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the-red-thread-that-strangles · 2 months

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Rei is late for the first time since he's started working at Poirot.

Neither terrorism attacks nor hostage crises have affected his being on time. Not even a runaway horse managed to keep him.

But he spends one night with Akai Shuichi, and his perfect record is ruined. Asshole.

Despite his calling ahead, Azusa gives him a worried look. He stops briefly to give her a mock-embarrassed apology, turning up the charm. Promises he won't be late again. Then he's off to the storage room.

He needs to fetch his ingredients and get to baking.

Rei's going to find Akai and strangle him, just as soon as his shift is over.

Roughly 12 hours earlier.

There's a gun aimed right between his eyes.

That in itself is nothing unusual. The situation could be worse, really.

After all, his own gun is pointed right back at Akai Shuuichi's annoyingly smug face. At this distance, he'll be able to read his movement, react in time. He'd rather talk, but if the sniper fires, Rei will drag him into hell too.

Blood for blood. Mutually assured destruction.

(His excitement is slightly dampened by the fact he's rather certain Akai won't kill him.)

"Caught you." Rei can't help the satisfaction slipping into his voice.

Finally. After three years, their game of cat and mouse is over. He'll have his answers.

The most pressing of which-

"Where's Scotch?"

The words cut into the silence, sharpened by fear. His best friend might still be dead, after all. (If he isn't, why hasn't he contacted Rei?)

It's not like he has much to go on to suspect he's alive, besides the fact that Akai himself came back from the dead. Rei can only hope he brought Hiro along.

Before Akai answers, there's a click. The world becomes dizzyingly bright, expanding past the muzzles of their guns.

Rei blinks the disorientation away. Spots silhouettes from the corner of his eyes. He hasn't met them before, but he's familiar, of course, with the owners of this house. How long have the Kudos been watching them?

While he's busy processing that revelation, Akai holsters his gun. Part of Rei hates how nonchalant Akai is about all of this, exposing himself so easily. Like Rei isn't a threat, won't put a bullet in his head because of a couple of witnesses. (Hates that he's probably right.)

"I propose a trade. For old time's sake."

(The words leave a bitter taste with Rei. They haven't exchanged anything, not goods, not words, not warmth, in years.)

Akai snaps open a cheap flip phone - likely a burner. His thumb hovers over the call button. The fingers of his other hand, long and dextrous, wrap around the barrel of Rei's P7M8, tugging gently, but insistently.

Rei considers his options. He holds no illusions - without his gun, he won't be able to dispatch Akai. But he's more than capable of holding his own for long enough to escape, if need be.

(He could just fire, right now. It wouldn't have to be lethal. Could take the phone by force. But chances are, whatever information Akai has, he'll be much less willing to share it with a bullet wound.)

Rei looks up at Akai, meets his green, green eyes. The part of him that shows genuine emotions, some days. (Not that Rei is one to talk.)

Finds Akai looking...tired. He wears a small smile, but it's worn around the edges. There's no open mockery, no quiet amusement. It's just the two of them, and an offer.

Rei lets go of the gun. He hopes he won't be needing it, tonight.

Akai helps him up, his hand warm and steady. As soon as he's upright, Rei lets go - he can walk perfectly fine by himself, thank you very much.

The FBI agent shows him to the living room, tells Rei to make himself a home. After all, the Kudos have promised to give him some privacy, for his chat.

For a moment, the sniper lingers, gaze caught by the phone. Then Akai casts his eyes down, and leaves Rei alone.

Silence, if not for the crackle of the damned fireplace, fills the room. Rei hesitates for a moment. Then he presses 'call' for the only number in the directory.

The phone crackles with static, beeps as it establishes connection, then-

"Hi, Zero."

The world stops moving. Relief floods his system, sapping the tension from his muscles. He leans against the soft backrest, breathing freely for the first time in a good long while.

Their talk is short. Rei asks some questions to establish it's truly Hiro, not an imposter (though that would make a very poor basis for the negotiation the Kudos have planned).

Hiro tersely explains some things, although he isn't allowed to give away much. He's in the FBI's witness protection program. That they're talking at all is a massive bending of the rules, authorized only because of Akai's insistence. He claimed it was of critical importance to their mission.

It certainly is, to Rei.

The next hours are a blur.

The sofa dips when Akai sits down at his side, the Kudos already having taken their seats on the other side of the small coffee table. (He wishes Akai would sit farther away. That he be less reasonable in his assumptions and demeanour.)

It's somewhat surreal to think that celebrity actress Kudo Yukiko of all people gives him a steaming cup of chamomile lavender honey tea. Good thing working with Vermouth has knocked most of the starstruck behaviour out of him; his younger self would have made a fool of himself.

He can't afford that. After all, they are seeking him out in an official capacity, requesting PSB senior agent Furuya Rei's cooperation.

It certainly is strange for them to reach out through him, considering his known enmity of Akai. But he's a professional - he might be reluctant to work with the man, but it's not his decision to make. He'll relay the offer, unless it's utter garbage.

So he pays attention while they share what they can of their plan to take down the organisation. Listens to their pledge for equal contribution, and their promise of crediting the PSB with a successful operation; an obvious play intended to soothe the wounded pride of the Japanese, after years of illegal activity. But it's the least they can do.

If one were to ask Rei, the offer is certainly worth considering. The PSB has been working the case for five years now, and while they have gathered intel, and managed to place Bourbon as a vital asset, they're barely closer to shutting the organization down than when they started. It's sprawling, interconnected with various businesses, and, worst of all, active internationally. If they don't cut off all its heads at the same time, odds are the members will simply flee to a different branch. Maybe lie low for a bit, and then go about their business with renewed vigour.

It seems like an international cooperation might just be necessary to achieve this task. So he'll be their messenger; it's above his pay grade to decide whether to take them up on the offer or not.

Though privately, he hopes his superiors agree; every day they lose ground to the organization. By this point, Rei doesn't really care anymore whose plan it is that finally does the organization in, as long as it gets done. (And as long as he and the PSB are finally treated with the appropriate amount of respect.)

Still, he can't help thinking they wouldn't be having this conversation now, if these foreign agencies had respected the official channels ahead of time. Maybe Hiro could be hiding in Nagano then, with his brother, instead of being confined to the other half of the globe. In the US, of all the terrible places to be. He shivers.

By the time they're done it's very late. Rei is already half-dozing off, despite his best efforts to stay awake. It would be highly irresponsible to drive in this state, so he's asked their hosts for a coffee (he's sure a place housing Akai will have more than enough of it to go around). He'll just rest his eyes for a moment, until they're back.

Something light is being dropped on him, almost stirs him to consciousness. But it's warm, soft, and smells of huddling together in an abandoned apartment.

(Of long-forgotten small comforts.)

Not a threat.

Thus satisfied, his body collects its due, and he's dragged back under, into deep, dreamless sleep.

Which brings Rei to the reason he's late.

Someone, and he has a very good idea of who it was, put his phone in airplane mode, drew all the curtains shut, and kept the rest of the house quiet.

(Let him sleep for as long as he needed to.)

So Rei wakes up with a start, in a barely familiar place, the digital clock on the wall indicating it's way past opening time for Poirot. Shit.

He grabs his belongings, pistol, clothes and keys and all, and dashes out the door. He swears he can see Okiya - no, Akai, he was right, damn it - look down on him from that favourite window of his. Asshole. Contrary to him Rei has a job, a cover to maintain. He'll get back at him, yet.

It should probably worry him that he can perform the drive to Poirot on autopilot. Too many late-night stakeouts turning into impromptu naps, requiring him to drive straight to work after. So much trouble, over nothing. If Akai had just cooperated sooner-

Then, what? Rei hadn't managed to track him down before his supposed death, and the less interaction there is between Okiya Subaru and Amuro Tooru, the better for both of them. He grinds his teeth, barely manages to brake in time for a redlight.

(Hates that he understands the caution, to a degree.)

The universe really is conspiring against him, today.

After the lunchtime rush, a certain pocket-sized detective is ushered in through the door, followed by his guardian and her best friend. The kid gives him odd looks all throughout ordering lunch, too sharp in a way that makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand in up. Rei gives him his sunniest smile, and an extra packet of sugar. He's played games with Gin and Vermouth in worse conditions; he won't yield to a particularly precocious six-year-old.

Despite getting more sleep than the last three nights combined, he's not feeling too well. A single good night's rest can't undo weeks of insomnia. If anything, it only makes apparent what he's lacking.

He finds his mind wandering, glad the preparation of food comes automatically, by now. Whisk and mix and pour. Fry, remove from the pan...

"...uro? You seem unwell."

Too-familiar green eyes stare back at him, bags under the eyes and all. Rei barely manages not to flinch.

Of all the people to catch him spacing out, it just has to be Akai's little sister. The gods must truly hate him.

"Ah, miss Sera. I apologize, I was just pondering some new options for our menu." He winks, gives her his most dazzling smile. "The chamomile lavender honey tea cake has me under its spell."

In response, she just wrinkles her nose, unimpressed. Squints at him with those jade eyes that always see through him too easily.

"Are you sure you're not running a fever? It seems a little warm in here already, yet you're working in a sweater."

Rei blinks at that. The temperature seems fine to him. Azusa hasn't said anything about it either.

"I appreciate the concern, but I assure you, I'm perfectly fine. Now, what can I get you?"

One slice of red velvet cake (of course - why did they even keep that on the menu?) and a macchiato later he's rid of her.

For now, at least - she's joined her friends at the window seats, and judging by the way she keeps sneaking glances at him when she thinks he isn't looking, he hasn't seen the last of her yet.

Still, her questions are odd. Surely he doesn't look that terrible?

(Vermouth has taught him some of her secrets; he's been concealing the shadows under his eyes for a while now. Nobody's ever found him out. Why is it now that people notice?)

He continues to work mindlessly, unfocused. This damn shift just doesn't seem to want to end.

He just about manages to avoid knocking Ran out for leaning over the counter, into his space. She remains blissfully unaware of the danger she just escaped, smiling brightly, kindly.

"Excuse me, I have a question."

Rei closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, counts to four. Smiles at the girl. "Go ahead", he says, continuing to whisk some cake batter.

Ran leans in closer, conspiratorially.

"Masumi is too shy to ask" - that's a bold-faced lie, if he's ever heard one, and he's something of an expert on the matter - "but she'd love to know where you got that sweater."

Now, Ran's a lovely young lady, always eager to help. It's a pity she's being manipulated for Sera's gain. Because there has to be more to the question, even if Rei can't see it yet.

Of course, he can't tell the girls the truth - Kazami bought it for Bourbon's cover. But the best lies are closest to the truth, so-

"I apologize, but I do not know where it was bought. A friend gave it to me." His best calculated-apologetic smile smoothes the blow, hopefully.

"Oh. I see." Ran visibly deflates. Still, her good manners prevail. "Thank you, though!" And with that, she's heading back to her table.

Strange. What could Sera possibly want with his sweater? If she wanted to track him down, surely there's more efficient ways, and it's not like he doesn't have a dozen similar cream sweaters-

Wait. Cream?

Rei's pretty sure he dressed in black to infiltrate the Kudo manor. He's not been home and he hasn't changed for work.

He manages to supress a groan, but he's sure there's some unpleasant emotion visible on his face.

...he must have grabbed the sweater along with the rest of his belongings in the morning rush.

Now that he's looking at it, it's clearly a little too large for him. It's also warm, fuzzy, soft, and utterly unoffensive. That's probably why it didn't register, before.

The sweater does smell decidedly of Akai - cigarettes and a hint of his obnoxious aftershave. The warm scent of curry is new - though unsurprising, given his foray into cooking. Great. That's why they've been staring at him. Sera likely recognizes the sweater and Conan spends enough time with Akai to know the scent.

His gut instinct is to go change, right now, get rid of the damning piece of connection to the man he has too many conflicting emotions about. But a long-sleeved black turtleneck is hardly appropriate work attire for Poirot. Besides, if he changes now, the pair of detectives watching him will just have their suspicions confirmed.

So he grits his teeth, takes in a deep breath that smells too much like Akai, and gets back to work.

Rei does change out of the sweater as soon as he's done with his shift.

(It doesn't help. The scent lingers.)

He's tempted to just toss the sweater, but can't help feeling like it would be a waste. It's quality craftsmanship, well-worn but taken care of - this kind of sweater would pill, otherwise.

It really shouldn't be faulted for its owner's flaws.

So he puts the sweater in a bag, intending to have it dry-cleaned and give it back later.

He should really hunt down Akai, too, but if he's honest, he's just too tired. He probably shouldn't even drive, in his condition, but he needs to get to a safe place, to think about the developments of the night.

He reports to Kuroda, showers thoroughly, and falls into bed.

Rei can't have slept long. The sunset colours the world in blood red hues by the time he wakes up, out of breath, heartbeat too fast.

Visions of smoke and ash cling to him. Explosions, destroying him one by one, until nothing remains but death alone.

Hagiwara and Matsuda, taken by violent flame.

Hiro's remains, crushed and burnt beyond recognition.

Akai's smile, grimly defiant, as he's shot by Kir. He too finds his end in a blaze, lacking glory.

They're gone.

Consumed by the inferno that seems to follow Rei around. Which burns everything he cares about, leaves him freezing in its wake.

(He can't even cry, his tears evaporating in the heat.)

Rei shivers, draws the blankets closer. Hopes for a little bit of cover, a little bit of warmth.

Please. If he could just shake off the nausea. If he could stop his spiralling thoughts. Logically, he knows that's not all true, even if his heart burns. Akai and Hiro aren't dead.

It's a lie, they're alive, it's a lie, they're alive, it's a lie a lie a lie a lie-

A set of sharp barks rips him out of his thoughts, back into the present.

Oh. He's woken Haro.

The little guy stands in front of his bed, ears tucked back and hackles raised. A defiant ball of fluff that cares so much, trying to growl the nightmares away.

(It might just work.)

Slowly, shaking and somewhat off-balance, he reaches down to scoop up his dog. Wiggles the blanket off his shoulders so he may cradle the whining bundle of fur to his chest. It's soothing, to feel the warmth of another living being by his side. They sit, the silence permeated by Haro's huffed breaths. His body heat seeps into Rei's chest, nestles in his heart.

"I apologize for worrying you. I'll be fine, soon."

He's not alone.

Haro nudges his hand, demands to be pet. Rei obliges, of course he does.

He's not alone.

Still, the headache is a pain. He won't be able to go back to sleep like this, will need to grab a painkiller.

He makes his way to the kitchen counter, keeping to the walls because he's still somewhat unsteady, carrying his bundle of warmth along.

The dog throws a fit as they pass the bag with Akai's sweater, growling and yapping at it. Despite the circumstances, Rei can't help but smile.

"I'm glad to see we feel the same way about him."

Wait.

Inspiration strikes in the form of a very stupid idea.

Because that sweater, with its stupid mixed scents, reeking of Akai, is proof he didn't just imagine last night's events. Tangible and olfactory and physical proof. If he were to wake from a nightmare, with it by his side...the anger at Akai would surely keep the pain at bay.

It's worth a try.

As he goes back to bed, Haro lies down beside him. Rei keeps petting him, one-handedly. With the other, he holds on to a cream sweater that isn't his.

When he breathes, it smells of too-long stakeouts in windy apartments.

Of Rye's extra blankets, the ones he started to bring when he noticed Bourbon always freezing; irritating to no end, how he was always better prepared for cold weather than Rei.

(It smells of Bourbon's cooking, given in exchange for soft blankets.)

Scents of a tentative alliance, as thread-bare as the fabric between them.

Grounded between the warmth of Haro, and the scent of Akai, Rei falls asleep, waiting for the dog days to finally be over.

#we're tackling the original sin #the tea party (dun dun dun)#i'm a little sad that “personalized heating unit (read: Haro)” got left on the cutting room floor #anyways I have a migraine but I want this out so here you go #i realized that I mostly write rei taking care of akai. have some implied akai taking care of rei in this one #sweater weather AU #akam #dcmk #long post #(i would like to formally apologize to squad leader date btw. I promise rei isn't any less upset about his death #but we are having a fire/explosion themed nightmare. i couldn't fit him in. I'm sorry)#(also rei. bit of dick move not to let akai talk to hiro...)#oops you are right mi although I'm not quite sure how to tag for that #um #mention of canon character deaths #specifically matsuda and hagiwara #iris writes fic

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puppyeared · 15 days

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If I close my eyes and concentrate realllyyy hard I can pretend im in my animal crossing room

#im in need of a change I don’t like the way im living rn.. a lot of my belongings were picked out for me #by people who thought their way of doing things was better and Ive had to find workarounds my whole life bc of how I live differently #Ive never thought of myself as someone who cares abt how their room looks. but i want it to have things I like even if its just preference #Ive thought abt it for a while and I dont think Im picky I just dont like it when ppl buy me things expecting me to use it the way they #expect me to.. I just end up with a lot of crap that I feel too guilty throwing away just bc someone thought of me #the only way I can describe my taste is that I know what I’ll like when I see it.. if I can clearly see myself making the most out of it #if I constantly have to use workarounds just to use smth you decided for me im not gonna wanna use it unless I have to #literally i could not be bothered to pull out a notebook and write down important information until I got a blues clues notebook #because I liked it and it made it fun for me to whip out that I actually wanna use it. yknow #so rn im trying to get a drafting table because the one that came with my loft bed is ass and I cant cut my prints on it #I end up cutting on the floor and my back hurts if I do it too long.. and I wanna get a bookshelf for my closet and a bench for my bag #things Ill look at and want to use because I already knew how I wanted to use it and just do it without thinking too hard #yapping #diary

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nochangeintheplan · 3 months

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i think the entire tojo suggestion box can primarily be summed up via 'eso just wants to draw Mine making goofy faces' + 'constantly at war w myself over OOC vs having fun'

#stg writing out the dialogue or settling on an idea probably takes just abt as long as drawing it #the amt of stuff on the cutting room floor i weep #and constant nitpicking #beau can attest #it more comes down to 'at what point do i just give up and admit defeat' more than actually settling on something i like #or going by rule of funny instead of in character (see: Majima)#sorry majima you get it the worst especially in the multiple canceled strips #but honestly!! this has been a fun challenge so far bc i am NOT a writer lol #also the real pain is that some of the questions i LOVE i cannot get to simply bc the idea becomes a page or two of comic #that i definitely cannot devote a week to vs some quick funnies + story #i wail

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butchfaith · 6 months

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was there absolutely any need for the line "do you come in a range of colours"

#doctor who #HOW did that get past the cutting room floor #i really. do not trust rtd with writing a black doctor #i feel like we're gonna get lines like that every episode

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essektheylyss · 2 years

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This isn't inherently related to last night's episode, but it did feel very present even in absence and I was reminded of it, so:

I talked about this a while ago here, but Caleb and Essek actually communicate astoundingly well, once they are willing to approach each other without imposing their own fears upon them—either because Essek is afraid of being found out or because Caleb is afraid that Essek is too much like himself to be trusted. It's simply that they talk in such a way amongst themselves in particular that those around them (and, frankly, fandom) do not parse it as clear communication, but every time they have any significant engagement after the Nein come back to the outpost, they seem to proceed with the air of having reached an understanding.

And I've talked about that, and you can read the post linked above, but the thought I had about it that I haven't really discussed is that it is a PHENOMENAL choice for playing two assholes at or over 20 Intelligence in a relationship.

They're talking in circles and sounding enigmatic! They're dancing this strange dance about who reaches out when and on what terms! But the thing is, as bewildering as that may seem from the outside, they both give the impression that they understand the other implicitly, because they're operating on very similar wavelengths.

That is their communication. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a level to which that's intentional—what is between them stays between them. Likewise, it felt last night like Caleb did not necessarily want to make whatever their arrangement is known to the rest of the Nein, and that is part of it; they understand each other, and they're comfortable with their relationship at whatever pace and stage they're at, and letting other people know about it or be party to their discussions would allow a level of external scrutiny that they have no interest in.

It's just a really fun choice on a meta level, and it's what makes them insufferable to write, and I absolutely love them for it.

#critical role #cr spoilers #shadowgast #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #cr meta #i was laughing parsing through my meta tag to find the linked post cuz like #man i really only write meta when theres a wizard on screen apparently.#head empty no thoughts unless wizards.#like sorry!!! i just have a lot of feelings about high int characters with former gifted kid complexes!#but anyway i still maintain that the ninth floor scene was on the level of a dtr relationship.#not inherently in the sense that they were then IN a relationship but #they both left that room with a very firm sense of their priorities and how they featured in each other's #they are insufferable to write though this is why if an emotionally charged scene with them isn't working i have to go cut dialogue lol #tbh it's also why imo they get VERY thrown off if the other is hiding something #even down to Caleb having no idea how to parse Essek's loyalties before finding out he was the traitor #like if there's active deception happening they're just [confused white lady surrounded by math.gif]

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inkwingsinc · 1 month

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~hee hee~ I'm behind on my posting promises because I had to jiggle around scenes again. I uhhhhh don't write scenes in a linear fashion so sometimes piecing together a chapter is sort of like making a patchwork quilt. Gotta make sure everyone necessary gets their lil square...

#bmgwmbgg #more nonsense about my writing process #inkwings rambles #I actually added in some of my weird darkfluff to chap 21 so I'm curious to see how it comes across #did Walden originally have like 5k words? yes. was it necessary? no it was not. to the cutting room floor it goes

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divinekangaroo · 2 months

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A short while back, I received a beloved comment on a very old re-uploaded fic which offered a "between 'XXXX' and 'YYY' is [superlative] piece of writing, haunting me for years" so i go Hmm! I have no memory of this specific section! and look it up and

it's a description of a median strip

i mean, it's a good description of a median strip, and once i re-read it i certainly remember contemplating carefully and exactly what i was trying to convey, but it is, in actual fact, a description of a median strip

#this doubt forever strikes because man that was actually a good piece of writing what was i on? who was i? who was this person writing good?#but was that the peak of my existence!!!??!???!?!?? i shall never surmount this description!! *sobs*#the door doored doorily in the wall which was a wall which was a thing other than a wall but clearly not a door #the door in the other wall was open but no one noticed #so busy they were.staring at the doorily door which being closed was the only door that embodied the doorness of being a door #in a wall #don't forget the wall #did i mention the wall because there's also walls #everywhere.and don't forget the eyes are doors too.opening and closing like doors.interiors and exteriors.right?#no roof tho #this being an architectural metaphor for how domestic ruins entrap and stagnate! residential architectural forms are rooms of doom! dooooom #there is a floor though because floors are where people have to kneel grovel puke fall and draw outlines of the bodies that were never ther #sigh sigh sigh self deprecation this deadly deadly sin #whilst i battle with editing and cutting giant chunks of similar type descriptions which seem less than relevant; and wondering 'but would-#--that rando piece of distorted-elevator-reflection-description have become someone else's powerful haunting piece?' who knows...#my writing #editing man. 20000x harder than writing

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mk-nightrider · 3 months

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Summary - With the weight of change, Tomek's attention is shifted off what plagues him. His mother's desire for normalcy seems scarce, but his sister takes his mind away from how upside down their lives have turned.

“C’mon, mate, mum’ll have dinner ready soon.”

"Silly... Supposed t’ be the brave big brother…”

Tomek sat on a beanbag in Billie's room. Fingers twisted at red curls while tired eyes stared at the carpet. Tension that had built up over the course of a discussion about the future now threatened to wrench the offending hairs free from his scalp. He doesn't move to get up at the suggestion of dinner. Instead, holding out his free hand to Billie as she walks past. Seeking a small moment of comfort from her.

Billie paused on her path, grabbing the hand and pulling him up from the beanbag, "You'll always be me brave big brother... It'd be too boring around here without ya, who would we spend time with when Mum and Da are outta the house if we didn't have each other?"

Billie's hand still held firm to Tomek's, the other reaching out to open the door.

A genuine smile flickers across Tomek's face, giving Billie's hand a small squeeze as she held firm to him. Pulling him along as she open the bedroom door.

"Who'd keep ya from burning it down, ya mean." He suddenly pulls, using his grip on Billie to launch himself ahead and kick off an impromptu race to get downstairs to the kitchen first.

“Last one down helps Mum with the dishes!” Tomek laughs, his longer legs carrying him to an early lead before stairs forced him to slow lest he fall down them.

“Oh, yea, yea! Like you’d be any better on yer own!” Billie rushes behind him, trying to get an advantage, hopping to slide down the railing and zip past her more cautious sibling.

"No ya don't!" Tomek lunges down the last few steps. Catching up just as she dismounts. Snatching Billie around the waist before feet can hit the floor to swing around and switch their positions.

“No running in the house! Both of you!” Skarlet calls from the dining room, “we have enough to worry about, do not add broken bones onto that list!”

Words that went either unheard or unheeded in a burst of laughter and squeals. Billie squirming in Tomek’s arms. Trying to get onto his back to latch on like a koala. The tumultuous shift of weight threw the older brother off balance. A flash of instinct making sure he twists so that he's the one that hits the floor, Billie landing on top of him with the resulting thud reverberating through carpet floors.

"Urg…" Tomek lets out a dazed wheeze followed by a grunt of protest as Billie clambers free. Her hand smooshing Tomek’s head into the rug ever so slightly before attempting to keep her winning streak.

Deftly dodging Tomek's attempts to capture her ankles, she leapt forward straight into a torn grease stained band shirt.

“Come on, Da! I’m not doin’ dishes again tonight! Tommy’s gonna win if ya don’t let me through!” Billie breaths in heavy pants when Kano scoops her up. Even at this age, he’s easily able to tuck her under his arm like a football.

"How bout the both a ya do dishes tonight." Despite stern words, he was unable to keep a smirk off his face. "Give your poor ma a break."

He leans over to grab Tomek by a leg, hauling and dragging both kids to the dining room.

"Aw c'mon...!" Tomek twists, protesting more on principle than any dislike of doing dishes. Holding his hoodie down as he's pulled along, trying to prevent any rug burn.

“Nooooo! Why don’t you do it? She’s your wife!” Billie hung loose in his arms, dangling in dead weight. “Besides, I did it yesterday! Should be Tommy's turn!”

Skarlet snickered softly, moving plates to the table. “But the two of you know the price for roughhousing. How many times have we all been over it? That stays outside!”

"I started it, I'll do it." Tomek mumbled from the floor, rolling onto his feet once Kano released him.

"No. Both a ya, ya heard what mum said." Kano plopped Billie in a seat and went to help Skarlet with moving the food to the table.

Billie grumbled softly, “Thanks a lot, Da…”

#mk nightrider #mk oc tomek #mk oc billie #mortal kombat #mortal kombat fanfiction #mk skarlet #mk kano #cutting room floor - writing

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whisperprime · 2 years

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Hob blinks into awareness, staring at a blank wall.

A blank wall that should have a door in it.

He turns, putting his back to the offending wall. Takes in what appears to be his flat, at first glance. It gives him the surreal feeling that everything that had come before - Dream showing up, their talk, the offer to fix his ankle - had been the dream, rather than what he was currently experiencing.

Upon a second glance, he can pick up on the things that are out of place, like the pleated coat he’d bought back in the 15th century hung on the coat rack or the claymore he was still mourning the loss of mounted over a couch he definitely wouldn’t be buying again this go around.

Littered through out the flat are also things that didn’t exist yet - if they ever came to exist in this new timeline, such as a cellphone that made the iPhone 14 look like a MicroTAC Ultra Lite or the 22nd century style coat hung up next to his pleated one.

For a moment, he feels nostalgic for the time period he had left behind when he agreed to take up the Herald’s mission. He misses the friends he never got the chance to say goodbye to. Misses the advancements in technology. Is glad he doesn’t have to worry about missing the latest medical advancements.

Oh, what a world they were heading into. He looked forward to not only meeting it again, but also to experiencing it in new ways he hadn’t the first time.

There’s the feeling of displaced air, of a shift, that Hob has begun to attribute to something entering the dream with him, that tips off that he has company. Leaving the room to itself, Hob shifts his attention to Dream, who is peering at a future piece of technology that won’t exist for another 110 years.

What is it like to be a creature existing in the now while also retaining knowledge of things that existed in the tomorrow, he wonders. What strange things might this Endless being have seen that now only exists in the memories of those who have walked times that no longer make up their existence? What did time travelers bring to the collective unconsciousness?

Hob puts a pin on those thoughts before they can carry him away. He may have been improving when it came to lucid dreaming, something that was far easier at the moment with Dream being there, but it was still far too easily to get distracted and lose the thread on things. “It’s done?”

Dream pulls himself away from the cell phone, turning to meet him. Here, in his domain, Hob is struck once again by how much more substantial he is. His eyes, usually blue in the Waking world, are their more natural reflection of the cosmos.

“Yes. You might feel sore in the morning, but the bone was set back correctly.”

Oh, to be able to walk without the feeling of bone not sitting correctly. He could not wait.

Near bouncing on his feet, Hob turns back to the blank wall. He places one hand on his hip, while the other goes to his chin as he debates his dilemma. “I might need your help, dove.” He points at the wall with the hand that had been on his hip. “I’ve gotten decent at controlling my dreams, but I never got the hang of changing them.”

Dream steps up beside him, intrigued. “You were not a lucid dreamer in the past. When did you learn?”

“It’s a recent skill.” Well, ‘recent’ if one took into account that Hob has roughly 379 years worth of lived experience that Dream knows very little about. “It took way longer than I thought it would to get even to my current level. I’m jealous of those it comes freely too.”

He gets a thoughtful nod. “Everyone who sleeps experiences it differently. The only thing they have in common is that they dream at some point in their lives.”

Hob has always wondered: “Do you sleep?”

Dream is silent in a way that Hob knows that he’s weighing whether or not to tell him something. He’s a little shocked when he gets, “No. The closest thing for me is unconsciousness.”

Another thought to put a pin in.

Not wanting the conversation to take a darker turn - they are supposed to be having a bit of a dinner date, even if they’re not calling it that - Hob forces himself to face the wall. “I know the place I’d like to go, but I don’t know how to get there. Any suggestions?”

A considering silence, this time. “Emotional attachment can help shape dreams.”

Hob suddenly remembers that he has, just once, changed a dream before, although he hadn’t been trying to do it on purpose. Remembers the brief flash of The Wake during his revisit of the 1889 dream right after the seal broke.

Dream tilts his head down to make eye contact, and Hob suddenly realizes that Dream is taller than him at the moment. “Does this place have any such attachment for you?”

Hob closes his eyes and imagines the place he’d like to go. Feels the tug of it, like a call home. “Yeah. Yeah it does.”

He feels cool fingers wrap around the hand that had still been pressed to his hip. Nearly opens his eyes, until he hears, “Hold the image of the place in your mind.” His hand is guided out until he feels those fingers wrapping his hand around a door knob that wasn’t there a moment ago. “Let the attachment be the thread to guide you to where you want to go.”

Holding tight to the image, Hob turns the knob and pulls on the door. When he opens his eyes, there before him is the New Inn. But it isn’t a version from any specific era, nor is it the one he’s trying to build back in the Waking, although it might be close.

Here, in this dream, it is more the concept of the place than an imagining of the real thing. The hopes, new and old, he’s poured into it. What it was and what he wants to it be again. His hands itch with the desire to pick up a hammer and attempt, perhaps in vain, to try and make it a reality.

Remembering he isn’t alone, Hob uses his free hand to indicate that Dream should enter first. “After you, dove.”

Dream pauses in the door way much the same way he had when he’d entered the New Inn in the Waking world. He looks back at Hob over his shoulder, briefly, eyes narrowed in scrutiny, before he turns back and passes through the door.

Hob follows behind him, coming to walk beside him as they enter the seating area. In the Waking, the New Inn would be full of tables and booths if it was this far along. Here, in this place that Hob has imagined just for the two of them, is just a single bar stool up against a more richly colored version of the real bar table.

“Feel free to take a seat, if you’d like.” Hob points over his shoulder to the double doors that should lead to the kitchen. “I shouldn’t be too long with the food.”

Dream eyes the seat for a moment, before he shakes his head. “I should like to come with you.”

Hob feels the phantom sensation of sweat down his neck. This is hardly the first time someone will have watched him cook before, but there’s a certain level of stakes here that he hasn’t felt since that one time he had the Queen over. Higher, even.

He covers it up with his usual bravado, offering a welcoming smile and a ‘follow me’ as he heads for the kitchen.

He hadn’t ever given any heavy thought to what he might make Dream if he ever had him over for dinner. Even if he had, food in the Dreaming was different than anything in the Waking world. In the Waking world, the quality of the ingredients and the skill of the chef determined the taste of the food.

In the Dreaming, food was more memory and emotion. To feed someone in the Dreaming was to share with them an experience and to pour it into being.

Hob had only shared a meal once with the Other Dream, but he hoarded that memory like a dragon hoards it’s most precious gold.

Doing this prods a little at that loss, but it feels like pressing on a bruise that will always be worth the hurt to have gained the experience.

Without it, he would never be able to do what he was doing now. To share this gift with any of the knowledge that give in the full impact of the thought that went into it.

It is with this in mind, that he lets the doubts fall away and gets to work. The kitchen, as it can only in a dream, has everything he needs. The dish itself is simple, but still something he’d feel comfortable feeding a king. He preps the venison with the curiosity he felt during their first meeting. Preps the vegetables with the trepidation he’d felt going into their second meeting. Spices the venison with the love he’d newly discovered going into their third meeting. The vegetables are sauteed with the light that was the remembrance that he had someone waiting for him going during their fourth meeting. Roasts the venison with the wonder he’d felt at the end of the their fifth meeting and the empathy he’d felt for the loneliness he’d felt himself during their sixth meeting.

Food finally cooked, he fashions a plate to serve it on, made of the faith, despite the fears, that they’d see each other again he’d felt going into what should have been their seventh meeting. The same faith that had carried him beyond it when it was missed, both the original and repeat time around.

Carefully lifting the plate, Hob turns to head back into the sitting area. Has to pause when he gets a look at the expression on his friend's face.

The Lord of Dreams and Nightmares stares back at him, the heat behind that gaze a supernova at the height of it’s explosion. He looks like he wants to crawl into Hob’s psyche and see what makes him tic. To preserve it for him to return to and gaze upon at his leisure.

Hob swallows feeling not unlike a pinned butterfly on display, carefully asks, “Dove? The food is ready.” Needlessly, he holds up the plate.

Dream blinks, with all the effort of a titan willing itself back into something small enough for something a human could perceive. Eyes the dish like a predator would prey.

What would you feed a creature that is beyond that of a god?

“Yes, let us see what you have come up to thank me.”

Hob wills himself not to allow his trepidation stop him now. He once shit talked Death and earned an eternity to enjoy life. He's not stupid enough to do anything like that again - not rudely, anyway - but it is that kind of courage he reacjes for, foolish as it is.

He just hopes that this doesn’t turn out to be foolish, as well.

Dream takes his seat on the stool, somehow looking like a king set at the head of a grand table rather than someone sat at a bar table. Hob lays down the dish in front of him. Once his hands are free, he turns to the shelves behind him and reaches for one of the bottles. Imagines it filled with the joy of drinking with a companion that knows him better than anyone in the world as he pours it into a glass he’s pulled up from beneath the bottles. Lastly, he lays out a pair of utensils.

Once finished, he steps back, hands trailing palm up along the table as he withdraws. “I present your meal, milord. Roasted venison and vegetables, served with a Bordeaux wine. I hope it is made to your liking.”

Dream decides to taste the venison first. The moment the meat hits his tongue, Hob watches as his eyes fall close with a flutter. Raw pleasure lights his face, subtle that it is, like Hob has rarely seen, and he can’t help but feel an answering, pleased flush of his own.

Dream does not do anything as undignified as inhale the food. He takes his time with savoring the food, the wine. Somehow leaves not a single trace of it behind when he is finished.

This might be the closest to sated Hob has ever seen Dream.

Hob very happily adds this memory to his treasure trove of moments to look at on a rainy day.

Food consumed, Dream picks up his glass of wine. Swirls it a bit, something heavy on his mind. When he looks up at Hob for the first time since starting the meal, his eyes are deep and terribly, terribly knowing.

This is hardly the first time Hob has bared himself to this impossible creature. It will likely not be the last.

He does not back down, but rather rises up and meets it.

“Why do you not call me by my name?”

Hob blinks at the seeming non-sequitur. Rolls with it and shrugs. “You haven’t given me permission to use it.”

Dream hums at him, recognizes the insolence and decides to find it amusing. “Having my love would not be the safest thing for you, Hob Gadling. To have it would be your ruin.”

Fog, briefly, skirts the floor of the New Inn before vanishing. Hob can almost taste the Chateau Laffite 1828 on his tongue.

And may each and every one of us give always the Devil his due.

It is far too late to be warned about what loving Dream of the Endless could mean for Hob Gadling. He is too far past the point of no return to worry about something as simple as being ruined.

He will claim, and even mean, that he spent those 106 years in Roderick Burgess’ basement because he wanted the world to keep spinning for the selfish reason of wanting to continue to live in it.

But that does not change the fact that he still took Dream’s place in what turned out to be the closest he has ever gotten to Hell on Earth because Hob was in love with him.

That he would do it again, no matter the cost.

“Some things are worth the danger, dove.” Hob stepped back up to the table, leaning forward until they were eye to eye. “You are worth it and I would say that every day if it would help you to believe it.”

Dream appears to be holding himself back with every ounce of his control. His emotionless façade long cracked down the center, laying bare the controlled urge to claim and possess. “Be sure, Hob Gadling. I may not let you go.”

Hob leans in, not away. They will talk about boundaries after Dream is convinced he is allowed to touch. “You may have me, dove. Now and as long as you will have me.”

Dream’s control finally snaps as he near springs up from his chair. Hob barely has time to register the hand reaching around his head and tangling in his hair, before he is pulled into a kiss that borders on desperate. He sinks into it, melting into that mouth that steals his breathe from him and leaves him thanking it for him. He can still taste hints of the wine and meal as he chases that clever, sharp tongue.

Dream pulls away, as if belatedly remembering that Hob is human and it is human habit to breathe, even in dreams. Licks his lips as if Hob has a taste and he wishes to savor it.

Hob watches the flash of pink like a parched man would water in the desert.

“You may use my name.” The Dream Lord’s fingers loosen their grip on his hair. His touch becoming a caress along Hob’s check as he begins to pull his hand away.

Hob, feeling brave, catches his arm and presses his lips to that wrist were a pulse might have been were this being anything as simple as human. “Thank you, Dream.” Whispers the name against the skin beneath his lips like a prayer.

He feels the shiver as well as sees it this time. Reluctantly releases his grip when Dream pulls away.

“Thank you for the meal, Hob Gadling. Your gratitude has been received.” He stands in one smooth motion, more graceful here in his domain than he ever is in Waking. “I will see you again, soon.”

With a wave of his hand, Dream sends Hob back to the Waking world.

Hob opens his eyes to the ceiling of his bedroom. His ankle, true to prediction, is a soft ache that will be gone by the end of the day, if he is careful.

For the next hour before his alarm goes off, Hob lays there as for the first time since he met the Herald of Destruction on that ordinary day in 2189, he feels the unintended consequences of his choice - and the wish behind it - fully sink in.

There is no possible ruin that could come from bearing Dream’s love that will compare to the pain of outliving him when Hob inevitably loses him.

He had thought he knew what he was getting into when he decided to marry Eleanor and father children with her. It had nearly destroyed him when he vastly underestimated how terrible it was to lose someone you loved with all you had.

Yet he knows, just as he did with Eleanor, Robyn, and his unborn daughter, he will weather this pain because getting his heart broken will have been worth the happiness, however short it lasts.

He had survived her death and the death of their children. Eventually.

He had survived Dream’s death, the first time.

He can only pray he will survive it a second time.

Interlude: 1989

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