Watching fleabag the night before church is probably not the best idea since even without it I was having some unholy thoughts about a chorister last sunday

a place that feels eerily familiar to you, like you knew it in a dream + price !! 🫶

congrats on so many sillies following you!!!

1k game here

this one was kinda hard to think of something for but i hope you like it! also thank you ily <3 i love my sillies

2.2k of john price x single mom reader. this is kinda labyrinth inspired, except i've never see labyrinth so we're going on vibes alone. no smut! this is another one with very little of the character requested, but im gonna get better about not doing that i promise <3

You're gobsmacked as you stare at the scene in front of you.

The walls are painted almost aggressively bright, with rainbows crisscrossing over each other in every direction, random bursts of white you think are meant to be clouds. The colors make you squint a little, you didn't even know paint could be that bright.

It's almost painful to look at. It's also... familiar. You're not sure why, but it is.

You shake off the odd sense of déjà vu, refocusing on your goal.

"Alice?" You call out again, cupping your hands around your mouth and shouting as loudly as you can. "Alice, baby, where are you? Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

It's hard not to fall to your knees and just give up. The only thing keeping you standing is the memory of your sweet baby girl in that man's arms. Her little cherubic face tucked into his neck, tiny body dwarfed by his massive form...

You force a full breath into your lungs, then another, then another. You won't be able to help Alice if you can't keep your head.

"Alright, think," you whisper to yourself, taking another moment to scan the room. "If I were a piece of shit baby-stealer, where would I keep a perfect angel?"

Nothing responds.

The room is definitely meant for a child, but scaled up to your size. The door you'd come in through has disappeared, leaving you stuck in this weird rainbow nightmare.

There's a bed against one wall - not really a bed so much as a stack of no less than six mattress one on top of the other, all with the same purple bedsheets. They nearly reach the ceiling, and on the very top your sure you can see several stuffed animals.

There are bookshelves against one wall, floating shelves styled after unicorns where the books rest along their backs and the unicorns themselves stick out from the wall. It's horrendously impractical - all you can think about is how much dusting they would need, how dangerous they could be if they fell on top of someone.

The floor is a nice hardwood with a large plush rug in the center, stylized to look like a white cat curled up in a little ball.

The room is spotless. Nothing is out of place, there's not a spec of dust anywhere to be seen, and nothing is stained. You wish your own daughter's room was this clean, but three year old's are a very messy species.

This room is clearly meant for a kid, but you can tell it's never been used. No child could keep a white rug so clean.

You sit on the floor in front of the purple bed and try to collect your thoughts, eying the room around you.

The man - John Price, he'd said around a cigar - had been clear about your task. Find your way out of the labyrinth in twenty-four hours, and you'll be reunited with your baby.

Of course the jackass had neglected to mention it's a magical labyrinth. Of course he hadn't told you that the maze would literally reconstruct itself right in front of your eyes.

This room had appeared practically out of thin air too, which is why you suspect that no one's ever been here but you. The whole place has an air of cleanliness that leaves your skin crawling.

The walls though... there's something so familiar about them.

It hits you a few moments later.

You'd had a coloring book as a little girl that was rainbow themed - each page featured a rainbow in a different setting, or a different shape, or an animal with rainbow patterns, things of that nature. Your favorite page had been the one without any design but rainbows, arches crisscrossing over each other in every direction. You spent hours painstakingly coloring it properly, despite the fact that it was nearly impossible to tell where the top of the rainbow was in certain places.

You'd begged your mother to paint your room like that, promised her that you'd help, that you'd never complain about your chores again, all typical little kid stuff. Your mother had refused, and you'd forgotten all about it by breakfast the next day.

That pattern from the coloring book is the same one decorating the walls, complete with the incorrect colors in certain places. That's where you remember it from.

And... and that bed. Mattress stacked on top of one another, purple bedsheets. It's just like an old copy of The Princess and the Pea your father brought home one day. You had been so entranced with the idea of a bed so tall that you'd never even cared about the end of the story. You vividly remember begging for a tall bed like the princess had, and you'd gotten it - you slept in a loft bed for most of your teen years.

It's clear from there what's going on. The unicorn shelves are plucked from your memory too, originating from a years long obsession with the mythical creatures. The rug, now that you think about it, matches one your kindergarten teacher had. The whole room is filled with things that you thought would be great in a bedroom as a little girl.

So.... how do you get out?

There's no door, no windows, no attic, nothing. Just a sealed rainbow box.

You skim your memory as quickly as possible, trying to imagine any sort of escape route you might've wanted. When you were little, you'd gone through a phase of wanting to live in a tower like Rapunzel, but that had a window. You also tried to run away once, becoming very enamored with the idea of living in a tent. You'd wanted to live in a treehouse for a bit, and that....

Oh. That's it.

You'd wanted to live in a treehouse, and your father jokes that you would roll right out of the hatch when you were asleep. You'd proudly said nuh-uh and told him how you'd drag the mattress over the hatch every night.

You glance over your shoulders at the six mattress stacked on top of each other and sigh.

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

It takes a while, but you finally manage to shove the last mattress away from it's spot.

Not only is there a trapdoor beneath it, there's one singular pea.

You'd laugh if you were any less exhausted.

You leave the rainbow room all but destroyed - the stuffed animals had gone flying and knocked off the books, and the floor is almost completely covered by mattress - but you're far too excited about your small win to worry about cleaning up.

You climb down the ladder in a tiny, enclosed space, breathing slowly to keep yourself from hyperventilating. It's almost pitch-black and you can't fight off the image of the walls shifting around you, deciding you're not supposed to be here and.....

You breathe a sigh of relief when your feet hit the floor.

Your first instinct is to call out for your daughter again, hope that she hears and cries out for you, but this room - dark and undecorated - is dead silent. The kind of silent that feels wrong to break. So you inch forward towards the only door you can make out along the wall.

Your hand shakes as you push it open, tense as you reveal....

A nursery.

A nursery with your baby in it, your little girl all curled up in a crib that she's a bit too old for. She's wearing something different than what you had her in, but she's real and she's safe.

You step froward on instinct, standing at the side of the crib. Just as you're reaching in to grab her and run, a voice speaks up from behind you.

"What are you doing?"

You jolt, spinning around and pressing your back in front of where your baby sleeps.

It's the man again. He can barely fit through the doorway (literally ducks) and he's broad enough to nearly block it. He's almost cartoonishly large, with tree trunk thighs and arms, a soft padding around his body that makes him look both terrifying and nice to hug.

His beard twitches as he frowns at you, thick eyebrows dipping low over his eyes.

"You're not supposed to be here."

You shake your head a little, getting your racing heart under control. "You said if I could find Alice in twenty-four hours I could go home."

He shakes his head slowly, stepping further into the room. The door disappears behind him. "No, I said find your way out of the labyrinth and you could keep her."

Against your own will, you feel tears start to sting in your eyes. "But..."

"How did you get here?" He asks again, shifting back a bit. His face softens just slightly, but that isn't saying much.

"I found a door," you say. "Under the mattresses."

He hums. "You remembered, then."

Now it's your turn to look confused. "Of course I did. It was my dream as a child."

His head tilts to the side as he takes a few steps forward. "You would be shocked how many parents have forgotten their own dreams. It's pathetic," he spits.

You try to push a little further back as he comes within reaching distance, but you have nowhere else to go.

"Pathetic?"

"Yes. How are you supposed to fulfil your child's dreams if you can't remember your own?"

"But... but not all dreams are meant to come true."

He scowls at you, leaning a little further forward. "Really? You don't remember how devastated you were when you didn't get that treehouse? Or the rainbow walls? You cried for hours, I saw it in your memories. Why would you want to put your daughter through that?"

That's... invasive, but you try to move past it. "But my dreams weren't always good for me. I couldn't sleep in the treehouse, what if something went wrong? There could've been a storm, or someone in the woods, or I could've gotten too scared to go inside - any number of things. And I would've been bored of the walls by the weekend, of course my mother didn't spend days painting them just for me to be over it before I even said thank you."

He hums a bit, bringing a hand up to stroke his chin. "You would deny your daughter's dreams because you don't want to create them, then?"

You scowl at that, holding yourself back from poking a finger into his chest. "Are you calling me lazy? How dare you! You know, I work two jobs to take care of that little girl all by myself since her daddy's a deadbeat, I work myself to the bone making sure she can eat, and you call me lazy for not painting the walls the colors she wants?"

He latches onto the wrong part of the sentence. "Her father's not in the picture?"

You glare at him. "That's what you got from that?"

He seems to be stuck in deep contemplation, taking another step forward so your chests nearly brush and you're forced to stare up at him.

"So, it's not for a lack of love, then?"

"What? Of course not. If I could, I'd give Alice everything she could ever want and more. But that's not how the real world works."

"It's how the labyrinth works."

"Excuse me?"

He gestures broadly to the nursery. "The labyrinth is kind to her inhabitants. She gives them everything they desire, because it's easy for her."

You've never been more confused in your life. "Okay? Good for her, then."

You get the feeling he's reached a conclusion that you can't even see in the distance as he nods to himself, leaning to the side a bit to glance at Alice. You fight down the urge to leap over the crib and cover her body with yours.

"Then you will stay here."

That jerks you back to reality. "Wait- what?"

"You will stay in the labyrinth, where she can provide for... what did you call her? Alice? Yes, Alice. You and Alice will be taken care of here."

"But-" you splutter. "But I found her! You said I had to find her!"

He shoots you a slightly exasperated look. "No, as I said before, you had to find your way out. You didn't. And look at that, time's up." A timer appears in the air in front of him, ticking down to zero. "Now you and little Alice are mine. It's been a little empty around here recently, it won't be the worst thing to have company for a bit."

You feel heat rush to your face. "No! Let us go, you can't keep me here on a technicality!"

He smiles - a real smile, brightening up his eyes - and surprises you by cupping your cheek with one big paw.

"Oh my dear, it's my labyrinth, I can do whatever I want in it. And it's not a technicality, though I could keep you based on several of those too."

You fume as you glare up at him, hands curled into fists. "I'll find my way out. You can't keep us here."

He chuckles, patting your cheek once before stepping away. "Oh, yes, I think you'll be fun to keep around for a while, darling. Try your best to escape, if you'd like. I don't think I'll mind finding you lost a few more times."

Chapter 2.1 - Back to Reality

Dennis and Barry didn’t speak much for the rest of the weekend, after their night out at Depot. It was clear that something between them was withering in a way that was rather unexpected, but neither of them could articulate. Barry, however, was closer to understanding it. It was the same sensation that he always felt after a circuit party, or an orgy, when he was back in the quiet house again. He was back in reality. The party, the club, the sex, all of that was just fantasy, it couldn’t penetrate him. He couldn’t allow it to penetrate him. But when he saw someone like Samuel, or Parker, who not only allowed that energy to flow through them, but lived and breathed it, all he felt was restless. Like he’d done scuba diving, with all of this protection, only to discover other guys he knew had gills. That Dennis had intruded on that rather sacred experience, injected his own kind of order and justice and control into it only made him feel more sour, more disconnected, more jealous of what he could be, if he hadn’t chosen all of this.

Dennis, on the other hand, was feeling usurped. Annoyed that Barry had dragged him to that party, annoyed that he had challenged him when it came to Kyle and threatening to tell his father, annoyed that he felt bad about it, most of all. He’d done the right thing, he was sure of that. Kyle shouldn’t have been there, he was too young. It was illegal. Pretty much everything that was happening in that club was illegal, in fact. But Barry had put him on the defensive, a position Dennis hated, since he was very careful to always maintain a moral high ground. He felt like he needed to defend something that ought to be obvious. The fact that Barry apparently disagreed only made his own values feel more slippery. 

Barry dealt with the frustration by going to the gym, and stopping off at a gay sauna on the way back for a little action. Dennis dealt with it by making calls to the health department, the liquor control board, and the police department, reporting the myriad of violations he had witnessed at Depot on Friday. Neither of them felt satisfied, by the end of it. The energy that Barry was craving just wasn’t there, like it had been at Depot. The guys were all too nervous, too embarrassed, mostly older closeted men with wives in the suburbs. It only made Barry feel more hemmed in than before. Dennis kept getting the runaround from every agency he called. They would seem interested, and then as soon as he mentioned where he had been and they confirmed the address, the person on the other line would go quiet, say that wasn’t their jurisdiction, thank him for his vigilance and hang up on him. Only once, with a police officer, did he manage to get a little bit of info out of him. “Look, the folks you ought to talk to are down at Precinct 27. They handle everything in that neighborhood.” Frustrated, and again feeling like he was running into some bureaucratic red tape he hadn’t expected, he decided he’d pay a visit to the precinct sometime in the next week, and get some answers there. Surely they would have a more difficult time dismissing his complaints in person.

Monday came for them both. Dennis headed for the hospital--Monday was usually a day for appointments, and getting his surgeries for the rest of the week planned out and organized. Barry headed into the office, dreading it more than he had in some time. He’d hoped that seeing Samuel and having a chance to blow off some steam would have helped soften the blow of being passed over for a promotion, again. Instead, he just felt caught between two worlds, one unsatisfactory foot in each. He couldn’t invest himself entirely in his job--it bored him to death, and he didn’t understand how Dennis could stand being so normal all the time--but if he didn’t, he’d never get the respect there he longed for. Each time he saw Samuel though, it was like looking at some amazing being. He was so free. Sure, his life likely wasn’t easy, but it seemed effortless and fun and exhilarating in a way Barry’s had never been. It also terrified him, all the same, and he hadn’t even been able to hack an hour on the dance floor on Friday. He got settled in his office, and got caught up on his email for the first couple of hours, before the usual Monday morning meeting was due to start.

This is what he was dreading the most, of the entire day. He showed up a bit late, took a seat towards the far end of the table. Evan Ternbull, his current boss, was sitting at the front, and off to his left was Richard Carlisle, the man that Barry privately considered his rival, but they had never spoken more than a few words to each other, since Richard was a relatively new hire, and they’d been working on different projects.

“As you know,” Evan said once getting everyone in order, “I’m going to be transferring over to a new project team in a month or so, which I know all of you are so disappointed to hear about. I’m happy to announce today that Richard here will be stepping up into my role and overseeing your team for the remainder of your project. As you know, Richard is relatively new here, but he comes with some great outside experience, and I am very confident that he will be a great project lead.”

The folks around the table clapped for Richard, who stood up, looking a bit sheepish. How old could he be, really? Twenty-five, twenty-six? Slender, twinkish but clearly straight, Richard got up and introduced himself, talking about his wife, and about the baby they had on the way. The table clapped again, and Barry tried to mask his scowl as he clapped along. Part of him felt a bit bad now for feeling so entitled to the position. Dennis and he were doing just fine with their incomes, and he knew that kids were expensive--one of many reasons he’d never wanted one. But as soon as that sympathy popped up, he pushed it back down. Just because he was straight, just because he was “starting a family” didn’t mean he was entitled to more money than him. It didn’t mean he was entitled more respect.

That was it, wasn’t it? The respect. He didn’t feel respected here. He didn’t feel respected at home, even. Dennis loved him, sure, but did he respect him, really? Did it feel like a relationship between equals all the time? It didn’t. Barry would goad him, and half the time Dennis would just dismiss him out of hand, refuse to even engage, like fighting with Barry was simply beneath him. Like he knew that no matter how dissatisfied he might be, he’d never leave him, because he liked the money, and the lifestyle, and Barry’s own job here couldn’t afford it. 

He could barely focus for the rest of the meeting. After an hour, he faked a phone call, and retreated to his cubicle to think. Mostly, he stared at the little business card that Hugh had given him, and thought about what on earth “Broker” might mean. Someone in the drug trade, apparently, if Hugh worked for him. So much of that conversation had been...weirdly cryptic, but Hugh had been right about the central proposition. Barry was unsatisfied with his life, and more hemmed in he felt--by Evan, by Dennis, by Richard now--

“Hey, Billy, right?”

He was startled up from his thought, looked up and saw Richard looming in the doorway of his cubicle. The meeting was over apparently--was this the first thing he’d thought to do? Hunt Barry down?

“Barry, actually.”

“Oh shoot, sorry man. Everything alright? You zipped out of there in a hurry.”

“Yeah, just the husband, you know. Everything sounds like an emergency to him.”

Richard laughed, “Yeah man, I get it. Hey, Evan told me that you were on the shortlist for the position, and I just wanted to let you know that he thought you would have been a great choice too, and he wants you to keep throwing your hat in the ring, alright? He just didn’t think that this position would be a better stepping stone for me, since we’re at the tail end of a project, about to ship. He knows that wouldn’t have been a challenge for you.”

Barry’s face was growing a bit heated. Evan thought so, huh? Then why wasn’t Evan here telling him this? Why send this cherub faced little shit to come apologize on his behalf? “Sure thing, I understand. Besides, you got the growing family to feed, right?” Barry said, stretching his mouth into something he hoped was a smile and not a sneer, and from the way Richard’s face lit up back, he must have managed well enough. They chatted a bit about Barry’s current duties, and then Richard moved on to the next member of the team.

That settled it, then. If nothing else, he would have his curiosity satisfied. If it was a service that could make his life better, than great. Why care that the info came from a drug dealer? He pulled out the card Hugh had given him on Friday--it was rather simple. All it had was a name, Ian Miller, the word “Broker” below it, and on the bottom of the card, a phone number. He picked up his phone, and gave the mysterious number a call.

***

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20. [9:40 am]

28A… 29A… Ah, 30A! You thought to yourself as your eyes glanced over the seat numbers slightly above your line of sight, your feet finally coming to a stop beside your reserved seat.

Much to your dismay, it was a window seat, facing in the opposite direction of the train’s movements. It was also one of the few face-to-face seats on the entire KTX train, with a table between the two pairs of seats which were facing each other.

You groaned internally. As much as you liked having a proper surface for writing or doodling in your journal, you didn’t like sharing. You much preferred having your own privacy while glancing out the windows, watching the greenery and the countryside pass by in a colourful blur, with soft tunes to accompany you on your journey. It’s fine, you reminded yourself, trying to stay positive, it’s only two hours, no big deal…

You hauled your backpack over your head and into the overhead compartment with practiced movements. Pulling out your travel necessities, which included your fully-charged phone, a pair of wireless earphones, a large, ice-cold Americano and your trusty journal, you settled into your seat for the rest of the morning. A part of you wished that the seat in front of you wouldn’t be occupied, while another part of you contemplated whether it was better to just try and fall asleep for the remainder of the train ride to Gangneung.

You quickly dismissed the latter thought, as the scenery throughout the train ride was too good to miss. You could deal with a couple of awkward silences and accidental glances with the unlucky stranger who reserved the seat opposite yours. Besides, it was your first time visiting your parents in two months – you weren’t going to let anything sour your mood.

The last-minute trip to Gangneung, your hometown, was planned just two days ago, as you were graciously granted two days of paid leave by your manager. After finally submitting the last tax return for your clients, your manager had treated the entire team to a congratulatory dinner and gave everyone a few days of leave to make up for the never-ending client meetings and late nights spent slaving away at the office desk during the tax busy season. You were overwhelmed with joy once your manager announced the news, pulling her usually stoic self into a tight embrace under the yellow glow of  the pojangmacha, a tent bar selling alcohol and street food, due to the heightened levels of alcohol within your system.

Giggling to yourself at the memory, you reached out for your phone and typed a message to your mother to inform her that you were about to depart Seoul. It was a message that she read and replied immediately with her usual “Be careful, dear, and have a safe journey.”, which you missed dearly during the busy season. On off-periods, you would make the effort to visit your parents once a fortnight. You moved to Seoul for university a few years back and found a job in the bustling city, leaving your parents and the family’s bicycle store behind in the coastal neighbourhood. Sometime in your early twenties, your father experienced a mild health scare and had to close the store during his month-long recovery. This made you realise that as the years went by, your parents were not getting any younger. With that in mind, you tried to clear your hectic schedule to spend as much time with your parents as possible.

“This is the 10:01am number 811 KTX train bound for Gangneung. The train will be departing shortly.”

The familiar female voice flooded the carriages of the train and distracted you from your thoughts. The seat in front of you was still unoccupied. You held on to the tiny glimmer of hope that it would remain that way for the rest of the journey, despite knowing very well that the summer holidays were approaching, turning Gangneung into an ideal weekend getaway for tourists and locals alike. The prospect of spending the next few days basking in the summer sunshine, helping out at the bicycle store and frolicking in the sea excited you to no end. After long hours cooped up in the office, you were looking forward to spending your break in the great outdoors.

“28… 29… 30, 31! Here it is, Mark, 31A and 31B. Dibs the window seat!” A cheerful voice spoke in English, pulling you out of your delightful daydream. Before you could turn your head to face its owner, a bright streak of reflected rainbow dancing across the table caught your eye.

“Okay, Bella,” A deep chuckle originated from the man standing beside your seat. “Wait a sec, pass me your bag, honey.”

Your eyes traced the source of the deep timbre notes of the American-sounding voice. What you found was a man, dressed in an oversized white shirt and black ripped jeans, who was placing the girl’s pink Barbie bag into the overhead compartment. Even though he was wearing a cap, you could make out his cherubic features and the gentle smile he directed towards the girl.

The thought that he was a bit too young to have a daughter crossed your mind for a split second, but you quickly shook it off to return the little girl’s excited smile with a polite wave. She was wearing a cute pink dress and looked to be about six or seven years old. The pair got comfortable in their seats, just as the announcement informed the passengers the doors were closing.

The man sitting diagonally opposite of you took off his cap to reveal a head of blonde hair. He met your gaze, and you watched as a surprised look flashed across his face. As the two of you exchanged polite greetings, you couldn’t shake off the thought that you had seen him somewhere before.

A phone chirped, signalling an incoming call. It was a call for him. He answered it, and you looked out the window to give him some privacy and not seem too nosy. You wracked your brain for answers. Did he work at the café I frequented? Or was it the Chinese restaurant that I ordered takeaways from? No… You mused silently. Maybe he’s the cashier at the convenience store near the apartment… But that doesn’t seem right either. Wait, is he-?

“Bell, your Mummy wants to speak to you.”

“Yes, Mummy! Mark said…”

You drowned out the rest of the conversation to refocus your thinking. You sneaked another glance at the man in question, only to find half of his face covered by his laptop screen as he tapped away furiously. It seems like it’s him… You adjusted your position several times to get a better look at his face without seeming too suspicious. Blonde hair and shiny helix piercing, it must be him.

The person you were referring to was someone you’ve only ever seen from afar. There was usually a safe distance between you two on your morning subway ride to the office, with him leaning casually against a pole and you standing steadily in the middle of the crowd. The closest you’ve been to him was when you were running late, and you happened to share the elevator with a blonde-haired man from the eighth floor of your apartment. He always had the top button of his crisp button-up undone, a tie hanging haphazardly over one shoulder and his headphones sitting snugly atop his blonde head, while munching on a piece of burnt toast. You had never encountered this strange gentleman until mid-May, so you assumed that he had recently moved into the floor below you. The two of you never exchanged words either, as he was always busy shoving down his breakfast, but you would always bow politely to each other. Unbeknownst to him, you were intrigued. Not many office workers were brave enough to sport such a striking hair colour, and you had to admit, it suited him perfectly.

You just never expected him to have a child.

“Mark!” The girl, Bella, whined while grabbing his hand. Your ears were still getting accustomed to hearing English after so long. The last time you were surrounded by native speakers was during your six-month-long secondment to the New York branch of your company. “Do my hair, pretty please! I want two braids.”

The man, Mark, sighed in fake annoyance, playfully poking her cheeks. “Yes, Your Highness. Hand over your other hair tie.” A part of you wasn’t used to how the girl didn’t address him with honorifics, but you busied yourself with your phone, pretending that you weren’t eavesdropping on their conversation.

“I thought you took them for me when we left your house.” She huffed, clearly unsatisfied.

“Nope, I only have one with me.”

Your fingers reached for the simple, black hair tie around your wrist. “Here, you can borrow mine.” Smiling, you handed it over to Bella, who accepted it with a grateful smile.

Mark leaned down to whisper in her ear, unable to hide the surprised smile on his face. “Thank the pretty eonnie in Korean.”

“Thank you, eonnie!” Bella chirped, so excited that she was practically bouncing in her seat.

“You’re most welcome.” You said in perfect English, intrigued at Mark’s earlier interaction with the girl.

He proceeded to divide her hair into two even halves, combing her dark locks with long, thin fingers. Expertly, Mark separated the first half into three parts and began to braid. He stuck out his tongue cutely in concentration, trying his best to not mess up.

“Don’t move so much, Bell.” He scolded lightly when the girl pulled out her colouring book and painted the sky a light shade of blue with large strokes of her coloured pencil.

“You’re pretty good at this. Mark, right?” You commented.

“Yeah, guess it comes with practice. I’m Mark, by the way. We never got to introduce each other properly. Your name is…?”

“Y/N.”

“Ah yes, Y/N. It suits you well. Always so prim and proper in your blazer and kitten heels. I must seem like a fool to you, with my tie undone and all.”

You laughed at his self-deprecating humour. This man is funny, and he can braid hair. His wife sure is a lucky woman, you thought. “No, not at all. Where do you work?”

Light conversation regarding your respective careers ensued. You found out that he was also working at a company close to yours, which explained the frequent encounters on the train. He moved in about a month ago from another side of the city because of his new job. When the conversation about work dwindled, you shifted the topic to the girl.

“How old is she?”

Mark secured the first braid with your hair tie, smiling to himself, satisfied. “Bella, how old are you?”

“I’m six, Mark! How could you forget?” The girl sat up from her position to shoot daggers with her eyes at him.

“I’m sorry, kiddo. Come, turn to the other side so I can finish this up.” He moved her to sit facing the window instead and starting on the second braid. “She’s six,” Mark turned to you and answered with a sheepish expression. Before you started to wonder what kind of father would forget his daughter’s age, he continued, “Bella doesn’t visit very often.”

Your eyebrows quirked upwards in response. Does that mean he was… divorced?

Mark saw your confused expression and hastened to add, “She’s my niece.” You let out a breath that you didn’t even realise you were holding. “My sister and her family came over from LA to visit me.”

It all made sense to you now. “Right…”

“Her parents wanted some alone time so I’m taking her to Gangneung for a day trip cos she wants to visit Jumunjin beach and take some pictures.” He paused, and went on to mouth, “She loves BTS.”

“The bus stop near the beach? The one on their album cover?” You wondered, knowing exactly which photo spot he was referring to. “It’s about a bit of a drive from my parent’s bicycle shop. I took a couple of days off to visit them.”

“You’ve seen the bus stop? That’s so cool!” Bella’s ears perked up.

“Sit still, honey.” Mark reminded sternly as he got closer to the end of the braid.

You nodded eagerly. “Yup! They’ve got a map of a BTS bus route with their album names as the bus stops.”

“Don’t encourage her, Y/N…” Mark groaned as he tied the second braid. He inspected his handiwork and seemed very proud of himself.

“Well, I have a suggestion,” You started carefully. “How about this? I can be your local tour guide for Gangneung today. I can show you the best photo spots, the most popular places to get your daily coffee fix and even get you a discount for bike rentals so you can cycle around the beach and the lake!”

The two of them nodded eagerly at your proposition.

//

It was a long, eventful day. The three of you had visited a hanok café, took way too many pictures at the Jumunjin bus stop and breakwater where they filmed Goblin, dipped your toes in Gyeongpo Beach and cycled around Gyeongpo lake. Your parents had immediately taken a liking to your new friend Mark and his cute niece, even insisting on packing them a container full of kimbap and banana milk for their journey back to Seoul.

“Thank you so, so much for today, Y/N.” Mark whispered as the three of you sat at the train station, waiting for their train. Bella had already dozed off with her head on Mark’s lap. It was an adorable sight. “We both had a lot of fun.”

“Not a problem at all. I enjoyed showing you around and visiting touristy places. I got to see my hometown in a different light.” You faced him, giving him a sincere smile.

He returned you with an equally bright smile that showed off his cute, pointy canines. “Let me take you out for dinner or something. You know, to make it up to you.” Mark’s ears began to heat up and were painted in a faint tinge of red. “Let’s exchange numbers.”

“Sure!” You replied. Was he asking me out on a date? You wondered. “I’ve been craving sticky barbecue ribs since I left the States.”

“I know a good place. How about next Saturday night?”

“I’m free.”

“Great, it’s a date.”

Adrienette: Serendipity: Fifty Marichat and Adrienette Kisses: Kiss Twenty-Six

Read it on AO3: Serendipity: Fifty Marichat and Adrienette Kisses: ...lazily.

“I have an idea,” Marinette announced as they sat at the kitchen table staring down at the chessboard between them.

“I should hope so;” Adrien snickered, “otherwise, I’m going to checkmate you in two moves.”

“No.” She looked up. “I meant…about your father.”

Adrien quirked an eyebrow, puzzled. “Ohime-sama, I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a bit more specific. Are we talking about how my father is controlling or how he’s too busy to be bothered with me or the fact that he doesn’t want us to go public about our relationship or that he’s too hung up on my mom still to admit that he has feelings for Nathalie or—”

“—About his opposition to us publicly dating,” she cut him off before he could really get started. “I can see his points about people accusing me of gold-digging and trying to get an advantage in the fashion industry, and I know that he’s right that it will be a lot of unwanted attention for me and I’ll probably get hate mail from your fans and people will invade my privacy and all that, but…I also know how important it is to you for us to be official so we can attend events as a couple and go on over-the-top romantic dates and get some of your rabid admirers to simmer down.”

“So what are you thinking?” he prompted, head tipping to the side in curiosity.

Her mouth stretched into an impish smirk. “We force his hand.”

He went owl-eyed at the thought of getting Gabriel Agreste to do anything he didn’t want to do. “Oh? And how are we going to accomplish that?”

“We get the media to declare us a couple. It’s not our fault if people see us out together and make assumptions,” she reasoned innocently.

A wide grin spread across Adrien’s lips. “Like that time we went to see my mom’s movie together.”

“Only not in my pyjamas this time,” Marinette groaned, remembering the months of humiliation she’d suffered through as a young teen.

“Your pyjamas were adorable,” he assured. “I saved those pictures of us, you know.”

She lost her train of thought as she gaped at him. “You did?”

“Mmhm.” He nodded with an embarrassed smile, cheeks warming. “I mean, it was really a big deal that you ditched your plans with the girls to help me get to the theatre to see the movie. It meant a lot to me, and I enjoyed running around Paris with you. That day was full of good memories, so I wanted a souvenir…. And…I mean…as previously discussed, I think I’ve always been a little bit in love with you, even if I didn’t know it, so…”

He looked up and shrugged, the picture of cherubic wholesomeness.

“You are the most precious,” Marinette cooed, leaning forward to kiss him and knocking over the chess pieces in the process.

When they pulled back, they looked down at the carnage of pawns, rooks, knights, and bishops.

“Well, I mean…you were going to checkmate me in two moves anyway,” Marinette reasoned. “Let’s just say that you won.”

Adrien pursed his lips, deliberating for a moment before deciding, “That’s fair. So what’s your grand plan to get the media to declare us dating?���

“Well…” Marinette quickly set the chess pieces back up in their starting positions and got out her phone. “Take a selfie with me.”

“O…kay.” He shrugged and did what she asked, smiling brightly and wrapping an arm around her, head tipping in towards hers, even though he wasn’t sure what this had to do with the plan.

Marinette quickly uploaded the picture to her Instagram and added the caption, “Hanging out with my good friend @adrienagrestebrand”.

She turned to him and smiled toothily. “We play innocent, but if enough pictures of us in couple-like situations start circulating online, people will talk. If enough people talk, it will eventually become something your father will have to publicly address. Maybe he’ll go on the record as saying that we’re not a couple, but if pictures of us acting like a couple keep popping up, no one will believe him, and we win.”

Adrien’s eyes went as wide as his smile as he shook his head and beamed at his ingenious girlfriend. “You are the most clever, amazing person ever. This is wonderful, Marinette!”

“I’m glad you approve,” she chuckled, looking pleased with herself. “I know it’s been bothering you this past month, us still being a secret and not able to publicly date, so…I’ve been trying to come up with a solution.”

He took her hands in his and gave them a squeeze, staring into her eyes with pure adoration. “Ohime-sama, you are the best. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

A hint of concern came into his gaze, turning his exhilarated expression into a worried frown. “…Are you sure you want to do this, though?” he inquired tentatively, not wanting to dissuade her but knowing that he had to be honest. “My father does have a point about people who are going to invade your privacy and send you death threats and call you an opportunist gold digger. Life in the public eye kind of sucks, and I don’t want you diving into this for my sake thinking that it’s going to be okay because it’s not, Marinette. Dating me and dealing with all of that is going to be awful and scary and—”

“—It’s not dating you that’s going to be bad,” she quickly corrected. “Dealing with your fans and the media is what’s going to be awful. Dating you is a dream come true, Adrien, and definitely worth whatever I have to put up with.”

“Oh,” he breathed, stunned by the certainty of her response.

“I’m sure about this,” she insisted with a dazzling smile. “You are one of the few things in my life I’ve always been sure about.”

“Oh,” he repeated, his face hurting he was smiling so hard.

She leaned in to give his cheek a kiss. “I’m going to work with our friends to make this happen. We’ll hit it really hard throughout the week, and, then, next Saturday we’ll strike the finishing blow. You’re free for the day until your interview with Nadja in the evening, right?”

He blinked at her curiously. “Yeah. Why?”

 The following day, Marinette kidnapped Adrien to take Jagged Stone’s crocodile Fang out for a walk around the Square de la Tour Saint-Jacques. They took photos cuddling Fang on one of the blue benches with the tower in the background and Fang licking their faces and them laughing together and posted them on their Instagrams with tags talking about how fun it was spending time with such a good friend.

Jagged took some pictures and posted them on social media too, and the general public got plenty of shots of Adrien Agreste and a girl who looked somewhat familiar even if they couldn’t place her walking a famous crocodile.

Monday, Alya just so happened to take some pictures of Chat Noir for the Ladyblog that captured Marinette and Adrien having a picnic in the Place des Vosges in the background.

That same day, Adrien’s Instagram featured photos of the macarons from the picnic and a shoutout to Tom and Sabine’s.

Tuesday, Marinette and Adrien posted photos of their Chemistry study session along with captions about how learning was more fun with a friend.

Wednesday, Chloé posted photos of her newest Queen Bee-inspired manicure with the Pont des Arts as the background.

Clearly, between Chloé’s thumb and index finger, Adrien and Marinette could be seen standing at the railing of the bridge, laughing and smiling at something one or the other had said.

Thursday, Kitty Section updated their website to include new pictures in their photo gallery. One didn’t have to look all that closely to spot Marinette and Adrien in the background.

He had his arms around her as they stood at the keyboard and he positioned her hands to show her how to play the instrument.

Jagged Stone and Clara Rossignol included links to the Kitty Section site in Twitter posts.

Friday, an anonymous source sent a picture of Adrien and Marinette sitting on the school steps, holding hands to the president of Adrien’s fanclub, and “#Who is Adrien’s New Girlfriend?!” started trending.

 On Saturday, Adrien met Marinette at the Trocadero for the grand finale.

“So, what’s the plan, Boss?” he greeted as she came trotting up to him.

“I’m finally going to take you on that ridiculously romantic date you’ve always wanted,” she informed as she touched her cheek to his for the usual air kisses to either side of his face.

“You’re going to what now?” He stared at her in amazement, afraid to believe that the day had actually come.

Just then, a pedicab pulled up to the curb, and Marinette smirked. “Our ride’s here.”

Adrien’s jaw dropped. “We’re going on a romantic rickshaw bicycle ride?”

She laughed fondly at the excitement on his face and nodded. “Yep. Come take a selfie and post it on your Instagram with a caption about how you’re spending the day with one of your best friends and you’re so glad that we’re friends and all that.”

Adrien happily acquiesced.

Their pedicab took them down along the Seine and past the Grand Palais, Petit Palais, Place de la Concorde, Tuileries, and the Louvre on their way to the Pont des Arts.

Adrien took a few more shots for his Instagram en route, including several with his arm around Marinette’s shoulders, their faces close together to fit in the frame.

“You know,” Marinette chuckled as she snuggled up to Adrien, “I’ve had this romantic bike ride scenario planned out for years now.”

“What?” he laughed incredulously. “Seriously?”

“Yes.” She gave his arm a light smack. “I seriously have. Remember my ridiculous crush on you?”

“I still can’t believe you liked me,” Adrien snickered, shaking his head in awe. “I could have had you this whole time if I weren’t such an oblivious dimwit.”

“Be nice,” Marinette scolded.

“No,” Adrien pouted. “I’m seriously angry at myself. If I had gotten a clue back then, I could have had the most awesome girlfriend on the face of the planet. Instead, I spent my youth feeling like an unlovable screwup. I will never forgive myself,” he snorted, only half joking.

Marinette leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his jaw. “You’re very lovable and definitely not a screwup,” she whispered, hoping their cyclist-driver was concentrating on the road and the music playing through his earbuds rather than their conversation.

“Tell me about this romantic bicycle ride scheme fourteen-year-old Marinette came up with,” Adrien entreated. “That will cheer me up and make me forget what a loser I am. I love fourteen-year-old Marinette’s schemes. They’re brilliant. Marino is my favourite so far.”

Marinette cringed. “Fourteen-year-old Marinette’s schemes were horrendous, shameful failures…but if it’ll make you feel better… The plan was for Alya, Rose, Juleka, Mylène, and Alix to help me make it so that your bodyguard couldn’t park where he was supposed to pick you up after a photoshoot.”

Adrien arched an eyebrow and gave her a devious smile. “And then you were going to lie in wait for me to sweep me off my feet with a romantic rickshaw bicycle ride?”

Marinette nodded, shrugging hopelessly. “We were going to ride to the Pont des Arts to get soulmate ice cream from André, and Alix was going to throw rose petals to create the right atmosphere.”

“I would have loved that,” Adrien whispered, touched that she had put so much thought and effort into a surprise for him.

Marinette shook her head. “You would have had fun, but you wouldn’t have appreciated it as much as you do now. You didn’t see me in a romantic light back then, so it just would have been a memorable outing with a friend.”

Adrien reached down and slipped his hand into hers. “You have no idea how special all those times spent hanging out with you were to me. I grew up bored and lonely, so your friendship really was—is—a precious gift. Things don’t have to be seen in a romantic light to be meaningful…and it would have really meant a lot to take a bike ride and get ice cream with you.”

“Oh,” she breathed softly, admiring the soft glow he seemed to emit. She nodded, feeling like she understood better now.

“So what happened with the scheme?” He pulled her attention back to the present. “Why didn’t I get my romantic rickshaw ride and André’s ice cream?”

Marinette sighed. “Oh. I don’t know. Maybe the plan was a little too overly complicated. There was some miscommunication. Things didn’t play out the way I’d planned. There was an akuma attack. You know. The usual.”

Adrien winced. “Ouch. I’m sorry. That really sucks, especially when you put so much effort into planning everything.”

“Oh, it gets worse,” Marinette groaned. “I ran into you after the akuma attack, and you offered to give me a ride…and I told you no because I was going to get couscous.”

He stared at her openmouthed. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” she grumbled bitterly.

He tried not to laugh but ultimately failed. “I don’t remember this at all.”

“Thank God for small mercies,” she mumbled. “I hated myself for days after that.”

“You really couldn’t talk to me at all, could you?” he snickered, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes.

“Nope,” she sighed. “Mere proximity to you made my verbal eloquence plummet. It’s a wonder you didn’t think I was some insane weirdo from all the stuff I said to you.”

He shrugged, pulling her in closer and nuzzling her hair. “I thought I made you nervous because you respected my father’s work. Sure, you seemed a little quirky, but I didn’t really know how people were supposed to behave because I hadn’t been around people my age before. I saw you act normal around other people, so I knew it was a problem with me or something. The Marinette I saw interacting with other people was really cool and selfless and brave. I admired you and wanted us to be better friends.”

Marinette blew out a long breath, shaking her head. “Oh, my sweet, sweet bean. You’re too precious. Too pure for this earth…. Thank you for being you.”

“Right back at you.” He gave her an affectionate squeeze.

 The pedicab stopped and let them off at the Pont des Arts so that they could get André’s sweetheart ice cream and take a selfie with it and the love locks secured to the bridge railing and light posts.

Adrien captioned the photo, “There’s nothing better than sharing ice cream with a friend”.

Marinette giggle-snorted. “Yep. Nothing romantic going on here. Just platonic friends who happen to enjoy sharing ice cream intended for couples on the most romantic bridge in the City of Love.”

“I actually think the Pont Alexandre III is the most romantic bridge in Paris, especially at night when it’s all lit up,” Adrien remarked. “The footbridges over the Canal Saint-Martin are really quaint and romantic too.”

Marinette hummed in thought, mentally storing Adrien’s feedback for use at a later date.

“We should get a picture of us feeding ice cream to one another,” Adrien snickered, going to sit on one of the benches. “Do you think that would be laying it on a little thick?”

“No, that’s perfect,” she assured, joining him. “Here. Say ‘ah’.”

It was then that they noticed the passersby documenting the romantic moment and sharing it online for them.

“Want to go someplace more private?” he suggested.

She shook her head. “It’s okay. They’re not hurting anything, and the whole point is to be visible.”

He bit the inside of his cheek. “So long as you’re okay with the attention.”

She smiled, lightly touching his hand. “Thanks, Adrien.”

He returned the smile with a wink. “Any time, Ohime-sama.”

After they finished their ice cream, they headed to the Pont Neuf station and took the Métro, getting off at Jussieu.

They walked hand-in-hand to the Jardin des Plantes, stopping to look in shop windows and browse through the boxes of old books on the tables outside of shops.

When they got to the park, they strolled leisurely, admiring the autumn foliage and enjoying one another’s company.

“I wish our cat were here,” Marinette sighed with a wistful smile as she looked up at the changing leaves.

“Nyan-chan would like today’s date,” Adrien affirmed, giving her hand a squeeze. “He’d be happy to know you’re missing him even though you’re with someone as magnificent and funny as me.”

Marinette broke out in a laugh.

“Did I mention my charming personality?” Adrien added with an eyebrow waggle.

“Are you jealous, Beau Gosse?” she snickered, bumping his shoulder with her own.

“Why would I be?” Adrien pouted. “It’s not like the woman I love is thinking about other men when she’s with me or anything.”

Marinette shook her head, still laughing. “You can whine to your cat boyfriend about it tonight when he comes over for snuggling.”

“Oh, believe me. I will,” he snorted. “Hey. What do you think of a picture of us holding hands? Maybe just a picture of our clasped hands? Is that too heavy-handed?”

Marinette groaned. “You’re just as bad as Chat Noir with puns.”

 Their next and final stop was across the street from the Jardin des Plantes at the restaurant attached to the Grande Mosquée de Paris where they ordered vegetable couscous to share along with the restaurant’s famed mint tea and a sampler platter of their savory desserts.

“I think this is the best couscous I’ve ever had,” Marinette moaned happily, shoveling another spoonful into her mouth.

Adrien laughed into his napkin, snapping a picture of her for his own private consumption. “Nino did say that they have really legit food here. He said that his mom’s home cooking is better but that this place tastes like the food he eats when visiting family in Morocco.”

Marinette hummed appreciatively through her full mouth, and Adrien shook his head. “I’m going to post a picture of you pigging out and gush about how radiant my good friend Marinette is while enjoying a good meal.”

She glared at him, her narrowed eyes threatening bodily harm.

“I’m sorry, but you are so cute when you’re stuffing your face. Like a chipmunk,” he defended himself.

Marinette swallowed and replied. “Wow. Way to make a girl feel unsexy, Agreste.”

Adrien winced. “Sorry. I was just playing. You’re adorable, Marinette. Did I ruin everything?”

With a sigh, Marinette got up and went to sit on the bench seat beside him, fishing out her phone. “Smile, Bishi,” she teased, using Chat Noir’s nickname for Adrien, her voice husky in his ear.

Her free hand slipped down to give his knee a squeeze, and the resulting picture showed Marinette smiling puckishly at the camera while Adrien was captured in the middle of his turn to look at her with a flustered expression.

“I like the face you’re making,” she chuckled as she reviewed the photo. “You look like I just made some obscene suggestion and you’re equal parts horrified and intrigued.”

“I’m glad you’re having fun pushing my buttons.” Adrien sighed, shaking his head with a fond smile.

They took another picture, one with them both smiling innocently even though Marinette was practically sitting in Adrien’s lap. They included a few pictures of the food and made sure to rave about how good it was and what a nice time they were having together as friends.

 Adrien had barely walked in the door when Nathalie descended upon him.

“Your father isn’t pleased,” she reported blandly, the hint of a grin hovering in the corner of her mouth. “Did you have fun today? You and Miss Dupain-Cheng look very happy together.”

Adrien beamed. “I did. And we are. Thank you, Nathalie.”

A smile flickered across Nathalie’s lips, there one second and gone the next, replaced by her usual impassive expression. “Back to business. Your father isn’t pleased.”

“Where is my father anyway?” Adrien sighed, glancing at the atelier door.

“London,” she supplied. “He had to leave this morning to attend to the closing of a deal in person.”

“He didn’t even say goodbye,” Adrien grumbled, heading for his room to change for the interview with Nadja scheduled that evening.

Nathalie followed to pick out a suitable outfit.

“It was a last-minute trip,” she offered, pretending that that was a sufficient excuse, that this wasn’t just the latest installment in the trend of Gabriel floating in and out of Adrien’s life without stopping to actually be a part of it.

“Oh. I see,” Adrien replied disinterestedly, pretending that it didn’t hurt to be so insignificant.

Nathalie pursed her lips. “…What was your favourite thing that you did today?”

Adrien’s smile came back as he launched into a recap of the pedicab ride and how much it meant to him that Marinette had been planning romantic surprises for him all along.

Nathalie conveniently forgot to bring up the fact that Gabriel wanted to talk to Adrien before the interview. She later apologized profusely to Gabriel for letting it slip her mind. She told him that they’d been in too much of a rush to get Adrien to the studio and get him through hair and makeup.

All the way there, she kept Adrien talking about his eventful day, distracting him from the reality that was his relationship (or lack thereof) with his father.

  “So…Adrien,” Nadja purred toward the end of the interview. “Judging from your Instagram, you had an eventful date today.”

Adrien made his eyes go wide, pretending to be surprised at her word choice.

“Tell us all about your girlfriend, Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” she prompted, leaning forward in her seat.

Adrien blushed and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Oh, that wasn’t a date. Marinette and I were just hanging out. She’s a good friend; we’re not officially dating.”

Nadja’s perfectly waxed eyebrow inched up, and she shot him a look of clear disbelief. “I don’t mean to imply that you’re lying, Adrien, but we have some candids from your outing.”

Behind them, a slideshow of all the soft looks Adrien had directed Marinette’s way that day began to play.

“Do you look at all your friends with such a gooey, lovesick expression?” she challenged.

Adrien laughed and shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I said that Marinette and I aren’t officially a couple. I never said I wasn’t head over heels in love with her.”

Nadja’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes lit up.

Adrien could practically see her getting ready to pounce on the scoop he’d just served her.

Nadja turned to the camera. “You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen: Paris’s most eligible bachelor, Adrien Agreste, in love!” She whipped back around to Adrien. “Tell us all about her. What do you like about Marinette? What about her made you fall in love?”

He averted his gaze, smiling bashfully. “Well…I mean…we’ve been friends since I started school, and Marinette has always been…just…wonderful. Everything about her is wonderful. She’s smart, funny, selfless, thoughtful, clever, a good leader… I’ve admired her for a long time. …And, obviously, she’s gorgeous, but, if you’ve got functioning eyes, you can tell that much on your own. It’s her personality that really made me fall for her, her compassion, her enthusiasm, her kindness. I think I’ve been a little bit in love with her from the very beginning; it just took me a while to realize that the way I felt about her wasn’t just admiration and friendship.”

“Have you told her how you feel?” Nadja pressed.

Adrien nodded. “In the spring…but she was seeing someone else at the time.”

Nadja winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” Adrien chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Ouch is right.”

“But what about now?” she prompted. “The way you phrased that she was seeing someone else in the spring sort of implied that she’s free now. Why aren’t you two dating?”

Adrien frowned, his face flipping through a series of conflicted expressions, making it seem as if he were reluctant to answer. “…Well…my father doesn’t think it’s a good idea.”

Nadja’s eyes narrowed. “Your father won’t let you date the woman you love?”

Adrien waved his hands hastily, trying to correct her. “No, no! It’s not like that. My father hasn’t forbidden me from dating her or anything. It’s just…he’s concerned. Marinette has always wanted to be a fashion designer, and she’s a fan of my father’s work, so Father is afraid of what people might say about her for dating me. Marinette is extremely talented, and Father doesn’t want her talent discounted or questioned because people think she’s receiving preferential treatment or using me to advance her career. He’s concerned that overzealous fans might invade her privacy or start sending her hate mail or something crazy like that,” Adrien explained.

Nadja nodded, letting Adrien continue of his own volition, not wanting to interrupt.

“My father cares about me a lot. He’s very protective of me, so…he doesn’t think it’s a good idea for Marinette and me to date, and I can see his reasoning. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to Marinette because of me…but…at the same time…” He sighed and looked away.

“At the same time?” Nadja encouraged gently.

Adrien shook his head and shrugged. “The past few years have been really hard for my family…since my mother disappeared, I mean. My parents were soulmates, so I know Mother’s disappearance was a huge blow to Father. I know it’s been really hard raising me without her. I remind him of her, so it’s difficult for him to be around me sometimes.”

Nadja frowned, heart aching as she thought of her own child.

“I understand, of course,” Adrien stressed. “But even though I understand, it’s still hard. …And Father’s always so busy with work. His company is important to him. He’s really passionate about designing, and I’m happy that he still has something he loves that much, even though Mother is gone…but I’m alone a lot,” he sighed, looking down at his hands.

“That must be rough for you,” Nadja whispered.

Adrien nodded. “It’s easy to get discouraged when you’re lonely…” He looked up and gave her and the viewers a weak smile. “…but I have a lot of really great friends like Marinette now that I attend public schooling. Their friendship helps a lot…. I still would like to try dating, though,” he added sheepishly. “I’ve always dreamed of finding the kind of love that my parents have.”

Nadja gave a little “Aww”, smiling wide because she knew that her viewership would be eating this up.

“I think Marinette might be the one for me,” Adrien confided, and then his expression turned sad with a hint of longing. “…But I know that my father knows best and that he only wants what’s best for me. Maybe there will come a day when Marinette and I can be together, but I can’t ask her to wait for me, so…”

He gave a helpless shrug.

 They had scarcely made it home when Gabriel called to give Adrien a dressing down, faulting Adrien for coming across as childish, naïve, whiney, and ungrateful.

Adrien took the chastisement with a bowed head and muttered apologies.

He retired to his room for the night where he showered, changed, and headed out to give Alya an interview with Chat Noir.

“Adrien is the sweetest human being I have ever met,” Chat insisted into Alya’s phone camera. “He’s letting his father control his life, and that’s not okay. He’ll be an adult in six months. He should be free to make his own decisions. If he loves Marinette, he shouldn’t have to have his father’s permission to date her.”

“Ladybug said nearly the same thing,” Alya snickered.

Chat blinked dumbly for a beat or two. “She did? You talked to Ladybug about this?”

Alya nodded, still filming. “She left about fifteen minutes before you got here. I had just posted her video on my blog when you arrived. Ladybug is a staunch supporter of Adrienette.”

“…I did not know that,” Chat chuckled, cheeks heating up in pleasure and embarrassment at the thought of his first love adamantly shipping him and his girlfriend.

 By the next morning, #Let Adrienette Date was already trending, and Gabriel was getting strongly worded emails about his interfering with the course of true love.

A protest spontaneously manifested outside the Agreste Mansion.

Adrien’s fanclub mobilized to do anything and everything to ensure that their prince got his happy ending, even if they weren’t entirely certain that Marinette was worthy of him.

Marinette got her first death threat, but the threat was concerning if she ever broke Adrien’s heart and not about her dating him in the first place, so she took cold comfort in that.

Gabriel returned from London Tuesday morning to be met with the madness that was an unstoppable force hell bent on seeing his son in a relationship with the woman he loved.

Gabriel persevered.

Adrien played innocent.

Adrien was grounded.

Chat Noir and Ladybug spoke out about the unfairness of the grounding and Gabriel’s attempts to keep Adrienette apart.

The mob was incensed.

Gabriel stock plummeted.

 On Saturday night, Adrien posted a picture on his Instagram of him leisurely kissing Marinette on her living room couch. The caption read, “Look who’s un-grounded and hanging out with his GIRLFRIEND! Thank you all so much for your love and support. #Adrienette #True Love Wins”.

           hello  ,  world  .  i’m  so  stupid  &  it  took  me  too  long  to  write  this  &  it  ?  still  didn’t  turn  out  good  anyway  ,  so  that’s  just  where  i’m  at  .  i’m  cc  ,  nineteen  from  the  cst  w  she  /  her  pronouns  &  this  is  isabeau  ,  who’s  a  brand  new  muse  that  i’m  ?  already  loving  sm  &  i  can’t  to  develop  her  here  ,  i  think  she  deserves  a  little  growth  fjdslkfjdslfsj  .  but  please  like  this  &  i’ll  come  to  you  ,  or  let  me  know  if  you  prefer  d*scord  !

                                                               stats  /  pinterest

*  muse  3  seems  like  isabeau  hwang  ,  a  cis  female  from  edinburgh  who  graduated  from  oxford  with  the  class  of  2019  .  apparently  she  is  a  twenty  -  one year  old  economics  &  business  administration  student  at  st.  astor  ,  so  they  must  be  pretty  smart  ,  or  just  pretty  damn  lucky  .  i  heard  they’re  a  taurus  &  quite  hedonistic  &  gallant  ,  which  kinda  makes  sense  ,  but  i  also  hear  that  they  can  be  habituated  &  fleeting  ,  which  puts  me  off  a  bit  ,  to  be  honest  .  what  do  you  think  ? i’m  not  really  sure  how  i  feel  about  them  .  the  fact  that  they  resemble  jeon  heejin  sorta  helps  ,  though  .  three  things  that  immediately  come  to  mind  whenever  i  see  them  are  hiding  hot  tears  while  being  ankle  deep  in  ocean  water  while  clad  in  expensive  silk  ,  champagne  stained  dresses ,  &  redacted  ;  but  keep  that  last  one  between  us  ,  yeah  ?  

𝓲.     𝕒𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕕𝕘𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥   .

birth   name   :   hwang  soo  min  current   name   :   isabeau  hwang nickname(s) :   not  a  nickname  person  . age   :  twenty  -  one gender   /   pronouns :  cis  gendered   female   /   she  /  her  /  hers orientation   :  pansexual   /   panromantic hometown   :   edinburgh  ,  scotland faceclaim :  jeon   heejin muse  :  3  ,  who  is  stuck  in  an  arranged  engagement  .

fun facts  :   daughter  of  two  business  moguls  who  combined  their  talents  &  business  into  one  big  company  (  HHW  –  a  global  financing  company  )  ,  was  hauled  all  over  the  world  as  a  kid  but  still  sports  a  SCOTTISH  ACCENT  ,  annoyingly  good  at  drawing  &  art  –  but  it’s  just  a  hobby  ,  has  a  closet  full  of  designer  &  still  prefers  ratty  old  clothes  that  smell  like  home  ,  always  smells  like  a  mix  of  jasmine  &  orange  blossom  –  but  doesn’t  wear  perfume  ,  skipped  a  year  of  school  &  was  usually  a  year  younger  than  her  peers  in  her  class  ,  currently  spiraling  VERY  badly  .

aesthetic  :  hiding  hot  tears  while  being  ankle  deep  in  ocean  water  while  clad  in  expensive  silk  ,  waking  up  alone  on  cold  silk  sheets  despite  a  full  list  of  contacts  ,  floating  face  down  in  an  infinity  pool  to  see  how  long  she  can  hold  her  breath  ,  the  wind  picking  up  raven  locks  that  blow  around  her  face  as  she  regains  her  control  ,  an  ever  present  lump  in  her  throat  that  she’ll  never  get  to  rid  herself  of  ,  a  cursed  engagement  ring  she’s  already  thrown  over  a  cliff  just  for  it  to  reappear  on  her  finger  &  dimming  the  sun  with  every  step  taken  toward  a  future  she  can’t  escape  .

playlist  :  pan!c  by  audrey  mika  ,  to  die  for  by  sam  smith  ,  cautious  by  max  leone  ,  modern  loneliness  by  lauv  ,  kings  &  queens  by  ava  max  ,  wicked  game  by  grace  carter  .

𝓲𝓲.     𝕔𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕟𝕚𝕔𝕝𝕖   .

             oh ,  how  the  birds  sang  the  morning  of  her  birth  .  with  aphrodite  &  hera  as  witness  ,  soo  min  is  born  with  a  strong  cry  ,  her  mother  exhausted  after  an  extensive  labor  .  the  first  thing  her  mother  does  is  cry  –  because  she  didn’t  want  a  daughter  .  what  a  cruel  world  to  be  born  in  as  a  female  ,  what  a  barbaric  father  to  be  raised  by  as  a  daughter  .  but  ,  soo  min  is  born  &  she  is  blessed  by  the  ANGELS  ;  the  cherubs  that  linger  over  her  as  she  grows  from  baby  to  toddler  to  child  .  hair  in  pigtails  ,  soo  min  adopts  the  name  isabeau  from  a  caretaker  –  a  nanny  in  gray  who  speaks  with  an  accent  she’ll  soon  acquire  for  herself  .  her  parents  try  to  teach  her  how  to  drop  the  scottish  ,  but  it’s  her  mother  tongue  –  if  they  didn’t  want  her  speaking  that  way  ,  they  should’ve  stepped  in  &  raised  her  themselves  .  but  isabeau  knows  ,  even  at  a  young  age  ,  that  her  parents  are  busy  .  mother  is  starting  careers  ,  sending  young  stars  onto  stages  while  father  is  content  with  giving  out  loans  to  the  most  corrupt  of  companies  .  she’s  seven  ,  blowing  out  her  birthday  candles  while  her  father  makes  a  deal  to  give  money  to  the  devil  –  one  million  dollars  to  destroy  a  couple  of  lives  .  is  there  a  price  on  life  ?  yes  ,  it’s  the  first  thing  she  remembers  .

             but  not  even  the  devil  can  dim  the  starlight  that  shines  within  her  .  pure  sunlight  ,  isabeau  is  raised  with  a  quiet  glee  in  her  system  .  she  skips  down  sidewalks  clad  in  yellow  dresses  ,  her  hair  is  pulled  back  by  ribbons  while  she  holds  hands  with  her  nanny  ,  excited  about  her  life  &  everything  the  world  has  to  offer  .  the  older  she  gets  ,  the  less  she  smiles  ,  the  harder  it  becomes  to  see  the  sunshine  through  the  gray  clouds  called  in  by  her  parents  .  her  mother  works  with  father  now  ,  they  swindle  the  poor  with  promises  of  a  better  future  ,  they  invest  in  corporations  who  shoot  bullets  at  the  atmosphere  ,  they  dip  their  hands  in  blood  as  long  as  it  gives  them  a  hefty  paycheck  .  isabeau  lacks  the  same  fire  she  used  to  equip  ,  scarred  &  hurt  by  parents  who  tried  to  teach  a  rabbit  to  be  a  wolf  .  she  goes  to  sleep  with  her  nanny  stroking  her  hair  ,  crying  over  lives  ruined  by  money  ,  greed  &  corruption  .  isabeau  is  GOOD  at  heart  ,  she  wants  the  sun  to  shine  on  everyone  that  walks  the  earth  .  so  while  she  puts  on  a  mask  ,  becomes  a  predator  the  way  they  want  her  to  be  ,  isabeau  never  loses  her  soft  heart  .  

             &  they  should’ve  chosen  their  wish  carefully  .  every  wish  has  a  price  .  she  can  maneuver  her  way  around  a  conference  room  before  she’s  eighteen  ,  can  close  a  deal  with  men  who  look  down  on  her  before  twenty  -  one  .  her  words  masked  with  honey  while  her  parents  look  on  with  pride  ,  unaware  that  she’s  not  on  their  side  .  deals  she  makes  that  harm  the  company  ,  but  nobody  will  know  until  it’s  too late  .  isabeau  is  talented  ,  manipulative  for  the  good  –  not  for  the  army  of  evil  she  was  raised  in  .  then  ,  slapped  across  the  face  on  the  day  of  her  graduation  with  an  announcement  .  marriage  ,  at  twenty  -  three  when  she  finishes  her  master’s  ,  an  engagement  ring  she  doesn’t  want  to  wear  ,  betrothed  to  a  boy  of  evil  .  he’s  a  remnant  of  everyone  isabeau  knows  ,  corrupted  by  the  devil  ,  blessed  by  the  demons  &  she  is  to  join  hands  with  him  ,  join  their  families  so  they  can  continue  a  path  of  wickedness  on  earth  .  she’s  never  felt  so  hopeless  ,  quiet  &  small  while  being  fitted  for  wedding  dresses  at  twenty  ,  hiding  her  tears  while  she  throws  a  damned  ring  into  the  sea  –  only  for  it  to  be  fished  out  hours  later  .  she  runs  as  far  as  she  can  for  higher  education  ,  hiding  behind  rehearsed  smiles  &  her  wealth  .  the  closer  she  gets  to  twenty  -  three  ,  the  less  the  sun  shines  .  isabeau  becomes  less  like  herself  ,  waking  up  in  clothes  that  aren’t  her  own  ,  acting  out  of  character  ,  losing  time  .  but  ,  a  sliver  of  hope  ;  because  it  doesn’t  matter  how  far  gone  she  is  ,  isabeau  was  blessed  by  the  angels  –  hope  is  always  with  her  .

𝓲𝓲𝓲.     𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕡𝕠𝕤𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟   .

             exterior  .  almost  mirrored  to  her  parents  ,  people  know  isabeau  from  her  parents  –  the  ruthless  ,  cold  financial  company  holders  who  are  famous  for  funding  the  most  corrupt  companies  .  equipped  with  a  resting  bitch  face  (  taught  by  her  mother  ,  of  course  )  exterior  wise  isabeau  is  unapproachable  ,  unattainable  .  her  wealth  holds  her  above  ninety  -  nine  percent  of  the  population  &  people  know  that  –  from  the  way  she  talks  &  walks  ,  how  she  holds  herself  ,  how  she  behaves  at  social  gatherings  .  almost  royalty  ,  she’s  cut  herself  off  from  many  friends  –  most  leaving  anyway  when  they  find  out  who  her  parents  are  &  what  they’ve  done  .  

even  so  ,  a  girl  who  always  knows  where  the  fun  is  –  she’s  clearly  stuck  in  a  spiral  ,  falling  deeper  into  a  hole  that  she  seemingly  doesn’t  want  help  with  .  isabeau  is  friends  with  a  lot  of  people  ,  but  not  many  people  are  friends  with  her  .  stuck  in  a  path  of  self  destruction  ,  she’s  lost  the  sunlight  that  used  to  lead  her  life  .  often  found  at  night  ,  kneeling  by  the  waterside  shedding  drunken  tears  because  she’s  losing  control  of  her  life  .  isabeau  knows  she’ s  worth  so  much  more  ,  but  in  every  way  –  she’s  trapped  &  locked  in  for  a  fate  she  doesn’t  want  .

             interior  .  she’s  sharp  &  witty  ,  remnants  of  the  brightness  still  remain  when  focused  .  she  excels  at  classwork  ,  top  of  her  class  while  she  sits  front  row  with  glasses  on  ,  answering  questions  &  befriending  professors  .  it’s  evident  that  there’s  so  much  more  to  isabeau  than  just  the  daughter  of  two  bringers  of  evil  ,  but  heartbreak  &  lost  friendships  hold  her  back  from  making  new  friends  easily  .  a  girl  who  longs  for  GOOD  ,  there’s  no  other  way  to  explain  that  isabeau  is  good  at  heart  .

she  will  always  fight  for  the  light  ,  stand  up  for  the  underdogs  in  the  most  elegant  ways  .  her  mind  is  always  running  ,  schemes  playing  out  in  her  head  when  it  looks  like  she’s  spacing  out  .  she  is  manipulative  &  always  calculated  ,  does  nothing  without  a  motive  ,  without  a  deeper  meaning  behind  it  –  but  there’s  no  malice  behind  her  intentions  .  isabeau  does  bad  for  good  ,  fights  for  the  just  cause  by  fighting  the  way  she  was  taught  .  not  to  be  trifled  with  ,  but  not  to  be  worried  about  lest  you’re  as  evil  as  the  devils  she  was  raised  with  .

𝓲𝓿.     𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕟𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤   .

these  are  all  most  wanted  !  

             betrothed  (  m  /  nb  )  ,  which is  a  long  shot  ,  i  know  –  but  please  give  me  the  dude  who  isabeau  is  engaged  to  .  he  doesn’t  have  to  be  as  evil  as  described  ,  but  his  parents  aren’t  good  people  either  &  he  doesn’t  exactly  give  off  the  image  of  a  pristine  person  (  not  ,  that  isabeau  does  either  –  but  ...  you  know  )  .  give  me  the  drama  &  the  angst  of  “maybe  i  do  care  ,  but  i  shouldn’t”  while  she  spirals  &  the  “you  think  i  wanted  this  ,  isabeau  ?”  &  all  the  fuckin  PAIN  !

            rich  kid  trio  (  any  ,  2  )  ,  people  as  wealthy  as  isabeau  that  she  knows  of  due  to  family  dinners  ,  event  galas  &  being  products  of  the  dirty  ,  rotten  rich  .  sure  ,  they’re  really  only  acquaintances  ,  but  nobody  protects  their  own  like  the  one  percent  ,  so  these  three  have  joined  forces  &  have  had  each  other’s  backs  since  arrival  at  st  .  astor  .

            everything  else  ,  a  roommate  (  probably  in  some  high  end  house  they’re  renting  together  )  ,  a  business  partner  ,  a  study  buddy  /  someone  she  tutors  ,  party  buddies  ,  someone  who  pushes  her  further  into  her  spiral  ,  anyone  else  with  a  funky  accent  that  she  likes  to  hang  out  with  &  their  accents  get  stronger  together  ,  anything  with  angst  please  !

𝓿.     𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟   .

i’d  love  to  get  all  these  plots  filled  up  ,  or  any  ones  that  you  might  have  bc  i’ve  got  sm  fuckin’  muse  for  isabeau  &  this  !  but  if  you’ve  read  this  whole  thing  jesus  ,  you’re  amazing  &  i  love  u  sm  .  please  like  this  &  i’ll  come  to  u  or  lmk  if  u  prefer  disc  &  we  can  go  there  !

What Happens in Xing

I recently hit 100 followers which was super exciting for me! I really appreciate everyone who follows me and/or takes the time to like, reblog, or comment on my writing. It’s a huge motivator and seriously boosts my writerly self-esteem, such as it is.

Anyway this work takes place in my Price of Life/Portrait of a Family AU and so while that context will add to the fic (particularly the last time) it can also be read on its own. 

Read on A03

The royal palace in Xing’s capital city was nothing like Riza had ever seen. It was massive - at least the size of a city block, she thought upon first seeing it, but after walking the perimeter one humid afternoon she figured it would be big enough for the entirety of the small eastern town she grew up in to fit comfortably within its walls. Sections of the palace were clearly older, and at least one wing was walled off altogether, in need of repairs. When she’d asked their guide one day he told her that the palace had stood for at least a thousand years, although maybe not in its current form.

It didn’t escape her notice that she and General Mustang were given rooms several floors higher than the bulk of the Amestrian party; one floor higher even than Major General Kent, who was the other officer overseeing the diplomatic treatises and trade agreements they’d come here to discuss. Ling never came out and said as much, but she was certain that their rooms were some of the nicer ones in the gigantic palace: her room boasted a bed that could have fit three of her, a huge claw-footed tub, and a floor-to-ceiling window that gave her an impressive view of the city. She’d made a point, several times, to get up early and watch the sun rise over the sloping buildings so different from those at home.  

To her immense surprise the official business had been wrapped up around four days into the weeklong trip, at which point General Kent and his men promptly packed up and took the next train out.

“I suppose we’ll be leaving tomorrow as well?” Riza asked General Mustang as they stood on one of the massive balconies that overlooked the city. Nights brought some relief from the wet heat of the day; a gentle breeze blew over the wide river and across the city, making the heavy woolen uniform seem less oppressive.

“Of course not, Captain,” he said mildly. “Our train doesn’t leave for days; it’s far too late to change it now. You might actually have to take some time for yourself and relax a little. I hope that won’t prove too much of an inconvenience.”

Riza didn’t think she’d had a moment to herself to sit and read a book for close to a year and a half now what with the business with the Homunculi, Ishval, and now the Xing excursion.

“Not at all, Sir,” she said crisply, but she was smiling as she met his gaze.

The next few days they drifted around as civilians, generally together as holiday or not she was still his bodyguard, but the amount of Xingese bodyguards lent to them by the Emperor meant that Riza felt comfortable occasionally acting as ships in the night. After all, the museum of alkahestry didn’t particularly appeal to her and the General was none too interested in seeing the wing devoted to the development of gunpowder. At one point Riza looked up from her book across the  sunroom - a space with a glass roof to let light in, and a large fountain bubbling away in the middle that had quickly become one of her favorite haunts - to see Mustang in his shirtsleeves, heavily engrossed in something he’d borrowed from the Imperial library, a cup of tea in his hand. Occupying the same space as him and seeing him rested, at ease, living again was a gift she didn’t deserve but would value anyway. As though he felt her staring he’d looked up and offered a small smile. She blushed and ducked her head to go back to reading her book.

It was the morning of their last full day in the country: tomorrow they would be on the noon train heading back to Amestris. They were originally scheduled to go back yesterday- in fact the bulk of their accompanying military personnel had left - but she and the General, with a handful of soldiers, had stayed. She was standing straight-backed at Mustang’s right shoulder, thinking that if she’d been any worse a soldier she would have snuck a peek at her pocket watch already, when the reason for their delay finally entered the imperial throne room.

It was still strange seeing Alphonse Elric as a human and not as a suit of armor, but it was refreshing to see him looking robust and healthy, not like the frail wisp of a thing he’d been when they put him on the train, barely strong enough to walk on his own after The Promised Day. He and May Chang, now a young woman, made their way up the long carpeted entryway and bowed to the young emperor. Ling rose from his seat, inclined his head, and the ceremony seemed to be over.

“They certainly like processions,” the General murmured, soft enough that only she would be able to hear, while Ling and May said their informal hellos, which seemed to involve quite a lot of teasing, she noted with a smile. There was going to be a parade in a few hours, ostensibly as a homecoming for May, who had been traveling for the better part of a year, but realistically as an excuse for Ling to throw another lavish feast.

“I don’t see the harm,” she whispered back.

“Six feasts since we’ve been here, and this is the third parade,” he muttered. “It’s a little much.”

“Colonel - Oh sorry, it’s General now right? Brother mentioned in one of his letters,” Al said as he approached, offering a hand shyly but not looking at all upset when the older man pulled him into a hug instead. Not something he would have tried in-uniform but technically they were using vacation days for this last leg of the trip. With the exception of the parade later on they were dressing and acting like civilians.

“Hi Captain Hawkeye,” May said a little shyly, and Riza turned to smile at the younger woman.

“Hello May. You’ve gotten so tall,” she said. It was true; though still on the shorter side, May had grown half a foot since Riza had seen her last.

“And pretty,” Mustang added, ever the charmer. Al came over to wrap Riza in a hug and she was struck again by how much things had changed. He was taller than her, broad-shouldered and with a striking similarity to his brother, although even nearing twenty Alphonse’s face remained cherubic. She’d changed too, of course: there were lines by her eyes that hadn’t been there five years ago, and she’d cut her hair off and grown it out again, so that it now sat a little below her shoulders. Recently the heat had her thinking about cutting it as short as she’d had it when they first moved to East City all those years ago. The General was pulling something out of his pocket; a book wrapped in ribbon, and handing it to May. “I brought you something,” he said.

“Oh that wasn’t necessar- OH, General Mustang! Where did you get this?”

“You can call me Roy, and there’s certainly more where that came from, my connection is very reliable.”

“He’s talking like he got that book off the black market,” Riza said to Al, who just grinned.

“He might have; it was banned thirty years ago for the author’s, ah, unconventional ideas.” He wilted immediately under the look she gave him and put his hands up. “Nothing all that bad, promise, he was just before his time where some aspects of medical alchemy were concerned. His ideas are really interesting, if you-” Riza held a hand up.

“I’m afraid anything else is going to go over my head,” she admitted, still eyeing the book. The cover was roughened leather that still bore traces of gold leaf, and everything about this, from May’s reaction to Al’s explanation spoke to the book being very hard to get ahold of and also very expensive.

“How did you know?” May was squealing, arms clamped tightly around the General’s waist, her precious new book in her hands. Alphone grinned broadly as he pried her off of Mustang, standing with an arm casually slung over her shoulders as she turned the book over in her hands.

“I have my sources,” the alchemist revealed, with a wink at Al. “I do try to stay in touch, even though your brother and I have this game where he hangs up on me the first time and I have to wait for Winry to answer the phone and make him take the call.”

“But this must have been so… I mean, thank you very much,” May said. Riza knew enough about nonverbal communication to know that something in the look Al gave her told her to drop the subject. Her own sharp look at the General was met with careful avoidance. There was of course nothing wrong with bringing a gift to an eager young scholar, she reasoned, and let the matter go.

-x-

This was the third parade, but Riza was no less unsettled than she’d been at the first. Parades were liabilities, plain and simple; you might as well paint a target on the back of every person of interest who set foot within a hundred yards of the garish floats and ostentatious musical pavilions. She would have far preferred being a spectator; they milled around eating thornapples and skewered meats and waving miniature pinwheels. She realized suddenly that she hadn’t really been to an event in years that didn’t involve her acting as bodyguard.  

“Stop dancing around me, Hawkeye,” the General muttered after the fourth time she switched from his right side to his left.

“We aren’t properly staffed, Sir,” she replied. “I want to be sure I’m able to spot any possible threats.” He waved a hand dismissively.

“We’re in the center of a platoon of soldiers.”

“And the only ones in Amestrian uniforms in this section of the procession,” she pointed out. “We’re sitting ducks.” Mustang ignored this, tugging at his collar.

“I wish we’d get a move on, it’s sweltering .”

She had to admit it was; wool uniforms and humid summer air didn’t mix particularly well. They’d been in Ishval earlier this year overseeing reconstruction plans but it had been spring and they only had to contend with the dry heat that was more typical of the desert. Here there was no escaping the damp summer air. At long last the parade started moving, snaking its way through the city. They would loop around the outskirts of town and then end up back at the palace. The whole thing would last over an hour.

They were situated at the front of the same float they’d adorned for the previous two parades; a burnished gold monstrosity that Riza supposed was supposed to be a fish. Only this time instead of their military escort they were standing with a handful of Ling’s soldiers, with May seated on an ornately decorated chair reminiscent of a throne that was situated on the dais and Al just below. May had looked slightly uncomfortable at first, but soon adjusted, smiling and waving to the crowd as they trundled along.

With less people there was more surface area and therefore more blinding gold to contend with. Riza resisted the urge to shield her face with her hand as the sun danced across the multifaceted surface. The General looked to be concentrating deeply on something, but as she followed his gaze she didn’t see anything amiss.

“Cenz for your thoughts, Sir?” she asked and he seemed surprised.

“I’m thinking that the second we get back to the palace I’m getting a pitcher of iced wine and sitting next to one of those massive indoor fountains,” he said, and flashed her a grin. “You’re welcome to join me of course.”

She opened her mouth to say that actually they had some reports they could stand to go over and should probably pack as well when there was a sudden flash of movement overhead, and something hot and bright burst inside their float. Instinctively Riza flung her body sideways, into the General, forcing him to the floor and shielding his body with her own. For a few harsh moments she was far away, both in time and place, in a different desert, with a different threat, following the same man. Her breath caught in her throat as she willed herself back to the present, to Xing and the Parade. A few moments of relative silence passed, and she hesitantly looked up to see Alphonse and May also climbing to their feet, May’s ornate chair merrily burning under the ruins of a massive Xingese firework. There was a snort beneath her and she looked down to find that she was nose to nose with Mustang.

“A rogue firework,” he said, regarding the object. She couldn’t tell what exactly he did but a second later the flame was snuffed out, starved of oxygen.

She got to a sitting position, looking around at the crowd, but everyone seemed to be carrying on as usual, the spectacle over. With the sheer amount of explosives Xing boasted this can’t have been the first untimely detonation they’d ever seen. May was standing at the front of the float waving as though nothing had happened, Al at her side.

“You can probably let me up now,” he remarked dryly and Riza looked down to find she was still straddling his midsection. She got to her feet and offered a hand to help him up and he smoothed his uniform down. Was it the heat of the uniforms, or were his cheeks tinged pink? Hers felt hot too and she looked away towards the crowd. How many times had she pushed him aside, or covered his body with her own in times of danger, and yet she had never been as thrown off-kilter by the feeling of their bodies pressed against each other. Even through two sets of uniforms it was a sensation that made her breath catch somewhere behind her sternum.

Stoically she moved a half-step behind him, and the parade went on.  

-x-

After a very long and very convoluted feast, they walked back to their rooms in a comfortable silence.

“You know Captain, I’ve got a bottle of nice Xingese wine and a balcony, if you’d like to watch the fireworks,” he offered. She considered a moment; as the senior officer, his room was nicer. Hers was next door and had a nice large window, but no balcony to speak of.

“All right,” she said, surprising him as well as herself. “Let me change out of my uniform and I’ll be right over.”

She stopped in her room long enough to change into a soft knee-length skirt and hesitated before putting on a lightweight sleeveless shirt she would normally only wear to sleep in, because the top of her tattoo could be seen peeking out of the top. Her hair covered it, however, and the night was warm enough that she’d be glad to wear less fabric. She padded to the connecting door and knocked lightly.

He’d also changed, into a button down and slacks, and handed her a glass of deep purple-red wine as she walked in, which she sniffed at before sipping; they were fond of fortified wine here and so the vintage was peppery with a hint of berries and nutmeg that burned pleasantly on the way down.

“I think they’re about to start-” Mustang was saying, but was interrupted by a loud pop , and a bright display of color and crackling out over the city. Mesmerized, Riza drifted through the room and out the open glass doors to what was admittedly a very nice patio. It was large, with a iron-wrought table and chairs near the doors, a few potted plants, and an actual sofa towards the other end. Bypassing the furniture entirely, she walked to the rail and settled her elbows on it to wait for the next eruption.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she breathed, as Roy came to stand next to her, elbow barely brushing hers.

“I have,” he replied. “Not for years - they used to set off fireworks in Central every year on New Year’s Eve. But they stopped around the time I went to learn under your father.”

“No wonder you weren’t impressed by the sparklers we got from the village,” she mused, lips quirking upward in a smile. He had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I really was quite the insufferable city boy, huh?”

Two more glasses of the heady Xingese wine and they sat on the couch, her leaning up against the pillows with her legs bent over his lap, him sitting upright, absently tracing a finger around the bruising on her knee that had appeared after the scuffle at the parade.

“That was close, earlier,” he said finally, and she looked up.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been attacked by a firework before,” she said dryly. “They’re very loud up close.” A warm feeling had settled somewhere in her stomach, courtesy of the wine, the fireworks, and the General’s proximity. The General’s proximity which was… entirely too near, now she stopped to think about it. She made to swing her legs off the couch so they wouldn’t be so entwined, but the weight of his arm across the bend in her legs stopped her.

“Don’t, please. Just… don’t. Let’s enjoy this.”

Normally she would protest out of some sense of country and duty but the wine and the warm summer air had affected her in equal measure, so she sat back against the pillows without another word. His hand that was tracing her bruises drifted up her thighs to trace the end of her skirt, however, and she cleared her throat.

“That was nice of you, to get that book for May. What made you think of it?” she asked, believing that to be an innocent, diffusing question. Diffusing of what, she didn’t quite know, she just had a vague sense of something needing to be doused. He chuckled, and the warm burning in her belly intensified.  

“You’ll think I’m being sentimental but I kind of feel like I owe her one.” At her puzzled look he shrugged. “On The Promised Day, if she hadn’t jumped in to heal you when she did… she saved your life.”

“So shouldn’t I be the one giving her presents?” Riza asked, amused. His eyes were oddly intense, and her smile quickly vanished.

“I almost lost you,” he said seriously, and he reached out, seemingly without meaning to, and caught a strand of her hair between his fingers, and it occurred to her how close they were sitting. “So no, it’s me who owes May Chang a debt I can never really repay.” a firework went up, and popped into the inky black night, illuminating them and for a moment time stood still.

“I’ve always been ready to die in pursuit of our goals,” she breathed, not knowing what else to say, unable to tear her eyes away from his.

“And if that’s what it takes to reach the top, I don’t want it,” he told her firmly. His hand was now resting gently on her chin, and she was surprised to find her own fingering his collar. She wasn’t sure if he was leaning in or if she was, but their noses lightly bumped together and he froze. “Tell me not to,” he said softly, like a prayer.

This was an order she couldn’t obey. She closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to his, just as another firework crackled overhead.  This was dangerous, she thought as she slid down on the cushion, using her hands on his collar to pull him down with her, something he was all too eager to comply with, sliding a hand behind her knee to hitch it over his hip. His body was a comforting weight on hers, and made this moment seem weighty and real, a culmination of what she had come to accept as pointless longing for something that needed to remain forever out of reach.

She ran her hand up through the back of his hair, tugging lightly as she kissed him hungrily. He ground his hips against hers and she gasped at the contact, hand resting lightly on the side of his face as he pulled gently away. For a moment they just looked at each other, and she found she was able to read the question in his eyes as easily as ever. Her lip quirked and at her silent response, he bent to trail kisses down her throat.  

She wasn’t sure how they’d managed to make their way back into the room, stumbling into door frames, shucking off clothes as they went. How strange that she’d known him for so many years, through so many triumphs and failures, but yet there was apparently still so much to learn. There was a particular sound he made when she grazed his neck with her teeth that was new, and so enticing she half-laughed as she brought her lips once more to his. Her naked back hit the cool silk of the sheets on his bed and she sighed as he kissed his way down her body.

The light from the fireworks lit the room through the open patio doors, but they hardly noticed, engrossed in each other with the heady desperation of people who were seizing an opportunity that may never come again.

-x-

Riza’s first thought upon waking was that she’d had too many glasses of strong Xingese wine. Her second was that there was an arm securely wrapped around her waist. Her third was that she was completely naked. She made to sit upright but the arm was utterly unyielding, so she settled for covering her face with her hands.

“Oh no,” she said out loud, and the body behind her snorted slightly, shifting under the thin topsheet that covered them.

“Wh- Hawkeye?” for there could be no mistaking her for anyone else he might have taken to his bed; he was face to face with her scarred back. She winced, thinking about the rude awakening that must be.

“Good morning, Sir,” she said tightly. The most embarrassing thing was that they hadn’t had all that much wine. Yes they’d been tipsy and she now felt like she needed to drink a whole pitcher of water, but she remembered everything. Oh how she remembered. She felt heat rush to her face as she rolled over, his arm still around her waist, to look at him.

“Good morning,” he said, eyes meeting hers and then drifting lower. She cleared her throat, studiously avoiding looking anywhere but his face.

“So this was a colossal fuck-up,” she said. “Sir.” He sat up on one elbow, leaning over her as he swept her bangs out of her eyes and leaned in to brush his lips to her neck.

“Mmph,” he said, and she took that as assent. The arm that had been situated across her hips withdrew, and his fingers ghosted over her hips, around to her stomach, and dipped lower, brushing between her thighs. She caught his wrist delicately and pulled his hand upward.

“We can’t,”

“We most certainly can,” he told her, kissing her hotly below her ear, “and have.” She sighed. Well the damage was done, it seemed early enough, and the way he was nibbling her earlobe was causing a familiar warmth to pool behind her navel. Using her legs and the element of surprise she rolled him over onto his back. He ran his hands up her thighs to her hips, grinning up at her wolfishly.

“Once more couldn’t hurt, I suppose,” she acquiesced, and bent to hiss him.

After, as she lay in his arms, both of them covered in a fine sheen of sweat, the panic really began to set in. He cleared his throat, apparently, and as usual, thinking along the same lines she was.

“What now?” he asked, seeming to echo her thoughts. “Do - should we figure out how to continue this when we’re back in Central?” She sat up on one elbow and regarded him seriously, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Do you want to?” she asked. He turned pink and avoided her eyes.

“More than anything in the world, but -”

“Not more than anything,” she finished for him. “I’m glad we agree. We’ve come too far; we’ve lived through too much to risk it.”

“Riza,” he said, and her name on his lips was both foreign and so familiar it made her chest ache and for a moment she couldn’t meet his eyes. “You have to know that I-”  she leaned down and kissed him soundly, her hair falling in a curtain as though to hide this brief moment of weakness on both of their parts from the world.

“Please don’t say it,” she said softly. “It’s going to make it so much harder to forget this.”

“But you know,” he breathed, and she nodded, blinking hard.

“I do. And… me too.”

-x-

Six weeks later Riza stood up from the bathroom floor, wiping her mouth, feeling as though a cold bucket of water had been upended onto her as she thought hard, counting weeks and sinking further and further into a certainty tinged with wild panic. This wasn’t the first time she’d been sick lately, and she had a suspicion it wouldn’t be the last.

She washed her hands robotically, thinking hard.

They had been so concerned with bureaucracy following their… indiscretion, that she hadn’t even stopped to consider biology. That there could be ramifications beyond losing their jobs. Since returning to Amestris they’d been particularly careful not to spend time alone, and a touch formal, and sometimes he looked at her in a way that made her face heat up, but everything had gone back to more-or-less normal. She had thought - they had both thought - that they’d gotten away with it, and they could put it behind them with nothing but a pleasant memory to remember it by.

She pressed a hand to her still-flat lower stomach. What would people say?

Well of course they’d say the obvious. She hadn’t caught wind of rumors regarding her and her commanding officer in years, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t there, simmering gently despite no evidence. They had been very careful never to act improperly towards each other. She would have to come up with a plausible story, and furthermore she would need to make sure that the General reacted in a way that spoke of his innocence in the matter.

Riza eyed herself in the mirror; a hard-eyed soldier stared back at her. As much as it made her feel like a hand was clenching around her heart, this child wouldn’t be able to know its father. Riza would do this alone because she had no other choice. She needed to protect him. She needed to protect them both.

-x-

“Hawkeye you have to talk to me.”

It was four days after her in-office revelation, something she had done specifically not to arouse any suspicion, and yet here he was, on her doorstep in the middle of the night, and she had a strong hunch that he’d been at his aunt’s newly reestablished bar. Riza wasn’t sure what she had expected but he hadn’t been taking the news well, she could see it in the lines beneath his eyes in the office today, in the flat quality to his voice when he spoke to her. She opened the door further and waved him inside to avoid making a scene where people might see.

“You’ve been avoiding being alone with me for days, please,” he said, standing in the middle of her living room and looking utterly lost, dark eyes wide and hair mussed.

“I haven’t…” she trailed off - denial was no good, not with him. “I haven’t known what to say to you. It’s a setback, to be certain.”

“A setback , try a disaster! I can’t BELIEVE we didn’t- That I didn’t - ”

“There’s no use blaming yourself. We can’t exactly take it back now” she said quietly, and brushed past him to put the kettle on. When she turned back around he’d sunk down onto her couch and was running a hand through his hair.

“What do we do now? Do we run away to Xing? We could, you know,” he said, looking up but not at anything in particular. “Ling would find a place for us, you could be his bodyguard and I could be Royal Alchemist or Official Firework-Starter, or-”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We stay, and we work, and I… I’m going to raise the child of a random Xingese courtier who shall remain nameless.” A knot had settled somewhere deep in her chest and she doubted it would come undone anytime soon. “And if the rumors get to be too much and they threaten your career, I’ll disappear.”

“With my child? Like hell you will,” he said, voice rough. This gave her pause. The clock on her mantle had never sounded so impossibly loud in the stillness of her apartment Slowly, she walked to the couch and reached out, not quite touching, fingertips grazing the fabric at his shoulder.

“You realize it can never be your child,” she told him softly. He put his head in his hands.

“I’m aware.”

She sat next to him and hesitated, before wrapping her arms firmly around his shoulders. He leaned into her, and she let her head fall to gently rest against his. For a while all they did was breathe together, in and out, soothing each other by sheer virtue of being present. A heaviness settled over them and Riza doubted they would have another moment together like this again. She turned her face into his shoulder; she would not cry, not now, not in front of him. There would be time for that weakness later.  

“This is going to be a nightmare,” he said after a moment.

“We can make the most of it.”

“Can I just ask you for one thing?” he looked up at her. “It might be a bad idea under the circumstances but the baby… if it’s a boy, can we name him after Hughes?” This was a bad idea, she thought. It would be the obvious choice for a child of Roy’s. But she had known and loved the man as well, and it couldn’t be seen as that unusual that she would choose to honor a fallen comrade when naming her firstborn. She nodded, running a hand down his arm and lacing her fingers through his.  

“I think we can do that.”

It was a girl, but they named her after Maes anyway.  

Chris Evans Fic: His Girls Episode 2 (Young and in Love Part 5)

Just be warned that the following deals with issues of postpartum depression.

All parts to this series:

Young & in Love

Part 1: Beard & Glasses & Pushed Back Hair

Part 2: At Some Point

Part 3: The Dogs Aren’t Allowed Upstairs

Part 4: His Girls Episode 1

Part 5: His Girls Episode 2

***

After settling Annie in her crib, Chris had checked on you and had found you starfish style on the bed, still wearing your dress with your heels on and your make up, but completely passed out on your back on top of the comforter. He had hoped that would be the case. His mind had been overflowing with questions when you stumbled into the family room but he also knew that it wasn’t the time to be starting something that was potentially going to lead to an argument. He’d wanted to gauge your reaction to him, and to Annie, and he’d been left feeling more than a little confused.

Approaching you, his socked footsteps muted by the thick carpet, he noticed how in sleep he felt like you were more the woman he knew. More vulnerable maybe, and with the mask gone, your brow was furrowed. Clearly, even the alcohol wasn’t dulling whatever was bothering you now that you were out cold.

‘What’s going on with you, baby girl?’ He whispered to himself defeatedly, feeling more than a little hopeless and powerless now that he had seen your strange demeanour with his own eyes. Chris realised that he’d half-hoped his mom had got it all wrong, but he too had felt like he was stood in a room with a stranger.

Nevertheless, he set about making you as comfortable as he could without disturbing you from sleep, starting with your feet. He undid the thin ankle straps of your shoes and slipped them off, massaging your soles slightly to stretch out your toes and stop the muscles from cramping after being at such a high gradient all evening before standing them up in a pair in the empty space on your side of the closet. Next was your jewellery, carefully and methodically he removed your bracelets, necklace and earrings, all of them pieces that he’d given you over the years either bought for special occasions or just because. Like the shoes, Chris returned the jewellery back to its place of belonging, finding some strange comfort in being able to do this, knowing that not everything in his life or his home was now a mystery to him.

Having decided that your dress could stay where it was as its loose swing design and thin material weren’t going to cause you too many problems, he retrieved the thickest, softest blanket he could find from the trunk at the end of the bed. Pulling it over you from your feet, he covered you up, only stilling his movements when you shifted towards him, rolling on to your side and pulling your knees up, curling inwardly on yourself. Confident that you were still fast asleep, he tucked the blanket around your form and slowly sank down to perch on the mattress next to you, in the cove you had created with your legs, running his fingers lightly over your forehead and stroking your hair out across the pillow.

There had always been so much love between you. He adored you, and you him, of that he had always been sure. He remembered how nervous you had been to tell him that you were pregnant and couldn’t help but wonder now if those nerves were less to do with telling him and more about having a baby in general. But if that was the case, you’d never let on during your pregnancy. Chris sat, wracking his memories of the last nine months, trying to find something that he might have simply overlooked at the time but that would easily explain all of this strangeness away. He came up empty.

Leaning forward slowly, he pressed a gentle kiss against your cheek and whispered against your skin, ‘Hi sweetheart - you’re right, I have missed you. I always have done and I always will, because I love you, you know I do, more than I can put into words. But this time I’ve come home and I still miss you, because I’ve not actually seen you yet. I don’t know what’s happened in the two weeks I’ve been gone, so you’re going to have to help me out a little here, okay?’

After sitting in silence for a few more moments, replaying the heartbreaking moment he watched the mother of his child not even acknowledge her own daughter and wondering how he was going to fix this, he rose wearily and padded to the bathroom for some painkillers and a glass of water before leaving them on the nightstand next to you, figuring you would need them in the morning.

Ensuring he had the monitor, he descended the stairs and moved through the house, checking the doors and windows were locked before letting Dodger out of the utility, who was excited to finally be reunited with his human.

‘Sorry bud, had some things I needed to take care of. You’ve been so patient, good boy.’

Chris ruffled his dog’s fur and rubbed his belly before indicating for him to follow him upstairs. In the nursery, Chris settled in the armchair again, Dodger curled up at his feet, calmed by the quiet breathing of his daughter. Glancing at his watch, it was still only half one in the morning, meaning it was half four in Boston and his mother would definitely be asleep. He’d call her in the morning and let her know he was back in LA to sort everything out. And he would. He had to, or he’d be failing as a father and as a partner.

***

For the second time, Chris awoke to cries. His eyes shot open to find Dodger startled from sleep and staring at the crib, his posture defensive, shortly followed by the door flying open and Helen scurrying into the room. Seeing Chris half out of his chair, she stopped and immediately apologised.

‘Sorry, Mr Evans, I didn’t realise… do you want me to take her?’ she gestured towards the crib with her head. She was dressed for the day so must have been up and about for a short while at least.

'Don’t worry Helen, I must have fallen asleep here last night. Please, call me Chris. I’ll see to Annie this morning, it’s nice to spend some time with her. Has it just been you around this morning?’

Helen nodded and made to back out of the room the way she came, 'I’ll go and make a start on prepping the milk.’

'Thanks Helen.’

Despite his reservations when his mom had told him about the hiring of a nanny, on first impressions he thought that Helen seemed a good choice. She was probably in her late fifties, seemed polite and efficient and like she knew what she was doing. He wondered idly if she had family of her own; she did have a sort of maternal air about her. She kind of reminded him of your mom, and maybe that’s why you had employed her. He also reminded himself to check that you’d had her sign an NDA, especially with everything that was going on at the moment. The last thing any of you needed was this all leaking to the press via an 'undisclosed source’. But, he mused wryly, it seemed unlikely that undisclosed sources were needed when you were out every night anyway. Please, please let you have been going to discrete places. The tabloids and magazines would not be friendly to a celebrity mom of a six week old being spotted out drinking and clubbing every night. Maybe it was time to get PR involved and do some preemptive damage limitation - as much as could be done anyway.

'Let’s get you fed and ready for the day, Miss Evans. It’s going to be a busy one.’

***

Chris had tried, over the preparations for Annie’s breakfast, to pump Helen for information, but there seemed to be a lot she wasn’t saying. That was a good sign of her ability to be discrete at least.

'She’s… done what she can. She has been very busy, with her work and the events she has to attend for networking, so she’s not had a lot of time really.’

'I believe you met my mother a few days ago?’

'Yes, Lisa - I hope you don’t mind, she told me to call her that - stayed for four days. She really dotes on little Annie, doesn’t she?’

Chris smiled at that, 'Yeah, that’s my mom. All these grandchildren but each one is just as special as the first for her. How were things while my mom was around?’

'Easier… I think. But I could tell that Lisa found it all a bit strange. She tried to get information out of me too,’ a knowing grin brightened Helen’s features, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea, 'You’re very similar. Now, you should know I’m not in the habit of gossiping or talking behind someone’s back, especially when the topic of conversation is a new mother, but do understand that however you think she should be behaving at the moment, she is trying her very best. That 'best’ might only be acknowledging her baby and holding her a couple of times a day, but if she’s struggling already, then those couple of times will be the hardest thing she does in every twenty four hour period.’

Chris looked down at the cherubic bundle in his arms and couldn’t imagine having to force himself to hold her. He was at loss to imagine how this had happened - he’d had four weeks with both his girls before he’d had to leave and you’d seemed such a natural. The birth had been a little traumatic and drawn out but you’d both come through, safe and sound and had settled, seemingly, into a good routine. How things could have changed so dramatically in such a short space of time, Chris had no idea.

'Do you think there’s something wrong with her?’ Chris asked, somewhat reluctant to hear the answer.

Helen was silent for a moment, possible responses flashing across her face, thinking about how to respond to one of her employers who she had only met for the first time last night, and who was clearly frightened by what he had come home to. Except for the fact he was cradling his daughter, Helen thought he looked just like a scared little boy, not knowing how to proceed or what to do for the best, just trying to keep it together.

'I think… she’s a little overwhelmed and unsure about the mother version of herself. It’s really hard, a few weeks in, when the visitors have stopped, daddy goes back to work and the shock and adrenaline is wearing off, and you realise there’s no going back now, that you’re in charge of this tiny little life. I think she’s going to need you to be as patient and as understanding as you can be, even though you must be confused and frustrated.’

Chris inclined his head in acknowledgement.

'I thought everything was perfect. We’re a family, everything we’ve ever wanted, how can it not be perfect? I’d never felt happier, until I heard from my mom.’

'Perfection is hard thing to live up to, in my experience. Striving for perfection in all things can often do more harm than good. No parent is perfect, Chris.’

'You think she feels like I’ve put her under too much pressure?’

'I don’t know her, or you, well enough to say, but I’d be willing to bet everything I have that she’s putting herself under too pressure, with or without your contribution, as most new moms do. Everyone thinks you’re supposed to be the most happy, glowing, joy-filled person on earth when in reality, you’re running on two hours of sleep, can’t take a shower, can’t clean your house, are scared to go outside, and are basically used as a milk machine. And you’re supposed to instantly feel this incredible bond with the one reason for all of this. It’s a lot to take in.’

'But… look at this baby. She’s so beautiful and innocent. I look at her and feel nothing but love and affection. I just want to hold her all the time. I’d die for her, I’m pretty sure.’

Helen let out a short laugh at that, 'I know, but you men get it fairly easy. Your bodies don’t change beyond all recognition, your hormones don’t turn you into an emotional wreck, you didn’t have to push that little cutie out of you, and I can guarantee she didn’t feel so little when your girlfriend was squeezing her out. You get all the good stuff, and you get to go back to your normal life after a few weeks, while hers has changed forever.’

'I can’t agree with the last part. The rest I get, but my life has changed too. It won’t ever be the same. I might have gone back to my version of normal in terms of the work I was doing, but all I’m thinking about now while I’m there are my girls at home, wishing I was with them, hoping they’re okay, wondering what they’re doing without me.’

If Helen disagreed with that, she didn’t voice it, 'And you seem to have adjusted to that change very quickly and very well. It’s taking that new mother upstairs a little longer, that’s all.’

'Have you got children, Helen, if you don’t mind me asking?’

'Oh, mine are all grown up now. One lives out in New York, career girl, top of her field, and my son lives here in California with his wife and their five year old. A little boy, Jake,’ Helen spoke about them all with pride, quickly showing Chris a few snaps on her cell. They seemed like a stable, happy family and Chris hoped against hope that that was what his future looked like.

***

At around eleven am, Chris asked Helen to take Annie around the block in her stroller. He’d decided he was going to bite back his confusion and irritation and go as gently as possible with you. Clearly, you had not been adjusting to motherhood as well as you had appeared two weeks ago and Chris didn’t want to give you cause to shrink further into yourself or, worse, run.

So he crept into the bedroom, the space shrouded in darkness from the heavy curtains. You must have been dozing, rather than in a deep sleep, because your eyes flickered open as he entered and you made out the shape of him moving through the room.

'Morning sunshine, how are you feeling?’ Chris’ quiet, gravelly voice floated to you.

'Okay-ish, I think. It was a big networking event, you know how clients get when they’ve had a few double mixers,’ you winced as little as you sat up, the pounding in your head intensifying as you moved. Chris sat down on the bed and turned towards you, taking one of your hands in his, but said nothing.

'Thanks for the water and painkillers. I woke up about two hours ago I think and I took them then. Did you cover me up and stuff?’

'Yeah, didn’t want you to be cold. Your shoes and jewellery are all back where they belong.’

'Thanks,’ you said again, quietly, squeezing his hand slightly. 'It’s good to have you home. Why are you home by the way? You’re not due back for another two weeks.’

'I know, but I missed my girls and after speaking to my mom, I realised there were a few things you hadn’t told me in our phone conversations.’

You bristled at that, instantly on the defensive, pulling your hand out of his.

'Your mom?’ you rolled your eyes, unable to stop the reflexive action, 'She told you what a shitshow of a mother I am, I guess?’

'Hey, don’t be like that. She was worried for you, and I have to say, sweetheart, when I heard you gone back to work and hired a live-in nanny without even mentioning it to me in passing, let alone having a discussion about it, I was worried too,’ Chris kept his voice level. He almost said 'Annie’s only six weeks old’ but he didn’t want to sound accusatory, 'Why didn’t you tell me?’

'Precisely because I didn’t want you to worry. I should have known Lisa would pull something like this. Have you racing across the country because your inadequate girlfriend can’t look after your kid,’ you pulled your hand away when Chris tried to reach for it again and pulled the blanket back so you could swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand up, 'I thought she’d be happy to see I’d hired someone to look after the baby. Someone much more qualified than me anyhow. I’m taking a shower.’

You spat out the last couple of sentences and stomped to the bathroom. You heard Chris call out after you, more insisting that that wasn’t what he or his mom meant, but you’d shut the door and blocked him out. You switched the shower to the hottest setting, ragged your dress over your head and threw it in a scrunched ball across the bathroom, watching in irritation as it dropped to the floor harmlessly. Leaning on the counter, you looked up to reluctantly gaze at your reflection in the mirror and saw what an absolute mess you looked.

You were pale and pinched under the make up, your dark eyeliner smudged far from where it had been applied. Your lipstick had been smeared off as you slept, leaving a lurid outline of oily colour staining your dry, cracked lips. Your eyes went downwards without your permission, forcing you to look at your swollen, uncomfortable breasts, your rounded hips and the wobbly pouch of a stomach that had once been flat and toned, crisscrossed with violent red lines.

As you looked at it all, the reminder of what you had been through, you felt the fear rising in you. The memories of giving birth came crashing upon you before you could stop them: memories of the blood, of the pain, of seeing implement after implement disappearing between your legs, of hearing the shouts and commands, of seeing strangers faces gathered around, of not being able to breathe or speak or scream, of being unable to focus on Chris’ face, of not knowing where he was, of genuinely feeling like you were going to die. You felt every single one, didn’t even try to fight them because you knew it was useless.

You simply reached over to the shower controls and turned the power up to full, the water now blasting in jets out of the shower head. You figured the noise of it against the tiles would be loud enough that Chris wouldn’t hear your heaving sobs, and hopefully the heat and the piercing jets against your back as you sat in the bottom of the shower with your arms around your knees would be enough to distract your mind from the visions. Hopefully for long enough that you could get yourself together before going out to face him again.

By Any Name (6/11): Vienna

Chapter Summary:  Vienna is most famous for its music, but John and Sherlock are going to a concert for mystery, not Mozart.

Read it on AO3

A weekend in Vienna in early spring might be some people’s ideal.

John was playing someone like that, but he wasn’t happy about it.

Vienna was certainly lovely, but it seemed like the city shut down on the weekend. Their hotel wasn’t far from the city centre, but they’d been walking twenty minutes and had seen only half a dozen people.

“Is everyone dead…Professor?” he asked under his breath.

Sherlock, sporting an impressively terrible mustache and an outrageous hat, snorted. “Clearly your first time. Don’t worry. We’ll be engulfed by the masses quite soon.”

John looked at the map for the tenth time. “We’re getting close to the centre at least.”

“And to the concert!”

John nodded attentively, trying to look enthusiastic. After all, ‘Thomas’ was thrilled about this opportunity. A Belgian music student, his thesis supervisor Professor Dean had kindly offered to take him to Vienna to explore the musical history sites and take in a few concerts.

John was waiting for Sherlock to understand the joke with the names. He wasn’t holding out much hope.

What they were actually doing was trying to discover how the pickpockets who frequented Mozart concerts were linked to the woman with the funny hat who did YouTube reviews of Viennese opera performances. Sherlock assured him that not only were they linked together, they were all linked in some way to the Network.

John dearly, dearly wanted to call bollocks on that, but he couldn’t prove they weren’t, either. After all, Moriarty had been frighteningly insane, not to mention the top consulting criminal in Europe. Why wouldn’t he branch out if given the chance?

But YouTube?

Ah well. Sherlock was still the expert, and John didn’t hate Vienna. It was a lovely city, and the opera they’d been to the night before was surprisingly tolerable now that he understood German. It would have been more fun if they'd had better seats, but Thomas was a student, and he wasn’t going to let his prof pay for everything. He bought the tickets as a treat, and Professor Dean graciously accepted.

It didn’t hurt that damehelga89 (yes, that was her actual username. John was curious about the other 88 people who wanted that name) always sat in the cheap seats too. She wasn’t there that night, but Sherlock explained later that he knew that going in. As though that made any sense at all, John grumbled to himself.

Now they were headed for a concert in the Mozarthaus to scope out the pickpockets. John enjoyed Mozart whenever Sherlock played it, so he knew he’d be able to focus. He was starting to worry they’d be attending the concert alone, though…

Until they crossed the road and ran into Europe.

Not just Europe; half the population of North America seemed to be here too, along with a smattering from every other continent. John felt a brief moment of panic as he stared down the busy street, the crowd broken only by statues. He was familiar with London’s bustle, but this…this was unbelievable.

“Stay close, keep your eyes fixed forward and your hands on your pockets.”

John sighed. “I know…”

“If you do that we’ll be fine. The Mozarthaus is only a few blocks down.”

John shot a quick glance at Sherlock. “I know that too.”

“Then don’t be nervous. I’ve done this many times before.”

John didn’t bother arguing. He just started walking, Sherlock always a step in front of him, hands clamped firmly on his pockets. The crowd bustled around him, but he managed to avoid the most crushing places by keeping close to his ‘teacher’, who surged ahead confidently, never breaking stride even when they passed the enormous cathedral where many of the other tourists were headed.

Five minutes later they were inside the Mozarthaus, showing their tickets to a friendly man at a small card table. He showed them to the Sala Terrena.

John hadn’t been expecting much, but the room took his breath away. The walls and ceilings were covered in designs of fruits and flowers, with a few cherubs poking around here and there and some lovely people along the walls. The designs were simple but elegant, and John suddenly felt excited about the concert.

He looked up to see Sherlock lost in thought as he gazed at the walls. John smiled and let him look his fill. Clearly if Sherlock had ever been here before it was still worth looking again.

Finally 'Professor Dean' came back to himself. He shook his head slightly and directed John to their seats, nearly in the back. There were about twenty seats in the room, and though they were almost twenty minutes ahead of time it still felt odd.

He shouldn’t have worried. Every seat was taken in the next ten minutes, and John found himself behind two very tall people. He didn’t bother asking to switch with Sherlock; there wasn’t much point. It was a concert, and he could still hear. Besides, it was the people he was meant to be watching.

At last the performers came on stage—John knew from the program that it was a string quartet, though he could only see two violin bows waving in the air. There was a moment of tuning, silence, and then the music began.

A few minuets later, and John had nearly forgotten the case.

The music was lovely, as good as Sherlock when he actually tried. The acoustics were interesting, and people were actually behaving themselves and not taking pictures.

He was almost relaxed, but he did have the presence of mind to keep his eyes moving around the room. Everyone seemed to be of the harmless, elderly persuasion. That didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous, but John knew they could handle any problems. It was actually kind of nice to sit back and listen to music and let your eyes follow the patterns on the walls…

John frowned. There were patterns on the walls, all right, but there was also a pattern on the jacket of the woman in front of him. It was a jacket checked with red and blue, but there was something wrong in the middle…the pattern was off. There were too many blues together in one place, too many reds in another.

Eyebrows shooting up as he made the connection, John began to translate, dearly hoping that this was not another UMQRA situation.

No, it wasn’t. T…O…N..I…G…H…T.

John stifled a cry of triumph just in time. With half his mind still on the concert, he looked around the room, searching out other patterns. He found it in the scarf of a young man three rows up, and was shocked to see the exact same word spelled out along the fringe, still in red and blue.

He risked a quick glance at Sherlock and caught his smirk of triumph. He didn’t move, though, so John relaxed back against the chair and listened to the music.

They wove out of the crowd as fast as they could, blending into the falling shadows as they all but ran back to the hotel.

“Morse code in the clothes!” John said when they were finally locked in.

“Yes.” Sherlock had discarded the silly hat, but the mustache was still in place. “Brilliant way of communication; most people would just think it was a bad knitting job.”

“So that lot are in on it, but what have they got to do with the YouTube channel?” John asked.

Sherlock sat down. “Think, Thomas.”

John sat too. He thought for a moment.

“No, out loud.” Sherlock’s voice was stern.

John rolled his eyes. “As you wish, Professor…well, it definitely wasn’t an accident that two people had the same code in their clothes.”

“Three.”

“What?”

“There was a third near the front, but you couldn’t see her. Carry on.”

“Right. So…no coincidence, it was planned. I suppose it’s a sort of signal to the pickpockets to strike a particular group…maybe because they’re richer or something?”

“And how would they know that?”

“Same hotels? Similar restaurants? That leaves too much to chance though.” John paused. “Maybe it has to do with a schedule? No, no, if it did they wouldn’t have to be reminded.”

Sherlock leaned forward. “We’re looking at this the wrong way.”

“We?”

“Yes, yes, I’d reasoned that far by the time the concert was over.” Sherlock waved his hand impatiently. “And you’re correct, only the most idiotic of pickpockets would need reminders of a simple schedule. But say they do need a signal because they don’t actually know the schedule.”

John saw it all of a sudden, a clear path between a strange young girl obsessed with opera, a beautiful concert hall and the crush of people in the centre of an old city.

“It’s damehelga89!” he blurted out. “She’s setting the schedule through her videos…making it random enough to keep a pattern away from the police.”

Sherlock nodded, eyes bright with excitement. “And the people who watch the videos send the signals. The pickpockets may not even know how it’s being set.”

“They musn’t, otherwise why bother with the middlemen?” John agreed.

“But why have the middlemen?” Sherlock repeated the question. “Why are they important?”

John waited.

“That was a question, Thomas.”

“Oh. I thought you knew the answer. You were making the face.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I maintain that there is no face. And besides, while I may know the answer I think you know too. Or you will in a moment. I have faith in you.” John was slightly embarrassed to see that he meant it.

John concentrated. Why bring more people into a scheme than necessary? Obviously they wouldn’t, so they must be necessary…

John saw Sherlock see the minute he understood, saw his friend’s lips curve into a smile.

“The middlemen are all tourists, aren’t they?”

Sherlock grinned. “Exactly. They’re coming from all over the EU, judging by their shoelaces.”

John didn’t even blink.

“So they watch these videos…” Sherlock prompted.

“And they know where to go for events, or concerts,” John finished. “And they’re careful enough to not leave too many traces. They probably pay in cash, travel by foot when they can, that sort of thing.”

“Lack of paper trail, any trail beyond a few easily disposed-of pieces of clothing and one small YouTube channel. They pick up the valuables from the thieves, take them home in their suitcases and sell them in another country.” Sherlock pressed his fingers together. “Elegant.”

“This can’t be all that lucrative though, can it?”

“That may not be the point.” Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe they’re just bored.”

John shook his head. “Well, where do we start?”

“I start by contacting…the Dean… and talking to him about looking at these people’s passports. They’re likely using legitimate documentation if it’s more about the intellectual challenge, and it would make it safer. You start by finding out how they’re communicating in the videos.”

John opened his laptop. “Alright. See you soon?”

“Text me when you find something.” Sherlock left the room, cramming his hat firmly over his curls as he did so.

John sat down at the desk and started listening to opera reviews. He was discouraged to find, several videos later, that there was absolutely nothing in the videos that was even remotely suspicious. Still, the first video lined up with the first pick-pocketing incident Sherlock had flagged as part of the pattern, and the others were within a week of each of the following ones. He was missing something.

Keep looking then. What else was part of a video? Adverts changed, ‘like’ numbers changed…

Then it hit him. Obvious.

It took him ten minutes to confirm his theory. He grabbed his phone.

Thomas to Professor: It’s the comment section.

Professor to Thomas: Explain.

Thomas to Professor: The coded responses are in long strings of comment replies that start with racist comments or with the ‘Bob’ meme.

Professor to Thomas: Good.

Thomas to Professor: You don’t know what Bob is, do you?

Professor to Thomas: You know. That’s sufficient. The Dean wants us to report to Interpol with the names. Track the YouTube usernames in those comment strings, there may be more review channels connected to this.

Thomas to Professor: Got it. Suppose we’re moving on then?

Professor to Thomas: Yes. Next time you can be the Professor, I think. I’ll set you up as Professor Johnson.

Thomas to Professor: Creative, that. What about you?

Professor to Thomas: The Dean thinks it might be time for a more thorough disguise. What do you think of the name Angelina?

(5 minutes of silence).

Thomas to Professor: Haven’t read the books my arse.

The Hanging Tree [5/21]

Catch up on Tumblr.

Catch up on Ao3. 

Tagging @gretelsmaias @literatiruinedme @lesbxdyke @messdress @goddiva @the-last-blapple @leatherrumandthesea @andiirivera @piratesbooty63fan @izzyd03 @writemyanchor who have liked previous parts of THT

And tagging @askthedarkswan @bisexual-killian-jones @piratesails @imhookedonaswan @nightships @colinodonoghue and @hookedladyswan bc friends and I think they’d like it.

Oh! And @oparu because she was my cheerleader!

“So, what exactly are we wearing for the Tribute parade?” Emma asked, shifting nervously. This was familiar territory, to some extent. Everyone was forced to watch the Tribute parade in the village square. Each district sent their districts down a mile-long runway—a lush green carpet made of silk—for all of the Capitol and Misthaven to see.

Still. It was one thing to watch the parade every year, and quite another thing to be in it. Oh God, what if she fell? Then what would happen?

Whale shook his head, and cleared his throat to bring her out of her stupor. “We don’t see the designs until you come out. He says he’s feeling particularly inspired this year. I’m willing to trust him.” He began filling his flask with whiskey. “You know, a lot of people think it’s unfair that we have him. He’s young, but he’s talented. Well, he looks young anyway. For all we know, he’s as old as time.”

“I guess it’s gotta be pretty easy to be called talented when You’ve got 7. There’s not much you can do with leaves, is there?” Emma replied. “And lumber.”

“And the two of us,” Killian supplied.

“Thankfully, both of you are perfect looking cherubs, so no, he won’t have to do much in that regard,” Whale said wryly. Emma rolled her eyes and Killian turned a lovely shade of pink. “It’ll help, I promise. Especially you.” Whale pointed to Killian at this statement.

“Me?” Killian asked, the shade of pink getting redder by the moment.

“Mhmm. You ever hear of David Nolan?” Whale asked. Emma and Killian looked at each other confusedly. “You haven’t? It’s a shame. Well, you’ll get to meet him at some time this week, and his wife, Snow. They’re both mentors for their District. They won back to back years in the Games, but that was before you were born.”

“Wait, why do we need to know about David Nolan?” Emma insisted, wanting him to get to the point.

“He’s a nice guy. Very friendly and cheerful, all things considered. He was the youngest winner of his Games at age 14 and that was about twenty years ago. He won because he got a ton of sponsors. You’ll see why when we meet him.”

Emma huffed exasperatedly.

“Besides, it’s not like you’re this kid,” Whale huffed, pointing to the boy from District 5. “Looks like a monkey, jeez he’s ugly…” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Killian. “Who is he?”

“Walsh Ozmund,” Killian responded quickly.

“Very good,” Whale praised.

“How come he gets praised for identifying someone quickly, but I only get yelled at all the time?” Emma complained.

“Because your personality doesn’t match your startling baby blue eyes,” Whale said wryly.

“My eyes are green.”

“Exactly.”

“All right, I’m ready to go!” Tinkerbell announced, flouncing into the room. They all stared at her, confusion clearly read on their faces. “Green and brown,” she explained. “For District 7!”

 “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that trees were neon colored,” Whale mocked.

 Emma opened her mouth and then closed it again, thinking better of it.  Tinkerbell was clearly making an effort to support them, and Emma wasn’t going to make her feel bad about it. Judging the look on Killian’s face, it was clear he felt the same way.

 It was just…the design on Tinkerbell’s dress was nothing like any tree she’d ever seen in the heart of her District. Then again, she hadn’t seen a real tree since they left 7. Emma wondered what trees looked like in the Capitol, or if there even were trees at all.

 “Swan?” Killian prompted gently, tapping her elbow. “You coming?” She nearly jumped out of her skin to realize that Whale and Tinkerbell had already left the apartment.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Emma said softly. He offered his arm to her and she got up, walking past it. He sighed, rolling his eyes at her, though there was a brief moment where something like affection flickered in his gaze.

“You’ve been lost in thought quite a bit lately,” he said softly as they walked together. “Everything all right?”

 “There’s just a lot to think about.” She frowned, not looking at him, as they walked out of the apartment and into the elevator, still thinking about the trees. If the Capitol could make something as simple as trees so…outlandish, what else were they getting wrong?

Once they were in the elevator, Killian hesitantly slipped his hand into hers and she yanked it away.

“Cozy,” Whale snarked at them as the elevator doors opened. He took a huge swig from his flask. “Looks like we’ve got a real team of winners over here. A real confident and together look, you guys.”

They couldn’t look at him or each other, so Whale just let it go. The four of them began walking down the hallway, and two figures approached them from the other direction. “Okay, so approaching us right now? We’ve got Triton and Ursula, mentors from 4,” he explained lowly.

As they walked by, Killian and Ursula made eye contact, and Ursula’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. Emma felt Killian tense up beside her before wrenching his gaze away from Ursula’s and staring straight ahead. His clenched jaw and tensed shoulders made her wonder what the hell was going on. She opened her mouth to ask her, but he began to walk away from her, his strides a little bit longer now.

His head was held low, and if Emma didn’t know any better, she could’ve sworn he was crying. And she wasn’t sure why, but it broke her heart.            

Whale grabbed her arm and yanked her back a little bit. “What the hell was that about?” he demanded, between to Killian and the mentors from 4, both who were out of earshot.

“I have no idea...” Emma murmured, staring at the dark entryway where Killian had gone through.

“Merlin, meet our tributes this year: Emma Swan and Killian Jones,” Tinkerbell introduced them excitedly.

“Swan. That’s an interesting last name,” Merlin said to Emma as he bowed to them.

“Thanks, it was my dad’s,” Emma said dryly.

“I’ll be sure to send my regards,” Merlin responded, arching an eyebrow at Emma. Emma’s eyes lit up and the two shared a laugh as if they were old friends. Emma grinned excitedly.

Maybe this wouldn’t be all bad.

“Holy shit, you’ve already worked your magic. That’s the first real smile she’s given since she got here,” Whale groused. “Change of plans, you’re now on Emma’s team now and forever. You can be her mentor, I’ll be in charge of the easy one.”

“I don’t know how I feel about being called ‘the easy one’,” Killian grumbled.

“I think Emma and I will get along just fine without me taking your job,” Merlin responded, still chuckling a little bit. “All right, you and Tink better find your seats. I’ve got work to do with these two.”

Tinkerbell grabbed Whale by the arm and dragged him off, muttering something about “being responsible and not embarrassing his Tributes”.

For the first time since coming to the Capitol, they were alone with people they did not know. Killian shifted nervously, though whether it was from this or his earlier encounter Emma wouldn’t know.  Merlin snapped his fingers and some chairs were brought forward.

“Let me introduce you to your team,” Merlin replied. “I’m Merlin, and my two assistants are Tatiana and Mab. They’ll help you get ready in every conceivable way. I’m merely the designer. But, I did want to get to know you a little bit before I show you my designs. So, tell me about yourselves.”

He sat down in the first chair and looked expectantly at them. They sat down, eyes flickering to one another and back to Merlin. He smiled sympathetically. “I’ll go first. My name is Merlin. I grew up in District 8, in a little section on the outskirts that actually was in walking distance to the border. At one time, we could’ve been neighbors,” he started. “I’ve no siblings, my parents are gone, and I guess you could say I live a lonely existence, but it’s not all bad. The Capitol made my apartment look like a treehouse because I work for District 7 now,” he joked.

Killian grinned at that. “So you know what a tree looks like then?”

“Who do you think had design input on their own apartment?”  Merlin responded. He leaned back in the chair and gestured at both of them. “Tell me more about yourselves.”

“Emma and I are the only orphans in District 7,” Killian supplied helpfully.

“Well, there’s also my younger brother,” Emma added. “But, um, yeah we’ve mostly fended for ourselves the past couple of years. And, uh, each other, I guess.”

“So all this glitz and glam is a little overwhelming?” Merlin asked sympathetically. They both nodded. “Well, then I’m glad I went with what I did. Are you two ready to see the design?” He opened his sketchbook to them.

They would both be wearing dark brown pants that seemed to grow into an emerald green patterned top that was textured like leaves. Emma shared and excited look with Killian. This was something she could definitely get behind.

“Now, because the Green Mile is made of silk, we feel it’ll be best if you both go barefoot,” Merlin was telling them. “And you’ll both be wearing a little bit of green eyeshadow on your faces. Killian, we were thinking of putting a little more eyeliner on your face because it will make your eyes look more dramatic.”

“How dreamy,” Emma muttered and Killian snickered.

“And you’ll both have white accents in your hair. Emma, for you, we were thinking a crown of swan feathers, and for Killian, you’ll have these white puffs. They’re supposed to represent the forest and the sky.”

“This is so cool,” Killian said excitedly. “When do we get started?”

“I love it when they say that,” Merlin said with a grin. “Killian, if you go with Mab, Emma and I are going to talk about styling her hair.”

“Are you sure you’ll be all right, Swan?” Killian asked, shifting closer to her, frowning at Merlin. His excitement was gone. Emma rolled her eyes and gently shoved him. “If you say so. I’m not far if you need me,” he called with a frown as he headed off with Mab.

“So, Killian’s protective of you,” Merlin said bluntly once Killian was out of earshot. He walked Emma over to a mirror and sat her down. “Now, let’s brush all this out and see what we’ve got here.”

“Excuse you, I do a great job taking care of my hair,” Emma mumbled, glowering up at Merlin.

“Settle down. I meant what I can do with it style wise,” Merlin said, brushing out her hair. “What do you typically do with it?”

“Ponytails mostly,” Emma shrugged. “I don’t know, I don’t really think about it all that much. I leave it down most of the time except for when it gets hot. I don’t really have time for style.”

“Have you ever braided it before?” Merlin asked.

“Not really since my mom died,” Emma said quietly, tucking her knees into her chest.

Merlin hummed sympathetically. “I’d like to, but if it’s too painful, I can do something else with your hair, okay?” he asked gently.

“Can I think about it for a few minutes?” Emma asked quietly, her eyes flickering up to Merlin nervously.

“Of course,” Merlin murmured quietly. “I’m going to go check on Killian and I’ll be back in about five minutes, okay?”

She nodded and took a deep breath, squeezing her knees tighter to her chest.

“I’m going to throw up,” Emma muttered as Tatiana and Mab threaded the white swan feathers into her braid as Merlin dabbed dark green eye shadow over her eyelids. Killian’s hand was on her back and she quickly shrugged it off. 

“You’re okay, Swan. I promise,” Killian murmured gently. “It’s…it’s just a very long walk, right?” He smiled bravely at her and she rolled her eyes, trying not to feel guilty when he deflated a little bit.

“A full mile. Half a mile down, half a mile back,” Merlin said, straightening out Emma’s jacket. “Don’t worry. You’re barefoot, which makes you less likely to trip. And we hemmed the pants just right so that your feet won’t catch on them. All you have to do is breathe so you won’t pass out.”

“I’ve got that,” Killian promised.

“What, are you going to breathe for me?” Emma snapped, fidgeting under the many pairs of hands that seemed intent on fixing every flaw visible or otherwise.  Everything seemed to close in around her, and not for the first time, she wished she was back at home.

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what Henry was doing and it made her heart ache. She missed him so much, she felt like she was drowning in it. There was nothing of home here, nothing to steady her. The noise and flashing lights kept her from even being able to think about where her brother was. She tried to conjure a memory of the two of them, but felt like it was all being drowned out.

“It’s time,” Killian said softly, batting away Tatiana and Mab’s hands from Emma’s hair. He smiled down at her. “You ready?” he asked.

“Do I have a choice?” she asked weakly. He shook his head with an equally strained smile.

He offered her his arm, even after he rolled his eyes at her. “It’ll make us look united. Composed in the face of all this chaos,” Killian explained. “Show the other Districts that we aren’t afraid of them. That we have each other’s backs. We’re protecting each other, remember?”

Emma nodded, slipping her arm through his. To be honest, she wasn’t sure what was making her so afraid of Killian, why every instinct in her body screamed to pull away and isolate herself.

She didn’t want to be alone now. Not really.

“When you get to the runway, you will have to walk down individually,” Merlin explained, walking side by side with them. “But there will be cameras back there. If a camera zooms in on your face, don’t look at it, just look straight ahead. No expression. You’re there, but you’re focused.”

“So much coaching,” Killian muttered. “Do you think we’re going to get this much guidance when we’re fighting in the arena?” Emma snorted and genuinely smiled at that, linking their arms a little bit tighter together. He grinned a little bit at her smile.

“No jokes,” Merlin scolded. “Got it?”

“Got it,” both Emma and Killian agreed.

“Good,” Merlin said stiffly and nodded at them before leaving. Just beyond the screen that separated them from the Capitol crowd, Emma could see flashes on either side. The tradition was that the female walked first, and then when she turned around to head back, they would send the male tribute down the mile of soft green carpet.

It was said that President Gold’s private box was so high up so he could look down and judge the Tributes as they walked down the runway. She longed to ask someone, anyone, if they’d ever seen him up close in person and if he was just as sinister as the television made him seem.

“He’s there, he’s in his box, darling,” a girl with black and white hair crowed contently to the stylists around her. Emma recognized her as the girl from District 1. “Can you imagine? All that power…”

“Cruella de Vil,” Killian muttered beside her. He linked his arm a little tighter around hers.  

Emma’s eyes flickered around the crowd, trying to spot pairs from the other district. She saw Hans Faroe from District 1 not far behind Cruella. She recognized Walsh Ozmund from District 5 and for a moment, they made eye contact. He smirked at her and Emma rolled her eyes in retaliation.

“Is he bothering you, love?” Killian growled lowly.

“I’m fine,” Emma huffed. “Save it for the arena.”

Another boy, the boy from 6, deliberately knocked into Walsh, knocking him over. Walsh sprawled to the floor, while Faline, the girl from 5, leaped out of the way looking startled.

“Who’s that?” Emma asked, indicating the boy from 6.

“Graham Humbert,” Killian replied lowly.  “The girl from 5 is Faline Whitetail, and the girl tribute from 6 is Reyna Avis.”

“You did your homework, didn’t you?” a low voice snarled from behind them. Emma and Killian whipped around to see a tall boy with ragged, sandy hair. There was a wild looked to his eyes and Emma stepped out in front of Killian protectively. “So, who am I then?”

“Felix Nightshade,” Killian replied, jerking his chin up as he came to stand beside Emma. “Volunteer from 2.”

“So you’re the famous volunteer from 7 I keep hearing so much about?” Felix mocked, giving Killian an appraising look. “Well, I’ll see you around…Killian.”

A bunch of stylists began lining the tributes up by District.

Girl boy, girl, boy and so on and so forth.

Emma found herself behind Graham, who’d knocked over Walsh. Behind her, Killian was making polite conversation with Abigail, the girl Tribute from District 8. From the wisps of the conversation, Abigail was the Mayor’s daughter in her district.

A wave of jealousy curled up in Emma’s stomach at the thought of parents who actually gave a damn and who would be upset about her being sent off to the Games. So instead, she decided to bother the boy in front of her. “That was a real show of masculinity before,” she muttered to Graham. “Like a wolf.”

“He was bothering Tributes from the other districts. Got right in that little girl’s face from 11 and told her how he was going to enjoy tearing her limb from limb. I know some people enjoy that part of the Games, but it’s not right, you know? Someone needed to show him that he wasn’t as tough as he thought he was,” Graham replied with a shrug. “You’re Emma Swan, right?”

“Yeah,” Emma muttered. “And you’re Graham Humbert.”

“Nice to meet you, Emma,” Graham said sincerely, and turned back around.

“Nice to meet you too,” Emma murmured softly before he whisked away on stage to walk down the runway. She fidgeted anxiously, wishing she could turn around and talk to Killian, but she could see members of the audience, whispering to one another and pointing at her.

“All right, sweetheart, you’re up,” a stylist said, all but shoving Emma up on stage. “Walk to the end of the carpet, make a pose and turn around.”

Just keep walking and breathe. Merlin’s voice rang out in her head, the phrase repeating itself over and over, until she was walking like she was just trying to get somewhere. She nearly missed the end of the runway, but stopped short, almost as if she was frozen in place when felt a pair of eyes on her, cutting through the crowd.

She didn’t need to look up to know that it was President Gold looking down at her. Still, she lifted her head up to make direct eye contact with him. And suddenly, Emma couldn’t hear the murmur of the Capitol citizens. She couldn’t see the flashing lights of the camera.

All she could feel was the cold swoop of dread in her gut as she made eye contact with the man that she never wanted to come face to face with.

Gold’s mouth curved into a smirk and he leaned forward, as if he was inspecting her for weakness. Emma didn’t move, much like a fly in a spider web, as she watched those lizard-like eyes inspect her. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he had come up with, he leaned back, crossing his arms as he continued to stare down at her, and Emma was still cold.

When he looked away, Emma found that she could tear herself away from the end of the runway and began heading back. Killian’s hand reached for her as they walked beside each other, but she yanked it away.

“You have to stop doing that!” Emma shouted once they were back in the apartments.  “The reaching and the hand holding! I’m serious, Killian! Are you trying to make me look weak in front of the other Tributes?”

“I’m trying to protect you! Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing? Protecting one another?” Killian asked, looking confused and hurt.

“There’s a difference between trying to protect me and treating me like I’m glass!” she responded, getting up in his face. “So for God’s sake, just treat me like a person and not like this breakable thing that needs saving and comfort all the time! That’s not me!”

Killian’s eyes widened with shock. He took a moment before considering her words before he nodded. “You’re right,” he agreed softly. “I have been treating you like you’re breakable. I’ve known you long enough to know that you’re not. You’re absolutely right.”

“I am?” Emma asked, feeling surprised by his admission. Then she puffed up her chest and added, “You’re damn right I’m right.”

His mouth curved up in a smile and nodded to her. “I’m sorry, Emma,” he said genuinely. “I just…didn’t want to let you down. I…I didn’t want to let Henry down.”

“What does Henry have to do with this?” Emma asked curiously. He walked to the couches and flopped down. She hesitantly sat across from him. “Killian?”

“He was the only person to come visit me after we got reaped. No one else wanted to say good-bye to me. Just him,” Killian said quietly, looking down at the floor. “I promised to take care of you. Do right by you in the arena.”

“You will,” Emma said confidently.

“That’s quite a lot of faith you’re putting in me, Swan,” Killian said, raising his eyebrows. He sighed and continued, “I don’t…he sees so much good in me. Good that I wasn’t even sure was there because I’ve spent so much time alone in my own head. And I don’t want to lose that. All my life, people have been letting me down--”

“Hey, I don’t intend to let you down,” Emma interrupted, sitting closer to him.

“I know,” Killian said softly, his eyes glimmering with affection. “I know. I just…the Games, Swan. We’ve watched, for as long as we can remember, decent people turn into killers and monsters at the drop of the hat. I don’t…I don’t want to lose all that good things I’ve found since moving to District 7.”

“Like me and Henry,” Emma surmised. Killian nodded. She thought about it for a moment before extending her hand. “I’m gonna make a deal with you. I’m gonna choose to see the best in you. No matter what.”

Killian slipped her hand into hers. “And I with you,” he promised softly.

Stealth and Witchcraft Cp.6

It was the first time Gwenevere had ever walked these streets with another soul, yet she'd seldom felt so alone. The man beside her clearly did not believe in decorum, because as they made their way through those chilly, derelict alleyways, Garrett made no attempt to hide his displeasure. Every so often, Gwenevere would hear him release a loud huff, or mutter something about Basso under his breath. A few times, she'd been brave enough to inquire--but her friendly investigations were always met with a horribly daunting glare. Gwenevere huffed herself, gazing up at the sea of chimney smoke dancing above her. The moon was her only source of illumination, as she continued to trail the reserved hoodlum further into the unknown blackness. She chanced a look at her reflection within a murky puddle of half-frozen, stagnant water, and noticed that the celestial body seemed to be trembling as much as she was. Almost. How she wished the man would at least acknowledge her as more than some unwanted tag. After all, she was to be his house guest for at least the time being. And from what Gwenevere had observed thus far from the rancorous criminal, that arrangement was doomed to be awkward, at best. "So...what street do you live on anyway?" she tried her best to smile, before adding with a quick little giggle, "it feels like we've been walking forever." "It's only been ten minutes," Garrett groused. "Don't tell me your fancy shoes are hurting your feet already?" Craning her head to the side, Gwenevere lifted her leg and began examining one of her fur-lined slippers. "Oh no," she remarked, hoping to alleviate his misidentified concern, "no, these are actually quite comfortable." Well la-di-da... the thief shook his head with a loud snort, neither slowing nor ceasing his pace. He rolled his eyes when not thirty seconds later, his unwanted trainee piped up again. Garrett wondered if they indeed manufactured muzzles for girls like her. If so, he sincerely planned on obtaining one. "I was just wondering, because we seem to be heading towards the center of town," Gwenevere added. "Excellent observation," the thief quipped in a snide tone, "you sure are one clever girl." "Not particularly," Gwenevere blushed, missing the obvious sarcasm in Garrett's words, "but gee, thanks!" "Uh-huh..." the thief muttered to himself. "So, where DO you live? There aren't any houses in the center of Stonemarket, ya know? That's why I asked. It's all just stores, and street vendors mostly. But there's also a potion shop, and a few small bakeries too," the girl leaned forward, eyeing him cautiously, "Say, you don't happen to live in one of those bakeries, now do ya?" Garrett finally stopped walking, and glared down at her. "Do I look like the sort of guy who bakes bread?" "Well, no..." Gwenevere shuffled her feet. "I just supposed there would be no harm in asking..." "Idiot," Garrett grumbled, before resuming his pace. Gwenevere shrugged off his latest insult, and ran forward to catch up with him. "So, where DO you live?" she asked again, breathless with excitement. "If I didn't answer you the first time, what makes you think I've changed my mind?" the hooded man snapped. "Well, it's been a few seconds at least anyway," the girl grinned. Garrett contained another sigh behind his taut lips, coming to a halt. "We're here." Gwenevere stared up at him, watching with burgeoning interest as the thief pointed his finger up towards the one structure in all of Stonemarket that the naive girl had dismissed as his possible abode. Her green eyes widened, her mouth flopping open in abject wonder as she beheld the majestic structure. The spire of the tower seemingly pierced the moon, as ravens and smoke encircled it like a living nocturnal crown. The girl tightened her grasp upon her navy blue cloak, as if trying to keep her spellbound heart from leaping straight out of her chest. "Wow..." she gaped, her mouth so wide that Garrett could have peered down her throat if he'd desired. "You live there?!" "Yes," he grumbled, still incredibly uncomfortable with her being privy to that delicate information. Garrett had known random passersbys better than he knew this girl--and he'd had a much better rapport with them to boot. In all honesty, neither himself--nor that jolly drunk pal of his--were entirely aware of just what this strange kid was capable of. What her true nature was like, or why she had chosen to become a thief--beyond snubbing her obviously conventional parents. A more trusting individual might have laughed at his paranoia. After all, how could the rogue possibly suspect such a foolish child of foul play? Even if she wanted to be, Gwenevere was far too clumsy and small to be any sort of threat to him. But an unfortunate--and frankly, horrifying--event nearly two decades ago, had taught Garrett two very important lessons: Never trust a noble, and never trust a pretty face. Even still, the moonlighter had a difficult time picturing her pulling a knife on him. But he'd be keeping a constant eye on her, just to be sure. "So, shall we?" Gwenevere's voice rang like a church bell through the dreary streets, causing Garrett to tense. "Shall we what? And keep your bloody voice down!" he hissed. "Oh, sorry..." she reached for a strand of her lavish red hair again, with the full intention of chewing on it. It was a nervous tick of hers, and one which disgusted the thief most thoroughly. "I was just wondering if I should start climbing?" The way his face revolted, gave the girl her answer. "You want to climb up the side of the clocktower?" he asked in a cynical voice, raising an eyebrow at her. "Well, I suppose that's one surefire way to get yourself killed." "B-but, I mean, isn't that how YOU do it?" Gwenevere stammered. "Tch, no. You'd get spotted by the city watch for sure pulling a stunt like that. You'd have to be a right taffing idiot to access the clocktower that way. The Hammerites built doors around the parameter for a reason." "Oh..." Gwenevere looked down at her feet, shame coating her sullen posture. "I'll show you the simple entrance, Gigi. Come on," Garrett gestured for her to follow, then pointed at her busy mouth. "And drop it. You really shouldn't be chewing on your hair like that." Gwenevere did as she was bade, spitting the damp tresses away from her teeth and lips. Then, she gleefully skipped down the street after a very frustrated Garrett. *** Chasing after Garrett by fleeting moonlight had been challenging enough. Now, betwixt a forgotten realm of dust and cobwebs, Gwenevere found herself positively lost. Uncertainly crept and teased at the corners of her confidence, as her eyes struggled to find her mentor amidst the blackness. It was fruitless; like  trying to locate a single drop of rain amidst a raging river. The thief, truly was the master of this place. A shade, wandering the gloomy and depressing confines of worlds long forgotten by most. She called out for him several times, but to no avail. It was within this stretch of their untoward acquaintanceship, that Gwenevere became all-too aware that Garrett was trying his best to be rid of her. To lose her within this sinister city of murky danger. Brushing a cobweb from her sanguine mane, the girl began to crawl on all fours through the remainder of the musty tunnel. She found it was much easier to get her bearings in a new situation, when she could feel the earth beneath her fingers. Thankfully, little deduction proved necessary, as the tunnel neither branched nor veered. Gwenevere yipped in discomfort as the top of her head bumped into something hard, and quite creaky. Rubbing her forehead with a miserable little groan, she pushed upward on the obstruction. It lifted with ease, revealing the inner workings of Garrett's secret domicile. In the time it had taken Gwenevere to find her way through dark and unfamiliar territory, the thief  had managed to get a rather healthy fire going within a large steel barrel. The girl stared from her place below the floor, mesmerized by the vibrant hues of amber and red as they crackled and danced. She watched as Garrett ran his hands over their luster, his face sullen, and his eyes dark. Almost as though, he'd already forgotten about her. Sensing that something was amiss, Garrett turned in the direction of the trap door. He blinked when he saw Gwenevere there, the wooden hatch propped up by her mop of messy red hair. She smiled, and crawled free from the passage, a sheepish expression donning her cherubic face. "Took you long enough," Garrett sneered, turning his attention back to the fire. Gwenevere began dusting herself off. "Well, I might not have gotten lost down there, if you hadn't run off like that!" she snapped. "How do you get lost in twenty feet of direct passage?" Garrett smirked. "That isn't the point!" the girl crossed her arms, after flicking a cobweb from her hair. "How can you call yourself any sort of teacher, when you don't even keep a close eye on your students?!" The thief's brows furrowed at her uppity little attitude. Turning to face her, Garrett pointed a stiff, accusatory finger in Gwenevere's face. "Stop right there," he growled. "First of all, you're not my student. Second of all, I'm not your teacher. I'm doing a job, and you just happen to be part of it." "I see," the girl sneered. "So, just how many 'jobs' like me have you completed thus far, huh?" "Seven. You're the eighth," Garrett replied coldly. "Oookaaay, why do you keep doing this then, if you hate it so much?" "Typical of your kind to ask that," the thief belittled her. "I do it to get paid, princess. It keeps me in shape, and it's the easiest way to make good coin these days, thanks to 'Old Man Existentialist'..." "Who?" Gwenevere gawked in utmost confusion. Garrett took notice of the fact that she hadn't denied being a princess. Also typical, he mused, and went back to rubbing his hands over the fire. "Basso," he grumbled. "Basso?" Gwenevere repeated, beginning to wonder why someone like Basso still lived in the slums, if he had so much extra money. A part of her wanted to ask Garrett about it, but she quickly deduced that he wouldn't give her a straight answer. It was, after all, none of her business. However, the young woman decided internally that she would inquire about it to the boxman upon their next meeting. Basso was, after all, far less uptight than his hooded companion. "Yeah. But housing a snotty little whelp like you cost him extra. The others were all at least competent enough to have their own places..." Garrett demeaned. "Well," she cleared her throat with a delicate cough, "you didn't exactly give me much time to find a place." Garrett glared at her again. "What?" he hissed, irked by the girl's near-constant disrespect towards him. Intimidated, Gwenevere felt her bold composure empty out of her shuddering body like blood. "W-what I mean is," she stammered, "I-I'm a runaway who's been living in the slums for less than a week..." "Yeah? So where were you staying before Basso found you?" "Beneath a bridge in Dayport," Gwenevere proclaimed, puffing out her chest. "And actually, I found him." "Huh, I would have guessed a flophouse," the rogue grinned. "Course, they usually charge money, and I doubt you've successfully stolen any of that." Gwenevere's eyes went wide in stark astonishment. "A flophouse!? Why, that doesn't sound safe at all! Wouldn't it just fall over?" Slowly, Garrett's eye began to twitch in reaction to the naive girl's peculiar response. His jaw taut, the thief swallowed the lump of warm saliva within his throat as he gawked at her. After a few seconds of awkward stares and silence, he finally shook his head and uttered a mumbly, "forget about it..." Gwenevere, did just that. It was quiet for a time. Garrett continued to warm his frigid body by the fire pit, while Gwenevere listened intently to the way the crackling flames echoed throughout the heart of the City's forsaken timekeeper. She wondered how long the massive structure had been standing; the girl's knowledge of anything beyond the gilded walls of her palace, sparse guesswork at best. Perhaps more than anything, she wondered why Garrett had chosen to live here. Flames reflected within her wild emerald eyes, as Gwenevere marveled upward at the long shadows cast against the now lifeless clockface. The mangled beams and motionless gears especially, served to create quite monstrous silhouettes. "Garrett?" Gwenevere finally decided to break the torment of silence. The thief, did not respond. "Garrett!" she tried again. This time, Garrett answered her with an annoyed grunt. Taking his crude acknowledgment as a sign of progress, she tried once again. "Hey! GARRETT!!" "WHAT?!" he snarled, whirling around to face her, his eyes ablaze. The girl gulped, recoiling from his furious outburst. "Umm...well I was just curious, is all..." she peeped. "Of what? How long it takes to get a rise outta me?" the thief sneered. "No," Gwenevere pouted. "I was just wondering about the other trainees. You know? The ones you helped before me?" Garrett sighed hard, then stepped away from the fire pit to face her. "Alright. First of all, I didn't 'help' anyone, okay? I was paid. Second of all, why the taff do you care?" "Well, I just kind of want to know what's going to be expected of me. I want to know what sort of things I'll be learning, so I can strive to do my best!" the girl proclaimed with a smile. Garrett rolled his eyes again. He realized that he'd been doing that almost constantly since meeting Gillian. "I wouldn't worry about any of that. I don't expect anything out of you. You're nothing like the others..." Gwenevere wilted, visibly hurt by his callous remark. But her demeanor perked up with ease, when another question entered her ever-curious mind. "Well, that's okay. I'll still do my best out there!" her eyes seemed to glisten within the dim light of that forgotten place. "So, what were the others like?" "They were from the streets. Their parents were criminals. They'd leave a girl like you battered and bleeding in the gutter if given half the chance. Some of them, even had actual talent," Garrett growled. "Like I said; nothing like you..." "Aw, come on!" Gwenevere begged. "That doesn't tell me anything--be a sport, Garrett!" "I'd rather not." The girl began to pout again, her brows furrowed and her lips pursed. "Well then, what about your first trainee? What were they like? What made you decide to begin taking on apprentices in the first place?" Garrett's body grew rigid, his eyes flashing like diamonds in the darkness. Whether this obnoxious brat knew it or not, she'd just asked a loaded question. One that the thief would sooner slit her throat than answer. "Thought Basso told you about that already..." he muttered in a reticent, dismal voice. "Well, he told me there was a girl involved, so I decided not to pry," Gwenevere cheeped in a cheerful tone which juxtaposed his own. "Sounded personal...romantic even!" "It wasn't anything like that," Garrett snorted, noticeably disgusted by the very notion. Gwenevere craned her head to the side like a curious puppy. "Oh? So what was it like then?" she asked. "I've told you before--you should mind your own business." "Okay, fine. Be like that!" she fumed. "Let's move on. How long have you been doing this sort of thing?" "What? Housing ignorant little rich kids? As I told you before--this would be a first," Garrett sneered. "Oh come on. Don't be like that! You knew what I meant!" she encouraged. "And what if I don't?" "Oh, you..." Gwenevere rolled her eyes. "What I mean is, how long have you been stealing stuff?" "I, 'steal stuff' to survive, Griselda," Garrett groused, clearly offended by how disrespectful she was being. "A man's gotta eat. I had rent to pay. Had equipment to purchase, so forth and so on," he trailed off nonchalantly. Gwenevere looked around, examining the inside of the immense and dusty clocktower again. She crooked a brilliant red eyebrow in utmost confusion. "But...you live here. Surely the City doesn't rent out the clocktower!" From her tone, Garrett wasn't sure if the girl was being sarcastic, or completely stupid. In his opinion however, it sounded much more like the latter. "Don't get cute," he scoffed dryly. "Was I? Whatever did I say that was so cute?" Gwenevere inquired. Garrett shook his head, and started back towards the fire pit. He wasn't going to enjoy this, and yet, he had to endure it. After all, he had done worse things as 'favors' for Basso, always with the reminder of an owed favor cajoling him from the back of his mind. A favor for a favor. It was about the only honor code people in his line of work had. At least in Garrett's bitter opinion. As the flames crackled and danced, devouring the sparse bits of charcoal and paper in their wake, Garrett began to wonder if he truly needed an extra favor. His instincts had only sharpened over the years, and he rarely required anyone's assistance anymore--even for maps or information these days. However, the bulging sack of silver at his belt, placated these nagging thoughts. "Garr-ett!" Gwenevere cried out, once again pulling the rogue away from his personal thoughts. He had a sinking premonition, that this was going to be happening a lot. "What is it now?" Garrett groaned with utmost annoyance. "Isn't it past your bedtime or something?" "So, what DO you do with all of your money?" Gwenevere asked, ignoring his question. "I thought I told you to mind your own business," the irate moonlighter groused. "Like, four times already..." Gwenevere crossed her arms, beginning to pout again, her long red bangs dangling over the sides of her face. Another man might have found the entire display relatively cute, but Garrett had never cared for the self-entitled, prissy types. Girls in women's clothing, who believed that their looks would secure them whatever it was they fancied. Tramps who believed themselves akin to sirens and nymphs in relation to the alluring powers they held over most men within their domain. How he delighted in seeing the look on their pretty little faces, when these privileged ladies discovered that their so-called 'powers' were useless against the hooded shadow invading their boudoirs. Garrett's blackjack, had never been discriminatory. And neither, had he. "Fine. Then I'm not going to tell you anything about me either!" the girl affirmed, turning up her tiny nose. "Works for me. Keep your trap shut, and maybe you'll actually learn something from me. The sooner you learn how to steal correctly, the sooner I can have my tower back," Garrett countered. "We're not partners, and we're not friends. I don't give a rat's ass about you. Try to remember that." Gwenevere frowned. She turned her head, the fire illuminating her ruby hair in a soft orange glow as she began to examine the surrounding area. Peering upward, the tower's core seemed to ascend forever. Only the sparse rays of moonlight filtering in through long-neglected cracks in the foundation served to prove otherwise. From what few first impressions the place gave, Gwenevere could tell that the tower was well-lived in. There was a filthy mattress practically thrown into the corner of the room, and several broken barrels and crates lying nearby. Crumbled up wrappers, and bent tin cans presumably used as food containers lay scattered about, some quite thick with dust. About the only part of the room that wasn't in a state of decay, was the bright area to her right. Illuminated by the gentle radiance of the moon, were several display cases, each housing rare and beautiful treasures. One in particular--an elegant yet simple bronze ring, caught Gwenevere's eye. She would never have even noticed such a mundane trinket, had it not been situated on its very own pedestal in the center of the thief's collection. The tactful and loving way such prizes had been arranged, caused the morose girl to smile. "You certainly take great pride in your work, regardless as to why you do it, Garrett," she complimented in a sincere tone. He didn't bother to answer her this time, so instead, the young woman began to quietly observe his every motion with a keen, and utmost interest. As she did so, more questions began to eke into the folds of her mind. Why would one as skilled and wise as this man choose to live in a dilapidated tower? Had something terrible happened to him, or had things always been this way? Although Garrett acted content within his realm, Gwenevere was certain that there was a very good reason as to why he seemed to treat all others with an aloof, and distanced contempt. His bi-colored eyes held a serious, almost fractured expression. The girl's own inquisitive green optics flashed in the darkness. Though it had been a very long time ago, she had observed such an expression once before. It was the visage of utmost suffering. Silent grimaces, and dead eyes struggling to keep ones darkest traumas chained and hidden. But naïve and unassuming as she was, Gwenevere knew such struggles always proved futile in the end. After all, master thief though he was, Garrett was still a mortal man. And mortal men, could not wrestle back their demons forever.