

Song Lan nods.

Dr. Wen writes something down.

“Do you enjoy running?” Dr. Wen asks.

Song Lan nods.

Dr. Wen writes something down.

“Why do you enjoy it?” Dr. Wen asks.

Song Lan shrugs.

Dr. Wen writes something down.

— ⚔ —

Song Lan doesn’t really enjoy running any more than he enjoys digesting food. But it’s too ingrained in him now, the rhythm of air and feet and arms. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to. It is the anchor of his day.

Ten miles covers a lot of the city, and as familiar as it is, as long as he’s lived and run here, it looks different every morning, like noticing a light freckle on the back of his wrist. When it’s cloudless before dawn like today, he runs down the lakeshore path to watch the sunrise at the halfway mark. On cue, with all the fanfare and flourish of a seasoned professional, at 6:17 am, the sun erupts in yellow and pink over the horizon and turns the water to diamonds. It looks like magic every time.

This he loves and doesn’t have to lie about.

Song Lan is two miles from his place, running through the park, when the skin on the back of his neck prickles, and he slows his pace. Is it a hundred yards away? Maybe closer? He opens his mind and sends out a questing wave of qi from his core. He doesn’t know if he needs to draw the sword strapped to his back yet. There’s no one else around. Maybe whatever it is will just...mind its own business.

He doesn’t hunt anymore, not actively, but he still runs with his sword. It’s just habit, probably. He would feel incomplete without Fuxue’s weight between his shoulder blades. And even if he doesn’t go looking for danger, danger is often waiting.

Without warning, an enormous dankang explodes from the bushes by the running path and careens toward him. The green pelt that had camouflaged it glows in the early morning light, and Song Lan is swinging Fuxue almost before the sword is even in his hand. The boar roars in a very un-pig-like way, and he idly wonders, as the blade cuts into the demon’s hide, what the taxonomic difference between dankang and pigs is. Are they different families? Orders? Or is there some divergence further back? It squeals in pain but doesn’t give up the attack, changing direction mid-stride and flashing wicked yellow tusks at him.

It takes six strikes to kill the monster. He always counts. The counting, like the running, is an integral part of him. One downward hack. One thrust to the shoulder. One spinning jab in the dankang’s ribs. Two upward slashes. One strike in the throat and the beast is dead.

Song Lan texts the Nie cleanup crew his coordinates and takes a thin cloth from his pocket to wipe the blood off of Fuxue, dropping it on to the body when he’s done. He’ll clean the sword properly when he gets back.

“Six strikes,” a voice says from behind him, and he whirls, surprised to be surprised. “Was it luck, or are you really that good?”

There’s a man in a long trench coat standing on the path with a dog sitting next to him. The dog is one of those scruffy brown mutts that would be completely ordinary in every way except it looks far too clever to be a dog. It cocks its head and one floppy ear flips inside out.

The man is backlit by a golden ray of sun

not ordinary

in no way ordinary

and Song Lan can’t see his features clearly enough, not from this distance

a hundred and thirty-three feet

wind from the east

but it looks like he might be carrying a sword.

— ⚔ —

Sometimes in therapy, Song Lan counts the holes in the acoustical ceiling tiles.

Sometimes he counts the colored pencils on Dr. Wen’s desk.

Sometimes he counts the number of times Dr. Wen spins his pen in his fingers, waiting for Song Lan to answer a question. Any question.

— ⚔ —

Song Lan counts to seven before he answers, the numbers slowing his heartbeat.

“It was one more than last time.”

The man laughs, a bright chime of bells that wrinkles his nose. The dog looks up at its master, and its mouth drops open in a doggy grin.

“Clearly a failure, then. I hope the next time I see you, you will have improved.”

Song Lan is distracted by his voice, deeper than he expects, more musical than he expects, and he’s acutely disappointed when the man turns and walks away, the dog at his heels. He’s almost overcome by the impulse to call the man back, just so he can see his face again, so he can decide if it’s real or not.

“I’m here every day at 7 am,” the man calls over his shoulder before he disappears around a corner. Or maybe he disappears into a beam of light. Song Lan can easily believe either.

He takes one step to follow, and then realizes what he’s doing. It’s ridiculous. He takes a second step anyway. But a woman is suddenly at his elbow, handing him a clipboard, asking for his ID and signature. He has no idea how the cleaners got there so fast.

“I haven’t seen a dankang in this park before, have you?” the woman asks.

Song Lan shakes his head.

“Yeah, they usually prefer the suburbs. More hedge rows,” she says, and Song Lan isn’t sure if this requires an answer, so he doesn’t.

She takes the clipboard when he’s finished and peers at it. “Oh, I should have known. You’re the silent rogue—not technically a hunter, but still has more kills than most of the competitive cultivators? Wild!”

Silent rogue, he wonders. As opposed to what?

The woman hands him a card as her team finishes loading the demon into a step van.

“Luo Qingyang. Call me directly next time. I have an office competition to win.” She winks at him and saunters away.

By the time Song Lan gets to the corner where the man disappeared, there’s only cars and pedestrians and noise, and it’s 7:30 am. He has somewhere to be at 9 am, and he doesn’t want to be asked why he’s late.

— ⚔ —

“Dankang?” Dr. Wen asks.

Song Lan’s eyes flinch, glancing up in confusion.

“Well, that was almost an answer,” Dr. Wen says cheerfully.

Song Lan frowns.

“If you want to know, you’re going to have to ask,” Dr. Wen says, eyebrows raised in what might almost be a challenge.

Song Lan doesn’t care. He really doesn’t.

“How did you know?” his voice says anyway, low and soft. Maybe no one heard the question, and Song Lan can pretend it didn’t happen.

To his credit, Dr. Wen doesn’t gloat, but he smiles. Song Lan suspects he’s not going to be able to stay silent forever after all.

— ⚔ —

Song Lan takes a shower after therapy, not only to wash the tattling green dankang fur out of his hair, but scalding enough to burn the words off his skin.

I’m here every day at 7 am

Is he really going to feel like he is fluttering at the end of a rope for the next twenty hours

twenty hours and seventeen minutes

until tomorrow’s 7 am?

Evidently, yes. The shower doesn’t shake the man’s voice loose from his thoughts. Neither does lunch, the library, an episode of a cooking show in a tent, weights, two more episodes of the show—whatever a kouign amann is, he wants one—and sixty pages of Dune. He doesn’t even bother trying to work.

Song Lan makes a salad for dinner, neatly arranging paper-thin slices of carrot, cucumber, jicama, apple, and red onion on a bed of dark green leaves and half a chicken breast. He likes salads that are more toppings than lettuce, so he throws almond slivers and cranberries in his bowl too. “Love yourself enough to make a salad,” is practically the only thing he’s learned in therapy. He’s not sure about loving himself, but he’s pretty fond of salad.

He takes his meds before bed, turns on the white noise, and for once, falls asleep before the world spins into a new day.

— ⚔ —

“Do you blame yourself?”

Song Lan keeps on the blank face he��s so familiar with and stares over Dr. Wen’s shoulder at the photograph of three black cats sitting in a window.

“If you don’t blame yourself, who do you blame?”

Song Lan does not narrow his eyes. Or maybe he does, because Dr. Wen tips his head and gives him a piercing look.

“Even if you’d gotten there sooner, Song Lan, what could you have done? Tell me one thing you could have done.” Dr. Wen almost sounds like he’s pleading.

What I should have done, he thinks. Die with them, he thinks.

— ⚔ —

The man is there at 7 am, sitting on a bench.

With the dog, who is also sitting on the bench.

And that face.

Oh, the face is worse, actually, because Song Lan can see it clearly now. The man smiles when he sees Song Lan, a curving, curling, invitation of a smile on a mouth that looks like a bow without an arrow. The angle of his cheekbones, the graceful lines that can’t fairly be called anything as mundane as dimples, make Song Lan wonder if the rumors of fae in this country are true. The man’s eyes tip up at the corners when he notes Song Lan’s inspection of him, and Song Lan stops moving, maybe stops breathing.

The dog sticks its wet nose in Song Lan’s hand, and he jerks back, staring down at the animal. He doesn’t like to be touched, even by animals, but he isn’t angry, just surprised. He’s just surprised. He can’t understand why he’s just surprised.

“She’s inviting you to sit,” the man says, laughter in his voice.

The dog snorts at Song Lan, a chuffing noise that sounds like she is laughing at him, too.

“Is she?” Song Lan asks, and the man grins

an unfairly perfect expression of genes

and shakes his head.

“No. But I am. Will you join us?”

Song Lan sits on the bench on the other side of the dog.

“A-Qing, get on the ground like a normal dog,” the man scolds.

The dog harrumphs but stands, delicately sets her front feet on the ground one at a time and stretches her long body the rest of the way, as slowly as caninely possible. Song Lan feels the corner of his mouth twitch.

“I’m Xingchen,” the man says, his lips shifting to a different kind of smile, a tip of the hat friendly smile.

He is wearing a white sweater, a white scarf, baggy white pants, and his name is stardust. Of course it is. Song Lan wonders if it’s a real name or one he’s invented.

“No last name?” Song Lan asks, and the man laughs again. Song Lan can’t imagine what it must be like to have so much laughter bottled inside him. Even before the war, before the massacre that took everything from him, laughter was a precious commodity, not something anyone would squander in the park on a cloudy day with a man like him.

“If I tell you my last name, you’ll think I made it up,” Xingchen says, and it’s so close to Song Lan’s thoughts, he tips his head, realizing belatedly that he looks like the dog when he does it.

Xingchen’s face shifts to mischief, and Song Lan’s mouth feels dry, chasing a mirage in the desert, only to discover it’s real. “You tell me your first name, and I’ll tell you my last name,” Xingchen says.

“Zichen,” Song Lan says immediately, without thinking, without the capacity for thought. He backpedals. “No one calls me that anymore, though. I’m just Song Lan.”

He has not been anyone’s treasured child in three years. He only thinks of himself as the mist now. It’s easier to be insubstantial, just passing through, nothing to see here.

“Oh no, you must be Zichen. Precious child, treasured seed,” Xingchen says in a singsong voice like it’s a line from a song or a poem. “Song Zichen, I’m Xiao Xingchen. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Would you like to have breakfast? With us?”

Song Lan does think it’s a made up name now, but he could have said his name was Horsehead Nebula, and Song Lan would still say yes.

“Yes, thank you.”

Xingchen stands and a-Qing, who had been laying on her back in the grass, snaps to attention, dashing over to lean against his left leg, looking up at him with clear adoration.

It hadn’t been a sword.

It is a cane.

“Well?” Xingchen asks. “Are you coming? I’ll tell you about it on the way, if you like.”

Song Lan nods, and then answers out loud, in case the nod was stupid and thoughtless. “Yes.”

— ⚔ —

“Do you have friends?” Dr. Wen asks.

Song Lan frowns at the rude question, which inexplicably makes Dr. Wen grin.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he says. “How about this? Do you want friends, Song Lan?”

Song Lan doesn’t give an answer, but Dr. Wen seems to think he sees one anyway.

“Well. What are you planning to do about that?”

— ⚔ —

Xingchen says it’s not that interesting of a story. He is slowly going blind. There is nothing anyone can do, and everyone has tried. Surgery. Magic. Lasers. Everyone. Everything. He says a-Qing is helpful. He says he decided to learn to use the cane now, while he can still see a little. He says all of it like it doesn’t matter, and it is Song Lan who is numb with the pain of a loss that isn’t even his. That he didn’t even know about until five minutes ago.

Oh, and Xingchen says he does have a sword, actually, but it seemed like bad manners to bring it on a first date

first date

implying date

implying subsequent dates

even if he hadn’t been entirely sure Song Lan would show up.

Breakfast is in a diner not much wider than a dead dankang, and they tuck into a booth in the back. A-Qing lays on Song Lan’s feet, and it still doesn’t bother him. She’s warm, and he thinks he likes the way it feels when she rolls on her side and sighs.

They order pancakes and a poached egg for a-Qing. He tells Song Lan that a-Qing came from a local shelter because there’s no requirement that service dogs be purebred, they just usually are. He says it’s just harder to pick mixed breed dogs who will be good service dogs, but he didn’t pick a-Qing, she picked him.

“She scaled an eight-foot chain link fence and sat at my heel as though she’d been in service her whole life,” he says with a laugh, reaching his foot to poke a-Qing on the belly and accidentally brushing Song Lan’s leg.

It is a very good thing, Song Lan thinks, that he is accustomed to hiding his reaction to being touched because the feel of Xiao Xingchen’s foot rubbing against his leg makes him suddenly, painfully, embarrassingly hard, and he can vividly recall what it was like to be a teenager in want of a very large notebook to hold in front of himself.

Song Lan rarely eats food he doesn’t make, even more rarely eats fluffy pancakes drenched in butter and syrup, and he has no idea why. They taste like heaven, and watching Xingchen eat is...an experience. He cuts his food precisely, examines every piece, and closes his eyes when he chews, as if each mouthful is a fine wine he plans to savor. He finishes in twenty bites.

“Is your name made up?” Song Lan finally can’t resist asking, and Xingchen shrugs.

“Aren’t all names?”

Song Lan snorts, almost a laugh. “Is it the name you were born with?”

“No one is born with a name, Zichen.” Xingchen sounds like he is very seriously and very patiently explaining why the sky is blue, and Song Lan wants to shake him.

But that makes Song Lan think about laying his fingers on Xingchen’s shoulders, caressing his skin, grazing his collarbone with his thumb, and he shudders, blinking for a heartbeat too long.

“It is my real name,” Xingchen says softly, touching the back of Song Lan’s hand tentatively, as though he understands it might not be welcome. It aches like a spark from an autumn campfire. “My mother is a bit of a hippie, and I was a beautiful baby.”

This time it is a laugh. A real laugh. He hasn’t laughed in so long, he forgot what it would sound like, how it would feel to vibrate through his chest, how it could turn to tears. He covers his eyes with his hand

not the hand Xingchen is touching

and tries to turn back the choking gasp that catches in his throat and forces its way out.

Xingchen doesn’t ask, just holds Song Lan’s hand and waits.

“You are a beautiful adult,” Song Lan says, when he can swallow again, and Xingchen smiles.

“So are you. Although, I have no idea what you looked like as a baby. This could be a recent development. Maybe you were hideously ugly a year ago.”

Now he sounds like he’s teasing, and Song Lan looks at him. Xingchen’s head is propped on one hand, and his expression is both curious and evaluating.

“Would you like to come home with me?” Xingchen asks, threading his fingers through Song Lan’s as though it is completely natural, and somehow, it is. His fingers fit perfectly into the spaces between Song Lan’s. The flames that spill from his fingertips into Song Lan’s arm and flow through his blood whisper the answer.

It is the easiest thing in the world to give them voice and say yes.

Read Part 2 Here

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #songxiao #xiao xingchen #song lan #a qing #luo qingyang #wen ning #kristina writes tiny stories #this one is sort of medium sized #some serious stuff #but mostly cute songxiao #therapy dog #dog #moral of the story: therapy works

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kangaroo-r00 · 6 years

Text

Unfocused

(A/N) This took me like two or three weeks. This short story kicked my butt.

His vision was blurry and unfocused even with his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. The words on the page didn't make any sense anymore—they hadn't made any sense in a while. They were being read at a snail's pace and even reading slowly the words couldn't compute in his brain. Somewhere along his constant work words became letters jumbled together. Irritated, dry eyes read the same line of text over and over, his mind trying to latch onto the letters in front of him and retain at least a few words.

Even though it had been a month since he had been rescued, he was still months upon months behind on work, papers and reports stacked in several piles with seemingly no end. The excuse of having months of work to catch up on was enough to convince the others that he needed to be alone for long periods of time to begin cutting the piles down. It was enough of an excuse to keep himself holed up in his office for long hours, only leaving for meals (sometimes he even ate in his office). Just like before. Except that nothing was the same as before.

His hands came up and pushed his glasses up as he rubbed his eyes beneath them. How long he had been up working he didn't know—all he knew was that he had to keep working. If he didn't keep working then he'd end up falling asleep. If he ended up falling asleep then he'd be back there again with the demon, trapped inside his own mind's delusions until he was thrust out of his mind and back into reality in a screaming, sobbing mess. That only caused worry and concern with the others.

Coffee no longer helped keep him awake. If anything the warmth lulled him further into a state of drowsiness. So he began drinking it cold. Not that it helped much. His blood was basically coffee at this point. He vaguely wondered if he could fill a syringe with coffee and inject it into his veins to mix the caffeine into his bloodstream. Would that help?

It wasn't helping that if it was quiet enough then he could hear the faint static in his ears, the sound eternally burned in his brain. He kept forgetting to turn background noises on when he was alone. The permanent sound made him want to claw at his skin, slap his hands over his ears but he knew from experience that it wouldn't help. He was scared for when the soft, nearly inaudible static grew in volume, signalling his approach. It hadn't happened yet but that didn't mean anything.

His eyelids felt as if there were weights attached to them, throbbing pain around his eyes and sockets that only was alleviated when he blinked sluggishly, eyes closing for too long every blink. The feeling of blackness creeping up on his mind scared him. The half full mug on his desk beckoned him over. Arm heavy as lead, he reached for it unconsciously. Hopefully the cold liquid would perk him up enough or at least make him need to use the bathroom. If he drank it all, he'd need to go into the kitchen to refill it. Then he could go back to work and continue on—

Crash!

The flinch and wide eyed reaction was several seconds too late. Schneep stared blankly at the destroyed mug and cold coffee on the ground, ceramic littering the floor and coffee splashed all over the tiled floor, wall, and side of his desk. Glassy eyes were fixated vacantly at the mess, his mind being unable to comprehend what had just happened. A simple overreach, his arm moved out too fast and his hand didn't open to grab the mug, instead shoving it off his desk.

As soon as what he'd done clicked in his mind, the realization that he had to cleanup the mess dawned on him. If he didn't, the mess would bother him—eat away at the edges of his mind until he gave in and cleaned it anyway. Someone could step on the ceramic and hurt themselves and the coffee on the ground was going to be slipped in or tracked everywhere. Thinking about cleaning the mess made him sigh heavily—he didn't want to move.

For once something overpowered the compulsive urge to clean the mess.

Why even bother? Why bother trying to catch up on nine months of work while more piled up as he frantically struggled to claw his way back? He wasn't going to ever catch up. Why bother cleaning up the mess? It wasn't like it was important. Was anything important at this point? The static in the back of his mind seemed to agree with him and got a little louder (it was probably his imagination; nothing to worry about).

When he felt his eyes sting he brought his hands up and pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. He wanted nothing more to lay down and sleep but he was scared. Of nightmares, of waking up in the room he'd been trapped in, of finding the demon standing above him. He couldn't cry because then he got tired after he shed all his tears.

A shaky inhale... hold... slow exhale. Schneep repeated this until he was no longer on the verge of crying. Crying would only make things worse. He cried a lot—too much.

A quick glance down to the mess on the ground determined his next course of action. He couldn't just leave it, no matter how much he wanted to. The static seemed to lessen a bit.

His hands gripped the armrests and squeezed them briefly before he pushed himself onto his feet. A wave of vertigo washed over him as darkness was all he could see for a moment. Blinking several times and rubbing at his eyes returned his vision, albeit slowly. Practically falling to his knees, Schneep reached out and began collecting the shards one by one in the palm of one hand. Once all the shards were collected, he dumped them in the trash bin by his desk and stared unseeingly at the dark puddle of coffee. He didn't know what to do with it—he didn't have anything on him to clean the mess up with. After a moment of silent thinking, he shucked off his lab coat.

That's how Marvin found him—on his hands and knees mopping up spilled cold coffee with his lab coat.

"Schneep? What the hell are you doing?"

The doctor nearly screamed, jolting hard and head snapping up to see Marvin standing at the bottom step. He hadn't even heard him come down—when did he come down? Marvin looked tired, shoulders slumped, mask slightly askew, and hair falling past his shoulders in tangles.

The sound of a sharp clap broke him out of his musings. "Did you even hear me?" The magician asked, irritation bleeding into his voice.

It took him a moment to remember how to speak. "Ah—sorry, yes." Marvin's expectant staring confused him. "What?"

"You didn't answer my question."

A confused noise. "Oh... what was it?" He shrank a bit under Marvin's scrutiny. Right: questions are bad.

"What. Are. You. Doing?" The man in the cat mask bit out deliberately slowly. Insultingly slowly even. But Schneep couldn't really comprehend that at the moment.

He was confused. "Cleaning?"

"With your lab coat?"

"... Yes? I couldn't think of anything else."

Marvin sighed heavily. "What about the box of tissues on your desk? There are literally paper towel rolls in your desk drawers."

Schneep blinked, brain working overtime to try and process the information. "There... there is? I did not see it."

Marvin sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's your damn desk. You work here every day for hours upon hours. You should know where things are."

This was true. Before everything that happened he'd have known that, even if he was sleep deprived past the point of function (it'd take him a while to find it but he wouldn't forget its existence entirely). It had taken him a while to remember where everything important was and even now it still slipped his mind. He feels like an imposter—he doesn't feel like the same man who sat here almost an entire year ago.

He tried to choke out an apology—clearly he was in the wrong for forgetting something so obvious—but all that came out was a shuddery sob. Hands left the coat on the ground and buried his palms into his eyes to wipe at the tears threatening to fall.

Marvin's annoyance fell away as he drew in a sharp breath. "Aw... Schneep..." He took a small step forward before continuing slowly forward.

This time it was too much for Schneep to stop. Tears blurred his vision and dripped down his scarred cheeks regardless of how hard he tried to prevent it. Everything just felt heavier than normal, pressing down painfully on his shoulders and mind. Drawing in a shaky breath, he wiped at his eyes with the edges of his long sleeved shirt.

Marvin knelt a foot or two away from Schneep, hand hovering, unsure of how to proceed. "Hey... don't..." He cut himself off from what he was going to say and instead stared at Schneep's face for a moment. "When was the last time you slept?"

A helpless shrug. "Don't... don't know," Schneep managed to choke out.

Marvin's annoyance rekindled and it showed in his voice. "Why aren't you taking care of yourself?"

It was probably a good thing that Marvin was asking questions that required more than one word answers. They forced him to collect himself enough to answer lest he respond with something in German, a mix between the two languages, or something too broken up to understand.

Truth be told, normally Schneep would never answer that question directly if he was calm enough and awake enough. It'd usually get brushed off with a dismissive answer or a topic change. This time however: "Can't sleep."

Marvin sighed, "You need to sleep eventually."

He took a deep breath in, realizing the tears had stopped and left him feeling even more tired than ever. Head shaking slowly, Schneep mumbled, "Do not need to. Perfectly able to keep working."

"That's fucking bullshit!" Marvin snapped angrily, startling Schneep into flinching. He gestured to Schneep exasperatedly. "You're cleaning the floor with your lab coat and literally crying over forgetting that tissues and paper towels exist! C'mon, you're going to get some sleep. Now," Marvin insisted, grabbing Schneep's frail wrist. The sudden movement was enough to make him flinch and gasp in surprise, tearing his wrist from the other's gloved grip before averting his eyes guiltily. Marvin immediately let go, mouth opening to say somethi—

"Is... is fine. Wasn't expecting it is all," the doctor mumbled. He didn't see the uncertain look the magician shot him but felt Marvin's hand loosely grab one of his. The brief, gentle squeeze was unexpected from such a brash person happened to be enough to startle Schneep yet again.

"C'mon.... Get up." His voice was much quieter than normal, its usual edge gone and leaving a softer tone behind, drawing the doctor's eyes back to him.

"The mess—what about it?" Schneep protested weakly, glancing back down at his stained white coat.

"You can clean it once you've gotten some sleep." Marvin grabbed Schneep's other hand in his free hand and tugged lightly on both once he stood. The other man obeyed, standing on shaking legs.

"Is not going to work," he yawned. "Already tried and it didn't work."

Marvin lightly pulled him to the stairs, leading him slowly up the stairs. "Why didn't it work?"

"Too scared." Schneep was too tired to even consider lying at this point.

Marvin hummed lightly. "We're going to try something new."

The words struck a chord in Schneep, gray blue eyes widening in fear. He recoiled, feebly attempting to wrench his hands from Marvin's. In his clouded mind, he forgot they were ascending the steps and nearly to the top. Luckily Marvin had tightened his grip at the last possible moment and pulled him back forward.

"Jesus you're light!" Marvin gasped in shock.

"Don't want to try something new!" The doctor blurted, trying to wriggle his hands out from Marvin's grip. The steely grip was enough to make his bubbling panic boil up violently, threatening to overflow.

"Calm down, Hen—it's nothing bad. I'm just going to try and use my magic to calm you down enough to sleep," the magician assured.

By the time Schneep processed this and was shaking his head, he was being gently pushed down to sit on the couch. He practically melted into the plush seat, the feeling of slouching into such a comfortable surface relaxing his exhausted, tense muscles against his will. Marvin took a seat next to him, taking a moment to readjust his crooked mask.

"This is going to work a lot smoother if we remain in physical contact. Keep your breathing steady and try your best to stay calm," Marvin instructed softly, gloved hands giving trembling ones a soft squeeze.

"Marvin, I really do not want to do this," Schneep pleaded though he didn't pull away from the magician's grip. He wasn't sure if he was scared to or oddly hopeful that something might actually get him to sleep.

The main in the cat mask nodded. "I know you don't but you need to sleep now. Just listen to me and you'll feel much better about the whole thing." He curled his fingers and entwined them with Schneep's so their palms were pressed together.

Schneep realized belatedly that he wasn't going to get out of this and decided it'd be best if he stopped resisting altogether. Just go along with what Marvin wanted and he'd be happy. Swallowing nervously, he nodded, eyes squeezed shut.

"Marvelous. Now pay attention to my voice and do as I say," he crooned softly.

Maybe this was a bad idea—

"Deep breath in..." the magician began, drawing in an exaggerated breath of air. Schneep did his best to mimic it to the best of his ability without rushing it.

"Hold it for five seconds." Neither breathed.

"Now let it out slowly." Schneep breathed in sync with Marvin.

He didn't know how long they went through the breathing exercises, drawing in deep breaths and holding them in for however long before releasing them. It was weird to feel so relaxed and sleepy.

At some point his hands were growing warm and a quick glance down at their joined hands revealed bright green mist curled around both of their hands and lower arms. Somewhere in the back of his mind something was screaming that the demon had tricked him again but he felt oddly detached from reality—like he had absolutely zero cares in the world and that his mind was disconnected from his body. Besides, the longer he stared at the magic, he managed to spot differences in their power. The demon's glowing green eye appeared a crueler shade of neon green while Marvin's magic was a much softer shade and warmer to the touch. The demon's power was cold unlike Marvin's.

"There you go, Schneep. Just keep breathing... and let you eyes slide shut." Everything was beginning to sound muffled—as if everything were submerged underwater. The staticky sound in his ears and the pounding of his heart seemed to dim but Marvin's voice remained perfectly clear, cutting through the weird silence.

It was easy to just listen and do what he's told.

(A/N) Marvin only wants to help but he may be doing more damage than good. I swear to god this was supposed to have a happy ending but Schneep does get to sleep so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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singlemaltscott · 6 years

Note

5 Times the Love

SEND ‘5 TIMES THE LOVE’ FOR A DRABBLE ABOUT 5 TIMES MERLIN FELL IN LOVE WITH YOUR MUSE

ONE: JUST AFTER V-DAY

They’re back at central. It’s been a long hard slog and Merlin can feel himself starting to burn out as the adrenaline from the day begins to wear off. He’s not slept in the past forty-eight hours save for a quick nap with everything that’s been happening and he knows he won’t be able to rest in the next twenty-four either. He’s Arthur now, by DEFAULT. He’s sent Eggsy and Roxy to medical as per protocol, glad that their underground facilities were unaffected by V-Day after he’d given the order to lock away all mobile devices away in their safes, lined where the SIGNAL wouldn’t be able to get through. He’s spent some time on the plane ride back taking stock of the dead across their international outposts and trying to get in contact with their agents to see who’s survived.

He’s in the midst of monitoring the communications coming in from their other branches, agents, and gathering what information he can on the worldwide effects of the two waves they hadn’t been able to stop when the REPORTS come in from medical. Lancelot and Eggsy- there’s no time to consider a knighthood at the moment unfortunately -have been released. The young man is far worse off than Roxy, cracked ribs and a great deal of bruising, but he’ll live.

Merlin grabs his tablet, continuing his work as he walks, heading towards the temporary quarters he’d afforded to both the agents. He checks the video feeds from the rooms to make sure they’re not RESTING. He certainly doesn’t want to interrupt what little sleep they’re likely going to be able to get before he calls the remaining agents to an emergency meeting. Roxy is perhaps not asleep but certainly well on her way but Eggsy is sitting on the bed. He knocks twice on the door before he’s given permission to enter.

The young man has been crying, that’s evident, though he tries to hide it by keeping his gaze down, face partially obscured. Merlin moves a couple steps into the room and before he can say a word, Eggsy speaks.

“…Do ya ever get used t’ it?”

Merlin lets the door close behind him. He lowers his tablet, tucking it under his arm and studies the young man for a moment. He’s unsure what EXACTLY Eggsy is referring to but he certainly has some idea. The past couple days they’ve both seen Harry die, gone through a full blown battle, and the young man has killed for the first time. The young man had dropped out of training for the Royal Marines, never been deployed and Merlin is fairly certain it’s the first time he’s seen proper combat.

“Aye. In a way. Ye do what ye have te in the moment te survive and complete the mission…bu’ if it ever stops EFFECTING ye entirely…tha’s the time te start worrying.”

He’s killed before. He’s seen combat. Not nearly as much in person since his recruitment to Kingsman but he’s still been on assignment and he sees everything from his post even if he’s not there. He doesn’t ENVY the lad, what he’s going through. He remembers it well. The first time he’d killed another person. It had hung over him like a great cloud.

He finds himself moving to sit next to the young man, placing a firm- and what he hopes is comforting -hand on his shoulder. Eggsy cries. Merlin lets him. And when the young man begins to lean on him he doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arm around him and holds him because it seems to be what he needs and he UNDERSTANDS. He feels Eggsy eventually relax against his side, wearing himself out. And when he hears the man’s breathing even out, he shifts carefully as he can, to lay the young man down on the bed, propping a pillow under his head and drawing a blanket over him.

Merlin moves to the door and turns back to look at the young man for a moment, all signs of worry smoothed from his face in SLEEP, before he shuts the lights and leaves.

TWO: A COUPLE MONTHS AFTER V-DAY

It’s little things. Merlin barely realizes what’s happening, really. Well, he doesn’t. Not at first anyway. He’s been working non-stop, busy with regular table meeting as interim Arthur, working to find a REPLACEMENT for their leader, the worldwide cleanup attempt in the aftermath of V-Day, dealing with the political and economical effects of what’s occurred. There’s a great deal of work to be done and while he does have some techs who work under him to assist, he’s doing most of the legwork.

He’s caught between his responsibilities as Merlin and those as interim Arthur and he has nary a few hours to rest here and there, grab a bite to eat if he remembers. It starts with cups of tea and coffee popping up. He doesn’t remember MAKING them mind you but he doesn’t question a fresh hot beverage. Then it’s sandwiches. Not every day but food is left around meal times and a great many days are the only reason he eats. Then Eggsy starts showing up in his office to chat with him about assignments and the young man somehow always manages to talk him into a couple hours rest.

It’s sorely needed. Merlin can’t deny that. If not for the young man keeping an eye on him along with their new Lancelot, Merlin’s fairly certain he might burn himself out. But Eggsy keeps at it, reminding him to eat and sleep when it’s necessary and providing assistance with Roxy when they CAN. It is a help. It relieves just a small amount of the stress he’s felt piling up. Not a lot, but it’s enough that he can breathe again.

It’s yet another late night. He’s just overseen one of Galahad’s missions, signing off once the young man was safely en route back to England, and went to Arthur’s desk- because it’s not his and he won’t even entertain the idea of CALLING himself that -to look through endless stacks of paperwork with endless pertinent information and lord, did Chester have a horrid system of organization.

He’s stirred from sleep when someone shakes him gently and Merlin lifts his head up, wincing just slightly at the CRICK that’s formed in his neck from resting on top of the desk. A few sheets of paper fall back to the desk, peeling off his face, and he looks at the young man, bleary eyed and trying to shake off the sleep. But Eggsy just pulls him to his feet and leads him over to the couch at the other end of the room. He far too exhausted to argue, mind not quite catching up to his body as the other man gets him settled. Merlin’s asleep again in moments, last thing he sees Eggsy pulling up a blanket over him.

THREE: A FEW MONTHS AFTER V-DAY

Maybe he should’ve expected this. Eggsy’s been guessing names for weeks now, just slipping them in here and there. They’ve all been wrong thus far but it’s an interesting guessing game to wager on how long it’ll take the young man before he actually guesses CORRECTLY. But he doesn’t guess. Eggsy won’t reveal his source- yet, anyway. Merlin is sure he can get it out of the young man eventually. He’s almost certain it’s Arthur. The man is the only person at Kingsman who has ACCESS to his files. Unless the young man found it somewhere else and he’s not sure how he would have. He had no information to go on to do his own research outside the Kingsman databases.

“Hamish?”

“Aye, lad.”

Merlin sighs. It’s a fine name, he supposes but he’s never felt particularly connected to it. It’s a bit hoity toity sounding for his tastes. In the ARMY he’d always been referred to by his last name, which had suited him fine. And when he’d been recruited to Kingsman, receiving a code name had been a relief. Emrys had fit well enough and when he’d become Merlin, well…Merlin had fit like a glove. And now that over twenty years has passed, there isn’t much else he feels comfortable being called by.

Hamish almost feels wrong now. Harry had been the only one who’d ever called him by it anyway, and only in private. It’s been a while since he’s been called Hamish but somehow he doesn’t quite MIND hearing it from Eggsy. It doesn’t sound nearly as stiff in the young man’s unpolished accent. It’s better somehow.

“Hammy?”

“Och, don’ ye start.”

The young man is grinning and Merlin’s expression is stern as Eggsy continues to tease him with ridiculous nicknames, poking and prodding and testing just how far he can push before it’s too much. But it’s in good fun. The man is having a LAUGH and it may be at his expense but Merlin doesn’t really mind too much. Hamish has no hold over him here. Eggsy’s the only one of the agents now who even knows it’s his real name.

“This from a man who chooses te call himself Eggsy.”

“Oi!”

FOUR: A COUPLE WEEKS AFTER POPPYLAND

It’s days before he’s properly lucid. He doesn’t remember much, flitting in and out of consciousness as his mind and body struggle to right themselves as he emerges from his coma. The breathing tube was removed the moment he started REJECTING it, replaced by a cannula as he begins to come back to himself. It’s been two weeks- not that he knows that -and he needs a bit of time.

It’s a few days before he wakes up and really sees for the first time. There’s no foggy glaze over his eyes. He’s alert. As alert as he can be with the drugs running through him at any rate. He’s sluggish, eyelids at half mast as he stares up at the white ceiling in the dim room. There’s a faint beep of MACHINERY but it sounds distant, more clear at his right. Merlin turns his head towards the sound, noting the twinge of pain in his neck and the pull of taped gauze on it.

The sight he’s greeted with is comforting. Any panic and confusion beginning to bubble in his chest is flushed out when he sees Eggsy. The young man is splayed out in a chair just next to his bedside, head back and mouth wide, snoring. The first thought that Merlin has is that after everything they’ve been through, the man DESERVES the rest. Poppy Adams is the next thing that comes to mind and for a brief moment he’s filled with a sense of urgency but it ebbs and logic prevails, telling him that if Eggsy is resting by his bedside then surely matters have been taken care of or someone equally capable is dealing with it.

It’s then it occurs to him that he doesn’t remember what’s happened. He’s quite aware of the fact that he’s in Statesman’s medical facilities by now but he’s not certain how he arrived there. It’s a bit of a MUDDLE and as he sorts through what he can remember he finds there are bits that aren’t as clear. Statesman. Harry. Blue Rash. The Golden Circle. It’s a struggle to work through it all and he finds a migraine beginning to form at the base of his skull as he abandons his attempts. His eyes squeeze shut, unaware of the noise of DISTRESS he’s made. When he opens his eyes again, Eggsy is rubbing the sleep away, eyes widening at the sight of him, relief washing quickly over his face.

“Merlin?”

“…’lo, lad…”

FIVE: A FEW MONTHS AFTER POPPYLAND

He’s sore. His entire body feels liquid, strength drained right out of him after yet another session of physical therapy. He’s put in the work with his prosthetics, worked on strengthening his hands and arms, and he’s KNACKERED to say the least. His stumps are perhaps the worst of it, sore and chafed from the prosthetics, still adjusting to the pressure and building up a toughness for it.

Eggsy takes him home and gets him inside and before Merlin can even think about what he needs to do before he can lay down to rest, the young man is doing. His pants are being rolled up, socks being pulled off, and the cool relief of the salves he’s been given for the chafing is so INCREDIBLE he lets out a heavy sigh, leaning his head against the back of the couch and closing his eyes. It burns a bit in some spots where the skin is rubbed raw- he’d been pushing himself a bit much perhaps -but it doesn’t matter much.

The young man’s hands are working over his stumps, massaging the tension out of sore muscles and Merlin groans. It’s something that needs to be done EVERY day to avoid pulling something while what’s left of his legs are adapting. But Eggsy doesn’t stop there, moving up his thighs to ease the tension there and his arms and shoulders next.

By the time the man is through, Merlin is more or less a puddle on the couch. He’s not sure how much time has passed but he’s about ready to sleep right where he’s sat. Eggsy has other ideas, however, and he finds himself being lifted- an easier feat now he’s a stone and a half LIGHTER -and carried to his bedroom. A soft kiss is pressed to his lips and Merlin smiles sleepily up at the young man as he’s put under the covers.

He’s vaguely aware of Eggsy singing low to him, hand brushing lightly over his cheek, and keeping watch over him until he falls asleep.

@kingsmanmakings

#kingsmanmakings #;; this is my autograph. here in the songs i sing. ( drabbles )#[ rip these are all getting so long ]

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welcometophu · 7 years

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Not Your Destiny: Chapter 19

Marked Book 1: Not Your Destiny

Chapter 19

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The tattoo maker is still sitting off to the side in the office, where Ángel left it. He hopes that whoever gave it to him doesn’t think he doesn’t appreciate it; he does. He just forgot it on Tuesday, and by Wednesday what happened with Emerson had taken everything else out of mind.

He brings in his laptop on Thursday and climbs under the desk so he can plug it in. He’s fine without wifi, but when Gabi sees him setting up, she slides a piece of paper to him with the information to log in, so he gets himself on the network as well. He unpacks the printer part of the tattoo maker, notes that there’s enough paper to make maybe a dozen larger images, more if he prints multiple on a page.

It’s enough to have some fun.

Unfortunately, work comes first, and a series of calls send him out into the morning rush hour traffic, changing a tire on the left hand shoulder of a busy road, then bringing in a car with a dead timing belt that just stopped dead mid-intersection after that. It’s eventful, and once he’s done and as cleaned up as he can get, Gabi sends him into the office and takes over handling paperwork and making sure Luca and Tony have everything they need.

Ángel grabs paper out of the printer and digs around until he finds a pencil. Then he starts trying to draw.

He knows he can’t draw directly on the computer, so it’s going to have to be on paper first, then he can take a picture to get it into the tattoo making program for cleanup. He taps his pencil against the paper, leaving little dots behind. Tongue stuck between his teeth, he tries to decide what to draw. What he might want to have inked on his skin on purpose, even temporarily.

Every path brings him back to the wings he originally wanted, the ones Tanner convinced him not to get. He’s not sure how the temporary ink would transfer if he wrapped it around his other wrist. Hell, he’s not sure how he’d even manage to apply it one-handed. Still. It could be his wrist, his mother watching over him, like an angel for Ángel.

It’s corny, and ridiculous. It doesn’t stop him from trying to draw spread angel wings, as soft as the ones he saw in Tony’s ink.

“What are you doing?”

Ángel puts his hands down over the drawing at the sound of Gabi’s voice, the feel of her hands on his shoulders as she leans in to look. Gabi’s fingers curl over his shoulders, her head against his. “Nice,” she says. “But why are you drawing wings?”

He reaches out, touches the edge of the wings. It’s not right, not yet. He’s just not that good. “Your brother has this ink that made me think of a piece I almost got done for my mom a long time ago, but Tanner talked me out of it because it’s kind of goofy to have an angel watching over me when my name’s Ángel. But this would be only temporary. Of course, that’s probably a good thing, since I’m not a good artist.”

“And that is what the internet is for.” Gabi drags her chair over. “Go on, open up, log in. I don’t want to know your password, but since you were probably going to have to scan it in or whatever, let’s just go find something instead.” She glances at him as he unlocks his laptop. “Tanner’s right. The wings pretty much scream look I’m an angel rather than making me think of your mom.”

“Fine.” Ángel turns the keyboard in her direction. “What would you do?”

Gabi’s fingers fly across the keyboard, then she opens up a photo editing site and gets to work. Soon enough she has a stylized black rose, complete with thorns, that she pastes into place in the top left corner of a page. “There’s still room,” she mutters. “I’m making one for me.”

This one takes long as she pulls together the pieces. In the end, she has a heart pierced by an arrow, blood dripping down from the tip. She puts it in place with a pleased smile, and turns the laptop back to Ángel. “You figure out how to make your Christmas present work.”

“Did you give it to me?” he asks, because Gabi seems way too invested in this.

“Nope, but since it’s here, I’m going to make use of it, and besides, you’re having fun. And this is going to be better than the wings.”

It takes a few tries to get the page to print, and when it does, it surprises Ángel at first that the images appear backwards. Then Gabi cuts closely around the rose and shows it to him, and he realizes he was looking at the wrong side, that it will reverse when it goes on his skin. She crooks her finger at him, then pauses, tilts her head.

“Shirt off. It’ll be easier.”

Ángel’s brow furrows. “Where are you planning on putting it?”

“Shoulder. But if your shirt gets in the way, it’ll mess it up.” Gabi motions for him to take it off. “Come on, let’s go. You can’t be that embarrassed.”

He’s not embarrassed. Although he probably should be, considering they’re at work. In the office. Where anyone could walk in. But she has a point.

Besides, it won’t take long.

Ángel skins his shirt off, lets Gabi wipe down his left shoulder with an alcohol wipe. She blows gently, waiting for it to dry, before she applies the temporary tattoo. She soaks the back of it, presses it in place and waits before peeling the backing carefully away.

“It worked.” Ángel has to twist to see it, but it looks good. Not quite real, but it looks like it belongs on his skin.

“Of course it worked, that’s what the printer is for,” Gabi points out. She quickly strips off her shirt, stands there in just a black cotton bra and taps the spot just above her left breast, over her heart. “Now you do me.”

A low cough, and Tony stands there in the doorway, looking from Gabi to Ángel and back again.

Gabi holds up the tattoo and Ángel shows the alcohol wipe and wet towel.

“We’re inking each other,” Gabi offers cheerily. She grabs Ángel, turns him so his shoulder faces Tony. “See? He was thinking of doing wings, but I thought the rose suited better. The wings are just so….” She lets her voice trail off, and Ángel’s glad that she isn’t pointing out again how ridiculous it would be to pick a tattoo that sounds like it’s based on his name.

Tony is dead silent, gaze dropping to Ángel’s shoulder. Tony crosses his arms slowly, and Ángel catches a fleeting glimpse of all his ink—Tony’s real ink—the designs flexing along his arm. Ángel licks his lips, tries to find someplace to look that isn’t Tony and isn’t Gabi’s chest.

“You’re half-dressed in the office,” Tony points out, voice tight. “Finish, and get dressed.”

“Seriously, we are just putting on temporary tattoos. Don’t be such a prude.” Gabi brandishes her tattoo, and Tony inhales as he catches her hand, looks at the design. Her voice lowers. “Want me to do one for you?”

Tony closes his eyes, and Ángel can almost see thoughts going through and he wonders what Tony would even consider for temporary ink. For a moment he thinks Tony will say yes, then he shakes his head quickly. “Maybe later,” Tony says. His gaze flicks from Gabi to Ángel again. “Finish. Get dressed,” he repeats. “And if I walk in here in ten minutes and find Luca stripping, you’re all going home without pay today.”

“You wouldn’t,” Gabi calls as he walks out. She leans out the door to yell, “You’re too busy to send us home just because we took our shirts off!”

“Wait, people are getting undressed without me?” Luca’s voice is pitched loud enough for them to hear, and Tony’s grumbling growl and Luca’s laugh echo into the silence after.

Gabi tugs the door mostly closed, then turns back to Ángel and taps her left breast again. “Here,” she says, and spreads her hands to give him room to work.

It should be awkward, but it isn’t, no more than if he were putting it on Hayley or Tanner. It’d be worse on Tony, but Ángel isn’t even going to think about that. Not now, not with Gabi close enough to sniff him.

Not with Gabi actually leaning closer, nose pressed to his ear as he smoothes the water over the tattoo to make it adhere.

“If you say I reek….”

Gabi makes a small noise low in her throat. “Not reek,” she muses. “It’s not angry or worried. It’s not that angst you’ve been steeped in. It’s lighter. Fresher. Muskier.” She leans back, gaze narrowed and hands on hips as she watches him pull the backing from the tattoo. “Go grab a red marker. I need you to fill in the color for me.”

Ángel digs the marker out of the cup on the desk, checks to make sure it’s permanent ink so it won’t wash away the first time she showers. He fills in the heart as directed, then has to lean in close to get the careful detail in the drip of blood from the tip of the arrow. As he finishes, Gabi inhales deeply by his ear again, and makes another noise low in her throat.

Ángel straightens, takes a step back and puts the marker on the desk. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, in that way that means it is absolutely something and she isn’t going to say what.

Ángel lets slip a disgruntled snort, and Gabi laughs at the sound. Ángel thinks maybe he’ll push anyway, tries to figure out how to ask and what to say to get her to answer.

The phone rings and Gabi picks it up with a smirk, sings out, “Mollicone’s. Where are you stuck?”

It’s a call for a minor fender-bender. Nobody’s hurt, but the front of the minivan crumpled on impact, exactly as designed, and the owner isn’t comfortable driving it. Ángel remembers to grab his shirt, and shrugs it on as he walks down the hall, sliding sideways to avoid Maritsa as she comes in.

Maritsa grips his arm, pushes up the sleeve to see the rose and raises her eyebrows. “Take Cleto with you,” she says as she lets go, tugs his sleeve back into place. “We’ve been tasting desserts all morning and he needs to do something to get the sugar out of his system. I’ll help Gabi out for a bit.” She pats his chest, gives him a small shove. “If he can have an hour without anyone mentioning the wedding, he’ll be thrilled.”

Luca slips past them, heading for the office, and as Ángel ducks out the front door, he hears Luca’s call of take it off from the back, and Maritsa’s sharp squeal.

It takes a solid two hours before they’re back with the minivan. The police have to finish up the accident report, then the owner—call me Charlene, boys—wants them to check it over thoroughly to make sure nothing’s cracked and that it isn’t dripping gasoline. There’s a solid fifteen minute discussion where Cleto goes as far as to dip his fingers in the liquid under the car, raise them to his nose, then lick them in order to prove that it’s only condensation from the air conditioner.

It’s also gross, and Ángel is damned sure he wouldn’t go that far for good customer service.

They deliver the car and turn right around to go back out again three more times, and by the time Ángel’s done, Luca’s already left for the day, and Gabi’s sitting on a desk in the back, kicking her heels lightly against the sides. She has her collar pulled out and is staring down her shirt. “I think I might get it for real,” she says as Ángel walks in. “You want to go with me?”

“If you go before I go back to PHU, sure,” he agrees. “Is it for the same reason as Tony’s arrows with the blood?” Because it was impossible not to notice the similarity.

She looks up, lips pursed, considering him. “Yes,” she says, and she waits, like there’s something more she thinks he’s going to say. When he doesn’t have anything to add—it’s not like he knows what they mean—she sighs softly and jumps down from the desk. “Luca left. I’m taking you home today.”

“With you, or my place?” Because it seems like the thing to ask where Gabi’s concerned. It makes her giggle, and she hooks her arm in his, walking down the hall with him.

“I could take you home with me, but, I have plans,” she says.

There’s a low grunt from the floor, and Ángel glances out. The lights are still on, and there’s movement in the far bay. There are cars in all the bays, so Ángel can’t see what Tony’s working on. He starts to shift direction, but Gabi’s hold on his arm tightens, her voice rising as she says loudly, “Some people seem to think that they need to work late tonight. Some people—who were really late without a good reason yesterday—might be right.”

Ángel doesn’t imagine the growl this time, rising and echoing throughout the floor. Gabi tugs, and Ángel stumbles forward with her, heading out the door.

“Why are you so pissed off at him?”

Gabi slams the door shut, crosses her arms. “Because he said he broke up with Daphne, and I thought maybe this time it would stick. Maybe this time he had his head out of his ass and figured shit out, and he’d finally get past this ridiculous need he has to run when she calls. But no. It was less than a week and he ended up out with her—not even checking in when you had an emergency with Emerson, like he doesn’t care—and he walks in with bed head and reeking of—” She cuts off abruptly. “As if he doesn’t know we can smell him. He’s a mess. And he needs to get over it and stop hurting himself like this.”

“I probably can’t help, but you can rant to me about it any time.” Ángel offers.

Gabi’s expression closes off, pinched and tight. She slowly loosens her arms, walks over to her car and yanks the passenger door open, motioning for Ángel to get in. “Thanks,” she says quietly. “You’ll probably be more help than you know.”

Ángel settles in and pulls out his phone. He’s been running around so much that he hasn’t had time to check for messages, and he sees that Tanner and Hayley have been in the group chat on and off all day, while Hayley helped with Zita’s kids again, and Tanner helped Hayley. A quick skim shows pictures of them at the park with Emerson as well, and the final notes are about dropping off the kids and Emerson, and that Tanner’s taking Hayley out for pizza and a movie.

Well. Oh.

“And now you reek,” Gabi says. “What happened?”

“Nothing, just Tanner and Hayley are busy tonight.” Ángel flips to the next message from his dad, with a note that Joey left dinner in the fridge for him while they go out, and that Abuela has been invited to a card night and will be there until late. “And so is everyone else. Including you.”

“I lied. Maybe I should bring you home with me,” Gabi offers. “We could watch movies. Come up with more designs to plaster on our bodies tomorrow.”

It’s tempting. It’s really tempting. But with everyone busy, this might be the perfect time to indulge in a little research. It’s only 5:30pm, and the library’s open until nine on Thursdays—the one late night during the summer. Ángel has a vague idea of something he might want to poke at, and the library sounds like the best place to do it. “Can you drop me off at the library? I want to spend a little quality time with Mrs. Hannigan.”

“You were such a dork in high school.” Gabi makes a left out of the garage, heading in the correct direction. “How are you getting home later?”

“Good question.” It looks like most of Ángel’s usual options are already busy.

Gabi reaches across, punches his shoulder lightly. “Best thing about temporary ink; it doesn’t hurt when I punch you right after you get it,” she says. “Finish up whatever you’re doing. I’ll swing back… around 8?”

Two hours of tumbling down the research rabbit hole. That should be more than enough, and he can figure out what he needs to look into more. “Sure,” he agrees.

She pulls up at a stop light and takes advantage of being still to give him a long look. “If you just wanted to say hi to her, I could wait while you go in. Or go in with you.” She turns her attention back just as the light changes, pulls forward. “Or you can go pry into whatever you’re prying into in peace, and tell me to pick you up later, if you want.”

“I promised not to pry,” Ángel points out. He wonders if the library has records of the newspapers from years ago, what he’ll find if he starts looking up marriage and death records.

“You promised not to pry with us,” Gabi counters. “You’re curious.” The words fall flat, like they’re somehow a warning.

Ángel tries to make light of it. “I know, I know. Curiosity killed the cat.”

The smile slips from Gabi’s face. “What you need to think about is how much you really want to know. We’ve already adopted you, Ángel. We’re keeping you. Is anything else really important?”

Yes. Ángel knows without even thinking about it that the answer is absolutely yes. He can’t explain it, can’t even try to put it into words, but he feels like he’s walking on a highwire and there’s no net below.

He needs the net.

“Make it 8:30,” he suggests. “And I’ll get a couple of DVDs at the library. They usually have some good new stuff, and I don’t know about you, but I end up missing half of what comes out during the semester.”

“I may have seen it, but I’ll make an effort to rewatch it if I have, just for you,” Gabi says.

When she pulls up in front of the library, she puts a hand on his arm before he can open the door. “Remember,” Gabi says quietly. “You can’t unsee things.”

“Whatever happened, happened,” Ángel says. “Whether I know about it or not. If there’s some reason it might affect me going forward, then I want to know.”

He has no idea why Gabi’s so intense about it, what she does or doesn’t want him to know. He’s not even sure why she cares. But the fact that he does care adds things to his list that he needs to look into. He may have promised, but yeah, he may have lied, just a little.

Because Ángel is definitely going to pry.

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#welcome to phu #welcometophu #not your destiny #phu marked #marked

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sebastiano-merlino · 7 years

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I've just published a new post on https://mylittleblackbird.com/2017/10/02/identity-crisis-by-brad-meltzer/

Identity Crisis by Brad Meltzer

Let’s start with the hard bit: I have never been a huge fan of the DC Universe and I know this is the worst way to start a review on a DC product like Identity Crisis but, well, that’s life I guess.

Also, since I am an idiot, this is the first thing that comes to my mind when I think of an identity crisis:

From the start I knew this would be a very controversial review. This story polarise the opinion of everybody I know – people will either love it to the extreme extent of this being their favorite graphic novel, and some other will just hate it deeming it as garbage.

As an aspiring writer, this is already in itself an interesting reason to read it. If something can be so divisive it must have something interesting in it (or, like Marmite, the answer is in the DNA).

With all the weird stuff out on page, let’s get back to work.

Story, Plot and Characters

Identity Crisis follows what happens to the DC Universe’s superheroes when one of them (the Elongated Man) loses his wife Sue. She id dead, supposedly burned alive in her apartment, by an unknown killer.

Most of the story’s focus is on how the superheroes will cope with the grief while solving the mystery. Everything even darker because of a secret from the character’s past.

Brad Meltzer shows us all the knowledge he has of the universe he is writing his story into. He does so while putting us in front of the moral choices these heroes are forced to make. He shows us how these choices will impact their lives and how far they are willing to go to defend who they love.

The characterisation is good. Each character is unique and behaves in a believable and coherent way. The mystery is satisfying and the secret compelling. The only problem I find with characters is that there are way too many secondary ones and no enough space on the paper for them.

Hundreds of villains (most of which insignificant) and gazillions of superheroes make for very colourful artwork but consume a lot of space. Each one of them needs some time on-screen and this subtracts time from the main cast of characters I cared about. This also produces plot clutter leaving quite little space to the main antagonist. The net result is that, at the end, I am less emotionally involved with the outcome. In short, too much on-screen clutter.

Despite this, the fear of the superheroes to lose someone they love is present during the whole comic and these are the best parts of this story.

Similarly, the preparation for Sue’s death is remarkably executed. The love between Sue and Ralph is slammed right on our faces at the very start of the comic book. Ralph (the Elongated Man) recalls of his love story with Sue. The scene is sweet and nostalgic. It makes us feel for Sue and then stays with us when we lose her. Even worse, this memory is there when we discover the hardships of her life at the side of a superhero.

As said, the finale is bittersweet. The story at this point has revealed the secrets of the Justice League and this is now naked and showing all of its imperfections. We discover the murderer but the way this happens is quite dull as their reasons to kill – but I cannot stop thinking that much more could have been done given the potential in the plot.

The last scene is heartbreaking and makes it up for the poor mystery revelation. I am not going to give you spoilers here but, if you want to keep going, read below.

Rags Morales and the artwork of Identity Crisis

A quick note on this because, despite it is not what my blog focuses on, I believe it deserves it.

Wow…just, wow!

Everything Rags Morales has done on Identity Crisis is exceptional. The characters look real. Their emotions even more real. If Meltzer is narrating in words, Rags is doing the same with his drawings and he does so in such an incredible way that conveys the same if not more information. This is the first and only graphic novel I read with him being the artist but this will change.

My overall idea is that Identity Crisis is an interesting piece of work. It is far from being as good as some depict it or as bad as others do but I think it deserves a read.

Disclaimer

One of the reasons Identity Crisis has spawned as much controversy is the mortification of Sue’s character. I know that violence on women is a delicate argument and that many may suffer at reading its depiction. So, be warned, if that is something you don’t want to see, this might not be for you.

The JLA’s secret (contains spoilers)

After Sue’s funeral, a devastated Ralph meets with other heroes from the supporting league (JLA’s minor characters). These, after being spied on and forced by The Flash and Green Lantern, reveal they did something bad – really bad – in the past.

They tell the story of when Sue has been raped and almost killed and by the villain Dr. Light. They saved her and then decided to break (mentally break) the man. Wiping him of his memories. We see here for the first time how messed-up the “light-side” is. The three main heroes (Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman) are there for the battle and the spotlight but never for the cleanup. The others do the cleanup.

This time though, Batman comes back and discovers what the others are doing to Dr. Light. He is a pure one – he will not compromise. All they can do is to fight him with everything they have and wipe his memories too.

Something like this in comics of a “standard” universe requires quite a lot of bravery and it is an exceptional topic to talk about. Purity of ideas versus compromises. Limits of the authority. How far should someone go to protect who and what they love.

Overall this secret, together with the emotional involvement, is the best delivered piece of the comic book.

The murderer (contains spoilers)

On the opposite side of the spectrum we find the main topic and revelation. Who killed Sue?

Everybody is convinced it must have been Dr. Light. Somehow he must have remembered about the past and finished what he had started years ago. Right? Wrong!

We get many other events in the way. A lot of informative noise comes from the introduction of way too many villains and the quick execution of the other assaults. One, unsuccessful, against Atom’s wife and another, this time successful where Robin’s father is killed and his killer (Captain Boomerang) dies in the process.

This could be ok if we weren’t wasting space and time talking about Captain Boomerang’s son and their relationship that adds nothing to the plot.

In the meantime Batman investigates in… well… the batman way.

He and Dr. Mid-Nite, who is running an autopsy on the woman, find out about the murderer real identity at the same time.

All of this doesn’t matter because the murderer, Atom’s ex-wife (Jean),accidentally reveals everything to her ex-husband in bed.

Apparently she had planned to scare everyone, included Atom, to get him back to her without having to admit she missed him. She found one of her husband’s costumes – with the power of miniaturisation – and decided to knock out Sue. She dies instead. At this point Jean, evidently insane, organises the other assaults.

Ok. Bear with me now… what on Earth?!?!

Jean (I had to look back her name) appeared in two short sequences in the entire comic book before the reveal. She has a dull motivation since her husband is clearly in love with her. The discovery is way too simple. Her plan is a mess and she turns insane at the end. This is probably the only narrative error in the comic book and it is sad that is such a determinant one.

Well, this was my opinion on Identity Crisis. A graphic novel that is and will be a piece of history in the comic space. Let me know in the comments what you think. Also, if you want, there should be a subscribe button around the top of the page.

#comics #graphic novel #identity crisis #story #to read #Reviews (Stories)

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anavoliselenu · 7 years

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In flight chapter 9

Stephan had always hated violence, but his bastard of a father had guaranteed that he was good at it from a young age.

I poked Stephan in the ribs with an elbow. “You hate to fight,” I told him.

“Yes, I do. But I’m good at it. And I’m guessing Mr. Cavendish never had to fight in a ring to keep from starving.”

I flinched, remembering those days. “It won’t come to that, ok? I’ll be just fine at the end of this thing, and you won’t even think about throwing a punch.”

Stephan nodded, but I wasn’t entirely convinced. I finally dragged him into the store. We’d spent enough time dwelling on unpleasant things.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mr. Doting

Stephan headed straight for frames while I went with a shopping cart and replenished my supplies. I stocked up well.

I was in a mood to create. I grabbed several varying sized canvases and even more watercolor paper. I selected a few new acrylic colors carefully, finding a blue that was absolutely perfect. Painting was all about color for me.

I grabbed half a dozen tubes of watercolors that just needed replacing. I stocked up on some cleanup supplies that the paint shop had cheaper than everywhere else. The prices at the eccentric shop were what drew me from across town to resupply.

It took me a good five minutes to locate a tiny sable brush that I used for details. It was a brush I had to replace often. When it’s bristles started to soften, it didn’t do me much good. I bought two, and some new oil paints, since I would be saving money now at the grocery store.

It was a nice feeling, quite a relief really, to be able to get a few extra goodies for my coveted hobby. I tried not to feel guilty for allowing someone to help me out in such a way. But it had been hard not to refuse the offer. The order, rather.

My cart was uncharacteristically full when I finally sought out Stephan, who still agonized over his frame choice. He was very particular about his home decor. That made it doubly flattering to me that he chose to decorate nearly all of his walls with my paintings.

He showed me the five choices he’d narrowed it down to. I zeroed in on a heavy, dark, roughly carved pattern immediately.

“This one,” I told him.

He gazed at me me, sending me his best ‘Puss in boots’ pleading look. I smiled, starting to put the frame together for him. I had planned to, anyways. Stephan would butcher it, and I had the touch for this sort of thing.

I got wrapped up in the process, using the picture Stephan had brought to double check my work. I hammered the V shaped nails in lightly and slowly, which was the trick. Stephan tended to hammer them straight through to the other side with one strike.

When I finally finished, I held the finished art up to Stephan, smiling. He beamed back. He had been engrossed on his phone nearly the entire time I’d worked, which was his habit. He was the social butterfly of our duo, constantly texting someone, updating his Facebook page, or throwing out Tweets.

I went first through the one open checkout line. I was starting to feel a little remorseful about splurging as the price began to rise even higher than I’d anticipated. I really didn’t want to have to put some things back. That was an embarrassment I hadn’t had to suffer for years.

It would be a close thing, I realized, as the price grew higher. But as I got my debit card out, the checker held up a hand.

“It’s all been payed for, Ma’am.” I was speechless as she bagged the last of it. I felt grateful and helpless all at once.

Probably his intention, I thought absently.

Stephan’s purchases were covered as well, though he hadn’t wracked up anywhere near the bill that I had.

“It’s wrong to allow him to do all of this, isn’t it?” I asked Stephan.

Stephan shrugged. “Why? He’s doing something nice and thoughtful. It’s not a crime to let him dote on you.”

Clark met us halfway through the parking lot, taking the shopping cart solicitously. He managed to both push it to the car and get our door opened before we could reach it.

I nodded at him, smiling warmly. “Thank you, Clark,” I told him.

He gave me a surprisingly shy smile in return. He was a large black man with a bald head and big dark shades. His suit looked expensive and professional. He looked so intimidating, but had the nicest smile. He nodded back politely.

“My pleasure, Ms. Karlsson,” he said, surprising me by knowing my last name.

I slid onto the cushy seat next to Justin. He was on the phone, his computer open. He didn’t look at me or speak, just placed a possessive hand on my knee as I sat next to him.

Stephan bounced into his seat, grinning. I could tell he loved getting the royal treatment, as we were today.

It went a long way towards silencing my protests. Denying myself something was easy. Denying Stephan, on the other hand…

Justin stayed on the phone as Clark started driving. He was giving short, crisp, cold answers to the poor soul on the other end. His hand would occasionally tighten on my leg, as he tensed. “If I need to find new management for my New York offices, I will do so. I expect a level of competency that you’re not proving to me at present.” He paused, gripping my leg.

He glanced at me absently, and his grip turned into an apologetic stroke.

Clark stopped the car, getting out and heading into a Sushi place. It must have been the one that Justin had been talking about. Justin just stayed on his phone, listening and squeezing my leg.

Clark was back in the car surprisingly quickly, his arms full of takeout bags. He began to drive again. I assumed we were headed home.

“How is it that I can be absent from every other property for weeks or months at a time, and things still run smoothly? It seems obvious to me that this is a management issue.” Justin’s voice was growing in agitation. I shot Stephan a look. He was on his phone, of course.

My hand covered Justin’s experimentally, then ran up to his arm, carefully avoiding the spot on his wrist with the thin lines of scars. I was avidly curious about those scars, but of course I wouldn’t ask. It would be inviting similar inquiries about myself.

I clutched the back of his bicep, rubbing tentatively. I wasn’t accustomed to this touching thing.

I leaned against him, putting my cheek to his back as he leaned forward. I moved my hand to his leg, the other to his shoulder to massage tentatively.

He froze at my touch. I started to pull back. He moved his phone away from his face.

“Don’t,” he told me, putting my hand back on his leg. Neither of us was used to me doing the touching, but it didn’t seem unwelcome.

I rubbed his leg lightly and he seemed to relax, bit by bit.

“Make it happen. This is your chance to prove yourself, for better or worse.” He ended the call, shutting his tiny laptop and stowing both into the bag near his feet.

He spared a brief glance towards an occupied Stephan. He grabbed the back of my head, gripping my hair firmly and kissing me. It was a hot kiss, and I tried to draw back. This was no way to act in front of Stephan. He gripped me tighter, sweeping a tongue into my mouth. I had just started to soften when he pulled back.

“It makes me wild when you touch me,” he whispered roughly. “Remember that the next time you touch me in front of other people. Having an audience or even being in public won’t stop me from touching you back. This is my only warning.”

He sat back, but pulled me hard against his side.

Was he somehow staking his claim in front of Stephan? I just couldn’t tell with him.

“How was the shopping?” he asked.

“Great. Thank you for, um, for buying everything.”

He surprised me by kissing me again roughly.

“Thank You. For all of those wonderful paintings that you so generously gave me, with no thought for recompense.”

I flushed. I wasn’t that comfortable with compliments in general, and praise for my painting was a novelty, since so few people had witnessed it.

Stephan finally put down his phone. He’d kept his painting in a bag and brought it into the car with us. He pulled it out, showing it proudly to Justin.

“Isn’t she amazing?” he said proudly. “She even built the frame.”

Justin studied the painting. “She is.”

“My whole house is covered in her paintings. Should we eat over there, so you can check it all out?”

Justin agreed readily. “Yes, thank you. And I have a favor to ask you, Stephan.” Justin arm tightened around me as he spoke, almost as though he was afraid I would try to get away at his next words.

“Sure, man. What’s up?”

“I’ve studied Selena’s paintings extensively, and I think she has enough accomplished work for a gallery showing,” Justin began.

Justin casually covered my mouth when I tried to speak. “I have a gallery in New York. I can have my people handle all of the details. As you can see, she’s going to resist the idea. I need you to help me talk her out of her reservations.” He uncovered my mouth, but I was suddenly speechless.

“I’ve been collecting art since I was a teenager. I have an eye for it, and I know she has a rare talent.” Justin continued when neither of us spoke.

Stephan looked shocked, then ecstatic. “Yes, she does. You have to do this, Buttercup. I will have an absolute conniption if you don’t.”

I said the first thing that came to my mind. “Most of them are desert landscapes. There is no way that would go over well in New York.” Of all of the things I found impossible about his proposal, I didn’t know why that detail was at the forefront of my thoughts, of all things.

Justin smiled, a triumphant smile. It was mesmerizing. The smile of a savage conquerer. And I’d just given him what he wanted.

“You never know, they might like a change of scenery, but that will be for my gallery people to decide. I have a gallery in L.A as well, and even a small one on the strip here in Vegas. The Vegas one is mostly a tourist attraction, though. I wouldn’t consider it for a showing.”

“All I need you to do is to set aside anything you don’t want shown, and to name the pictures that you’d like named. I’ll send a sampling to both galleries so they can give me some feedback before we set up a showing. Also, I think some of the work you have displayed around the house could sell really well as prints, if you’d consider something like that.”

I thought back to all of the pictures he’d set aside. “So that’s what you were getting? Samples for the galleries?”

He looked at me like I’d gone insane. “No, of course not. Those are for my own collection. You and I will decide together what to send as samples.”

I felt a wave of insecurity. “I have no training. I-”

He covered my mouth. “None of that matters, Love. You’ve either got it or you don’t. And you have it. Now tell me you agree.”

I didn’t agree or disagree, but just sat for awhile, stunned. I did want this, wanted it badly, though I’d never even considered that something like this could happen. And I knew that it wouldn’t have, if a billionaire hadn’t taken a sudden, obsessive interest in every aspect of my life. I supposed that was my biggest reservation about the whole thing; the fact that this was all just another way for him to dote on me.

“Will you take a cut, for your trouble, if I sell anything?” I finally asked.

He raised a brow at me. “I wasn’t planning on it, no.” He managed to sound insulted with the small statement.

“I would feel better if you did. The gallery will at least charge for putting on the showing, right?”

He sighed. “That is usually the standard procedure,” he said carefully.

Stephan burst out suddenly, his tone thick with exasperated annoyance. “Oh, for God’s sake, Selena! How can you say no to this? You have a rare opportunity here, and if your work sells, it sells. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. What’s the hangup?”

He was using a certain tone he had, a tone that asked ‘Where’s your backbone?’ without him having to utter the words. It made my spine straighten, which was the point.

I nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it. When should we select the samples?”

Justin pulled me into his lap, kissing me way too passionately for anywhere but the privacy of a bedroom.

“Thank you, love,” he murmured against my mouth, then started kissing again. His hands stayed firmly on my hips, holding me tight in his lap. But his mouth was positively obscene.

I couldn’t forget that Stephan sat just a few feet away, but I also couldn’t keep from responding. I tried to stifle a little moan as his tongue stroked into my mouth.

He bit my lip, hard.

I gasped, my hands gripping his rock-hard shoulders. I could feel his conspicuous erection against my hip. As his tongue swept in again, I sucked on it. That made him pull back, giving me a hot but censorious look.

“That will get you f**ked in a hurry, Love,” he whispered, but I figured Stephan could still hear us, in such a small space.

I glared at him. “You started it.”

I heard Stephan stifle a laugh.

Justin just grinned wickedly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mr. Volatile

Lunch was a happy affair. Justin and Stephan seemed to be getting more and more chummy. They joked comfortably while we ate sushi at Stephan’s dining room table.

Justin had been right, of course. The sushi was great. And the selection Clark had collected was vast. It was literally enough to feed ten people.

I gamely insisted on using chopsticks, picking out a Philadelphia roll and some shrimp tempura to start, dipping it generously into soy sauce mixed with chili sauce.

“You joining us at that bar in New York again on Friday night? Same time, same place,” Stephan was saying to Justin.

Justin reached over, placing that familiar hand at my nape. “I was actually hoping Selena would come see my apartment on Friday. Could I steal you away for a night, Love?”

I swallowed my mouthful of shrimp tempura. I was more than a little curious to see the playground he had mentioned. Equal parts thrill and trepidation coursed through me just thinking about it.

“Yes, you could,” I said simply. Justin sent me a scorching look, then went back to chatting with Stephan.

After lunch, Justin got a tour of Stephan’s house and again studied every piece of my art like his life depended on it. He took several pictures with his phone.

We stayed at Stephans until late afternoon. The two men found a surprisingly great deal to talk about, from politics to sports, to movies, to cars. I was silent for a good deal of it, simply taking in the novelty of the two men in my life interacting like it was the most natural thing in the world. When they finished talking, we watched TV.

I didn’t have a television, so the only TV I did watch was at Stephan’s house. We watched a few episodes of New Girl, a show Stephan had recently made me watch until I’d realized that I loved it. I was behind by at least a dozen episodes, but I was always behind on TV.

I laughed out loud at the show. Justin seemed to be enjoying himself, though he watched me more than he watched the screen. He smiled and touched me constantly, keeping me close to his side. I loved his touch, so I didn’t protest, although the whole thing was a little surreal for me.

When the third episode ended, I stood.

“I need to cook dinner,” I told them. It was already nearly 4:30. “I was going to grill some chicken, and cook some asparagus and couscous. That sound okay to everyone?” I asked. I was cooking one of my healthier meals, trying to cater to Justin’s preferences.

“Sounds great! I love that blackened marinade thing you do on grilled chicken, Selena,” Stephan said.

“I can’t wait,” Justin said.

Stephan was still watching TV. “You need any help?” he asked me.

“Nah. It’s an easy meal. I’ll text you when it’s ready.”

“I need to make some calls,” Justin told me as I let us into my house. He was carrying the bag with his laptop. “Where would it be most convenient for me to set up shop?”

I shrugged. “Anywhere that’s not directly in my way while I’m cooking.”

He set up in the dinning room, watching me cook while he worked, talking on the phone nearly constantly, taking call after call.

He cursed suddenly, and I looked back, startled.

“I forgot that was friday,” he was saying. His tone turned dry. “It slipped my mind. Fuck.” He listened for a few moments, looking agitated. “Yes, yes, set it up. I know. Drop it. I said set it up.”

He looked at me, trouble in his eyes. He ended the call, then closed his eyes and cursed fluently.

I went back to cooking. It had been deeply ingrained in me at a young age not to pry, so I didn’t. If he wanted to tell me something, he would. But the curiosity was killing me.

“I forgot about a charity event that I can’t miss on friday evening,” he told me, his tone careful. “I don’t have to be there until maybe ten, so we’ll have until then to spend together. You can, of course, stay at my place while I attend. I’ll duck out at the earliest possible opportunity.”

My spine stiffened at the realization that this was what the ‘no dating’ part meant. He would leave me at home like a dirty little secret while he met with his peers.

“That’s alright,” I said in a carefully neutral tone. “I’d rather stay at my hotel room. It’s an early morning for me. I’ll just leave your place when you do on Friday night.”

“I would prefer that you not leave,” he said in his most polite, cajoling voice. “I promise you won’t be late in the morning.”

I shot him a level stare, but quickly went back to prepping the chicken. “If you’re leaving that night, then so am I.”

He sucked in a breath.

“Are you upset?” he asked, sounding alarmed.

“I’m not,” I told him.

“Why won’t you stay with me on Friday, then?”

“I don’t want to stay there if you’re going out. I’ll leave when you do,” I repeated.

“What can I do to change your mind?” he asked, his tone turning seductive.

“You can’t. Don’t bother trying. We have an arrangement based solely on our preferences. This is what I prefer.” My voice was cold and getting colder. I wasn’t angry, but I was…resigned. Resigned to the idea of him disappointing me. And even more resolved not to give him more than I was willing to lose.

“What if I made it an order? Or a condition?” he asked, his tone getting hard.

I made my face into it’s best expressionless mask and looked at him. “Then this association may end even sooner than I had realized.”

His jaw clenched, a tick starting up in his cheek. “I can’t back out of this. It was my mother’s charity, and I’m expected to attend, even to say a few words.”

I didn’t miss the fact that asking me to come with him hadn’t even occurred.

“I don’t know why you’re pressing the issue. So I’ll sleep at my hotel. What is the problem?” My words were growing clipped with frustration.

“I can’t head back to Vegas until Monday. We won’t see each other for days,” he said, as though that explained his reaction.

I shrugged. “Just call me when we’re in the same city. What is the issue?”

My voice had become so brisk that I could hear a hint of my mother’s long ago accent surface. It usually only came out when I was deeply shaken. He had an affect on me that I didn’t want to acknowledge, even to myself, but even my voice seemed to know it.

He had moved in behind me, and he gripped my hair softly, breathing warmly on my neck as he spoke. “Are you so unaffected by me?”

I was breathing hard now, but I answered calmly enough. “I went twenty-three years without sex. A few days certainly won’t kill me. What do you think I’ll do when we’re finished? I doubt I could find another lover right away.” My accent thickened slightly as I realized at the end that I was trying to goad him.

It came back to me way too easily, the accent I had heard and affected for most of my young life. It surfaced only with strong emotions. It both terrified and titillated me, what I would found down the road of his fury.

He growled, literally growled, into my neck. “I’m going to punish you for that.”

“Yes, I know,” I breathed, dreading and wanting it in equal parts.

He wrenched himself away, sitting back in his chair in the dining room. He seemed too big for the room suddenly, his eyes livid and wild.

“You’re playing with me,” he said raggedly.

His assessment of the situation surprised me. I sent him a questioning look.

“Is that how it seems to you?” I asked, stunned by the notion.

He ran a hand over his face and scraped it through his golden-streaked hair.

“You’re tying me in knots, yet you remain unaffected yourself. Are you just waiting for a reason to end this? That’s the impression I’m getting at the moment. And that drives me f**king crazy, since I don’t have a clue what will tip the scales against me.”

I finished prepping the chicken, putting the marinating dish in the fridge until I was ready to grill it. I moved to the asparagus.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Justin,” I finally said. “Perhaps I can’t give you what you want.”

“I want you!” His fist made me jump as it struck the tabletop with a jarring boom.

“If you ever use your fists on me, that will be a reason,” I told him quietly, watching that clenched fist and trying not to flinch.

He looked instantly remorseful, and I knew from his reaction that the stark terror that always resided somewhere inside of me had revealed itself, at least a little.

He approached me, and I tried not to cringe away. I was determined to face the fear, not to curl into a ball as I had as a child. He hugged me very carefully from behind. I let him, because I would have felt like a coward if I ran.

“I would never do that, you have to believe me. I would never use my fists on you. I’m so sorry if I scared you.”

I shrugged. It was a jerky motion. “As long as we’re clear.”

“I never saw it before, but I scare you, don’t I?” he asked, a strange edge to his voice.

I tried to concentrate on washing and breaking the asparagus.

“Is this an information exchange again? Are we sharing?” I asked archly.

He blew out a frustrated breath. “What do you want to know about me?”

A question popped immediately into my head. I hated it, but I hated not knowing more. “When was the last time you had sex, before the first time with me?”

He cursed. “I don’t think you want to know that. I don’t think that’s good for our relationship, to tell you that.”

I shrugged a tiny shrug, and he cursed again.

“That damn shrug is the most infuriating thing I’ve ever seen! What does it mean? That you don’t give a damn, one way or another?”

I shrugged again. “It means tell me or don’t tell me. But if you want my information, you’ll give me yours.”

“About eight days, I think. The day before I met you,” he said, and I felt him watching my face like a hawk.

So it was as I had suspected, I thought, keeping my face blank. He does this all the time. I was right to place no stock in this.

I just nodded, though unaccountably, my chest hurt a little.

“Yes, you scare me,” I told him, after a very long silence, while I processed his answer. “But I’m irrevocably f**ked up, so you excite me in equal measures. I find it liberating, to let someone control me. Someone who makes me tremble with fear. I’ve spent a great deal of my life running from the things that scare me, so this has been illuminating for me.” My voice was quiet, but that damned accent was back.

He stiffened and backed away from me, looking aghast.

I glanced over my shoulder, surprised. “Is that unusual? Isn’t that how this little game is played? I just assumed that most of the women who liked pain with pleasure were like me. But I suppose you are probably a far bigger expert than I am about that.”

I studied him closely. His face held a harsh sort of tension, though I could see that he was trying to hide it.

“I don’t want you to fear me,” he said, his voice raw. “I want to make you nervous and skittish and submissive, but not scared. I want you to trust me.”

I blinked at him, at a loss. “I’m sorry.”

I went back to cooking, and he fell silent.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mr. Charming

“You get a faint accent sometimes. What is that?” he asked, breaking the long silence.

It was almost a relief to have him do something other than just stare at me, brooding, though I didn’t care for the question. I would have preferred that he not notice my slip.

“Another exchange, so soon?” I asked cooly. “I would have thought the last one was enough for one night.”

He didn’t speak for a long time, though I knew without looking that he was angry.

“Fine. Ask me anything,” he said through clenched teeth.

“How many women have you slept with?” I asked, and immediately wanted to kick myself. If I was going to reveal my feelings so recklessly, I would have preferred a better question.

“A lot. I haven’t been counting. More than I’m proud of. Mostly submissive’s in the last five years or so, and, for the most part, very short acquaintances.”

“Have you ever had a serious relationship?” I plowed on, hoping he wouldn’t make me reveal two things as well, though if he tried, I was ready to point out that he hadn’t technically answered my first question.

“No. I was basically a slut in college, if I’m honest. I f**ked any hot woman I saw. And after that, I found girls with very specific tastes, but it was never about anything but sex and dominance.”

I sighed, not knowing if I was relieved or appalled. I’d have to examine my feelings later.

“I was born in the states,” I began. “My parents, however, were both from Sweden and spoke with heavy accents. I had a slight accent myself, until they were gone. Then I tried to lose it. It comes back sometimes. I don’t know why.”

“It’s lovely. I don’t know why you would make an effort to disguise it.”

I gave him my little shrug, not looking at him. “Stephan and I stood out enough already. We attended a few high schools together. We were inseparable even then, but I didn’t want to make us stand out even more with a strange accent. We were already the only two ridiculously tall blonds at every school we went to. We were a head taller than everyone else there.”

I glanced at him.

He was focused on me with that certain look on his face that made me think he was soaking up every scrap of information I fed him.

I fell silent. He had actually gotten me to chat about myself. I was a little dismayed at the realization.

Eventually Justin went back to answering his phone, and I went outside to put the chicken on my tiny charcoal grill. I texted Stephan that dinner would be ready in twenty minutes.

He brought a bottle of red wine, revealing it with a flourish.

I gave him a wry smile. We both knew he would be the only one drinking it. He grinned back, going directly into the kitchen to open it and pour himself a glass.

“Would anyone like some?” he asked politely.

Justin shook his head, ending his phone call quickly.

I refused, and Justin sent me a warm look. The man did not like alcohol, it was clear.

I served dinner as soon as it was ready, and there wasn’t even a hint of awkwardness while we ate dinner, chatting amiably. I enjoyed it while it lasted. Both men complimented the simple meal lavishly.

“So Selena tells me you two went to high school together here in Las Vegas. And that you towered a head above everyone else there.”

Stephan laughed, sending me a surprised but pleased look.

“Yes,” he said. “Everyone called us Barbie and Ken. They all thought we were a couple, since I carried her backpack and walked her to every class.”

Justin smiled a cheshire cat smile.

Sneaky bastard, I thought. I saw his plan clearly now. He was going to get some free information out of Stephan.

“Selena wouldn’t admit it at the time, but the nickname embarrassed the hell out of her,” Stephan continued.

Justin was all charm and smiles now, a man getting everything he wanted through a clearly easier route. “And what about her other nickname? Where did Buttercup come from?”

“Remember that old movie, Princess Bride?” Stephan asked Justin, not even hesitating to open up.

Justin nodded.

“We used to love that movie. This…” Stephan’s glance shot to mine as he paused, “place where we used to hang out a lot used to show it on movie night. It was the only movie on movie night. Ever. We could both quote you every single line. So I took to calling her Princess Buttercup. You have to admit she kind of looks like the actress in the movie, the one that played the princess. And as a teenager, she even kind of acted like her, very haughty and proud, but still so sweet to me. She was annoyed with the nickname at first, but it grew on her when it became just Buttercup.”

“Good movie. Now I want to watch it again. I haven’t seen it since I was a kid,” Justin said, still smiling.

Stephan smiled brilliantly. “I can’t think of anything I’d like to do more. I have the movie at my house. And ice cream. What do you say, Buttercup? Dessert and a movie at my place tonight?”

I agreed readily enough.

Stephan headed next door to find the movie and get his house ready. We stayed behind to clean up dinner.

Justin insisted on helping, clearing the table and washing dishes while I put the food away.

“This is not exactly what I pictured when you talked about not dating,” I told him carefully. “Hanging out with my best friend and watching movies feels pretty personal.”

He turned to me, looking baffled. “I never said anything about not getting personal. I intend for us to get very personal, Buttercup.”

His answer perplexed me, but I chalked it up to him being too rich and spoiled. Even his most casual affairs had to have a rich eccentricity to them…

We watched the movie and had ice cream and then popcorn at Stephan’s house. It was a highly enjoyable day overall, I thought, even with some bumpy conversations in the road.

We got ready for bed in silence later, and my body sang with anticipation as I lay down to wait for Justin, who was still in the bathroom.

He joined me a few minutes later, sliding in beside me and spooning me from behind. I tensed, waiting to see what kind of a move he would make, but he just nuzzled against my hair and settled down to sleep.

I tried to turn to him, but he kept me securely in place, placing a soft kiss on my temple.

“I’m letting you recover for a few days, Love. Just sleep. I’m content to hold you for tonight.”

I was in that house again. I lay in my hard, tiny bed. I was hugging my knees to my chest, rocking and rocking, and trying to ignore the harsh shouts just a few thin walls away.

If I stayed in my room, it would all go away. They would forget I was even here and in the morning my Dad would sleep all day and leave us in peace so I could tend to my Mother.

But that wasn’t meant to be. Not this time.

The yelling grew louder, my mother’s shouts turning into terrified screams. When I couldn’t stand the horrible noises a moment longer, I crept quietly through the house to investigate.

In spite of my overwhelming fear, my need to at least attempt to aid my mother almost always thrust me into the violent thick of things.

I looked down at my thin bare feet, wishing I knew where some clean socks were. I was so cold, an achy kind of cold, down to my very soul.

My parents were speaking in Swedish, and I pieced together some hysterical words as I got closer to the kitchen where they fought.

“No, no, no. Please, Sven, put that away.”

My father’s voice was an angry roar. “You’ve ruined my life. You and that brat. I’ve lost everything because of you. My fortune, my inheritance, and now, my luck. You’ve taken everything from me, just by living. Tell me why I shouldn’t take everything from you, you silly cunt?”

“When you’re sober, you’ll regret it. We have a child together, Sven. Please, just go to sleep. If you sleep on it, you’ll feel better.”

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do! Fuck sleep. Fuck you. And f**k that little brat. Look at her, hovering in the door, frozen like a frightened little mouse.” His cold eyes went to me.

I was frozen in place, as he’d said.

He changed his tone when he spoke to me, and it turned into a mockery of a gentle tone. “Why don’t you join us, sotnos? Come be with your pretty Mama.”

I moved to my mother, having learned a very long time ago not to disobey him when he was in this mood.

He sneered at the two of us when I stood beside her.

I was in my early teens and tall, already taller than my mother, but he towered over us both.

My mother didn’t look at me, didn’t reach for me. I knew she didn’t want to draw more attention to me. She tried to protect me, as I did her, though she did a better job of it than I did.

“Look at my pretty girls. The daughter is even prettier than the mother. What use, then, is the mother? Tell me why you’re useful, Mama?” he asked her.

I didn’t hear her answer. My gaze was focused solely now on the object he was holding at his side. It was a gun. My gut clenched in dread. The gun was a new and terrifying addition to this violent scene.

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