#cog wants more than anything to be protected!! she wants to be harmless and she wants to be protected. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

spacedikut · 3 years

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An Essay on The Blessing of a Blizzard (basically just love for ur writing)

Ok this story popped into my head today and made me smile because it’s just so soft and the miscommunication and pining and auhghhhhh. Sorry i'm not as eloquent as you in my praise but i hope this suffices

ANYWAYS

“Mike. His name is Mike, and Spencer hates him.” right from the start we’re wondering why Spencer is showing such a strong negative emotion towards this guy- this stranger we don’t know yet. Spencer’s not harmless, he definitely has enough bite to shut someone down but we never see him usually this judgmental or abrasive so this is such an attention grabber.

Then in classic Spencer fashion we get the rundown of Mike’s background and name origins, but then transition to Spencer’s almost childish jealousy and hatred of this guy just because he’s stolen your heart.

I’ll be honest and say that when I read the list of things the reader shares with Mike, I was a little confused and thought “he seems weird” BUT not enough that I would suspect anything less than what’s at face value… The con is still going on.

“That business is ripping Spencer’s heart out of his chest, apparently.” we’re back to dramatic and angsty Spence and I love it and of COURSE it doesn’t matter, right? Because “Mike’s probably ugly, anyway” asldkjlakfj Spencer you are such a child and it’s adorable

And this line “Fuck Mike. Really, fuck him.” right before the transition is just perfect. I think I laughed out loud (probably too loud)

The detail of Garcia’s “bejewelled hands” idk I find that a really pretty little addition, I like all the details of Morgan and Emily looking pissed lol and then we’re back to childish petty Spence “All Spencer can think about is how Mike will have to suffer another day without you. He bites back a smile.”

The short interaction between Emily and Spencer and it’s so obvious Spencer is pining for you and she just smiles when mentioning Mike,,, and YES they’re all profilers but Spencer is being painfully clear he’s in love with you

Spencer catching your little expressions after getting off the call with Mike,,,, he cares so much for you (he’d probably fistfight Mike or at least step on his foot [accidentally obviously,,,] because this man wants your affection all to himself)

It’s such a Penelope idea to have a gingerbread house competition and I love her for it. <3 The little comment Morgan makes is sad for one second before you sweep in and protect Spencer and that makes my heart soft.

This entire little interaction is just,,, perfect “Spencer’s surely got whiplash, but you’re looking at him and smiling at him and him alone. He’s breathless at the sight, how you chose him and have literal stars in your eyes, yet all he can think is how undeserving he is of such a beauty. How undeserving anyone is, mostly Mike, to exist in the same reality as someone who puts the definition of beautiful to shame.

Spencer’s about to make the best damn gingerbread house the world has ever seen.”

And then “like a virus to a computer you completely wipe Spencer of all thoughts” is such a Spencer thought to have?? The computer reference? He’s such a small nerd

AND THEN your eyes watching him roll up his sleeves?? Sir i am looking respectfully…

All the tension and electricity between them during the building??? Amazing. The almost kiss? The Yearning? The eye contact and the puff of breath on his lips? The physical contact?

AND THE GONG! What a Penelope find. It’s the best and most abrupt way to disrupt the scene and poor you and Spence because the moment is over.

We’re back to classic Spencer and his the cogs in his brain turning- “Spencer can’t think about that fact too much. That could mean anything – dilated pupils don’t necessarily mean you’re in love. You could’ve gotten a good whiff of the gingerbread and felt hungry, or a song you really liked started playing from the playlist Penelope created. Or, most likely, Spencer thinks, you were thinking about someone else.”

Sad spence hours because now he’s confused and yearning and disappointed and conflicted about trying to kiss you and you trying to kiss him because MIKE exists and Spencer probably wants to throw Mike into the void if he could.

This line is just adorable: “(He’s making this more dramatic than it needs to be, really, but he feels everything so deeply when it comes to you)” and the gingerbread sharing? How you give the piece back to him first? It’s so cute

The little tells that Spencer picks up on before you’re about to laugh is really genuinely sweet because he just wants to be with you all the time, he wants to know all of you and he’s paid as much attention as possible.

And then Spencer’s embarrassed and a little sad but you’re laughing with him and everything’s okay. You kiss him and he meets Mike and all’s well that ends well <3

Ok asdklja;d i dont know if you’d actually like this but i feel like maybe?? Because its just endless praise for this story and the absolute genius of mike being a cat and the childish jealousy and the almost kiss and its adorable and i love it and you!! Okay spacey this is the end <3

#long post #people being nice to me #AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA #i put off reading this because my heart simply cannot handle the pure joy i feel #i can’t thank you enough for doing this #like holy hell. HOLY HELL #i read this entire thing with my hands clasped to #my chest like i was CLUTCHING MY PEARLS #to put so much thought into something ive written is so mind blowing to me #and to send me such a lovely message that is BRIMMING WITH PRAISE I CANT THANK YOU ENOUGH SERIOUSLY #I JDKAAKAKASSS AAAAAAAAAA THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU #this makes me think and consider my writing more than id like to but #god thank you for reading and writing this and sending it and #spending your valuable time on me and my stuff!!!#i wanted the fact mike was a pet to be kind of obvious cause i think it makes the whole thing even STUPIDER and that’s so funny to me #and just. GOD IM SO THANKFUL THANK YOU #am i screenshotting this and putting it in my lovely messages folder? yes #has this given me the motivation to get my uni work done and try to do some writing? yes #am i completely floored and so appreciative i don’t know what to do with myself? yes #thank you doesn’t feel good enough but #thank you #so much:(#submission

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thepartyresponsible · 5 years

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soundtrack fill! this one’s for the anon who asked for “lovely” with jason/tony/bucky, with bonus points for hurt jason. i guessed that you wanted “lovely” by billie eilish with khalid, so hopefully that was the right song!

i give myself a respectable 70% on this one, because jason definitely gets hurt, but it’s only jason/bucky. jason/tony/bucky would be endgame for this verse, but there would probably need to be like...50k of recovery before they made it there.

so here’s what happens when hydra happens upon a recently reanimated jason. warnings for violence and lots of vague, troubling references to hydra conditioning.

The boy fights like something gone feral. Brutal, and hungry, and not used to fighting alone. He leaves gaps in his defenses, partner-sized openings meant to deflect the hardest hits onto someone better suited to tolerating them. He fights like something that was loved once, previously protected by someone no longer around.

The Soldier throws the hardest hits at those gaps, leaves the boy on the ground, spitting blood onto concrete, dazed and bruised. He shadowboxes with the boy’s lost partner, throws punches right through the man who isn’t there anymore. They land, and land, and land, until they don’t.

The boy adapts quickly.

Soon enough, he’s fighting like he’s always been alone.

The Soldier doesn’t know where the boy came from. He hears rumors. Gotham and New York and Hell. They call him the Winter Knight, but they do it with thin crooked smiles, like they’re laughing at a joke even they know isn’t particularly funny. They boy responds as well to Winter Knight as he responds to anything.

He is, in some respects, a perfect soldier.

He never complains, never questions orders. Never demands food or rest or water or mercy.

He will stand on watch all night in an empty room, observing the movements of shadows on the wall, and he will not move or sleep or waver.

He does not speak. He does not argue.

He will, sometimes, neglect to kill the targets he’s assigned.

His disobedience is answered with punishment. But the agents are not allowed to damage him permanently, and his body cannot tolerate the level of instruction the Soldier receives. And the boy does not complain. He does not object. He does not scream or cry or change his behavior. The handlers grow bored with him.

If the Knight were more biddable, perhaps he would take the Soldier’s place. But he has quirks. Irregularities. Flickering reassertions of a more independent mind.

Sometimes, in the middle of a mission, he will set his guns aside and go AWOL, steal away from his minders, and surface days later, sleeping on a bench in a Greyhound Station with a ticket to Gotham in his pocket and no clear intentions of using it.

He cannot explain himself. When asked, he stares blankly in front of him. He does not communicate.

He’s a robot with a heartbeat. A machine that bleeds.

HYDRA pairs the two of them together. The Soldier keeps to the mission, and the Knight follows like a dog. He’s protective. Loyal. It’s interesting. His kill count doubles when he fights beside the Soldier. He never abandons a mission when he has a partner.

Still, he does not communicate, but there are times when he seems on the verge of it. Strange post-mission moments when they wait for pickup, and the boy will look over at him and open his mouth, move his lips like he’s approximating talking, and then, sometimes, he laughs.

It’s an eerie thing. There’s fear in his eyes when he laughs. The Soldier finds that he does not like it.

The fear, or the laughter, or the desperate way the Knight looks at him, like there’s something he needs, something he’s asking for. Something the Soldier is supposed to do.

The boy takes a bullet for the Soldier, and it’s the worst failure of tactical thinking the Soldier has seen from him in the years they’ve worked together.

The Knight is bleeding in a motel bathroom, head tipped back against the wall, breathing on a careful pattern. The Soldier is holding a towel against the wound on his side, weighing out whether to stitch him up or wait for the medical team that is, allegedly, on its way.

The Knight has lot a great deal of blood, but he doesn’t seem concerned about it. He’s staring at himself in the mirror.

“Hm.” He hums, low and breathy. He does that sometimes, too, but rarely. The Soldier looks up at his face.

The Knight stares at him and then looks back at the mirror. After a moment, he reaches up to touch the blood smeared across his stomach.

It’s red against the starkly pale skin of his chest. His fingers catch in the blood, rise up. He stares at his hand in the mirror, works his jaw.

Slowly and carefully, he draws something on his skin. His fingers are shaking, but there’s something dreamy and reverent in his eyes.

It’s a bat, the Soldier realizes, when the Knight finishes and drops his bloody hand to his side.

It’s a stylized bat, drawn in blood across his chest.

The Knight stares and stares at his reflection, eyes focused and sharp. It’s like someone’s asked him a question that he can almost answer. Like some part of his dormant brain is flickering awake, cogs catching, something stirring in the ashes.

His jaw drops; his eyes dim. He smears the design into a swoop of red, and he laughs, flat and empty. “Ha,” he says, “ha, ha, ha.”

The Soldier shakes his head. He hates the noise. He takes one hand off the towel holding the wound closed, dips his own fingers in the Knight’s blood. He draws his own design, right over the Knight’s heart.

It’s supposed to be nothing, just something to distract the boy, refocus him. He doesn’t mean for it to be anything, but his fingers move like they know the pattern.

Two concentric circles and then, at the center, a star.

The Knight goes quiet. He stares. He takes a long, deep breath in, and the Soldier stares at the design on his chest, transfixed by the feeling of something half-remembered. He reaches up to erase it, but the Knight knocks his hand away.

It stays. It stays until the medical team bursts through the door and then, when the Soldier looks again, he finds the Knight’s wiped it clean.

Like something secret. Like something from the Soldier that he’s keeping for himself.

A woman steals the Knight during a botched mission in Prague. The Soldier realizes after she appears that the entire mission was a set-up, the League of Assassins dabbling in HYDRA business.

“Jason,” she says, voice sharp.

The Knight shifts beside the Soldier. His head lifts; his shoulders slide back. He doesn’t speak, but he orients toward her like a dog finally sighting its master. The Soldier knows, in that moment, that HYDRA has lost its Knight.

“Jason,” she repeats. “Come here.”

The Knight goes. Without question or hesitation. He slips away from the Solider and HYDRA in the span of a breath and four words.

The Soldier is surrounded by League assassins. There will be an ugly fallout if they kill him, but the woman draws her gun, aims it between his eyes, and does not seem concerned about the political ramifications of pitching the League and HYDRA into war.

The Knight moves up beside her. His eyes go to the Soldier and then to the gun. In a smooth, unhurried motion, he reaches over, takes the gun, ejects the magazine, clears the round from the chamber, and hands it back to her as a piece of harmless metal.

The woman stares at him. “Jason,” she says, “don’t you know what he made you into?”

The Knight looks over at her. His face is attentive but empty. It’s the same way he’s looked at the Soldier and his handlers for years now. Stuck in a permanent state of ready to comply.

The woman sighs and goes for a knife, but the Knight reaches over, closes his hand gently around her wrist.

He does not speak. The Knight never voices any complaints, never shows any preferences. He’s drawn the bat a dozen times over, on his chest, on his forearm, in the dust of a handful of a safe houses, but he’s never drawn anything else. He does not communicate. There’s nothing in his mind.

But as the Soldier watches, the Knight shakes his head. A clear denial. A request.

No, he says, and the Soldier wants to speak, wants to tell her how important this is, how critical a thing she’s wandered into. Years and years, and the Knight’s said nothing. The first time he communicates at all, it’s to save the Soldier’s life.

The woman doesn’t understand, but she sheathes the knife anyway. “Fine,” she says. “You can do it yourself when you’re better.”

The Knight is kept contained by the League for some time. The Soldier cannot track the length of it; he’s put in cryo and wiped. When they wake him up, it’s because the Knight has returned. He’s wrecking his way through a HYDRA facility. He’s slaughtered dozens. He’s out of control.

The Soldier contains him. It’s harder than it has any right to be. The Knight’s been woken up. All that machine-like calm has been washed right out of him, and he has so much rage that it makes him wild. When the Soldier finally subdues him, he doesn’t expect the Knight to survive it.

And he wouldn’t have, if HYDRA had left him in his natural state.

“The enhanced healing,” one of the doctors says. “If he survives injection. If the serum works. It would save him, yes. But after the last experiments--”

“He’s no use to us like this,” Pierce says. “Try it. If he turns out like the others, put him in cryo.”

The Soldier remembers the others. He thinks, if the Knight becomes like them, there will be no stopping him. If the Knight wakes up like them, the Soldier expects this whole facility will burn.

The Knight does not wake up like the others. When he blinks awake in his containment cell, he studies himself for a long moment and then curls up into a tight ball and does not move.

They send the Soldier in after three hours. He’s wearing body armor. He has five knives and two guns and his gloves are stitched with heavy weights along the knuckles.

It won’t be enough if the Knight feels like fighting.

When the Soldier nudges him with his boot, the Knight rolls over onto his back to stare up at him. There’s something significant in his eyes. The Soldier doesn’t know what it means.

“Sorry,” the Knight tells him, as he slowly sits up. “Guess it was a pretty shitty rescue mission. Do you even remember me?”

He won’t. Not for much longer. Not if HYDRA doesn’t see some value in maintaining their relationship, such as it is.

The Soldier crouches down, looms over him. The Knight doesn’t flinch back. He just watches him, quiet and attentive. Ready to comply.

“We do important work,” the Soldier tells him. “We’re shaping history.”

The Knight smiles. He has a beautiful face. He’s always had a beautiful face, but it was the blank, impersonal beauty of a statue. It’s different, now that the Knight looks like something warm, something alive. Something worth touching.

The face will be useful, the Soldier knows, but he wishes, fervently and inexplicably, that the Knight were ugly instead. There’s a certain amount of protection in being an ugly, forgettable thing, and the Soldier wants to protect him, to whatever degree he can.

“I’m not doing do their bullshit dirty work,” the Knight says. “Dying’s better. And I’m kind of uniquely positioned to make that call.”

The Soldier grabs his face, tightens his fingers around his jaw. The Knight doesn’t fight, doesn’t flinch. He watches him. Waits for what’s coming. Maybe he hasn’t changed so much after all.

“You won’t have a choice,” the Soldier tells him. “It’s easier if you don’t fight.”

The Knight laughs, and it’s nothing like the way he used to laugh, but it makes the Soldier uneasy all the same.

“I’ve never done a single easy thing in my whole fucking life,” he says.

The Winter Soldier training protocols don’t work on the Knight. He doesn’t respond to negative reinforcement. He’s unruly and headstrong and defiant. They take him to the chair, over and over again, but the rebelliousness seems to run marrow-deep. He’s quiet and compliant for a while, and then, suddenly, he’s spitting rage all over again.

He screams now. He’s never silent. The Soldier wishes the woman had never taken him away. He suffered less, before her. He was never any kind of entertaining before she put his personality back in him.

There are people who are fond of him now. They view him as a project.

The Soldier asks to be returned to cryo. “I am losing objectivity,” he reports.

“Soon enough,” Rumlow tells him. There’s blood under his fingernails. He’s sharp-toothed and shark-like, can’t keep the smile off his face. The Soldier calculates ways to kill him.

“One more mission,” Piece tells him.

“We’re letting you take the kid,” Rumlow says.

The Knight is not a boy anymore. It’s been over a decade since he was first brought to HYDRA. He’s a man now. It doesn’t indicate anything positive that Rumlow insists on thinking of him as something vulnerable and small. The familiarity is worrisome.

“Ready to comply,” the Soldier says.

HYDRA discovers that at least one old behavioral pattern holds true. The Knight will not compromise a mission if the Soldier is present. He will not endanger the Soldier, although his kill count drops to almost zero. That, of course, is not entirely the Knight’s fault.

They don’t arm him. They send him on missions without weapons, to play shadow or decoy or distraction.

“The Knight was not properly equipped,” the Soldier reports, again and again. “He is not able to defend himself or assist with mission objectives.”

“If he wants weapons,” Piece tells him, “he can ask for them.”

Rumlow laughs, ugly and amused. The Soldier thinks about prying his teeth out of his mouth, one by one.

“I need to be returned to cryo,” the Soldier says. “Things are crowded. In my head.”

“Alright,” Pierce says. His eyes go to the doctor over the Soldier’s shoulder. “Wipe him.”

He sees the Knight infrequently and then not at all. He overhears reports that the Knight remains unpredictable in the field. And then he hears nothing.

Pierce ages. Rumlow mellows, all that cruelty going quiet and rancid and hidden.

He does not see the Knight. He’s in cryo, or he’s dead.

When the Soldier remembers him, he hopes that he’s dead.

When he’s sent to kill Captain America, the Knight is sent with him. The Soldier does not know him at first, but memories begin to stir during the mission briefing and then surface exponentially during transport. He stares at the Knight’s face.

The Knight’s wearing a mask like the Soldier’s, a near-exact replica in a shade of blood red. He seems docile and serious, not at all inclined toward disobedience. He blinks at the Soldier calmly, follows the pointless orders the Soldier gives him to test his responsiveness. He does not object or yell or respond with unnecessary emotionality.

The Soldier wonders what they did to him. He wonders what it was that finally worked.

“The Captain rarely fights alone,” the Soldier tells him. “This will be difficult.”

The Knight regards him impassively. “We aren’t fighting alone, either.”

The first lesson the Soldier taught him was that he was always fighting alone.

But it’s been years. And they’ve both been to the chair more times than either one of them can remember. The Soldier cannot blame him for forgetting. And maybe he was trained for partnered missions only. Maybe HYDRA still doesn’t trust him.

None of the other agents are looking at them. They are an unsettling pair.

The Soldier reaches over without looking, keeps his eyes on his weapons while he draws a quick design on the man’s open palm.

A bat. Stylized, wings a series of sharp angles.

The Knight closes his hand.

The Soldier goes to withdraw, feeling strange, feeling like something’s gone wrong in his chest, and then the Knight grabs his hand, flips it over, draws on his palm.

Two concentric circles and a star in the middle.

It doesn’t mean anything to the Soldier. He doesn’t know why his signal is being answered this way. But the Knight still knows his bat. Whatever he’s lost, that much remains.

The man on the bridge has the symbol on his shield. Two concentric rings and a star. Maybe all the Knight meant was that the Soldier needed to focus on the mission.

But that can’t be right.

That can’t be right, because, as soon as the Knight joins him on the bridge, he abandons the mission entirely.

He’s yelling something, but his mask muffles it. The Captain throws his shield, catches the Knight in the chest, and he’s down on the ground, scrambling at his mask instead of trying to regroup. His guns are lying on the pavement. The Falcon catches the Soldier in the back before he can provide cover.

“Stop,” the Knight says. His voice carries over the sound of panicked civilians and the HYDRA agents firing from above. “Stop!”

The Soldier turns toward him, eyes narrowed, scanning his face for indications of what’s gone wrong. He hesitates.

The Knight grabs his gun off the ground and shoots the Soldier directly in the chest.

He’s wearing body armor, but the caliber of the bullet still has him on his back.

“It’s Barnes,” the Knight’s yelling. “Take his mask off! It’s Barnes.”

The Soldier pushes himself up on his elbows. The Captain’s shield catches him in the face, nearly breaks his jaw. The mask clatters to the ground.

“Bucky,” the Captain says.

The Soldier climbs to his feet. His ribs are bruised. The Widow and the Falcon are moving in, flanking them from opposite sides. The Knight’s aiming at him again, center mass, right for the thickest part of the body armor.

The Soldier should go for his own guns, but he’s thrown, can’t track the thread of the mission.

Two concentric circles and a star in the center. The Knight, shooting him in the chest.

He owes the Knight some kind of debt, he thinks. He doesn’t understand the parameters of it. He doesn’t know if letting the Captain kill him will settle what he owes.

“Who the hell,” he says, “is Bucky?”

“You are, Goddamn it,” the Knight yells. “You are!”

Above them, on the bridge, the HYDRA agents shift their focus. The Captain throws his shield up, but he’s poorly positioned to block the bullets. They aren’t aiming at him.

The Knight’s silent, hits his knees without a sound. “Fuck,” he says, a second later. There’s blood blooming up through the thinner layers of his uniform. They don’t armor him like they armor the Soldier.

The bat, the circles and the star. The bullet he took for the Soldier before they gave him the serum. The gun he took out of that woman’s hand.

The desperate, panicked way he’d said it. Take off his mask! It’s Barnes.

All this time, all that training, and that’s the only time the Soldier’s ever heard him beg for anything.

The Soldier’s on his feet a second later. The Captain braces when he draws his guns. But his shield, again, is useless.

The HYDRA agents drop one by one, dead before they knew to seek cover.

“Shit, soldat,” the Knight says, when the Soldier gets to him. He’s smiling, and he’s pale, and he curls into the Soldier like he’s a source of comfort. “I always knew you were a sweetheart.”

#writing #fic #fill #soundtrack fills

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anoutlandishfanfic · 5 years

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Metamorphosis: Chapter 19. The Search.

HUZZAH!! The next chapter of Metamorphosis is HERE!!

Extra special thanks to @thefraserwitch for making sense of my nonsensical ramblings and @diversemediums for being my spectacular mama resource. I couldn’t do this without you guys, you’re the best and my saving grace.

You can find previous chapters here on my master list, or over here on AO3.

Mid November, 1743; Lallybroch.

“What are ye doin’, lass?”

Murtagh’s voice held more concern than consternation as he made his way towards me in the dim stable. I didn’t — couldn’t — look at him as I hoisted the saddle blanket onto the mare’s back, knowing that if I did, if I saw the fear he was trying to hide in his eyes, I would cry… or worse, lose my resolve.

“What does it look like?” I huffed as I turned my attention to the heavy saddle, “I’m coming with you.”

He was at my side before I managed to get it anywhere near the horse. A guttural Gaelic expletive left his lips and I forfeited the heavy tack to him, but made no move to surrender my position near the mare’s flank. I crossed my arms against chest, my gaze withering as he set down the saddle and turned to back me.

“Ye’ll no’ be riding with me,” he insisted with a dismissive shake of his head.

I knew better than to ask him why not, for there were a thousand and one reasons for me to stay behind while he forged ahead. I’d thought of each and every one, every horrible scenario playing out in my mind since he’d arrived with battered Ian in tow and still came to the same conclusion.

I was going to find my husband... with or without Murtagh’s approval.

My chest heaved as I stared him down. He met my gaze without so much as a twitch, but the crack and timbre of his voice betrayed his true feelings.

“Ye’ll stay here… where Jenny can tend to ye, where ye are safe,” his shoulders hunched with huge weight of the situation, his breathing labored as he tried to talk me down. “Wha’ happens to the bairns if ye fall, lass? ‘Tis a long way down and no guarantee of a bush or heather to land on.”

“I won’t fall.”

He snorted, “And if ye do?”

“I’ve fallen a good deal farther and they’re still here,” I grimly stated and shivered slightly, for the chilling nightmare I’d had while within the depths of the Thieves Hole had become a frequent visitor in the weeks since my imprisonment, each repetition more frightening than the last.

My comment tore down Murtagh’s mask of resolute strength and his hands shot out, gripping my upper arms as moisture sprang to his eyes, “I canna risk it, a nighean. Please… will ye no’ stay here?”

I shook my head, opening my mouth to protest, but he cut me off.

“I give you my word, Claire,” he vowed, desperate for me to stay behind. “I will find him and bring him back to you.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment, but in what condition?” I spat, even as my voice cracked. “They flogged Jamie within an inch of his life the last time you broke him out of prison and I can’t imagine they’ll do anything less to him this time!”

The image of a hangman’s noose around my husband’s neck knocked the air from my lungs and I felt very much like I was going to be sick. My head spun as I lifted my hands to my face. A shudder ran through me in a desperate attempt rid myself of the sudden vision of Jamie swinging from the scaffold at Fort William. I felt my legs give way beneath me and my crippling fears swallowed me whole as the floodgates opened, a sob bursting forth from my lips unchecked.

Murtagh caught me just before I hit the ground, pulling me to him in an awkward embrace as my tears flowed freely. I’d been bolstered by Jenny’s strength and carried by my own stubborn determination, but the quiet darkness of the stable had been my undoing. I knew that, on their own, my tears would solve nothing… but I also knew that I wouldn’t solve anything if I didn’t allow myself to cry… here in the stillness, protected by the arms of the man my husband trusted above all others.

Working together, we could -- and would -- save Jamie.

We had to.

Two weeks later; Somewhere in the Highlands.

“Thank ye, Mistress,” the young boy nodded to me, going so far as to bend forward from the waist in a slight bow.

While I understood their appreciation, the almost reverence the village folk gave in the last few hamlets we’d traveled through was beginning to grow wearisome. I hadn’t even treated the lad’s wound yet and here he was acting as though I’d cured him of leprosy with a touch of my hand. Most of this was Murtaugh’s doing, I knew, and yet if it meant word spread more quickly or even made me more identifiable to Jamie, I would go along with the harmless charade.

Placebo pebbles, I’d mentally dubbed them when Murtagh explained his idea at the start of our journey. Highlanders were equal parts superstitious and religious and Murtaugh's plan was to capitalize on both. He told me of a folkloric woman, a sort of witch who was able to see the motivations of men and women alike, who could strike an evil-doer down with a single look. He thought he could use the structure of La Dame Blanche, as she was called, to create a Holy Mother-like figure who could see the future and give protection or healing with the aid of a stone. The rumors of a pregnant Sassenach wandering about the countryside telling fortunes and healing the sick using magic rocks was sure to make it to Jamie, wherever he was hiding. I only hoped he’d hear of us before they tried me for witchcraft a second time or even for heresy.

I offered the boy my best attempt at a smile, gesturing him to come closer as I placed the small pouch of stones into a more visible part of my work space.

“Does it hurt much?” I nodded to the bandage on his right hand.

“Och, nae,” he bluffed as he extended it to me. “Jus’ it gets in the way a wee bit, now an’ then.”

I carefully unwrapped it and noticed a little girl standing near a tree about fifty yards from us. She had her eyes trained on the boy, yet made no move to come any closer as I examined him. The two shared similar cheekbone structures, a smattering of freckles, and glittering brown eyes.

“Your sister?” I inclined my head, trying to distract him as the last layer of his bandage slowly peeled away. He nodded bravely, but I caught the wince he tried to hide as he averted his gaze to where she stood.

“What’s her name?”

“Flora, Mistress.” His voice changed, rising in timbre as his discomfort grew and I began to examine what revealed to be a minor burn.

It had already begun to heal and was relatively clean, needing only minimal cleaning before my application of a basic salve and a fresh bandage, but I took my time with him. For once, there wasn’t a flock of people hovering about my skirts waiting to be treated, and I made the effort to do the extra things Murtagh had suggested.

Use just enough Gaidhlig to make them think ye have it.

Give them every reason to believe ye can do a great deal more than what yer doin’... an’ tha’ the wee stones will do the rest o’ the healin’ for ye.

I kept my eyes on my work, but watched the boy out the corner of my eye as I began to slip in the phrases I’d been carefully taught, “And yours, a bhalaich?”

His head lifted in surprise to look at me, eyes wide with reverent awe and answered softly, “Michael.”

I nodded and reached for my medicine box, taking out the vial of salve I needed and a roll of fresh bandage. I set both down beside the small, leather pouch of stones before I looked at him again and found him unabashedly staring at me. My cheeks warmed, but I didn’t shirk from his gaze as I began to clean the wound.

Michael flinched as I cleared a bit of debris and dropped his eyes, staring the items table. I could see his mind working, but he didn’t speak. The cogs and wheels of his brain turned over each one until he came to the leather pouch. His mouth dropped open in excitement, then shut just as quickly as he tried to contain himself. He shifted from foot to foot uneasily and I knew this was the very result Murtagh had hoped for.

Jesus H Roosevelt Christ, here we go again.

“Would you like one, Michael?” I coaxed.

Murtagh would chuffed to know that I hadn’t needed to explain the purpose of the stones with this patient. The rumors had reached this village far ahead of us and done the work for me.

My patient’s brows drew together in concern, “I dinna have anything to give ye... and ye’ve already mended my arm. I canna ask for a wee stone besides.”

“Then a gift for your sister, perhaps?”

Michael’s smile threatened to stretch right off his face as he nodded, turning to beckon the child to his side. I caught the little girl’s nervous glance between her brother and I and smiled at her in encouragement. With a final look to Michael, she stepped out from behind the tree and ran to his side, burying her face in the back of his green coat.

“Hallo, a nighean,” I murmured and finished off applying the salve, wiping my hands on my apron.

The little girl’s arms wrapped around her brother’s waist and held on for dear life. He coaxed her in Gaelic, resulting in her peering around him, but not budging so much as an inch. Michael’s tone changed and she reluctantly let go, sidestepping to reveal a dirty blue dress and smudged face. My heart melted as she grabbed for her brother’s free hand, anchoring herself to him as she tried to decide if I was friend or foe.

I reached for the pouch and loosened the drawstring. Not looking at Flora as she studied me, I, in turn, examined its contents and made a great show of selecting which one I wanted to give her. I did have quite a few options thanks to a good deal of forethought, but it really made no matter which I chose, for they were all plain, benign, everyday rocks.

I eventually selected a small, white pebble that was near the top as I tried to focus on the task before me, but — as if the brother and sister’s presence called out in greeting to them — the lives within me stirred. They turned and prodded until I, in turn, had to move to appease them. I shifted uncomfortably on my hard, wooden seat and tried to nudge one, encouraging them to remove their heel from between my ribs.

Would they be brother and sister like these cherubs? Would I have a daughter and a son? One to favor me and the other Jamie?

A small, warm hand gently covered mine and I looked up in surprise to see Flora lean in towards me, a quiet lullaby tumbling from her lips. I couldn’t understand the words, but I didn’t need to. Her soft melody possessed an almost hypnotic charm, an intonation of the purest intent, a blessing from one child’s heart to another. The baby moved their foot and the both of them stilled, as if they could hear her song and were listening intently.

I held my breath as she finished, giving my hand a pat with her final, sustained note. My throat constricted as her wide, innocent eyes met mine and she gave me a shy smile. Tears burned at the back of my eyes as I gave her one in return, lifting my right hand to cup her face. I tucked a tangled strand of hair behind her ear and her smile grew, making her brown eyes dance.

“May our Heavenly Father keep you safe, my child.”

This time I truly meant the phrase Murtaugh had taught me, though I’d uttered them to nearly every patient I had treated, and my spirit echoed it, petitioning for the both of them to be safe and well in the name of our Lord.

Flora turned her face into my palm and kissed it, then moved my hand to rest where it had been on top of the curve of my abdomen. I opened my left hand and offered her the stone, adding my own hasty benediction, my brain scrambling for the words.

“May Christ Our Lord be your solid rock and cornerstone… May He cradle you in the palm of His hand and shelter you under His feathers… from this day on and forever more.”

The sweet child accepted my token and then crossed herself before stepping back to her brother’s side. I blinked rapidly in a vain attempt to keep my tears at bay as my mind scrambled to remember what the hell I was doing before I had descended into complete sentimentality.

Bandage him, you bloody sot, I chastised myself and reached for the roll of cloth.

My fingers set about their business, pure reputation having made them deft and capable of doing the work without a connected or coherent mental direction. My tongue was thick in my mouth, my lips suddenly felt clumsy as I tried to spit out the basic care instructions that he would need.

“Keep it dry,” I muttered, adding, “and change the bandage daily.”

Michael’s head bobbed enthusiastically, “Aye, Màthair. I will.”

The bandage now fastened off and talisman administered, the children simply stood and beamed at me, waiting for dismissal or further instruction.

“Right then,” I swallowed hard. “Off you go.”

With a parting wave, they flounced off and disappeared into the village’s market.

God go with you, dear ones.

…

Another week later.

The chill from the cave’s damp, stone floor was beginning to seep through the sheepskin beneath me. I shifted, pulling my woolen blanket up and over my shoulders, but it didn’t help… the cold and dark disquiet of the night still found me. My eyelids and every muscle in my body burned with fatigue, yet my mind refused to stop churning. It’s machinations kept me forever suspended in wakeful agony.

“Canna sleep?”

A short puff of air left my nose in frustration as I tried to ease the ache in my hip and lower back, as well as in response to Murtagh’s observation.

“Of course not,” I muttered in answer.

How could I sleep when I knew we’d been unsuccessful?

When we’d paraded through every village, hamlet, and croft and had no more information on Jamie’s whereabouts than when we’d left Lallybroch over three weeks ago?

I felt Murtagh’s gaze upon me and looked across the fire to find him studying me intently.

“What is it?” I raised a brow in slight annoyance

He’d grown more accustomed to my condition as both our journey and I progressed, but he was still more than a bit tongue tied about the whole matter. I didn’t know if it was due to the century and culture in which he lived, or if it was simply from lack of exposure, having never had a wife of his own. Either way, the fact that he had questions was evident and I often had to drag them out of him.

“Are the bairns troublin’ ye?” His brows furrowed in concern as he added, “Wi’ their movin’?”

I shook my head, “I think they’re asleep.”

This surprised the Scot and he absently stroked his chin in thought, a motion that amused me as I realized my hand closely echoed his, although it was hidden from his sight beneath my blanket.

“They don't always sleep when I do,” I explained, even while wishing they did, “but they do sleep.”

“When they wake…” he searched for the right words, “a bit like ye’ve swallowed fish, aye?”

“More like a small hippo,” I grumbled, wistfully remembering the days when the movements within me could have been something akin to the brush of a fish’s tail, instead of the hooves on fire they resembled of late.

“A wha’?”

“It’s a… it looks something like a pig,” I started, my gaze lifting to the dark, stone ceiling above me as I tried to conjure up the image of the beast. One had nearly capsized our boat when I was in Cairo with Uncle Lamb and — though I’d only been eleven or twelve at the time — it was certainly an experience that stuck with me.

I heard his astonished murmured acknowledgement as he shifted his mental image from something the size of a loaf of bread to a decent sized farm animal and grinned to myself as I added, “Except it’s bigger than a horse.”

His guttural reaction was incoherent to my Sassenach ears, but the shock, disbelief, and then reverent awe was crystal clear. Murtagh didn’t quite know how to change the subject and we both let a heavy silence fall.

It was now well into December, making me officially in my sixth month of pregnancy. The babies were growing rapidly and so, in turn, was I. It felt as though they were already running out of room… though I knew we still had a long three months to go.

The blessing of living on the road was that I hadn’t seen my reflection since we’d left Lallybroch. I firmly held onto that mental image of my figure, not wanting to think of what I looked like now, nor how big I’d be come the month of March. The fit of my skirts was evidence enough of how I was changing on an almost daily basis and I half wondered if the age old tradition of confinement was so that heavily expectant mothers could get away with wearing nothing but their shift all day… but come to that, I wasn’t sure if even my shift would fit for much longer.

“Ye’ll return to Lallybroch in the morn,” my companion’s command interrupted my wandering thoughts.

I stiffened, my head snapping to the side to search for him in the dark.

“No,” I responded simply.

I hadn’t the energy or the words to plead my case just now, but giving up on my husband was not an option and neither was returning home to Jenny empty handed. I would not go back to Lallybroch without Jamie at my side.

The dim light of the fire threw deep shadows across Murtagh’s face as he insisted again, “Ye’ll go, Claire.”

“I won’t,’ I countered, my temper flaring and swallowing my fatigue as I pushed myself up onto one elbow. “He is my husband.”

He rose one brow as if taunting me, his silent ‘do ye no’ think I ken that’ ringing loud and clear in my ears and I swallowed hard in a desperate attempt to keep my tears at bay.

“You can’t possibly know how it feels!”

Murtagh rose suddenly and strode to the mouth of the cave as he burst, “An’ ye’re the only one to lose someone ye loved, then?!”

The sky was clear and the moon shone bright tonight, silhouetting his hunched shoulders, usually so proud and stalwart.

“I lost someone too,” he murmured, his voice betraying the deep, churning waters that flowed beneath an always unbroken surface.

“‘Twas at a MacKenzie gathering, many years ago… she was a canty lassie, bonnie as the day is long… but she had another suitor. So, I thought to prove myself to her, to be the kind of man she desired… During the hunt, I alone killed the wounded boar with nothing but my dagger… The MacKenzie was so impressed by the deed, he gave me the tusks… I had them made into bracelets… and gave them to her as a wedding gift.”

The bracelets.

Jenny had given them to me the morning Murtagh and Ian had returned and they’d been in my pocket ever since, a talisman of my own to keep Jamie’s presence with me. I pushed myself the rest of the way up, my hands patting at my skirts to find them.

“It was you,” I whispered as my fingers wrapped around the curved ivory, warm from being against my body.

Murtagh turned and I staggered to my feet, closing the distance between us as I held them out to him. He was at my side long before I made it to where he’d been standing and his hands shook as he took the bracelets, bringing them to his lips as his eyes slid shut. He swayed slightly and it was my turn to place a steadying hand on his arm, .

“Ye think ye’re the only one who loves Jamie?” Murtagh murmured after a moment, the silver light of the moon making his damp cheeks shine bright as he finally looked at me. I found my own pain echoed in his eyes, multiplied tenfold.

“He is a son to me, a nighean.”

I nodded, knowing that I couldn’t possibly form accurate words to convey the acheings of my heart… the overwhelming and soul crushing realization that he did, indeed, know how I felt and he’d been carrying the weight of it around for decades.

My hand gripped his arm and he pulled me to him, supporting me as I cried. His hand lifted to gently cradle the back of my head as I sobbed into his shoulder, my tears flowing free for the first time since we’d left Lallybroch.

The doubt crept in as I let go of my facade, making me ask, “What’s going to happen to me… to us, if he’s… if Jamie is...”

“If the lad is truly gone,” Murtagh choked out, his embrace tightening, “I vow to protect ye and the bairns for the rest of my life… just as I swore to Ellen to protect Jamie.”

#outlander #outlander fanfic #Metamorphosis AU #chapter 19 #the search

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thekingcon · 6 years

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Hear No Evil, See No Evil

… “Speak no evil,” the tail end of the phrase leaks from the mumbling mouth of Daniel’s mother, and catches on his impressionable ears. He ponders the words for a moment but his attention is primarily darting from product to product of the wonderful new place he finds himself in. A great big store of some sort, packed to the brim with strange and wonderful products, colorful breakfast cereals, and twelve different and unique types of milk to go with them, hundreds upon hundreds of packages filled with foods and tools and the occasional toy attached haphazardly to the side of a shelf with a little plastic clip. Daniel had never seen a supermarket before, and to him it was a new world. One could say his upbringing had been a bit sheltered. And that’s when he saw her. A young girl, his age or no older, sprawled across a mountain of cans as she played dead in an overly dramatic fashion. Her clothes were littered with stains of reds and blues and pinks and more colors than Daniel had seen even on the shelves of the great big store they were in. Tomato sauce trickled from her mouth down her cheek and dribbled slowly off the small cleft of her chin, like blood from her mouth, which had been left agape to signify no words were left in her mangled corpse. She twitched occasionally and made various guttural groans. This sight left Daniel quite obviously bewildered. As if completely unfazed by this bizarre sight, Daniel watched as his mother reached up and grabbed a can from just below the strange girl’s head, which then hit the next can in the pile with an audible clunk. His mother moved to the dairy isle. Just then, the girl leapt up and off the tower of canisters and began running around with her arms spread wide like wings, shooting puffs of air from her mouth like harmless bullets that struck down her foes. She danced from consumer to consumer, mocking their fat jowls or short dresses, tugging at sleeves and being the most remarkable nuisance one could possibly imagine. And yet, no one even blinked in response. Except, of course, for Daniel. When she reached him, now rolling like she was wrapped in a carpet, Daniel began to step away slowly from the girl. The girl stopped in her tracks, her back facing Daniel now as she reached the spot he had once occupied. Daniel stopped too, watching cautiously to see what her next move was. Ever so slowly, the girl twisted herself around to face Daniel, still sprawled across the floor with her eyes wide and set on the young boy. “You can see me?” Her voice was quiet and gentle, quite unlike the plethora of sounds she had been throwing at people before her realization that Daniel had eyes. She had a slight British tinge to her voice, and Daniel took note of the golden locks of hair that were not drenched in various store-bought liquids. She was actually quite pretty. “You can see me!” She began shouting now, her eyes wide and wet and blue like the ocean. She leapt up once again and tackled Daniel to the floor, hugging him and rolling around as they impacted the ground. “My name is Elizabeth! I’m twelve years old and I have a fear of crickets but I love Grasshoppers, and I’ve lived in this store for as long as I can remember but no one has seen me, and I love tomato sauce and pasta but I can only eat it when they put it out on the little taste test carts because I have no one to cook for me, so I usually just eat the tomato sauces straight from the can and today I saw it around my mouth and I thought it was a great opportunity for some theatre, I love theatre too but I’ve never had an audience, imagine never having an audience…” She went on for quite some time. Daniel simply looked up at her, occasionally grimacing as drops of sauce dribbled onto his face, but otherwise listening contently. “I thought I was mad.” Daniel noted the dripping wasn’t sauce anymore. Tears began to fall from her cheeks to his as he began to get over his astonishment and actually feel sympathy for the girl. He held her while she cried and that was how it all started.

Every Tuesday, whenever his mother went shopping, Daniel would insist that he came with her on her shopping trips. He would slip away to Elizabeth’s fortress of tomato sauce cans and his mother would continue on, never noticing his absence. The two youths became fast friends. Daniel was quiet, but he could listen to Elizabeth talk for hours without getting bored. She would always listen when he really needed to talk. She was good at telling when he really needed to talk. Probably because she had spent so much time being forced to just watch and listen. Daniel wanted to help. And so, Daniel would bring her things. Elizabeth was always too scared to leave the store, but with a great deal of convincing and many gifts which told tales of more exciting worlds that lie just beyond the shelves and sliding glass doors, she eventually began to broaden her horizons. Daniel held her hand for every step she took.

Slowly but steadily, Daniel’s parents began to stop noticing his absence. They would give him less and less warnings, and often not even stop to take note of Daniel’s leaving. Daniel considered it a sign that they were finally letting him grow up, letting him taste the outside world they had spent so much time and effort protecting him from. Still, sometimes Daniel remarked at how they would seem to look through him. He talked to Elizabeth. “Hmm. That is an odd occurrence, my dear Watson. Odd indeed, but don’t worry about it too much. We don’t want you to go grey before you’re even a legal adult.” A good point, but it felt like she was trying to dismiss the subject. He persisted. “We only have so much time together each week, can’t we just relax and enjoy ourselves a bit? You worry too much, Danny.” Another good point. Daniel trusted her judgment and dismissed the thought. He liked it when she called him Danny.

Months went by and before he knew it, Daniel was spending more time with Elizabeth than anyone else. His mother and father barely spoke to him anymore, and at one point they even forgot to set his place for dinner. Daniel started setting it himself. But none of that mattered, because Daniel had Elizabeth. Every day he would go to see her, and every day they would talk about all the things that Daniel had ever kept to himself. Nothing was unsaid between them, save for that one small worry that was stuck on Daniels mind like a fly to a wind shield. He kept thinking more and more about his parents. How little they saw him. Elizabeth kept changing the subject whenever it came up. It was always there. But, things were still good.

“No one can see me anymore.” Elizabeth looked down. “You knew this would happen.” Elizabeth closed her eyes. “My own parents won’t even think about me. I’m not seen, I’m not heard, I’m not mentioned. It’s like I’ve vanished from existence.” Elizabeth started trembling. She bit her lower lip and shielded her gaze from his face. “I guess I ran out of time, huh?” Daniel waited. Elizabeth grimaced at the silence, but continued regardless. “I’m not here. Not really, I died a long time ago.” Still nothing. “This place is the furthest I got. My farthest boundary, my horizon. I died before I got the chance to go anywhere else, that’s why you…” She didn’t need to say it. Daniel had never been allowed to explore before this. His parents would viciously protect him from anything alien, anything exciting. Before he met Elizabeth, this was the furthest he had gotten as well. His face softened slightly. “… It’ll get better once I’m gone. The more time you spend in my world, the closer you get to it yourself. Right now you’re on the cusp. This is your last chance, Daniel. This is the last time you’ll see me.” Daniel looked at the ground, searching for answers. The cogs in his head were in full swing, tenaciously trying to compute what was happening. These tacky tiles that he had spent so much time with, something familiar in a world of alienation. That which he had craved so fervently, yet seemed so cold and uninviting in his hands. Still, he chose it. Daniel wrapped his arms around Elizabeth’s shaking shoulders. He cradled in his arms the one that he trusted most and in that moment he felt resolute. He wouldn’t let her go. Elizabeth stood in shock. “You idiot, what are you doing? You’ve got everything waiting for you, I’m nothing. Leave me be, I’m a bad omen, an evil, incomplete thing!” He held tighter. “God damn it!” Elizabeth pounded his back and attempted to pry him from herself to no avail. She writhed and reasoned and raged against his affection, but every strike only tightened his embrace. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth was happy that someone saw through her. All that remained was a smile. “Are you sure?” Her voice was just as gentle as the first time. Daniel just nodded into her shoulder, and in that moment, Elizabeth finally felt content. “Thank you. Live your life. You gave me mine.”

And she was gone.

Thanks for reading! This is my first post on this blog which I plan to use as a creative outlet. I wrote this story last semester and it’s my favourite, so I thought I’d share it before starting a bunch of new stories :D . I hope it serves to make someone somewhere happy and possibly broaden a perspective or two.

Good luck and Godspeed,

Con

#short story #one off #1st post #Invisible girl #Daniel #Danny #Elizabeth #supermarket #supernatural

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okimargarvez · 6 years

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GUARDIAN ANGEL

Original title: Guardian angel.

Prompt: Luke’s spirit POV, unconditional love, paternity.

Warnings: Character Death.

Genre: romantic, family, supernatural, friendship.

Characters: Luke Alvez, (Penelope Garcia, Spencer Reid, O.C.).

Pairing: Garvez, Penelope x Spencer.

Note: oneshot 5 in Garvez collection; sequel of Empty.

Legend: 💑❗👨‍👩‍👧‍👦💍🎈⚰.

Song mentioned: Lacrime di pioggia, Antonello Venditti.

MY OTHER GARVEZ STORIES

GUARDIAN ANGEL

With Spencer Reid, right with him! Up here I should not be able to feel jealousy, but perhaps things are more complicated than I could have explained in fifteen years of Catholic school. He had become my best friend. Probably because together with Penelope he was the most fragile person of the BAU. I felt obliged to protect them, both. And then I fell in love with one.

I remember perfectly the day of our wedding. How beautiful she was with that white dress. Until the priest had declared "You may kiss the bride" I hadn't relaxed, as had happened when I had graduated. And he was there, next to me. He was my witness.

It's strange to see Penelope again dressed like that, although this time she didn't wear anything white but a colorful dress. It's strange to see her fall in love with another man, see the way she looks at him, the delicacy she uses towards him. And vice versa, the care of every gesture of him. They're two wounded souls.

I'm jealous but I'll never stop thanking him for saving you, my love. I was next to you when they told you that I had been killed. There wouldn't have been another place where I should have been. I saw you absorb the blow, waver and then fall into the darkness. I saw you squeeze your stomach apologizing, make it up to a creature that could never see the sun. I saw you cry all the tears until you exhausted the reserve and then suddenly stop, change expression, change your traits, lose weight. I saw you wishing to join to me to build that family in heaven that we couldn't have been on earth. I saw you coveting death without almost remembering why.

And yet I watched you turn off slowly, stop smiling, go on automatically. Become a robot, an automaton, a machine without life; a cog of a mechanism that went on on its own.

I heard you ask the Lord the reason for so much pain, but not just yours, everything you had been forced to see since you were born. I heard you ask Him if all this really had a deeper meaning, that we poor homunculi aren't able to interpenetrate. My ways aren't your ways. My thoughts aren't your thoughts, they have taught us this way. But really believing it, blindly, is much more difficult. It's almost necessary to cancel oneself in the Whole.

And then I listened to your prayers, your words, your fears and I tried to console you, to caress you through a sudden breeze of wind that opened the window, scaring you. I became the water that came out of the tap you used to erase the traces of tears from your face. And I hugged you, all night long, until you fell asleep. I tried to talk to you through dreams, but I'm not allowed to reveal everything I'd like. Life would have no meaning without death, a bitter but necessary truth.

I watched you struggle with yourself, uncertain whether to drop or get up. Receiving Spencer's visits, trying to drive him away and eventually giving in to the embrace that was needed for both. I tried to enter his body to feel the sensation of your skin on my hands, but it was not granted to me. I envied him and loved him at the same time.

After the passing I spent several days (although the temporal units here are useless) to question me if what was between my wife and my best friend had more distant roots. If I had been stupid, when I was alive, too naive to realize it. But I never thought that you both had betrayed me, neither for a moment. Perhaps my mistake was to consider him harmless. But I'm not convinced it's a mistake.

He was there before I died for you. After Diana goes away, he had begun to come more and more often to our house and conduct the investigation from there. He no longer took the jet, almost the fear of his mother had been transmitted to him at the time of the passing. He was close to you when you needed it. If I think back to the time I wasted, the lost opportunities ... I would feel incredible rage, if I wasn't here, but here the feeling can't even germinate, it fades. I should have hugged you more often, pampered you, told you what I felt right away. It's useless to end up prey of regrets.

From my limbo I have scrutinized you, it was strange to observe things from an external point of view for once, to see love bloom, a fragile flower with an even finer stem.

I was there the day when Lucia came into the world. I held your hand during the caesarean section. I supervised because the doctors couldn't make mistakes. I wanted you close to me, but not at this price. It's because of feelings like this egoism that I'm still stuck here. But I feel that the moment to go is approaching.

I'm sure my mom appreciated the choice of the name. And that for things like this you'll not even spend a second dangling between earth and sky. You have always been the exact contrary of selfishness, going to the opposite extreme. So many times, you've canceled yourself for others and you're doing it with our daughter too.

I watched you show her the way, give her the right means to face it, without forcing her to make any decision. Because a teacher is someone who tells you where to look, but not what, said Akexandra Trefor. And you've always supported it. I saw you correcting the tasks with her and I caught the signs that a new passion was born. I was with Spencer while he was choosing which pastels and felt-tip pens given her. And I'll accompany her to the exam of maturity, I'll give her the right push the day of the discussion of the degree, I'll be close to her when she'll present her first show and then ... These are all things that have yet to happen. She'll make you proud, our little Lucia. You'll have the confirmation that she was the most beautiful gift that the same Lord who took me from you, could give you.

And that nothing happens by chance, as you have always maintained.

But they haven't been and will not only be happy days. There will also be many moments of difficulty in which you'll almost come to regret having made love with me that evening. Almost. Like when you'll accidentally throw one of her favorite designs and even you'll look for it in the trash you'll not find it. She'll cry out to you that she hates you, even if she doesn't really think so. And I'll be next to her, because you'll find comfort in Spencer.

My little Lucia, so lucky to know soon enough that you have two fathers. Your mother and your stepfather have given you the opportunity to develop an affection for someone you've never known officially. They can't know that the imaginary friend you played with was me. I'll listen when you'll cry after banging the door, shed nervous tears because you know you're wrong and you'll regret the very instant when those two little words will come out of your mouth. And I'll caress you and whisper in your ear that All the love you have for me, give it back to your mother's heart. Remember or notice all the sacrifices and renunciations she has made for you. Despite the smiles you're used to see, you which having grown up surrounded by that warm atmosphere, remember that she has never been one of those people capable of loving themselves, but only others. She was a mother before she became it physiologically.

You have so many fathers and mothers, Lucia, someone close and someone up there. You'll never be alone. Don't ever feel lonely, my baby. You have two parents who love you, a little brother who can't wait to meet you and a series of uncles and uncles who have always loved you. You'll have fun shopping with aunts Emily and JJ, while mom and Spencer enjoy a weekend on their own. It'll be too easy to be spoiled by grandpa Rossi and you'll take the first serious crush on his nephew. You'll discover the sudden suffering and joy that catch those who fall in love. But first you'll play and beat Hank and Jack at football, you'll learn to play chess and magic, you'll train with Michael and Henry. One day, soon, Mom and Spencer will take you to visit a tomb and tell you the story of a man who was their leader and who together with your grandfather Dave founded the unit where I worked, so he helped create you, offered the right coordinates.

And then I'll whisper other words, to you little one and to you, corazon, my loves. Things that are valid for both. In her thoughts I'll live, with her hands I'll caress you. But now I feel something, a force that pushes me away. I have yet to say something...

Hold you each other tight when you're scared, that there's my love that doesn't abandon you. But now I can no longer oppose.

One last look, another look ...

-You're now husband and wife ... -.

I watch he kisses you and there is no more envy inside me.

-How will we call him?- he takes your hand. He poses his on your belly.

-You already know. He's a male.- he sighs. -You knew all long it .- he smiles and turns off the light, bringing the room in the dark.

-Lucia and Lucas.- he weighing the names on the language. It's the last thing I hear. The sweet sound of Penelope laughing.

I have heard all your doubts, pequena and neither in the place where I'm going there is the answer you're looking for. Is there only one true love? And what is what coming afterward? So, you have to suffer and be alone even if you lose your beloved at fifteen? And how can the theory of soul mates be reconciled with that of reincarnation?

I have witnessed many discussions between you and Reid like this. Not even Spencer's superior intelligence can suffice.

But stop, it's no longer the time to think. I'll always watch over you, even from here, immersed in absolute light.

Don't be afraid.

There is no emptiness. There is room for everyone and I wait for you without haste. Where fullness reigns.

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