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badgersprite · 4 years

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Fic: Desiderata (5/?)

Chapter Title: Perspective

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob

Pairing: Miranda/Samara very slow burn, friends to lovers

Story Rating: R

Warnings: References to past childhood abuse/trauma, and people being shitty about it.

Chapter Summary: In 2186, Miranda spearheads the search and rescue operation she helped organise. In 2185, Samara gets Miranda to see an incident from someone else’s perspective.

Author’s Note: Miranda is still bad at people, but she’s trying. Shout out to self-isolation for giving me time to work on this.

* * *

“You’re sure this will work?” Miranda asked, examining her forged identity documents. A passport. A driver's licence. Even a birth certificate.

“Can’t be any surer than I am,” Niket answered with a slight shrug. “It’s not like I could test it, but I have nothing but assurances from everyone I’ve spoken to that these counterfeits are the highest quality. They never fail.”

“What if they do?” Miranda had imagined a hundred different ways her father might deal with them if they got caught. She still wasn't sure which one was the worst, or that he couldn't exceed her expectations of his cruelty.

“Relax.” Niket placed his hands on her shoulders. “Even if they do pull you up, I've spent months creating an online identity for you. The only thing left is to set up an account and wire some money into it. Enough to keep you on your feet for a while. We've thought of everything, Miri. You won't trigger any red flags. As far as anyone would be concerned, 'Jessica McMahon' is a real person.”

Miranda sighed uneasily. She’d been working on this escape for so long that it was making her paranoid. No matter how careful she was, it was simply impossible for her father not to notice what was going on, given enough time. For all his faults, he was a smart man. He had to sense something was awry, at some point. It always felt like she was moments away from her plot being uncovered.

“Are you forgetting something?” Niket remarked, expectantly waiting for her to say her thanks. To her credit, Miranda realised her oversight.

“You’ve done a lot for me, Niket. When I’m out of here, I won’t forget that,” she said sincerely. Niket was the closest thing to a friend she'd ever had. She was grateful towards him. She really was. She just wasn’t fantastic at expressing it. Her upbringing might have played a role in that.

“You’ve already helped, in a way,” Niket admitted, taking out another passport. “Got one of these for myself with your money. Figured I’d involved myself enough that I’m going to have to get out of dodge once you make your escape, or else your father’s going to find my fingerprints all over this.”

“Good idea.” Miranda nodded, signalling her approval, glad he’d protected himself. Besides, she didn’t give a damn about her father’s money. He had plenty.

Being the daughter of an extremely rich man did have its benefits. As part of her preparations, Miranda had been able to casually drop a few thousand dollars at a time here and there without raising suspicion.

There was no mistake about it, though - the money he gave Miranda to spend was a symbol of his own vanity, not a kindness. She was his daughter. That meant she had to fit a certain image, or it would reflect poorly on him. She had to indulge in expensive tastes, dress well, buy and read rare books, play music on the most expensive piano, or else people might not be impressed by how inordinately wealthy he was.

He framed it like a reward for living up to his impossible standards, but really it was another means of controlling her. Miranda had no freedom in what she spent money on. It was a test. He’d only given her access to her own money so that he could see for himself how well he’d trained her - to prove that his little experiment would continue acting in accordance with his designs and his preferences even when he wasn’t watching her over her shoulder.

But he’d underestimated her. Her father always had. As long as she remembered to keep her stories consistent with the fake transactions on the bills, he would never suspect anything, even if he was secretly going through her spending with a fine tooth-comb, which he did, of course. Provided that she appeared to be spending money on purchases he approved of, he wouldn't question it. And Niket had taught her how to manipulate that data.

“You know, don’t take this the wrong way, but not everyone would resent your fate as much as you do,” Niket spoke frankly. “You have a nice house. Nice room. Nice clothes. Fucking...palatial gardens. Provided you don't piss him off, your Dad usually gives you enough money to buy anything you want, within his rules.”

“That makes up for being an experiment?” Miranda shot back instinctively.

“For some people, it would, yeah,” he pointed out with a shrug. “Don’t get me wrong, Miri. I’m not saying it’s great to be raised by a loveless jackass or that you’re wrong for hating him and wanting out, but there are plenty of people who would trade their life for yours in an instant. I mean, you’ve told me how he treats you. And, sure, he’s strict, but not to where you’d say he’s violent or he beats you. Some people aren’t that lucky.”

Wow. Miranda was hardly a sensitive person, but that comment was a dagger in her heart. She’d confided in Niket about her father’s cruelty because she trusted him. Nobody else knew, who wasn't an accomplice to it. To hear him downplay what she went through only twisted the knife her father had put there long ago.

“If those people want my life so much, they can have it,” said Miranda, trying not to show how deeply it hurt to hear Niket undermining everything she endured under her father's toxic influence. “It’s not my fault they don’t.”

“It's not about fault. It's about reality. Some people not only have shit fathers, but they get to be dirt poor too. I should know. It was my reality,” Niket countered, his words chastening Miranda into silence. She didn't know enough about the outside world to compare experiences. She barely knew anything about the outside world that she hadn't read in books, or learned about from a screen.

Maybe Niket was right. Maybe other people did have it worse than her. Far worse. Maybe she was selfish, ungrateful and privileged. Then again, she’d never told him her very real fear that her father might…murder her one day.

Niket could probably only imagine her father throwing her out on the street if she displeased him, or if he decided it was time to replace her. At worst, he probably expected her father might sell her off to some stranger to be their “daughter” instead of his. Killing her, though? That wasn’t something Niket would have predicted, unless she brought it up as a possibility. And Miranda hadn’t.

She didn’t want Niket to know of that risk. If he did, Miranda could picture him acting rashly to protect her, dismantling their carefully crafted escape plan.

Niket wasn't like her. He was more passionate than she was. More emotional. Normal, presumably. Miranda may not have understood normal people very well at all, but she did have feelings. And she knew well enough that getting emotional could cause a loss of control. Bad judgement. So what did that mean for someone who lacked her restraint? Someone who didn't have years of practice at suppressing their instincts? At suffocating those feelings?

Miranda couldn't trust what Niket might do if he had a reason to hate her father as much as she did. That was why it wasn’t worth telling him the truth. But, even so, he was the last person she would have expected to second-guess her desire to escape this gilded cage.

“I’ve never claimed to have the worst life in the world. I know I don’t,” Miranda continued, her voice quieter, defending herself as calmly as she could.

“No. Don’t worry about that,” Niket assured her, regretting his poor choice of words. “I’m not saying I…Look, when it comes to getting you out of here, I’m with you all the way. Don’t ever think I’m not. That’s not an issue with me.”

“Good,” said Miranda, still offended by the fact he’d even brought it up. He’d explicitly confirmed that all the things she’d told him about her father didn’t qualify him as a cruel man in his eyes, and that Miranda's problems weren't real problems. What more was there to say? “Then let’s not discuss it.”

“Miri…” He reached out to her apologetically, but she brushed him off.

“We don’t need to talk about this,” she stated firmly, smothering her own emotions, putting up her defences. “Just get it done.”

* * *

“Come on. Where are they?” Miranda complained, growing tired of waiting for the bulk of her team to catch up. Honestly, she was faster hobbling on a crutch than these grunts were at full fitness. With tanks. “Ox team, report. I need an ETA on those bulldozers. We're in search grid V-44A. What's taking you so bloody long to reach us?” Miranda asked, impatience starting to get the better of her.

She'd used up her last political favour to organise this effort. This was the last big chance they would have to find anyone alive. If this failed, there would be no do-overs. No second chances. As far as they ventured in the next three days would be as far as they would go for a while. It might be months before they expanded the habitable zone of London any further again.

Every second counted. They had to make the most of what little time they had.

“Apologies, Director Lawson,” the comms crackled in her ear. “We picked up some readings of instability in the area. Almost like seismic activity. Our crew is checking it out. We're waiting on an all clear from them before the vehicles advance. Don't want to open up a sinkhole by accident.”

“A warning would have been nice. Run a scan,” Miranda commanded the soldier on her right. She would have used her own omni-tool to do the job, but her arm was busy supporting her weight, and she didn't have a spare. The soldier dutifully obeyed. “We'll continue searching the area on foot ahead of you. Keep me updated on your progress. Time is short, and this debris won't clear itself. Find another path to us if you have to.”

“Roger that. Ox out.”

“Useless,” Miranda muttered under her breath. This was why she preferred to work alone. At least she knew she could rely on herself to get things done. But this was the kind of operation that required a lot of bodies on the ground. Hers was just one of several teams conducting their wide-scale push across the city. Jacob was leading one. Wrex another.

The efforts to coordinate between the Council races had also paid off. The human, asari and turian military forces on the ground had all organised their own teams as well. Miranda's team was even partially comprised of Alliance soldiers, but mostly those who had already been working in close concert with Bailey. Nobody really seemed to care that they were taking their orders from him. What mattered was that, in total, their search and rescue must have consisted of at least a thousand people, if not more. It was a start.

“I'm not reading anything. Then again, their scanners are stronger than mine,” the soldier on her right remarked. Miranda rolled her eye, deciding to make use of the people already with her, and do the rest herself.

Bailey wouldn't like her doing any heavy lifting. Miranda was useful to him, after all. If she got hurt, he lost a valuable asset. But screw it. He could sanction her if he had a problem with it.

“You, do a full sweep of that building. You, over there,” she commanded, gesturing with her crutch, splitting the relief crew off into groups to search the street for survivors, supplies and paths through the wreckage. That way, the demolition, clearance and salvage teams could plough through without wasting any more valuable time when they finally did arrive. “You two, come with me,” she instructed impatiently, heading into a dilapidated ruin of a building personally, not bothering to wait for the bulldozers.

“Yes, Director Lawson.” Everyone followed her orders without question, including the two Alliance soldiers who began to follow her.

It was the middle of the day, but the skies were still dark from the dust. Miranda hadn't forgotten how difficult it was to tell time in the wasteland. Even the brightest hours of the day felt like dusk. And it was cold. It was always cold now.

Miranda approached the only building that hadn't half-collapsed. An office block, with a lobby and reception area on the ground floor. Its exterior was still largely intact, bar the windows, which were all gone, shattered during the battle. Parts of the outer walls had come down, exposing the insides, as if a Reaper had blasted a hole in one side of the building.

“Get a light in there, would you?” Miranda instructed. One of the soldiers complied, the other continuing to run scans as he had before. The flashlight washed over the inside of the building. It was a mess. Some of the upper floors had fallen down into the lobby. Broken desks, computers, wires and lights hung from a half-broken ceiling. The sad thing was, that was a vast improvement over most places they'd come across. At least this one was still standing.

“Director Lawson, my scan couldn't penetrate too deep, but I'm detecting a possible source of the instability,” the male soldier, Alexei Resnikov, told her. “There are cavernous openings right below us.”

“Cavernous openings?” his squadmate echoed, a woman named Keiko Yoshizawa. “You mean the London underground? Or a car park? Here on Earth, we don't all travel by skycar, space cowboy. It's not like a space station. In case you haven't noticed, some of us still use roads and rails to get around.”

“How rustic,” Resnikov remarked with a snort.

“Knock it off,” Miranda ordered, bringing their pointless chatter to a swift and sudden end. “You mentioned the underground. We haven't been able to access it this far out. But if there is a station near here, that would be a likely place to find survivors. It's safe, it may still have leftover food and water, and the tunnels provide an easy path across the city. Until you hit the cave-ins, anyway.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.” Yoshizawa nodded, bringing up a holographic map. “We're heading in the right direction. The nearest one isn’t far from here. Cutting through this place is probably the easiest way, since the streets are blocked.”

“Why are you standing around like you're waiting for a taxi, then? Get moving,” Miranda spoke curtly, prompting the two soldiers to go on ahead of her. They didn't hesitate to comply.

She followed them into the lobby. It was even darker than outside, the air filled with a heavy cloud of particles. Miranda paused long enough to lift up her scarf, covering her nose and mouth. Ceiling panels and broken light fixtures were dangling down from the floor above, like vines in a thick jungle. Thankfully, there was no electricity to worry about. But it still required a little caution not to get tangled up in the wires as they moved through.

Resnikov and Yoshizawa's torches were the only light source, beams flashing through the shadow as they examined the scene. They made it maybe halfway across the floor before their path hit a dead end.

“This could be a problem,” said Resnikov, torchlight finding no longer finding any promising gaps they could manoeuvre through. “The upper floors have completely caved in ahead of us. We're blocked.”

“There's an elevator shaft,” Yoshizawa pointed out, nudging her beam of light towards it. “Given this building has underground parking, there should be a ramp or a stairwell to take us out the other side.”

“Should be?” Resnikov emphasised, clearly sceptical. “Look, I already saw an entrance ramp near where we came in, and that was totally clogged. If there is another exit, we can't guarantee it won't be blocked by rubble too.”

“So let's check,” Yoshizawa insisted.

“Pry the lift open,” Miranda ordered, willing to chance it. Yoshizawa set to work.

A slight tremor passed through the building. Dust sprinkled down from above.

“Did you feel that?” asked Resnikov.

“Nothing to worry about,” Miranda assured him, shaking her head, clearing the dirt from her hair, blinking it out of her eye. “We're not going to be in here for long.” Even as she spoke, the strange ripple coursed through the foundations once again. She furrowed her brow. “...Wait a moment. That isn't coming from above us,” she observed, concentrating on the subtle disturbance.

It happened again, shaking the ground beneath her feet. These tremors were happening in steady intervals, their tempo too precise to be something random. It almost sounded like a slow, low-pitched drumbeat.

“It feels like there's something underneath us,” said Resnikov.

“Whatever it is, it's sending out a pulse of some kind,” Miranda murmured, thinking aloud. “A signal, maybe.” If she was right about this, that would suggest there really were survivors in the tunnels. Perhaps these vibrations were somebody's way of trying to get the attention of anyone on the surface.

“Alright. We're clear.” Yoshizawa backed away from the doors after wrenching them apart as far as they would go, gesturing for the two of them to go ahead.

Miranda took a quick look inside. The fortunate thing about this building being largely intact was that the lift didn't seem to have been destroyed, meaning there were no obstructions at the bottom of the shaft. By sheer luck, the steel cables were still in one piece, supporting the weight of the elevator, which must have been hanging somewhere above her, frozen due to lack of power.

It was odd to still see an elevator with this design. Miranda had forgotten how low-tech parts of Earth could be, especially in old cities like London, where past architecture often survived through retrofitting, or, as in the case of the underground, a sense of tradition.

This building may have stood largely unchanged for a hundred years, for all Miranda knew. Maybe longer.

“Hold this,” Miranda stated. It wasn’t a request, giving her crutch to Yoshizawa before the soldier could ask what she intended. Miranda biotic-pulled the cables towards her, rappelling down the shaft and swinging out onto the level below. The landing wasn't particularly gentle on her knee, which was nowhere near healing from the shuttle accident, but she could live with the discomfort. It was dark down there. Pitch black, almost. But she saw sunlight ahead.

“You were right. There is a way out,” she told them, lowering her scarf long enough to be heard, leaning against the wall to take the weight off her leg while she waited for them to follow her lead. Part of the wall on the far side of the building had collapsed, leaving a hole and a pile of rubble that led back up to the surface. Probably where an emergency stairwell used to be.

“What would you have done if there wasn't?” Yoshizawa asked on her way down.

“Climb,” Miranda answered bluntly. She was one-armed and wounded, but she wasn't useless, for heaven's sake.

She felt the tremor again. It seemed louder than before.

It was oddly familiar to her, but far too faint to place. What was it? It was like a word on the tip of her tongue. If she could just put her finger on it...

Soon enough, the three of them made it back to the surface, manoeuvring around debris on their way to the station, which wasn’t far ahead. If someone was using the tunnels to get around, Miranda admired their cleverness. It would have saved her a lot of trouble if she could have done the same, but alas she hadn't found an intact tube station during those five days she spent crawling through the wasteland. Intellectually, she was sure she would have passed more than one, but they must have been buried under debris, or otherwise inaccessible.

On the other hand, if she'd gotten stuck down there, Samara never would have found her. Given the state of her injuries, even if there had been one nearby with any food and water left, it probably wouldn't have kept Miranda alive. She would have succumbed to her wounds eventually, and died alone of sepsis. Her bad luck had been good fortune, as it turned out.

“That's it right there,” Resnikov pointed out, approaching the steps that led to the underground. They were partially obstructed – debris from the very building they'd just left, most likely.

“Stand back,” Miranda said, using her biotics to clear a path into the station, blasting away the pile of loose rubble that blocked the entrance. It was then that something clicked in her mind.

Of course. Miranda knew what the sound she'd heard before was. That was why it seemed so familiar.

Detonations. Someone was causing biotic detonations down there.

But for what purpose?

“Still plenty to scavenge here,” said Resnikov, his flashlight moving over to a small, abandoned kiosk. The security grating had already been bent by looters, probably months ago. But they hadn't taken everything. “Hey, Tupari. Love this stuff.”

“I only drink Paragade,” Yoshizawa remarked.

“Your loss.” Resnikov bent down beneath the warped security shutter and picked up a can, stowing it away for later.

“There's that sound again,” Yoshizawa commented as they passed through the ticketing gates, heading down the stairs and towards the station platforms, following the sound. She activated her omni-tool, analysing the noise. “There. It's coming from that tunnel. North of here.”

Yoshizawa jumped down onto the tracks, quickly followed by Resnikov. Miranda ignored Resnikov's unspoken offer of assistance, easing herself down unaided.

This wasn't the first time Miranda had explored the underground since getting back on her feet. Her first search and rescue operation under Bailey's command had taken her through the carcass of a train, not far from Paddington station. Their hopes of finding anyone holed up inside the carriage had quickly dwindled when they realised the train had been swarmed by Reaper forces long before the final battle. There were no survivors.

“Hello?” Resnikov called out, his voice reverberating off the walls. “Is anybody there?” Squeaking rats scurried through the darkness. Miranda hid her growing physical discomfort as she limped behind her troops.

Yoshizawa went on ahead, leaving Resnikov to help light Miranda's way. Miranda watched her silhouette head further into the hollow, claustrophobic chamber, the small circle of light hitting the walls ahead. Abruptly, the sound happened again. This time, it shook the ground they were standing on.

“Director! That was right ahead of us!” Yoshizawa instinctively rushed towards the noise, disappearing around a bend in the tunnel. Miranda hastened after her, listening to the young soldier speak with whoever it was that was causing these detonations. “Hello? Can you hear me?” Yoshizawa paused. “It's alright; I'm a rescuer. I'm with two others right now, but there's more above us.”

That confirmed it then. There were survivors down here.

She came around the corner to see Yoshizawa at a thick blockage in the tunnel. It looked like part of the road above had collapsed, leaving an impassable obstacle of concrete, metal and earth. Probably the footprint of a Reaper.

“Please! You have to help us,” a muffled voice pleaded from behind the debris. Miranda could barely make it out, even as she got closer. But she sounded young. Younger than Oriana. “We're stuck back here!”

“Keep them calm; I'll call it in,” Miranda ordered. “Sweep team, we have survivors trapped in a collapsed metro tunnel in grid V-44A. We need a drill to get them out.”

“You're going to be fine,” Yoshizawa answered back to the anxious voice. “Just hold tight. We'll dig you out of here.”

“Teach, they're telling us to stop,” another voice spoke, a male this time. “Maybe you should cool it with the detonations? You've been at this for way too long. You're going to wear yourself out at this rate.”

“No. Screw that,” a third voice sharply replied. Older than the others, but no less impetuous. “Seanne needs help now, Prangley. Not later. I'm sure as hell not sitting here in the dark counting on a bunch of assholes who can't do a damn thing to help us to be our only way out. We're doing this my way!”

The entire tunnel shook as a brutal burst of biotic force smashed into the wall.

Miranda whirled around, startled by the shockwave that rocked the ground underfoot. “What the hell is wrong with you?! Are you trying to get us all killed?!” she shouted through the obstruction, livid at the woman’s recklessness.

“If I stop, Seanne dies!” the obscured voice answered back, followed by another biotic combination. Chips of concrete and dust sprayed everywhere. With so little time to react, Miranda didn't know whether she should prioritise keeping her balance or shielding her eye from the fallout. Instinctively, she ended up choosing the latter when a second strike occurred.

A small shard of concrete grazed her cheek, opening a cut. With one last roar, the rogue biotic slammed into the obstruction, finally blowing open a gap in the debris. Miranda saw her shadow fall forwards, onto her outstretched palms, panting for breath, visibly worn out.

The woman arose from the ground, onto her knees, holding up a hand and squinting against the blindingly bright beams of light that Yoshizawa and Resnikov were pointing at her, both soldiers staring at her, too stunned to move.

Miranda's breath caught.

It couldn't be.

This wasn't possible.

“Ow. Hey, cool it with the damn flashlights, will you?” the figure groaned in discomfort, turning away to let her eyes adjust after living in darkness for so long.

“Jack?” Miranda said in disbelief, astonished to see that all too familiar face.

Judging by the silence that followed, Jack recognised Miranda's voice immediately, now that there was no wall blocking the sound. “Oh, fu—crying out loud...” Jack reluctantly swallowed the urge to curse in front of her kids. Of all the people she could have run into...

Miranda quickly recovered from the shock.

“What were you thinking?!” Miranda scolded, marching right up to Jack, despite her impairment. Not the consummate professionalism her soldiers expected from her, but her anger was warranted. “Do you have any idea how unstable the buildings are above us? This whole area is on the verge of collapsing in on itself! While you were blasting away like a lunatic, this entire tunnel could have caved in on top of you, and taken me and my people with it.”

“So? It didn't. I didn't know you were up there, anyway.” Jack shrugged as she stood up, doing her best to block out the headache-inducing onslaught of those torches shining directly into her face, barely even able to make out Miranda's silhouette, despite standing right in front of her. “Hey you, point those fucking things somewhere else,” she grumbled at Miranda's team, clearly a threat.

“Language, teach,” one of Jack's group spoke up.

“Ah, ffff...” Jack trailed off into a groan.

“You'd been doing so well, too,” another student joked.

“Hey, laugh it up later. We aren't out of here yet. And we still need to get Seanne to a doctor,” Jack said, her tone stern but fair, calmer now that they'd made contact with someone she knew, even if it wasn't someone she liked. She turned back to Miranda, her eyes still adjusting to the light. “Isn't that the part where you come in? What's the hold up, cheerleader?” she asked, gesturing at her to hurry it up.

Miranda shook her head and sighed with exasperation, activating her earpiece once more. “Ox, this is Lawson. Belay that order on the machinery. It's no longer necessary,” she informed them. “We're extracting the survivors on foot.”

“Roger,” the earpiece crackled in reply. “We'll meet you back at the square.”

Miranda closed the channel, glancing at her old squadmate. “I'll get you and your students the help you need. You're welcome, by the way,” Miranda muttered.

She heard Jack snort. “I never thanked you.”

“I noticed,” Miranda curtly replied.

“Yo, you two know each other?” one of Jack's students asked, the entire group of them beginning to emerge through the hole behind her one after the other. There weren't that many. Probably ten all up.

“We're acquainted,” Miranda answered dryly.

Jack uttered a sardonic snort, evidently having more choice words in mind to describe her history with Miranda. To her credit, she refrained from sharing them. This wasn't the time. Not with her kids depending on her. That didn't escape Miranda's attention. It was a far cry from what the old Jack would have done.

In that moment, in the torchlight, Miranda saw Jack wiping beads of sweat from her brow. It was no secret that using biotics consumed a lot of energy. Biotics who actively used their powers might have to eat three times more than a normal person just to function, if not more. Jack was holding herself together admirably, but she looked drained. Miranda softened, reminded of how she'd battled with exhaustion during her own struggle to survive.

“Resnikov, give her that Tupari of yours,” Miranda said, thinking that might help Jack recover some blood sugar.

“Sure thing, Ms. Lawson,” Resnikov responded, handing Jack the can.

“...I could use a boost,” Jack reluctantly murmured, which was about the closest she could get to an admission of gratitude, at least where Miranda was concerned. She cracked open the drink, and started chugging it.

“We should get moving,” said Miranda, shifting focus to what mattered. This place didn't exactly scream stability. “I don't want to stay in this tunnel longer than we need to. Resnikov, Yoshizawa, give Jack's students a hand, would you?”

“Will do,” Yoshizawa responded, nodding her head, she and her comrade heading over towards the small gap in the debris, where the students were awkwardly squeezing their way through the hole one by one.

Jack's eyes widened when the two passing torches suddenly washed over Miranda's form. She nearly choked on her drink, taken aback when she finally saw her old squadmate illuminated as more than a dark silhouette hidden in shadow.

“Whoa. Holy shit. What the hell happened to you?” Jack coughed to clear the mis-swallowed drink from her throat, startled at the sight of Miranda's extensive injuries. She hadn't been expecting that.

“Looks worse than it is.” Miranda turned away, not sure she wanted to hear Jack's take on her condition. Not that she was bothered by how she looked. She just knew Jack would have a bloody field day with it.

“Yeah, no shit. 'Cause you look like you should be dead. I mean, seriously, what the fuck? Did you get in a fist fight with a thresher maw?” Jack questioned, in what sounded like a snicker, shock quickly giving way to twisted humour.

“Something like that,” Miranda drawled offhandedly, only half-listening to Jack's comments, concentrating on counting heads as Resnikov and Yoshizawa tended to the students. Jack's mockery didn't really matter to her. She had other priorities.

“Hey, if you ask me, having half your face blown off is a huge improvement.” Jack shrugged casually. “For you, anyway. Garrus would say it gives you character.”

“Right,” Miranda distractedly replied, scarcely paying attention.

“How bad's the scar?” Jack asked, trying to glimpse beneath the bandages.

“Don't know. Hasn't healed yet,” Miranda answered, gradually losing patience.

“From the looks of things, I bet it's real fuckin' ugly,” Jack said, smirking.

“Are you done?” Miranda ignored the comment, already bored with this.

“Not even close. I haven't even started making fun of your arm yet.” Jack grinned mischievously, enjoying this way too much to quit anytime soon. “Want me to shut up? Clap once for yes, zero times for no.”

Miranda just stared at her expressionlessly, not offended but not amused.

“Instructor?” a young woman called out. Miranda glanced up to see several of the students huddled over one of their own, the last one to be brought through the gap Jack had created. All appeared desperately worried. Their friend looked faint. Pale. Almost green. “Seanne's getting worse again. She's burning up.”

“I know, Rodriguez. You did good, taking care of her. But these jerks will handle it from here,” Jack spoke, calm and confident. “Drink your juice, and let them carry her. Except you, Reiley. You can stay by her side. Miranda will make sure she gets all the help she needs. Or, if she doesn't, I'll punch a hole in her stomach,” Jack assured them, and Miranda knew that threat was a guarantee.

In Jack's mind, anyway.

“No need for that,” Miranda said, having no intention of impeding the girl's treatment. “Let's get moving. The sweep team will meet us on the surface. They'll take your friend to a hospital.”

“Okay.” Rodriguez nodded, comforted by that promise. The boy they’d identified as Reiley gave Seanne's hand a gentle squeeze, staying by her side as Resnikov and Yoshizawa picked her up, draping her arms over their shoulders. The poor girl could barely walk. She probably didn't even know where she was.

“The station's not far,” Miranda said, limping alongside Jack, ahead of the others. It was good that they were getting an opportunity to speak before meeting the rest of the team. Despite their strained history, there were details she wanted to know from her, and she was sure Jack could say the same.

Over a month had passed since the war ended. Jack didn't know a damn thing about what had happened in that time. About Shepard, and the Normandy...

“These are all your students?” Miranda asked, aware of Jack's role as a mentor to gifted biotics in the Ascension Program. She'd learned about that long ago, having kept tabs on her former squadmates while she was on the run from Cerberus, to the extent that it was possible to do so. Jack had spoken fondly about her 'tykes’ back at Shepard's apartment on the Citadel. That makeshift reunion seemed like a world away. It was strange to think how recent it was.

Shepard had invited them all to that party, gathering the whole gang together on a whim, knowing it would be the last opportunity to do something like that before they took on Cerberus and the Reapers. Back then, Miranda had wondered how many of those faces would never see the light of day again. Now, she knew at least part of that answer, but the fates of all but a handful of their group were a mystery.

“Yeah. These are my kids. All the ones who lived.” Jack instantly dropped what remained of her joking demeanour, an uncomfortable hint of stark seriousness crossing her face. Miranda recognised the shift in her expression – it betrayed the presence of a deep sense of responsibility.

She blamed herself for everyone she'd lost, a burden Miranda knew too well. The difference was, Jack actually cared about the people under her command. She loved those kids. And she'd had to watch some of them die.

“What happened?” Miranda encouraged, urging her to share her story.

“We were stationed a ways south of here during the fighting, managed to escape north when the big wave hit. There was an outpost near us. Emphasis on was. Went there first, but no survivors. We holed up there for a while because it had some food and water. We figured, if anyone else had survived, somebody would fly over and spot us eventually, but nobody ever did. Once there was nothing left above, I came down to the tunnels; I figured the train lines were our best chance of crossing the city,” she explained.

“You were probably right. Much of the surface is impassable, and our search and rescue teams would have had no chance of reaching you. This is the first time we've gone so far northeast,” Miranda commented. “You would have been stranded out there. Staying above ground would have meant certain death. It nearly was for me.”

“Not sure this was much better,” Jack mumbled to herself, crushing the empty Tupari can and throwing it aside, her frustration becoming evident. “I thought it was a good deal. I mean, we found shit to eat and drink, they were safe places to sleep in, and there's not as many dead things as there are in the streets. But we'd always hit blocks in the tunnels. We'd either find another station nearby, or dig our way through. Eventually, I figured we'd be better off staying in one place for a while. Hunker down. Try to radio out or something.” Jack drew a deep breath, releasing it in a heavy sigh. “But I fucked up. I got too comfortable, and I stayed put when I should have been making ground.”

“How do you mean?” Miranda pressed.

“A few days ago, Seanne started throwing up,” Jack told her. “For a while, I thought it was best to keep her in one place and hope it would pass. But it's gotten worse. Her fever is out of control. I know she's dehydrated, but any fluid we give her won't stay down. She just vomits it up again. Her brother has to sit there and watch her waste away. I don't know if it was dirty water or if the rats got to her...”

“Don't worry. A drip in her arm will do her a world of good,” Miranda assured her. Jack looked down at her feet, visibly troubled to think she'd caused this – that she might lose another student, through nothing but her own poor judgement.

Jack shook her head, hating how powerless she felt. “Shit, it's my fault. I should have moved faster,” she said, wishing she'd had the sense to realise that something like this might happen. “I could have gotten her to you days ago.”

“Don't blame yourself. You didn't even know we were there,” Miranda reminded her. It was in Miranda's nature to be critical of others, thanks to her father's influence. But she knew how hard it was to navigate the wastes. How desolate they were. How easy it was to get lost, or think you were the last person alive. “You did the best you could for her, and now you've found us. I'll pull whatever strings I can to ensure she gets the best care possible.”

Jack slowly nodded, swallowing as she absorbed that reassurance, setting her mind to the thought that Seanne was going to be okay. For as many issues as she'd had with Miranda, she knew she wouldn't have said any of those things just to be nice to her. Far from it. If she thought Jack was at fault, she would have been the first person to tell her everything she did wrong. Miranda wouldn't have told her things were okay unless she meant it. She took some comfort from that. Everything really was under control now. They were over the worst bit.

“...Yeah. Yeah,” was all Jack said, lost in her own thoughts.

Miranda's expression softened, well aware that this was the most genuine moment she and Jack had ever shared. Not that there was any competition. The loss of so many friends, and the near-destruction of an entire galaxy could put a lot of things into perspective like that.

“Jack?” Miranda spoke again, prompting her to look up. “I'm glad you're okay,” she admitted, willing to be the bigger person in this situation, and to extend the olive branch. And, oddly enough, she actually meant it.

Jack uttered a quiet but authentic laugh, letting her head fall back for a moment. “Yeah, you too,” Jack conceded. Strange, but true. “You're still a cunt, though.”

“Well, we can't change everything,” Miranda remarked, choosing to take that as a term of endearment rather than an insult. Judging from the light chuckle she gave, Jack probably intended it to be both.

For as irreconcilable as their differences had once seemed, they had parted on comparatively good terms the last time they met. Certainly, their brief interactions at Shepard's apartment hadn't magically transformed them into friends or anything like that, but it seemed to have quelled the bulk of the animosity between them, resulting in something perhaps not far removed from mutual respect and tolerance. They appeared to have reached the point where they could mostly co-exist, without lingering feelings of hostility. Miranda could live with that.

“Found anyone else of ours?” Jack asked, breaking Miranda's train of thought.

“No. Well, yes, but...What I mean is, before you, I was the most recent find,” Miranda clarified. “Samara brought me out of ground zero. Saved my life. That was four weeks ago. Jacob was already at the camp. Wrex is there, too. They're both fine. Physically, at least. Since I woke up, Samara's...disappeared, for unknown reasons. We think she's still alive. Everyone else? Not so fortunate. They're all unaccounted for.”

“Ah, shit.” Jack scuffed the ground with her boot. Miranda paused, wondering if she should share the news about Shepard's demise, but she thought better of it. This wasn't the right time. It would only upset her.

Honestly, Miranda didn't like to dwell on it, either. As far as she knew, the four of them were all that remained of the Normandy SR-2.

Her morose ruminations were swiftly silenced. A vicious crack echoed throughout the tunnel, as loud as thunder. She whirled around instinctively, as did Jack, unable to tell where it was coming from. Yoshizawa and Resnikov shone their lights back down the tracks. In the glow, Miranda saw dust trickle from the ceiling, from the same direction where Jack had demolished the blockage.

Oh, bloody hell.

“The tunnel's falling apart. This whole area could cave in at any moment,” Miranda spoke, her firm tone punctuated with an undercurrent of creeping urgency.

“Fuck,” she heard Jack curse beside her, realising she may have triggered this in her reckless haste to get Seanne into the hands of someone who could cure her sickness. “Come on! Double time it!”

Even if they weren't directly under the most precarious point, none of them wanted to take that risk, nor be trapped down there if anything should happen. All it would take was a building being tilted too far to one side, and then countless tonnes of collapsing concrete, glass and metal could leave them trapped inside. If they were lucky enough to survive.

They couldn't afford to let that happen.

“Move, move, move!” Jack pushed the students to run past her. Miranda also made sure Yoshizawa and Resnikov carried Seanne ahead of them, not about to leave anyone behind. Not again. Suddenly, Miranda felt a sharp pain in her injured shoulder. “You too, you crippled motherfucker,” Jack said.

“Hey!” Miranda instinctively protested through gritted teeth when she saw Jack draping her bandaged stump of an arm over her shoulder, all but carrying her out of there. God, it hurt. “Let me go.”

“Fuck that. Joker moves faster than you do,” Jack pointed out.

Miranda couldn't really argue with that. She couldn't run with her left knee practically demolished on the inside.

Miranda swallowed a gasp of pain, trying not to show how much her body was killing her. It felt like Jack was going to tear what little was left of her arm clear out of the socket, or snap her already wounded leg clear in two. Still, she could see the platform getting closer by the second. They'd made it back to the station in one piece, not far behind the others.

Jack jumped up first, extending her hand to pull Miranda up onto the platform behind her, the two of them ascending the stairs to the upper level. They'd made it about halfway through the concourse before Miranda heard the sound from the tunnels below. The very place where they'd been standing a minute ago was no doubt now completely buried under a mountain of earth, bitumen, concrete and twisted metal. It was a good thing they'd left when they did.

“I think we're in the clear for now,” Miranda said, wincing as she gingerly made her way out of the underground and into the ash-clouded sunlight.

“Director Lawson?” Miranda heard a voice over her earpiece. “What the hell was that? Are you okay?”

“We're fine here, Ox. One of the train tunnels collapsed. Fortunately, we weren't in it,” she informed them, taking her last few steps back out onto the street, easing herself back against a nearby skybus shelter, keeping the weight off her throbbing knee, her body reminding her just how injured she still was. “We've located eleven survivors. One critically ill. Can you get through to us at the station?”

“Negative, Director. With that tunnel caving in beneath you, this whole street is one giant catastrophe waiting to happen. Protocols prevent us from moving the dozers in your direction right now, which means we can't get to you. It's simply too dangerous,” the Ox team commander answered back.

Miranda hesitated. Objectively speaking, she understood their decision, and they were only obeying her earlier commands by keeping those priorities in order. But that left them stranded in a precarious position. If the ground shifted again, any one of these buildings could come crashing down on top of them.

“Is there another way around?” Miranda asked over the communicator.

“Another way? We don't have time for another way!” Jack pressed, as if that should have been obvious. “Our best bet is to cut through one of these buildings right now and meet them wherever they are.”

“Jack, please.” Miranda silenced her, focused on her conversation. She couldn't rush this decision. She needed to think. Exasperated, Jack threw her hands up in the air and began to pace back and forth impatiently, Seanne's health weighing heavily on her mind.

“I suppose we could circumvent the area, or try to meet you somewhere else, but honestly there's no telling how long that might take, or if those other paths to you are any safer,” the Ox team coordinator told her straightforwardly. “Besides, that still leaves you in a danger zone. Even if we hurry, it's risky.”

“Look, listen to me,” Jack began, coming back to her once more, trying to present as calm and rational of a demeanour as she could manage. “These structures are already unstable. The longer we sit here and wait, the shakier they're gonna get.” Miranda could hear the undercurrent of emotion in her voice. Jack was doing a good job of staying composed, no doubt knowing Miranda might disregard her advice otherwise. She did tend to be more amenable to a plan presented without yelling or swearing. “So why wait? Let's just punch through here nice and quick. Get out now, while this block still stands.”

Miranda paused, considering her words. A few months ago, she wouldn't have given her input much if any consideration. But that was a different time. Jack really had changed since then.

She wasn't the selfish, violent psychopath Miranda had met last year. Far from it. Instead, Jack had helped her without a second thought, making damn sure everyone got out of that tunnel in one piece. Hell, maybe the person Miranda once thought Jack was never existed. Maybe she'd always been wrong about her.

Plus, it wasn’t lost on Miranda that Jack had managed to do something she hadn’t during the war. She’d kept people alive.

Miranda’s breath shallowed, remembering the faces that haunted her nightmares. The team she’d led to Earth. The Alliance soldiers she’d fought beside at the barricade. The shuttle crew that had come to her rescue. One by one, they’d followed Miranda to their end, like lemmings off the edge of a cliff. Weren’t there enough deaths on her hands?

In that silent moment of reflection and regret, Miranda did something she’d never done before. She second-guessed herself.

“Alright,” Miranda agreed, making the decision to trust Jack's judgement over her own. “There's a car park underneath that building. That's how we reached you. The ramp is obstructed on the other side, but we can climb up through the elevator shaft. Once we're out, the rest of my team should be waiting for us there.”

Jack seemed relieved, though Miranda had a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn't have mattered whether she supported her idea or not. Knowing Jack, she would have disregarded any order to stay put.

“Remain where you are, Ox. We're going to try and reach you. Better that a few of us move through this area on foot than risk the bulldozers triggering a reaction that threatens us all,” Miranda informed them, straightening up once again. “When I return, we'll resume our operations on a different route.”

“Copy that. We'll keep our heavy machinery at a distance just to be safe, but a few of us can head your way to help get the survivors to safety.”

“One survivor is in critical condition. She needs an urgent evac,” Miranda relayed, not sure Seanne would be able to survive the journey back without medical attention. She didn't fail to notice Jack watching her as she spoke to her team, an unreadable expression on her face. Miranda turned away, electing to ignore her.

“Noted. We've already radioed for an emergency medical shuttle. Should be here soon, so just get her to us and we'll load her on. In any event, we'll make sure some medics are there to meet you.”

Miranda breathed a small sigh. That was all they could do. “Alright. Lawson out.”

“Let's go,” Jack didn't hesitate to instruct her kids, eager to get Seanne into proper care. Resnikov carried her through the street and down the loose slope of rubble into the car park unassisted, Yoshizawa focusing on lighting the way once they made it inside.

“Resnikov, you should take Seanne up first,” Miranda advised, recognising that getting the poor girl into the hands of a medic could make a huge difference to her odds of survival. “Get her to the rest of the team and have them bring her to a hospital. Letting her wait here for the rest of us is only an unnecessary delay.”

“I'll need someone else to help me get her up the shaft,” Resnikov answered.

“Reiley should go with her,” Jack spoke up, gesturing to him. “He's her brother.”

“Fair enough.” Miranda nodded. That was as good a reason as any. Without delay, Reiley went into the shaft, scaling the tight space with the aid of the cables. Seanne was still aware enough that she could extend her hands under her own power, letting her brother pull her up, while Resnikov pushed from below.

“We're up,” Resnikov called down. “I'll come back in a few minutes.”

“Hopefully we'll be out by then,” Yoshizawa answered. “Alright. Who's next?”

Two more students went up the cables. Miranda had a good internal clock, which was normally a blessing, but in this case made her uneasy as she took note of how long this evacuation would take. Six more students had to go, followed by herself, Jack and Yoshizawa. She knew why this space made her so tense. If something went wrong, this basement car park was not the place they wanted to be.

“Jack,” Miranda spoke in hushed tones, subtly pulling her aside in the darkness. “Now that Seanne is in good hands, the rest of us should consider taking the long way around,” she suggested. None of them had any pressing need to hurry.

“Why?” Jack shrugged. “We're, what, ten minutes away from getting out?”

“Maybe, but it does occur to me that we're right above that tunnel you inadvertently destroyed,” Miranda pointed out. “Call me overcautious, but that knowledge doesn't exactly make me comfortable about standing here for any prolonged period of time.”

“Don't be a pussy,” Jack said with a snort.

“Better than being dead,” Miranda retorted. Jack blew her off, moving to be with her students. So much for that conversation.

“Okay, you're next.” Yoshizawa gestured for the girl named Rodriguez to come forward. Miranda approached them, standing among the remnants of the group, contemplating running a structural scan on the building, if only to disprove her own doubts. Maybe Jack was right. Maybe she was just being paranoid.

Rodriguez reached out for the cables, a little unsteady on her feet. She caught one, but seemed reluctant to go into the dark space alone. Miranda had noticed consistent signs of anxiety in the girl. She reminded herself to have all these kids scheduled to meet with a crisis counsellor later for a mental health assessment, overburdened though those services were. Post-traumatic stress disorder certainly wasn't out of the realm of possibility for any of—

Suddenly her non-deaf ear pricked up, her thoughts snapping into silence.

Rodriguez flinched and glanced up. “What was that?” she gasped.

Miranda heard it too.

“What was wh—?”

“Get back!” Miranda darted past Yoshizawa, hastily pulling Rodriguez away from the doors, sending them both tumbling to the floor. They escaped the impact by mere moments, Miranda shielding the girl with her body as best she could.

Metal crashed into concrete with crushing force. A concussive blast resonated through the cold, dark space in a deafening echo. Miranda didn't need to guess what had happened. One of the elevator cables had snapped, and the lift had slammed into the ground. From a long way up, it seemed.

“Holy shit,” Jack's voice broke the silence, stunned with shock.

Miranda released a sigh of relief. Wounded though she was, her reflexes were still as fast as ever. She groaned as she picked herself up, resting back on her good knee. “You okay?” Miranda asked with a grimace, checking on Rodriguez.

“Yeah. Thanks,” the girl answered, shell-shocked, but unharmed. “What about you?” she asked in return, not so sure she could say the same about her saviour.

Miranda stifled a wince, trying not to let it show just how badly her body hurt after doing that. “I'll be fine. Just give me a minute.” She waved her off, not quite sure her leg wouldn't just buckle underneath her if she tried to stand.

Rodriguez didn't question her, silently handing Miranda her crutch for whenever she was ready to use it. She got back to her feet, giving Miranda her space.

Jack watched on. Miranda could feel her scrutiny, feel those eyes assessing her. She was painfully conscious of it, in fact.

Jack was the only one among them who knew what Miranda was capable of before the war. She'd seen her at her strongest. To everyone else, the fact that Miranda could do anything at all must have made her seem like a superwoman, which wasn't entirely inaccurate to be fair. But not Jack. Jack could recognise just how badly Miranda was struggling. How much pain she would have to be in to be unable to stand. How much weaker she truly was.

From her silence, Miranda knew it was already too late. Jack had seen through her efforts to keep it hidden as soon as her mask had slipped. The only saving grace was that Miranda was quietly confident that Jack wouldn't give a shit.

“Well, I guess we're not climbing out,” Yoshizawa broke the silence, shining her torch in the shaft. Sure enough, the cables were broken now.

Suddenly, Miranda heard a shrill, high-pitched scream. Followed by another, and another. The sound crescendoed, like the swell of a rising wave, voices yelling out in horror, but their cries were drowned out by sickening cracks from above. Yoshizawa pointed her flashlight upwards. What Miranda saw there made her blood turn cold, and the rest of her freeze in place.

The floor above them was crumbling. The entire building was breaking apart. And it was coming down on top of them.

People often said stupid things about how time slowed when death was imminent. Miranda could attest otherwise. It happened incredibly fast. Too fast for even her to possibly react, even with her heightened reflexes. She heard the upper levels cascading down on top of each other, entire storeys sliding loose and falling into the streets below, the levels of the building collapsing in on themselves one by one. Dust and debris rained down from above, filling up the elevator shaft. Deep gashes burst open in the ceiling as the immense mass bore down upon them.

Miranda instinctively raised her hand and looked away, realising it was too late. But nothing happened. Seconds passed, and she was still alive.

A faint blue glow washed across her face, prompting her to glance up and scan the area. All she could hear was the thunderous pounding of her own heartbeat, her thoughts racing to assess the situation.

Then she saw it. Miranda was awestruck.

Jack was single-handedly holding up the building, using only her biotics.

“What in the...How are you doing that...?” Yoshizawa gasped in awe.

Jack grimaced, her body shaking as blue biotic light dimly illuminated the darkness around her. “Whatever you're going to do, do it fast. I don't know how long I can hold this.”

Miranda knew that was no exaggeration. Frankly, it was a miracle she was doing this at all. Anyone else would have been flattened instantly. Anyone else but the most powerful human biotic ever to live.

A quick glance at their surroundings revealed that the way they'd just come in was sealed shut, too much debris having fallen behind Jack. That meant the other exit was their best hope – the only chance they had. But they wouldn't get anywhere unless Ox team could help dig them out from the other side.

“Over there!” Miranda pointed to their best way out, pushing herself up to her feet, leaning heavily on her crutch. “Everybody move as fast as you can. We'll need to dig our way out,” she urged, and Yoshizawa didn't hesitate to follow her direction.

“Come with me!” the soldier commanded, leading Jack's students towards the debris blocking the ramp. They quickly began pulling at every loose bit of rubble they could find, grabbing nearby bits of steel to help wedge fallen chunks of concrete out of place.

Miranda activated her earpiece. “Resnikov, do you read me?”

“Yeah. We're all okay over here. The top part of the building just collapsed and fell off, but it looks like it stabilised somehow,” Resnikov replied back.

“From where I'm standing, it's not looking very stable. We're still trapped in the car park underneath. And now the way we came in is blocked,” Miranda replied, keeping her tone as calm as she could, given the circumstances. Panicking would help nobody.

“What? Shit...” Resnikov swore on the other end of the line.

“Listen to me, I need you to gather everyone you can to start digging us out from your side. Everything. Bulldozers. Machines. People. There's still nine of us trapped down here, with no other way out,” Miranda instructed, tension running high.

“But...Director! I...The protocol—!” a different voice came over the channel.

“Override the fucking protocol!” Miranda snapped into her communicator, momentarily losing her cool. It was warranted. This situation was hanging on a knife's edge. If they didn't act immediately, they would die. They would all die.

Emergencies didn't come more urgent than this.

“...We'll do everything we can. Hold on,” Resnikov replied.

Then the channel went quiet.

Miranda swallowed, adrenaline coursing through her system. She didn't do fear. She didn't get scared. But the stakes of the situation were not lost on her. They should have already been dead. The only reason they weren't was...

She glanced back at Jack. Standing alone. Shaking under the strain. Burning with biotic light. Carrying the weight of an entire building on her back.

She was damn near tearing herself apart to try and save them. But she was a long, long way from that blocked exit ramp. Even if they opened up a gap, how the fuck were they supposed to get Jack out without the building falling down on top of them?

No. That wasn't an option. Past grievances between them meant nothing anymore. Jack was part of her crew. And Miranda wasn't about to let someone who'd fought at her side for the future of all organic life die if she could possibly help it. She would think of something. She had to.

With that in mind, she headed back for her. Miranda may have been crippled, but she still had her biotics. If she could just take the pressure off Jack for a little while, maybe she could buy them all enough time.

Jack eyed Miranda like she'd lost her mind, watching her hobble across the distance between them. “The fuck are you doing?” Jack asked, teeth clenched, barely able to move her lips given how hard she was concentrating.

“Saving your life,” Miranda coolly answered, raising her one good arm, adding her strength to Jack’s, beginning to feel just how tenuous the structure actually was through the 'fingers' of her biotic field. She couldn’t do much, but that dim blue glow grew a little bigger, and a little brighter.

“More like dooming us all,” said Jack, visibly wincing. Miranda didn't want to think about how badly it must have been hurting her, holding this building up by herself.

From Miranda's meagre contributions, she could tell that Jack was using her biotics in two different ways. First, to make the building lighter, to the extent that she could. Second, exerting force – a barrier to hold it up. Miranda was carrying only a fraction of the weight that Jack was, not from lack of trying. Even that was enough to give her a sense of just how monumental this feat truly was. How was it even possible to have this much power, let alone this much control?

“We don't have time for this. Get them out of here,” Jack said, jerking her head towards the ramp, the students and the soldier trying in vain to dig their way out. “I'd do it myself, but...” A tremor running through the building above them cut off whatever Jack intended to say. She looked like she was about to either throw up or pass out, but she endured. Somehow.

“We have a fleet of rescuers converging on our position as we speak,” Miranda assured her, not worried that the machines could dig out an opening. That's what they were there for.

“Yeah, good for you, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm kinda busy keeping us from getting flattened. If I move, we're toast,” Jack pointed out, managing a roguish laugh despite the stress her body was under. “Much as I'd like to bring this building down on top of you and take you down with me...” She trailed off, briefly meeting Miranda's gaze. She couldn't even pretend she was considering that anymore, much as the old Jack would have. “Well, that would set a bad example for the tykes. And I wouldn't want to do you the favour.”

“That's not going to happen. To either of us,” said Miranda, glancing over her shoulder to see a sliver of light as the team outside began clearing the ramp. A hiss escaped her as the weight of the building shifted again. “If we can just brace the ceiling long enough, they can get in a crane to hold this up for us, or knock the upper floors down away from us—”

“Are you serious?” Jack all but snapped. If her hands weren't otherwise occupied, she would have slapped Miranda on the mangled side of her face. “This building's coming down no matter what we do. I'll hold it as long as I can. But you need to get your stupid ass out of here.”

“Damn it, Jack. You stubborn—” Miranda cut herself off from unleashing any insults. As motivating as her mutual animosity towards Jack had been at times, now was not the time to bicker. “Just hold on.”

“What do you think I'm trying to do?!” Jack shot back, pushed beyond her limits, both mentally and physically. She was giving Miranda an out – giving her former enemy a chance at life by sacrificing her own – and she wasn't taking it. Miranda wouldn’t let her do it. It must have been driving her crazy. “This is fucking bullshit...” Jack commented under her breath, glancing down, as if the burden of her thoughts surpassed the weight of the building.

Miranda couldn’t argue with that assessment.

After a moment, Jack collected herself, and cast a sideways glance at Miranda. “Look, I'm stuck here, but you don't have to be,” Jack said, speaking with the kind of even, straightforward tone Miranda would normally have associated with Shepard. “I don't care about surviving. You just get these kids somewhere safe. Now clear the ramp and get them out before this building comes down on top of us,” she calmly instructed, looking her dead in the eye, though it went against every fibre of her nature to be so composed. Jack would talk to Miranda any damn way it took to get her to do what she told her.

Miranda stared at her. The selfish psychopath she'd met a year ago was nowhere to be seen. Either that, or she'd grossly misjudged her this whole time. Suffice it to say, Miranda was stunned by the depth of the change in Jack. She'd grown more than any of them. It wasn't even close.

Suddenly, Miranda felt a lot more riding on getting Jack out alive than mere duty to an old shipmate. These fleeting moments they'd shared since they'd reunited down in the tunnels, they'd forced Miranda to see Jack as a real person, a three-dimensional person, a complex person, a person who deserved better than the cruel hand life had dealt her. And, if the genuine concern and emotional connection those teenagers had for her was any indication, that person had a lot left to live for.

“Did I stutter or did you lose your ears too?” Jack challenged when Miranda didn’t move. “I'm not making a polite request. I'm giving you a fucking order.”

“I don't take orders from you,” Miranda persisted, refusing to abandon her.

“Get moving. Do it. Get the fuck out,” Jack said, her stance momentarily wavering under the burden of the half-broken building.

For once in her life, Miranda didn't know what to say. No perfect, prepared answers or replies. She was torn. Intellectually, she knew that the smartest thing to do was focus her efforts on clearing the ramp. Get the most people out. Save herself. But the other part of her knew that would mean leaving Jack to die. And she couldn't do that. She couldn't add another name to the list of people she'd lost. She couldn't add another face to the ghosts that haunted her dreams. The people she'd failed to save in this war. The team she'd led to their deaths in London. The friends and crewmates she'd never see again.

The old Miranda would have made the pragmatic decision in a heartbeat. Without hesitation. But Jack wasn't the only person who'd changed. Maybe Miranda's change hadn't been as drastic. But the person who could make that cold, calculated choice didn't exist anymore. Somewhere down the line, she'd learned to care. Sometimes she wished she hadn't. Because, even though she was terrible at it, it couldn't be unlearned.

What was she supposed to choose?

“Jack—”

“Do it or I swear to every fucking god what happened to your fucking face in life will be a fucking cakewalk compared to what I'll do to you in death if you don't get my kids the fuck out of here!” Jack finally snapped, her patience frayed to breaking point, and her meaning deadly serious.

A steely look came over Miranda. Like it or not, Jack was right. Miranda knew what to do; what she had to do. But she would be damned if she was just going to accept it that easily.

“I'm coming back for you, Jack,” Miranda vowed, reluctantly stepping away, much to Jack's relief. She moved as quickly as she could towards the others, adding her biotics to the effort to clear the ramp. The students had made progress, with help from the soldiers on the other side. Miranda could hear machinery through the wall of debris – it sounded like handheld drills. They were starting to cut through.

Pretty soon, they started to see light. Small holes. Each one felt like it was worth its dimensions in gold. Every ray of light was a beacon of hope. They worked frantically on both sides to try and wedge the holes open, digging wherever their hands and their tools found purchase.

“Come on. A little more and we can probably start squeezing through,” Yoshizawa encouraged the students, doing an admirable job of keeping them focused. She wasn't wrong, either. The holes were widening inch by inch. Miranda could hear her team on the other side barking directions to each other, working as hard as they could to get them out.

Just as Miranda tried to peer through the gaps to see what was going on outside, she heard a pylon not far behind her crack, everyone ducking instinctively, most of them certain they just saw the ceiling get about a foot lower. Miranda clenched her teeth, glancing back to Jack. Jack was struggling, the weight gradually pushing her closer to the ground. She was bending, bowing under the pressure. But she didn't buckle. Somehow, she was still enduring. But every passing second must have felt like an eternity.

“Where the bloody hell are those bulldozers?!” Miranda called out through the holes in the debris, slamming her fist into the concrete in frustration.

“They're coming as fast as they can. But I don't know if they can make it in time. The roads aren't clear,” Resnikov told her, from his position just beyond the rubble. Miranda growled, cursing internally. He was right. The street was blocked by too much debris, mostly from all the other buildings that had crashed into the ground during the war.

“Then we keep doing it the hard way,” said Miranda, grabbing her crutch and wielding it like a battering ram, bashing her way through the wall of rubble, even if her one-armed efforts were basically useless.

Eventually, their combined efforts managed to push through the debris, forming a gap just wide enough to get people through. About six different pairs of feet kicked at the hole, knocking away anything that someone could potentially get stuck on. It would have to do.

“Alright, let's move,” Miranda ordered, all but pushing one of Jack's students towards daylight, waiting for them to worm their way through the narrow crack before doing the same with another. It took time for each person to squirm through. It wasn't easy.

“Go, go, go!” Resnikov ordered, still working on wedging the crack open from the other side, stretching the gap further apart, knocking away loose bits of rubble, finding it easier now that they had a little more leverage.

“What about Jack?” asked one of the students, a young man. Miranda hadn't caught his name. “We're not leaving without her!”

“I've got her. Don't worry,” Miranda assured them, heading back for her, limping out across the floor to where Jack stood alone. “Come on, Jack,” she spurred her on, gesturing for her to make a dash for it now that they had a way out. The hole was getting bigger. The light was getting brighter. “There's enough space for us to get through. It's now or never.”

“What part of 'this building will collapse if I'm not standing under it' do you not understand?” Jack shot back, furious with Miranda for endangering herself despite her repeated efforts to get her to leave.

“Is sprinting intellectually beyond you?” Miranda sarcastically countered.

“I'll be dead before I take my first step,” Jack replied, knowing that if she moved for even a second the roof would immediately cave in right above her head. She could feel the crumbling structure like an extension of herself.

Miranda wasn't a fool; she'd felt what Jack was going through. And she knew she was right. But Miranda didn't care anymore. She'd lost too much already. Surviving the war had come at such a cost. She hadn't even begun to fully count the price. If this was going to kill her, then so be it. But she wasn't about to let the universe take one more god damn thing from her. Not without a fight.

“Well, I'm not leaving you behind,” Miranda vowed, a surge of power flaring through her wounded body. Without even thinking, she used her biotics to pull a largely intact column out of the debris pile that had been blocking the exit ramp, slowly prying open a massive, person-sized hole. She didn't even care that moving something so big and dense took a lot out of her, or that she was pushing herself beyond her limits. At a time like this, she couldn't afford to have limits. She strained with effort as she began to tear it free.

“What—?” If Jack had intended to ask what she was doing, she didn't need to. Yoshizawa and the remaining students had to quickly duck and dodge out of the way as Miranda abruptly pulled the column loose and dragged it across the floor. Her biotics were running on sheer determination alone, moving the column into position beside Jack, forcing it to prop up the ceiling beside her. Jack snorted. “Don't be stupid. You know that's not going to hold the building.”

“It doesn't have to. It just needs to last long enough for you to make it out,” Miranda answered her, steadfastly refusing to budge, even as she could feel the effort ripping at the muscles in her arm, and sending piercing jolts of pain through the implant in her brain. Miranda could take it; it was nothing compared to what Jack was suffering.

Jack uttered a hollow laugh. “You're a real fucking cunt, you know that?” she said. Yet again, coming from her that sounded almost like a term of endearment. As much of one as Miranda would ever get from her anyway.

Miranda tasted blood, her teeth grinding together from the exertion. She looked back over her shoulder, leaning heavily on her crutch for support. The person-sized hole she'd torn in the wall meant the last of the students had gotten out easily, together with Yoshizawa. Distant faces watched on from the other side, too sensible to risk going in after them. There was no one left to rescue. Just Jack.

Miranda's gaze narrowed to a glare when she turned back to find Jack still hadn't moved so much as an inch towards her. Both women stood their ground, as if fused to it in a game of self-sacrificial chicken.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Miranda, feeling her pulse quicken as time grew shorter. “Alright, Jack, you wanted to prove something to me? To show how much you've grown, and how much of a better person you are than I am? Well you have. You were right about Cerberus, and I was wrong about you. You're a better person than I am, and you've overcome things that I never could have,” she admitted, willing to acknowledge that Jack's ability to pull herself together and get her life on track had far exceeded anybody's expectations. She'd come the furthest out of all of them, which was a fucking miracle given where she'd started. Was that what she wanted to hear? “You don't have to kill yourself to spite me.”

“Spite you? Man, fuck you. You would win the gold fucking medal in self-centredness. But, news flash: everything isn't always about you,” Jack remarked, giving something between a sneer and a hiss.

“Then why won't you go?” Miranda challenged, her biotics beginning to falter from overuse. She wasn't alone in that. The strain of maintaining her biotic field for so long made bulging veins visible beneath Jack's skin, like her blood vessels were threatening to burst, or pop clean out of her flesh. She wouldn't hold out long, especially given how tired she'd been to begin with.

The more Miranda looked, the more she realised Jack was beyond exhausted. Even the last remnants of her energy reserves were long gone. She was running on empty. She should have been dead by now. Maybe she already was, and they just didn't know it.

“Look. Here's the thing. If I sprinted, I might make it out,” Jack conceded, breathing more heavily by the second, perspiration falling from her dehydrated brow like torrential rain, soaking the ground beneath her quivering feet. “Probably got about a one in twenty shot of making it. Not likely, but it could work. But what about you? You can't even walk, let alone run.”

“I can try,” Miranda replied, not concerned. She could handle herself.

“Or you'll just kill both of us,” Jack pointed out. She'd been watching Miranda, noticing the signs that belied her façade of strength. She knew exactly how sick and injured Miranda still was. She wouldn't make it two steps before being buried beneath the wreckage.

“I'm prepared to take that risk,” Miranda insisted, unwavering. It was worth it, if it gave Jack a chance. Miranda may have survived the war against all odds, but she'd made peace with death a long time ago. Besides, she'd led enough people to their untimely ends. Maybe she deserved to join them.

“Then where the fuck does that leave the tykes?” said Jack, her tone increasingly dark. “Those are my kids. They're mine.” Her stance kept getting lower, like there was someone pressing their hands into her shoulders, pushing her down with all their might. Her strength was slowly wavering. Her arms were shaking like they were about to break off. “Ugh. You know, you really do suck for making me go through this,” she grumbled, but if it was intended to sound resentful, it didn't. More like resigned.

Miranda didn't plan on giving up on her just yet.

“Is the building clear or not?” the voice of Ox team's commanding officer came over her earpiece. Miranda hadn't even been paying attention to the comms, too focused on herself and Jack.

“Ms. Lawson's still in there with a survivor,” Resnikov said. “Should we go back in?”

“No. It's too unstable. I can't send anyone else in after them,” the commander replied. Cold, but sensible. Exactly what Miranda would have instructed in any normal situation. “We can't afford casualties.”

Hearing that motivated Miranda to move closer. “Come on, Jack. Go,” she ordered, prepared to drag Jack kicking and screaming to safety if she had to. If she weren't one-armed and limping, she would have done that already. “I'll hold on to the pylon as long as I can.”

“That won't do shit and you know it,” Jack responded. For all her gifts, Miranda's biotics couldn't hold a candle to Jack's. Especially not now.

“Then what do you suggest?” Miranda snapped. Even when she was trying to save her life, Jack still managed to vex her to no end. Bloody nutcase. “Run for it now and you have a chance. The building is coming down whether you move or not—”

“Damn it, would you shut up and listen to me for five fucking seconds!?” Jack cut her off, sick of Miranda making everything about herself, and her guilt. At that, a spark of recognition flashed across Jack's bloodshot eyes. Maybe there was still away to appeal to Miranda – to talk her out of this senseless self-sacrifice.

“Hey. If you really do regret the way things went down between us, or if you feel the slightest bit of shame about working for Cerberus, then do this for me – you look after those kids,” Jack said, giving her one-time nemesis a long, unwavering look, as if staring into her soul, to see if any part of her deserved to be imbued with that amount of faith. Jack had long doubted that Miranda had any genuine redeeming qualities, but, if there was ever a time for her to show them, this would be it. Maybe saving her life would bring it out of her. “I need you to make sure they land on their feet, okay? They haven't got anyone else.”

“They've got you,” Miranda persisted, continuing to walk forward with her arm outstretched to hold up the pylon, her crutch long abandoned, her knee screaming in pain.

Jack gave a sardonic laugh. Of all the people she would have pictured entrusting her found family to, Miranda wasn't anywhere on that list. Hell, a year ago, Jack would never have pictured there being anyone she cared about, let alone a bunch of kids she considered her own, and protected as fiercely as a lioness defending her cubs. But things changed. She'd grown enough to gain a new perspective.

“Hey, cheerleader,” she began, channelling the Commander who'd given her a chance what seemed like a lifetime ago, “I'm going to be straight with you: part of me still wants to kill you, especially knowing that I'm already dead. Yeah, I admit, you're not as bad as I thought you were. We shared a few drinks, and we had a few laughs back on the Citadel. But I don't trust you for shit. Can't help that. What can I say? You're a fucking snake, alright?

“But, when we took down the Collectors, you showed me something, and that one thing is the reason why I think saving your life right now is worth it. And that's how much you love your sister. How much you gave up to keep her safe, without her even knowing you existed. I didn't understand it before. But I get it now. And that's why I know I can trust you to give my students a good life – a normal life,” Jack said, and she meant it. “Promise me. Promise me you'll take care of my students,” she implored her, blinking back tears that got lost in the sweat pouring down her face. “Treat them the way you'd treat your own sister. Do that, and we're cool.”

“Damn it, Jack,” Miranda didn't know what she hated more, Jack's foolhardy determination to be a bloody hero or the fact that, had she not been injured, she would already have marched over there, bashed her in the back of her head and forcibly dragged her out of the building. If she had just been in a better condition, Jack would already be safe. They wouldn't be having this conversation.

“Promise me, damn it!” Jack demanded, feeling her control beginning to slip.

“You can look after them yourself! Come on. On the count of three, we both let go. And you take my hand and run,” Miranda pleaded with her, in spite of the searing sting that shot through every nerve as she moved closer, biotics firing on overdrive as she reached out, extending her hand to Jack. She was within arm's reach. Fingertips away. “Just do it. Please,” she begged her, not sure how much longer her biotics could hold out. “We're getting out of this together. I won't leave you.”

For a second, it looked like Jack was considering doing exactly that, even if it meant risking them both. Miranda dared to feel hopeful that she'd succeeded in convincing her that she wouldn't take no for an answer. They would thrive together or perish together, just like the old days.

Who would have thought it would be just the two of them?

Suddenly, Miranda heard a sound above her, and felt a sheet of dust rain down onto her shoulders. Jack saw it too. The cracks in the ceiling were rapidly getting worse, spreading across the concrete, threatening to break like glass under the pressure. The roof was about to cave in directly on top of them. Jack's biotics were waning. She'd run out of time.

“Look out!” Jack yelled. Miranda threw up her arm and unleashed what little remained of her biotic reserves to brace the ceiling just a few seconds longer. She heard the roaring wave of destruction advancing towards her from the highest floors of the building. Gravity was about to catch up with them. Fast.

All of a sudden, a sonic boom cut the air. A beam of light shot into the darkness, and abruptly stopped. A hand grabbed Miranda about the waist. Green skin.

Her eye shot wide open with recognition. Shiala. And she was preparing a biotic charge straight back the way she came. Without Jack.

“Wait!” With her last burst of strength, Miranda lunged forward, just barely managing to seize the lapel of Jack's jacket and pull her forward. Reluctantly, Jack gave in, offering no resistance, letting herself be grabbed and dragged towards Shiala. She was still holding up a biotic field, although now it was serving more as a shield against the debris rapidly pelting down around them than a brace, doing little prop up the collapsing building.

Shiala took Jack in her other arm once she got within reach, securing them both as best she could amid the downpour of falling masonry. She crackled with energy, preparing for another charge.

“As soon as we stop, run,” Shiala warned them, her voice nearly drowned out by the cracks that tore through the foundations of the building.

At the last possible moment, she charged back towards the ramp. Less than a split-second later, the very place where they once stood was buried, engulfed in a tidal wave of rubble.

They came to an abrupt stop, a few yards short of the entrance ramp.

“Go!” Shiala pushed Jack ahead, almost throwing her. There were people waiting for them, countless hands reaching, frantically grabbing Jack and pulling her to safety as they all hastened to retreat and take shelter from the impending collapse.

Ignoring the pain in her still injured body, Miranda scrambled for the entrance, narrowly dodging the torrent of falling masonry. Her bad knee buckled, slowing her down. Shiala noticed that she was struggling. She reached back and physically pulled Miranda up the ramp by the scarf around her neck, the two of them dashing and diving out into daylight as the structure came crashing down behind them, barely escaping death.

Miranda didn't even utter a hiss at the blaring flashes of agony blazing through her body, too busy turning to look back at the disaster zone to care if she'd worsened her injuries.

A wall of dust all but exploded out from the collapsing building, swallowing everyone in the street. She raised her arm to protect her face as pieces of the broken building began to rain down onto the street. Shiala threw up a makeshift barrier, which diverted some of the shrapnel. Even so, a few stray projectiles hit Miranda in the side and in her good shoulder as everything that remained of the building fell down on top of itself, leaving only a pile of rubble. It sounded like a freight train driving straight into the ground.

It was all over in seconds. The silence set in, unrelentingly cold. The only thing Miranda could hear beneath the ringing of her ear was her own heavy breathing, and the thundering of her heart as she dared to look up through the dust cloud.

The building had been flattened. Everything had sunk into the basement levels.

A second slower, and that would have been her. A moment longer, and none of them would have survived.

As the dust settled, shock slowly giving way to a delayed sense of relief, Miranda glanced over to the familiar green face beside her, regarding her with silent recognition. She didn't know how or why, but Shiala had saved her life. And Jack's. And nearly killed herself trying to save people she barely knew.

Shiala looked back, as if sensing at least one of Miranda's wordless questions. “I heard you were in trouble,” she explained with a small shrug, somewhat awkwardly rubbing the back of her neck. “I came as fast as I could.”

Miranda's head was still reeling, scarcely able to make sense of the fact that she was still alive. Incredulous though she was, she wouldn't forget what Shiala had done for her. At least this was one saviour Miranda would be able to thank.

Her thoughts were quickly shattered by a loud scream.

“Jack?” Miranda barely heard herself saying her name beneath the ringing in her ear. Her focus shifted. She grimaced as she pushed herself forward, past Shiala, trying to see what was going on.

“Teach? Teach?” One of Jack's students was leaning over her, visibly concerned.

“What's going on? What's wrong with her?” another of them asked the soldiers.

“Move aside,” Miranda instructed, wincing as she dragged herself over, pushing her way between bodies. She looked down and saw Jack writhing in agony, her muscles all tensed, her limbs rigid. She was wide awake, and conscious, even though every fibre of her body seemed to be seizing up in pain – so much that she couldn't speak.

Miranda had never seen anything like this before, but she understood immediately. She had felt a fraction of the weight Jack had carried on her back for so many minutes – the biotic energy she had to exert to keep that up. Her body had been pushed beyond its limits and, for lack of a better word, overloaded. It must have felt like being struck by lightning.

“Give her a sedative and a muscle relaxant, and get her back to camp,” Miranda quietly commanded, figuring the best thing she could do for Jack was help ease her pain, and knock her out for a bit while her body began to heal itself. A nearby medic didn't hesitate to follow her orders.

“Will she be okay?” the student Miranda recognised as Prangley asked.

“I can't make any promises, but for what it's worth, I don't think she's done any permanent damage,” Miranda replied, watching as the sedative began to take effect, and Jack slowly began to calm down, her muscles going limp as the tension gradually left her body. “If my best guess is correct, then the worst she'll have suffered is a torn ligament here or there.”

“We've got it from here, Director Lawson. We'll take her to the medical evac shuttle with the other critical patient,” one of the medics told her.

Miranda gave them a nod. “Make sure the rest of the kids are okay, too. They've been through a lot. We'll wait here while you do.”

“Sure thing.” They got to work carrying out her orders, loading Jack up on a stretcher, taking her back to where the bulk of the team was waiting. The medics began to evaluate the health of Jack's students. Everyone else within sight...needed a few minutes to recover. A building just came down in front of them.

That had been a close call. Too close.

With that, Miranda hobbled a few paces back from the wreckage, as if finding physical space would give her the room she needed to think. She ran her hand through her hair, releasing a long breath, processing what had just happened while the tinnitus blared in her ear. She let her forehead fall against the cold stone of a nearby building, her mind voicing a thousand different thoughts of how close she'd come to letting things go horribly wrong, and the words she and Jack had exchanged when it seemed like their lives were about to end.

It didn’t seem real. It had just happened, but it felt like waking up from a vivid dream. She couldn’t quite fathom the things that had gone through her mind (or hadn’t gone through her mind) in the intensity of the moment.

No matter how much she and Jack clashed in the past, there was a special bond between shipmates, especially those of the Normandy. No matter how much they still disliked each other, they'd been part of something. Everyone on that ship had seen things no one else in the universe could appreciate or understand.

And Miranda had been given an opportunity to save her, one of those people who'd walked through the fire with her, and she had so very nearly failed. Hell, in a way, she had. By sheer luck, Shiala had been there to bail them out from a situation Miranda should have seen coming, and should have prevented. Her mistakes had nearly cost them all.

What was worse was knowing that, with so many others she had served beside, she wouldn't get that chance to even try. They were already gone.

How had she come so close to wasting not only her own life, but Jack's, and her students'? What had she been thinking? What was wrong with her? Why had she doubted herself when she knew going underground was the wrong call?

Not only that but...what if Shiala hadn’t shown up? Jack was right. There would have been no saving either of them, let alone both. Miranda would have thrown her life away pointlessly, all because she would have rather died than live with one more person getting killed on her watch - one more person she knew. Realising that about herself was...going to take some time to process.

“Director?” Yoshizawa's voice penetrated her thoughts. “Director Lawson, are you okay?”

Miranda blinked herself out of her strange stupor. It seemed like an eternity that she had been standing there in thought, but, when Miranda broke herself out of it, it had probably only been a minute at most.

“I'm alright. I'm unharmed,” she answered, gingerly shifting her body around. She'd lost her crutch in the building collapse. That was annoying. But the job always came before anything else. That was just how Miranda did things. She couldn't function any other way. “Make a report, will you?”

“Report?” Yoshizawa repeated vacantly, still dazed by the events that had just occurred.

“Yes, report to base. Eleven survivors rescued. Two in need of urgent medical attention.” Miranda hesitated, looking over at the students, and at Jack. They were all watching their teacher get carried off towards the same transport as Seanne was on, going to get the help they needed.

Yoshizawa followed her gaze. For a moment, Yoshizawa seemed to consider whether to extend some word of comfort to her after nearly losing someone she knew, as well as nearly losing her own life trying to rescue Jack, but she apparently thought better of it, carrying out the order without another question, leaving Miranda in peace, letting her dwell on her thoughts in private.

Miranda noticed a few sideways glances in her direction from her team, some quiet words being discussed about her. She wondered if they thought her heroic and brave for staying behind with Jack. If so, little did they realise there was nothing courageous about it. Her reasons had been entirely selfish.

Funnily enough, Jack was the only person who had seen that.

“Could somebody fetch me a bloody walking stick?” Miranda acerbically remarked in the general direction of some of the privates who were hanging around the scene. They all stiffened, visibly scared of her. One of them saluted and ran off to fulfil her request. Miranda rolled her eye as she shifted around to lean back against the wall behind her. “Incompetents,” she muttered, because it was easier to snap at them than kick herself for letting this disaster nearly happen.

“Are you sure you shouldn't go with them too?” Shiala asked, moving to Miranda's side, nodding her head towards the medics. Miranda hadn't even noticed that she'd followed her.

“I'm fine,” Miranda assured her. Shiala sent her a look, as if to make sure she was telling the truth. “Really,” she added, trying to sound sincere, not failing to remember that Shiala had seen the vulnerability beneath the mask before.

“Then I'm glad,” Shiala replied, taking up a position beside her, almost matching Miranda's stance against the wall. She sighed, admirably calm, but understandably a little shaken by her near-death experience. “You are a very impressive woman, Miranda Lawson, but it would be my preference if for once we could meet under less...dire circumstances,” she remarked, sensing a recurring theme.

Miranda uttered a chuckle at that, unconsciously rubbing at her injured shoulder, trying not to aggravate her amputation site. “If I bought you a drink later, would that count?” she asked. That was the least she could do to express her gratitude.

Shiala summoned a small smile, as if liking the sound of that. “It would be a start.”

Miranda looked out over at Jack's kids again. Some of them were crying, wiping tears from their eyes as the shuttle carrying Jack and Seanne departed, the aftershock of everything they'd gone through passing over.

It was funny. In all honesty, Miranda couldn't say her heart hurt for any of them, or what they were going through. She understood it intellectually, but seeing people cry didn't elicit any emotion in her. She didn't possess that latent empathy. She didn't even know most of their names.

But, that being said, that didn't mean she didn't feel anything. It would have been extremely easy for her to choose not to care but, well...that Miranda had been left behind many months ago. She wasn’t that person anymore.

Her past self wouldn’t have, but Miranda did feel sorry for these kids, and what they'd gone through. As much as she could, at least. She knew what they'd endured. She understood their loss. She'd seen how much they cared about each other – how much they meant to Jack. She'd nearly watched them all die avoidable deaths, because she hadn't trusted her instincts to get them out of that building. Because Miranda had been indecisive and taken a fucking shortcut.

It wasn't right. It wasn't right to just...walk away from any responsibility she bore, like it had never happened. To wash her hands, and absolve herself. Not now.

It wasn't lost on her that they were all only a little younger than Oriana. She was twenty now. They were, what? Seventeen? Thinking of Ori was always the ticket to bringing out Miranda's softer side – a side she wouldn't have even had without her.

Miranda thought about the things Jack had said to her mere minutes ago, in the heat of the moment. About looking after her students, the same way she would look after her sister. Protecting them. Keeping them safe. Giving them normal lives.

Miranda wasn't good with other adults, let alone kids. She'd never really been one. Or had friends at that age. Giving Oriana a normal life had meant staying far away from her. But when Miranda set her mind to anything, she could do it. Already, she had begun to think about how she could pull strings. Make sure their needs were looked after. Make sure they landed on their feet.

There were nine of them. Ten, including Seanne. Ten teenagers. And Jack.

Eleven. Eleven people might be feasible. Temporarily, anyway. That was how many housemates Miranda already had, after all. It was worth trying, wasn't it? Worth seeing if it worked out. Worth trying to do the one thing Jack had asked of her.

Miranda had never made any promises to Jack, so, technically, she wouldn't have been doing anything wrong if she ignored that request. She didn't have any obligation to honour her wishes. And Jack was still alive to take care of her students herself. But, frankly, those technicalities Miranda might once have clung to in order to easily rationalise this all away and to absolve herself of any sense of duty didn't seem to matter anymore. She didn’t want to take a pass on this.

She was sure something could be arranged. Miranda had a lot of pull with Bailey. She was his best agent. Surely, if she spoke with him, he would be willing to make a few special accommodations for her. Anything to ensure she continued working for him for as long as possible.

Even if her plan worked, that would take a few days, at a minimum. Not to mention that Miranda's work out here in the wastes wasn't over yet. They needed somewhere to stay in the interim. Someone to look out for them while Jack was out of commission. Someone she could trust.

“Shiala, you've already done a lot for me, so I wouldn't want to impose by asking anything further,” Miranda began, trailing off momentarily. Shiala tiled her head, listening intently. “Those nine kids need a place to stay. I know you and the Zhu's Hope colonists probably don't have enough room, but you have connections in the green zone. You know it better than I do. If you could put them up somewhere, just for a couple of days, while I get their affairs in order...”

“That's not an imposition at all,” Shiala stated plainly, thinking nothing of it. “I can take them on my shuttle, get them there faster.”

Miranda had to admit, she was a little taken aback to hear Shiala so readily volunteer her assistance again. She was expecting she'd have to work harder to convince her, or trade her something of value. Not that she was complaining but...why did Shiala keep helping her? What was she getting out of this?

“I appreciate it. I'll make it up to you,” Miranda offered, since it only seemed fair. That and she didn’t like feeling at a deficit in terms of favours to call upon.

“You don't have to do anything for me.” Shiala shook her head, dismissing the thought. “You've already earned my help. And...well, if you'll have it...you’ve earned my friendship too,” Shiala added, a little more self-consciously, as if wondering if she was saying too much, or being too awkward.

Miranda blinked. Oh. Was that what this was? Was that what she wanted from this?

Honestly, she had never contemplated that. Miranda had a habit of viewing all her dealings with other people as inherently transactional, due to how she was raised. It was a mindset she was slowly learning to change, but it still caught her off guard every now and then to be reminded that sometimes people just did things for others, not because they were repaying a favour or because they expected something in return, but just because they cared and wanted to help.

That and, in her entire life, Miranda had met maybe five people who actually seemed to like her as a person and enjoy her company. One of them was her sister, and two of them were dead. Suffice it to say, she wasn't used to it.

“...Sure,” Miranda said, not sure how else to answer that. She didn't know Shiala particularly well, and in all honesty she saw her purely as a useful contact. But she saw no reason to reject her offer. That would just hurt her feelings, and more importantly sabotage the inroads Miranda had made with her as a reliable ally.

If this was all Shiala wanted in return for assisting her then Miranda could...try the friendship thing, she supposed. It was less effort than the blackmail she usually had to resort to when securing third party contacts. Presumably.

Shiala turned a more bashful shade of green. “Uh, well, that's great! I'm...glad. And I will...take you up on that drink,” she said in that awkward, stilted way of hers. It was like she was always torn between whether to speak with traditional asari formality, or whether to emulate the more casual ways of speaking the Zhu's Hope colonists would surely have taught her to use with humans by now. That and it always kind of seemed like she was talking through a headache.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Miranda replied. She wasn’t really, of course, but Shiala didn’t need to know that. In any event, she wasn’t averse to the idea. And lying to be polite was a skill she still needed more practice at, unless she wanted to continue alienating people with blunt honesty for the rest of her life.

Tempting, but no.

“Me too.” Shiala nervously cleared her throat. “I will, uh...see you around. Stay safe this time,” she said, taking her leave. Miranda gave her a parting nod.

Judging from her reaction, Miranda got the sense Shiala hadn't had that many friends before either, Zhu’s Hope not included. She wasn't sure whether that would make maintaining this proposed friendship extremely easy, since her standards would be low, or whether that made this a terrible idea, because neither of them brought anything of value to the friendship table. Maybe both.

Miranda watched Shiala approach Jack's students, introducing herself and offering them a place to say. It was funny. Despite how much she'd grown over the past year, Miranda was still at a distance from all but a select few – looking from the outside in at people who could form bonds so much more easily. People who could just naturally relate to others.

She would never be able to do that. She just couldn't.

At the end of the day, did it really matter? Did it matter that she didn't genuinely care about these kids as much as Jack did? Did it matter that she didn't honestly reciprocate Shiala's feelings of friendship? She was doing good by her actions, wasn't she? Doing what Jack had asked of her. Somehow, despite a complete lack of effort, managing to be someone whose companionship Shiala enjoyed. Those positive outcomes had to count for something, right?

Progress was progress. After all, who would have ever thought that Miranda fucking Lawson would become a person who risked her own life for Jack’s, a protector of lost teenagers, and a person who made friends? Jacob would have been proud of her, if not for the fact that he would never believe it.

It was also a hell of a lot easier to focus her attention on those things than to confront the fact that she still hadn’t dealt with the phantom faces that haunted her in her dreams, or the missing names from the Normandy, or the tinnitus that made trying to fall asleep at night into a marathon of audial torture, and how those things were affecting her even in her waking moments.

Miranda swallowed, not ready to face those problems. Not yet.

“Alright. Playtime’s over. Let’s get moving,” Miranda called out to her team assembled in the square. “We still have a city to clear.”

* * *

Miranda was definitely in a mood that day when she stormed into the Starboard Observation Deck, her arms folded across her chest. She sighed and went to the viewport, leaning with one arm against the transparent window. Samara continued to meditate, undisturbed. That earned a somewhat suspicious glance back over Miranda's shoulder.

“What?” said Miranda, eyeing her. “You're not going to ask me about the fight I had with Jack?”

“I was not,” Samara replied. “Although I did overhear it, as did everybody on this deck of the ship.”

“Great.” Miranda shook her head, flipping her hair back. “I know Shepard managed to talk her down, but she walked into my office and physically assaulted me. She's unstable.”

“She did. And that was wrong of her,” Samara acknowledged, pausing for a moment. “Did you do anything to provoke it?” she asked, sensing Miranda was perhaps...minimising her role in the argument.

“Provoke it?” Miranda echoed, offended at the insinuation.

“It is merely a question,” Samara said calmly. “Jack is a volatile character. However, she has been a member of this crew for a considerable time without incident.”

“So I must have caused it?” Miranda sarcastically shot back, rolling her eyes and shaking her head when Samara didn't respond. Typical for her to get blamed for everything.

Samara waited a few moments, perhaps considering that she had erred in taking the direct approach. “I am aware that she recently revisited a place of immense childhood trauma,” Samara began, choosing a different approach. “This must be a sensitive time for her.”

Miranda sighed and glanced down, her arms stiffly folded across her chest. She could acknowledge that. “I never said what Jack went through wasn't horrible. I know it was. I went to that facility. I saw it for myself. No child should ever have to endure that. All I said was that it couldn't have been Cerberus. Or, if it was a Cerberus affiliate, then someone clearly went rogue and made a terrible mistake.”

That had to be the case. Cerberus didn't play by the rules, but the organisation had just aims. It was the first place where Miranda had been praised instead of criticised – allowed to make her own choices and do things her way. The Illusive Man had been a better father to Miranda than Henry Lawson ever was. Sure, they walked a morally grey line and did things other people weren't courageous enough to do, but Cerberus wasn't malicious or cruel, merely pragmatic.

“Do you think that distinction was important to Jack?” Samara's question broke Miranda from her musings.

“What?” Miranda regarded Samara strangely, finding her difficult to read. Samara let the question hang, waiting for an answer. Miranda had to admit, this wasn't what she had expected, given their growing friendship. If anything, she was a little hurt. “I thought you'd be on my side.”

“You sought me out to speak about this. If you did so and did not desire my honest opinion on the matter, then you have grave misapprehensions about my character,” Samara remarked. She would never give counsel that contradicted her morals.

“So you agree with Jack?” asked Miranda. That was the last thing she would have expected from someone as rational as Samara.

“It is not a question of agreement. You are focused on 'black and white' instead of seeing things from her perspective. And, with the greatest of respect, you must be aware that you are in a superior position, because the subject of what Jack endured does not affect you. This was not your trauma. You are detached – you can think about your words and actions in this situation, in a way that Jack, for whom these events are intensely personal, cannot.”

Miranda snorted. “Are you saying I should lie to her?”

“As a Justicar, I could never advocate for dishonesty, merely mindfulness. Like you, I am a hard woman. I have many honest thoughts. In the past, I have often voiced them carelessly, with little regard for their effect on others. There is wisdom in appreciating when our opinions are best kept silent, lest our words do harm,” Samara thoughtfully replied.

“If she can't handle my words, that's her problem,” said Miranda, staunchly believing herself to be in the right. “We've all been through bad things. That doesn't excuse attacking people.”

“No, it does not, but your own experiences should enable you to understand her better than most,” Samara dispensed her sage advice, encouraging sympathy.

“Exactly my point, though; I'm not the way she is. We turned out completely differently. We couldn't be more polar opposites if one of us was made of anti-matter,” Miranda pointed out, extending her hand to emphasise that. “My father did horrible things to me too. I'm not saying that it was on the same scale as what was done to Jack, but you don't see me losing control of my emotions.”

“Do not compare her reaction to yours. This is not what is important,” said Samara, dismissing that distraction. “Instead, try to empathise with her perspective as to why your words were harmful. For example, imagine speaking to someone about what your father did to you.”

“You don't know what my father did to me,” Miranda interrupted her before she could get started on that subject. “Nobody does.”

“Yes, precisely. They do not know. However, you do,” Samara continued. “You lived through those experiences. You understand how they affected you. Now, instead of listening to you and acknowledging what you endured, imagine someone giving you their unsolicited opinions on your childhood or your father, even with regard to something that may technically be correct.”

“Like what?” Miranda asked, shrugging her shoulders. Why would she be bothered by something factual?

“For instance, your father created the genetic code that exists inside you and your sister. Clearly, he is a brilliant scientist,” Samara observed. “Here is a hypothetical scenario: you tell me about his abuse towards you in your youth, I acknowledge that what he did was wrong, but I keep repeating to you that he was a brilliant scientist. How would you feel?”

Miranda's lips pursed, and she released a slight exhale. God damn it. Leave it to Samara to express things in a way that actually made her see what she was talking about, and see things from someone else's perspective.

“I would think that you're diminishing what I went through and defending the people who did it to me,” Miranda acknowledged. “I would probably find that very frustrating. If you or Jacob were saying it, I might even feel betrayed for confiding in you only to have you speak up for him.”

She knew, because it had happened before. Niket. The man she'd trusted to help her escape. The one person she thought understood the effect of her father's abuse. Instead of taking her side, he had accused her of being wrong for sparing Oriana all of that suffering. He'd even implied that growing up wealthy was a fair trade for her father's callousness and cruelty.

Miranda sighed, dropping her guarded posture as she raised one hand to rub her forehead. “Okay, so you have a point. Maybe I did inadvertently provoke her just a little bit. Not that it takes much.”

“You made a mistake. You are learning from it,” said Samara, not judging her for her imperfections.

“I suppose I have to; I didn't exactly learn social skills growing up,” Miranda admitted, never particularly happy with it when she realised there was something she'd done wrong. Her father had made certain that she despised failure, as he always went out of his way to make her dread the consequences. “That's becoming more apparent, lately. Being in such close quarters here with so many non-Cerberus personnel on The Normandy has forced me to do more 'socialising' than I have in the entire last thirty-five years of my life. People can be so...”

“Alien?” Samara supplied, somewhat wryly.

“I was going to say 'complicated', but that works,” said Miranda, slumping down on the floor beside Samara, chastened by her lecture, no matter how kindly put and...astute it had been. “You're lucky I trust you that none of this is going to leave this room,” she commented, glancing over at her companion. “If anyone else heard me acknowledge that I have weaknesses, I'd never live it down.”

“Everyone has weaknesses. To demand otherwise is unattainable,” Samara reassured her.

Miranda bit her lower lip. She thought about how much she already knew concerning Samara's past, and how she had obtained that knowledge behind her back. She still felt something resembling guilt about it. It only seemed fair to open up about some of her own secrets, so they could be on more even terms.

“I wasn't allowed to have anything he deemed a weakness. My father, I mean,” Miranda confessed, finally broaching that subject that she had long kept to herself. “The problem was, his definition of 'weakness' was anything that didn't directly benefit him. That included making friends, or smiling, or having my own interests, or feeling pain, or crying. Everything you can imagine really. All I knew throughout my entire childhood was control. I had to do everything exactly the way he wanted when he wanted it, even if I had absolutely no way of knowing what that was, even if it changed from one moment to the next, which it often did. And that was what I had to do just to be tolerated. Never anything more than that. Not loved, or praised, or accepted. Just tolerated. Anything less than his version of perfection and I would be punished, in some form or another.”

As she spoke, she felt Samara's eyes on her. It made her slightly self-conscious. She didn't want Samara to think she was heaping her personal problems upon her, or throwing a big pity party. That wasn't her intent. She just thought...Samara might actually understand her a bit better, if she told her the truth.

“I'm not saying any of this for sympathy or as an excuse,” Miranda explained. She didn't want those things. She didn't need those things. “I think it's just starting to crystallise for me that maybe I never really stopped listening to his voice, or obeying his vision. Perhaps there are some things I need to...reassess.”

“Much as the trauma of her youth is the source of the anger you experienced from Jack, you too carry the scars of your past, as I do with mine,” Samara spoke up. “Jack may not yet be ready to move on from it, but I believe that you are, if you so choose. You have already come further than you may appreciate. You have the capacity to identify what you need to change within you, and you have the will to see it done. This may take time and self-reflection, but it is achievable.”

“That's what you were talking about before, with the meditation, wasn't it?” Miranda surmised.

“It was one reason I suggested it,” Samara acknowledged. “It is a means of pursuing this kind of clarity – identifying aspects of oneself that the rigours of life normally distract one from perceiving and analysing.”

Miranda paused and glanced down, swallowing. “...I suppose I should thank you,” she said. Samara's silent response indicated she didn't know what Miranda meant by that. “For seeing the best in me, instead of dismissing me for my faults.”

“Could I not say the same to you?” Samara replied.

That thought managed to bring a small smile to the corner of Miranda's lips. She had a point. Then again, it wasn't hard to see the best in Samara. It was quite touching to think that maybe Samara would have said the same thing about her.

Maybe that was just what it was like when you met someone you felt instantly connected to. Maybe that was just how someone knew a rapport like this was real.

* * *

It was a few days before Miranda was really able to get back to the green zone and get her affairs in order. The operation had been a moderate success. They had found outposts of survivors who had hunkered down during the war, found pretty much anything resembling usable supplies that was left in the covered area, and found some habitable buildings to start moving people into.

Nobody had seen Samara though. Miranda was trying very hard not to let that concern her. It helped that she had other priorities to focus on.

Shiala had kept her updated on the status of Jack and her students. Thankfully, Seanne was recovering quickly from her illness. She was still in care, but expected to be released in the next couple of days.

Jack was...well, doing a lot worse than Seanne. Her condition was stable but her biotics had damn near destroyed her body. Almost as bad as the shuttle crash had destroyed Miranda's. No permanent damage, most likely. But her muscles were in a lot of pain, still slowly repairing themselves. From the sounds of things, it would take a lot of time and rehab to get her back to where she was.

Miranda was able to confirm all that with her own eyes. It wasn't hard to find Jack, even among all the beds, and all the sick and injured. She didn't look great. There were clear bruises where capillaries had burst beneath her skin. It did look like she'd been in a crash.

Jack must have sensed someone watching her, obviously not coping much better with bed rest than Miranda had. Bleary eyes glanced over in Miranda's direction, immediately turning with irritation when she realised who was standing there.

“Who the fuck let you in?” Jack groaned. Miranda was the last person she wanted to deal with when she was like this.

“It's a field hospital, Jack. Not much in the way of security.” Miranda thought about reminding her that she was known around here and people let her go wherever she wanted, but she had the good sense to realise that Jack would probably want to kill her if she said that. “How are you doing? Are you okay?”

“Fuckin' hurts,” Jack remarked, draping her arm over her eyes, hoping Miranda would just go away. “But I still look a damn sight better than you, fuckface.”

That was debatable, honestly. “You're lucky you didn't tear yourself apart,” Miranda said quietly, moving closer. She was trying to be civil and understanding. “Not just limb from limb, but on a cellular level.”

Jack didn't respond, deliberately ignoring her in an effort to get Miranda to leave.

Miranda rolled her eye. So much for her efforts to be kind to her. Obviously her presence wasn't wanted. With that in mind, it was probably best to just cut straight to the point.

“Listen, I've spoken to Bailey. They're starting to house priority personnel in apartments in the city. That means Alliance officials, and people involved in the recovery effort. Civilians and non-essential personnel are the lowest priority. You'll be lucky to get a look-in on a place to live even a year from now, unless all of you are prepared to work for it. And, no offence, but you're not really in a condition to do that,” Miranda set out the facts.

“Why the fuck do you always talk like you're answering a question nobody fuckin' asked?” Jack grumbled. Despite her complaint, she reluctantly opened her eyes and shifted her head to listen to what she had to say.

Sensing she had her attention, Miranda continued. “I tried to convince Bailey to make an exception for you and your students, but he can't. Not unless someone who warrants high priority quarters chooses to take you in. Someone like me.”

“I'd sooner fucking drink bleach than live with you,” Jack shot that down.

Miranda had expected Jack to say that. “Okay. But what about your students? They don't have spare beds at this field hospital, Jack. There's barely enough room for them to breathe if they wind up in tent city. It's not safe for them out there by themselves. You don't know anyone else here. And, right now, you can't exactly look after them. Not without help,” Miranda explained. Much as she visibly hated it, Jack couldn't object to that. “I've already made the necessary arrangements. I can cancel them if you want, but I'm prepared to take them in, with or without you.”

“...Why are you doing this?” Jack asked suspiciously. It sounded like Miranda was being sincere, but it was hard to tell. Miranda never did anything for anyone without an agenda behind it. Unless it was for her sister. Or Jacob. Not for someone she didn't care about. Not for Jack.

Miranda pulled up a chair and sat down beside her bed. “There are only four of us left, Jack. If not for Shiala, that number would only be two; neither of us would be here right now. You nearly died the other day. And it would have been my fault if you had,” Miranda stated frankly. Jack had held an entire building up to keep her alive, and broken her body doing it. “That was why I couldn't leave you.”

Contrary to popular belief, Miranda had never hated Jack. Disliked her, yes, but the hatred had been entirely one-sided. Truth be told, she'd never cared about Jack enough to hate her. She hadn't cared about her at all. Not back then. In a way, that was a lot worse than hate. Jack would probably take it that way, if she knew. And Miranda had the decency to feel a tinge of regret about that, in hindsight.

Most of her memories of Jack were of conflict, or mutual avoidance at best. But Miranda had never set out to antagonise Jack, deliberately or otherwise. She hadn't sought her ought for anything, good or bad or neutral. Not once. She was completely uninterested in her. Apathetic. She didn't give Jack any unprovoked attention at all. Not that it mattered one way or the other. The fact that she was a Cerberus Operator had been cause enough to make her enemy number one.

Miranda hadn't batted an eye, save when things got violent. To her, not getting to know Jack was fine, and her hostile attitude had said more than enough about how little she was worth anyone's time.

Jack had loathed her. And Miranda had found her a nuisance at best. An insignificant insect who would be brushed aside as soon as the mission ended.

But she'd been wrong about her, hadn't she? Jack had been right about Cerberus the entire time, and Miranda had been too blinded by loyalty to believe her. And, while Miranda had been on the run from The Illusive Man and his agents, Jack had turned her life around. She'd set out to give the kids in the Ascension Program a far better shot at life than she ever got herself.

Miranda had done some growing of her own as well. She'd been cold and callous back then. Not just towards Jack but towards everyone. Whether she'd realised it or not at the time, she'd still been living in her father's shadow, letting the way he'd raised her shape how she treated others.

But things had changed. They weren't the same people they once were. Maybe they were never the people they'd assumed each other to be. But they were both working on being better people. And they'd lost almost all of their other comrades along the way.

Maybe Jack still wanted to hold onto her grudge, and maybe she was justified in doing that. But Miranda was tired. She wanted no part in this anymore. She couldn't carry on pretending her past grievances with Jack meant a god damn thing to her anymore. She didn't have the energy. If there was ever a time to bury the hatchet and move on, this was it.

“You said if I wanted to make up for all the bad history between us, and all the atrocities Cerberus committed against you, the only way for me to do that is to look after these kids the way I would look after my own sister,” Miranda recalled, knowing how much the students meant to Jack. “So...Okay. This is my answer. I want to honour that. I can't promise I'll be any good at it, but I intend to fulfil that bargain. This is me trying to make things...better.”

Jack looked at her for a long moment, a cold, hard stare, studying her face for any signs of duplicity. She didn't find any. Miranda wasn't lying. Her motives may have been self-centred, but that was to be expected. Jack would have been suspicious if they weren't. At least that reasoning made sense as to why Miranda suddenly wanted to be a less shitty person. For her, this was progress.

“...I never thought I'd say this, but you're actually fucking right about something,” Jack admitted, willing to put personal feelings aside for the well-being of her kids. “Living in a real fucking apartment is better for them. Better than being out here in this depressing shithole. So I'm going to tell them about you and what you’re offering. But I'm not going to force them. It's their choice.”

“Okay.” Miranda nodded. That was it, then. This was really happening.

She didn't want Jack to sense it, but she had mixed feelings about what she was getting herself into. Looking after teenagers was not high on her list of things she wanted to do. And she knew she was taking on a lot of responsibility. But this had been the one thing Jack had asked of her when she thought she was going to die. Doing her best to deliver on that request was the least Miranda could do, especially since Jack had saved her life that day.

“What about you?” Miranda asked, not sure whether Jack would be joining them. “I know we don't exactly get along, but you're welcome to stay too. I'll just make sure to hide the bleach before you do.”

That remark elicited a snort. “Yeah, about that. I don't think I'm gonna be going anywhere for a while,” Jack glanced down at herself.

Miranda gave a small, understanding smile. “I was in your position not long ago. I promise you, it will feel like an eternity. And your rehab will take time. But you'll be healthy enough to stay somewhere else sooner than you think. It doesn't have to be with me. Jacob is keeping my old bed free in case you'd prefer that.”

A conflicted look passed over Jack's face, a little bittersweet. “So I wouldn't be with the tykes?” she realised aloud.

Miranda suddenly recognised a possible flaw in her plan. “Jack, I'm not trying to separate you from them. I'm just offering them a place to stay. A roof over their heads. They're at liberty to see you whenever they want. And vice versa.”

“I know, dumbass,” Jack cut her off. “I'm just...I'm not sure they'll take it that way.”

Miranda softened. “You nearly gave your life to save them. If they don't know by now that you love them far too much to abandon them...well, I don't know, maybe tell them?” Miranda suggested. That's probably what Samara would have advised. “I don't know. I'm not good with people. Maybe don't listen to me on this subject.”

“I don't listen to you about anything,” Jack assured her, only half-joking. It hadn't escaped her notice that Miranda really was making an effort. Having some semblance of humility. Admitting that she sucked at something. The old Miranda never would have spoken to her like this. “...I'll think about it. I've got time. I've got some healing to do. I'll decide my living arrangements later.”

“Sure.” Miranda nodded, accepting that. “...Well, I'll start getting the apartment ready. There's still a lot to do, so...we'll talk another time.” Miranda elected to take her leave, getting up from her seat.

“Hey, Miranda.” Miranda paused, wondering if that was the first time Jack had actually called her by name. She turned and looked back. “We're not starting over at zero. It's too late for that. But I know you had nothing to do with what Cerberus did to me. And, if you're serious about trying to be straight with me, and you're not just going to throw my kids to the wayside the second you feel better about yourself, then...fuck it, I'll give you a shot.”

“This is you trying?” Miranda inferred. Jack didn't say anything, but nor did she protest. Miranda gave a nod, satisfied. She could live with that.

There was no chance they could ever become friends. But coexisting relatively peacefully would be good enough.

* * *

“Finally making use of the library, I see,” Miranda remarked, catching Samara in the act of reading.

Samara cracked a small smile as the doors closed behind Miranda. “I do reside on a human vessel. It would seem a terrible waste to remain ignorant of your arts and cultures when you have been so gracious in sharing these resources with me. That is if you do not object.”

“Knock yourself out,” said Miranda, not at all surprised that Samara appreciated what humanity had to offer based on their previous conversations, but glad for it nonetheless. Her long lifespan had not robbed her of her curiosity and adventurousness.

Despite their reputation for benevolence and co-operation with others, some asari Miranda had encountered could be incredibly patronising towards human cultures. Even if they welcomed other species into the fold, there were some who looked down on humans as effectively a novelty – like lost children taking their first steps on the galactic stage, whose beliefs and habits were cute, but would soon be a thing of the past once they were 'enlightened' by more ancient races. Thankfully, Samara wasn't like that. Her respect for other species was genuine and unfeigned.

“How many books have you read so far?” Miranda inquired, noticing that she was currently nearing the end of her copy of Moby Dick.

“Fewer than I would have liked,” said Samara, almost with a hint of self-deprecation.

At that point, EDI piped up. “Justicar Samara has requested my assistance in selecting texts from a diverse array of authors whose works were written in different cultural and linguistic contexts, as well as different genres and time periods.”

“This is correct. Thank you, EDI.” Samara nodded her head at EDI's holographic interface, which continued to operate silently. “I have heard that your species is far more diverse and varied than those who have come before. I did not wish to make the error of inadvertently and arbitrarily narrowing the scope of human literature available to me. This could lead me to draw false inferences, such as misconstruing humans as more homogeneous than you actually are.”

“Read anything by an Australian author yet?” Miranda asked, impressed by the care and consideration Samara had put into her decision to explore human literature for fun. That was thoughtful of her.

“Not at this time, no,” Samara confessed.

“You're not missing much.” Miranda shrugged nonchalantly as she joined her on the couch, not even sure there were any Australian texts in their small library. Out of curiosity, she brought up the database on her omni-tool. It contained a record of all available books aboard the ship and showed who had checked out what and when, so nobody could get away with not returning them. Unsurprisingly, Samara was the most frequent user of the library, closely followed by Kasumi.

“I am sure that is not the case. I have yet to encounter a text that I have not enjoyed the experience of reading. Although I confess that, at times, certain details may have been lost on me,” Samara admitted as she closed her book and put it aside, acknowledging the effect that her own limited understanding of Earth and human history had on her comprehension of these stories.

Miranda tried not to smirk. “You had to ask EDI to explain to you what a whale is, didn't you?”

“She was very informative,” said Samara, which elicited a chuckle from Miranda. “Do you read?”

“When I have time, yes,” Miranda answered. It was also one of the few things her father had allowed her to do as a child, since he saw intellectual value in it.

“Are there any books you would recommend?” Samara asked, implicitly trusting her taste.

“Sure. I could send you a list, but I'm not sure that my preferences would be along the lines of what you're looking for,” Miranda acknowledged, earning a curious look from Samara. “For the most part, I don't read fiction anymore. There are some exceptions, but I rarely enjoy it.”

“I see.” Samara took a moment to contemplate that, choosing to seek elaboration. “Is there any particular reason why you tend to dislike it?”

“Well, on merit alone, ninety percent of all content produced is not worth consuming. As for the remaining ten percent, the vast majority of novels I've read are like being locked in a room listening to the inane thoughts and dialogue of annoying characters while the author either beats you over the head with their uninformed opinions or waffles on aimlessly while avoiding making anything that constitutes a worthwhile observation or statement,” Miranda explained, remembering how irritating she had found so many texts she was forced to study in her youth. “Even when the ideas and concepts are intriguing to me, I find it’s often ruined by the characters or the writing style getting in the way.”

“What makes a character annoying to you?” Samara pressed, curious about her comment.

“They make stupid decisions, they think things that I would never think, and everything is just a frustrating waste of time while you wait for them to cut the nonsense, realise the obvious and get to the point of the plot,” said Miranda. She hadn't anticipated an interrogation of her views on fiction. Fortunately, her frustrations were well-founded, and she never struggled to defend her positions.

Samara stared at her like she wasn't entirely certain whether or not Miranda was being facetious. “...Is that not, perhaps, the intent?” Samara considered aloud, prompting Miranda to glance up from the library database. “If the story reached its conclusion from the outset, bypassing all conflict and circumventing all faults and failings possessed by the characters, then would the author not have lost the opportunity to explore the – what is your term for it? – human condition?”

“It's not my bloody condition,” Miranda dryly remarked.

“You understood my meaning; do not be coy,” said Samara, mildly amused by her retort. “One of the benefits of literature over and above any other artform is that it allows you to experience life through the perspective of another, even down to their most private thoughts. It prospers empathy and understanding, even for those characters who are deeply flawed, as we all are. It is why I personally find that I have learned more about other species through reading their stories told in their own words than from any other source – certainly far more than I have gained from the detached academic writings of an asari anthropologist.”

Miranda shrugged, seeing her point. “I'm glad that you get so much out of it, but I never have,” she said honestly. “I can appreciate the themes of all these works on an intellectual level and the skills and techniques they've used in their writing, but I've never connected with a book or related to a character the way I've heard other people say they have. Fiction just doesn't resonate with me. Perhaps we're built differently like that.”

“Perhaps,” Samara replied, though if she had thoughts to the contrary she did not express them. “What is your preferred form of artistic expression?”

“Music,” Miranda answered without hesitation. “Not 'songs' per se, but I'm not as rigidly confined to the great composers as everyone seems to assume. I like my operas and my symphonies but I have a flair for the experimental as well. The theories and formulas that underpin music are there for a reason, but brilliant minds know how to break them in just the right ways.”

“Do you play?” asked Samara.

“Not since I was sixteen. But yes. I was classically trained in piano. I also did two years of violin before my father objected. Didn't like hearing me practice.” Miranda didn't feel the need to share that he'd ripped the violin out of her hands and thrown it across the room to break it in front of her because he'd decided she hadn't mastered it quickly enough and therefore wasn't taking it seriously. It wasn't relevant to the conversation and was more personal than Miranda cared to get.

“That is unfortunate,” Samara spoke sympathetically, evidently inferring why it was that Miranda had stopped playing nearly twenty years ago, given it held such a strong association with negative memories of her father. “One day, when the time is right, maybe you will play again.”

“I think you're the only one who wants to hear that,” Miranda commented, finding the thought of her other crewmates' reactions comical to ponder. “The rest of them out there would assume I was showing off and hate me for it.”

“Most likely. But you do not strike me as a woman who constrains herself based upon the opinions of others,” said Samara, with a knowing twinkle in her eye.

“Do I make it that obvious?” Miranda joked, unfazed by her unpopularity.

“Nevertheless, if the opportunity arises, perhaps you should consider it,” Samara quietly encouraged. “Your devotion to your work is admirable, but you should not squander the time you have by avoiding things that bring you joy. A day may come where you look back upon your years, and find them filled with regret for chances you did not take, and simple pleasures you let pass you by.”

“...I guess you'd know,” Miranda conceded, although in her heart she knew she had no intention of following through on playing again. Too close to home.

With that, Samara returned her attention to the book cradled in her hand, content to sit with Miranda in silence, as they often did. Miranda watched her for several seconds before speaking.

“Which one was your favourite?” she asked, prompting Samara to glance up at her in search of clarification. “Of the works you've read, I'm guessing either Don Quixote or Romance of the Three Kingdoms,” Miranda speculated. They seemed to her taste.

“Astute choices. But there was another I preferred. A poem, in fact,” she said. Miranda arched her brow, curious. “You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars. You have a right to be here. And, whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be and, whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul,” she recited.

Miranda's lip quirked in recognition. “That's Max Ehrmann, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Samara confirmed, meeting her gaze. “There is much wisdom in those words. I would do well to remember them when I stray. So too would it benefit many others to hear them.”

“You may have a point,” Miranda agreed, appreciating that Samara found meaning in those words, even if they did not particularly strike a cord with her. “It sounds like the sort of thing you could reflect on in your meditation.”

“I have,” said Samara. “Every day.”

* * *

#fic #miranda lawson #samara #mass effect #femslash

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dork-in-a-trenchcoat · 5 years

Text

((Pulled from a very old relationship prompt because this was fun to do back in the day on Sev’s blog, so might as well do Casip because SOMEONE mentioned yesterday that she had been going back to re-read old Casip and I guess it’s about time to post something new.))

It bounces around a lot in timeline, but eeeehhhhhhh it’s fine. Only like 3 people don’t scroll past the Casip stuff anyway X’DDD There are probably typos.

Attack hugging them

Whether by nature of his patience, or by nature of his significant other’s impatience, Castiel was usually slow moving in comparison to greet his Mate after a long absence. His was the quiet embrace from behind. The hand gently tracing hair back from her face when she slept. Quite the opposite, and quite literally, this evening Flip had gotten the jump on him, leaping against his chest with all the grace of a stampeding linebacker down a staircase.

“If either of us were Human, we would need the emergency room after that.” he grunted, easing an elbow away from his Vessel’s groin.

--------

Falling asleep on or next to them

"I’m not tired.” Flip had protested.

“You are.” Castiel replied patiently.

They didn’t have many moments together. It seemed always that the Earth was on the brink of destruction, or the slumbering Humans of the world needed tending. Schedules being what they were, spare quality time was precious, though currently Flip was far too exhausted to indulge in it. Defeated, she curled into a ball on his chest, resting under the blanket of his massive (to her at least), warm hand. Castiel typically did not require sleep, but he was content to rest in a meditative state until such time that she would wake.

----------

Giving them the best back massage they’ve ever had

Though he’d repeatedly insisted that his muscles refreshed themselves constantly through use of his Grace, arguing with the Fairy was often a fruitless endeavor. Her stubbornness was deep and encompassing as the sea. With an overly dramatic eye roll, he finally shed his trenchcoat and jacket to sit backwards in a dining chair. Arms rested on the chair top, chin rested on arms. He could hear a faint jingling as she phased herself up and bespelled her hands for warmth.

Slowly, steady pressure worked its way across his upper back, across his shoulders, and along a tight section of muscles in the base of his wings. Completely involuntary, he groaned into his arms. He’d only ever seen the idea of massages as a means to an end for muscle therapy. They felt like this all along??? Why had it taken him so long to allow one? Her expert fingers worked and kneaded and molded him like warm putty, melting to jelly.

“Enjoying yourself?” Flip inquired rhetorically.

“Very much so~” Cas mumbled in hopes that this feeling could continue for quite a long time.

When she eased a soft vibration spell through her fingers, it was reasonably safe to assume that he was enjoying himself so thoroughly that in that moment she could have talked him into almost anything.

---------

Holding their hand for the first time

It had only been meant as a signal. Whilst posing as an unassuming pair in a coffee shop, Flip was brightly looking around as Castiel pretended to read a menu. When the necromancer revealed themselves in their habitual caffeine run, Castiel felt Flip’s cool fingers slide over his own under the table, gently squeezing to let him know the target had arrived. At first, he hadn’t recognized it as the signal. They were not yet involved as more than friends at this point, but it was familiar in a way which didn’t make sense, and comforting in a way it should not be.

“Thank you for the assist.” Cas had whispered awkwardly.

“Less bad Dreams triggered by that goon means less work for me, so trust me when I say it’s not a problem.” Flip whispered back.

---------

Hugging them from behind when they weren’t expecting it

“I didn’t mean it that way.” Cas struggled to explain.

“Then you shouldn’t have said it that way.” Flip quipped, angrily picking up the broken shards from the angelic liquor bottle she’d trod upon and crushed. “If you have to be drunk off your ass to tolerate spending the night, then why the hell are you even here?”

His head spun frantically, both from the alcohol and from panic. He hadn’t expected her to arrive back so soon. Everything was meant to be cleaned up and then he could just remain in a slightly tipsy stupor for a while. The truth was, things with the Winchesters were going haywire. Between tense attitudes with Jack joining the fold, complications with alternate universes, and the uphill struggles with his own depression, he’d only wanted to dull the upsetting thoughts buzzing in his mind so that they could enjoy each other’s company. But he’d worded it so poorly.

“I’m sorry. I was... trying to even out my mood. Everything has been remarkably stressful lately and I didn’t want to take out these frustrations on you. Angelic liquor has a calming effect on me. You’ve seen this. But I took it to excess, and I am sorry.” he unsteadily moved to the door. “I will go. I’m... I will go.”

Flip narrowed her eyes, watching him brace against the wall. It wasn’t particularly safe for him to wander out in that condition, regardless of whether or not she was angry with him. Castiel had the tendency to be thoughtless in the way he expressed himself from time to time, but it was rare that his intention was to be truly mean. If this was his poor attempt to avoid emptying frustrations onto their evening... then his Heart had been in the right place, even if his words had not.

When he felt her arms circle his middle, softly holding him in place, Castiel swallowed heavily and apologized once more.

“Next time we’ll make a drinking game of it, if you need it.” Flip whispered. “I don’t want to see you getting wobbly by yourself again, especially if your mood is south of sunny by this much.”

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

Hugging them way too tightly

“Hggn… Flippitn, please…” Cas wheezed. “My ribs are susceptible to breaks now.”

His injuries were minor as compared to many of the other patrons from the city’s commuter bus. The walk from Flip’s hideout to the Gas N Sip where he endured employment as a Human was not far, but the outlet mall he needed to visit was too far to walk to that day. Being that he needed to purchase a set of skid-proof shoes per his employer’s new uniform requirements, there was really no other option. How unfortunate that the bus driver was working his seventh double-shift in a row. The old man had fallen asleep at the wheel, and capsized the bus over the highway median.

Paramedics had swarmed the scene, going through the motions of onsite triage to discern who required the most immediate of attention. Castiel managed to heave several people out of the bus windows down to the people who were waiting on the ground.

By the time his minor head wound was being addressed, a woman with eyes just a little too bright to look natural had been seen pushing her way through the throng of people blocking civilians. He signaled that he would like to allow her near, if only to make sure that she didn’t get into a fight. That woman was now crushing him in a hug, sending a symphony of cracks along his ribs and spine.

“Ma’am, you’ll need to be careful. We think he might have a concussion.” a woman advised.

Flip looked back and waved to someone else. A person with neatly tied dreadlocks as well as the same unnatural eyes, his green rather than blue. Supposedly ‘help’ sent from the emergency room in the next town over. Strangely, each person he checked on seemed completely fine as soon as he touched them, as if by some miracle. Not really so much a miracle as a Healer Sprite. Not that they needed to know that.

“Thanks, Frizz…” Flip whispered. “Cas, you’re still taking off work tomorrow or I will re-concuss you for scaring me.”

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

Kissing their forehead or cheek

“You’re not going to get me sick. My immune system is mighty and yours is malnourished Human.” Flip insisted. “And if you don’t let me do it my way, I’m getting a rectal thermometer and you’re gonna have an awkward night.”

Flip was not a Fae of idle threats. As long as Castiel had known the Moon Sprite, she was always prepared to follow through on anything she put to the table. He sighed and dropped his hands.

“Fine.”

He waited as patiently as he could for the tiny woman to flutter up and press her lips to his burning forehead.

“One hundred and three,” she reported. “You HAVE to take a fever reducer because you’re going to risk brain damage if it goes any higher.”

“I don’t care for the taste of it…” he complained.

“Dean was right. You are a baby in a trenchcoat.”

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

Kissing their neck

“That is very distracting.” Castiel stated.

To all appearances, he was not at all distracted. He carried on writing down instructions from his online doula class as if his Mate was not tenderly working her mouth over the back of his neck and over the curve of his shoulder.

“I’m trying to determine how much time it takes for contractions to start after the mucus plug falls out. If I don’t scan in my notes before nine, my classmates will shun me in the message board.”

Flip paused in her endeavor to give him a deadpan look.

“You’re a real romantic, ne?” she sighed. “Alright. Do your homework. I’m going to go have a soak.”

“I could join you when I am done…” he called after her. “Perhaps you could pick up your affections then?”

“No, I’m warding the door.” Flip laughed, zooming off.

“Do not ward the door.”

“Nuts to you, I’m warding the doooooooor!”

“Mmph. She’s going to ward the door.” Cas grumbled to himself, rolling his eyes as if complaining to someone else in the room. Perhaps the powers that be.

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

Kissing them softly on the lips

“Thank you for the assist.” Castiel acknowledged, tilting the case of German beer in a gesture of gratitude.

As he could no longer fly, having his Mate pop overseas via Portal to retrieve a particular brand of beverage was certainly a boon. It would go over well with the Winchesters to bring something that wasn’t off brand from a gas station. Or so he’d assumed.

“Calling in Fairy favors for booze?” Dean asked dubiously. “What’d you trade for that, Cas, a kindergartener?”

“I did not trade a kindergartener for beer, Dean.” Castiel replied with a huff. “I asked that she pick this up for us after work because she was going to be in Germany anyway. Strangely, if you ask people nicely, they will sometimes comply with your requests.”

“How do you know where she’s working on a given night?” Sam puzzled. “You keep in touch that much? Thought you two were like… frienemies. No offense.”

“I have contacts outside of the two of you.” the Angel grumped. “Some of them are still alive. Some of them don’t hate me.”

Knowing that beer and Bonanza night was strictly a guy thing in the bunker, Flip decided to duck the conversation in favor of having a girl’s night elsewhere with Jilomena and Silt. Even with an adopted Human disguise, she didn’t need any further attention drawn to herself outside of a run-down Waffle House.

“Some of them have places to be.” Flip hemmed.

She tipped a finger under Castiel’s chin and softly pressed her lips to his. She then waved farewell before vanishing quite suddenly. Heaven help him.

“Cas... you bangin’ a Fairy?” Dean sputtered.

“The beer is getting warm, Dean. We should go.” Cas evaded, sliding the box into the back seat of the Impala.

“Cas,” Dean insisted. “Cas, what the hell?! When were you gonna tell us that you were off gettin’ a bowl of Lucky Charms in your downtime?!”

“Do you talk about every transient woman you’ve bedded?”

“YES.” Dean slapped a hand on the bumper. “That’s what men DO, we kiss and tell! Tell me about NeverNeverLand!”

For a long moment, Castiel stared from Dean… to Sam… to Dean again.

“Well, I’m not a man. I’m an Angel.” he said finally. He snapped the car door closed and buckled his seatbelt. “And I’m not telling.”

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

Playfully whacking them with a pillow

“What was that for?” Castiel frowned.

“Don’t worry about it. Continue.” Flip levitated the pillow up off of the floor and resumed her relaxed perch on the back of the couch.

“Um… I was saying that my excuse for being moody was that… I just need a win. I’ve spent so much time consistently screwing things up. The Winchesters have lost faith in me. I am tired of being a disappointment. If-“ PAP! “Nnnnn. You did it again.”

“Did what?” Flip prompted.

“You hit me with a pillow.”

“I did not. I enchanted a pillow to whap you every time you needlessly speak negatively about yourself.” she corrected. “Care to try again?”

Castiel grumbled, but cleared his throat.

“I need to reassure the others that I can be useful again-“ PAP! “I need to fail less.” PAP! “…I am frustrated with the way events have unfolded, and I would like to take steps to improve the situations I’m facing, as best I’m able.”

…No pillow. Flip scooted over and lightly bonked her tiny head against his stubbled cheek.

“As an aside, you can truly be a pest when you’re trying to prove a point.” Castiel mumbled affectionately.

WHAP.

“I didn’t say anything bad about myself.” Cas protested.

“No, that wasn’t the enchantment, that was all me. My whap. How dare you.”

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

Sneaking up behind them and blowing a raspberry on their neck

“Not yet. The locals seem reluctant to discuss details of the curses associated with the folklore of-“

Pppfffffffhhhhhhhh!

Castiel winced his shoulder up hard with a soft snort. He waved the Fairy away with a shooing motion. She’d have to wait her turn for attention.

“Wh-? No. No, Dean, I did not flatulate in the middle of our call. Someone blew against my neck. It is not of import.” he rolled his eyes up and sighed, handing over the phone. “Dean wants to say hello.”

“Hallo, Dean!” Flip peeped into the receiver.

I knew it! the voice over the phone crowed, followed by some muted words that Castiel could not quite pick up.

“Ah? What about NeverNeverLand?” Flip questioned.

“DO NOT!” Cas interrupted.

----------

Surprise kissing them

(Excerpt from “The Drawing Game”, pre Casip)

“FLIP.” Castiel stated flatly, pushing up to prop one arm over her torso to discourage rolling away. “Did you draw a posterior wearing refined attire on my face?”

“It sounds like something I would do.” she nodded thoughtfully.

“…Why?”

“Why not?” she countered.

Before Castiel could lay out a list of obvious reasons not to draw an ass over someone’s face, Flip tilted up and pecked a tiny kiss to his nose. Eyes wide, Cas pressed himself up and shuffled back away from her in complete alarm. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly like a fish pulled from water as his brain struggled to comprehend what had just happened. Obviously Flip had only done such a thing to shock him. To free herself. He’d seen many such occasions where she relied on surprise to escape various troubles.

“But… but… WHAT…”

“So eloquent. Toodles.” Flip snorted, vanishing away rather than using the door.

Recovery took a moment, but Castiel soon found himself padding into the restroom to scrub the drawing off of his face with one of the rough cloths folded neatly on the sink. Not too difficult to smear out of his faint stubble. He rolled his eyes and sat down on the edge of the bathtub propping one foot on his knee to remove the smiley face and cat drawings as well. Once finished, the other foot was brought up. He squinted at the writing. Enochian. Loosely translated to:

Forgive yourself, my friend.

Castiel slowly lowered his foot back onto the floor without wiping the words away. There was a little heart drawn on the heel that made him wonder if it was a simple embellishment or if maybe an extra sign of affection. He stared at his reflection and touched two fingers to his nose, slightly crossing his eyes to look at a very faint trace of glitter left from her kiss. Had he scrubbed his face too hard, or was that a blush? What a confusing night.

--------

Telling them they love them for the first time

(Excerpt from something I’m not going to post >_>)

“Excuse you???” Flip squeaked, spinning to face him and breaking off the sticking charm.

“You d-deserve to be… loved!” Castiel heaved.

Flip stopped dead and leaned over him, face to face.

“I am loved. People love me. A fair few people love me.” she said seriously. “What’s that got to do with anything, if people love me?”

“I know. I know people love you.” Castiel frowned, breathless. “I’m one of them.”

Flip pulled back fractionally, confusion and panic seizing her Heart. The look in his eyes wasn’t platonic, but neither was it lusty. Castiel had always carried a deep purity to him. But no. She knew that the wisest thing would be to vanish and never come back. Getting overly attached to a mortal always ended poorly for all involved, and whether or not she could find herself caring that way in return was irrelevant.

The silence was suffocating. Still, for whatever reason, Flip did not leave, and Castiel didn’t take back what he said.

(…Jump forward in the story)

He quietly cleared his throat, trying to think of the best way to approach the subject, but Flip kissed the questions away from his lips and pointed up.

Written in soft twinkles above his head were the words

I love you, too.

-----

Tickling them

The last lingering shafts of a Tuesday sunset washed the den in a romantic blush of twilight. Aside from the quiet tick of a grandfather clock, all was silence. When the creak and snap of the front door signaled that Flip had returned from the grocery store with supplies for the week, fully sized up to fake Human proportions. Castiel glanced over his shoulder with a quiet greeting. Lately he had taken to doing impressionist paintings in the evenings after his shifts at the Gas N Sip. It helped keep his mind away from troubling things as he attempted to adjust to Human life.

“That’s a pretty one. Where is it?” Flip rested her chin on his shoulder.

“It’s the Antigua Guatemala Cathedral. It is beautiful when lit up at night.” he replied, eyes soft with memory. “I very much enjoyed visiting it.”

“We could go there. We’ll wait until you get some vacation time in at work, set it up all Human-style.” the Fairy offered.

“I would like that.”

He shifted in place. And then again. Flip tilted her head, wondering if the thought of doing manual travel as opposed to Magical or Celestial made him uncomfortable to come to terms with. Then it became clear that he was trying to cope with an itch.

“Let me.” Flip scoffed, rucking the maroon sweater up and taking her nails to his upper back. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you. I have paint on my hands… new clothes. Ah… little lower, please. Lower. Good.”

“Why didn’t you wear something you could mess up?”

“I didn’t want to mess anything up.” Castiel explained. “The clothes will last longer if I care for them properly and I khhh! Wait!”

Flip rolled her eyes and did not wait. She let her nails dance and slide across his ribs and belly, nuzzling her nose against his neck. He twitched and wiggled against her, choked with quiet laughter as his hands fought the instinct to make a grab for anything lest it stain.

“Flippiti-hin, the PAI-heh-nt!” he squirmed. “Flip!”

“Yes, it’s a lovely painting, we covered that.” Flip nodded, carrying on.

“PleEEase re-f! Refrain! I can’t t-“ he tried again, sinking to the ground to attempt escape, even if logically he knew that she would follow him down. Which, of course she did.

“You know, in those hymnals you leave laying around, whenever it says refrain, it means repeat. Considering your background, that’s the definition I’ll assume you’re going for.” Flip laughed along with her Mate’s hysterics. “You’re mated with a Fairy. You’re getting tickles. It’s the law.”

When she reached out for a tickly grab to his thigh, playful squirming changed to no not there panic and a paint-covered hand flailed out to shove Flip’s arm away. She paused and looked at the blue smear on her forearm.

“That’s my favorite arm, I’ll have you know.” she advised cooly.

Without waiting a beat, Castiel was off, pounding through the house at top speed with Flip hot on his heels. By the end of it, they were both coated in paint splotches, breathless on the kitchen floor.

“You got paint everywhere in this house. I hope you’re happy.” Flip mock-reprimanded, idly picking at a wet patch of green on her shirt.

Castiel gave her a sheepish half smile and gently touched a matching shade of green to her nose.

“I am~”

-----

Waking them up by holding them and playing with their hair

It was unclear exactly how long he’d been out. His Vessel ached straight down to his Grace. Strangely, there was one pleasant feeling mixed in with all the unsettling pain. The last thing he remembered was getting slammed away with a banishing ward. It had been one of the most heavy duty ones he’d ever come across.

“How did you find me?” he squinted up at his Mate, shifting his head in her lap.

“I looked.” Flip shrugged, outwardly not belaying any true concern.

She continued to card her hands through his hair, mindlessly clinging to the only thing she could think of to soothe him. Her healing powers had never been particularly polished, and she knew it would be a bad idea to even attempt it.

For now, this was fine. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her belly, waiting for his own healing factors to pick up the slack. It would take a little while. Considering how lovely her nails felt across his scalp, Castiel was not particularly fussed with the idea of having to be patient.

#Casip #Cut for length #Relationship drabble prompt

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actuallylorelaigilmore · 5 years

Text

the word is out about the town, to lift a glass and don't look down

Christmas fluff!! During "Silent Night, Deadly Night," Alice runs into FP at the Whyte Wyrm. Afterwards, they each receive an unexpected gift.

FP x Alice, Riverdale. Also on AO3.

He’s paused at the bar, talking to the Serpent that helps out when Hog Eye’s off for the night. Topaz, he thinks, her eyes the golden color of gemstones. He doesn’t know her that well; the kids who join keep getting younger and younger. But she’s taken Jug under her wing and FP is grateful for that.

“Can I get you anything?” She looks up from wiping down the bar, and he shakes his head.

“No, thanks.”

He hears her all the way from the other side of the Whyte Wyrm. It’s like the sound of her cuts through the static of the crowd between where he stands and where Alice Cooper is, dressed like somebody who got lost on her way home from the PTA.

“I gotta…” FP leaves his sentence unfinished, missing the knowing smirk on Toni’s face as he’s drawn to the drop-off spot for holiday donations.

She looked so different the last time she was here--or she looked the same, and the way she’s dressed now is really what counts as different. He can’t tell anymore, with Alice, which is the real her and which was a lie. But she looked great at his retirement party.

Now she’s buttoned back up and carrying two big gift bags in green and red.

What’s the classic line? He steps closer. Of all the bars in this town, here she is in his? Something like that. He’d be able to recite it word-for-word if he wasn’t already catching a hint of her perfume.

“Alice Cooper.” He enjoys the way she whips around, startled by him despite being on his turf. Serves her right.

“FP. How are you?”

Strange thing is, she sounds like she means it. It occurs to him that the last time he saw her, he was throwing his second chance away. No wonder she's wary.

“I’m fine. Snakes don’t stay down for long.”

Alice rolls her eyes. She was a Serpent too, but it was FP who became so enamored with snake imagery that he started confusing the gang insignia with the creature itself. What a silly quirk to have survived the years between them.

“What are you doing here?”

“Toys for Tots.” She lifts the bags and shakes them a little. “Toys.”

“Ah.” It’s not much of an explanation. He's certain the Northside has toy drives of its own, along with school supply collections and fundraisers she could donate to. Why here?

“I felt like...doing something,” she says when he keeps staring. “Giving back. I remembered we always did this. Decided to see if it was still happening, and here you are.”

“Here I am.”

And here you are, he thinks, dragging his eyes away from hers long enough to scan her thin pink blouse and skirt under a heavy winter coat. “Come with me. Oh, give those to Sweet Pea,” he adds as an afterthought.

“What? Where are we--” They are almost to the bar, his hand on the small of her back, before she relaxes.

“What’s your poison?”

“I still have to make dinner,” she says with a hint of sigh in her voice. “I’ll just have some wine.”

“The wine here sucks,” Toni tells her firmly. “Nobody drinks it, so they won’t let me bring in better. Please, if you care about your tastebuds, order anything else.”

“Okay…”

FP leans in. “She’ll have two shots of strawberry vodka with a chaser of that lemonade you fixed up fresh this afternoon.”

“Gotcha. Be right back.”

“I can’t believe you remember that.” Alice stares at him.

“There’s a lot I remember.” He takes the liberty of tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. She's in his den, after all. Normal rules feel suspended here. “Why Toys for Tots, huh? We do it every Christmas. I’ve never seen you.”

“I have my reasons. And we have the money.” She shrugs. “Why not?”

“Until my party, you hadn’t set foot here since...before you got married. Is this gonna become a habit? Not complaining,” he adds. “Just wondering.”

“That was a one-time occurrence. I don't exactly belong here anymore. But, ‘tis the season.”

She pokes his chest with a perfectly manicured nail. “Where’s your holiday spirit, FP? You should be happy.”

“About what? I hate the holidays.”

“I know you used to. You’re a father now. You’re no longer that kid whose dad refused to put up a tree."

“Yeah, I know. I try to make it special for Jug. I do. But he’s growing up--he doesn’t want Santa stories and snow angels anymore.”

“Some traditions we grow out of,” Alice agrees, with a parent’s sorrow. “But some grow along with us. Don’t stop trying, FP. Your kids will always be your kids, if you let them.”

“Wow, somebody’s philosophical.”

“No, somebody’s impatient. Where’s my drink?” Alice turns away from him, drumming her fingers on the bar until she spots Toni.

“Sorry, Tall Boy wouldn’t wait his turn. You know how he gets,” she tells FP. “Here’s your shots and chasers.”

Alice narrows her eyes when the girl sets down the shot glasses and only gives one to her. The other is in front of FP. Wasn’t he done drinking?

“I never said I would share,” she protests, reaching across him to grab it.

“It’s a free drink, Alice. Stop complaining.” FP tosses his back, following it with the chaser. Alice smiles at the way his mouth twists around the tartness of the lemonade.

“I don’t know how you can stand that berry stuff,” he says as Alice drinks hers in half the time. She pats her mouth with the napkin in front of her and grins.

“It’s disgusting.”

FP’s laugh fills the space between them. It does more to warm her than the liquor.

“Hey, I didn’t order it! You did.”

“Because it used to be your favorite.”

“I also used to watch The Breakfast Club every week for a year. I was a dumb kid.”

“You were never dumb. But wow, you had crap taste.”

“In alcohol, yes. I’m happy to say my tastes have matured.”

“Also in music,” he argues. “That song you played about a hundred times. You wore out the tape deck in your old car. What was it called again?”

“'Hungry Eyes?' It was in Dirty Dancing! FP Jones, that is a classic song.”

“That song drives me nuts. I still know all the words, and not by choice.”

“I’ll never understand how you could live in that trailer and be such a snob.”

“Well, you grew up in the ugliest house on the block, and look at you.”

She glares at him. “I can still punch you without breaking a nail, you know.”

“Meant it as a compliment, Alice. You’re gorgeous, always have been. Questionable taste, in music and movies and alcohol. In people. But too pretty for words.”

“You certainly seem to have plenty tonight.”

“Vodka went to my head.”

Her lips quirk. “You’re not that much of a lightweight. But we’ll pretend I believe you. I have to go, FP. Thanks for the terrible drink on the house. Good luck on the toy drive.”

“Stay warm,” he says, the closest he can get to goodbye. That almost felt like old times. They’ve never looked more different, but something was the same. Something is still there.

“Hey, Toni.”

“You want another?”

“God, no. The woman you fixed the shot for just now?”

“Yeah, Betty’s mom.”

He glances at her, surprised.

“I used to read the Register. She’s not exactly low-key.”

“Right. I wonder...does she look like the type who might have a record player?”

“I don’t know.” She thinks it over. “I mean, her husband owns a newspaper. She might’ve gone digital. But if she does have one, I’m guessing it’s quality.”

She could have questioned him in return, about Mrs. Cooper or his sudden interest in vinyl. Toni was curious about all the undercurrents that ran through the Southside and Northside High and everywhere in between, but she didn’t ask about them. She learned more by listening and letting others do what most people did naturally: tell strangers all their secrets.

FP grabs his coat and pauses by the Meals on Wheel section to make sure the arrangements are coming together. “I’ll be back soon,” he tells Tall Boy on his way out. His bike takes him to Greendale and back with no problems--an unnecessary precaution, probably. It's not like he's doing anything wrong.

But Riverdale is full of nosy idiots.

****

Alice hears the doorbell ring, and waits for Betty’s footfalls on the stairs as she brushes flour off her hands. Eventually she sighs and goes to answer the door herself. She’s busy in the kitchen; couldn’t Elizabeth have at least come downstairs?

There are carolers on her doorstep, one of the traditions she loves about Riverdale that she had no idea existed outside of Christmas movies until she joined Hal on the Northside.

The Riverdale Children’s Choir sings a spirited, if slightly off-key, “Carol of the Bells.” After that, it’s “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” and then “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” By the end, her lonely mood has perked up a bit. The group of kids and parents moves to the next door.

Maybe they’d like some of the cookies she’s been making all day, Alice thinks, before a glint at the edge of her porch catches her eye.

The flat package is wrapped in metallic gold and crinkles when she picks it up. For Alice is all the tag says. If her memory hasn’t failed her, though, she knows that handwriting.

What would he be doing getting her a gift?

She closes the front door, tiny carolers forgotten, and sits heavily on her couch. Betty is doing who knows what in her room; Hal is out. No time like the present...for a present, Alice decides.

Even as a child, she was a fastidious unwrapper. Gifts were so rare in her house, so precious, that she relished them. She hung on to the paper for years, turning it into something new or laying it flat in a box, tucked away in wait for a life where she could take such things for granted.

She wants for nothing now, but the box has only gotten bigger, and the treasure trove of glittering bows and ribbons and glossy paper offers her the holiday spirit year-round.

On really bad days, Alice dives into that box, running her fingers over the twirled ribbons and remembering where each piece of carefully preserved wrapping came from.

FP was there for a lot of that--for the worst of it. There’s no way his choice of paper isn’t deliberate. He brought her shimmering gold, the color he always told her looked best on her. Though her world has been falling apart for months, that makes her smile.

Pressing the tape against the white side of the paper as she goes along, Alice painstakingly peels back the gold until she can see what’s inside.

A laugh bursts out of her, and she rushes to cover her mouth like she can take it back. There is no sane way to explain this gift to Betty...the circumstances, or receiving it at all. But it's perfect.

Untying her apron and leaving it on the couch, Alice takes her surprise to Hal’s study. He shouldn’t be home for hours. And since she no longer really owns records, it’s where they keep his father’s player.

Not that Hal listens to them much, either. He likes the idea of being the kind of man who does. Status and how things look matter more to him than the truth; despite her choice to marry him, they are nothing alike in that way.

Alice slides the shrink-wrapped vinyl out of the gold paper, and sets it down on Hal’s desk. She runs her fingertips along the cover of the LP. There’s Johnny, and there’s Baby. She’d been such a romantic back then, in a desperate secret way she showed only to the first boy who loved her back. How many times had she made FP watch Dirty Dancing?

It had to be at least a dozen, the poor guy. And he wasn’t wrong, she’d played this song in her car over and over, until the tape snapped inside the cassette.

It was playing when they got lost in the rain during what was supposed to be a romantic picnic. It was playing when he quirked that smile of his and ran his hand up under her shirt the first time, when they steamed up the backseat.

FP even played it once, when she found out she might not graduate because of her arrest and they would be putting her on community service on the Northside to expose her to more ‘positive influences’--like the Northside wasn't full of pompous jerks who bullied her friends.

She couldn’t stop crying, her face buried in his jacket while they sat in the cab of his dad’s truck...and then "Hungry Eyes" started playing.

“I bought a copy,” FP told her, kissing her damp cheeks. “In case of emergency. Close your eyes, Al. It’s gonna be okay.”

It wouldn’t be okay, in actuality. Everything was about to change--but neither of them knew that at the time. Her lashes dried, his varsity jacket left the imprint of an R on her cheek, and she laced her fingers through his. She let her favorite song and her boyfriend's warmth make it disappear for a while.

Now, Alice puts the record on. She closes her eyes and curls up on the small sofa in the corner, feet tucked underneath her, clad in fuzzy socks. The music washes it all away.

It’s 1992. She’s splitting her time between school and the local biker bar, because her home isn’t safe or happy. But she has FP. That matters more than everything else.

Her relationship is a little like her favorite movie, when she thinks about it. He’s a roughneck like Johnny, with a soft side. She’s never fit in her family, like Baby. And FP isn’t really the school dance type, but he likes to put the radio on in his trailer when they’re alone and slow dance with her on the frayed carpet.

She spends the next hour locked in her husband’s study, the record taking her back to a life before there were Black Hoods and teenage pregnancies and broken hearts. She’s just a girl who loves a boy, and he’s murmuring along to her favorite song.

Alice hopes he likes his surprise as much as she likes hers.

****

“Hey,” FP calls out to Hog Eye behind the bar as he surveys the donations table. “I thought the sorting was done.”

“It is. Everyone got the toys and meals packed up and ready for distribution, all of it. Finished this morning.”

“Then what’s this?”

FP waves a box in the air. It's wrapped in forest green paper with little white trees. Hog Eye shrugs and goes back to tending bar.

“Sweet Pea found it with the donations. Apparently it’s for you.”

“Huh.”

He turns it over and spies the card tucked under a silver bow. Typed out instead of handwritten, it reads, Merry Christmas, FP. From your Secret Santa.

The Serpents don’t do Secret Santa. Their money goes to holiday donations and taking care of their members the rest of the year. Plus it’s such a spoiled rich sort of idea, buying gifts for someone and not even signing your name.

Which is exactly what he did, leaving that surprise for Alice, he reminds himself. So maybe he should just open the thing.

It takes him three seconds to remove the paper. He’s never been the patient type when he gets presents; if it could get taken away any minute, you better enjoy it while you can.

Wrong Men & Notorious Women: A Criterion Collection, the cover says in black and white. Apparently Santa thinks he needs to own more old movies. Who…

He remembers the way Alice’s eyes flashed at him across her dinner table last year and smiles. Before she went for the jugular on Homecoming night, she seemed surprised to learn he still loved movies. She looked, for just a second, like she’d seen a ghost.

The ghost of Christmas Past, FP thinks, turning the DVD set over in his hands. It’s Hitchcock. Got some good stuff. Not that he’d expect anything less from Alice Cooper.

As thank yous go, it’s a good one.

Then he freezes, still holding his gift.

“Boss?”

“Yeah, Hog Eye?”

“Need a drink? You look strange.”

“I’m fine, Hog. Thanks.”

If Sweet Pea found this mixed in with the donations, then she brought it that night. She brought it before he left hers on her porch.

FP isn’t sure what that means, but he knows it means something.

He used to speak the language of Alice fluently; now he can only guess that this is much an apology as a surprise.

Trying to tear him to shreds in front of his son and her husband and daughter? Pure Alice Cooper. No hesitation, no mercy.

Giving him movies for Christmas, when he mentioned being a movie buff right before their pleasant dinner went off the rails? When she hadn’t given him anything in the twenty Christmases before?

That was vintage Alice Smith. The girl he knew would pull stunts like this, flipping from angry to apologetic, from demands to tears.

He could never quite keep up, but he had loved the ride.

The reckless part of FP that always wanted another five drinks considered giving her a call. He could pick up the phone, thank her for the movies, extend an invitation to watch one in case she was ever bored and lonely.

He knows damn well it wouldn’t end there, if it started. There’s no version of that phone call that ends good.

“I’m goin’ home,” he tells everyone and no one in the Whyte Wyrm, and he tucks the box set inside his jacket for safekeeping.

Jughead’s pissed at him for taking the Serpents back, but maybe he can get his sullen kid to watch The Lady Vanishes with him tonight. Wasn’t that Alice’s advice, to keep trying?

'Tis the season, FP thinks with a grin as snow hits him on his way out the door.

If he’s ever going to catch a break...or a miracle...it might as well be on Christmas Eve.

#falice #riverdale #fp x alice #alice x fp #snakeparents #riverdale fic #riverdale fanfic #riverdale fanfiction #falice fic #falice fanfic #falice fanfiction #alice x fp fic #alice x fp fanfic #fp x alice fic #fp x alice fanfic #my fic

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thetourguidebarbie · 6 years

Note

I didn’t mean to turn you on + criminal AU Also in other news I fucking love this meme

Also for @lalainajanes. Hope you feel better

Thank you to @goldcaught, @chica-cherry-lola, and @honestgrins for listening to me whine. This came out very differently than how I intended and has fulfilled my regency quota for the next year. This also has a dash of mistaken identity, huddling for warmth/bed sharing, and stranded due to weather. Hope you enjoy!

Caroline swore softly when she stubbed her toe on a protruding tree root, squinting at the ground in the darkness as she tried to step over it, wrinkling her nose when her boot squelched in the mud. She wiped a damp curl out of her face and adjusted her satchel on her shoulders to get more comfortable, pulling her compass out of her pocket to try to read it with what little light she had to make sure that she was on track.

It wouldn’t be long now. She’d checked the watch just minutes ago and she’d been walking for more than an hour, so surely the rendezvous point was close. It wouldn’t do to be out in the rain much longer. She’d catch a cold and die and this whole production would be pointless.

It was bad enough that her father had decided that the rain after nightfall was an appropriate cloak for her escape, but that he’d refused to send a footman to accompany her on her journey was inexcusable. Even just a lady in waiting to carry her satchel would have been preferable to going alone. They could more than afford hiring someone to take the journey with her. His excuses that they didn’t know who they could trust seemed off to her. Once she returned from being sequestered for her safety they’d have to have a serious conversation about his radical paranoia, she decided.

She shivered, pulling the satchel closer to her body and adjusting her coat as she walked faster, hoping it would warm her up. Her guard would carry her belongings once they met up and she’d be able to sleep on their journey, her father relenting on her requests for a carriage once she’d gotten through the shortcut after a week of constant pestering.

Honestly, this entire thing was ridiculous. She wasn’t sure what was supposed to be safer about going through the forest by herself at night when there were wild animals about as opposed to a carriage ride down well-traveled roads. If someone was going to take her for ransom it would make more sense to catch her alone.

She continued to stew on her father’s terrible life decisions as she powered through her exhaustion, finally stumbling through the trees’ edge of the designated clearing what felt like lifetimes later. She pulled out her watch to check the time, satisfied with her efforts when she saw that she was only a few minutes past the designated hour, and set her satchel down on the ground, sitting beside it to catch her breath.

As the minutes ticked by she began to get more and more worried that her guard wouldn’t show up, and the nerves began to gather uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach as she kept scanning the area, trying to figure out where he could possibly be. If he didn’t arrive by the hour she’d have to set off on her own. She knew the general direction of the village and had packed enough coins for at least a night’s stay, which would give her time to recover and think of a better plan. It wouldn’t be her preference of course, but she could make do.

She felt all the tension rush out of her when she saw a figure emerge through the trees. She couldn’t see much other than the lean outline of his body, and she was a bit surprised that her father had hired someone without much muscle. Perhaps he was an expert in some sort of subtle weaponry that didn’t require brute strength?

“You’re late,” she said, pushing herself to her feet and marching over, shoving her satchel into his hands.

“Am I?” he asked, clearly bewildered, and she glanced up to see his face, her breath catching. Her guard was handsome. She supposed that he must have some good qualities to balance out his clear lack of punctuality. Dimples cut into his cheeks when he smirked at her clear once-over, and she felt her cheeks heat, thankful for the darkness that hopefully cloaked her forwardness. She cleared her throat.

“You are. I’ve been waiting for almost three quarters of an hour.”

“My apologies, love,” he said, his voice smooth and soft. “One should never make a lady wait, especially one as lovely as you.”

She wrinkled her nose at his over-the-top compliment, trying her best not to be flattered. An arrogant smooth-talker, then. Most excellent.

“My father’s written instructions are in this letter,” she continued, pulling the damp envelope out of her coat pocket and handing it to him. “Your payment is waiting at our destination.”

She noted the slight shift of surprise in his face at the word ‘payment’ before his gaze became calculating, and he nodded, balancing the satchel on the shoulder that wasn’t holding his, tearing open the envelope to read. She watched impatiently as he scanned the words, his eyebrows raising before he folded it up and slipped it into his bag. “Very well, my lady,” he murmured. “I’ll escort you to the carriage.”

“Thank you,” she said, pausing when she realized she didn’t know his name. She trailed off, raising her eyebrows pointedly, and his lips twitched.

“Klaus,” he supplied.

She frowned. She’d never heard of any man named Klaus in her father’s employ, but she supposed he must be new. “Lady Caroline,” she said, and he bowed slightly, raising her hand to his mouth and brushing his lips over her knuckles in a slow drag that made her breath catch, heat clear in his eyes despite the low light.

“A pleasure,” he murmured against her skin before standing. There was something dangerous about the way he held himself when he stood, his body just a bit too close to hers to be comfortable, the heat and scent of him strangely enticing. She took a sharp breath and stiffened when he pressed his hand to the small of her back. No man had ever had the gall to put his hand on her so casually, such a gesture screaming of a familiarity that she most definitely did not feel. Before she could object, however, he spoke in a voice so low that she could barely hear him over the falling rain.

“Shh, sweetheart. The forest is full of thieves. Best not lure them to our location.”

It was an oddly specific warning but she supposed he’d know best, and she kept as quiet as she could as he led her out of the clearing and through the trees, the heat of his hand against the small of her back growing more familiar and comfortable as they moved. They walked for about a quarter hour in silence, the only sound the wind rustling through the trees and the occasional howling of a wolf in the distance. By the time they arrived at the edge of the village that held their carriage, she was so tired that she feared she might fall over.

He pulled out the letter to read it again, murmuring the name of what she recognized as an inn she’d occasionally heard her father’s visitors mention under his breath, looking around and locating it quickly. A plain covered carriage sat next to it with a horse peacefully drinking water, free of the usual adornments that her father preferred.

“I believe that’s meant to be ours,” he said, leading her over and opening the door for her. “After you, my lady.”

“After me? Who exactly do you think is operating the carriage if not you?”

She knew she was being more than a bit rude, but she was exhausted and felt quite inconvenienced by his lateness, as well as a bit ruffled by his clear lack of manners. He didn’t seem to mind, his lips twitching as he held out his hand to help her inside, setting her bags down on the bench opposite her.

“I suppose you’re right, sweetheart.”

“You should not speak to me with such familiarity. It’s improper,” she scolded, more because the endearment made her heart skip a beat than because she objected.

“As you wish, my lady,” he said, his tongue curling around the words in a way that shouldn’t have been so deliciously sinful. “You should get some sleep.”

She blinked when he closed the door practically in her face. Before she could get her bearings, the faint whinnying of a horse sounded through the window, and there was a series of bumps before they began to move.

It was only a few minutes before she felt her eyelids drooping, and she did her best to arrange her pillows to give her some comfort, toeing off her dirty boots and trying to arrange her dress as comfortably as possible, using her coat as a blanket.

She wasn’t sure what to think about her new protector. The way Klaus carried himself radiated danger, as though beneath his veneer of charm laid a monster. While that would serve her well should they land themselves in any sort of trouble, she also found it irritatingly attractive. Considering he’d be protecting her alone until her father dealt with the threat to her life and called her back, it might be best to try to ignore his good looks and silver tongue. It just wouldn’t do to fraternize with her father’s guards. not when she’d risk the gossip making its way back to high society and ruining her chances at an acceptable suitor. Though women were known for trading secrets, she knew men weren’t much better. She’d heard her father’s acquaintances bragging about their experiences with ladies of less decorum than she loudly over scotch and card games, and she had no desire to end up a punchline at the end of a filthy joke.

She sighed, turning on her side and trying to relax. She’d simply have to take it one day at a time. For now she was safe out of the hands of her father’s enemies, and that’s what mattered. Her father would not hire a man any less than honorable to watch over her; he was too protective.

She would be safe with Klaus, no matter how dangerous her instincts told her he was.

Logan,

Your payment is located at our Summer castle, a journey that should only cost you five hours of your time at most. Take the northmost road just past the Moonstone Inn. It’s in the last village on the road that leads out of Whitmore Square into Donovan. The castle is quite large and should be difficult to miss.

I believe I should not have to mention this, but do not dispose of her body in an obvious manner. As discussed, this must remain between us.

Do send a messenger back once the payment is collected.

— W

Klaus read the letter again, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the words. The rain had calmed somewhat since he had left the inn on the stolen carriage with Caroline in tow, and the morning sun was high enough to read by. He’d stopped at a small village on the way to allow the horse to drink from one of the water troughs. According to the letter’s directions, they were halfway through their journey now. Klaus had spent the first hour or so debating whether he should even make the journey to the castle. Clearly the man who had sent Caroline into the forest alone intended for her to die. He wasn’t entirely sure that it would be safe for either of them to stop there for this Logan fellow’s reward. It could easily be a trap.

It wasn’t in his nature to feel protective of anyone or to assist random people he encountered during his wanderings, but something about seeing her drenched to the bone in expensive clothes fuming with indignance at a stranger for not being punctual was intriguing. Though he knew many self-respecting thieves who would have taken the satchel and ran without a word, he didn’t fancy himself to be a monster, and leaving her in the forest alone seemed rather ungentlemanly.

Unfortunately, that meant he was now stuck with a pretty girl with a sharp tongue who was supposed to have been murdered and had nowhere to go. It was just his luck, really.

He knew that he had no responsibility to make certain that she got somewhere safe, but he couldn’t help but feel it regardless. She seemed to be under the impression that he was some sort of footman or guard for her procured by the author of the letter, someone she clearly trusted. How was he to tell her that whoever ‘W’ was had hired someone to dispose of her body? How would she react to that sort of betrayal? Would she even believe him?

He knew that he certainly wouldn’t if he were in her position. Trading in thievery wasn’t exactly an honest profession, and a young noblewoman was not likely to trust that sort of man. She would have been raised to be wary.

Hopefully she’d at the very least trust him enough to guide him to relatives or friends that she’d be able to stay with, ones who didn’t want to murder her.

He turned at the sound of the carriage door’s lock clicking, hurriedly stuffing the letter into his pocket as he looked at Caroline. She was beautifully sleep-rumpled, her hair drying in the past few hours into slightly tangled curls, her full lips parting as she yawned.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

“Where are we?” she asked, and he held his hand out to help her out of the carriage as she glanced around.

“We’re at Whitmore Square.”

“Are we going to the Summer Castle?” Caroline asked curiously, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear as she regarded him with wide, much-too-trusting eyes.

He smiled slightly, his decision made before he could think about it. “We’re stopping there briefly for my payment and then continuing to a cabin on the coast.”

Her eyes lit up, her spine straightening. “The coast?” she asked. “I’ve wanted to see the ocean for years. My father must feel terribly guilty to buy a cabin there. That’s very sweet of him.”

“Your father?”

Caroline frowned. “Didn’t he hire you?”

“Err, of course,” he said quickly, and Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “Through a friend of a friend,” Klaus added impulsively.

She gave him a suspicious look but seemed to think better of commenting. “Well, my father is Lord William Forbes III.”

He tried to hide his wince. W, then. The man who had wanted her killed was her father, someone she clearly had a great deal of affection for. Klaus was proudly hard-hearted, his believe that to care for another person was a weakness having given him the benefit of a thick outer shell, and yet he couldn’t help but feel a stirring of sympathy.

A father’s betrayal was something he knew quite well, though his dislike of his had softened the blow significantly.

“I’m err…a private guard for hire.”

He knew that he was just sinking deeper into lies, but he somehow didn’t have the heart to tell her. Not yet. He’d get her safely to his cabin and let her settle down a bit before he broke the news that she would never be going back. Not if he could help it, at least.

“Like a traveling knight?” she pressed, hanging on his every word.

“Sort of,” he murmured. He did travel quite a bit, but not to rescue fair ladies or slay wild beasts. His skills lent more towards breaking into castles and selling the spoils he’d gathered from his adventures.

She eyed him for a few more seconds as though expecting him to elaborate before she cleared her throat. “How far away is the cabin from the summer castle?”

“A day’s journey or so, I believe.”

The horse shook its head beside them, its tail swishing back and forth, clearly having drunk its fill. “We’d best be off,” he said, opening the carriage door for her and helping her inside. “You’ll be able to gather more of your belongings at the castle before we make our way.”

“Of course,” she said, turning to him and taking a small breath, her teeth gnawing at her lower lip as though she was debating whether to speak. “Thank you. For protecting me.”

“It’s my honor,” he said quietly, and he saw the shiver run down her spine, heard her breath catch as her cheeks pinked. He knew his swallow was audible, and he closed the carriage door and took his seat to drive.

How had she managed to entrance him so quickly? He’d known her for less than a day and he already found himself hooked on her smile and the flush of her cheeks. He’d of course spent the past few years traveling fulfilling his most hedonistic desires and satisfying his needs through the more reputable brothels, but he somehow knew that Caroline was who he’d been waiting for. He ached for her already, wanted to feel the softness of her skin under his fingers and hear her breath shudder as he pressed soft kisses to her neck.

She’d somehow seduced him unintentionally, and though he knew that the most logical thing to do was find her a place to stay and leave without a trace, he somehow knew that he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

He also knew that he had to tell her the truth about her father sooner rather than later. If he waited too long to confess, any reasonable person in that situation would feel betrayed by the keeping of such a secret. He didn’t want her to run. He’d tell her the next day, he decided. That way she’d get settled in the cabin and have a good night’s sleep before he destroyed her perception of her life. It was a delicate balance, a line he’d have to precariously walk if he had any hope of convincing her to be his.

He hoped he’d succeed.

Caroline pulled her pillow over head to block out the wind through the trees and the cheerful early-morning chirping of birds so as not to disturb her from staying firmly entrenched in her current state of fury.

It had been a number of days since they’d arrived at what turned out to be Klaus’s home, mere hours since he had told her that her father had betrayed her. She hadn’t believed it at first, but he showed her the note, which was clearly in his handwriting and had been closed with their family seal.

“I’m sorry, love,” he’d murmured, pulling her into a hug and letting her sniffle into his shirt. The crying session had been long, her face painfully raw from tears by the end, and he held her through it, silently stroking her hair.

When she finally pulled back she was more angry than anything else. Though admittedly irrational, she felt humiliated by what her father had done, that she had trusted him. It should have been obvious from the start that what he was asking her to do was unreasonable. Traipsing about the forest in the cold without an escort? She should have known it was a trap.

It also admittedly hurt that he’d thought her to be so stupid. That he’d truly believe that she’d obediently stay put even as she died of cold. He’d always underestimated her, but this particular calculation rose to the level of idiotic.

She rolled on her side, considering her options. She could thank Klaus for the help and make off on her own, but that seemed unnecessarily dangerous. He’d been kind enough to offer to let her to stay with no conditions, had fed her and bid his single servant to wash her clothes. He still exuded heat and want with every glance in her direction, a delicious sort of danger with every single movement, but she’d never felt threatened or uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Though he could make her pulse race with a single look, it was never accompanied by the feeling of being cornered. Instead it was heady and intoxicating, a different sort of cage made of her body’s refusal to turn away, too hypnotized by him to tear her eyes from his. She felt safe with him, and she wanted to stay.

Yet, it felt wrong to take advantage of a stranger. Even if it hadn’t, she had to admit to herself that she did not want him to remain a stranger any longer. She’d spent a ridiculous amount of time in the last few days being curious about him and his origins, about why he was in the forest and why he’d taken her, but she hadn’t yet gathered the courage to ask, afraid she wouldn’t like the answer.

She stiffened when she heard the creak of floorboards outside the bedroom door, relaxing when she heard the low murmur of a conversation between Klaus and his servant, their words indistinguishable from behind the door.

Deciding it was time to get up, she pushed the blankets away and wrapped the dressing gown Klaus had leant her around her body, inhaling the scent of him that still lingered on the fabric. She couldn’t suppress a yawn as she opened the door, surprising the servant enough that he nearly dropped the plate he was carrying, though Klaus looked unruffled, giving her a fond look that turned lustful as soon as his eyes dragged up and down her body.

“Thank you for lending this to me,” she said, her fingers curling around the edges of the gown to wrap it around herself just a bit more tightly.

“My pleasure,” he said, his voice still slightly rough as though he’d just rose as well. “Maddox was just about to serve breakfast. Would you be amenable to joining me, my lady?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, the answer automatic from her sleep-addled brain. Her cheeks pinked when Klaus let out a soft chuckle, offering her his arm as though escorting her to a high society dinner in their nightclothes.

“I am no lord, but there are far worse things you could call me.”

She laughed, taking his arm and falling into step with him as they walked down the cramped hallway. “I suppose that’s true.”

They walked in a comfortable silence for a few moments before Klaus spoke again. “How are you faring?”

“Better,” she said honestly, glancing at him with a weak smile. “More angry than sad, I suppose.”

He nodded, not saying anything, and the silence ate at her until she broke it. “Why were you in the forest?”

He turned to eye her for a moment before opening the door to the small sitting room and ushering her in, gesturing for her to take a seat on an armchair. “I was taking the shortcut to Whitmore Square.”

“From?”

“Lockwood Hills,” he said, gesturing for Maddox to bring over the plates he’d been carrying and set them on the small table. “I do wish that I could provide more appropriate furnishings for dining, but I don’t often receive guests.”

“It’s perfectly all right, and you’re avoiding my question.”

He gave her a small smile. “More than a pretty face, I see.”

“Though I must confess that I do not disagree, do forgive me for saying that you’re not subtle in your avoidance.”

“I do,” he said with a dimpled grin before taking a bite of his food. “I was fleeing Prince Lockwood’s guards.”

“Why were they after you?”

“He believed I helped myself to a piece or four from the Queen’s summer jewelry vault.”

“And did you?” Caroline asked dryly, an eyebrow raised.

“I do know better than to admit my participation in any alleged crimes to a member of the aristocracy, sweetheart.”

“I am unsure if I can be counted as such any longer. Lady Caroline Forbes is thought to be dead, after all.”

“And yet you survived.”

“I did, but they’ll never know. He’ll never know.”

Klaus put the mug he’d been drinking from back down, holding her gaze intently.

“Do you want him to?”

“I want him dead,” she said impulsively, only knowing the words were true once she’d spoken them.

“More than a pretty face,” Klaus repeated, his voice a low murmur, and Caroline gave him a tight smile.

“It’s only fair. He did try to do the same to me.”

“But he did not succeed.”

Caroline pursed her lips, smoothing her dressing gown over her knees. “It was his own fault. He was too much of a coward to make sure of it.”

“I can have it done by sundown,” Klaus said, and she was surprised how much his statement warmed her, the conviction clear in his expression making her breath catch. “I’ll go now. Maddox will keep you safe.”

She swallowed, shaking her head and squarely meeting his eyes, taking a deep breath before she spoke. “No.”

He frowned. “No?”

“I am not a coward.”

His lips curled into a slow smile.

“Like this?”

He shook his head and reached so that his hand was hovering close enough to her wrist that his fingers brushed against her skin, making her nipples tighten. She knew the shiver from his light touch had nothing to do with the early winter chill. She bit her lip to keep herself from inhaling sharply, trying to concentrate on what Klaus was saying despite being distracted by the heat of his body being so close. “Caroline?” he prodded, and it was clear from the amused tone that it wasn’t the first time he said her name.

“Yes?”

“May I?” he asked, wrapping his hand around her wrist gently, his grip firming when she nodded, hoping the racing of her heart wasn’t as obvious to him as to her. She let her tongue dart across her lips as his other hand moved to rest lightly on her hip, chest pressed against her back. The heat of his palm through the thin cloth of her dress was distracting, but she fought to pay attention to how he was guiding her through the movement to throw the knife. “Flick of a wrist at the end, sweetheart,” he reminded.

She nodded absently, glad he was behind her so that he couldn’t see her blush. She felt her core ache with need as he ran his thumb along her hip, and she shifted slightly to try and relieve her need for friction.

The feeling wasn’t exactly new. She’d had a secret affair with one of her guards, and though she knew her mother would have died of shame from the scandal had it come out, she didn’t regret it one bit. Lorenzo had been attentive and charming, deft at bringing the most sinful sort of pleasure to her body. He’d made her breathless and flushed, had spun pretty words about how much he loved the way she’d quake against his fingers and cock.

Her father had sent him away about a year’s time before he’d exiled her to die in late spring. She looked at Lorenzo’s love for her with nostalgia now, no longer pining for him.

Klaus was different though, somehow. She had the same attraction to him, but their connection was much more intense, sending shivers down her spine and making her heart stutter in her chest whenever he looked at her. He was lusting after her, his heated glances making her feel desirable and wanted. She wasn’t ashamed to admit to herself that she wanted his hands on her just as badly as he clearly wanted to touch.

She’d spent what felt like a ridiculous amount of time watching his fingers when he drummed them on a tabletop and admiring his forearms when he pushed the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows.

She liked the way his fingers splayed along her hip when he guided her movements, enjoyed the heat of him pressed against her. She’d never thought such simple touches could make her crave more, but she’d clearly been mistaken.

She tried to focus, pulling her attention away from the way he touched her to the weight of the knife in her hand. The plan was simple in theory: sneak into the mansion and slit her father’s throat. Unfortunately, she knew she would not succeed in a physical altercation if she approached him, and because she’d insisted on completing the deed herself, she had to learn to do it from afar.

Klaus, as it turned out, was all too happy to assist her.

She felt him pull away to let her try the throw again. The sudden cold was jarring, his body heat having been a welcome comfort. The sky was greying now, and she had a feeling it would start snowing soon. She shivered.

“Are you cold, sweetheart?”

“A bit chilly,” she admitted. Klaus’s hand immediately moved to the small of her back.

“Inside, then. We’ll continue this later. I don’t want you to catch cold. Maddox will build a fire.”

She smiled slightly at his protectiveness, leaning into his touch as he led her inside, taking the knife to put it away and retrieving a soft blanket for her while Maddox built the fire. Klaus had grown more and more overt with his interest and protectiveness over the months she’d spent with him, had only left her for a short number of days, always commanding Maddox to sleep by her door and keep watch. She’d gathered from some short conversations that she was monopolizing what had been his bedroom, and she admittedly felt a bit bad about it. Klaus had never pressured her to join him in his chambers, but she was curious about what they might hold. Though she was admittedly flattered by his patience, her own was running out.

She settled with the blanket pulled around her shoulders as Klaus fussed with a pot to heat some water for them, dismissing Maddox with a wave of his hand.

She watched as he fiddled with a mug between long fingers. She knew the sight shouldn’t give her sinful fantasies of what they could accomplish curled inside of her, but her thoughts continued down that path regardless.

“Comfortable, love?” he asked, turning to look at her. She swallowed audibly at the petname and she tried her best to wipe the lustful look off her face, smiling instead.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“You?” she asked, noting the goosebumps that had pebbled on his arms and the slight flush of his cheeks. “You look cold.”

“I’m perfectly all right, sweetheart.”

“You are lying,” she said bluntly, making a split-second decision and raising her blanket up. “Come. There’s room enough for two.”

“I hardly think that would be appropriate, my lady,” he pointed out. She felt the energy crackle between them as she held his gaze, anticipation making her breath catch.

She saw the statement for what it was, him giving her the opportunity to back out, but as she told him months before, she was not a coward. She would not shy away from what she wanted. Who she wanted.

She wanted him.

“Forgive me, Klaus, but I have high doubts that a fear of impropriety has ever stopped you from pursuing what you want.”

His dimples slowly began to cut into his cheeks as she spoke, though he didn’t move towards her. She knew he was waiting for another invitation, wanted to make her admit that she craved his touch, his warmth. That did not mean she wasn’t just as interested in pulling a similar confession from his silver tongue.

“Do you want me, Klaus?” she asked, her tone smoother and more seductive than she’d known she could manage, soft and thick with want.

Klaus’s eyes darkened, his tongue darting over his lips in anticipation. His voice was low and rough when he spoke. “Yes. And what of you, my lady? Your wish is my command.”

“I’m cold,” she managed, suddenly a bit lost on how to form a coherent sentence, too distracted by the way he was moving. There was something deliciously predatory about how he approached her, and she already knew she wanted more.

Her breath caught when he finally reached her. He pulled the blanket more tightly around them, now near enough that even the slightest movement would bring her close enough to taste him.

“Better?” he asked softly, taking her hands in his, the heat of his palms against her hands a welcome respite from the earlier chill.

“Much.”

She saw his eyes dart down to her lips and back, and she leaned forward slightly, lingering just shy of brushing his lips with hers for a few long moments. Her heart was beating quickly in her chest from anticipation, every inch of her oversensitive and aching for him even though he’d not yet touched her. She’d been wondering what his lips would feel like against hers for months, her curiosity only growing stronger with each passing day.

She couldn’t take anymore waiting, her patience wearing thin, and he gave a satisfied hum when she finally closed the gap between him, his hands pulling away from hers to settle on her waist, pulling her flush against him. He nipped her bottom lip, running his tongue along the seam of her mouth, and she was lost in the way his tongue stroked the sensitive roof of her mouth, how his thumbs stroked the undersides of her breasts through the cloth of her dress.

When he finally pulled back for air, his lips slightly swollen, his eyes dark, she felt her breath catch at how he stared at her, drinking her in. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, and she felt her cheeks heat at the compliment, smiling slightly at his satisfied grin when he noticed her blush.

“Be careful or I might think that the offer to keep me warm was not out of an innocent desire to give me comfort.”

He chuckled, bending to kiss her softly and only pulling away enough so that she could understand him, their lips brushing as he spoke.

“I think we both know that my intent was less than innocent, my lady.”

She leaned forward to press her lips against his more insistently, her hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders, her fingers curling when he pulled away from her mouth to press hot open-mouthed kisses against her neck. Her eyes closed, a soft, breathless moan escaping her lips, and she felt his lips move as he smiled against her skin, a low rumble in his throat as he chuckled. His fingers were still pulling gently at the laces of her dress, and his lips made their way to her ear, his teeth nipping the lobe before he spoke. “May I?”

“Yes,” she breathed, her nipples pebbling from the cold as he unlaced the bodice and helped her pull her dress over her head. She gasped when he pushed her gently to lie on her back, his lips closing around one of her nipples, his tongue hot and wet and perfect against the sensitive skin.

She moaned as he kneaded her other breast with his hand, her back arching to seek more friction against his palm, and he tugged lightly on her nipple with his teeth. “Moan for me, sweetheart.”

She was absorbed in the sensation of his mouth and hands warming her, barely noticing that she’d tangled her fingers in his hair in an effort to keep him where he was, to prolong the pleasure that she’d so desperately craved since the moment she’d met him. He managed to pry her wrist away though, pushing himself up on his elbows to look at her with heated eyes, his tongue darting over his lips.

He was normally so difficult to read unless you watched carefully, his face always as blank as he could manage, and satisfaction welled within her that she’d been the one to coax out his expression of pure want. She’d admittedly let her fingers wander at night or in early morning to thoughts of him, but her fantasies had done a rather poor job of predicting the look on his face. It was better than she ever could have imagined.

The blanket began to slide down, and he pulled it up again to enclose them, but she shook her head, reaching to cup his cheeks. “I want to see you,” she admitted. She could have sworn she heard him swallow, his eyes darkening, and he wasted no time in shoving the blanket away and pulling his shirt off. The fire was big enough now that it was comfortable, especially with his naked chest pressed against her breasts and his body heat.

“Do you like to watch?” he asked, reaching to push a curl out of her face, the tenderness a significant contrast to the wicked grin he gave her as he took in her expression.

She knew she was blushing. Enzo had never asked her to admit her fantasies so bluntly, though he’d given her more than a few of his. She’d always liked watching him watch her, but had felt a bit prudish when faced with the opportunity to talk, to tell him what she wanted.

Somehow, Klaus was different. He made her feel empowered, confident, as though anything she said would just make him want her more. She nodded slowly, keeping eye contact as a slow grin spread across his face.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he coaxed. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I like watching,” she whispered, the words somehow still loud in the relative silence of the room despite the crackling fire.

He bent to kiss her again, more roughly this time, and she moaned as his hand began to stroke her inner thigh, gently nudging her legs apart.

“What do you want?” she asked, needing him to keep talking.

“I want to taste you,” he said between kisses, his tone low and thick with want. “I’m want you to come on my tongue. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” she breathed, the end of the word coming out as a hiss when he began to rub her clit with his thumb, the touch much more gentle than she wanted but still making her quiver beneath him.

“Good.”

“Klaus,” she breathed, lifting her hips when he pressed two fingers inside of her, curling them against her walls.

“You feel so good, sweetheart,” he praised, bending to kiss her again. “You’ll feel even better around my cock, I think.”

She nodded, the words she wanted to say caught in her throat, but he didn’t seem to mind, just watching her intently as he kept talking, noting every movement she made, hungry for her reactions. “After that I’ll take you to bed, then. I want to see you writhe beneath me with your hands twisted in my sheets, touch you until your pretty skin is flushed and slick. Keep your eyes open for me, love. You’re not the only one who likes to watch.”

She tried her best, drinking him in with hazy eyes, her breathing growing faster as he expertly brought her closer to the edge. “That feels…” she trailed off as she rolled her hips against his fingers, all of her concentration going to keeping her eyes on his as he built her up to her high.

“And tomorrow,” he continued, his voice softer but full of promise. “When the sun rises and the room is bright, I want to watch you touch yourself. I want you to show me how you like it.”

“As long as I get to see you,” she said through ragged breathing, her body so torturously close to release but not quite there yet.

She could feel his cock hard through his pants pressing against her thigh, felt him grind against her every now and then for friction despite his seemingly singular focus and bringing her to the edge. He groaned when she shifted to give him more friction, his head dropping between his shoulders as he sped up his movements, and her body shook against his fingers as she came, her eyes closing as he expertly prolonged her high.

She was still trembling with aftershocks when she reached down to slide her fingers under the waistband of his pants, grinning when his eyes closed as she wrapped her hand around his cock. “Look at me,” she breathed, smiling when he opened his eyes, his muscles tensing as she let her thumb brush across the head. He groaned when she used her other hand to cup his balls, eyeing him with interest to figure out what he liked best. She was fascinated by the small part of his lips and the way he breathed out her name, the flutter of his eyelashes when she squeezed him just the right way.

He slumped against her when he came on her palm, rolling them over so that she was on top and he could trace her waistline with his fingers as their breathing calmed.

“Still cold?”

“Better,” she said quietly, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as he brought her wrist to his mouth, licking her palm clean. The touch of his tongue to her sensitive skin made her thighs quake, her pussy already aching for his touch again. “I think your bed would be more comfortable.”

He pressed a soft kiss to her palm, keeping eye contact as he laced their fingers together. “As you wish, my lady.”

#klaroline #klaroline drabbles #klaroline drabble #klaroline fanfiction #klaroline smut #lalainajanes #kybee1497 #mydrabbles #ask #answer

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moodring89 · 6 years

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Wedding Crasher Ch.02

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader / Side pairings Genre: Romance / Smut Rated: M / NC17 Tags: Wedding!AU, Badboy!AU, Violence, Debauchery (more tags to be added) Summary: It was always a little bit tragic for Hoseok whenever he got caught, which wasn’t often. He had enough experience with crashing weddings to be considered a veteran. One easy lie after another, from the church to the reception hall. Previous Chapters: 01

A/N: Thank you guys! You've showed that short ass chapter so much love. I have come prepared to feed you a bit more :) If you're enjoying the story, remember to say so! It makes us writers work faster with confidence! New Reader fics I recommend when you're done: It's Too Sweet Comfort Zone

‘I didn’t mean to rob you, inside job you. Baby, you were meant to take the fall.’

You were running late, which wasn’t something you were typically known for, but sometimes when the stars aligned just right – the molten outer layers of hell showing signs of freezing over, it could happen. It was currently happening, on the worst night possible. Tonight was the joint bachelor party for two of your closest friends. You helped organize the entire evening, booking the table at the Bizarre, enlisting Jeongguk to find a dancer, working your ass off just so you could confidently pick up the tab at the end of the night. Jeongguk was waiting for you outside the club, checking the time on his phone with a hint of impatience. It was hot out, even this late at night – your heels scraping and clacking against the concrete as you walked up to him. “I am so, so sorry!” you said, joining him against the building. You could hear the music thrumming through the walls. “Did they beat me here?” Jeongguk gave a sullen nod, “They did. In fact, they’re all here, including the dancer, but he doesn’t start for another twenty minutes or so.” “Jesus, I’m like, not even a friend right now.” He patted your shoulder with mock-sincerity, “I know, but it’s making me look good. So, keep up the good work.” “Yeah, that’s reassuring. Thanks, Guk,” you muttered dryly, while tugging down your dress, the fitted material clinging to your curves in all the right places. Even Jeongguk had taken an interest, tilting his head to the side, looking you over without even an ounce of shame. You raised a brow at him, “Can we go in now?” He took hold of your hand and guided you towards the entrance, “The dancer brought along a friend, but he isn’t part of the show. I’m wondering if he’s the boyfriend… ” You stared up at him, surprised given the fact that Jeongguk hadn’t cared since his last miserable relationship. “Oh? Well, I’m wondering why that would matter to you.” “Because he’s adorable and it’s the adorable ones that end up being kinky as fuck,” Jeongguk said, right before you walked through the doors. Talking at a normal volume was no longer an option. The club was an overwhelming pulse of writhing bodies. The music was like a shot of adrenaline that sang throughout your body, making your heart race. Thankfully, it was quieter in the VIP section that you’d reserved, but not by much. Namjoon looked at his invisible watch, before shaking his head at you. Seokjin nudged him, most likely telling him to stop with the teasing. You approached the two grooms with open arms, saying your apologies over and over again. “I’m the worst,” you said, keeping your hands on their shoulders, unwilling to break free from the huddle. “But you’ve been enjoying yourselves? Please god, tell me this is fun for you.” “Joonie and I may be old, but we still enjoy the club,” Seokjin reassured, curling his hand behind your neck to bring you in for another hug. “Stop beating yourself up. You did well. Babe, tell her.” Namjoon’s response was immediate, “For fuck sake, woman, you know I’ve been trying to book a table here. They probably got tired of my ass calling every week, so I had to go through you.” You nodded, “Yeah, probably. Where’s Tae?” Jeongguk tore his eyes away from the crowd, “Dancing.” “We should go get him,” you offered, when really – you needed to go pay for the dancer, and only Jeongguk knew what he looked like. He caught on quick, following your lead. You stepped out onto the floor, resisting the urge to dance like everyone else was. Jeongguk gestured in the direction of a guy who was leaned against a busy wall, “That’s him.” He had a smaller figure, hair hidden under a cap with a dark hood thrown over it. How your friend could decipher the dancer’s potential to be adorable with such little exposed left you temporarily baffled. Approaching him, you gave an awkward wave of your hand, because you don’t ‘people’ very often. Tragically introverted, which was probably why you and Jeongguk got along so well. “Hey,” you said with a start, raising your voice to go higher than the music. “Thank you for coming. Has Jeongguk already filled you in on the situation?” The dancer’s lips were plump and slick with gloss. It was difficult to pay attention to much else, when he nodded, “He said that I’ll be dancing for grooms this evening.” “Yes, our two friends are getting married on Sunday.” You looked over at Jeongguk for some extra input and were caught off guard by the dark, narrowed expression that fell across his features, eyes taking the dancer in like he was a whole meal. Alright, then. “Anyways, I am prepared to pay for a full hour of your services and no offense, but I hope that you’ve prepared something that’s a bit more…” You paused, watching as the dancer tapped the arm of a guy who seemed deeply immersed in conversation with a girl, a strand of her blonde hair wrapped around his finger, as he slowly reeled her into him. This must be the friend that Jeongguk was worried about earlier – probably not anymore given how obviously flirtatious he was being with someone else. He released her from his hold to extend his hand out, accepting the dancer’s hat and oversized sweatshirt. What he wore beneath the layers was enough to effectively shut you up. Donned in a mesh sleeveless top, a harness made up of black leather hugged tightly around his slim waist and riddled with plentiful buckles. A set of nipple piercings glinted whenever he moved. It was goddamn distracting. He slid a hand through his silver colored hair, a grin splitting his mouth around his crooked front teeth. Jeongguk was right about this one, except adorable wasn’t exactly what you would call him. No, adorable was an insult. “A bit more…?” the dancer asked, eyes alit with amusement. He was smug and confident, two qualities that would appeal to your friends. You released a shaky breath, overwhelmed by all the visuals. Half determined to help Jeongguk out of his post-breakup depression, you inquired for his sake, “What should we call you?” “Jimin.” Jimin…the name suited him. You gestured towards the redhead who had yet to even look in your general direction, too busy with securing his kill, “And who is your friend?” “Hoseok hyung,” Jimin said, leaning in as if you’d be able to hear him better that way. “He wanted to come clubbing tonight.” Jeongguk decided to finally steal the conversation away from you, “They’re waiting. We should probably go start the show.” You weren’t done with your line of questioning yet and Taehyung was still out on the floor somewhere. Jeongguk’s lack of care on the matter was unapologetic, as he boldly left with Jimin without so much as a backwards glance. Something told you that he wouldn’t be waiting for you to watch the dancer strip out of his clothing. Damn it. You turned, scanning your eyes around the room. Taehyung always liked being close to the DJ station, mainly so that he could make one bad song request after another. “Tell me more about your friend,” came the loud, obnoxious shout from beside you. You turned, seeing the friend with the red unruly hair, minus the girl he’d been playing with just moments ago. “I don’t really have the time and it would take plenty,” you said, taking him in with a hint of apprehension. The guy had two black eyes and a busted lip. “Although, I’d like to learn more about your friend as well…” He nodded, acknowledging the fact that you both shared a mutual curiosity, “Yeah, I practically had my dick zapped off from the electrical charge I felt between them.” You raised a brow at his metaphor, thus deeming him as somewhat crass, and unpredictable. As much as you enjoyed comedians, you knew that you should steer clear of this guy. Gut instinct was never wrong. You mentally checked him off as proceed with caution, because despite crossing him off, you didn’t trust yourself. You were being honest, “I don’t disagree.” He was decently taller, dressed better than most guys here, and was actually, actually prettier than you. In fact, it was borderline ridiculous how attractive he was – you could sense the danger of it, felt it drawing you in like an invisible string. “So, you had your dick zapped, too?” he asked, grinning with his too white teeth, reminding you of the damn Cheshire cat, except with two very pronounced dimples. “I need to get back to my friends.” Screw Taehyung. You’d fallen off the beaten path and had run into a fucking wolf. “That’s right. Your friends are getting married on Sunday,” he said, moving so that he could stand in front of you. You were slow to look up into his eyes, caught and stuck the moment that you did – dark brown eyes melting you through where you stood. Hoseok leaned forward, playing with the short distance between you, threatening to close it entirely, “What a coincidence, since I’ll be attending a wedding on that day.” That part intrigued you. “You know Kim Namjoon and Seokjin?” Hoseok smiled quietly then, as though knowing something you didn’t, and had chosen to keep it all to himself. Unfortunately, you didn’t have the chance to investigate it, when Taehyung found you. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist and held you against him firmly. You could smell the alcohol on his breath, when he planted a sloppy kiss against your neck. “Mm, you smell like heaven,” Taehyung breathed, hands becoming familiar with the curves of your body. You were used to a happy, slightly intoxicated Taehyung – knowing that he wouldn’t drink enough to get drunk, but he would dance enough to become high. You held onto him, slipping a hand through his dark, damp hair. “Let’s go, Tae…” you trailed, unsure of what to make of Hoseok, or his imposing presence. He tucked a hand into his pocket and nodded towards the stairs to where your small party was being held – being oddly hot about it. What was happening? The tension was so thick and unnecessary. The way he held your eyes let you know that this wasn’t over. You managed to climb the steps supporting most of Taehyung’s heavy weight against you. Seokjin and Namjoon were at the far back wall, sitting with their chairs pressed together. You weren’t surprised to see that Jeongguk had made himself comfortable, arms crossed with his back against the hard surface, watching in enrapt stillness as Jimin found the beat. Without looking away, Seokjin spoke to you, “How could you do this to us? What kind of monster are you?” “I would’ve been offended if she hadn’t done this much,” Namjoon said, the deep timbre of his voice thicker than usual, caught in his throat traitorously. There was a hand settled between the elder’s thighs, Namjoon’s large hand giving Seokjin’s leg a possessive squeeze. Jimin’s soft, near cherubic features versus the sinful actions of his body was harsh in contrast, making him all the more unsuspecting. It was the perfect dichotomy, until it wasn’t – the expression on Jimin’s face falling into one of dark allure, and seduction. Taehyung pulled you towards the direction of a leather sofa, intending to use you as a cushion for his head. You smiled at his commentary, “Oh, oh…his hips, noona.” “I can see, Tae,” you said, appreciating the sight before you. Jimin’s movements were fluid and restrained, like he’d been dancing all his life. It wasn’t the type of dancing that you’d pick up from the clubs or the streets, but something more refined. The boy moved with grace, even while it was downright filthy. As an extra service for reserving the VIP section, you were regularly checked on. You hadn’t even had your first drink yet. So, you ordered yourself a whiskey sour. When it was finally in your hands, the glass cold and fogged over, you let the cool liquid slide down your throat. It went down smooth. Truth be told, you were a lightweight, so it only took a few moments for the alcohol to make you feel warm and relaxed, racing thoughts put on slow. The guy with the wild red hair was since forgotten. An hour with Jimin seemed too short now, like you’d been cheated. However, he made good use of his time, removing his harness with practiced hands, his every movement purposeful. The mesh, once gone was almost offensive. You’d assumed it wasn’t so, given the fact that you could see everything, but now – now you could actually see everything. You pitied Jeongguk then, especially when he was given some direct attention. He lowered his gaze at the dancer, as Jimin guided the flat of Jeongguk’s palm down his abdomen in a slow, tantalizing path that stopped at the button on his jeans. Jeongguk popped it open and pressed the zipper in hard, before trailing it down. “Take them off me,” Jimin demanded, words coming out breathless from what you’d assumed was exertion, but was probably something else. Something Mrs. Potts would have to explain to Chip in a full length song once he’d become of age. Jeongguk was all too willing to oblige him, running his fingers along the inside of his jeans, and over his pert ass. Kneading each cheek roughly, he pulled Jimin closer to him, allowing the smaller man to feel the outline of his hard cock. With half-lidded eyes, the dancer placed a hand on the top of Jeongguk’s broad shoulder when he bent down to tug his jeans off the rest of the way. “I think Guk is in hell,” Taehyung murmured to you and all you could do was nod in agreement, because yes – most likely. When Jeongguk stood back up, he practically shoved himself against the wall as a way of ensuring that he’d behave himself. It was the funniest thing you’d seen in a long, long while. Another whiskey sour down. Jimin finished his show with his back faced towards the grooms, paying each lap one last, final tease. You tried not to look at anyone, thinking it odd to be the only one without an obvious boner on display. Even after Jimin’s job was done, he’d stayed behind, finding himself wrapped up in conversation. It was Namjoon’s fault, always was, never passing up on deep, meaningful discussions with strangers. “Noona,” Taehyung pouted, showing you his empty glass of Shirley Temple. “Baby,” you said back, using the same pitiful tone, as you took it away from him, and placed it down on the table. “Can we go dance now?” Seokjin overheard you, “Me too. I want to show off what I learned from Jimin.” The dancer giggled at this, his entire face scrunching up cutely. This caused Jeongguk to nearly go into shock, turning with a groan that you’d physically felt run through you. Your friend needed to handle his situation. You were brought out onto the floor, positioned at the center of your friends in the usual formation. They always felt the need to circle you as a way of providing protection. With this in mind, it was easy for you to drop your defenses, and let go. The wedding was stressing you out, but the finish line was in sight. Apart from that, it was the weekend. You didn’t have to worry about work until Tuesday. Life was good for you right now. However, no dancing was ever perfectly in place. It was kind of like whenever you go to the beach, swimming in the water, how the waves tended to drift you away from where you’d originally started. You’d curse for a good ten minutes trying to find your blanket and parasol. Now you were struggling to find your friends, when you felt a hand encircling your wrist, and pulling you closer towards a chest covered in familiar black and white stripes. A red hot blazer matching his hair was Hoseok. “You look a little lost,” he said, dominating the space between you with his height. It should have overwhelmed you, perhaps even frightened you a little, but you hadn’t made any plans to pull back from him. It was probably all of the whiskey, but you found yourself rather enjoying the odd turn of events. Remaining captured by him, you stepped closer, “You’re an acquaintance now, so maybe not.” That slow, insufferable grin broke out across his handsome face, “What an honor.” The way he’d fucking said it – the deep tone he’d used on you didn’t make you feel any safer. He turned you so that your back was against the solid wall of his chest, the music suggestive and pulsating – easy for your body to follow, as you gave an experimental roll of your hips. He tightened his hold on you, digging his fingers into your waist to hold you against him more firmly. “What happened to the girl that you were speaking with earlier?” Had she been smarter than you? Did she know well enough to run? The puffs of air from his laughter reached your skin, teasing you, “My face must’ve scared her off.” You doubted that was the truth, even if the cuts and bruises were questionable. He had a small nose and a heart-shaped mouth with a beauty mark on his top, curvy lip. Hoseok was attractive, busy style aside – he was still dressed like he had money, and the energy he exuded was intimidating. You tilted your head to the side, giving him better access. “How did you get those marks?” “I believe it’s my turn to ask a question,” he chided, as he purposefully sighed his breath against the small hairs at the back of your neck. Your body’s response was immediate, as a chill had run through you. Your nipples were already sensitive and erect beneath the material of your dress, sticky warmth pooling between your thighs. Hoseok asked, “Who was that guy with his hands all over you?” You gasped when you felt his teeth pressing into your skin. It took effort to keep your hips moving in rhythm, as if you weren’t affected, “My friend, Taehyung.” “Oh?” He laughed, minus the incredulity. Hoseok knew what close friends were capable of doing. He was responsible for doing plenty of damage in that field, specifically with Yoongi, but that didn’t stop him from feigning innocence, however minute. “Do friends usually touch each other like that?” God – you slid your hand up into his hair, keeping his mouth pressed to your skin. The growl he emitted reverberated through his chest, enticed by your willingness. Your eyes closed when you felt his tongue trace hard circles into your neck, marking you up. It was difficult to concentrate, “It’s my turn.” He mouthed at the sensitive shell of your ear, “Answer me.” “No, they don’t, but–” Why were you about to justify your friendship with Taehyung? The important question. “What about acquaintances?” “Not here,” you said and it was the line that you kept repeating, more to yourself, than to him. Not here where your friends could see you. Not tonight, where your friends should be your first priority. Your friends. You were far out into the ocean, you realized, lost to the sharks – helpless to the hand splayed across your jawline, so that he could sink his teeth into your bottom lip until he tasted blood. You hummed at the back of your throat, leaning up to deepen the kiss. You could taste the alcohol when he filled your mouth with his tongue, the hand in your hair pulling you tight against him – keeping you still, angling his mouth to fit yours perfectly. You were mindful of the cut on his lip, gentle in your every caress, different to how rough and fiery he was – desperately pressing into you like you were set to expire. He was the first to pull back, slow and reluctant, before he leveled his face to look at you seriously, “I don’t want to be done with you.” You were drunk – he was drunk, this was all a bit much. You’d known Hoseok for like two seconds, yet you were ready to toss the entire night for him. Your gut told you to stay the hell away from him earlier and this was why. You were weak. Seokjin showed up less than a moment later, eyes as wide as saucers with his eyebrows raised to his hairline, “Wow! Hello. Nice to meet you.” Hoseok partially released you in order to shake his hand when it was extended to him. Your friend continued, “She’ll deny it, but I’m her father. We don’t go by logic in our household.” “This is Jimin’s friend, Hoseok,” you said, inching the rest of the way out of the redhead’s arms, suddenly overwhelmed with shame. It felt like you were in trouble, despite being a mature adult. “Jimin’s friend,” Seokjin echoed, digesting the information for as little as it was worth. His main concern was you. “Joon and I are leaving, since we have a long day tomorrow, lots to do still. Are you still spending the night or…?” You gave a small nod, your face burning up at what he was insinuating, “Yes.” As though you’d stay behind just to sleep with a complete stranger, which you might’ve if he hadn’t saved you. What the hell was wrong with you? You stared up at the chilled expression on Hoseok’s face and were at a loss for words, knowing that it was in your best interest not to ask for his information. Cut it off now. But he was so, so… “Nighty night, sweetheart,” was all you got from him, with a soft brush of his thumb across your cheekbone, feather-light. Then he sauntered off, disappearing into the crowd. Just like that, he was gone. Seokjin turned to you, the look on his face soured, “The fuck was that?” “An almost mistake,” you said, sobering up more than you would have liked to. You grabbed onto his arm when he offered it, and left the club, sad and embarrassed.

Getting drunk was a slow process for Hoseok, given his high tolerance for it. Fifth drink in and he managed it just fine, tipping the glass of clear liquid to the back of his throat with a satisfied hiss. One thing Hoseok was good at was investments and he’d made a decision that night. Earlier he’d sent the blonde on her way, because he’d already settled on you. A wedding on Sunday caught his attention, but then he took you in, and he’d allowed his mind to wander. It was the icing on the cake. Kim Namjoon and Kim Seokjin – it was something he could look up on Facebook later, to become familiar with, to build a story off of. He would have asked Jimin for more details, but he was already gone. The mochi slipped out the back exit with that tall, raven haired kid. Hoseok had forgotten to inquire about him, although he doubted that you were ever in bad company. He saw the way your friends had protected you out on the floor, like you were their little princess. A touch of spite had him being handsy with you, deliberately possessive. The premature kiss he’d landed nearly stole your breath away. You were his in that moment – his and not theirs. It’d felt so good to have you, even if it was for such a short duration. He squeezed the lime wedge into his tequila, taking his drink from the bar counter, and hadn’t been prepared for his walk to turn into a stumble. Ah, shit. A large hand on his shoulder made him a bit more stable. He slurred out a thanks, wincing when his back met the counter, and he was pushed onto a stool. Taehyung released Hoseok and took a seat next to him at the bar. He smiled at the bartender, “Coffee, please.” Just as the redhead went to take another swig of alcohol, Taehyung placed his hand over it, and brought the glass down forcibly. Hoseok laughed, making a weak effort to remove the hand over his drink. “Listen, I can take a lot more.” When he looked up, he immediately recognized Taehyung as the guy with his hands on his investment. Time to perform. Hoseok flashed his teeth, “Hey, it’s you! You’re the guy with the friend. The friend who is probably giving my friend a good dicking as we speak.” “Guk and Jimin?” Taehyung asked, trading out Hoseok’s tequila for the coffee. “That’s the one, yes,” Hoseok said, as he took a sip of his warm beverage, not at all pleased with the bitter taste of it, but mannerisms weren’t lost on him. He slumped forward with a groan, giving a brief flutter of his lashes – finding it difficult to open them again. Taehyung nudged him after a moment, trying to shake him awake, “Uhm, dude?” It wasn’t the first time he had to take care of someone. Most of his hyungs had their moments of irresponsibility. Taehyung reached over to start casually searching Hoseok’s pocket for his phone. It was broken to high hell, like he’d tossed it one too many times in a game of fetch. There was no lock on it, which made helping him that much easier. The last text received was from Grumpy hyung. Taehyung was quite good at dealing with angry people, it was his forte if you will, but this person seemed to care. The messages were a worried array of, ‘We need to talk’, ‘Seok, please pick up’, and ‘Don’t do anything stupid’. He pressed the button to call, slightly anxious due to the fact that it was two in the morning, and was underprepared for the cost of such an inconvenience. What Taehyung hadn’t been prepared for was the voice on the other end, all low and rough like gravel. The Daegu accent was thick as it poured through the line, “Hoseok? I didn’t think you’d be the first one to call. Why is it so fucking loud?” Taehyung swallowed down the lump in his throat, “Hi…” “My, Hoseok, what a deep voice you have…” Yoongi rolled his eyes, trying to identify which one of their asshole friends had stolen his phone, but was coming up short. “I’m actually,” Taehyung started, struggling to come up with some plausible explanation. It needed to sound right – this guy was already being critical, he could tell. “…wondering how I should send your friend home. He had one too many and is passed out. I could drop him off myself or you could come get him?” “You’re from Daegu,” the blonde mused, suddenly not so annoyed with having to pick up Hoseok for the umpteenth time in the middle of the night. “So are you,” Taehyung said, waiting in a silence that was comfortable, and electric – better than the high he got from dancing. Yoongi reached for his boots, “Text me the address and I’ll meet you outside.” Taehyung didn’t know why he was nodding, considering the fact that the other guy couldn’t even see him, “I will.” “Good.” He looked down at the cracked phone in his hand, texting the address with shaking fingers to a one Grumpy hyung. He held onto the other’s phone in case he received a response and moved to sling Hoseok’s arm around his shoulders, and lifted him. Despite being decently tall as well, Hoseok wasn’t all that difficult to carry out of the club. The summer air turned cold due to how late it was in the evening, a breeze softly brushing the light brown hair out of Taehyung’s face. He’d dressed for the heat of the club, wearing his torn fitted jeans, and a loose shirt that was clinging to his tanned skin with sweat. Hopefully the drop in temperature would be enough to dry him off some. He was careful when setting them both down on the concrete, their backs against the building. Hoseok’s head kept falling against his shoulder and he hadn’t cared to adjust it. There was no telling how long Grumpy would take. Taehyung allowed the low hum of the music to override the sounds of busy traffic, trying his best to stay awake, but was failing miserably. Not even the excitement in his gut from getting to meet Hoseok’s hyung was enough to keep him from sleep. Yoongi had never liked the club scene. He was an indoor cat for a reason, preferring to stay inside his studio, and work on his music until seven in the morning, where his creative flow would forcibly shut down for sleep. He pulled up at the Bizarre, flipping off the valet, as he opted to do the parking himself. A fucking valet. He closed his car door and searched outside the club. It wasn’t difficult to spot Hoseok’s bright red hair. He cursed under his breath as he approached, not yet realizing that the other man was asleep. The fellow Daegu boy had his head resting against Hoseok’s, ash brown hair touching red. He was slightly darker than Hoseok, enough to be considered the sun 2.0 – a different source of light, a stronger, possibly more sustainable source of light, which Yoongi was drawn to, had always been drawn to with Jung Hoseok. Taehyung felt, more than saw the other’s presence, as he stirred awake, “Are you going to take a picture or what?” The offer was tempting, but Yoongi found himself declining, “I’m here for Hoseok.” “Grumpy hyung?” Taehyung asked, staring up into the soft cat-like features of the blonde. He was smaller than he envisioned, but that face didn’t disappoint – the face was rather pretty, thick lashes framing his dark brown eyes. “Grumpy hyung…” Yoongi trailed, before the realization sunk in. “Is that what that prick put me down in his phone as?” Taehyung smiled wide and boxy, unable to keep in the laugh that erupted from him. Yoongi didn’t know what to do with such a thing, the sound itself cutting him in places he’d once been safely guarded. This was bad. “I’m Taehyung.” ‘No, you’re the sun,’ Yoongi wanted to argue. After several long moments of staring down at the guy, he finally answered him, “I’m Yoongi.” “Yoongi,” Taehyung repeated, testing the name out on his tongue. He liked it a bit too much, enjoyed the way it fit the rest of him. “Let me help get him to your car.” It would be easier on him, so Yoongi agreed with a short nod, watching the way Taehyung helped Hoseok up to his feet with minimal effort. He was taller than Yoongi, taller than Hoseok even, and wider – thigh muscles filling out his jeans, shirt low cut, and showing off the smooth skin of his collarbone. A night filled with alcohol and dancing left a deep blush across Taehyung’s skin, his eyes fierce when they met Yoongi’s, catching him staring. There was a fucking freckle on Taehyung’s nose and another on his waterline. It was almost offensive how attractive it was, how unfair, and ridiculous. Wounded, Yoongi tore his eyes away, but felt unashamed of the fact that he’d openly checked Taehyung out. The boy was probably already aware of his beauty. Yoongi pressed the button on his keypad to unlock the car doors, watching as Taehyung carefully set Hoseok into the backseat. “Do you need a ride?” he asked, trying not to sound so hopeful. Taehyung passed Hoseok’s phone over, “I was gonna walk, since it’s…literally right around the corner.” Well, shit. “Taehyung,” Yoongi said, wanting those eyes on him one last time. Of course, it only made him want more of it. “Thanks for the help.” He smiled, tucking his hands into his pockets, “Of course. Good night, Yoongi.” “Night…” sunshine. Taehyung left, wondering if Jeongguk and Jimin would become more – wondering if Jimin knew Yoongi. He wondered how long it would take him to acquire Yoongi’s number, so that he could hear the other’s tired voice again. The thought of it was enough to give him chills. For the first time in Taehyung’s life, he wanted to be chased after. He wanted to belong to someone.

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