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beatricethecat2 · 3 years

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"This is nice," Myka says, sipping her beer while surveying the bar.

"Consuming alcohol in a public house?" Helena asks.

"Yeah," Myka says, eyes angling down as she picks at her label. "Working with Pete...this wasn't a thing I could do much. Then Steve and I had a drink here, and I remembered what it was like. I used to go on my own in DC just to unwind. Feels like a lifetime ago."

“In many ways it was," Helena says, idly stiring the ice left in her drink. "Could you ever have imagined the company you now keep?"

"I don't think so," Myka says, shifting closer to Helena. "But I like it, a lot. Doing this with you feels...normal. Two people, spending time together, not a care in the world."

"You care for nought?" Helena says, fingers tracing a line from Myka's thumb to her wrist where her hand rests on her thigh.

"Ok, one care," Myka says, eyes flicking up to meet Helena's. "Hey, I know that look. We said we'd stay for the band tonight, not just hole up in our room."

"Is there not another band tomorrow?"

"Yeah, but we said we'd stay for this one." Myka slips her hand from Helena's.

"As you wish," Helena says, settling back on her stool, frustration evident in her tone.

"More drinks, ladies?" the bartender says. "The band's about to start."

"I shall need one," Helena grouses.

"Stop being dramatic," Myka snips.

"Fine," Helena snaps. "Bourbon. Neat. Top shelf, please," she instructs the bartender.

"Comin' right up." The bartender steps away to complete the order.

"Oh, we're getting drunk now, are we?" Myka quips.

"When in Rome..."

"I'd actually like to see that, a drunk H.G. Wells," Myka says, poking Helena in the arm.

Helena flinches. "You may very well if you keep behaving as such."

"Seriously though, when's the last time you drank enough to let your guard down, even a little."

"In the company of others? Not in recent memory. And you?"

"Same."

"Here you go," the bartender interrupts, setting the tumbler on a napkin in front of Helena. "Another beer?" she asks Myka.

"You know what? I'll have the same." Myka waves her bottle at Helena's drink.

"Cavalier, Ms. Bering."

"We'll keep each other in check. We deserve to get super tipsy, at least."

"Color me intrigued."

The band strikes its first cord just as Myka's drink arrives. She tugs Helena's arm, and they relocate to a table near the stage.

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

The Adventures of Bering and Wells ("Warehouse 13" Season 5 replacement) Season 1: Episode 4 Title: New Orleans: Laissez les bon temps rouler!

Summary: Myka and Helena follow whim rather than duty, driving south, detouring around Washington DC, avoiding a second emotional rabbit hole so early on. After a wi-fi-free week in a cabin, deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains, they feel ready to tackle urban density again. ("The Rockies are better," Myka declares. "We'll go there, too.) Vowing to stay as touristy as possible, the pair head towards history-filled New Orleans. But far too soon their carefree trip hits a snag and they're in need of Warehouse help.

Previously: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3

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

***BONUS SCENE***

"Exactly how touristy have you been?" Abigail asks.

"Pretty touristy," Myka answers.

"Practically flâneurs," Helena says, grinning as Myka looks up at her with sparkly eyes.

"Well, that narrows it down," Steve mutters, typing into the keyboard. "Let's start with your hotel. Why'd you pick the carriage house?"

"The lack of adjoining suite and the king-sized bed."

"Helena!" Myka smacks Helena on the arm. "Because it's cute and charming."

"So this ghost isn't listed on their website? Wedding dress woman, Civil War soldier, dancing patio woman?" Steve asks.

"No. And the manager hadn't recognized the description I gave," Helena explains.

"So not all ghosts," Abigail says.

"If seeing them is normal," Myka says.

"Let's say the ones on their website are but H.G.'s isn't," Steve says.

"Are we to assume I've been 'whammied' then?" Helena says.

"You freeze in place. I have to shake you out of it," Myka explains.

"Perhaps I'm studying the phenomenon."

"You're never that still. It's creepy."

"Then I think we should consider it," Abigail says.

"Where else have you been?" Steve asks.

"Um, everywhere?" Myka answers. "That blacksmith's bar you and I went to. And The Gas and Lights Museum--"

"Such memories. So many details wrong," Helena gibes.

"On a carriage ride--"

"Highway robbery! Sixty-five dollars for a turn around the park. And not in the least authentic."

"You said it was nice!"

"I said it was familiar. The sound of it took me back," Helena says.

"I thought you'd like it." Myka leans back and looks up at Helena questioningly.

"I enjoyed the company quite thoroughly," Helena says, laying her hands on Myka's shoulders and grinning down at her fondly.

"Aww," Steve coos.

"Did anything about the carriage ride scream 'lady ghost will now appear at will?" Abigail asks.

"Not to my knowledge," Helena says.

"We also went to the Pharmacy Museum. And on a steamboat ride," Myka adds.

"Not that I'd have stepped foot on that death trap without proof of modern safety precautions. In my day, they exploded frequently," Helena explains.

"Ok...let's start with the Pharmacy Museum," Abigail says as Steve types. "Could this woman have afforded a doctor?"

"She often appears in her Sunday best, but also in, shall we say...less. She didn't strike me as particularly monied."

"Did she look sort of vampire-ish?" Steve asks. "I'm reading that people with consumption were rumored to be vampires due to how the disease aged them."

"I'm familiar with that premise, and no, this woman was not withering away."

"Could she have died on a steamboat?" Abigail asks.

"She doesn't give off that sense. There's a calm about her. She's not in danger."

"Let's try another angle. The neighborhood you're staying in, Storyville, claims to be the birthplace of jazz," Abigail says, reading over Steve's shoulder. "Maybe she's related to that?"

"Myka took me to hear this 'jazz,' and I can't say I was at all impressed."

"I like it. Steve does, too. You really hated it?" Myka asks.

"The bleat of the saxophone evokes vaudeville for me."

"Play her some Charlie Parker. Or John Coltrane. That might change her mind," Steve suggests.

"Does this relate to our ghost?" Abigail presses.

"I don't see a connection," Helena answers. "Her dress is previous to that of jazz, of an age closer to my own."

"Storyville was once a legal bordello district," Steve explains. "The whole neighborhood was shut down in 1917. So maybe she's from then?"

"That makes sense," Myka says.

"Do you see her inside or outside?" Abigail asks.

"Thus far, outside."

"But," Myka protests, "last night, when we were...t-the blindfold, you said 'just in case.'"

"Did that not heighten our activities?"

"That's not the point. I can't believe you--"

"Punish me later, darling--"

"Why don't you two hash this out, and we'll get back to you," Abigail suggests.

"Wait, is this her?" Steve asks.

Steve shares a black and white photo of a woman, seated outdoors, in front of a makeshift white backdrop, her hair styled into a modest, shoulder-length coif. Her linen top, trimmed with lace, hangs off one shoulder, and a string of pearls adorns her neck. Her lipstick, rendered as a middle grey, matches the kohl lining her eyes, giving her a soft, silent movie-era look.

"Hm, possibly."

"Here's another."

Helena leans further over Myka's shoulder, looking closely at the image. "Yes, I believe that is her."

"That's, um, really off the shoulder. Shoulders..." Myka says. "Isn't that kind of racy for the time?"

"Quite tame compared to some. Her expression is unusual, contemplative almost, recalling solemn greek statues rather than the usual fodder meant to titillate men's desires."

"How would you know?"

"One encounters all sorts of materials as a Warehouse agent," Helena says with a smirk.

"As an agent. Uh-huh."

"Listen to this," Steve interrupts, "these prints were made from a stash of glass negatives found locked in a desk drawer years after the photographer died. Many are of Adele, the woman you're seeing, but there are other women, too. They were shot in the 1910s, but these prints were made in the '60s. If there were any original prints, they were never found."

"May I see the images again?"

Steve cycles through and adds a few more, one depicting a roll-down desk with a shrine of photos arranged above, all of women, vignetted portraits and romantic depictions of the female form more typical for the time.

"Not sure if that last one is related. But it says it's by the same photographer."

"Could you send that one over? I'd like to look more closely."

"Sure."

Myka trades places with Helena, and Helena clicks the link. She enlarges the photo and inspects the array of images.

"I vaguely recall flicking through a basket in a shop with ephemera such as this. Perhaps this ghost woman was amongst it, but printed in a manner such as the images depicted here."

"So you're saying the photo in the shop might be a photo from this photo?"

"That is what I'm hypothesizing."

"So when you see her, you freeze like you're her photograph trapped in this photograph."

"Or perhaps I am her, caught in the decisive moment of the image being captured."

"That's really meta," Steve says.

"No matter what, neutralizing that photo should do the trick," Abigail suggests. "Heck, neutralize everything in the basket, just in case."

"Do you remember which shop you were in?" Steve asks.

"My recollection is hazy at best due to the copious amount of drink someone encouraged me to consume the evening previously."

Helena looks at Myka and scowls. Myka looks back, endearingly.

"I don't get hangovers."

"Lucky you," Helena quips.

"I hope you find it soon," Steve says, "because being happy looks good on both of you. You should get back to that."

"Thank you, Steve. And thank you, Abigail, for all your help," Helena says.

"Anytime," Abigail says.

"Have a great trip. Send some postcards!" Steve says.

"What a marvelous idea," Helena replies.

"Isn't flicking through postcards how we got here?" Myka warns.

"Shall you pre-screen everything I touch from now on?"

"Maybe I should--"

"We're hanging up now," Abigail says.

The screen goes blank as Myka and Helena devlove further into playful bickering.

*End Scene*

-TBC-

NOTES: "Laissez les bon temps rouler!" is Cajun French for "Let the good times roll." In season four, Steve and Myka go New Orleans and both say they like jazz, so I'm not making that up. I see Myka as more of fan of popular tunes - Billy Holiday, Duke Ellington, Nat King Cole, etc., whereas Steve would know the genre through and through (and try as he might, never gets Claudia quite on board with it all). The photographer is E. J. Bellocq - I was going to incorporate that more, but the politics behind photos I mentioned is...complicated. I want this B&W show to focus on our ladies journey, artifacts are side-plot motivations. But if you're interested, look him up, and I suggest reading both Susan Sontag and Nan Goldin's essays for some clarity on why the images hold the status they do. From the research I've done, his images are plastered all over Storyville businesses, so if you've been there, you've seen at least one. Oh and I had a roommate once who could drink anything and never got a hangover. Some people are lucky like that.

#BERING AND WELLS #w13 #fanfiction #fan art #Myka Bering #Helena HG Wells #new orleans #road trip!#canon divergent au #it's nice using the characters you like and wish had more screen time in spin off shows #while others need not appear

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certifiedskywalker · 4 years

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Shared Scars - Cara Dune

Cara has been alone on Sorgan for a long time. Long enough to forget where she came from but not quite enough to forget the pain. One night, she needs to numb it; whether that meant through a good fight or a sweet surrender.

AN: Tell me what you think! I feel like I could have stuck to Cara’s character a bit better but for a first time....eh?

She felt like she was on fire. With each movement, heat bloomed in her muscles and spread through her veins like liquid flame. Her chest was tight but, as she recovered from a swift dodge, Cara let her shoulders relax. Tension would hinder each strike, she knew this all too well.

“Sa da all u got?” Snapped the green-skinned Mirialan in broken Huttese. Cara grinned as she eyed the dark dribbles of blood on his lower lip. She was getting to him.

“Why don’t you find out?”

A furious roar ripped out from the Mirialan’s throat. He rolled his broad, thickly muscled shoulders and Cara braced herself; he was about to lunge. She had picked up on his tell after the first few strikes. Now, Cara knew how the Mirialan fought.

Smiling, she readied her stance and waited with all the patience of a seasoned warrior. Finally, he charged towards her. Seizing the moment, Cara swung her leg and swept his feet out from under him. The Mirialan fell with a hard crash that brought Cara to her knees at his side as the sparring belt still connected them.

Before he could get to his feet, Cara rushed over and clambered on the Mirialan’s lap. His deep blues eyes had lost their furious glow. Now, all Cara saw was fear. For a moment, she hesitated, but in the next second her years of tactical training and her fists won her over. It took Cara only three solid punches to get the Mirialan to yield; technically two. The third strike was one just for her.

At the man’s cries, Cara took a shaking yet grounding breath. She stood up from the Mirialan’s lap and smiled. Victory was sweet, almost always.

The crowd that swarmed and surrounded the fighting floor cheered. Cara closed her eyes a took a deep breath to savor the sound. Their voices were loud, filling her ears just enough to distract from the ever-present ache in her heart. The credits they threw in her direction were simply a bonus.

“Yes, thank you,” Cara was beaming. “Any moof milkers that made a bet, it’s time to pay up!”

Begrudgingly, those who had placed wages against Cara stepped forward. They handed over what meager credits they had been willing to part with, frowns on their rosy faces. All of them had been entertained but her violence. Before Cara could dwell on it, the Mirialan slapped a small stack of clinking credits in her extended hand.

She looked up into his eyes and smirked. “Wanna rematch? I’m always up for another round.”

The Mirialan scoffed, his own, wide grin spread along his bloody lip. Cara felt her confidence waver at the sight. Something was not sitting well in her stomach, not with the way he was looking at her. Almost as if he sensed her unease, the Mirialan’s expression deepened.

“Watch your back, trooper.”

Cara stiffened at his words, slightly caught off guard by his pristine Basic. “I’m not the one you should be worrying about.”

Her masked threat did little to set the Mirialan off. Wordlessly, he wiped at his bloody bottom lip and pointed at Cara’s cheek. Instincts overwhelmed her and Cara jerked away from the man’s green, extended finger. His knowing grin remained even as he walked away.

“You might what to see someone about that,” he drawled as he strode out of the cantina.

Once the Mirialan was completely out of sight, Cara reached a hand up to where he had pointed at her face. Something warm and wet soaked through the material of her glove. When she pulled her hand back to examine it Cara saw crimson staining the fabric. A small gasp passed over her lips. When had he struck her cheek?

“Damn,” she muttered and stepped over towards the bar. An older man was working behind the counter and Cara waved to get his attention. “Can I get a rag for this?”

“Yes, of course,” he ducked to the side and pulled a scrap of fabric from one of the shelves. Cara caught a glimpse of the glowing, blue spotchka bottles. Her mouth watered slightly but the barkeep moved to stand before her.

“Thanks,” she sighed and took the cloth from his open palm.

“Looks deep. You might wanna get it looked at.”

As Cara placed the strip of the fabric against her cheek, she eyed the man. He seemed kind enough. There were laughter lines in his face, a few age spots here and there. He was old enough to have seen the end of the Clone Wars perhaps. Cara shuddered at the thought.

“Yeah, you know anyone?”

The barkeep pressed his lips in a thin line and glanced about the cantina. Cara watched his searching gaze, not paying attention to who exactly he was eyeing. He tipped his chin over Cara’s shoulder and the ex-trooper traced the direction of his gesture.

“That one,” he said softly, “a retired medic.”

“Retired?” Cara’s brow furrowed as her gaze landed on a fresh face. “A little young for that, huh?”

When she looked back, the barkeep shrugged. “Comes recommended. Does good work in the krill village down the way.”

Cara hummed thoughtfully and thanked the older man. He turned with a dipped head to help the other customers. For a moment, Cara watched him go. What a simple life he led. Long ago Cara would have despised the idea of such a living. Now, it was something she longed for.

A sharp ached in the side of her face broke Cara out of her reverie. She turned and pressed her back against the bar counter to study the ‘retired medic’ the man had pointed out to her. The word ‘retired’ in and of itself set Cara on edge. Who in the galaxy could be so well off, so secure enough to ‘retire’? Not even under the New Republic did that feel like a possibility.

Perhaps that was what made you so appealing to Cara, she wasn’t sure herself. Even as she made her way over to you, Cara was struggling to figure you out. The Mirialan man had been easy to see through. He was some disgraced warrior turned bounty hunter; Cara had seen the likes of him before. But you? You were a puzzle that grew more complicated up close.

“Hey.”

When you looked up at her, Cara felt her breath catch in her throat. “Hi, you’re uh, you were in the fighting ring right?”

“Yeah, I-”

“Your face,” you gasped, standing from your spot at the secluded table. Cara jerked back as you stepped towards her. Confused, you pulled back.

“Sorry, I just…” Cara could see the worry in your eyes and she took a breath. “Post-fight nerves, you know.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, still looking at Cara’s wound. “You can sit down and I can stitch it up for you. If you want? I’m Y/N, by the way.” Cara couldn’t help but smile at you. Slowly, you returned her kind expression and the ex-shock trooper could help but marvel at your beauty. How had you slipped past her eye on Sorgan of all places?

“Y/N,” your name warmed her heart. “Thank you. I’m Cara.”

Cara took the seat beside yours, fiddling with the now bloodied strip of fabric in her hands. The noise in the cantina had dulled after the fight. Idle chatter created the quietest din Cara had ever heard. It was silent enough for unwanted memories to crept up from the back of Cara’s mind. A shudder rattled up her spine, quelled only by your presence.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” you said as you started to reach towards Cara’s face. You paused when she met your gaze, your hand hanging between you. “May I?”

“Of course,” Cara felt a confident smile spread along her lips as your fingertips brushed against her chin. Carefully, you turned her head and pressed gently along her cheek to make sure the wound wasn’t infected. The touch was enough to stir up Endor Blues’ in her stomach.

“Not infected, just deep,” you murmured, your voice doing nothing to help the butterfly-light tickling in Cara’s insides.

“I don’t even remember getting hit.” Cara didn’t miss how you smiled at her words. Granted, the smile was brief, soon covered up by your mock professionalism.

“Well, you’ll remember the scar,” you sat back and met her gaze. “Sewing it up will expedite the healing process but not necessary.”

Cara bit at the inside of her cheek. She didn’t want to leave you just yet. There was still so much tender mystery around you and she wanted to know all of it. At least, as much as she could. She had to make up for lost time.

“What does the doctor recommend?” Cara lifted a flirtatious brow and smiled when she saw your reaction. Your eyes widened and you nervously rung your hands, all the while letting out a thoughtful hum.

“Stitches would keep bacteria out,” you thought aloud, “and Sorgan isn’t the most clean place to stay. If you’re roughing it…” You began to ramble and Cara couldn’t stop her the spreading of her grin as you rattled on.

“Stitches it is,” Cara said, interrupting your chatter about the possible causes of infection on the swampy planet she was currently calling home. You stopped and shifted in your seat. Something curious, anxious, lingered in your posture. Just as Cara was about to ask you what was the matter, you began to speak.

“My medical supplies are in my tent.”

Cara felt the butterflies swarm up in a frenzy. She hated that she loved the feeling. “Lead the way.”

Cara followed you as you strode off towards your small abode. Under the light of evening, you looked beautiful. You looked like you belonged in a place as natural as Sorgan.

“You from here?”

You glanced over your shoulder and met Cara’s gaze. In the instant after, your eyes feel to the series of credit-shaped stripes wrapped around Cara’s arm. You stuttered, faulty words spilling past your lips before you could stop them. She was with the Rebellion, or was. You know with each inlay of ink, death followed the woman you now found yourself so taken with.

Your stuttering and thinking caught Cara’s attention. With her slightly squinted gaze, she peered at your face. There was something in your eyes that Cara felt as familiar. She had seen it in her own reflection before. It was that glint in your pupil, Cara had seen the same one in her eyes. Fear; it was the fear of someone running.

“Uh, no, I…” You stopped suddenly and gestured to a dark tent. “We’re here.”

Cara didn’t miss your jerky movement as you parted the entrance to your small home and took fast steps inside. She could feel your nervous energy as she followed you into the shadows. Your hand shook as you flicked a lighting unit on, bathing you and Cara in a yellowish glow. Cara’s skin, especially around her wound, almost seemed orange; as if she were a burning flame. You had to take a breath to steady yourself.

“Nice place,” Cara teased. Your tent was nothing to gawk at. Inside, there was only a cot, table, and three chairs. “Homely.”

“It works,” you shrugged and gave Cara a careful smile. “You can sit. I have to grab my things.”

Cara nodded and took a seat next to the small table in the center of the tent. She glanced around your ramshackle home and pressed her lips into a thin line. Her camp was just as sparse as yours. Little belongings made it easier to run fast and away. It was a lifestyle that Cara had adopted after her...departure from the Republic.

“So, where are you from then?” Cara turned to watch you as she asked the question. You were already walking towards her, medical bag in hand. At her question, her persistence, you faltered. Your feet knocked into the table legs and Cara wondered if you had been drinking at the cantina beforehand. Or, perhaps, she made you that nervous.

“Uh, Outer Rim, Dantooine.” You took the seat at her side and started to organize your supplies. Cara watched as you pulled out a needle, a stiff looking thread wheel, and an old bacta dispenser. She squinted her eyes at you and you stiffened. “What?”

“Haven’t heard that name in a while. Part of the Rebellion, right?” You met her gaze for a moment before turning back to your supplies.

“Um, yeah it was.” You threaded the needle and faced Cara once more. “Can you turn your face?”

Cara complied wordlessly and you set to work. The first piercing of the needle in her cheek stung but not as much as the silence that now hung in the air. In the quiet, memories of old battles came to mind. Cara could hear the cries of her fellow soldiers and the blasts of proton torpedoes. Even in it’s disembodied, haunting state, the sound was enough to make Cara flinch.

“Did that hurt?”

“No, I,” Cara shifted, “can you talk?” You sat back and eyed her warily.

“Talk?” Cara met your eyes and gave you a half smile.

“To distract from-”

“Oh, yeah. Alright.” You leaned close to Cara’s cheek once more and set back to work. “So, um, where are you from?”

Cara’s breath caught in her throat. This was not the distraction Cara had been hoping for. She hadn’t though about home in so long. There wasn’t even a home to think of anymore.

“Alderaan.”

You stopped your work, the needle pinched between your fingers when the name reached your ears. “Alderaan.”

Cara didn’t meet your gaze, partly because she didn’t want to disturb your work but also because she was scared of what she would see. She feared that, if she were to look, she would see pity. That was the last thing she wanted. All her life had been was fighting and pulling herself out of the spiraling pit of sorrow. Seeing you sad for her would have pushed all of Cara’s work behind her; it would have all been for nothing.

If she looked back now, Cara would loose everything she worked to forget. Yet, there was something nice about remembering. She had come so far.

“I can’t imagine…” You trailed off and got back to stitching her wound. A tiny stream of blood oozed from her cut as you worked, slipping slowly like a red tear.

“Don’t,” Cara sighed, “it’s not worth it.”

“I’m sorry. You lost...everything…” You let your hands fall in your lap, unable to continue sewing. You had only heard of the Alderaan tragedy. Whispers of the new asteroid field left in the sector reached your ears long before the news of the Death Star. Although it was not the first time you had heard of the Empire’s cruelty.

“I don’t think about it.” Cara said it coldly in the hopes of turning the tide of conversation. However, the sudden tone shift caught you off guard. How could she not think of it?

“Cara, there are-”

“I like to think of better things,” she continued. You only nodded and tied off the lingering bit of medical-grade thread. Compared to past, rushed work, Cara’s stitches were clean. You would dare to venture on ‘refined’. Leaning back you focused your eyes on your supplies and started to tidy them away.

“I’m afraid I’m not so positive.”

A stretch of silence fell between you and the mysterious fighter. When you found enough lost courage to meet Cara’s eyes, you found her already looking at you. Her cheeks, not just the one you had sutured, were a flushed red. You imagine it was run off adrenaline from her fight with the Mirialan.

“You’ve seen it too, war.” Cara leaned back in her seat, strong arms crossed over her chest. You swallowed hard at the sight.

“More than I care to admit.” You looked down at the piece of stray thread between your fingers. “I left before the New Republic was instated.”

“A deserter,” Cara hummed. You glanced up at her nervously. The utterance of the title you had been running from sent a chill through you.

“You’re not going to turn me in, are you?” Cara smirked and shook her head. A flood of relief rolled over your shoulders. “Thank the Maker. I saw your stripes and…”

“I don’t fight for anyone else,” she said coolly, “not anymore.”

In her words, you could feel the weight of your own history. There was no point in sharing your story. It was the same as Cara’s only you had a planet to go back to. Your village had been destroyed, trampled by the boots of stormtroopers and war machines. When the Rebellion came to Dantooine it was like you were being rescued. That rescue turned to recruitment and suddenly you were fighting when you had been raised to heal; raised for peace. Sorgan was as close as you came to peace after you fled.

“You’re good at disappearing,” Cara said suddenly. You lifted your eyes from your hands to look into her pretty face. Pretty in an unconventional sense of the word. Her eyes were sharp, features hard and battle-worn. You had seen people like her before, but not any as strong.

“Disappearing?”

“Thought I was the only ex-Republic anything on Sorgan.” You inhaled deeply at the realization. Both of you being here....it put the other at risk.

“Planet’s not big enough for the both of us,” you sighed. Cara nodded, eyes falling from your face to stare into the lantern on the table. You felt the corners of your lips turn upwards and you found the strength to stand.

You turned your back to the woman and packed up your medical supplies. Soon, you’d pack the rest of your things. Whatever Cara had here, on Sorgan, it was something you were not willing to take from her. You would take no more, not again.

“What are you doing?” Cara asked as you moved to the storage unit beside your cot. Clothing, rations, everything you had managed to find to aid your survival fit into one box.

You looked over your shoulder at her to find that she was standing now. Her hands were clenched into fists and you realized she thought you were searching for a weapon. Long ago, you would have thought the same thing.

“Getting ready to disappear again.”

“Y/N,” her hands relaxed and she stepped towards you.

“No, no,” you straighted your back and raised your hands. “You are liked here. They’ll notice if you’ve gone. It’s best I slip away now.”

In the dim light of your cramped tent, a tension grew. There was an unseen tether that tied you and Cara together; a tugging you both felt but one that went, despite it all, unspoken. You shared a history, scars that would never heal, not properly; at least not yet. Time, you both needed time and space between the pain.

“Don’t go yet.” Cara’s voice was small. Feeble as it was, there was a fire in her eyes and you could feel its heat.

“Okay,” you said softly, pushing your gathering of sparse belongings aside.

Before you could say anything else, Cara was closing the gap between you. When her hands found your waist, you sighed in relief; the touch was grounding, took your heart out of tarnished memories. When her lips melded against yours, it took all you had to not give yourself over to her completely. For once, your mind went blank. The background noise of battle in your head and Cara’s went dead silent.

There were better ways to cope. Talking, for instance, would be a better way to work through the trauma. Though it wasn’t ideal and there were worse ways. Drinking, gambling; Cara had already dipped her toe into the ladder with her budding pit-fighting career. Touch, raw and real, was far form the worse.

You let Cara in. Together you traced the scar of battles fought and bittersweet victories. In her kiss, Cara told you her story. In your arms, Cara heard your tale, felt your pain as her own. There was no need for words.

And in the morning after, when Cara woke to an empty cot, all of your warmth gone, there were no need for words then. Yet, you left some behind on a piece of parchment. How archaic it was, leaving a note rather than a holomessage; but it was the old ways that had kept you safe for so long. Though leaving pained you, you knew it was for the best, you couldn’t leave without a proper goodbye.

‘By the light of Lothal’s moons, may we find each other again’

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littleshebear · 5 years

Note

70: “After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t think that I love you?” Saladin/Jolder

It’s official. I can’t drabble. This also turned into a fic. Mushy slices of life in the development of Saladin and Jolder’s relationship, with bonus bemused Radegast and Perun.

The First Time.

The first time she sees him, there’s a battle in full swing outside the compound. It frightens her to imagine who would be mad enough to attack this warlord head-on but the opportunity to escape is too good to pass up. She charges through the hallways, trying to remember the route they’d taken when they locked her up down here. That shoulder charge she’d made into a locked, solid oak door had hurt and she didn’t have her ghost to heal her. No matter. She could still run and she’s fast. This time, she’ll be fast enough to get away. She rounds a corner and nearly runs into him. They pause, her wild, green eyes staring into his curious dark ones. She reacts first, smashing her fist into his nose. She doesn’t wait to see if her punch was strong enough to have driven his skull into his brain. She helps herself to his side-arm, trips over his prone form and carries on running.

She darts from room to room, frantic, searching for what was stolen from her when the warlord took her prisoner. “It’s okay, I’m coming, it’s okay, it’s okay,” she repeats over and over, like a mantra. If she says it often enough, it will become true. She turns away from another fruitless search through a storeroom and he’s there, waiting in the doorway. There isn’t a mark on his face. Another lightbearer.

“Easy,” he raises his hands when she levels his stolen side-arm at him.

“I don’t know who you people are or why you have an issue with Lord Whatshisname, but I’ve got no quarrel with you.” She motions for him to step aside with the barrel of the gun. “Please stay out of my way.”

“Were you captive here?”

She nods, brushing matted red hair away from her face with her free hand.

He slowly, gingerly offers her a hand. “Come with us. You’ll be safe.”

She shakes her head. “Nuh-uh. I’m not going with another warlord. No way.”

“We’re not warlords. We’re different. Besides…” He lets his hands drop to his sides. “You’re not going to shoot me.”

“And how do you know that?” She raises her chin, doing her best to seem implacable. Defiant.

“Because that gun isn’t loaded.”

Her eyes dart toward the gun and suppresses a sigh as she realises that the chamber is indeed empty.

He proffers his hand again. “Come with me.”

“I can’t. They took my ghost.” She swallows hard. “I don’t know where they took him. It’s dark where he is, he’s scared.”

“I’ll help you find your ghost, then we can get out of here.”

“Will I have to fight?” She keeps the gun trained on him but the barrel droops slightly.

“Only if you choose to.”

She finally lowers the gun. “I’m Jolder,” she states, some of the tremor leaving her voice.

“Saladin Forge.”

When she eventually places her hand in his, it feels like safety.

The first time he sees her smile is only a few minutes after their first meeting. Saladin had caught a guard, held him up against a wall and asked what had become of Jolder’s Ghost. When he refused to divulge the location, Saladin made a noise in his throat that could only be described as a growl and switched to a far less polite line of questioning. He soon gave directions to the location of Jolder’s Ghost. Saladin disarmed the hapless mortal and sent him on his way with what Saladin probably thought was a light clip on the back of the head but was possibly concussion-inducing for him.

Jolder kneels on the floor in front of the lock box that she had just broken her Ghost out of. She cradles her ghost in both hands, assuring him that everything will be alright from now on. She looks to Saladin for confirmation. She breaks into a brilliant grin, happy, grateful tears forming track marks in the grime on her face.

To Saladin, it’s a sight of transformative beauty in an otherwise ugly world and he’ll remember it forever.

The first time she catches herself staring, she’s seated outside his workshop. He picked out some pieces of armour for her and she’s supposed to be adjusting it to her size, polishing, customising. She instead finds herself fascinated by watching Saladin work on a field-forged machine gun. She’s engrossed with how engrossed he is. There’s something so compelling about a man consumed with his work. She watches thick fingers, that have no right to be as delicate and dextrous as they, are build, scrap and rebuild until he’s satisfied. She then finds herself marvelling at how the sun highlights the grey scattered through his black hair, how his eye colour shifts like tiger’s eye depending on how the light strikes them.

He finally looks up from his work and asks how she’s getting on with her own project. She drops her gaze to the pauldron she’s fitting a buckle to and assures him that everything is indeed fine, praying that he cannot discern the blush in her cheeks.

The first time she catches him staring, she’s taking a break from running combat drills with Perun. She sits on the wall of their current hideout, kicking her feet over the edge. She seems so relaxed, you would be forgiven for thinking they weren’t a small group of Lightbearers effecting a revolution against the Warlord hegemony.

She takes a swig from a canteen, tips her head back and closes her eyes in bliss. Saladin nearly drops the sketching charcoal clutched between his fingers but rallies when she turns her gaze towards him. She realises his worst fears when she hops down off the wall and walks towards him.

“What are you working on?” She asks, hooking the canteen to her belt.

“Just…” He leafs frantically through his sketchbook, “I had some ideas.”

Jolder takes the sketchbook from him, “Uniforms?” She grins at him. “Are you designing us uniforms?”

“Not uniforms,” he explains, pointing to the sketches she has the book open at, “Just shared heraldry? If we become established I feel like we should have an…”

“Aesthetic?” Jolder fills in.

“A philosophy.” Saladin corrects her. “Our detractors call us the Iron Wolves. I don’t see that as an insult, so I say we adopt it. Wolves are social animals. They take care of their pack, they look out for one another. Like we do.”

“And the trees?” Jolder asks, gliding her fingers down another sketch, cocking her head in interest.

Saladin shrugs. “Roots. I feel like this will go way beyond what we’ve sown here.”

Jolder nods in approval and leafs through the rest of the designs. “These are amazing. Have you shown them to Radagast? He’d love them.” She keeps leafing through once she hits blank pages, despite the tension in Saladin’s demeanour when she does so. She eventually hits pages that are decidedly not blank. She pauses to see what Saladin has drawn there. She sees herself looking out at her. Herself, sitting on their own boundary wall. Studies of her hands, her face, her eyes especially. She stops still, taking in the image of herself rendered many times over in charcoal.

He snatches the book back from her, and stalks back towards his quarters with the sketchbook clutched to his chest.

The first time they spar, they do not hold back. Both have budding black eyes, they have bloody noses but they smile through their injuries. These are lightbearer drills, they don’t abide by the usual rules. Saladin locks his ankle behind hers and Jolder tumbles towards the ground, laughing as she goes. By any metric, she’s lost, she’s pinned by him. He waits for her to yield. She threads her fingers through his and smirks seductively at him, very much aware how heavily they’re both breathing. He falls for her flirtatious gambit hook, line and sinker. Once she senses him relax, she brings her leg up between his and ignores his yelp of pain as she strikes his crotch. She flips hims beneath her and laughs uproariously when Radegast calls the match.

The first time she kisses him, it’s a surprise to them both. The battle had been hard, they had died death after death driving the Fallen back but their ranks finally broke. Saladin leans forward, bracing his hands against his knees. He allows himself a smile, his one concession to triumphalism in the wake of victory.

Jolder is far more effusive. She charges towards him, crying, “We won!” She launches into a play by play of the day’s events, gesticulating wildly about strategies that they’d pulled off, how they’d known what the other was planning without having to speak, how their combat was more like dancing, as they knew each other’s steps. Her enthusiastic recounting of the battle finally elicits a laugh from him and she responds by grabbing his head in both hands and pulling him towards her. She plants a kiss fully on his lips. When she finally releases him, he stares back at her in a daze. She holds his gaze for an uncomfortable beat before excusing herself, mumbling something about checking on the mortal conscripts from the village they were defending.

From the ridge above, Radegast and Perun convene. “The East flank held,” Radegast states tiredly, but not without pride.

“Did you doubt it?”

“No,” He stretches, his overworked joints and muscles creaking as he did so. “But I understand the odds you were up against. You fought well.”

“The villagers fought, I just told them were to stand.” She takes a swing from her canteen before upending the remainder over her head, rubbing the worst of the battle grime from her close-cropped hair.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he tails off, observing the scene below and shaking his head in wry amusement.

“What is it?” Perun follows his gaze then chuckles. “Oh. Those two. Besotted.”

“Completely.”

“Clueless.”

“Utterly.”

“How long do you think they’ll carry on dancing around each other?” asks Perun, watching Saladin wander around in confused little circles as he tries to decide what to do following Jolder’s spontaneous display of affection.

“It’ll be some time next year if the consensus in Efrideet’s betting pool is anything to go by.”

“Efrideet’s what?” Perun snorts in amusement at their latest recruit’s antics. “That girl. She’s playing with fire.”

“They’ll probably see the funny side,” Radegast muses.

“Jolder will see the funny side. Saladin will eviscerate her when he finds out.”

Radegast chuckles, “They’re a strange pair, it’s true.”

“They’re good for one another. They balance each other out. They’ll figure it out.” Perun pauses, coming to a decision. “Put me down for twenty glimmer. I reckon they’ll get it together by the first snow this year.

“That soon?”

“Eh,” she shrugs, “I’m rooting for them.”

The first time they make love is well after winter’s bite set in, long after Perun lost her stake in the betting pool. His touch is as reverential and hesitant, as though he’s afraid that this was all some misunderstanding and it could be called off at any moment.

His doubts are put paid to when she announces her climax by calling his name, allows him to flip her beneath him and Traveler help him, she’s digging her nails into his back.

In the peace of the afterglow, he lies on his back, Jolder’s head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. She absently traces her fingers back and forth along his chest. Saladin stares at the ceiling, part of him not quite believing that what just happened did in fact happen.

“The others are probably wondering where we got to.”

Jolder chuckles, remembering Efrideet’s pool. “They’re really not.”

The first time he raises his voice at her in anger is the last. He’s tired, the last battle with the Fallen was exhausting and demoralising. The town he was defending could not be saved, an evacuation was the best he could muster. Jolder approaches, cognisant of his scowl but determined to lift his mood.

“You got them out, that’s great!” Saladin cringes at the contrast between the bereft villagers and Jolder’s encouraging smiles.

“Not all of them,” he grunts in response, walking past her.

“Saladin,” she insists to his turned back. “All of these people are alive because of you. You should be proud.”

Logically, she know she’s right. He knows today is a net gain but he’s seen so much anguish, so much grief today that he doesn’t have the energy for Jolder’s relentless positivity.

“We saved these ones, yes, but how many did we lose?” He thunders, rounding on her. “Do you even know? Not everything is for the best, Jolder, not every cloud has a silver lining!”

She flinches as if struck by a physical blow. “I’ll make sure they all get a hot meal, don’t worry.” She turns away from him. “I’ll see you later.”

Saladin spends the remainder of the day dealing with the fall out from the battle, writing field reports, organising refugee housing, all with the cold creep of guilt worming its way up his spine. Once the day’s work is done, he turns to the task of working up the courage to knock on her door. When she calls him in, she doesn’t seem angry. He would have preferred that. She’s seated on her couch, her knees drawn up to her chest. She sports an expression of worry that he doesn’t feel he deserves.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a defeated whisper.

“You’re too hard on yourself. You did a good thing today, I just wanted you to see that.”

“I know. I had no call to speak to you like that.”

She stares at him for an excruciating moment, those normally vivacious green eyes wide and sad. The tension finally breaks when she holds her hand to him, clenching and unclenching her fingers in a beckoning motion. He puts his hand in hers and kneels before her in contrition. She doesn’t have the patience for this knightly performance so she pulls him into her arms.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, not sure if it’s for his benefit or hers.

“It’s okay,” she assures him, trailing her fingers through his dark curls.

“No, it is not,” he mumbles into her shoulder.

“You care, that’s all,” she assures him, dropping a kiss on his head for emphasis. “I wouldn’t love you so much if you didn’t.”

“I have bad days sometimes,” he tightens his arms around her. He can’t remember the last time he allowed himself to be this vulnerable around someone else. It definitely hasn’t happened in this life before. “I should never have taken it out on you.”

“You have as many bad days as you want,” she pulls back to rest her brow against his, cradling his head in her hands. “I’ll ride them out with you.”

Saladin waits for Jolder at the base of the ship’s gangplank. He scowls up at the castle before them, telling himself that his black mood is down to the warlord who challenged them. When Jolder emerges his breath stops momentarily. The shine of her armour, the way she hefts her battle-axe, the confidence in her gait, the impeccably applied “warpaint.” He never tires of the sight. She halts beside him and fixes him with an interrogatory stare.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he demurs. She cocks her head, sceptical and unimpressed. They’ve been friends, comrades in arms and lovers for decades now. His taciturn protestations don’t work on her anymore. He opens his mouth to speak, flounders, then again. His third attempt succeeds. “I volunteered to be your second.”

“You did.”

“You chose Efrideet.”

“I did.” She allows him a window of silence to give him a chance to explain his bad mood but he doesn’t avail himself of the opportunity. “Perun advised in favour of Efrideet.” She receives a grunt in response. “She worries that you can get too emotional.”

“I’m not emotional!” he snaps, before immediately clamping his mouth shut in embarrassment. Jolder shoots him an indulgent smile, that look of patient benevolence that never fails to break through his irritable facade.

“Talk to me, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I thought,” he falters, “I assumed…” He finally settles on, “We’re a team.”

“We are,” she assures him, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, “But this isn’t about us. This is about stopping Rience.” She leans her axe against the ship and frames his face in her hands. “Saladin. After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t think that I love you?”

“I-I don’t always feel like I deserve it. I hear what people say. He’s moody, what does she see in him? She’s so happy, he’s so miserable. We’re an odd couple, everyone says so.”

She brings her lips to his, doing her best to reassure him. “I don’t care what ‘people’ say and ‘everyone’ can go hang. I love you. I’m grateful you found me that day. I’m so glad it was you.”

Saladin’s lips twitch into a smile. “You punched me.”

“But you came after me, you still made sure I was safe, helped me. You’re a good man, that’s why I love you, moods and all. Don’t ever doubt that. Now…” She picks up her axe and takes his arm. “Come cheer me on.”

Rience’s champion waits for her with a cocky smirk on his face. Jolder nods politely to him. “Melig, isn’t it?”

“Lady wolf.”

Jolder and Saladin exchange a knowing look. “I like wolves,” states Jolder before donning her helm.

In the end, she doesn’t need a second. Rience and his champion underestimate her and the rest of the Iron Wolves as he calls them. A warlord might have lands, soldiers to command, poisons, neurojammers and all manner of things to help him win a battle. None of it matters. Jolder has a pack. As she listens to them cheer her on, one voice stands out. It’s not the loudest, not the most strident. He’s gruff and serious but it is his words that spur her to victory.

#destiny fanfiction #my writing #ask #Lady Jolder #Lord Saladin #Saladin Forge #Saladin x Jolder #jaladin #destiny

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bigballofstress · 6 years

Text

The Interview (Tom Holland x Actress!Reader)

Description: You��re Tom Holland’s costar and girlfriend since the end of Civil War. Usually, you go on interviews together, but this time, you are requested alone on Ellen.

I stepped onto the stage with a big grin, waving both hands at the screaming audience before me. The lights shining down from behind the large video cameras were almost blinding, but I was still more than happy to face them.

The interview was one of not many that I would be participating in without Tom. After he'd first asked me out during an interview much like this one, it had become our custom to do these interviews together at the demand of our host. Often, we'd walk onto the stage only to find a single armchair awaiting us. No talk show wanted to miss another big moment in the life of (ship name), as the fans have dubbed us. Finally, though, after about 3 years together, the hosts seemed to have calmed in their demands of seeing us together.

Still, I must admit, without Tom there to calm me down, I was feeling a little nervous. My waist felt cold and empty without his hand to gently rest on it. I sat on the big, comfortable chair and let out a soft breath before facing my interviewer, Ellen Degeneres - one of the kindest people to interview me as of yet. She always seemed so interested in me, rather than my picture-perfect relationship. She doesn't obsess over how cute we are - something I adore about Tom, but that becomes a bit frustrating when having the constantly retell the same story to every single person who interviews me. Instead, she asks me about my experience with the sets and other actors of my movies. I smiled at her, and she sent a warm smile back to me.

"(Y/N) (L/N), it's so great to have you back on the show," Ellen said.

I flashed a wide smile and replied in complete honesty, "I'm more than happy to be here, Ellen."

"I'm gonna get straight to the point here," Ellen said quickly. I laughed a bit and motioned for her to continue. "You died in the last Marvel movie, as did so many others. Lots of fans were disappointed by this, and we were all wondering: will you be coming back? I mean, is this death permanent?" She leaned forward in her seat, searching for some sort of confirmation.

I sighed and bowed my head slightly. "Ellen, you know I love you, but I can't just give away that kind of information-" I was quickly interrupted by some loud protests from the audience next to us. "I'm sorry, I can't!" I shouted, trying to console the complaining fans as best as I could. When the shouts died down, I spoke again. "But I will say this: the fact that so many of you are so affected by my character's death - that you honestly cared about a character who was only just introduced to the movie franchise - just warms my heart. I love you all so much, and I couldn't imagine getting this far without you guys!" Massive applause erupted from the crowd. I laughed and blew a few kisses to the amazing people sitting in those seats.

"Well, as great as it is to interview you, we have a game to get to!" Ellen shouted over the roar, which of course only caused them to get that much louder. I laughed and got up, smoothing the front of my dress before following Ellen to the very large set she'd created. I glanced up to see a large sign that read 'Bed, Wed, and Behead'. I rolled my eyes and sat down in the stool she directed me to. Beside me was 3 empty stalls waiting to be filled with whoever Ellen apparently had waiting in the wings.

"Alright, here's how this game works!" Ellen shouted. The music had stopped and the fans had quieted down. "We are going to bring in 3 young, charming men, and you will ask each of them 3 questions which they have to answer truthfully. At the end of the game, you will choose what each of their fates will be - whether it be death, an exciting night under the sheets, or a new husband!" I laughed so hard, I practically fell out of my stool.

"To my amazing boyfriend, Tom, none of this is real and I had no idea what was going down!" I joked, looking into the camera.

Ellen grinned and turned back to her audience. "Bring out the bachelors!" The music started playing again, and a voice spoke over the loud speaker, "Bachelor number 1!" The fans cheered loudly, clapping and hollering. I raised an eyebrow, wondering who would draw that kind of reaction. "Bachelor number 2!" A similarly loud amount of cheering followed, if not louder. I nodded a bit, slightly impressed that the show had managed to get such popular people. The third bachelor caught me off guard, though. The announcer barely had the time to say the first syllable before he was drowned out by the thunder coming from right before me. I laughed at the big reaction.

"Well somebody's well-loved," I snarked. Apparently the microphone caught my remark, though, because I soon heard some quiet chuckling in my ear.

"Alright, (Y/N), how 'bout we begin? Ask any question you'd like to any of the 3 bachelors, and they must answer truthfully. Who will be first?" Ellen asked, a giant smile across her lips.

"Ok, Bachelor 1..." I thought for a moment, trying to come up with something good. "What animal do you think would make the best pet and why?"

An incredibly deep, raspy voice answered me. "Well, I think dogs are very loyal and loving creatures. You'll always have a friend if you have a dog, so I think I'm going to have to go with a dog." I nodded in approval.

"Bachelor 2, where would you take me on a first date?"

"Well, personally, I would try to take you somewhere nice. Probably a sophisticated restaurant, where we could dress up and have a good time together." This voice was more metallic and robotic. It was obvious that they'd been hooked up to some kind of voice modulator. "Oh, and afterwards we could head back to your place for an even better time together."

I laughed and shook my head, choosing to just move on. "Bachelor 3, what about a third date?"

"Well first..." he started by quickly stopped. I laughed along with the people in the stands at the voice the staff had chosen for him. "Aw, c'mon, guys! Really?!" he complained, the high, squeaky voice ringing through the speakers. "Not cool!"

"Bachelor 3, your answer?" I prompted, smirking a bit.

Bachelor 3 huffed and muttered something incoherent under his breath before continuing. "I would first take you somewhere fun, like laser tag or something, since we already would know each other fairly well at that point. After, I would take you back to either your place of mine so we can relax, watch some movies, and eat takeout."

A slight smile curved the corners of my lips as I remembered doing something similar with Tom, except instead of laser tag, he'd chosen paintball. "Good answer," I grinned. "Bachelor 2! What's your favorite time of day?"

The robotic voice answered easily and without hesitation. "Anytime I see you, hot stuff."

I laughed at the dumb answer that was obviously intended as a joke. "Good for you, Bachelor 2, but you may just have a few bad days coming up if that's the case." A loud, "ooooooh" came from the stands. "Bachelor 1, what do you look for in a significant other?"

"They have to have a nice smile, and they have to be a pretty good cook," Bachelor 1 answered seriously. I raised an eyebrow.

"I might be pretty disappointing for you, then, Bachelor 1," I shrugged. A few chuckles followed before I continued. "Bachelor 3, how would you meet my parents?"

"I'd love to say that I'd be super cool and would immediately impress them, but I'd probably end up embarrassing myself around the people who raised such a great person like you," The squeaky voice responded. I blushed a bit and smiled as the crowd "Awww"d.

"You'd probably get along well with Tom, then," I laughed. The crowd erupted in very loud laughter. I raised a brow in surprise. "Wow, you guys. I'm really not that funny," I chuckled. "Ok, my last question is for all 3 of you. What would be your ideal future? What do you see when you imagine yourself as happy as possible?"

Bachelor 1 answered first. "I imagine a successful career. Something I can use as a foundation to support a future family." I nodded slowly, mulling over his response.

"I see you on my arm as we take on the world," Bachelor 2 quickly butted in. I rolled my eyes once more at Bachelor 2's antics. Silence followed.

I waited a few seconds before speaking. "Bachelor 3?"

Bachelor 3 responded slowly, seeming to put a lot of thought into his response. "I see my kind, amazing wife, our future children, and any future pets together. We're in a house - nothing too big - and we're eating dinner. We're all happy as we joke around the table. Anything else is just a bonus." I blinked in surprise. His answer was so heartfelt, as though he'd imagined this many times before.

"Alright, (Y/N), decision time! Which bachelors will you be bedding, wedding, and beheading?" Ellen snapped me out of my trance. I didn't really need to give it a second thought, but I pretended to consider my options for a moment.

"I will be..." I started, grinning as I let the suspense build a little bit. "Bedding Bachelor 1, beheading Bachelor 2, and wedding Bachelor 3!" Immediate screaming was my only response.

"We'll be right back after this short break, where we'll get to show (Y/N) who she's chosen!" Ellen shouted over the noise. I smiled and allowed Ellen to lead my backstage. I grabbed a bottle of water, practically chugging it. I was actually kind of nervous to see my choices. Bachelor 3 seemed so sweet, and I was starting to feel bad for thinking so when I'm already in love with Tom.

Before I had a chance to overthink things even more, a stage hand was rushing me back onto the stage. Before me stood three big curtains. I walked up to Ellen, taking my place beside her.

"You ready to see your bachelors, (Y/N)?" Ellen asked, taking my arm with a big smile.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I muttered.

"Let's reveal our beheaded Bachelor number 2!" She shouted. The curtain fell, and my eyes met those of Scarlett Johannson. I almost fell over laughing. She was standing in a giant, wooden casket, her arms crossed over her chest.

"I thought we had something special," she frowned, pretending to be offended.

"Sorry, Scar, but you know I still love you," I said, still trying to calm my laughter.

"Yeah, sure," she scoffed after me as I walked to the second curtain.

"Here's your Bachelor number 2!" Ellen announced. The curtain dropped to reveal Sebastian Stan laying across a bed, a long stemmed rose between his teeth. I had tears in my eyes, I was laughing so hard.

"Hey, baby, what do you say we get busy?" Sebastian asked, which of course only made me laugh harder.

"Oh my god, I've been scarred for life!" I gasped between laughs.

Ellen took me to the final curtain, and my laughter quickly died down as my heart started to beat a little faster. I chided myself silently for acting so stupid and attempted to calm myself. I didn't hear Ellen announce the final bachelor, I was just staring at the curtain. It dropped to the ground and revealed Tom standing there with a giant bouquet of red roses. I guess now we know where Seb got his prop. I grinned happily and rushed forward, giving him a big hug. Tom chuckled softly, returning the embrace. After a few seconds, though, Tom let go and took a step back.

"You've asked me a few questions. I think it's only fair that I get to ask you something, too," Tom said. I glanced around warily, trying to figure out what he was planning. "(Y/N), you are the funniest, kindest, most beautiful person I've ever met. All that stuff I said about the future? I was thinking about you. In fact, I've been thinking about the future a lot lately, and I've realized something. The only future I would every really want is one that has you in it."

"Tom, what are you saying?" I whispered. My heart was pounding in my chest, and my eyes were already tearing up at the events unfolding before me.

"What I'm saying is," Tom began. He bent down on one knee. He set the roses down on the ground and pulled a small, velvet box from his pocket. He opened the box to reveal a big, beautiful, shining diamond ring. I hardly noticed the incredible jewelry, though. It could've been a ring pop and I couldn't have cared less. "(Y/N) (M/N) (L/N)... Will you marry me?"

Tears were flooding down my cheeks, and I was so choked up I almost couldn't answer. Finally, I screamed, "Of course I will, you big dummy!"

Tom's face lit up with a smile, and the noise from the audience was almost deafening. I didn't hear any of it, though. All I could focus on was Tom as he stood up and quickly pressed his lips to mine. We separated after a long, emotional moment, and Tom slipped the - of course - perfectly sized ring onto the third finger of my left hand. I pulled him back into a hug as soon as he finished.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the soon to be Mr. and Mrs. Holland!" Ellen shouted, making the crowd grow even louder - something that shouldn't even have been possible.

I smiled and leaned forward a bit, whispering, "I love you Mr. Holland."

The soft reply came soon after in my own ear. "I love you more, Mrs. Holland."

#tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland reader insert #avengers: infinity war #avengers reader insert #avengers x reader #avengers imagine #tom holland imagine

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