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laurore-stormwitch · 3 years

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Post rule of wolves, about Zoya and Nikolai being soft with each other in one of the many moment of hardship they face. Zoya gets a letter that unsettles her and leans on Nikolai to face more of her demons and move on. I love how Zoya is slowly learning to open up and face her wounds, and how Nikolai is there to catch her. Feedback are always appreciated, so much love to you all

the blood in our veins - ao3

When the sound of leaves crunching under someone’s steps reached her, Zoya did not startle. She knew Nikolai would appear at some point, as he always did, as if he could sense her despair. Or as if someone played the snitch on my escape, more likely. He was the only one to have the key, beside her, and the only one to know she would take refuge here. For a moment, she lingered on what a strange sight she was making; a steel spined harpy perched amongst the wildflowers, her kefta smeared by dirt and pollen, her eyes trained on the ground and a sprout in her hands. She felt his intense gaze on her, his worry. The scent of his skin; Nikolai always tasted like salt and sunburnt skin, like the sea.

“Who ratted me out?”, she asked. He lowered himself toward her, brushing a kiss on her head before kneeling beside her on the ground.

“Tamar”, he answered, “told me you got a letter and dismissed the meeting.” More like run away from it. She would have to thank Tamar for her regard.

Zoya clicked her tongue. A letter. Her hand went in her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handing it to Nikolai. She sensed his concern turn into outrage. Zoya knew it was a matter of time before Sabina reached out to her. After all, her daughter had just become the queen of Ravka. There was no hope left in her heart that her estranged mother would not try to exploit this particular advantage. As long as she was not dead, she supposed. Which, as far as she knew of, could very well be. As it turned out Sabina was not the one Zoya should have been wondering about.

“It’s a long list of arrogant pleading. Get to the end”, she instructed Nikolai. Zoya glanced at him and saw him shook his head with a sigh when he came to the last lines.

“Zoya – “, he tried, his tone insecure, weary of what was the right thing to say. Was there a right thing to say when you lost a father you had already wiped from your mind? The word lost probably was not even fit for the situation.

“He’s been dead a couple of years, apparently. She did not even bother to say how.”

There was no grief left inside her to tug at. No sentiment to pull and mourn over. Nothing left for them, for him. There was just a void lurking next to the well inside her, in which so many stones had tumbled. It was not endless anymore; it stopped right beside her, where Nikolai’s light flooded in through the cracks in her walls. Zoya tried to look for something to hold on to, something to guide her over this empty sea of nothingness. No love, no regret, no pain. The sorrow in the well had always been for Lilyiana, for Lada. For David, for the Grisha, maybe even for herself. A monument to her solitude. None of it was dedicated to the two young people who had given her breath. Yet she felt the void, like it had form and claws that pierced at her heart. Its fingers tied around her throat, squeezed the air out of her lungs.

“I thought maybe I should plant something for him, too. I – I don’t know.”

She murmured. Her voice came out more frail than she had desired to, more vulnerable. Nikolai moved closer, his shoulder brushing on hers. She grasped at that touch that anchored her on this moment, that prevented her from losing herself.

“I don’t know what the Suli ritual is.” The defeat in her tone sparked a flicker of injustice. It was supposed to have been over; the child that did not look back on a wretched church was supposed to have grown. Such restless waters she had had to navigate. How does one separate hatred from fear, love from abandonment, rage from regret?

“We could find out.”

“There’s no time. There’s no time anymore.” To know him. To understand. To take the child in her hand and protect her in an embrace. Faintly, in the distance, Zoya felt Nikolai’s hand on her back, his lips landing again on her cheek.

“Why did you choose this?”, he asked, bobbing his chin at the sprout she was holding, at his light blue blossoms.

“I’m not sure”, she sighed. “When I was very little, there was always a glass of forget-me-nots on the kitchen table. My father used to bring them from the fields at sundown. He stopped before my sixth birthday.”

Zoya never knew what they meant. Her mother told her they were the colour of their eyes, weaving them in her hair. She had felt like a princess in a fairytale, with a crown of blossoms.

“Inej told me the Suli have a saying about love. Her father says that you would know a boy truly loves you when he brings you your favourite flowers. I figured that is why our house was full of them, at first. Maybe these are for both of them. Maybe I should bury my mother too.”

What a sombre, depressing thought, she half expected Nikolai to say. Instead, he just reached for her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, watching her in silence. So she forced another sentence out, one that stung to admit. “I thought I did that already the moment I set foot in the Little Palace. I thought they could float away like a river in the sea, instead I just built a dam that feels dangerously close to shatter.”

The quiet stretched on. “I don’t know what they are”, Nikolai admitted. “Your favourite flowers. I don’t know them.”

She moved her gaze to him and wondered what he was seeing. If he had already grown tired of her, of her dark moods and brooding tendencies. Those fears clutched her heart on her worst nights. Was he catching the sheer sentiment in her eyes, the fire that burned for him inside her? How she grasped at his voice like it was the thread that tied her to safety, to belonging? Whatever her failings were, Nikolai’s look never wavered. His certainty, affection. He was the one keeping the dam from falling, keeping her from breaking.

“You told me once I could be branches without blossoms and wait for the summer to come. The way you love…it’s not the fleeting beauty of petals. It’s the strength of roots.”

She spoke before having the chance to think about her words, not sure what she had wanted to convey, pressed by an unfamiliar urge to let him know. Saints, Nikolai was rubbing off on her. His eyes sparkled and he looked taken aback, a fond and surprised smile tugging at his lips. Zoya let his warmth creep into her, before moving back to look at the flowers still resting in her hands.

“I don’t have a favourite one. I like them all.”

Nikolai nodded, his fingers lingering in her hair, brushing through them. “Good to know. See? You are not such a difficult person after all.” Zoya heard him move beside her, sensed his fingers draw away. He gently pulled the plant in front of her. “Let me do it for you”, his voice soft, caring. Let me carry this weight for you. Her hands dug into her kefta, clinging into it as if it could make her remember who she was.

Nikolai pulled his gloves away. She snatched them from him, huffing impatiently. It really was an unnerving habit of his. “Would you stop with these? You do not need them around me. Or anyone, for that matter.”

“Don’t take it out on my gloves”, he grinned at her. Yet, she caught the shadow sweeping through his eyes; the darkness Zoya had never wanted him to hide. He worked in silence, moving the terrain away, placing the sprouts and watering them. Zoya stood still, one hand clung to her kefta, the other tightened around his gloves, watching him as he took care of her garden for her.

“My mother was loud”, she said abruptly. Water leaking from the cracks. Nikolai’s gaze swept toward her as he kept going. There was no other person she could tell this to. Stories needed to be told, She had learned. “Sabina kicked and screamed her way into our misery. She shouted her wrath; she broke the ceramics on the floors, spewing spite. She weaved sweet lies that stuck like sap into my ears, before wiping my tears as I stood in a ridiculous ruffled dress.” Zoya sighed, seeing her memories flash in her mind. She did not want to feel this. She did not want to know. But Juris’ wisdom was unforgiving. “Her frustration, her selfishness. Everything was like thunder. Maybe that’s where I take it from.” A dry laugh escaped her lips, as she forced herself to say what she knew had been the truth this whole time. “My mother was loud. Yet, it was my father’s silence that broke me. That was what carved the hole inside of me. The way he let everything happen, his head slumped on his shoulders, his mouth shut. The emptiness of his affection. It gave me the guilt of not being enough, of not being worthy.”

Zoya kept going, averting Nikolai’s eyes. “Yelling is easy to counter. It enrages you, fires you up, picks at your pride. Silence is different; it cuts you slowly, drains your blood drop by drop, renders you powerless. How do you fight a wall made of nothing?”

His gentle touch moved to her jaw, tracing the lines of her face, grounding her to earth.

“I feel it. I can see it.” Every word she got out seemed to force a split into the void. Warmth flood in, rage went out, passing through her like a blade. The dragon's eyes had opened, whether she had wanted it or not. She felt like drowning. “How unprepared they were. How powerless. The hatred that grew around their souls like thorn wood. It’s the same they have set upon me. I do not want that. I do not want this to be their legacy for me.”

Legacy. What was hers, in this life, and what was theirs? Zoya had Sabina’s eyes, Suhm’s wavy black hair. It gave her comfort to think her pride and her strength came from Lilyiana. Her wind and lightning was born from the making at the heart of the world. What, then? What had they been like, when they were just a boy and a girl in love, dancing under the moonlight? She had shrugged her name as if she could be born anew. Tossed the memories of them as if she could build a new life. That she supposed she had done, at least. Even with this new name, this new life, something of them still remained. The poisoned blood in her veins if nothing else. She could not cut them open and change it, and she had spent her life feeling it flow like a curse through her.

“I cannot go on hating them.” The words were spoken as a shameful confession, as a defeat. As a realization too, however. Nikolai laced their fingers together, making her relent the hold on the kefta.

“Perhaps we should not hate them”, he said, careful and gentle. “Maybe the secret is that we need not pass judgment over them. Maybe the secret is to forgive them.”

Zoya shook her head at Nikolai’s relentless goodwill and optimism. He had forgiven his mother that day in Os Kervo. He had forgiven the one who was not his father, he had delivered his punishment and moved on. And Zoya? She did not have any forgiveness left in her. The hatred, though. Whatever remained of it, she guessed she could try and leave it here, with the blue blossoms thriving from the earth like forgotten hope.

Their legacy might have been just thorns, storms, and thunders. It might have been just the spite that had threatened to rot her insides. Still, it was an inheritance she could find the strength to relent. She could keep their eyes, their blood, Sabina combing her hair and Suhm telling her a goodnight story in his arms, even if she did not miss it, even if she did not remember what that felt like. Zoya was not Nikolai, she was not golden nor kind. She could not justify their weakness; she could not pardon both the screams and the silence. Maybe you could let go, though. She wasn’t sure if it was Juris’ voice or her own to cut through the mist of thoughts. Zoya bleeding in the snow. Zoya crying on her own. Let go.

The dam had broken, but the dragon queen did not drown. Hours could have passed, or minutes. Nikolai had put his jacket on her shoulders, the fabric thick and warm. He had not spoken anymore, just sat with her in the quiet as the sun disappeared. At some point, when the chill had started creeping in her bones, he had tugged her up and walked her to her chambers, dismissing the Heartrender twins who stood guard on her door with a wave of his hand. Zoya had let him handle her, leaning in his touch. Only when the lock clicked, she had let herself release her breath, slumping in her favourite velvet sofa. The crackle of the fire was comforting. Nikolai had called for tea, murmured something in her ear she did not remember. He had sat on her desk next to her, working through some documents while she got back to herself. The familiar rhythm of their quiet caught on, enveloping the room, soothing as a cold cloth on an open wound.

Time did not matter anymore. Zoya had the cup in her hands, the fire in front of her, and Nikolai’s jacket still curled around her. His scent was tight on the fabric. It lulled her into a silent calm, along with the rhythmic pounding of her heart, the sound of Nikolai’s pen scraping the paper, of his hands scribbling, the muffled huff of his breath. Peace washed over her in a tide.

“What is it like?”

Zoya suddenly spoke, after what felt like an eternity. The tea had turned cold. She kept her look trained on the fire. Nikolai stilled, relenting whatever piece of work he was doing, arching a brow at her. The question was vague, at the very best. “Not being an only child”, she added. Now his attention peaked on her.

He shuffled back the papers on her desk, got up and came to her. Moving her feet away, he eased himself on her sofa, letting Zoya stretch her legs over him, resting his hands on her calves and leaning his head on a cushion. His careful look never left her face, turned thoughtful as her question travelled his mind.

“I adored my brother”, Nikolai started, slowly, “Worshipped him. Loved him with every fibre of my being. Until I did not anymore. We were not bound, or tight, and well – we all know how that turned out. It was an embarrassment and a weight, more than an anchor like I desired him to be. And I did desire that a lot.”

Zoya looked at him. She left the cup on the nightstand; as soon as her hands were free, Nikolai snatched one of them in his. “And Linnea?”, she asked. An affectionate smile curled his lips.

“Linnea is…different. I feel the kinship – and not just because we both have a soft heart for ships. I know she is me, for some part, and I am her. She’s more grounded than me, more quiet, more practical.” He brushed a thumb over her palm, tightening the hold. “I guess that’s why she likes you. I am quite scared at how much you two get along, frankly. And she has this creative, restless energy, she is charming in her own silent way, brilliant. Sometimes it’s like I’m looking inside some sort of distorted mirror. In some life I may have had if I took a different path.”

Yet, the choices they had been forced to make forged a solitary childhood for them. A lonely boy looking for sounds to fill his deafening silence, a vengeful girl screaming her rage over lost love. Had they been choices at all? When had they stopped being their parents’ sins, and had they become their own? How long can you blame a mother’s failings, how long can a daughter or a son be defined by rage and guilt? Zoya could see the same query behind Nikolai’s eyes. He spoke again, tentative, a vulnerable edge to his voice. The lonely boy, looking for hope in the vengeful girl.

“I want her to know me. I want her to care for me, to be honest. I feel protective of her. I feel like I cannot wait to show her every wonder I know of. The wonder of life, of adventure. The wonder of romance”, he managed to wink at her, “I wish to be for her the brother Vasily never was for me. To make up for lost time. This is idiotic, right?”

He huffed at the end, as if he could dismiss the intense desire for a family that still haunted him; there was a slight plea in his look, darkened under the dim light of the fire. Zoya felt an ache in her throat, and she knew there were tears in her eyes. She could feel them clouding her sight. They belonged to the little raven-haired child that silently cried alone in a corner, in all her nightmares. It was not a cry for grief, but one of deluded wanting. She leaned in, brushing some golden strands from Nikolai’s face. He was looking at her like she was his light in the storm, even though he had just been the one to pull her back from a devouring pain.

“We should have her here more often”, she said. Nikolai wiped one of her tears away. “We should have them here more often. Linnea and your father. You deserve to have this family, Nikolai.”

Nikolai stopped his hand on her neck, grinning wider at her.

“Zoya, I already have one.” She frowned at him.

“I hardly count as a family. I am just me.”

“Then I’ll have two. So long as you stop referring to yourself as just you.” Zoya rolled her eyes, feigning annoyance. He started fidgeting with a loose silver bead on her kefta’s cuff. Another unnerving habit of his, the way he always snatched those away. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I wasn’t an only child. I would have had someone to shield and someone to shelter in. To give me purpose, I suppose.”

A little brother, a little sister whom she could watch grow up and think how much better than her they were, how much softer, how much worth preserving. Though it had not been like that, for Sabina and Lilyiana. It was best not to linger on what ifs. She huffed and shifted, suddenly nervous; time to face this problem head on. “You think I should help her, right?”, she asked, knowing damn well what the answer was. Needless to say, Sabina’s letter pleaded for Zoya’s support, lamenting her misfortunes, and praising her daughter’s victories. Especially the gifts she could share. Even if she had not stated it, Zoya was sure that a jewel or two would be just fine. Greedy and hollow like she remembered.

“I think you should do what makes you comfortable.” Zoya shot him a threatening glare, and he chuckled. “Fine”, Nikolai added, “but don’t kill me. I think you’ll keep the weight on your chest as long as you do not help her. I think maybe it would bring you some peace to do it. Still, I support whatever decision you make.” He marked the last words, and she knew he meant it.

“I don’t want to be the bearer of my mother’s misery.” Zoya despised herself a little while admitting it. An exasperated grunt erupted from her as she threw her hands in the air. “How can I feel responsible for her?”

“I guess that’s the curse of being a daughter. You can’t relent the blood in your veins, not anymore that you can ignore the good heart that thrived inside you behind all of your spite.”

Maybe the secret is that we need not pass judgment over them. Maybe the secret is to forgive them.

How she loathed when Nikolai was right. It made him insufferable. And unfortunately, he was right most of the time. Unbearably reasonable. He smirked, as if he could read her thoughts and sense his victory.

Zoya might have been an angry and unloved little thing, but that was not what she was anymore. She had been a soldier, a general, a loyal friend. She was a queen now. And most certainly not alone, she thought, gazing at the confident ball of sunshine seated next to her. Had this happened before the war, before knowing Nikolai, her crueler and colder heart would have prevailed and she wouldn’t have thought twice on this, burning the letter along with her sentiment. The beaming boy had definitely rubbed off on her.

“I can not forgive her, or them. I do not have it in me. And I cannot forget, not for now”, she said, cautious. That was what Lilyiana had always desired for her: to release the hold on her anger. For her, she could try. “But I can start by letting go. We can find her work in a factory, with a salary and some retirement money. I can provide her with a dignified life. That is all I can do. I will not get a letter from her anymore; I will not grant her audience or listen to her words. Someone will have to deal with this.”

Juris roared inside her, clearly displeased. Hush, you lizard. How irritating of him. Be a dragon, bide your time and stop harassing me. Enough progress for today. Nikolai, on the contrary, smiled at her with relief, nudging her closer.

“We will arrange it.” He let her rest her head in the crook of his neck, curling his arms around her. “Do you think you can close your eyes and rest for a while now?”. His voice was already coming from afar, as she inhaled deeply in his skin and her lashes fluttered closed with exhaustion. Zoya wished her days as queen would become less tiring, and she also wished they could always end in Nikolai’s safe hold. Her mind fell silent; the last thing she heard was his whisper hovering around her. “I got you, Zoya.”

Zoya could still be a daughter, could take the raven-haired child in her arms. Daughter of the wind. She could still be whole, worthy, and loved. We see you. She could be at peace. The world went black; yet, it was not dark.

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usergreenpixel · 3 years

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Frev prompts, Part 4! 🎉

21. The protagonist is a high school student with a knack for drawing comics but they’re also the favorite target of the bullies at school.

One day the bullying gets so bad that the protagonist is unable to cope with reality anymore and, as a means of escapism, writes themselves into their new comic about their favorite topic - The French Revolution. With their favorite pen they had inherited from their writer grandfather, no less.

However, what was supposed to be a harmless little self-insert quickly becomes a reality when the protagonist is magically transported into their comic book and now has to navigate their own story and finish it in order to return to the real world, as well as figure out the mysterious powers of the magical pen.

22. Despite the fact that the days when the Bastille used to be packed with prisoners are gone, a handful were still trapped inside its gloomy walls by the time the infamous prison was taken.

The protagonist is one of the few prisoners who are sentenced to imprisonment inside the Bastille until they and the rest of the prisoners are set free by the revolutionaries.

For the first time in a long while, the protagonist is free but not all is sunshine and butterflies because the revolution is only beginning to escalate and the protagonist has long forgotten how to function in the society outside the prison.

With no other options, the protagonist decides to try and rebuild their life from square one, all while the events of the revolution are unfolding in the city of Paris.

23. Two friends, the protagonists, were raised together by a noble family as adopted wards and used to be close as children, but drifted apart when one of the two went abroad to get a good education.

Nevertheless, the childhood friends find themselves reunited by a pure coincidence during a meeting in the Jacobin Club, which both of them joined mere days ago.

All seems well, until it becomes apparent that the protagonists don’t exactly see eye to eye when it comes to politics in France nor the methods of solving the multiple issues plaguing the country.

This new rift between the protagonists only widens as the revolution progresses and the Jacobin Club gets split into groups on the basis of shared political beliefs.

Will the two protagonists be able to restore the friendship they used to have or will their new differences prove that maybe friendship isn’t always as almighty as people say?

24. The protagonist is acutely aware of the multiple injustices of the French society but they are not too eager to change things personally, hoping that maybe the government will find a way to fix things.

The protagonist, meanwhile, would rather focus on keeping their small family business (a bookshop) afloat and renting out an apartment in the house to make ends meet.

Soon, however, the protagonist ends up getting roped into the events of the revolution regardless when they accidentally overhear their new tenant discuss his plans in a hushed tone with a few other people.

The protagonist has all the evidence that they had unwittingly rented out an apartment to a revolutionary and now they have the evidence to turn that rebellious youth from Blérancourt in along with his buddies.

At first, the best course of action seems fairly obvious. Just report them to the authorities and be done with it.

However, perhaps these youths are more than just stupid kids playing at freedom fighting and maybe they can actually help the country.

When faced with the dilemma of either ratting the young rebels out or joining their cause, the protagonist makes a choice that ends up changing their entire life.

25. The year is 1811. Located near Saint-Petersburg, The Imperial Lyceum is a place where boys from noble families of The Russian Empire live and study. Perhaps the most famous Lyceum of all, it was home to plenty of those who would become prominent in Russian society of the time.

This is where the protagonist, one David de Boudry, teaches French to these boys.

Monsieur de Boudry knows that most of his students are blissfully unaware of a certain secret of his and likes it that way. It is best if they don’t know that he happens to be a younger brother to Jean-Paul Marat himself but changed his last name to avoid the associations.

Keeping this particular tidbit of his biography secret used to be fairly easy, until his older brother, Jean-Paul Marat, appeared in David’s life again on a snowy and frosty January day.

Marat is inexplicably alive, but he is also half-frozen and extremely disheveled when he shows up, not to mention the fact that he arrives with his wife and a very young child in tow. They all need a place to hide from the authorities, and fast.

Being a loving brother, David de Boudry hides his family and is now determined to keep them safe for not even a new name can sever family ties.

But, having made this difficult choice, will Monsieur de Boudry be able to reconcile his love for his family and the devotion to his adoptive home country? And will Marat be able to keep his loved ones and himself safe from the agents of police who lurk nearby and are quite hellbent on proving that the man they are pursuing is indeed the infamous Jacobin?

26. The protagonist is a sophomore who became a member of a Drama Club during their freshman year of high school and they are quite happy to finally have a friend group where they belong. Here nobody judges them for their stutter, their crossdressing and their fear of dogs.The protagonist is even allowed to play roles that would be normally reserved for the opposite gender just so they have an excuse to crossdress.

The upcoming play about the French Revolution is no exception and the protagonist is quite overjoyed but also frustrated that something just doesn’t ring true whenever they read their lines. Frustrated, they sneak into a time machine built by their parents and transport themselves to Paris of 1794.

They soon see that the city is in chaos and rumors about a traitor who had supposedly escaped the guillotine and went on the run with his family spread like wildfire. Moreover, the protagonist soon finds themselves in a bit of a pickle because of their name and physical appearance.

Even a man whom the protagonist saves from a mob advises them not to reveal their name and to lay low as soon as the protagonist introduces themselves. The protagonist is naturally confused but they do want to stay alive and free.

In order to survive, the protagonist decides to do what actors do best - improvise. It’s not easy, of course, but the protagonist tries to stay optimistic.

They hope that they will make it. They know they will. Giving up is not an option. After all, a Desmoulins never gives up. Right?

27. The French Revolution is not an easy period in history. It should be fairly obvious why.

The country is drowning in chaos and the future is uncertain, no matter how hard The Committee of Public Safety tries to maintain at least some semblance of order.

Meanwhile, in the heart of Paris, lives our protagonist whose main concern was not the revolution, but rather the fact that it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep their inn’s doors open.

And then, one day, the unthinkable happens. A guest is found murdered in their room. Naturally, all the other guests are now suspects, and so is the staff. A diverse bunch of people with their own agendas, secrets and ties to the victim has gathered in the inn.

Sensing that something isn’t right, the protagonist decides to become an amateur sleuth and get to the bottom of the situation.

A “whodunnit” murder mystery is about to take place in the inn and the protagonist is determined to solve it.

28. A few years passed after the betrayal of the Thermidorians. The Revolution is destroyed and all of the enemies of the new government are dead… Except for one.

The protagonist is a patient in a mental hospital on the outskirts of Paris. Here the treatment of the patients is becoming more and more humane than it used to be before. That being said, the living conditions still leave a lot to be desired. Moreover, the protagonist feels isolated and lonely due to their personal issues and the trauma that caused them to become basically imprisoned in the facility.

Luckily, the loneliness disappears when the protagonist secretly manages to befriend another patient, a mysterious young man who is kept in isolation from the rest of the people at the facility, is forced to wear a mask to hide his face and is treated far worse than the others.

Horrified by the extent of the abuse that their new friend has to endure, the protagonist teams up with him to escape to Avignon, where the protagonist’s relatives live.

Little do they know, their new friend and partner in crime is an outlaw and a Montagnard, the last of them all, so when the two finally escape the police quickly catch wind of the situation.

Can the duo get to Avignon and avoid recapture? Will this unlikely friendship help them heal from their respective trauma? And will the revolutionary’s plan to avenge his executed friends be successful?

29. (Crossover with Greek mythology) When Adrestia, a minor Greek goddess, is banished to Earth from Mount Olympus for causing too much trouble, she assumes a human disguise and travels to France of 1789, where great changes are just around the corner.

Finally finding herself in her own element once again, Adrestia (whose human name is Adrienne) decides that she has no right to miss all the fun and joins the forces of the revolution. She is a goddess of revolt and a daughter of Ares, after all.

One would think that having a goddess on your side will make fighting easier, but things are not that simple and the other gods don’t exactly take kindly to troublemakers who go against authority.

Nevertheless, Adrestia is more than willing to try and help her new allies to win in their fight for Liberty, Equality and Fraternity.

30. When the protagonists first meet up in real life, they’re ecstatic. After a few years of chatting on the Internet, the two French Revolution enthusiasts have finally met each other face to face and now they decide to set an old plan of theirs in motion.

The duo wants to perform a time travel spell invented by their witch ancestors and change the way the French Revolution ended. The spell is successfully cast, but in the process the warlocks run out of magic and are now forced to wait in the past until they are strong enough to cast the spell again to return home.

But hey, at least while they’re waiting they can do what they always wanted to do - prevent the Thermidorian Reaction, and they are going to try to do just that, even though preventing a coup d’état is far from easy, especially for two college kids from the future.

31. It’s 1815. Joseph Fouché is the Minister of Police but his days in office are numbered and he knows it.

What’s more, rumors spread about the incompetence of the police as nobody can catch the culprit behind a new string of murders. Fouché hopes that cracking the case would restore his reputation, but something isn’t right about these murders.

So far, every single victim was a participant of the Thermidorian Reaction and it simply cannot be a mere coincidence. This pattern makes Fouché fear for his life and his reputation, as in addition to the murders the sins that he and his allies had pinned on their enemies begin to resurface.

Fearing that he is next and that his own crimes are about to be exposed as well, Fouché becomes obsessed with catching this mysterious vigilante. He even has a prime suspect in mind, but he can neither track him down nor prove that it was him.

Meanwhile, the time Fouché has to rehabilitate the police force is running out. Soon he too might face the music at long last, as well as learn exactly why sparing one of your enemies while killing the rest is considered to be a classic mistake.

Will the vigilante get to Fouché? How much time does the Minister of Police actually have left before karma knocks on his door? And why does the youngest police inspector in history, who is Fouché’s beloved protégé, turn against his mentor?

32. When the protagonist decided to sneak into the Catacombs of Paris for “shits and giggles” with their buddies, the last thing they expected was a sudden time travel to a closet in an apartment of a prominent revolutionary, whose skull the protagonist was holding in their hands seconds ago.

Naturally, the protagonist gets caught by the housekeeper and promptly accused of breaking and entering at best, and an assasination attempt at worst. It doesn’t help that the protagonist has strange pills and a baseball bat on their person.

But when they’re about to get prosecuted, the inhabitant of that same apartment suddenly speaks up on their behalf and defends the protagonist, claiming that it was a mere misunderstanding. Later, that same revolutionary visits the protagonist, reveals that he knows about the existence of time travel and promises to help, as long as the protagonist goes along with his plan.

Despite suspecting that the revolutionary has an ulterior motive, the protagonist does want answers so they agree to play along...at least for a while.

33. After the Revolutionary War in America, the protagonist follows his friend and mentor, Marquis de Lafayette, to Paris as he is the only family the hero has at this point.

At first, when the French Revolution rolls around, the hero still stays by his mentor’s side, never questioning his opinions and decisions and admiring him as a hero.

But after the September Massacres reveal Lafayette’s...less heroic side the hero is utterly broken and disappointed that he trusted the wrong person yet again. This revelation prompts the hero to switch sides and become a double agent, working with the Jacobins while pretending that he is still loyal to Lafayette.

Is this the correct choice to make or will the hero’s naïveté and a simple desire to belong betray him once again?

34. Maximilien Robespierre finds himself in a difficult situation. Somehow, everyone who crosses his path keeps going missing, only to turn up brutally murdered.

Moreover, Robespierre keeps receiving notes with rather...stalkerish messages written by the culprit. The stress and the crippling paranoia are slowly taking a toll on his frail body and he collapses altogether after finding out that Camille Desmoulins and Antoine de Saint-Just got attacked as well.

Fortunately, Saint-Just and Desmoulins manage to survive the ordeal and decide that enough is enough. After a long recovery, the two men decide to set aside their differences and track down the mysterious stalker before other people close to Robespierre get hurt.

Who knows, perhaps this buddy cop-esque adventure will even help Saint-Just and Desmoulins resolve their rivalry once and for all, now that a mutual friend of theirs needs both of them.

35. An immigrant enrolls into a high school in the country where they live now, a country located on the other side of the planet, miles away from their homeland.

Isolated from the rest of the students, shunned for their Eastern European accent (feel free to pick the specific country) and their Socialist beliefs, the protagonist has very few friends and even they are imaginary - three French revolutionaries whom the protagonist admires the most.

However, things change when a classmate bonds with the protagonist over their fascination with the French Revolution and the two decide to team up and write a novel about their favorite topic, all while the three imaginary friends, who may or may not be something more than a simple product of imagination, are guiding these kids on their quest to rehabilitate the legacy of the revolution.

P. S. The Fouché tag has been graciously lent to me by @frevandrest , the tag’s inventor. This needs to become an official tag imo.

#writing #writing prompts #frev #french revolution #louis antoine de saint just #saint just #antoine saint just #maximilien robespierre #robespierre #camille desmoulins #I still refuse to make a fouche tag #marquis de lafayette

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agoodpersonrose · 3 years

Note

I was drawn to three of the meet-cute prompts. Maybe one of them will inspire you! #1 (sitting next to each other at a wedding), #43 (last umbrella), or #50 (amusement park ride).

Okay so of all these the umbrella one was just calling out to me so I wrote that one!! (this one is actually a meet-cute I promise) and I have already posted it on ao3 here! I really hope you enjoy!! ☔️

43. You both reach for the last umbrella in the store on a rainy day.

Today could physically not get any worse.

Not only has David had to lower himself to the mortifying standards of an interview at the Blouse Barn, but then Stevie, his only friend with a car (or only friend at all, depending on who you ask) had abandoned him to his fate after “taking too long” and “taking advantage of her generous spirit.”

So David had ended up spending the entire day, trawling across the shop floor in front of Wendy, trying to prove himself worthy to work in retail by suggesting the least offensive outfits for the town’s worst dressed townspeople. All the while, trying desperately not to show on his face how truly disgusted he is by more than half of their style choices.

And now, here he is, waiting on the curb side, storm clouds rolling in, and no Stevie in sight.

“Fuck,” David hisses as the first raindrops begin to fall thick and fast, immediately chilling David to the bone as he hurries away from the road and into the nearest store he can.

Billie’s Bobs and Bits is hardly a store name that fills him with hope, but he spots a stack of large umbrella’s in a stand in the back corner which he immediately hurries over to. There’s a single umbrella left, a horrible, gaudy, rainbow thing which David would usually never be seen dead with.

However, he also knows that if he doesn’t wait by the curb exactly where Stevie told him she would pick him up, she will leave him in Elmdale overnight. He cannot make the walk back on his own, and he will not wasting his precious final dollars on a cheap motel room only half an hour drive away from the cheap motel room he doesn’t have to pay for.

And so, the umbrella is his final hope.

He hurries across the store, his shoes squeaking wildly on the linoleum floor as he tries not to skid, finally reaching out his hand for the umbrella.

Only, another hand immediately covers his.

“Oh--”

“Hey!” David exclaims, furrowing his eyebrows at the drowned rat of a man standing before him. He clearly hadn’t managed to escape the rain quite as fast as David had; his fringe is slick on his head, and his light blue button up is soaked through, sticking tight to his torso and becoming almost see through in the process.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” the man says politely, though not letting his hand fall from where it is resting over David’s. “You don’t mind if I take this, do you? It’s just that I don’t have a jacket and I’m waiting for my roommate to come and pick me up- my car broke down, and he is not known for his patience. I don’t trust that he won’t get distracted and disappear somewhere else if I’m not where he’s expecting me to be.”

“Yeah, well? I need it,” David says, pulling the umbrella, and therefore their joint hands, further towards him. “This outfit probably cost--” he takes a judgemental look at the man’s cheap clothes and pulls a face. “Well, let’s say that it cost more money than you can quite comprehend.”

Surprisingly enough, the man actually laughs at this. His laugh is nice, all things considered, and his eyes crinkle around the corners in a way that makes David’s stomach erupt in flutters. Although of course he would never admit that to anyone, not even under durance.

“I don’t doubt that. It’s just- I’m kind of soaked, and if I get any more soaked, I’m scared I might catch hypothermia. Plus, I’m really terrified of hospitals, so--” the man winces exaggeratedly. “I’m in kind of a sticky situation here.”

“Huh, well. It looks like the only way to solve this is--”

“Dibs”

David opens his mouth in surprise, and then closes it, and then opens it again, but the man just continues to stare evenly at him, as if he hasn’t just lowered himself to the most childish of standards.

“Dibs doesn’t count.”

“Oh, I think it does.”

“Mm, you see, that’s where you’re wrong. Plus, I clearly had dibs, because my hand is on the umbrella, whereas your hand is just kind of holding- mine.”

David grins to himself when he catches the man’s ears slowly tinting a dark red colour, but his grip doesn’t waver, and he looks up with a determined glint in his eye.

“Does that mean I have dibs on you then?”

This shocks David to silence for a moment, but he soon recovers, and tilts his head. “Okay,” he says slowly. “As interesting as this conversation just got, I really do need to be by the road when my friend gets here, so can we hurry this to its inevitable conclusion maybe?”

“Inevitable conclusion?”

“Yeah, mhm, you let me buy the umbrella in return for my number?” David suggests cheekily, biting the inside of his lip to try and stop his smile from growing too big.

The man makes a soft gasping noise which David initially takes as a success, until he realises that he’s being teased again. “It’s going to be hard for me to date you from a hospital bed,” he says slowly.

“Ooh, did I say date? I meant you could have my number for you know, fashion advice, perhaps. Or as a first call for the next time you genuinely go to a store and pick up a braided belt.”

“I’m not particularly attached to the belt. I’m sure I could go without if you would prefer.”

“Ah- now who’s getting ahead of themselves. I don’t even know your name.”

The man is grinning now hopelessly now and looks down at the floor bashfully before tilting his head back up. “I’m Patrick.”

“David.”

“It’s nice to meet you, David. I’d shake your hand, but I fear that if I do that, I might lose my only stake on the umbrella.”

“Mm, your non-existent claim over it, of course.”

Patrick is silent for a minute, looking contemplatively at their hands, before finally coming up with a solution. “Here’s an idea, David. This umbrella seems pretty big. Perhaps we could split it and wait by the road together.”

David purses his lips in thought. It seems like the only solution other than a fist fight, and even if David knew how to punch, he doesn’t trust that he wouldn’t lessen his aim in order to protect the soft skin on the other man’s face.

“Come on, David. I’ll make sure the rain doesn’t get you.”

David wiggles a little but ultimately nods. “Ugh, fine! Buy the umbrella and let’s go.”

“I’m sorry, why exactly am I buying the umbrella?”

“Oh, because you were the one who asked me on a date,” David answers, unable to stop himself from smirking slightly in amusement. “And usually, the person who asked pays for the first date.”

“First--” Patrick’s voice is soft and filled with awe. “Okay, David. Thought I have to say, if I’d known I’d be going on a date this afternoon I would have picked a nicer shirt.”

“Do you have anything nicer than that?”

“You like my shirt?”

“No, I just, the fact that you’re wearing it says something about your standards in general and I--” Patrick is laughing again, and David trails off, unsure where to go from there. “Go and buy the umbrella, Patrick.”

He lets his hand fall from their joint grip, and watches as Patrick wanders over towards the cash desk, his shoes squeaking loudly as he goes. He keeps looking back as he pulls his wallet out the depths of his tight jeans, as if to check David hasn’t disappeared on him. Either that or to check that he hadn’t imagined David’s presence all along.

When the umbrella is bought, they head towards the doors and look out at the hammering rain. Patrick sticks the umbrella outside first and puts it up, making sure that David can step under it without being hit by any of the rain. It’s a gentlemanly gesture that makes David smile giddily, following Patrick out under the waterproof material, although not without noticing at the last minute the second rack of umbrella’s on sale right by the doors.

Oh well.

There is just enough room for the both of them under the umbrella, but it is a tight squeeze. David hunches his shoulders to try and stay close, and shivers, a move that Patrick clearly catches as he reaches an arm out and around David’s waist to keep them locked together as they return to the street corner.

The roads are almost empty of cars, and there’s an eery silence filling the small town under the hammering of the rain. When they come to a stop on the corner, Patrick seems to step just slightly closer, shivering as his wet clothes are accosted by the breeze brushing along the street and blowing the rain closer to their ankles despite the coverage from above.

David finds himself leaning closer into the body heat that Patrick provides, in a move he hopes appears to be a selfless act of protection for the other man, but actually provides him with equally as much comfort himself. Patrick’s arm is still around his waist, so David moves to put his own right arm loosely past his shoulders, rubbing at the wet fabric on his back as if to soothe him.

“Maybe we should have stayed inside for a while,” David muses. “I thought you were joking about the whole hypothermia thing.”

Patrick lets out a breath and nods. “Don’t worry, I think I’ll survive,” he says, though his teeth are chattering slightly. “Couldn’t let out first date end with a trip to the hospital now, could I?”

“You really need to stop calling this our first date, it doesn’t count.”

Patrick hums questioningly, and when David looks over at him, he notices his eyelashes are slightly wet from the rain still dripping down his forehead in slow, repetitive pats.

“I think we should probably have our first date indoors somewhere, don’t you? There’s no point in risking your life if we don’t need to.”

“So, where are you taking me then, David?”

“A restaurant, maybe. Or a café,” David replies, dropping his voice slightly. “And then, we’ll just have to see about after, depending on how well you do,” he murmurs directly into Patrick’s ear, hoping that this time, the shiver that erupts is more due to his statement than the cold. “You’ll be paying though, of course,” he carries on, this time at normal volume, looking away at the road and trying to appear casual.

“What- I paid for this!”

“Mm, and you only bought us one,” David says. “What kind of cheap date do you think I am?”

Patrick laughs slightly, his cheeks tinted red, and he shifts to look up at David better. “I don’t know, David, but I intend to find out.”

His head is tilted up cockily, and his eyes roam David’s face unreservedly, skimming from his eyes, to his lips, and back up, with absolutely no shame. David would be put off by how confident he seems if he couldn’t feel the way Patrick is shivering, and how his fist is clenched and turning white due to his grip on the umbrella handle.

David nods to himself, already having made his mind up, and slowly as he possibly can, raises one hand to Patrick’s cheek. Patrick immediately lets out a throaty hum and leans into the contact, which gives David all the permission he needs to lean in and catch the other man’s lips in a quick kiss.

Well, it was supposed to be a quick kiss. An ‘I’m being serious please call me so we can go on this date’ kiss, an ‘I know we’ve only met but this is me saying I like you’ kiss.

Except, then Patrick opens his mouth, and David can’t resist following his lead, slipping his tongue just slightly between Patrick’s cold lips and into the heat of his mouth. Patrick is so responsive in the ways he pushes back, trying to force his way closer to David as if an insatiable hunger has overcome his senses and left him desperate for more.

And David feels it too. He feels it in the way Patrick is kissing him forcefully but gently, desperately but tenderly. Wanting more but unwilling to force it without David initiating.

David doesn’t know how long they stand there, connected at the mouth, his hand still holding Patrick’s cheek which is steadily growing warmer even despite the freezing weather. In fact, it’s only when two things happen in quick succession that he is finally forced to pull away.

First, the sound of a car he hadn’t noticed pull up beeping relentlessly from the curb only a few steps away startles them slightly and causes Patrick to stumble a step backward. David immediately reaches out and grabs the front of his shirt, keeping him close, but it’s too late.

The surprise causes Patrick to loosen his grip on the umbrella handle, tipping it sideways, and causing the water that had collected on top of it, as well as the rain that is still hammering down around them, to splash down, and soak both of them to the bone.

David opens his mouth in shock and horror as he feels the fabric of his black, dropped fabric sweatshirt slowly become sodden and heavy as the water is absorbed. His hair too is damp against his forehead, alerting David to the fact that his usual flawless quiff will be nothing more than a damp, tangled mess of curls even once dry.

Patrick is staring at him with a face full of guilt; his brown eyes are wide and terrified, and he immediately begins the apologies.

“David I- I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to- it was totally my fault I should have been paying more attention to the--”

David’s attention is drawn away to the sound of a familiar laugh coming from the car by the curb. He turns to find Stevie sat in the driver seat, the window rolled down as she cackles unreservedly to herself, clearly very proud of what had just happened.

Patrick trails off and follows his gaze, chewing his lip nervously all the while as he slowly tilts the umbrella back to cover their heads, despite the fact that the damage is long done.

“Are you coming?” Stevie yells once she has finally calmed down. “I wasn’t kidding when I said this is your final chance, I won’t hesitate to leave again.”

David bares his teeth at her and looks back at Patrick. “Look, I--”

“Oh, wait- Are you Patrick?” Stevie calls out again.

“Um, yeah?”

“Perfect, Ray asked me if I could pick you up while I was here. He says he had a surprise meeting with a man about some boudoir photos and I really didn’t want any more information, so I just agreed.”

“Your roommate is Ray?”

“You live in Schitt’s Creek?”

Both David and Patrick stare at each other for a second before Stevie beeps on the horn again in annoyance. “Are you quite finished?”

David nods, already shivering again from the cold and pulls Patrick over to the car. He climbs into the backseat and immediately pulls his sweater off before it can soak too far into the undershirt underneath. He folds it neatly and places it on his lap as Patrick follows, shaking the umbrella and stashing it in the foot well as he slides in next to David.

Stevie raises an eyebrow in the rear-view mirror but doesn’t say anything as she puts the car into gear and pulls away. The car heating rattles as it tries desperately to heat up, but it does soon enough, and David finds himself relaxing slightly in the warm air.

Even so, he can’t stop himself from shivering just slightly when he feels a rough hand slide across the back seat and lightly cover where his own is gripping the fabric. He looks over at Patrick in the corner of his eye and finds the other man smiling even as he stares determinedly out of the window.

David flips his hand over, interlaces their fingers, and squeezes back.

#David Rose #david x patrick #DAVID AND PATRICK #patrickanddavid #david #Patrick Brewer #Patrick #schitts creek #schitts creek fanfic #schitt's creek #fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfic #prompt fill #meet cute #prompt

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thelighthousemp3 · 5 years

Text

my blood was once my own (what have you done?)

Summary: In a world where two soulmates feel each other's physical pain, Amy still doesn't really understand the whole soulmates thing, and she's not sure if she really wants to understand it. She knows that she wants to meet her soulmate though, but she just doesn't expect her soulmate to be Jake Peralta (he sure gets hurt a lot, though).

Notes: I’ve been working on this soulmate AU for quite some time and I’m really happy with what I’ve managed to write! The title lyrics are from “Anyone Else” by PVRIS. Also, I wanna thank @exploding-snapple for reading this over and giving me advice and feedback on how to improve it and just being awesome in general, and @outofinspo and @cheddar-the-dog for reading this over for me and being so nice and supportive!!! love my mutuals so much :) <3

read on ao3 or down below

When Amy Santiago is merely three years old, she steps on a lego, even though there isn’t a lego in sight. She dismisses it however, because she owns a ton of legos (mostly stolen from her brothers), and as a result, there are almost always a few littering the floor somewhere. So, she simply scrunches up her face and continues walking towards her father’s study, in search of some paper that she could scribble on.

What she doesn’t expect, however, is the feeling of about a million legos pressing into the bottom of both of her feet. Amy howls loudly and drops to the floor, trying to understand why her feet are hurting so bad even though there isn’t anything there (She doesn’t know it, but a young boy named Jake Peralta has just been dared by his best friend to walk across a floor of legos, and Jake Peralta is no coward to back down from a dare). Amy wails for her mother, but instead, her older brother Tony comes flying into the room. And that’s how she finds out about “soulmates.” The concept is far too complicated for Amy to grasp, but nevertheless she tries, showering her parents and her brothers with questions every opportunity she gets.

Pretty soon, though, the whole incident flies out of her head and she forgets about “soulmates”, because she’s three years old and there are more important things for her to be doing (such as filling up Tony’s math workbook with doodles, learning to read, and building complex buildings out of legos).

When she’s four and well versed in the art of reading, Tony, after much persuasion, finally agrees to let Amy come to the library with him. Amy is thrilled. As soon as they get to the library, she goes straight to the “soulmates” section and pulls out a book that looks to be about twice her weight. What she doesn’t expect, however, is the thin paper slicing into her index finger as she delicately turns the pages. Amy yelps in pain, quickly withdrawing her hand from the book and staring and the long red mark. It’s the first time she feels completely aware of her soulmate, ever since the lego incident.

She tells her brother while they’re riding back home on the bus. “I hurt my soulmate today,” she says innocently, peering up at Tony with large brown eyes. “But not on purpose.” Tony assures her that it's "never on purpose," but Amy suddenly realizes that it could be on purpose. She steers clear from harm though, even if her soulmate is constantly getting scratches and bruises here and there. The more she thinks about it, she realizes that she could do anything— stub her toe, nick her finger on a knife— to bring her soulmate to be aware of her.

Five-year-old Amy reveals this to her mother when caught gingerly holding a kitchen knife in one hand. She had been wondering if she should leave a small scratch on the palm of her hand— it’s been a while since her soulmate has gotten hurt (almost three weeks; a broken record!) and even though Amy has been careful to not get hurt, she can’t help but wonder what would happen if she did. Would her soulmate know that she had gotten hurt?

"Amy, you can't deliberately hurt your soulmate," her mother chides. "You're supposed to love your soulmate and try to keep them out of pain." This starts a chorus of "Amy hates her soulmate!" through some of her more annoying brothers (David being the ringleader, of course), and Amy tries to protest it, but they persist. She doesn't mind, though, because her mother winks at her and slips her an extra cookie, which to Amy, is much better than reprimanding her brothers.

A few months later, one of Amy’s older brothers starts dating a girl from his class. When Amy finds out, she eagerly asks, “is she your soulmate?” And it turns out that no, the girl is not his soulmate, and Amy becomes very confused as to why they’re dating then.

“Well,” her brother says, sitting down next to her on the couch, “not everyone finds their soulmate, you know. And someone doesn’t need to be your soulmate for you to love them, because while the whole concept of “soulmates” is cool and all, it doesn’t always work out. So you can date whoever you want, Ames, and I want you to know that you can love whoever the hell you want.” It’s more difficult for Amy to grasp because a) she wants to end up with her soulmate?? and b) but now she can end up with whoever she wants??? “Basically what I’m saying,” her brother continues, “is that you’re in control of your own life, and fuck the universe.”

“Swear jar!” David shouts as he bursts into the room, pointing at the tall jar set at the edge of the mantle. As Amy’s brother rolls his eyes and gets up, Amy is left on the couch, contemplating what he has just said to her. She’s in control of her own life. That’s fine with Amy; she likes to be in control.

“Don’t overthink it okay?” he turns around and says to Amy, right after slipping a dollar into the jar. And so Amy tries to not give it much thought because after all, she’s only five and she still has years to figure her life out.

When Amy’s six years old, there is only one occurrence of her feeling her soulmate’s pressing pain, and it’s a strange occurrence too. Amy’s sitting at her desk in her bedroom, working on summer math problems, when something hits her lungs and sucks all the oxygen out of her. Well, it feels like the oxygen’s been sucked out of her, because it hasn’t really, of course. She’s just feeling whatever’s happening to her soulmate.

But Amy gasps, drawing in air and spluttering as she drops her pencil onto the floor. She manages to scream, once, twice, before her father comes running in. He holds her, telling her “Amy, mija! Breathe! Breathe!” and so Amy does, and it seems hard at first, but she breathes with all of her might, because everything is okay, right? Her dad still insists on taking her to the ER, where they tell her that no, Amy doesn’t have asthma, and no, there is no sign of any damage in her body. It must have been something that her soulmate was feeling.

The next day, the local newspaper has a heading on page two that says “EIGHT YEAR OLD BOY NEARLY DROWNS AND IS SAVED BY LIFEGUARD”. The newspaper doesn’t reveal the boy’s name, but Amy feels a pang in her chest as she reads it and she just knows that it’s her soulmate. She tries getting Tony to take her down to the news office, but he gently tells her to not “push things,” for after all, she’s only six. And after some time, Amy drops it.

Elementary school is fun for Amy. Easy, but fun. She breezes through worksheets and readings and even offers to help around the classroom with grading and organizing. And thus begins the “Amy is hurt” saga. She pokes herself with a sharp colored pencil on the first day, drawing blood. One day, she accidentally nearly staples her finger, and another day she steps on a thumbtack. The number of paper cuts covering her fingers increases as well, and David starts a jar called the “Amy is hurt” jar. The rules are simple: every time one of the Santiago brothers see a scar or a bruise or mark on Amy’s body, they put a coin into the jar. The jar is supposed to go to Amy when she finds her soulmate, but Amy knows that the jar will fill up far before this happens. But no matter how often Amy gets hurt, her soulmate gets hurt way more often, and this telling comes in the form of the constant stubbed toes and the sharp pokes and skinned knees and the occasional nip on the hand by what feels like teeth? Does her soulmate have a pet?

One morning, she’s in the fifth grade and sitting inside and reading a book in the classroom during recess time. Her teacher sits at the desk at the front of the classroom, grading papers. Amy’s enjoying the third Harry Potter book, when she feels a smidge of pain biting at her knee. She tries to ignore it at first, because who knows what her soulmate is up to? But it grows and Amy bites her lip— she lets out a sharp gasp which has her teacher look up with concern.

“Are you okay, Santiago?” he asks, but Amy’s eyes are welling up with tears that are threatening to spill out. Amy manages to nod, but as soon as she looks down at her knees, the tears spill out and give it all away. “Is it your soulmate?” her teacher asks, giving her a knowing look, and Amy nods.

“I’m okay,” she says, “it’ll go away.” And it does, about half an hour later when Amy’s in the middle of English class. Her teacher goes easy on her that day, which she’s thankful for, because Amy doesn’t think that she would have been able to read out loud properly that day. Her knee still stings for a few days after, but she manages to get through it all while cursing her soulmate (she ends up losing about ten dollars to the swear jar and then about ten more after she curses out David for ratting her out).

“I’m gonna find my soulmate before you find yours,” David tells her one weekend when they’re sitting on the couch at home, bored out of their minds. Amy has a geometry workbook out in front of her, but it isn’t appealing to her at the moment, so she’s just staring out of the window. She tries to ignore David and solve a question about circumference in her head, but he says it again.

“Did you hear me? I’m gonna find my soulmate before you, Amy.” David sits down onto the couch next to her and glances over at the workbook. “The answer is 36 pi,” he says, and Amy promptly slams the book shut.

“I know,” she says, seething. “And you’re never gonna find your soulmate before me. You probably don’t even have a soulmate, because no one will ever love you!”

Her parents, unfortunately, walk in right at that second. Amy’s picture is put on the staircase, as David’s picture gloats at her from up on the mantle. So she storms up to her room in a rage, vowing that she’ll find her soulmate before David.

Middle school hits Amy like a whirlwind. Suddenly, the number one conversation during lunch and break is soulmates. One girl claims that she’s already found her soulmate. The others place lunch money bets on who’s going to end up with who. They play truth or dare; the dares always ending up to be something like “go punch Sammy, and we’ll see if Ally feels it.”

Amy hates all of it. She sits in the corner of the cafeteria with her nose in a book, occasionally peering over it to see who’s just been dared to pinch who.

Near the end of sixth grade, one pair is actually proven to be soulmates, causing an uproar in the school. One girl had been dared to punch another guy in the stomach, and across the cafeteria, a different girl doubled over in pain. The kids lead a few more experiments, and prove the two to be actual, real life soulmates.

Amy doesn’t know what to think of this. The two kids literally didn’t know each other before, and they had just found out that they were supposed to be soulmates. How is that supposed to work?! And with that, Amy realizes that soulmates are actually much more complex and trickier than she had realized.

She soars through middle school fast, graduating the eighth grade as valedictorian (which really, had been a very easy feat, as most of the other kids barely knew pre-algebra while Amy was reading over her older brothers’ trigonometry and calculus homework). High school comes as a storm, and the real soulmates drama starts, because there are at least three pairs who are already matched up as soulmates somehow. And then there’s the whole intricate mess of teenage feelings and playing with love, which Amy really hates.

So she ignores most of everything outside of academics, leading the stenographer’s club (which she is self-elected president of) and the after-school study hall. She is soaring high with her grades, which are the best that the high school has seen in a long time (she manages to get 100-120% on most of her finals), and doing her best to just ignore soulmates.

Graduation comes with Amy giving the valedictorian speech, but yet again, soulmates drama ruins everything again. She’s trying to give her speech when one kid trips in the stands, and from across the hall, another kid yells out in pain. Two soulmates found yet again right at the end of high school, in the middle of Amy’s supposed moment.

She’s a little jealous, though, and deep down she’s scared that she’ll never find her soulmate like all of these people are finding theirs. Then she would have to lose the soulmate bet to David and live in shame for like, ever. But she disguises her jealousy as annoyance, and just continues with life.

She’s studying hard at college when her soulmate makes a comeback. The feeling of bruised knuckles and sore abs makes Amy wonder what her soulmate is getting up to, and she finds herself daydreaming of her soulmate in the middle of an art history lecture. Is he an athlete? Does he live across the world from her, or is he situated in New York? What does he look like? What would his voice sound like—

“Santiago, do you know who first introduced the concept of modernism?” Her professor’s voice cuts right through Amy’s daydreams like a sharp knife.

“Ludwig Mies van der Rohe and Le Corbusier in the mid-twentieth century introduced modernism in architectural structure through their glass buildings,” Amy answers with confidence, and her professor moves on after giving her a short nod.

Her soulmate is working out; that much she knows. His legs and arms ache at night, and Amy’s sure that he’s been building some muscles. Why? She doesn’t know, but she hopes to meet him and find out one day.

One night, Amy’s sitting alone in her crappy Brooklyn apartment that she had just gotten for a pretty good rent price. She’s scrolling through her phone and staring at the pictures that David had just sent in the Santiago family group chat— the ones of him living it up and partying after his police training academy graduation ceremony. Amy had been invited to the party, of course, but she had made something up about finishing up some studying for university. She sits on the couch, almost asleep, when a dozen shards of glass seem to rip into her palms. Amy jolts awake and shakes out her hands with a little bit of fear rising up in her, because her soulmate it a real stupid-head and she sure hopes that he hasn’t done anything really stupid just now. A few seconds later, however, the pain dulls and her fingers turn cold, so she ignores the blood throbbing in her hands and falls back asleep on the couch.

She enrolls in the police training academy a month later, mostly because her papa was a great cop and she looks up to him, but also because David’s already gone through with the police training academy and Amy kinda sorta just really wants to beat David in life. Maybe if she can make detective faster than him, then maybe she’ll find her soulmate faster than him. It’s a weird sense of logic, but Amy just goes through with it and enrolls in the academy.

She’s top in her class there, as usual. At least, with the academic portion of training academy. She has to work a little bit harder with the physical part of it, so she ends up going to the gym nearly every night and giving it her all until she’s visibly improved.

Amy learns how to kick down doors and run miles faster than she ever could before. She memorizes all of the ten-codes and legal procedures for different types of crimes. She learns all of the ropes of the legal world, and suddenly she’s graduating from police training academy at the top of her class. (David isn’t invited to the party. The party consists of some of her fellow graduates and her old friends Kylie, and some other people she doesn’t know.)

Beat cop life starts… rough. Amy’s a Latina woman in a precinct full of white dudes, and she’s almost sure that most of them make fun of her— the way she has to be so precise with her paperwork, so organized with her desk, and perhaps taking notes at the morning briefing wasn’t necessary.

One guy sticks out of the rest, though. He’s nice to Amy, helping her sort through her paperwork and solve cases. He tells the others to stop when they start mocking Amy, and Amy just has to crack a smile because maybe being a beat cop isn’t going to be so bad. His name is Teddy, and it’s the first time Amy’s wished that someone in front of her is her soulmate.

He’s most likely not, though, because Amy gets pretty ragged up on the job; he gets pretty ragged up on the job, and besides, somewhere Amy’s soulmate is getting ragged up every other day too. Amy knows that Teddy isn’t her soulmate, because one day, she cuts herself on a shard of glass while they’re scouring the crime scene (she mentally beats herself up for ruining such a valuable piece of evidence) and Teddy doesn’t even wince. Amy even sees his face fall before offering to go get her a bandage or something to wrap her hand up in. Amy’s not sure whether she’s relieved or disappointed that Teddy isn’t her soulmate, but after she cuts her hand, she feels a thick needle poke into her skin and lets out a yelp. Granted, Amy herself had just gotten hurt, but her soulmate is nevertheless… a moron.

Amy climbs through her beat cop years with high spirits. The job is hard work but engaging and fun, and Amy’s stayed long working hours, worked overtime, and she’s just ready to get a promotion.

The promotion doesn’t come easily. Her captain is, well, gross. Amy works exceptionally hard for her promotion, devoting hours to studying for the detective’s exam, but her captain insists that it’s him, pulling some strings around for her to get her a promotion. It doesn’t make Amy feel good, so she files for a transfer almost immediately after ranking detective.

“The Ninety-Ninth Precinct,” she reads aloud, as soon as she receives her transfer papers. Her captain almost immediately pops up.

“Oh, I know the captain of the Nine-Nine. McGintley. You’ll do great there.” His voice makes her feel well, uncomfortable, and Amy tries sliding away from him. However, he persists, telling Amy about all of the wonderful things that could happen if she stayed in this precinct.

She moves to the Nine-Nine a day later. She’s greeted by a man with wildly curly hair— he’s wearing a sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up as he shakes her hand and welcomes her to the Nine-Nine. Amy pushes her bangs out of her face as another, shorter, man walks up behind them. “I hear wedding bells!” he chirps, and Amy looks uncomfortably up at Detective Jake Peralta, who looks as uncomfortable as she feels.

“That’s Charles,” he says with embarrassment laced into his voice. “Sorry.”

“Uh, no need to apologize,” she says, “do you know where my desk is?”

He leads her to her desk and Amy starts her first day at the Nine-Nine with a high note. Jake introduces her to everyone. Detective Rosa Diaz greets Amy with a scowl as she polishes a large knife. Civilian Administrator Gina Linetti doesn’t even look up from her phone when Amy says hello. Detective Charles Boyle yelps with excitement, and Sergeant Terry Jeffords shakes her hand a little too firmly.

“But where’s the captain…?” Amy asks, looking around.

“Asleep,” Jake says. “We find it best not to bother him. Wanna play fire-extinguisher race, Rosa?”

“Yup,” Rosa says, tossing a fire extinguisher at him. Amy watches from her desk, mortified. The precinct is a hot mess, and Amy isn’t sure how they manage to even get any work done. She tries focusing on a case file, but finds herself distracted by the other detectives, all up to their shenanigans.

Jake had made a first impression on her, seemingly nice. She soon finds out that he isn’t.

As soon as Jake finds out that Amy is the Type-A, always wants to get her work done right, he starts teasing her, and it’s relentless. She ignores him most of the time, but sometimes bites back at his comments with her own comebacks, which she finds she’s getting way better at.

She adjusts to life at the Nine-Nine, and finds herself looking forward to her three alarms ringing every morning. She looks forward to banter with Jake, working silently on cases with Rosa, and listening to all of Terry’s stories about his kids.

Then comes the bet. Jake loves getting a rise out of Amy, so one day, he proposes a bet on who can make the most arrests. Amy decides to agree, much to his surprise. They come to the terms quickly— Amy gets Jake’s car if she wins, because she knows that he loves his car. He says that he’s going to take her on the worst date in history— she doesn’t believe him, because there’s no way that he’s being serious. Nevertheless, she continues doing her best to make arrests and get her numbers to climb higher than Jake’s.

The Nine-Nine is way better than her old precinct, even though Captain McGintley is pretty much incompetent.

That changes quickly. McGintley transfers out of the Nine-Nine, and in transfers Captain Raymond Holt, who is stoic and serious, and Amy’s sure that he’s going to be a wonderful captain. However, she embarrasses herself within the first minute of Holt’s arrival, which she doesn’t know how to get over.

She wants him to be her mentor; to teach her everything he knows, which Jake quickly finds out and teases her a ton for. She ignores it, as usual.

Life at the Nine-Nine under the eye of Captain Raymond Holt turns productive. They’re solving cases left and right (except for Hitchcock and Scully, obviously), and the bet has motivated the entire precinct even more. Everyone starts taking sides— Rosa’s surprisingly on Amy’s side (“Can’t wait to see you car be lit on fire by Santiago,” she had said to Jake), and Charles, ever the loyal friend, takes Jake’s side. No one’s really sure where Gina lies on the bet. Terry refuses to take sides, being the responsible sergeant that he is.

Amy’s 90% sure that she’s going to win. Jake is… annoying and she really wants to show him that she’s the boss— that she can stand up for herself and evade his teasing. Besides, Amy really doesn’t want to go on a date with him. He’s not her soulmate, after all.

Right as she thinks she’s gonna win, Jake brings in more arrests and the bet is closed.

Amy loses. Jake wins. She has to go on the worst date in the world with her not-soulmate.

Right away, it’s terrible. He has her put on an ugly dress that she hates. It doesn’t get any better, either. Or so she thinks. Right as Jake’s about to further make a fool of her, Captain Holt calls upon them to work a case, much to Amy’s immense relief.

And then it’s not so bad. Amy actually valiantly tries to focus on the case they’re working, but she finds her attention gravitating towards Jake more and more. She’s actually having fun on that rooftop on 397 Barton Street, and she finds herself playing one of Jake’s games (throwing up peanuts and catching them in her mouth) and it’s actually fun.

They end up arresting their perp in well time— going undercover and pretending to be a newly-engaged couple, which sails almost too smoothly. She and Jake work together almost too well. It’s actually rather unnerving.

Soon afterward, the Nine-Nine heads off to Tactical Village, something that Amy and nearly everyone else has looked forward to since like forever. Tactical Village is one of the best parts of being a detective, other than the paperwork and like, bringing justice to the city.

Amy is met with a surprise at Tactical Village— Teddy. She hasn’t seen him in ages, other than keeping up with his Facebook and sending the occasional text message that never really seems to hit it off.

Surprisingly, it isn’t awkward. They quiz each other on police codes, and through that, they hit it off pretty well. He even asks her out on a date, which Amy agrees to.

Amy's in a new relationship, and she's enjoying it. And so it doesn't feel very great when Jake Peralta confesses that he has feelings for her right before he goes undercover with the mafia. It leaves Amy confused as ever and wondering if Jake could potentially be her soulmate.

She's been pondering over why she had accepted Teddy's offer of going on a date… Amy’s romanticized the idea of having a soulmate, and Teddy probably isn’t hers. She knows that, he knows that, so why are they suddenly going out? It’s a well-known fact that not everyone meets their soulmate in life, and sometimes something happens where soulmates don’t work or something.

Amy likes him, even though she ultimately wants to find her soulmate. Teddy’s nice enough, so going on a few dates probably won’t hurt.

And it doesn’t hurt. Teddy’s great. But if Amy's being totally honest with herself, he just isn't what she wants. He's not enough. Amy's not getting any closer to finding her soulmate by playing it safe and dating Teddy.

But she's also very conflicted on whether to break up with him or not. As everyone knows, soulmates can change, and what if Teddy ends up actually being her real soulmate? What if the universe sees them together and decides that they're a better fit?

However, Amy somehow knows that she's done the right thing when she blurts out "I wanna break up" as soon as she sees him carrying a bottled pilsner to their coffee date. It hurts a little bit but ultimately, Amy's made the right decision and she knows it.

By this time, though, Jake dating someone else. Which hurts, especially since Amy's been thinking of Jake's time undercover with the mafia. Sometimes, while Jake had been away, Amy had felt kicks and punches; bruises making her arms and legs sore. A little piece of her mind, deep inside, had wondered if it had been Jake.

She lets it go. Jake's dating Sophia. They might actually be soulmates. Jake hasn't said anything about them not being soulmates.

So Amy concentrates on work, harder than ever before. She pours all of her energy into working and making Captain Holt happy, quitting cigarettes, and finishing crosswords from the 1950s New York Times.

Three weeks later, Jake suddenly finds himself single just when the Nine-Nine is invited to a tactical-terrorist simulation by the Department of Homeland Security. Rosa and Amy have their little bet going on― whoever shoots more terrorists wins. Amy wins, obviously, but shortly after she shoots Rosa, she feels a pang in her own chest.

It feels exactly like a paintball has hit her, even though there's no paint on her torso at all.

Amy stares at Rosa. "I―"

"What?" Rosa glares at her with annoyance. "You just shot me, Santiago."

"Are you my soulmate?"

" What?" Rosa wildly looks around before returning her attention to Amy. "Why would you say that?"

"I― I felt a paintball―" Amy stammers.

Rosa punches her in the shoulder.

"Ow!" Amy jerks away from her. "What was that for?!"

Rosa shrugs. "I didn't feel that. You felt it. I'm not your soulmate, Santiago. But if you felt a paintball…" Rosa raises an eyebrow, "we better find out who else got shot." She stands up, pulling Amy up with her. "I bet it was Jake."

Red rises up into Amy's cheeks. "What? Why would you say that? No, he's not. I bet he wasn't shot. He probably has the whole situation under control. I bet he has Homeland Security trapped right now. Jake wouldn't get shot. Jake's fine," she babbles. Rosa sighs in annoyance and they go out in search for the rest of the Nine-Nine.

Jake had been shot. The paint marks the exact place where Amy had felt it.

Rosa looks at Amy with a questioning stare.

Amy glares at her, warning Rosa to keep her mouth shut. It could've been a coincidence; Jake probably isn't her soulmate. Still suspicion rises up in Amy, no matter how much she tries to keep it to herself.

A week passes by, and Amy knows that she's been acting weird around Jake. He doesn't seem to notice it, and before long, they're going out on a case together.

They're working undercover.

As a couple.

It kinda hurts, every time Amy looks at Jake and grins, pretending that he's Johnny and she's Dora. They're a newly-engaged couple.

The perp's date looks over at them adoringly. "Ohmygosh, are you guys soulmates!?"

"Yup!" Jake says, making eye-contact with Amy.

"Yeah," Amy adds, "I punched him in the shoulder once, and that's how we found out!"

"Oh my god, that's so cute."

"Yup!" Jake and Amy say in unison.

Ten minutes later, they're making out in front of the kitchen to keep their cover from the perp. It's like fireworks light up inside of Amy's head and heart as she pulls Jake deeper into the kiss, and it sort of feels like it's meant to be.

Oh shit, maybe Jake really is meant to be her soulmate.

After the case is over, though, neither of them talk about all of the making-out. Amy does her best to shove the memory to the back of her mind and forget all about it, but no matter how hard she tries, the kiss keeps on popping up in her dreams; haunting her at night.

She's in love with Jake, whether or not he's her soulmate. It fucking hurts.

Two weeks later, Amy gets a text in the Santiago family group chat. Her whole family is meeting up at the Santiago household, for a little family get-together. The invite says "All soulmates welcome!" and it causes a sort-of panic inside of her.

David is gonna be there. Amy's reminded of her bet with him from a while back, when they were kids― that David could probably find his soulmate before Amy could, and Amy has the urge to win against David in everything.

She needs to find her soulmate before the reunion, which is in less than a week.

No matter how much Amy slices her fingers with sharp edges of paper over the next four days, Jake just doesn't look up from his desk. He's not feeling it. He's not her soulmate. Amy is doomed.

But still, Amy needs a date. A fake soulmate. Someone to pretend to be her soulmate and help her win against David, because Amy is not going to let David have this triumph.

And who better to ask to be her fake soulmate than Jake? It would be pretty easy to explain, and Amy's still longing for Jake to be her real soulmate, so one night of pretending couldn't hurt.

So she musters up her courage and finally walks over to Jake when they’re about to leave the bullpen to go home, merely a day before the reunion. She stops him, placing a hand on his arm until he turns around to look at her questioningly.

“Uh, hey,” she fidgets slightly for a moment before confidently looking him in the eye, ”I need a favor.”

Jake looks at her questioningly, arching one eyebrow with interest. “I’m not gonna have sex with you,” he says, grinning from ear to ear as if he’s just won the award for comedian of the year.

Pink spreads across Amy’s cheeks and she looks away for a moment. “No! Gross! I would rather die than—ugh!” She gags in his face before taking a deep breath. “No, I need you to, uh, accompany me somewhere.”

Jake seems to consider it. “You know, that’s gonna come at a price,” he mulls a mischievous smile spreading over his face. Amy sucks in a breath—“Die Hard movie marathon!” Jake announces cheerfully, and Amy releases her breath. A Die Hard movie marathon couldn’t be so bad, could it? And then Jake says, “and you’re bringing the orange soda,” so Amy starts preparing for the longest day of her life.

“Wait, I haven’t even told you where we’re going yet,” Amy grimaces as Jake starts to leave, “I need you to pretend to be my soulmate.”

This stops Jake in his tracks and he turns back around to stare at her indecorously. “Why?”

“It’s really stupid,” Amy starts rambling, “but all of my brothers are going to be in town and I have this one brother—David—who I made a bet with when I was like twelve that I would find my soulmate before he found his. And I’m seeing David tomorrow—I don’t know if he’s found his, but on the offhand chance that he has, well, it’s really important to me to like, beat David.” She looks at Jake hopefully, who stares back at her with doubt.

Amy sighs. “I’ll bring sour candy to the Die Hard marathon,” she says, and Jake immediately brightens.

“I mean, if there’ll be food and the chance to find blackmail material on you, then whatever. I’m in,” Jake says.

Amy grins at him. “Great! Let me just show you the binder—”

“There’s a binder?!” Jake groans.

“I’ll bring three packs of gummy candy,” Amy says hopefully.

“Fine. Deal.”

The rest of the evening goes by with them looking at the binder; coming up with their story and how they were going to prove to David that they were actually soulmates. “We’re keeping it simple. We met on the job, obviously, and figured out that we’re soulmates during a sting operation, when you skinned your knee and I felt it,” Amy says. “No doubt David’s gonna try to prove it for himself, and pinch me or something, so you have to stay close to me and keep an eye out for him so that you can play the part.”

Jake rolls his eyes at all of this. “Boring. Can we get to the fun stuff now? Like, which one of your brothers is the hottest? Also, what if one of your brothers turns out to be my real soulmate? What if David turns out to be my real soulmate? Also, how hot is he?”

“Gross. I mean, you both suck, so you would suit each other.” Amy swats Jake lightly on the shoulder with annoyance. “But no, not happening. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at six. No funny business.”

Funny business happens at six o’clock PM that next day, when Jake emerges from his apartment decked out in an overlarge suit and green-tinted aviator glasses. He balances a top hat in his hand as he bows deeply to Amy. “After you, m’lady,” he says, blowing her a kiss.

Amy closes her eyes for a minute before groaning. “I knew that this was gonna happen,” she mutters, dragging him by the arm and to her car. She opens the trunk and grabs a plastic bag full of clothes, thrusting it in his arms and pointing back towards the apartment building. “Go. Change.”

Jake grins at her sheepishly but leaves, emerging from the building a few minutes later in the fresh clothes that Amy had given him. He looks much nicer, Amy has to admit, and she has to tear her eyes away for a second as he gets into the car.

They get to the Santiago household half an hour later to find cars parked all up the driveway. Amy parks near the side of the road, and the two walk up the steps of the house, arm in arm.

Camila Santiago opens the door. “Oh, Amy!” She pulls her daughter in for a hug before looking up at Jake. “Jake? What are you doing here?”

“Mama, he’s my soulmate.” Amy flashes a grin at her mother, who stands shell-shocked before a smile plasters onto her face.

“Oh my goodness, mija, why didn’t you tell me! How long have you two known?!” She's still staring at Jake with a kind of judgmental look on her face, so Amy sends a glare at her mother.

“It’s very fresh,” Amy says. “We found out a while ago and we’ve been keeping it under the wraps.” Oh, Amy Santiago is an excellent liar.

Jake sheepishly smiles at Camila as she raises an eyebrow at him, and steps aside to let them into the house.

Amy’s immediately shoved into the arms of numerous brothers—Carlos, Michael, Sammy, Tony, David—she can’t keep track of all of them, all who ask her about how she’s doing and how is work and—

“I found my soulmate,” Amy announces, her words directed at David.

David squints at her. “You’re definitely lying,” he decides, and in a panic, Amy pulls Jake forward.

“I am not. This is Jake.” Amy pinches herself in the arm and watches with satisfaction as Jake pretends to yelp. “He feels my pain, and I’ve found my soulmate before you, David. I win.”

“Actually,” David says, “I met someone who I’m pretty sure is my soulmate.”

“Not the same thing as being together with your soulmate,” Amy shoots at him, and he shuts up.

Introducing Jake to her father is a whole different story, because unlike David, Victor Santiago wants to know all of the facts, and he wants to know them now. Amy prays that Jake has the story right in his mind so that he doesn’t mess up and cause suspicion if questioned alone. “He’s a detective, Papa,” Amy says, “You know that. And you’ve met him before.”

Victor Santiago does not approve of Jake Peralta being his daughter’s (fake) soulmate, but it’s soulmates, right? Matters of the universe and the heart, so there’s nothing that Victor can do about it other than to grouse about it to his wife and daughter. “I can’t believe you got someone so dumb as your soulmate, Amy,” he criticizes.

Camila laughs. “I should say the same for myself,” she jokes. “I think that Jake and Amy may actually be a good match.”

“I mean, of course they’re a ‘good’ match if they’re soulmates, ” Victor reasons. “I’m just saying, Camila, not all soulmates end up working out like us.”

“Dad,” Amy cuts in, offended, “I like him. We’re happy.” And she turns around and looks at Jake,--who is immersed in conversation with Carlos Santiago—and a smile spreads over Amy’s face because truly, she is happy to have a partner like Jake who’s always got her back in stakeouts and weird family events. (Maybe, the only reason she’s suppressing her feelings for him is because he’s not actually her soulmate, and it would be unfair to both of their soulmates?)

As soon as Amy walks away from her parents, she’s cornered by David. “Are you and Jake actually even soulmates? You don’t seem to be very much in love,” he accuses, his eyebrows raised at his sister.

“What?” Amy feigns offense. “Like I said, it’s very much fresh—we only just found out—” she fumbles for words, tracking David’s gaze over to Jake, who’s sitting on the couch in between two of her little brothers, animatedly talking about Die Hard.

In a flash, David pinches his nails into Amy’s arm, keeping his eyes on Jake.

“Ouch!” Amy shakes David off in a panic, staring right at Jake.

Jake yelps, and covers the spot on his own arm with the palm of his hand. He looks up and meets Amy’s eyes, flashing her a bright grin. As soon as David looks away in defeat, Jake gives Amy a thumbs up.

The rest of the night seems to go by pretty smoothly, much to Amy’s relief.

Near midnight, Tony comes over, holding something behind his back. He sits down on the couch next to Amy, and it’s just the two of them. Amy relaxes a little bit, tearing her paranoid gaze away from Jake and allowing herself to face her brother with undivided attention.

Out of all of her brothers, Amy’s missed Tony probably the most. Sitting down and talking to him— just the two of them— it knocks a wave of nostalgia over her heart as Tony clears his throat.

“So, Ames,” he says, “you and Jake, huh?”

Amy fidgets a little bit. She doesn’t feel great lying to Tony, but she nods. “Uh, yeah! I know right, it’s crazy.”

“Congrats on finding your soulmate.” He pulls out a large jar from behind his back and presents it to Amy. There’s a little tape label on the jar; written in wobbly black sharpie letters, it says, ‘AMY IS HURT’. Amy recognizes David’s adolescent scrawl and the memory of the jar washes over her until she feels a little bit faint. It’s probably the nicest thing that David’s ever done for her.

“It’s probably not a lot of money, but—”

Amy knocks Tony over into a hug. She can feel her eyes welling up, and the fact that Jake isn’t really her soulmate is making her feel incredibly terrible.

“Are you crying?” Tony looks at Amy indecorously. “Ames, it’s not really that big of a deal, you know,” he says, and Amy just wishes that she could tell him. She wants to tell Tony so bad but she keeps her mouth shut, for the sake of keeping hers and Jake’s covers.

And then a thought suddenly occurs to her— what if she ends up meeting her actual soulmate later on? Soulmates can change— she’s definitely heard of it happening— but it would be a lot to explain to the family.

She really just wants Jake to be her soulmate. It's all Amy wants.

Two nights later, Amy shows up at Jake's doorstep, holding a plastic bag full of packets of gummy candy. He opens it a minute later, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants. His eyes light up as soon as he sees the candy in Amy's arms, and he grabs the bag from her ecstatically.

"I have the DVDs ready," he grins, ripping open a bag of sour gummy worms.

Amy tries not to stare at his bare arms so much as he leads her into the living area. The couch is covered in soft blankets, and the whole place looks cozy.

Amy might actually be looking forward to this Die Hard movie marathon.

Jake sets a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front as he starts the movie and sits down on the couch. Amy stiffly sits down beside him, not wanting to get too close. She's still reeling from all of the leftover feelings from the other night― wishing that Jake could be her real soulmate because she's still kinda in love with him. Like, badly.

"I'm not gonna bite," Jake laughs, settling closer to her on the couch.

Amy nearly flinches. "Title of your sextape."

"Okay, I'll admit, that was a good one," Jake says as the movie begins. The sextape joke kinda seems to relax Amy, and she takes a deep breath as she prepares herself for endless hours of watching Die Hard.

It isn't that bad, mainly because Amy's not really focused on the movie. She's more focused on Jake, who puts an arm around her shoulder about halfway through the movie. It sends a shiver running down Amy's spine, and she looks up at him.

"What?" he asks, "is that okay?"

Amy nods, and returns her attention back to the movie.

She can't believe she's so attracted to the guy who's just eaten four packets of sour candy and is currently shouting at the screen as John McClane does something "cool" and "heroic."

Amy reaches for the bowl of popcorn and pulls it into her lap. She picks out the more buttery ones, and apparently, Jake has the same idea, because their hands meet in the middle of the popcorn bowl. Amy fumbles with the popcorn and ends up dropping the entire bowl on the floor.

"Amy!"

"Sorry!"

And suddenly, both of them are crawling on their hands and knees, picking up stray pieces of popcorn off the floor.

It happens in a blur: Jake bangs his shoulder into the coffee table. Pain ricochets up into Amy's shoulder, and the popcorn spills out of her hands and back onto the floor where she sits in shock.

"Ames. Ames." Jake's voice is faint and far away. She doesn't know what's happening. And then the flashbacks start.

The headline, from when she was six. " EIGHT YEAR OLD BOY NEARLY DROWNS AND IS SAVED BY LIFEGUARD." And Jake, in the break room, years later. "I almost drowned when I was eight." How could Amy not put two and two together?!

That wasn't the only hint that had been dropped right in front of Amy's nose over the years. There was so much more. The bruises and injuries when Jake went undercover with the mafia, the paintball at the tactical-terrorist simulation, and literally everything else.

She's a terrible detective.

"Amy. Amy!" Jake's voice brings her back to reality, and Amy feels a tear dripping down her cheek. "Look, I know that this may not seem good, and I'm so sorry." Jake's voice is controlled and calming. Amy feels her breathing return to normal as she gets over the initial shock.

"I―" Jake continues, "I had my suspicions about this. I did. But I found out found out at the Santiago family reunion. You remember when David pinched you and I was literally across the room?" Amy nods, so Jake continues. "I actually felt that. It was genuine. That's when I figured out that… well, we're soulmates, Amy."

"I'm in love with you," Amy blurt out, and instantly, she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him closer. He's practically on top of her now, and they're sitting on the floor and kissing against the couch.

It's the best thing that's ever happened to Amy, even better than being named valedictorian for about ten consecutive years. It's better than her mother's home-cooked meals, better than new binder tabs, better than everything and anything. It's so warm and nice and Amy's never been more in love.

Jake's hand is cupping one side of her face when they pull away. He tenderly strokes her cheeks and they make eye contact. Amy takes a deep breath.

"I'm glad you're my soulmate," she finally says after waiting a minute.

"Me too."

And just like that, they're officially together. Jake and Amy.

When they tell the squad, Charles shouts out, "called it!" and immediately faints from overexcitement.

"I told you so," Rosa smirks at Amy before fist-bumping Jake. Despite herself, Amy grins.

Captain Holt walks up to them. "I just wanted to say…" he looks at Amy for a brief moment, "I am very happy for both of you. I am also very proud of you."

Amy's grinning wider than ever. Jake takes the opportunity to speak.

"That you, Captain. But you're gonna wanna be careful with the compliments. Amy here has a praise kink."

Amy punches Jake in the arm. She immediately regrets it, though, because the pain just shoots right back into her own arm.

Four weeks pass and Jake and Amy are doing great. They're happy together, everything is going wonderful, and Amy's new life calendar is going exactly according to plan.

Unfortunately, Jake going into witness protection in Florida is not on Amy's life calendar, but it happens anyway. It sucks because he's so far away, yet so close because Amy can feel it every time he punches a wall out of frustration, every time he kicks furniture around and screams at the top of his lungs.

She's so relieved when the Nine-Nine road trips down to Florida to bail out Jake and Captain Holt because all she wants is to see Jake again.

But when she sees him, they're so out of sync and everything feels so wrong. Amy loves Jake, and she knows he loves her too, but whatever's happening is not working. All of that time apart hadn't been amazing.

Before long, they go out to take Jimmy "The Butcher" Figgis's team at the arcade. Everything ends up going pretty well, up until the part where Jimmy Figgis takes Jake at gunpoint. Amy knows what she has to do; she's just not sure if Jake's okay with it until he gives her the short "go ahead" nod.

And Amy knows that they're both about to be in excruciating pain, but she pulls the trigger and lets a bullet fly into Jake's leg.

Everything is a blur after that. Amy's in crippling pain, but she surges forward towards Jake until the squad is out to help. They get Jake to an ambulance, and Amy crumples onto the floor, holding her leg because it's exactly what's Jake's going through.

Rosa pulls her up and effortlessly carries her to the ambulance, where they're taking care of Jake. She grips his hand tightly as they work through the gunshot pain together, once more back in sync.

Life is nice and breezy, right up until Jake and Rosa are falsely convicted for Melanie Hawkin's bank robberies and sent to prison. The sentence is fifteen years, and Amy knows she's going to wait for Jake― after all, he is her soulmate― but Amy's not sure how she's going to make it through without him being constantly at her side.

She busies herself with working on his and Rosa's case, going through the case files hundreds of times over and over again until she finds herself sleeping at her desk late at night when everyone, even Boyle, has already gone home.

Amy doesn’t want to go home. Home is supposed to be with Jake, but Jake is in a prison facility somewhere far away. Amy knows that if she goes home to their apartment, she’s just going to end up missing him even more.

What's even worse is that Amy can feel it every single time Jake gets into a prison fight, and it sucks. She's not particularly concerned about herself feeling Jake's pain; she's more concerned about the fact that Jake is getting hurt and he's not safe.

The nightmares hurt just as much. She dreams of him being taken away to the prison over and over again, waking each morning with the hope that Jake can't feel her emotional pain, because he's probably already worried as it is.

They make a breakthrough in the case when they finally figure out where Melanie Hawkins had been hiding the diamonds, and it's as if the weight of the whole world has been lifted off of Amy's shoulders because she can finally see Jake again.

Prison has changed Jake. Amy can tell. He flinches when she hugs him for the first time after they reunite. Amy takes a deep breath and buries her face in his shoulder and wishes that she could somehow feel Jake's emotional pain and just take it all away.

Amy wants to make things better for him, but she just doesn't know how. He's trying to act normal around her; she can tell. The way he brushes his teeth at night and hops into his pajamas and then into bed may seem normal, but there's a silence that lies underneath all of it that turns their domestic life mesmerizingly eery. They swing back into their routine until everything just feels like a robotic cycle, and Amy just can't take it anymore.

So when the Halloween Heist comes around, Amy doesn't expect Jake to be up and energetic about it. However, he's bouncing off the walls with energy and fierce competitiveness. It spurs Amy on to see Jake like this, so she immerses herself in the competition as well. It's nice to see Jake actually passionate about something, and it feels like they're clicking back together, so Amy vows to get that cummerbund in any way that she can.

Jake proposing to her is the last thing Amy expects when she thinks that she's sealed the win. It turns her whole heart into a strange whirlwind of love for him because as soon as she says yes and he puts the ring onto her finger, the whole world seems alright again.

They're together. They're okay. They're soulmates, and they're going to get married and everything is going to be okay. It's everything Amy wants― for life to be just the two of them against the world.

She wants to spend the rest of her life with Jake. Amy loves him so much and she knows that she's willing to feel his pain in the hardest of times because whatever happens, they're going to be in it together.

Notes: thank you and i hope you liked it! there IS a partner fic to this, set in the same universe, but it’s just dianetti instead of peraltiago! link: i’ll carry your pain (along with my own)

#lina writes #my fic #b99 fic #b99 #brooklyn nine-nine #brooklyn nine-nine fic #jake peralta #amy santiago #peraltiago #peraltiago fic #soulmate au #peraltiago soulmate au #jake x amy #peraltiago fanfic

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trvelyans-archive · 4 years

Text

i don’t even have anything to say actually. i was expecting to make a review post about tlou2 but there’s really nothing to say.

however i will repeat my past posts anyway because we all love suffering and dr uckmann likes making us suffer

things i liked:

dina !!! jesse !!! lev !!! yara !!! tommy before he was like That !!! jj !!!

exploration was fun besides seattle day 1 (bars) which was, personally, a huge slog on ellie’s behalf

rlly cool location design (aquarium, wlf stadium, jackson)

the rat king fight was actually super fun

LOVE LOVE LOVE the design for the building bridges with lev and abby it was one of the best parts of the game

i actually liked the abby ellie theatre fight (but i liked the david fight and feel like comparing ellie and david is a heretic comparison)

b o a t i n g

accessibility options !!! super cool !!!

the silenced gun you get in the resort chapter

all the collectible notes - that stuff is always rlly cool to me, i love it

the design for some of the buildings ! the cafes, the hotel w abby and lev, the salons, the bike shop, etc... all rlly cool and just. idk. dynamic and realistic

abby’s crossbow................ so incredibly sexy

how they showed off abby’s fear of heights... very cool !!! also several tims i went “you can do it abs” when trying to make her cross the bridge and then immediately didn’t like myself for it xx LKSJDFLK

rain sounds :) says my asmr-loving ass

good graphics !!! very pretty at times !!!

dina and jesse and lev and yara and tommy :) oh an alice ! a queen :’)

the flashbacks w ellie and joel !!! the museum flashback was very cool !!!

things i did not like

ellie’s seattle day 1, esp the open world area - i felt so disconnected and bored the whole time

ellie calling dina a burden.... i don’t think she would literally ever do that no matter how betrayed she felt by dina surprising her with the pregnancy thing

jesse getting shot in the face incredibly quickly and then not having him mentioned a single time after that ? ellie writes about him in her journal, like, once

playing as abby before jackson... felt very weird ??? idk why it just felt so so unnecessary

tommy being very ooc ??? like ??? weirdly so ??? breaking up with maria

killing dogs :) did not like that at all bc animal death is incredibly upsetting for me

hey neil could you have put in more characters getting hanged or hung from posts ????? could you really ???

abby’s completely inconsistent writing

lev being deadnamed and misgendered SO MUCH - why couldn’t they call him apostate instead ???

the excessive and graphic violence, especially in the abby/ellie fight at the end and the boss fight with the scar at the end of haven - did not wanna watching abby stab that man in the face 3-4 times and having him spurt blood everywhere

giving yara such a shitty death where lev didn’t even get to say goodbye.......... even though he lost his mom like 30 minutes earlier............... wig

making marlene sympathetic in salt lake city and having abby’s dad coerce her into otherwise, which makes joel shooting her point blank in the head at the end of the first game even worse (especially bc he’s a white man and she’s a woc) because it’s obvious that she wasn’t entirely convinced and could have been swayed relatively easily

the abby and ellie fight. wig. it was so terrible watching these two incredibly weak and vulnerable women fight completely bloodied and soaked with water and grunting with pain/exertion the whole time. it’s like a 4 minute scene in which abby bites ellie’s fingers off and ellie sinks a knife into abby’s chest and then we watch abby’s face as ellie attempts to drown her. THAT above everything else in the game feels like murder

again, so many people getting hanged or being strung up, which makes me very very upset if that thing about neil druckmann liking horror bc he saw a video of a lynching once is true, can’t stop thinking about that post,

a homophobe yelling at ellie and dina for no reason........ couldn’t he have called ellie lazy or something like ????? they did not need to be called a slur ?????

maria forcing ellie to talk to the man who called her a slur for no reason and the man not even really apologizing for it (probably bc he didn’t want to lol....... but that’s just my opinion)

the scars and rattlers feeling unnecessary and shoe-horned in - again i don’t play a zombie game for the final bosses to all be human and so i can be told that “humans are the real bad guys” over and over again

HOW HAVE I NOT MENTIONED THE ABBY AND OWEN SEX SCENE ALREADY. H. HUH ???????? WHO WANTED THAT !!!!

neil druckmann wanted joel to say “sarah” when he died LMAO THAT MAKES ME WANNA DIE

once again getting the best gun in the game in the final 20 minutes for no reason ? i actually don’t understand why they do that

their respective seattle day 1/2/3 not being one after the other instead of all in a row, which made the story feel choppy and didn’t rlly flow smoothly - obvs we all knew where it was going, but having a back-and-forth would have been good for pacing because i completely forgot about ellie and the literal plot of the game after 1 day with abby

abby’s entire seattle day 1/2/3 having nothing to do with the main plot literally at all, her sudden liking of lev felt completely inconsistent to her character and everything about her

joel’s death being humiliatingly pathetic, for literally no reason

the abby/ellie theatre fight in which ellie is the bad guy and you play that fight the same way you play the fight with a cannibal rapist in the first game

abby going after the man who killed her dad even tho everyone kills someone’s family member every day in this world to survive so why should joel specifically be demonized for that as if abby didn’t kill a single person who wasn’t an orphan and an only child

the guitar minigame was cool but like. i wanna know how much time they spent developing that bc it was not very necessary

obviously all the lying in the trailers

and like. a lot of other things i will probs remember and add to this list in the morning. anyway if i play this game again it will just be for abby’s seattle parts which are in no way related to or about the first game or first half of the second game in any way shape or form. OKAY NOW I’M DONE I PROMISE

#whew what a doozy #also these are all my own opinions so no one come into my asks or dms telling me i'm wrong or something alright...#tlou2 spoilers #mutuals can come into my dms though and tell me their thoughts #long post

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kashimos-hajime · 5 years

Text

in my veins | 1996

summary: “i keep thinkin’ there should be a noise. robin’s up because she can’t sleep, and you’re watching lion king with her, or something. i don’t know.” after two years, you're going home.

WARNINGS: angst, swearing pairing: detective loki x reader word count: 2.6k

a/n: written as a pre-post 1996 one-shot. for those who don’t know, 1996 is my detective loki x reader mini-series and i recommend you read it before you read this for full context. vibes are in my veins by andrew belle. gif not mine

2005

You’re fucking exhausted.

There’s nothing more to it. It’s an endless cycle of coffee and restless sleep and a mattress that’s too hard, and you’re exhausted.

Maybe it’s ‘cause sleeping on a bed that still needs to be broken in is the one thing robbing you of your sleep, or maybe it’s the way you wear the the mattress uneven.

Maybe it’s the permanent ache in your heart.

It still feels raw, an open wound soaked in salt and citric acid every single day, and you wonder if moving out has helped it close or ripped it even wider. You’ve been wondering for two years now, among other things. Among your feelings that you still can’t sort out regarding the man who has shared more than he has taken.

The last of your coffee was drained hours ago, and now here you are, slumping in your seat as you read through your emails. Time is an unknown entity to you and your stomach growls as the last of your dinner no longer fills you up. It’s like you’re handcuffed to your desk, and your eyes drift to the time glaring back at you, barely fighting to stay open.

1:42 AM.

You need to be at work in seven hours to continue solving the Parker case, and yet here you are. Tilting back in your chair, you pinch the bridge of your nose and exhale, eyebrows furrowing as you try to grab what’s left of your motivation to get up and drive back to your lumpy ass mattress back at some small apartment you’ve been renting with the broken electrical socket and unexpected pet rat.

It’d be better than sleeping in this place, you tell yourself, and your hands run along the arm rests, pushing yourself up into a stand as you turn off your computer. Stretching your arms high above your head, you hear your shoulders pop and you arch your back, feeling the delicious sensation of waking up flooding your body. Blood runs warmly through you as you twist to grab your jacket, folding it over your arm.

Your eyes, still a bit squinty from staring at a bright screen in a dark room for so long, blink away the light as you shoulder your bag and reach to turn off the lamp.

On its own accord, your gaze drifts over the cubicle wall to the empty one beside you. You don’t mean to look, but it’s a habit, and your heart swells in your throat when you see it empty, a jacket still thrown messily over the back of the chair. The pale light from the computer screen casts sharp shadows over the empty seat, and you let out a sigh.

He’s still here.

Well, so are you.

Dropping your bag into your chair and letting your jacket fall atop of it, you rake hair out of your face and hold back a yawn, legs finding their own way to the room you last saw him in. A feeling wells up inside your stomach, and you try not to think of the two words you’ve said to him in the past 24 hours, and how once, the word count would’ve been close to twenty thousand. But you think of it anyway, because you’re exhausted, and your heart has been squeezed until not an ounce of blood is left to pump, and when you’re tired…

You have no fucks left to give when you’re tired and your mind can wander all you want.

“Loke,” you call softly, fingers curling around the doorframe as you peer into the dark room. An interrogation tape is playing back, and a figure is slumped over the desk, shoulders hunched over as blue light sieves through his hair, illuminates the apple of his cheek. His eyes are black in the shadow cast by his brow bone, and your lips press together in an almost-smile as you walk in as quietly as you can.

Your fingers outstretched, your quirk of your lip tugs deep into your cheek at the curl of hair that falls over his face, at the tiny twitches in his face as he dreams, and you run a hand down his shoulder. His nuclear heat burns into your palm, and you inhale sharply, eyes flickering from him to the interrogation tape he’d been watching.

Your own voice streams out of the speakers in the lowest volume setting, and your eyebrows sink, coming together as you try to decipher what he’s doing, watching this tape. He’s not even on the Parker case. His notepad is just clipped beneath his cheek and you snort at the way his lips seem to move along with the lines of the tape as you turn to look at his hand. Yep, pen trapped beneath his fingers.

Fingers trembling, you gently tug the notepad into your grasp and you pick it up, eyes narrowing in the dark as you make out what looks like… notes. On your case.

You look at the man slumped over the desk, and you let out a soft sigh, pressing your knuckles against his cheek. He’s burning, as usual, and you find the tingling heat that wraps around your bones much more comfortable than the rattling radiator back at your place. Dragging your hand to the remote, you pause the tape, the sound of your own voice making a shiver crawl down your spine and instead gently sit up the detective. No doubt his back will be aching, and if you’re right by the coffee cup by the remote, he’s been here much longer than you’ve been slouched over your own desk.

Crouching down until you’re eye level, you gently cup his face despite your heart hammering between your ears and your smile fades away when his jaw muscles twitch against your palm. He nestles against your palm, the lines in his face easing and you shuffle closer, reaching out with your other hand.

“Wake up,” you whisper, the words coming out breathy as your lungs constrict. Inhaling shakily, your thumb strokes at his cheek and you try not to think about how you haven’t been so close to him in so long and just being in his proximity is nearly addicting… and… “Wake up, Loki.” Your hand travels down to his shoulder, and you feel the curve of his muscle underneath your palm. “It’s like 2 AM, you needa go home.” You don’t shake him, because you know how to wake up a David who can barely sleep as it is, and instead settle on drawing him out of his sleep slowly. “Come on.”

Your whispered nothings slowly coax his eyes to flutter open, and you smile at the glaze in his porcelain blue eyes. He raises his head blearily, and you run your thumb over his cheeks. The chair twists beneath him, scoots forward, and suddenly, his legs bracket your body and you swallow, staring up at this man who only stares as if he’s shocked you’re this close to him. Your lips parted, you scramble for something to say as your hand on his shoulder curls into a fist, twisting his black pullover in your grip.

A gust of fruity gum pushes into your mouth as you try to pull yourself away. It’s too much, the smell, the heat, the feel of his breath against your cheek and the way he soaks you in. The way he looks at you now, with dark hooded eyes and lips just barely parted as his tongue darts out to wet them, it sends live sparks down into your stomach as your heart jolts. Blood roars in your ears as a shaky hand reaches to your cheek, thumb just tugging on the corner of your mouth.

Like you’re ethereal, not quite real, a ghost that’s come back to haunt him.

Yeah, you get the feeling.

The air smells like cold electricity and Bearglove deodorant, and you inhale sharply as his head dips, or is it you that reaches for him? The argument is chased from your mind at any rate by soft, searing lips pressing against yours, and the way the other hand cusps your jaw, a blast of heat against your frigid skin. Swallowing the taste of him, your eyes slip shut as his hand loses itself in your hair and you lose yourself in him. You want to drown in the second kiss he presses against your lips, and the third, and you just barely pull away because you cannot breathe and you don’t know if it’s because of how he still has the ability to take your breath away, or because your heart is racing too fast for you to keep up.

“Loki,” you whisper against his mouth, pleadingly soft and your breath shatters in your throat when he jerks back, chair rolling over the floor until it collides with the desk behind him. Standing, you blink at the cold numbness that spreads from your face to your throat and you back into the wall, the back of your hand wiping at your mouth.

“Shit.” His voice cracks, hoarse and you manage to look at him, an oily feeling coating your skin. Your fingers rest on your lips as you try to catch the breath he’d stolen, and you press yourself into the wall. What you wouldn’t give to melt into the plaster right now, away from his heavy gaze and how it seems to penetrate through your clothes, strip you bare. God.

Your eyes close and you tilt your head back.

You’re just so fucking exhausted.

“David.” His name terrible and needy and wanting, sounds young in your head and you beg through it, although you don’t know for what. You don’t know. But your body does.

The mere kiss has ignited the dying fire inside you, and although you don’t want to feed the flames, you know burning alive might be sweeter than freezing to death at this point. You’re hollow, a carcass carrying someone just barely breathing, and when the chair squeaks, you want to ask him something you don’t know how to put into words.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, saving you from the trouble, and you open your eyes, leaning against the wall. Angling yourself, you cross your arms over your chest and send him a bitter half-smile.

“What are you?” You nod to the interrogation tapes and in the dim light, you can see him swallow, the cord of his throat pulsing. “Taking notes on my interrogation?” Another time, maybe you’d have tacked on something with a coy smile, a “Seeing how a real cop gets the job done?” or a “Miss me?”

Another time that’s long gone.

“Helping with a breakthrough,” he shoots back, and you push off the wall with a nudge of your shoulder as he stands up. “You should be sleeping.”

“And you should be…” At home lingers on your lips, but that’s not what you should say. “... too.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t sleep much.” He turns off the tape, running a hand over his hair and you walk towards him as the simmering in your stomach grows to singe your lungs. “Why’re you here?” He braces himself against the desk and your fingers float above his shoulder.

“Why are you?” you ask, voice so very soft, and he turns his head wretchedly towards you. His hair has lost its crisp, slickback appearance, and you wonder if he’ll even bother to wash out the gel or if he’ll simply run it back again. You wonder if he’s eating enough and sleeping enough, and if he’s paid his electricity bill on time. You wonder even though it’s not your place and you wonder out of habit, because it’s better than knowing the startling truth engraved in the hollows of his cheeks and the darkness swallowing out his eyes.

“Empty flat. Too quiet,” he mutters, eyes drifting back to the black screens and you swallow. “Keep thinkin’ there should be a noise. Robin’s up because she can’t sleep, and you’re watching Lion King with her, or something. I don’t know.” His voice cracks and he hangs his head, a hard sigh escaping his lips.

Your hand lands on his shoulder, and he stiffens beneath your touch as you swallow down the knot in your throat. Your eyes sting but you ignore the feeling of being split open as you run your hand through his hair, fingers stroking the dried clumps back.

“How’s your flat?” he asks, and you sigh, dropping your hand. “Since you’re here, I’m assuming your rat is keeping you up.”

“He’s a great roommate. I feed him sometimes because he likes Chinese takeout,” you retort and he almost chuckles. He straightens up and you see the shadow of a smile on his face against the golden light from the hall. “But it’s… it’s the mattress. Feels lumpy.” You tilt your head up to stare at him, at his washed-up appearance, and you smile, just barely. “And it’s hard sleeping alone. You’d think we’d both be better at sleeping alone.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat and you look down, stepping away. When had you gotten so close? “Yeah, but we should both head home. Separately.” On opposite sides of town where there are two phone bills and electricity bills and gas bills and bills we used to share, and you have the coffee maker but I have the toaster—

“Yeah, of course.” Yet still, neither of you dare to move. Your lips still burn from the strength of his kiss, and you want to kiss him again. Your body wants to feel him again. Your eyes drift up to where he stares at you with those empty blues. They stare through you, and you press your palms against his cheeks, the corner of your lips digging into your cheeks in a sad, sorrowful smile. The man you loved — love, maybe — is hollow. You wonder if you look just as broken. “David.”

“I fucking hate this,” he whispers hoarsely and you try to repress how bitter your smile grows. “I fucking hate sleeping there. I can’t, I can’t fucking sleep.” He crumbles within your hands and his long fingers wrap around your wrists as he leans forward for your touch. Forehead pressing against his, you want to melt into his body. His hands trail down your arms, feeling you through your clothes and you slide your arms around his neck as fingers dig into your hips. An unpleasant ache balls up in your chest and your eyes flutter shut as he sucks in a breath. It’s as if he steals from your lungs, takes what’s his and you want to tell him that you’re more than open to try, if only to stitch up the wound splitting you open.

You still bleed.

“I couldn’t get a break on the Parker case,” you whisper against his cheek and you hold him against you, just to feel the heat of his body, unwilling to let him go. “I’m open to going over some things back at your place… if you want?” His eyes open, just a sliver of cold blue and your own eyes flutter shut as he squeezes your hips, then pulls away.

“Fine.” He clears his throat and you wipe at your face, trying to chase off the heat that kisses your skin. He grabs his notepad and you stand there, unsure of what to do now that you’re going home for the first time in two years.

Home.

“I’ll go wait in the lot,” you say for lack of nothing else and he shoots you one quick look before he gives a jerking nod. You excuse yourself, and gather your belongings, saying your farewells to the night shift before you walk out into the bracing air and suck in a huge breath as if you haven’t breathed in ages.

Your lips burn as wind sweeps against your face and you let your eyes close again.

You’re just so fucking exhausted.

tags: @space-helen @dulharpa @woah-jess @jenlrose @mytinybaguette @arcaneloki @bohemianrhapsody86 @bubblemyg @sataninsatin @detectivelokiisabae @deviantly-gayy @if-i-were-your-raven

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chucklepea-hotpot · 5 years

Text

I'm dreaming of a Snowy White Christmas

Snowy had no idea how he ended up here. It had been definitely not drugs and neither alcohols and still he was standing here, in the hallway of someone's apartment, watching a crowd of people, of whom the most, he might have seen on television once. Nobody there he knew, well, except Scott and Phil, who had put him aside as soon as they entered the room. They said, they would grab some drinks and come back immediately. Sure. The scheme seemed like a Deja-vu, so well-known it was for Snowy by now. It was his typical position during any kind of a bigger meeting, usually parties.

When touring with Pink Floyd it had been eating him up from inside as he always found himself alone in the corner. Somehow no one had ever cared about him, no one from the band, and of course no one else. Even the quiet Rick had been in more conversations every evening than Snowy.

Was Snowy really this uninteresting?

First, he did think, it was just because he was new, the new second guitarist, that boy nobody knew the name of. But, with every new party, he noticed that people never even bothered to find it out. It was not like he ever craved for attention like Roger or David would get it, he did not want to be the centre of attention. But it would clearly not hurt if people knew his name and greet him when he walked in.

Moping he stared into his soda can, Scott had smuggled in for him since he knew that he did not drink any alcohol. Scott was a great friend. Snowy was wondering where he and Phil got to because "immediately" was a long time ago.

"Screw it, I'll look for them."

Compared to the Pink Floyd's parties this seemed a bit wilder. Or were their parties just too boring?, Snowy asked himself as he scuffled through the living room. The lights were low and from somewhere came music, Snowy's brain said The Stones but the chattering was so loud, it could have been Mozart, too and he wouldn't notice. Carefully Snowy shoved himself past a tight entangled pair of bodies, still trying to find Scott and Phil in the blustering darkness.

It was then when he accidentally bumped into someone, gladly he didn't spill any soda. He looked up and squeezed his eyes slightly together. There were projections of facial features to recognise in the half darkness, but it was nothing familiar to Snowy.

"Excuse me!", Snowy exclaimed as loud as possible.

"Scott Gorham?"

The stranger shook his head.

"On the balcony, I think!"

As Snowy exited the stifling apartment, and stepped into the fresh but bloody cold December air, he found what he was searching for. Scott and Phil were both leaning on the railing, their breaths rising in little clouds up through the air. Phil leaned forward to whisper something into Scott’s ear which made the smaller one giggle and punch Phil’s arm playfully. In the little light that shone from inside into his face, the colour of a radish was clearly visible. Snowy hoped it was a rather appropriate thing Phil whispered to Scott, otherwise the night might have brought formative aftermath for both of them.

"Are you guys okay?", Snowy asked, joining the uneven pair.

"Snowy, you're here!" Scott squeaked in joy like a guinea pig on a sugar shock and jumped into his arms. Half amused, half confused Snowy patted his back, trying to build up eye contact with Phil. Said one didn't even seem to even notice Snowy's appearance and continued staring where Scott had been standing seconds before. "I guess you guys are ready for departure." Snowy chuckled already picturing the drive, oh so much fun.

A long drawn-out "Nooooo!" from Scott.

"We can't go now! They haven't served the cake yet! We need to wait for the cake!", he cried, burying his face in Snowy's arm.

"Cake?"

"Yes, the cake! C'mon, don't you like cake?" Scott's face was directly in front of him and Snowy would have bet his Goldtop that he was pouting as good as possible, even though the amount of alcohol and just the fact that Scott’s face was not made for begging looks, made him look like a Labrador dog with bad toothache.

"Of course, I do but... what about you, Phil? You wanna go?"

The bassist cocked his head as if he didn't understand the question, what (so Snowy thought) was indeed, possible.

"Snowy, how did you find us?", he asked, Snowy growled inwardly, regretting everything he did this evening. "That's not what I asked Phil, you wanna go now?" If this was what mothers had to live through everyday, they were clearly underestimated heroes. "Did you meet somebody, Snowy? You never meet anyone when we go out. You're always alone, don't you want to meet anyone?”

In the cold night Snowy could suddenly feel his cheeks grow hot. How would Phil's drunk brain start to think of this?

"I could sure introduce you to someone in there..." His hand flew into the direction of the room and he started to move it up and down like a muppet. "I don't think my love life is important right now." Snowy grabbed Scott's arms, under protesting by the younger one. He felt ashamed, exposed, all he wanted to do was leave now and later at home hide himself under his blanket and listen to his favourite record. Was that so much to ask for?

"No, but really..."

"I WANT CAKE!" Scott's sudden toddler-like crying cut through the night, Phil stood still, mouth opened like a fish and stared at both of them.

Snowy was quite annoyed.

"Fine", he sighed, petting Scott's hair. "Let's have cake then at first." He watched Phil and Scott both walk inside again, asking himself why someone would serve cake at a Christmas party.

"Are you maybe one of those... what are they called... spades?"

"SHUT UP, PHIL! LET'S GET CAKE!"

***

About twenty minutes later Snowy found himself, sitting in the bedroom of the apartment, poking with his fork in an actually very tasty piece of cake. Still he felt unable to enjoy eating it. Phil's words spooked in his head around and didn't want to let go off him. Did he really come of like a loner that much? Or was he actually one? He put the plate aside on the night table, slipped out of his shoes and laid down on the bed. A loud sigh left his mouth.

Oh, look at yourself, White.

Sure, he was not a party animal like Phil, but he had charisma, right? Here he was at a party with a room filled with famous personalities, strippers and alcohol ad nauseam, and he, Snowy White, was lying on a bed, not even able to eat a fucking piece of chocolate cake.

He didn't know how long he must have been laying there, just staring at the ceiling, drowning in the dishwater of his own thoughts. Suddenly he heard footsteps coming closer to the room. The door creaked and a small dash of light fell into the room.

"Anyone here?"

The person paused, they must have taken a while to notice Snowy on the bed. Said one kept laying there. It had been a really long night and if he had learned anything, it was that having conversation with other human beings was really not his thing. "Too drunk to talk?" The stranger chuckled and seemed to want to close the door again, when Snowy's brain decided to react.

"No, just too exhausted."

"Huh?"

Snowy laid his head back and giggled. He felt stupid, oh so stupid. Gosh, why was it so hard to talk to people? Somehow his amusement infected the stranger, Snowy could hear him laughing from the door. It was a nice laughter, quite cackled but still likeable.

Then there was another creak and steps on the floor slow fading away, Snowy assumed the stranger decided to let him be. He got up and walked straight to the door. Now it was definitely time to leave. In front of the door he almost bumped into someone. Again.

"Sorry, my mistake."

The voice was familiar. Snowy looked up into the man's face, finally being able to recognise somebody this evening, (thank God to whoever had the genius idea to actually put on the lights) it was Boomtown Rats' front man Bob Geldof.

"It's alright."

Snowy put on a slightly forced smile and nodded. He and Bob and met before, during the filming of the movie to The Wall, even though Bob probably couldn't remember him, since they had been barely introduced and Bob needed to go immediately to shoot the next scenes after that. A smile and a nod were the most appropriate for an elusive greeting like this. He turned his back to Geldof, walking down the small corridor, now he had to look for Phil and Scott again and then he could be finally off here.

"You forgot your shoes."

Bob's voice startled Snowy for no reason, but he flinched and turned around, his cheeks probably glowing. He cleared his throat as he walked out of the room again, his shoes in hands and gave a crooked grin.

"Thank you.", he croaked.

He cringed more and more thinking about this evening.

Geldof although seemed not to be uncomfortable in any way, maybe the punch, that had been part of the party's buffet, was the reason for that. He kept looking at Snowy, mouth slightly opened and wearing that weirdly nice smile.

"Are you looking for Phil and Scott?", he asked.

"Um, yes, I do.", Snowy answered, wondering how he knew.

"They're in there right now. Phil is currently yelling the Irish national anthem." There it was again, that cackling, slightly awkward laugh. It drove Snowy insane and he had no idea why.

"Before you pick them up, could maybe help me? I need to wait for the ones that are too pissed to go by themselves to be picked up, ungrateful job." He sighed, his shoulders moved up and down. And in fact, Snowy could see a bundle leaning against the wall of the corridor, which Snowy recognised on closer inspection as sleeping U2 front man Bono, clinging to a passed out The Edge, U2's guitarist, who had wrapped an around him, both of them making nothing but little snoring noises.

"They look quite peacefully, eh?" Bob leaned against the wall and kept staring at the two. Snowy did not know why but he had decided to stay. The picture just seemed to be too perfect. Bob with his usual wild hair standing there, one leg over the other, wearing that denim jacket. Even though he did not look as good as now back then, Snowy had to admit he had been quite smitten with Bob since their meeting months ago.

Of course, it was not a big of deal, just a thing of admiration, no deeper feelings. It was normal, a lot of other men had it too, for sure. And out of sudden it went silent between them, there was just the sound of Bono's snoring and laughter and yelling from the room next door.

"So... are we just going to wait here, until someone comes to pick them up?", Snowy asked after a while of silence and awkward staring.

"Yeah, I guess so." Bob scratched the back of his head and faced the ground. "Their bassist or somebody is on the way, I was just told to look for them."

With only conversations like this was sure going to be an uncomfortable waiting.

"Do you still have contact to the guys from Pink Floyd?" Bob tried to break the icy silence. Snowy chewed on his lip, thinking and pulling the silence bigger like a piece of bubble gum.

"No, I was gone after they made that wall crap.", he scoffed and shook his head slightly, his blond hair seesawed around him.

He couldn't help but chuckle as he remembered.

"I think Roger is still pissed at me for leaving."

What Snowy had before thought of as an unique cackling laughter seemed like nothing to the sound Bob gave now from him. All Snowy could do was stand still and listen blushing to Bob's snorting laughter.

"I bet he is! He is such squid head sometimes."

Suddenly Bob froze in his action, his bottom lip quivered a few inches apart from the other. His eyes were fixed on Snowy as if he was waiting for his reaction. Was he?

"I'm sorry." Bob started to stammer. "I know you and Roger were... are kind of close? I'm sorry to call him something like that."

Now it was Snowy who stood there motionless. He couldn't believe. This man was too kind to be real.

"What are you saying!? Roger being a git? Tell me about it!"

The ice did break, both of them started to talk, Snowy felt not as weird as he used to around Bob anymore. It was fun to finally have someone at this party, he could talk to. As it turned out Bob and him had a lot more things in common than just thinking that Roger Waters could be annoying by time. Half of an eternity seemed to be passed when it knocked on the door. U2 bassist Adam Clayton, a dude with funny big blond hair and an expression full of tiredness, dropped in and picked up his mentally out of reach band mates.

Bob watched the door closing and faced Snowy again. Maybe the tiredness that had started to take over Snowy's mind and was fooling around now, or maybe there had been some rum in the cake, but it seemed like Bob's face shone. It was hard for him to not sigh, oh-so ravished by Bob.

"It's very late", he said after taking a glance at his watch. "It'll be better when you go home, too." Snowy could have been wrong but it sounded like Bob was sad. He, himself, at least was. But it definitely would be better to leave now.

Unsuccessfully Snowy tried to stifle a yawn. "Would be the best, I guess.", he murmured, rubbing his eyes.

He gave Bob a lazily wave for goodbye and an honest smile. Now he could feel his chest aching a bit. Stupid feelings. He turned away from Bob, leading to the living room. All I want for Christmas is to see him again, he thought to himself. It seemed childish, already school girl-ish, but his stupid infatuated brain couldn't help but wish.

"Hey, um... could you please..."

There were hasty footsteps behind him and as Snowy turned around, he saw Bob's awkward grinning face in front of him, making his heart skip a beat.

"I've been waiting to tell you all you night, but I seemed to miss it, so..."

His face was so close to Snowy's, he knew he must have been blushing in that moment but he tried to dissemble it. He was sweating as if somebody had turned the heating to full bust. Nervously Snowy tried to make eye contact with Bob, as soon as he saw the brown eyes of Geldof his body temperature jumped up and down like a gone wild bouncy ball.

"You need to kiss me, there has been a mistletoe here the whole time."

In that moment, Snowy was sure he would fall down, dead. At least he wished to do that, his face had the colour of a tomato for sure, and not even butter would be as slippery as his hands. He looked up to the ceiling, searching for a mistletoe... but there was none. Was Bob trying to do some mean trick on him?

"But there is not..." His voice was nothing more but a croaking, his eyes fixated back to Bob's.

Oh, how he wanted to cry now. Bob looked above them and shrugged.

"Oh well... Kiss me anyways."

And he didn't know why, but Snowy did it. That moment when Snowy leaned forward, his brain had stopped working, his mind was blank and running wild at the same time. All he could think of was...

Kiss him. Kiss him. Kiss him.

And when their lips met, it all stopped within just a single moment. Everything seemed fine now, Bob's hands on Snowy's shoulders, holding him, otherwise Snowy might have crashed to the ground, his knees felt like jelly. There was no passionate clinging to each other, not Bob pulling Snowy to his chest. There were just the two of them, lips pressed together in silence.

Another eternity seemed to passed when Bob broke the kiss. He was panting, still looking at Snowy.

"You know... I have thought about this quite a while." He caressed his cheeks, his hand sent little jolts through Snowy's body.

"I thought I never get to see you again after filming that stupid movie... Oh, how glad I am that I was wrong." He giggled softly and stared at Snowy.

"You're such a beautiful human, Snowy White."

When his name slipped down Bob's tongue, Snowy was sure someone set a bunch of butterflies in his stomach free. He remembered his name? He remembered his name. He actually knew his name. Snowy opened his mouth, trying to say something just as sweet as that to Bob but before he could bring anything but stuttering out, the door to the living room burst open and Scott Gorham, hair and clothes smeared with something that looked like the cake's frosting, threw himself into Snowy's arms, crying out something about Phil ruining his new leather jacket.

"He started it...", Phil said who followed Scott through the door frame, looking like he needed to sleep for next three weeks.

"Oh, hi, Bob." He grinned and waved at Bob who smiled his usual Bob smile and waved back.

"Hey Phil."

Bob looked at Snowy, there was wistfulness in his look and Snowy wished it to go away. A familiar hand put itself on his shoulder, it was Bob's.

"I see you're busy right now, so... please call me whenever you have the time, okay? Phil knows my number... I really want to see you again." Now it was Bob who headed back into the living room. It felt like he was fading away, slowly walking out of Snowy's little universe.

Surely it wasn't this dramatic but it felt like an eternity had passed since the last time Bob had looker him in the eye. Snowy watched him close the door behind himself and buried his flushed face in his palms.

He would have to meet this man again. This or he would go completely insane.

Credits for the prompt (it's what's written bold) go out to @writing-reading-bitch-queen, the story itself is written by me

It was a (belated) Christmas present for @queer-floyd who was okay with me publishing it, thank you, my dear Bro 💖💖💖

Also @modern-guilt and @ Jane (I can't get your url tagged, I'm sorry :c) for having interest into reading Thai and giving me te confidence to publish it <3

#my writings #snowy white #bob geldof #snobert #thin lizzy #scott gorham #phil lynott #philliam #the boomtown rats #mentions of u2 #bedge #if you squint #bono #the edge #adam clayton #great now it's publisjed #in march #i'm sorry yhat you need to deak with cheesy christmas stories in spring ghh #also i can't make paragraphs sorry for that

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horrorsbf · 5 years

Note

Docrat!! Drink me!!

Doc was not a man to drink to get drunk. At his age, there was very little to enjoy about forcing his body to shut down due to something under his control. With working daily as well, he couldn’t afford to be out of commission the morning after.

Doc drank to relax, and only enough to relax.Perhaps saying he also did so for ‘coping’ was true and false. He wasn’t one to admit he needed to cope for anything.

But tonight?

Tonight, he needed to cope.

He thought the new recruit was going to be a pain in the ass. He thought that he’d just have to learn to deal with the younger man, never get more than base level personal. Doc was fine with learning his name, his birthplace, his education career, his parents’ source of living; but he wasn’t fine with getting to know the new kid personally. He didn’t care to hear the saga of backstory from anyone he worked with unless it affected their job. He didn’t want to know about the interests of the person, and would never push to do so.

Perhaps hiring him was a mistake, Doc thought into his bourbon. He should’ve just killed him and had the crew raid his home to get anything valuable.

No, not a home, an apartment. The kid lived in an apartment, by himself.

But the kid had balls to come in, get on his knees, and bargain for his like like a white mother at a yard sale. Enough balls that stirred something in Doc that he had managed to push down for years; almost decades.

That was what he was drowning out with his bourbon.

Enough with that, enough thinking about the kid. What did he name himself again? The snarky tone, the smirk on his face?

Rat.

He called himself ‘Rat’, but he looked noth-

Alright, Alright, enough with that.

Refilling his small glass, Doc got up and walked along the marble countertop to his pile of notebooks and pens. He had to plan for something, and even with the soft buzz in his system, he needed to get work done. That was the only sober task that could distract him. It was either this or continuing to drink.

With his morals, he had to choose the former. He pulled out one of his notebooks, pressed with clear paper, and one of his pens. Neither of these times were dollar store by any means, needing to be held with caution. Each piece of paper cost more than most notebooks.

Doc finished off his shot with a gulp. He let the glass hover in his hand as he looked down at the blank page he opened to.

What was he going to write about? Was he sober enough to compose a symphony of plans?

Perhaps he had to be in order to properly distract himself.

He switches the glass for a pen to be held in the air. It was as if he was bracing himself for impact at any moment, for inspiration to slam into him. His mind was whirling.

David,

He wrote first.

Then he paused, looking at the fancy lettering on the fancy paper with the fancy ink- he wasn't normally a letter writer. He hadn’t written something deserving of this quality grade of supplies in years. Decades.

David. He wrote again, no comma. Stating the name, as stern as he kept his tone normally.

Or as you call yourself, Rat.

Why was he writing this? It felt like his hands were moving on their own, the only warning Doc received was the split second of his mind reciting what was due to go on paper.

Why Rat, of all things? A spiteful ploy of the insult I dubbed you? A need to match your job description? What an ugly name, David. An ugly, ugly name.

Doc knew four names that Rat had, more than most people he knew. In his current state, he couldn’t remember one of them, but it felt unimportant.

Carter is an improvement, of course, but that was a past name of yours. You’ve since moved on to bigger and better things: David.

Do you know the origin of the name David?

At another time, Doc would know the origin of the name David. It was one of those facts he picked up over the years studying literature in college, noting the importance of a simple name to define a whole character. Odysseus meant hate.Roger meant famous spear. How could he not recall the what the name David means?

In frustration, he crossed out the question. A quick, sharp stab of ink; a disadvantage of writing with his pen. Every thought he wrote on paper had to be kept there.

Do you know the origin of the name David? Now, you go by Rat. Nothing about you besides your ambitions show you as a pest. Your smile glows, and I have yet to hear you laugh in a way that would “light up the room”.

Dammit, no. A compliment like that would be better from a woman being courted, not by a new boss.

Doc crossed it out, and additionally scribbled through it. It was unprofessional, more so than the rest of whatever pooled onto the paper.

Y̷o̷u̷r̷ ̷s̷m̷i̷l̷e̷ ̷g̷l̷o̷w̷s̷,̷ ̷a̷n̷d̷ ̷I̷ ̷h̷a̷v̷e̷ ̷y̷e̷t̷ ̷t̷o̷ ̷h̷e̷a̷r̷ ̷y̷o̷u̷ ̷l̷a̷u̷g̷h̷ ̷i̷n̷ ̷a̷ ̷w̷a̷y̷ ̷t̷h̷a̷t̷ ̷w̷o̷u̷l̷d̷ ̷“̷l̷i̷g̷h̷t̷ ̷u̷p̷ ̷t̷h̷e̷ ̷r̷o̷o̷m̷”̷.̷ Baby’s name suits him, my name suits me, but your name feels of a parody, a satire.

I supposed that is your goal. You throw those around you off their rhythm with a few words. What a talent you have.

The phone rings after he sets the period. It’s late, and it’s the home phone. The chances of it being someone Doc cared about was unlikely. Sure, it could be Susanne, but his sister knew better than to call the landline. She must’ve, anyway.

He finds himself in a sorts of daze listening to the phone ring out. He kept still as it finished, blinking out of his trance. His attention goes back to what he was working on and-

Oh God.

No, no, no. Why the hell was he writing this? What an embarrassment, Doc swore internally. He made a tight face as he set down the pen and read over what he wrote.

His handwriting was sloppier due to his slightly-drunk state, but that made the impact harder. No one could see him acting like this, let alone the subject of this letter.

He made a self-deprecating noise as he shoved the pen out of the way to take the paper, ripping it out of the binding.

In the moment, he had half the mind to destroy this any way he could. Tear it up, crumbling up each shred, and throw it away. Or throw it into the firepit as kindling. Or soak it in water until all of the ink bleeds and the paper is barely holding together.

He didn’t do any of these. For some reason, the other part of his brain won over- for whatever logic, the unfinished letter was going to be kept. Making his way to his bedroom, Doc kept his grip on the paper. If he didn’t, at any moment, he could destroy it.

Once reaching his room, he threw open one of the drawers of his work desk. A large, study thing, possibly military, and made a clattering noise at the force. This was the one drawer that had managed to stay empty throughout the decades Doc moved back in.

The paper is shoved in and the drawer is slammed, shaking and deafening in the silence of night.

Doc can’t handle this anymore. He needs to lay down, screw getting work done, even if the night was young. Still fully dressed, he did just that, on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

Even with his best efforts to distract himself in this state, he thought back to Rat.

David.

#answers #self insert #self ship #baby driver /#doctor's orders #drabbles #Anonymous

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ifridiot · 5 years

Note

⭐ for About The Living For The Dead

okay, so this one ain’t done yet, but I am admittedly Super Fond of this idea. The crossover no one wanted (yes, I am aware of the What If comic, yes it’s good, no it holds absolutely no bearing on how, why, or what I am doing with this fic). Punisher symbiote fic: About the Living, For the Dead.

First of all, can we talk about the title? I think it’s been made pretty evident in my fics that I fixated pretty hard on David’s little speech in the episode ‘Danger Close’. That whole conversation was so good, and the way the show handled it it felt like real, natural concern from David for Frank at this moment when Frank was displaying real suicidal intent in his search for vengeance. Memento Mori and the Let Them Eat Flesh series are both heavily drawn from that scene, and of course Puncture Repair.

So I decided to title this fic as it is because obviously Frank himself is gone. That’s kind of the ugly point, isn’t it? Frank is gone and now David is doing what Frank did. Frank didn’t ask him to finish what he started. Frank probably didn’t want him to, for any number of reasons. Frank just asked David to save the symbiote because otherwise it would die with him and if he could save one more life out of the mess then he was going to, by god. David (with Punisher’s support and encouragement) really takes it on himself to go after Billy. To set himself up in the basement of his family home so he can track Billy down, confront and kill him. On this, even in the haze of grief and loss, David is single-minded; the symbiote is the one reminding David to spend time with his family and take care of himself. It’s David that has the fixation, the bloody mind; it’s David forgetting to ‘live his life well’. I haven’t gotten to publishing the scene where it’s made explicit yet, but in this fic it’s the symbiote who’s concerned more ‘about the living’, while David is motivated by vengeance ‘for the dead’.

Favourite bits under a cut, because this fic is multichap and there’s some good bits in each chapter.

Chapter One:

Madani is not watching. Madani can’t hear Frank’s dying rasps – Madani is taking care of clean up, giving them space because she knows what it’s like to hold someone too late, to take on the responsibility of being the last thing they see.

Ugh, just... Dinah really understanding what David’s going through here. The obvious fact that they can’t save Frank, so David’s left in the same place as she was with Sam, and she knows exactly how painful that is, exactly how awful. The responsibility of being the last thing they see, I just like that.

Frank’s fingers are clutching his, shaking and seizing, every breath labored and wet. Each exhale sends little flecks of blood flying, and David thinks he might be drowning, suffocating on his own blood. From the looks of it, Rawlins had worked him over expertly before he’d managed to break free and kill him, but the exertion had cost Frank dearly.

Those fingers guide his hand to Frank’s gut, to the squirming, charred surface of the symbiote. David has never dared touch the creature, and is surprised when it flattens against Frank’s skin, spreading thin, away from David’s hand as though shy. Frank presses David’s palm into it. He’s making desperate eye contact with David, dark eyes flicking over David’s as he struggles to stay, but there are no more words. David curls his fingers against the oil-slick darkness, and knows that Punisher and Frank are having one of those conversations David can’t hear but can see. Franks lips move as though he’s trying to speak, but he can’t hear him however close he leans.

Frank working so hard to stay together, to stay alive long enough to be sure Punisher bonds safely with David. The display here that Frank and Punisher are so well bonded; a conversation David can’t hear but can see.

He will die he will die if I leave

“Yeah,” David says, and he can see his tears splash on Frank’s bloodied torso. “He will. We can’t save him. But I can save you. Lemme save you.”

I love the way Punisher talks, the difference between structured sentences when it forms a physical mouth to speak from and the stream of conscious dialog, no punctuation when its speaking between itself and its host.

also just. ow.

We do not mourn the loss of a host

Frank’s eyes drift, and glass over, and he heaves a shaking, weak sigh that has no follow up, no reflexive inhale. His body is so warm and so heavy across David’s lap.

We mourn a friend a love

Immediate, and i mean immediate use of the word we for Punisher and David. No hesitation, they are a team now. Also i feel like this part is so rude emotionally lmao, like it’s really just kind of a punch.

Chapter Two:

Bad David bad brain phenethylamine dopamine norepinephrine all low unhealthy mourning mourning mourning we have to focus

David understands that. That’s why he’d let himself go on autopilot for the last – he glances at his watch and curses. Seven hours? They’d been down here for seven hours and he hadn’t finished the array?

I like to think Punisher uses more clinical terms for what it needs with David and it did with Frank, because David either already knows them from the research he did on the symbiotes (re: hacking the Life Foundation and also probably a bunch of military sources too) or because David is curious enough about new words to look them up, while Frank just understood he needed to take a supplement or else Punisher would die/kill him.

the time loss due to depressive dissociation is also a big Thing to me.

“Frank felt deeply. We adapted. He took care of himself, of us, mindful. Curtis taught him. It was… difficult.”

It comes in a rush of images and impressions, memories not his own – Frank meditating, Frank focusing on their bond, Frank loving – them, not just Punisher, but them, both of them, and latching on to that love to pull him on and on. The realization that Frank had cared for him as much as he cared for Frank is –

Well.

“You did not know?”

David scoffs, shakes his head, looking away. “Of course I didn’t know. Half the time he looked like he wanted to kick the shit out of me and the rest of the time I wanted to kick the shit out of me.”

I just love this conversation, the gentle revelation of it. Punisher having taken it for granted that David would have understood on his own that Frank loved him too.

“He chose, David. It wasn’t for any lack of yours. The moment we bonded I knew I would lose him. He belonged to the dead more than he would ever belong to us.”

David can’t imagine that. He can feel Punisher’s pain – the pain of loving someone and knowing their heart, despite the effort they put into the relationship, wasn’t really in it. The pain of knowing that your love was willing to die, just waiting for the chance really. He’d never really thought of Frank as suicidal, but seeing him through the symbiote’s eyes, he has new perspective. Frank dreamed of death, courted it, counted on it.

He loved so many things, so deeply, but his losses had been too great. Finding out that the work he’d done in Cerberus had been illegitimate, had made him a murderer of who knew how many innocent men had been the end of him. He didn’t believe in redemption, certainly not for himself. He’d loved David, loved Punisher – he’d loved Sarah and the kids too, David felt that in the memories Punisher shared – but he had hated himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says...

Just this whole exchange is Good. For an extra hit, allow me to point out that Punisher says ‘It wasn’t for any lack of yours’. Not ‘ours’. Just ‘yours’.

Also the Punisher loving Frank and having a front row seat to his self-destruction, his lack of self preservation. Uh, can you imagine, for a minute, what Frank bonded to a symbiote was like? The risks he’d throw himself into because even if he took a bullet or broke a bone, Punisher would heal him before he died from it? yeah.

“Look, Russo is out there, right now – that smug piece of shit thinks he got away and –”

“And he is hiding. Like a rat, like a roach. When we find him, we will eat his pretty face off his skull and he will die screaming, begging our mercy and there will be none. It will be delicious and we live for that moment. But that is future. This is now. Go up stairs. This… moping… is unbecoming.”

Haha i love how much they both hate Russo. I really treasure that. And the whole way Punisher talks about what they’re gonna do when they catch him is just Nice.

Chapter Three:

So when David twists and writhes in bed, Punisher tastes his anguish, his despair, and wakes him before he can wake Sarah. It soothes him into rising without a noise, but drags him from the dream swiftly, baring it from further examination. This is easy for the symbiote, sort of like throwing the thought in a box. It’s not David’s thought, it’s theirs, and if they have to share it, then Punisher will deal with it.

Part of what I like so much about this chapter is the narrative perspective bleeding back and forth between Punisher and David. Because they’re bonded quite well at this point, and their experiences still have distinct flavours but more and more they function as one. So Punisher coming forward and just boxing up David’s Bad Thoughts is just kinda cool and nice.

He’s cut off by the image, definitely not his own, of himself, sitting at the desk in the power station. He looks tired, and distant, not focused on anything in particular, just looking off to one side, gently lit in the low lights but somehow distinct. His hair is wild, longer, tangled around his face in a mess that somehow reads as endearing; his eyes – they’re not even focused on them, but they’re so blue its unnatural. And in this image – it’s a memory, but it’s not, it’s something more, enhanced by so many emotions that Punisher is pushing through their bond

protect beware infuriating love love love

in this image he looks up, straight into his minds eye – Frank’s mind’s eye because who else would he have been talking to there – and he smiles, and his own heart twists with the fondness and delight he feels, emotions high and unnatural for ‘him’ at the time. He feels a distant stirring of arousal, and again it’s not his own, but the pounding of his heart certainly is.

The memory dissipates all at once, leaving him feeling shell-shocked and wide-eyed in the basement dark, and Punisher curls protectively, sweetly, around his ribs. It’s a physical presence; he can feel the symbiote in his chest, winding around bone, caressing his thudding heart. It should be disturbing, but somehow it’s a comfort.

This whole exchange is just Wow and also Romantic to me. Punisher being able to give David Frank’s memories and let David perceive himself how Frank did. I just really like that as a concept. bombarding David with the feelings Frank felt when he looked at David. That ‘beware’ was one of those emotions.

“Maybe he deserved them more than me, okay? Maybe that’s what it’s about, maybe I’m not scared of him – why the fuck would I be scared of him? I loved him so much I would have died for him and now he’s gone and he shouldn’t be, he should be here – Sarah would be happier with him, someone strong and steady, not some loser who hid from her for a year!”

Those white eyes are wide in shock, though they are mentally entwined and David thinks it had to have known… but then, he hadn’t known Punisher was angry about his nightmares until it spoke, either.

“Everything he did he did for your survival. For you, David.”

“Yeah, so you say! Maybe you’re just fucking with me, trying to make me happy – gotta make those brain chemicals, right? Make it comfy in here for you, right?”

He regrets saying it even as he says it, his own eyes widening at the surge of hurt and upset he feels wash through him, followed by a coiled sort of anger. All at once he’s slammed back into the futon, and he can’t move; Punisher looms in front of him, dangerous teeth on gruesome display. For all that it always seems to be grinning, there’s nothing amused about it’s visage now.

lmao just... god, being so nicely bonded and still having this kind of miscommunication is Good. They’re still alien to one another, especially in emotional experience. David saying something ugly and regretting it even as he’s saying it. Being able to feel how hurtful the words are to Punisher. Punisher rising up righteous in retaliation.

“What was that he said?”

Again, like an instant replay, Frank’s eyelids fluttering, his back pressed against the cold tiles of the shower they’d used in that hellish basement, his hand squeezing just slightly as he moans David’s name.

“Ah, that’s right. You, he was thinking about you.”

The words are so smug yet so bitter – Punisher proving a point.

Did i make it obvious yet how Frank loved David more than Punisher?

Frank could have gone after anyone. That Karen woman, hell, he could have been thinking about Sarah and it would have been more understandable, but he wasn’t. He was thinking about David, he wanted David, yearned for him, and David – oh, David was lost in that revelation.

“You think I was was lying? Manipulating you?”

It’s accusatory, mocking, but David knows he deserves it. Punisher would not, maybe could not have lied, he understands that now. But still he can’t move, can only shiver when the symbiote makes a soft sound, a click of the tongue maybe, and then his legs slowly part. He has no control over it, but he makes no effort to stop it, nor does he stop his hands when they move to shimmy down his pajama pants. His breath hitches and Punisher shushes him, nuzzling against his cheek.

“He wanted you. Loved you. Wanted you happy, David. So let’s be happy.”

How about now?

Also I rarely :eyes emoji: at my own work, but... :eyes emoji:.

David only realizes tears are leaking out of him when Punisher hums, leaning in to lick them away. “No, David, no tears. We are happy like this.”

The weirdest part of it all is, he is, and it’s not just fuck-happy, it’s genuine, bone-deep, actual joy.

I just dig the idea of Punisher comforting David, telling him not to cry.

You have me I have him all of him in me so you have him too

Romantic!!! Sweet!! I REALLY LIKE THIS LINE.

#meme me baby #director's commentary meme #saulsgoodman

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papermoonloveslucy · 6 years

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LUCY & GONE WITH THE WIND

In one of the biggest publicity stunts in Hollywood history, over 1,400 actresses were considered for the role of Scarlett O’Hara in MGM's Gone With The Wind. Producer David O. Selznick had the rights to the book, but did not have the money to make it. To keep interest alive in the project during pre-production, he auditioned nearly every starlet in Hollywood: Paulette Goddard (the favorite), Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Jean Arthur, Lana Turner, Barbara Stanwyck, Claudette Colbert, Susan Hayward, Katharine Hepburn, Tallulah Bankhead and Lucille Ball, who read for the role but never made a screen test.

On “Bob Hope's Unrehearsed Antics of The Stars” (September 28, 1984) Ball recounted - with a fair amount of embellishment for comedic effect - her audition.

I had to audition for Mr. David O. Selznick and it was for Scarlett O'Hara in ‘Gone With the Wind’. Everybody knew it was just a huge publicity gimmick. But I was just a young starlet when you're a under contract to a studio you do what you're told to do.

After working six dreadful weeks with a dialogue coach who had a southern accent that just dripped molasses, the big day finally arrived. I knew it was ridiculous, but I had to go. I climbed into my old rattletrap car and as I reached Culver City I got caught in the biggest cloudburst I ever saw. The streets were flooded. My car stalled. I had to get out and wade six blocks to the studio. I got to the Selznick office looking like a drowned rat. Marcella, Selznick's girl Friday, didn't even recognize me. My hair was down over my face and the henna was running and so was my mascara. I was soaked clear through. Marcella made me take off all my clothes, gave me a big towel and a huge brown sweater and put me on the floor in front of a roaring fireplace in Mr. Selznick's private office. And she gave me a big brandy snifter with brandy in it.

A half hour and four slugs of brandy later I was still a mess and still on my knees at the fireplace. Suddenly Mr. Selznick came in and said “Well, what have we here?” I said, “Well, I ain't Scarlett O'Hara. I'm Lucille Ball and I wanna go home.” He said “Now, now. We have to do the scenes.” I said “I can't. I can't stand up.” I couldn't stand up because what I was wearing didn't cover me - and the four shots of brandy didn't help either. But he said “Alright then, do it from there.” I had to audition on my knees.

Now the first scene was Scarlett as a sixteen year-old. When I tried to bat my eyes my eyelashes stuck together and they wouldn't bat. Scarlett said something like “Well, I do declare! I do declare! You boys are so handsome in your gray uniforms. I swear, I'm just gonna miss you all so very, very much.” I'm still on my knees. Then I had a scene with Rhett Butler. I said “Rhett Butler, you're nothing but a no-good low-down Yankee spy and you can go back to where you come from and you can stay there!”

Selznick said “You were very interesting. Very interesting.” I said “I was not and you know it.” And then I just crawled out of the office on my knees holding onto the sweater trying to keep all the vital parts covered.

Although some of Ball's recounting sounds plausible, she remarks that her henna (red hair dye) was running down her face. Ball didn't dye her hair red for the first time until asked to do so by MGM for DuBarry Was a Lady in 1943. She was a natural brunette who was a blonde in some of her early work in order to stand out from the crowd.

During the time period that Gone With The Wind shot (January through July 1939), Lucille Ball made five films for RKO, with the fifth (That's Right – You're Wrong) released just three weeks before Gone With The Wind.

But this was not the last time Lucy would encounter Scarlett and Gone With the Wind. In the 1954 “I Love Lucy” episode “Lucy Writes a Novel” (ILL S3;E24) Lucy Ricardo is inspired to write a roman a clef about her life called “Real Gone with the Wind.” Fred replies “Yeah. Real gone!”

In 1971's “Lucy and Carol Burnett: The Hollywood Unemployment Follies” (HL S3;E22) Lucy and Carol encounter mannequins of Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh dressed in costumes from Gone With The Wind. Carol, using a high pitched Southern accent, imitates Scarlet O'Hara. After the network premiere of the movie in 1976, Carol Burnett produced one her most famous sketches ever, playing Scarlett (re-named Starlett) in the parody “It Went With The Wind” on “The Carol Burnett Show.”

In September 1971, in “Lucy and Flip Go Legit” (HL S4;E1), Lucy Carter convinces Flip Wilson to play Prissy in her daughter Kim's community theatre version of Gone With The Wind. Kim (Lucie Arnaz) plays Melanie, Uncle Harry (Gale Gordon) is Rhett, and Lucy finally gets to play Scarlett. Although Flip Wilson wearing an Abe Lincoln t-shirt as Prissy is very funny, the sketch does not hold a candle to Burnett's 1976 endeavor.

In “Lucy's Lucky Day” (HL S4;E15) Lucy Carter finds an overdue library book - Gone With The Wind – which she says took out when it was first published. The novel by Margaret Mitchell dates from 1936, which means that in 1971 Lucy has had the book out for 35 years! Imagine the fines!

In the 1958 promo film “Lucy Buys Westinghouse” Desi takes a Westinghouse representative on a helicopter tour of Desilu Culver (formerly RKO), a back lot located in Culver City, also known as Forty Acres. This is where MGM made Gone With The Wind. They pass over a destroyed Tara, twenty years after the film was made. Ironically, it is now owned by Lucille Ball!

Although Lucille Ball did not get cast, actors who did get roles in the film and later worked for Lucille Ball included:

George Reeves, Stuart Tarleton in GWTW / Superman in “Lucy and Superman” (ILL) [Reeves is incorrectly credited as Brent Tarleton in the film and only credited as ‘Superman’ on “I Love Lucy.”]

Olin Howland, Carpetbagger Businessman in GWTW / Mr. Skinner in “First Stop” (ILL)

Irving Bacon, Corporal in GWTW / Will Potter in “Ethel's Home Town” (ILL) and Mr. Willoughby in “The Marriage License” (ILL)

Alberto Morin, Rene Picard in GWTW / Waiter Robert DuBois in “The French Revue” (ILL) and Carlos in “Cuban Pals” (ILL)

Shep Houghton, Southern Dandy in GWTW / Courtroom Spectator in “Lucy and the Raffle” (HL) [That same year, Houghton was also a Winkie Guard in The Wizard of Oz.]

Ralph Brooks, Gentleman at 12 Oaks Barbecue in GWTW / Casino Patron in “Lucy Goes to Vegas” (TLS)

Hans Moebus, Party Guest in GWTW / Man on Dock in “Bon Voyage” (ILL), Riverboat Patron in “Lucy and Arthur Godfrey” (TLS) and Spectator in “Lucy at Marineland” (TLS) [Lucy wore the same dress in “Lucy and Arthur Godfrey” as she did as Scarlett O’Hara in “Lucy and Flip Go Legit.”]

Hattie McDaniel (Mammy in GWTW, inset) was the first black actress ever to win an Oscar, but she wasn’t the only McDaniel to have a ‘first ever’ recognition in show business. Her brother Sam McDaniel played the Porter in “The Great Train Robbery” (ILL), and was the first and only black actor to have dialogue on “I Love Lucy.”

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all-my-books · 6 years

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2017 Reading

262 books read. 60% of new reads Non-fiction, authors from 55 unique countries, 35% of authors read from countries other than USA, UK, Canada, and Australia. Asterisks denote re-reads, bolds are favorites. January: The Deeds of the Disturber – Elizabeth Peters The Wiregrass – Pam Webber Homegoing – Yaa Gyasi It Didn't Start With You – Mark Wolynn Facing the Lion – Joseph Lemasolai Lekuton Before We Visit the Goddess – Chitra Divakaruni Colored People – Henry Louis Gates Jr. My Khyber Marriage – Morag Murray Abdullah Miss Bianca in the Salt Mines – Margery Sharp Farewell to the East End – Jennifer Worth Fire and Air – Erik Vlaminck My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me – Jennifer Teege Catherine the Great – Robert K Massie My Mother's Sabbath Days – Chaim Grade Not the Israel My Parents Promised Me – Harvey Pekar, JT Waldman The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend – Katarina Bivald Stammered Songbook – Erwin Mortier Savushun – Simin Daneshvar The Prophet – Kahlil Gibran Beyond the Walls – Nazim Hikmet The Dressmaker of Khair Khana – Gayle Tzemach Lemmon A Day No Pigs Would Die – Robert Newton Peck *

February: Bone Black – bell hooks Special Exits – Joyce Farmer Reading Like a Writer – Francine Prose Bright Dead Things – Ada Limon Middlemarch – George Eliot Confessions of an English Opium Eater – Thomas de Quincey Medusa's Gaze – Marina Belozerskaya Child of the Prophecy – Juliet Marillier * The File on H – Ismail Kadare The Motorcycle Diaries – Ernesto Che Guevara Passing – Nella Larsen Whose Body? - Dorothy L. Sayers The Spiral Staircase – Karen Armstrong Station Eleven – Emily St. John Mandel Reading Lolita in Tehran – Azar Nafisi Defiance – Nechama Tec

March: Yes, Chef – Marcus Samuelsson Discontent and its Civilizations – Mohsin Hamid The Gulag Archipelago Vol. 1 – Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn Patience and Sarah – Isabel Miller Dying Light in Corduba – Lindsey Davis * Five Days at Memorial – Sheri Fink A Man Called Ove – Fredrik Backman * The Shia Revival – Vali Nasr Girt – David Hunt Half Magic – Edward Eager * Dreams of Joy – Lisa See * Too Pretty to Live – Dennis Brooks West with the Night – Beryl Markham Little Fuzzy – H. Beam Piper *

April: Defying Hitler – Sebastian Haffner Monsters in Appalachia – Sheryl Monks Sorcerer to the Crown – Zen Cho The Man Without a Face – Masha Gessen Peace is Every Step – Thich Nhat Hanh Flory – Flory van Beek Why Soccer Matters – Pele The Zhivago Affair – Peter Finn, Petra Couvee The Stories of Breece D'J Pancake – Breece Pancake The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared – Jonas Jonasson Chasing Utopia – Nikki Giovanni The Invisible Bridge – Julie Orringer * Young Adults – Daniel Pinkwater Jonathan Swift: The Reluctant Rebel – John Stubbs Black Gun, Silver Star – Art T. Burton The Arab of the Future 2 – Riad Sattouf Hole in the Heart – Henny Beaumont MASH – Richard Hooker Forgotten Ally – Rana Mitter Zorro – Isabel Allende Flying Couch – Amy Kurzweil

May: The Bite of the Mango – Mariatu Kamara Mystic and Rider – Sharon Shinn * Freedom is a Constant Struggle – Angela Davis Capture – David A. Kessler Poor Cow – Nell Dunn My Father's Dragon – Ruth Stiles Gannett * Elmer and the Dragon – Ruth Stiles Gannett * The Dragons of Blueland – Ruth Stiles Gannett * Hetty Feather – Jacqueline Wilson In the Shadow of the Banyan – Vaddey Ratner The Last Camel Died at Noon – Elizabeth Peters Cannibalism – Bill Schutt The Handmaid's Tale – Margaret Atwood A Fine Balance – Rohinton Mistry The Food of a Younger Land – Mark Kurlansky Behold the Dreamers – Imbolo Mbue Words on the Move – John McWhorter John Ransom's Diary: Andersonville – John Ransom Such a Lovely Little War – Marcelino Truong Child of All Nations – Irmgard Keun One Child – Mei Fong Country of Red Azaleas – Domnica Radulescu Between Two Worlds – Zainab Salbi Malinche – Julia Esquivel A Lucky Child – Thomas Buergenthal The Drackenberg Adventure – Lloyd Alexander Say You're One of Them – Uwem Akpan William Wells Brown – Ezra Greenspan

June: Partners In Crime – Agatha Christie The Chinese in America – Iris Chang The Great Escape – Kati Marton As Texas Goes... – Gail Collins Pavilion of Women – Pearl S. Buck Classic Chinese Stories – Lu Xun The Return of the Soldier – Rebecca West The Slave Across the Street – Theresa Flores Miss Bianca in the Orient – Margery Sharp Boy Erased – Garrard Conley How to Be a Dictator – Mikal Hem A Thousand Splendid Suns – Khaled Hosseini Tears of the Desert – Halima Bashir The Death and Life of Great American Cities – Jane Jacobs The First Salute – Barbara Tuchman Come as You Are – Emily Nagoski The Want-Ad Killer – Ann Rule The Gulag Archipelago Vol 2 – Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

July: Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz – L. Frank Baum * The Blazing World – Margaret Cavendish Madonna in a Fur Coat – Sabahattin Ali Duende – tracy k. smith The ACB With Honora Lee – Kate de Goldi Mountains of the Pharaohs – Zahi Hawass Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy Chronicle of a Last Summer – Yasmine el Rashidi Killers of the Flower Moon – David Grann Mister Monday – Garth Nix * Leaving Yuba City – Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni The Silk Roads – Peter Frankopan The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy – Douglas Adams A Corner of White – Jaclyn Moriarty * Circling the Sun – Paula McLain Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them – Al Franken Believe Me – Eddie Izzard The Cracks in the Kingdom – Jaclyn Moriarty * Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe – Fannie Flagg * One Hundred and One Days – Asne Seierstad Grim Tuesday – Garth Nix * The Vanishing Velasquez – Laura Cumming Four Against the Arctic – David Roberts The Marriage Bureau – Penrose Halson The Jesuit and the Skull – Amir D Aczel Drowned Wednesday – Garth Nix * Roots, Radicals, and Rockers – Billy Bragg A Tangle of Gold – Jaclyn Moriarty * Lydia, Queen of Palestine – Uri Orlev *

August: Sir Thursday – Garth Nix * The Hoboken Chicken Emergency – Daniel Pinkwater * Lady Friday – Garth Nix * Freddy and the Perilous Adventure – Walter R. Brooks * Venice – Jan Morris China's Long March – Jean Fritz Trials of the Earth – Mary Mann Hamilton The Bully Pulpit – Doris Kearns Goodwin Final Exit – Derek Humphry The Book of Emma Reyes – Emma Reyes Freddy the Politician – Walter R. Brooks * Dragonflight – Anne McCaffrey * What the Witch Left – Ruth Chew All Passion Spent – Vita Sackville-West The Picture of Dorian Gray – Oscar Wilde The Curse of the Blue Figurine – John Bellairs * When They Severed Earth From Sky – Elizabeth Wayland Barber Superior Saturday – Garth Nix * The Boston Girl – Anita Diamant The Mummy, The Will, and the Crypt – John Bellairs * Are We Smart Enough to Know How Smart Animals Are? - Frans de Waal The Philadelphia Adventure – Lloyd Alexander * Lord Sunday – Garth Nix * The Spell of the Sorcerer's Skull – John Bellairs * Five Little Pigs – Agatha Christie * Love in Vain – JM Dupont, Mezzo A Little History of the World – EH Gombrich Last Things – Marissa Moss Imagine Wanting Only This – Kristen Radtke Dinosaur Empire – Abby Howard The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents – Terry Pratchett *

September: First Bite by Bee Wilson The Xanadu Adventure by Lloyd Alexander Orientalism – Edward Said The Lost Crown of Genghis Khan – Carl Barks The Island on Bird Street – Uri Orlev * The Indifferent Stars Above – Daniel James Brown Beneath the Lion's Gaze – Maaza Mengiste The Importance of Being Earnest – Oscar Wilde * The Book of Five Rings – Miyamoto Musashi The Drunken Botanist – Amy Stewart The Turtle of Oman – Naomi Shahib Nye The Alleluia Files – Sharon Shinn * Gut Feelings – Gerd Gigerenzer The Secret of Hondorica – Carl Barks Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight – Alexandra Fuller The Abominable Mr. Seabrook – Joe Ollmann Black Flags – Joby Warrick

October: Fear – Thich Nhat Hanh Fall Down 7 Times Get Up 8 – Naoki Higashida To the Bright Edge of the World – Eowyn Ivey Why? - Mario Livio Just One Damned Thing After Another – Jodi Taylor The Yellow Wallpaper – Charlotte Perkins Gilman Blindness – Jose Saramago The Book Thieves – Anders Rydell Reality is not What it Seems – Carlo Rovelli Cranford – Elizabeth Gaskell * The Witch Family – Eleanor Estes * Sister Mine – Nalo Hopkinson La Vagabonde – Colette Becoming Nicole – Amy Ellis Nutt

November: The Golden Notebook – Doris Lessing The Children's Book – A.S. Byatt The Fire Next Time – James Baldwin Under the Udala Trees – Chinelo Okparanta Who Killed These Girls? – Beverly Lowry Running for my Life – Lopez Lmong Radium Girls – Kate Moore News of the World – Paulette Jiles The Red Pony – John Steinbeck The Edible History of Humanity – Tom Standage A Woman in Arabia – Gertrude Bell and Georgina Howell Founding Gardeners – Andrea Wulf Anatomy of a Disapperance – Hisham Matar The Book of Night Women – Marlon James Ground Zero – Kevin J. Anderson * Acorna – Anne McCaffrey and Margaret Ball * A Girl Named Zippy – Haven Kimmel * The Age of the Vikings – Anders Winroth The Spanish Civil War: A Very Short Introduction – Helen Graham A General History of the Pyrates – Captain Charles Johnson (suspected Nathaniel Mist) Clouds of Witness – Dorothy L. Sayers * The Lonely City – Olivia Laing No Time for Tears – Judy Heath

December: The Unwomanly Face of War – Svetlana Alexievich Gay-Neck - Dhan Gopal Mukerji The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane – Lisa See Get Well Soon – Jennifer Wright The Testament of Mary – Colm Toibin The Roman Way – Edith Hamilton Understood Betsy – Dorothy Canfield Fisher * The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Vicente Blasco Ibanez Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH – Robert C. O'Brien SPQR – Mary Beard Ballet Shoes – Noel Streatfeild * Hogfather – Terry Pratchett * The Sorrow of War – Bao Ninh Drowned Hopes – Donald E. Westlake * Selected Essays – Michel de Montaigne Vietnam – Stanley Karnow The Snake, The Crocodile, and the Dog – Elizabeth Peters Guests of the Sheik – Elizabetha Warnok Fernea Stone Butch Blues – Leslie Feinberg Wicked Plants – Amy Stewart Life in a Medieval City – Joseph and Frances Gies Under the Sea Wind – Rachel Carson The Red Virgin and the Vision of Utopia – Mary and Brian Talbot Brat Farrar – Josephine Tey * The Treasure of the Ten Avatars – Don Rosa Escape From Forbidden Valley – Don Rosa Nightwood – Djuna Barnes Here Comes the Sun – Nicole Dennis-Benn Over My Dead Body – Rex Stout *

#books #reading #2017

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thegladelf · 7 years

Text

Killian Jones and The Girl Who Lived 6/8

Ahhhh....we’re in the home stretch! I hope everyone has enjoyed it so far. I love hearing from all of you... A great big thank you to @icecubelotr44 for being such an awesome beta. Also a shout out to @prongsie and @jemmingart for being such great artists and cheerleaders. I’ve loved getting to see what their brains come up with to complement my crazy, little story.

As usual, this chapter is up on FF.net and Ao3 if those are your preferred platforms.

Word Count: 5.2k

Rating: G

First Chapter | Previous Chapter

Chapter Six: Nicholas Flamel

“You’re sure?” Mary Margaret asked.

The Great Hall bustled with activity as students slid into their places at the tables. Every now and then, the vocal exuberance of a reunion would punctuate the air. Students had been arriving at Hogwarts all day, most of them glad to see friends and excited for the second half of term.

Mary Margaret leaned over the table, her hand practically in the middle of a bowl of pudding as she quizzed the three of them.

Emma sighed, exchanging a long-suffering glance with David. “Is it possible to transfigure yourself into someone else?”

“That’s not transfiguration,” Killian supplied around a mouthful of biscuit—the kind that had rarely crossed the threshold back home, with decadent icing and sprinkles.

David squinted at Mary Margaret. “Are you positive about that? Because Mary Margaret sort of sounds like McGonagall on pop quiz day.”

“I just want to know if you found anything,” Mary Margaret said. She sat back with a huff, not even muttering as Killian reached for another treat.

“We already told you what we found.” Emma glanced around, her eyes lingering on the teachers—who looked considerably less excited than the students—as they ate their meals at the head table. “Nothing. We must’ve checked dozens of shelves off our list, but we didn’t find a single word on Nicholas Flamel.” On the last two words, her voice dropped even lower, so that even from right next to her, Killian read the words on her lips more than he heard them.

Mary Margaret pouted. “Well, that’s disappointing.” She stabbed her fork into her dinner, pushing her potatoes around like the answer was hiding somewhere among the butter and gravy. And then she smiled. “But at least I’ll be able to be here now if you find it. Emma, you said you’ve been checking off the shelves? I need those back if I’m going to redraw them and come up with another plan. We’ll definitely find it now that I’m here to keep you three on task.”

David rolled his eyes.

Killian gave him a look that said it was better to just accept it and reached for his third biscuit. He had a feeling he’d need the sugar buzz to keep up with Mary Margaret.

The first few weeks of term went much like that. They searched and searched, but found nothing new. At the same time, their teachers assigned more and more homework. Killian didn’t know how Mary Margaret managed to do that and pour over the diagrams of the library every night. The mystery of Nicholas Flamel and whatever was in that room gnawed at him, until it was all he could do to focus on his homework.

And then to add all that, Emma sloshed in from Quidditch practice one with disturbing news.

"You look like a drowned rat." David, who was sprawled on his back on the nearby sofa, lifted his eye to give Emma a chagrined once over as she ducked into the common room. His assessment wasn’t wrong. Her robes were soaked through and her hair had mostly come out of its braid, hanging around her face in loose, stringy waves. He patted his pocket where his rat probably slept. Sleeping was all the rat seemed to do. "No offense, Scabbers."

"A drowned rat that's just had its tail cut off," Killian added. He budged over at the table, sliding his school books well out of the reach of Emma's dripping uniform. She actually squelched as she sat next to him. "What's wrong, Swan?"

"Snape is refereeing the next match."

Mary Margaret's head snapped up from her homework. "He's what?"

"Shhh." Emma pressed a finger to her lips, which were tinged blue, and gave a quick rundown of what went down in practice.

"Well, you can't play,” Mary Margaret said, turning back to her books like that solved the matter.

"They won't let her sit out for no reason," David said.

"She could fake being sick," Killian suggested.

"Or she could fake a broken leg," Mary Margaret said.

David sat up. "She could really break her leg."

“That’s a terrible idea,” Mary Margaret hissed at the same time that Killian smacked the back of David’s head and snapped, “No!”

Emma tilted her head, as though that was the best idea she’d heard so far.

Before Killian could tell her how ridiculous that idea was—especially since Madam Pomfrey could just regrow the bone with Skele-Grow, one of David and Killian’s roommates quite literally hopped in, drawing the stares of the entire Gryffindor common room.

"Taking his last name a bit seriously, isn't he?" David asked.

Emma whacked David on the side opposite from where Killian had bopped him. "Don't be so dense."

The boy, who bore the unfortunate name of Archibald Hopper—though everyone except the professors called him Archie—finally lost his balance and toppled over onto the carpet. It was then Killian realized what Emma meant.

Archie was the unlucky victim of a Leg Locker Curse.

Mary Margaret scoffed as the rest of the room burst into laughter, silenced David's chuckle with a venomous look, and hurried forward as she slid her wand from her robes in one smooth motion.

David and Killian followed, extending their hands to him once Mary Margaret reversed the curse and helping him onto shaky legs.

"What happened?" Emma asked. Their books had been stacked on an empty chair, but she cleared them away quickly as Archie wobbled his way over.

"Regina was looking for someone to practice on." He sank into the chair gratefully, taking his glasses from Mary Margaret and putting them back on.

Emma's hands curled into fists. "You should tell Professor McGonagall. Regina shouldn't get away with something like this."

Archie twisted his fingers in his lap, pale eyes flicking to each of them. "She'll think I'm not brave enough to be in Gryffindor. No, don't deny it, I know you all think it too." He clutched at his bright orange hair. "I think you might be right."

"Nonsense," Emma said, hands on her hips like she meant to fight him until he agreed with her.

Killian thought that sounded like a very Emma thing to do.

"The hat put you in Gryffindor and as far as I can tell it hasn't made a mistake yet." Emma patted her pocket, pulling out a chocolate frog—her last chocolate frog from Christmas—and handing it to Archie. "Here. Candy always makes me feel better."

Archie stared at the box and swiped under his eyes with his thumb. "Thank you."

"You're worth twelve of Regina," she said.

"Thank you," Archie repeated in an even smaller voice as he carefully unwrapped the frog. He looked at the card for a moment as he munched on the chocolate and then held it out to Emma. "I've already got this one, do you need it?"

She plucked it out of Archie's hand with a smile. "Thanks, Archie."

He blushed so red his hair looked like tongues of flame and ran off to the boy's dorm.

"Odd chap," David said, "you know—ow, Emma, what?"

Emma was poking him repeatedly—and forcefully—on the arm, waving the card from Archie in her other hand.

"I found him!" she howled. "I knew I read it somewhere!"

"Found who?" David tried to grab the card from Emma, but Killian got there first.

His eyes widened as he read the sentence. "She’s found Nicholas Flamel—"

"Give that back." Emma snatched the card away, rolling her eyes at Killian. When she spoke again, it was much softer, "Listen...'Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with Nicholas Flamel'!"

Mary Margaret actually clapped her hands together and bounced in delight. She jumped to her feet and her homework fell to the floor, but she didn’t pay any attention as her scroll full of cramped writing unrolled itself on the plush carpet. She spun, ran halfway to the girls’ stairs, spun again, and ran back to them.

"Stay here," she said and she took the stairs two at a time.

"What just happened?" David asked.

Killian crossed his arms. "I'm betting she has some book up there."

"Sounds reasonable."

She did indeed return with a book. A massive, dusty looking thing with yellowed pages and a worn cover.

"Blimey," David said, "you could kill someone with that thing."

"I got this from the library ages ago. For a little bit of bedtime reading you know." Mary Margaret flipped the book open, rustling through the pages faster than Killian would ever have dared with such an old book.

"That's what you consider bedtime reading?" David asked.

Emma nodded. "You have no idea."

Killian admitted the book was a bit thick, even for his tastes, but Mary Margaret paid them no mind whatsoever.

"Aha!" she cried, tapping a page with her finger. "Here we are, Nicholas Flamel is the only known maker of the Sorcerer's Stone!"

Emma, Killian, and David all said, "The what?"

Which was a mistake on their part.

Mary Margaret's face brightened. “The ancient study of alchemy…”

“Alche-what-y?” David cut in. “I thought we were talking about rocks.”

“Hush!” Mary Margaret wagged her finger at all three of them, glaring at Killian and Emma as though they had interrupted as well. She cleared her throat and started reading again, her voice soft, but official. “The ancient study of alchemy— ” she paused here, eyes drilling into David, “—is concerned with making the Sorcerer’s Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal.

“And here’s the important part.” She tapped the page with her finger, though the writing was too cramped for anyone to read it without pushing her aside. “There have been many reports of the Sorcerer’s Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicholas Flamel, the noted alchemist.” She shot another look at David, the I told you so written plainly on her features. “Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle, six hundred and fifty-eight.”

There was a lengthy pause when she finished and closed the book with a flourish.

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Are we allowed to talk now?”

Mary Margaret nodded and Killian felt suddenly that he needed to raise his hand before speaking.

"Six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday?" David asked with incredulity.

"That's quite impressive," Killian added. He leaned around Mary Margaret, scanning the paragraph, sure that she hadn't left anything out, but wanting to see for himself.

"Well, that's one thing solved," Mary Margaret said. "Now we just have to figure out what to do with Emma and the Quidditch match."

Emma shrugged. "We've don't have a reserve Seeker. Gryffindor forfeits the match if I don't play."

# # #

David and Killian showed up at the Quidditch pitch early on the morning of the match, slipping into their seats while the stands were still mostly empty. Killian didn’t know what they could do from all the way over in the Gryffindor box, but he clung to the rail as though he could protect Emma by mere proximity. From the grim set of his jaw, David felt the same.

The stands started to fill and they scooted further apart, saving space for Mary Margaret. The wood groaned horribly and they looked behind to find Hagrid taking a seat in the back, his binoculars hanging around his neck. Killian felt in his pocket for the spyglass Liam gave him.

“Am I climbing over you two? Or are you going to budge over, David?” Mary Margaret’s imperious voice asked. She looked rather chipper for someone whose best friend would likely meet a grizzly end today. “Oh, don’t look so glum.”

She plopped down next to them.

David held his hand out to Killian. “Can I see your spyglass, Killian?”

“What? Why?” Killian clutched it tightly, eying David.

“I want to see if she’s done anything nasty to our least favorite professor.” He squinted at Mary Margaret. “I mean, I know she’s an incurable teacher’s pet, but for Emma she might forget that.”

Mary Margaret sighed. “I haven’t done anything.”

She waited, lips pursed together. Finally she bumped into David’s shoulder. “You’ll never guess who I ran into on my way here.”

“Well, you want to tell us, so spit it out.” David glared.

Grin broadening, she pointed to the teachers’ box.

Carefully navigating his way past Professor McGonagall and Leroy Jordan was a tall, thin figure in purple robes and a tall hat.

“Blimey,” David breathed. “Is that…”

“It is,” Killian confirmed, his eye pressed to the sight on his spyglass. He swung it about, seeking out the foreboding, black figure. The glass gave him a perfect view of Snape’s cold, black eyes fixed on the teachers’ box. Good. He had noticed too. “No way Snape tries anything with Dumbledore here.”

“Nope.” Mary Margaret sighed. “Emma’s safe.”

“For now,” David muttered, “but what happens after the game, when Dumbledore isn’t watching?”

“We’ll worry about that later,” Killian said, stowing his spyglass safely in his pocket.

David jerked forward. “Ow!” He glared behind him, rubbing at the back of his head.

“Oh, sorry, Nolan,” Regina said, daintily picking her way through the stands. Mal and Ursula were hot on her heels. “I didn’t see you there.”

Mary Margaret patted David’s shoulder. “Just ignore her.”

David exhaled slowly and obeyed.

Killian nodded, staring grimly forward as he watched Emma. Even with Dumbledore’s presence, there was a lot that could go wrong in a Quidditch game.

“Aw, c’mon,” David shouted as Snape awarded a penalty to Gryffindor because Happy hit a Bludger and it just happened to go in Snape’s direction.

“You know,” Regina drawled behind them, “I think I’ve figured out how Gryffindor picks their players. It’s certainly not based on talent, that Swan girl can barely stay on a broom. Remember last game?” She paused, waiting for her friends’ laughter, which was long and loud and turned into cheering when Snape awarded Hufflepuff yet another undeserved penalty. “But, of course, she’s got no parents, so they had to let her on the team. And then there’s Harold Nolan… his family has got no money. I bet he just boo-hooed a little and Wood let him on.”

A hand landed on Killian’s shoulder. He jumped, whirling to see Regina, a look of false pity on her face.

“Maybe you should ask to get on the team, Jones.”

Killian turned back around with gritted teeth. “I’m worth ten of you, Regina.”

“Jones, I’m just trying to help you have a little fun. Who knows how long it’ll be before you’ve got a room next to dear old mum at St. Mungo’s.”

“Shut up, Regina,” Killian muttered. His hand closed around the spyglass in his pocket, gripping it tightly to keep from lashing out. Emma. He looked up in time to see Emma make a spectacular dive. People jumped to their feet cheering and gasping. Killian gripped the rail with his free hand, his breath caught in his throat.

“No wonder you two get along,” Regina crowed. “She’s as crazy as you are.”

Something inside Killian snapped. He whirled on Regina, pouncing on her and wrestling her to the ground. She shrieked and clawed at his face, her nails tearing down his cheek and drawing blood. His fist collided with her nose. And then Mal and Ursula were on top of them, too. Someone—Killian didn’t know who—landed a solid punch to his gut. His breath whooshed out. He heard David bellow and jump in the fray.

Mary Margaret was screeching now, but he could only make out some of the words. “David—Killian!!! Where—over! Emma—Gryffindor---“

“Oh, fer heaven’s sake,” Hagrid’s gruff voice cut through all the fighting.

Killian’s feet left the ground. He looked up to find Hagrid staring down at him with disapproval. Regina hung from Hagrid’s other hand, kicking and thrashing the air. Killian, however, stopped fighting, staring at the boards beneath his toes as Hagrid shook both of them.

“My mother will hear of this!” Regina screeched.

“Let her,” Hagrid said. “Now, off with yeh. I don’t want to see no more foolin’ around.” He set the two on them on their feet and glared until Regina and her friends started off.

“Hagrid, I—”

“No, Killian, I heard what she said about yer mum. Just don’ let it happen again.”

And then Mary Margaret had a vice grip around his neck and David was clutching his other shoulder shouting, “We won! Emma did it!”

“Come on!” Mary Margaret cried, tugging at both their arms.

They raced down all the way back to the castle, joining the herd of Gryffindor students as they headed to the dorms. Several voices shouted the password all at once and then they were all piling inside. It was only a few minutes before the other players trampled in, yelling and pounding each other on the back.

Emma wasn’t among them.

They waited for what felt like hours. Twice Killian stood up, determined to go find her, but both times, David tugged him back down onto the couch.

"She's probably fiddling with that broom of hers," he said. "You worry too much, Killian."

Mary Margaret looked like she agreed with Killian, though. "Maybe Wood will know where she is. Dumbledore could have pulled her aside or something."

"Right." He didn't know why he hadn't thought of that first. He ducked through the crowd, trying and failing to find the Keeper. He could hear Oliver Wood’s voice mixed with all the other noise, but there were so many older students he couldn’t see a thing.

“There you are!” A familiar voice called as someone grabbed his arm. “Come on. Where is David?” Emma dragged Killian and Mary Margaret in the direction they indicated, refusing to say a word until they were all standing outside the common room.

“I followed Snape…”

“You what?” Killian and David snapped at the same time.

“Oh hush, he didn’t see me this time.” She leaned forward, her hands moving broadly through the air as she spoke. “He was meeting Heller in the woods.” She shot a look at Mary Margaret before she could say that they weren’t supposed to go near the forest. “He wanted to know if Heller had figured out a way past Fluffy and there was something about needing a piece of magic from him.”

“So Professor Heller is the only standing between Snape and the stone?” David snorted. “He’ll have it by next week.”

# # #

Now that the Mystery of the Thing beneath the trapdoor was solved, Mary Margaret moved on—to exams. She stopped to press her ear to the door on the third floor whenever they passed it and breathed a sigh of relief when she heard Fluffy's snores, but she blatantly refused to worry that a professor was plotting the theft of the most powerful object in the school.

"We've only got ten weeks," Mary Margaret declared, dragging all of them into the library.

Truly, she only had to drag Emma and David. Killian was determined to be at the head of the class. He wanted Liam to feel he hadn’t wasted money on all those books and supplies. His feelings at the beginning of term—the desire to stay home with his brother—seemed a distant memory. Now he couldn't imagine going back to a time when he didn't know Emma or David or Mary Margaret. And chances were that he'd get to see quite a bit of Emma at least over the summer. The few details Killian provided in his letter appalled Liam and he replied that he would talk with Dumbledore and see what could be done about Emma's situation. She wouldn't be going back to the Dursleys if his brother had any say about it.

Which Killian considered as good as saying Emma would stay with them over the summer.

He was discussing that very fact with Emma over One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi when he a thump and a shuffle caught both of their attention.

Hagrid had bumped into a table on his way past them.

"Hello, Hagrid," Killian said. "What are you doing in the library?"

Hagrid seemed to notice them for the first time and his eyes narrowed. "What am I doin'? I should ask what yer doin'... Not still looking for Nicholas Flamel, I 'ope."

"Oh, we already know who he is." David sat back, hands behind his head, textbook forgotten in his lap. "And we know that dog's guarding the Sorcer—"

"Shhhh!" Beneath his beard, Hagrid looked about the same color as a marshmallow and he was sweating a little around the hairline.

"We did have a few more questions," Emma said. "Like..."

"I said SHHHHH!" Hagrid hissed. He looked from Emma to David to Killian, even to Mary Margaret who had only glanced up from her books. "Listen—if it'll end this nonsense, come see me later. I'm not promisin' to tell yeh nothin' mind...but yeh shouldn't be chatterin' about it here."

"Alright," Emma said, turning her thousand watt smile on him.

He turned away in an awkward, clumsy movement, trying to keep an object hidden behind his back.

Killian raised his eyebrows at Emma and David. "Is it just me, or was he hiding something?"

"Hold on," David said, hopping out of his chair, he caught the book in his lap just in time. "I'll be right back."

Killian got up to follow, but Mary Margaret tugged at his sleeve.

“He’d said he’ll be back,” she said, “and you two are supposed to be looking up the uses for dittany.”

Emma huffed and plopped down next to him.

David didn’t make them wait long. He came scurrying around the corner a few minutes later with more books in his arms than Killian had ever seen him carry before. He dropped them on the table with a thunk, catching even Mary Margaret's attention.

"Dragons!" he hissed.

Killian took a book from him, examining it. "So Hagrid likes dragons. It's not exactly surprising." After all, a dragon was only a few steps up from three-headed dogs.

In answer, David yanked one of the books from the stack, drawing an annoyed hiss from Mary Margaret as the rest tumbled on top of all their homework.

"Look!" David waved the book under Killian and Emma's noses.

Exasperated, Emma snatched it up, her eyes on the gold foil title. It read: From Egg to Inferno, A Dragon Keeper's Guide.

She shrugged. "Hagrid's always wanted a dragon. He told me so the day we met."

"It's illegal," Mary Margaret whispered.

"Yeah, dragon breeding was outlawed at the Warlocks' Convention of 1709." David glared at Mary Margaret, who looked surprised he knew such a specific fact. "What? I do know some things, you know."

"Of course you do," she replied in a tone that did nothing to contradict her surprise.

David threw one last dirty look at her and continued, "Anyways, can you imagine if every wizard..."

"Or witch." Mary Margaret added.

David sighed. “…or witch could have a dragon? Muggles would have known about us centuries ago. Kind of hard to keep a giant, fire-breathing lizard under control.”

“Well, he can’t have gotten a dragon’s egg if it was illegal,” Emma said, “so you’re worrying for nothing.”

Killian thought that sounded reasonable.

Just to be sure, they headed down to Hagrid’s hut later that afternoon.

Hagrid had a dragon.

Well, Hagrid had a dragon egg, sitting in his fireplace, blue and orange flames licking all around its sides. Killian caught a glance of it as the big man hurried the four of them into the hut. On such a warm day, the heat was stifling. He bustled about for a good while, until all four of them had a steaming tea cup in front of them. Killian took his more as something to hold than to drink... No way was he drinking that with the hut so hot.

"Stoat sandwich?" Hagrid asked, holding out a plate.

“No thanks,” Emma said, waving the plate away. “We just ate lunch. We’re all absolutely stuffed.”

Hagrid nodded, as though he expected that answer, and snagged a sandwich for himself. "Now, I think yeh had a question for me."

Well—” Killian started.

Emma cut him off. "What's guarding the sorcerer's stone besides Fluffy?"

Killian shot her a look, annoyed that she hadn't buttered Hagrid up a little first. Emma crossed her arms, staring up at Hagrid.

"Even if I could tell yeh that," he replied, "I wouldn't. You four don't need to be snoopin' around there anymore then yeh already have. The stone's here for good reason."

"Oh, of course," Mary Margaret said. Her teacup clinked against the plate as she set it down. "But surely you know something. After all, Dumbledore did trust you to bring the stone from Gringott's." She held up a hand as Hagrid started to deny. "We don't need to know the exact spells guarding the stone, we just were wondering who had a hand in doing the spells."

Hagrid, whose chest had swelled a little at the mention of Dumbledore's trust, narrowed his eyes at her, the gears turning in his mind. "I don't suppose that could hurt. Well, he borrowed Fluffy from me and he had some of the teachers whip up some enchantments." He rattled off a list of names, ticking each one off on fingers the size of sausages. “Let’s see…Professor Anton and good ol’ Doc. McGonagall o’ course and Professor Heller. Dumbledore did somthin’ himself and then—I’m fergettin’ someone. Oh, Professor Snape…”

"Snape?" Emma screeched.

"Professor Snape. Yes." Now it was Hagrid's turn to cross his arms and look belligerent. "Don' tell me yer still on about that, Emma."

Killian exchanged a glance with Mary Margaret and David. The three of them clearly shared Emma’s thoughts. If Snape helped Dumbledore with the defenses, figuring out the other professors’ spells was probably a piece of cake. All but Heller's, it seemed.

Emma didn't push the issue.

"You're the only one that knows how to get past Fluffy, right?" At Hagrid's nod, she went on, "And you would never tell anyone else. Not even one of the other professors?"

"Course not," Hagrid rumbled. "Only other person that knows is Dumbledore."

She seemed to relax at that.

Mary Margaret, however, took that as her cue to go on the offensive. "Hagrid, how did you get a dragon egg?"

The big man jumped, knee knocking into the table as he tried, belatedly, to shift his chair in front of the fire. Mary Margaret tilted her head, lips pressed tight together. Killian recognized the look. David and Emma were often on the receiving end of it when they chose to goof off instead of studying.

"Won it," he mumbled, ducking away from Mary Margaret's judgment. "Las' night. Chap seemed to be grateful fer me to take it off his hands, if I'm honest."

"And you're trying to hatch it?"

Hagrid practically glowed.

"Been doin' some readin'." He leaned across the hut and pulled a thick book from beneath his pillow. Killian struggled to read the title from this angle, but his friends’ eyes widened, so he had a good guess as to what it was about. "Got this outta the library. The mothers breathe on 'em, so I've gotta keep 'im in the fire and then when it hatches I gotta feed it brandy and chicken blood." He flipped the pages with delicacy, a surprising feat with such meaty fingers. "I've got a Norwegian Ridgeback. Rare breed, them."

He beamed at Mary Margaret.

She blinked at him, jaw agape.

"Hagrid," she said very slowly, "you live in a wooden house."

"Pshaw." Hagrid got up to stoke the fire again. "If I can handle Fluffy, I think I can handle a baby dragon."

And he turned away from her, humming as he stoked the fire. The four children finally gave in and said their goodbyes.

"Well, we tried," Mary Margaret huffed as they left the hut. "Now whatever happens is on his head alone."

"I wonder what it's like to have an easy life," David muttered as they trekked back up to the castle to the sound of Mary Margaret chattering about study schedules.

# # #

For the next several days, Mary Margaret refused to talk about Hagrid or the egg or the stone.

She refused to talk about anything, really, but what was on her color-coded exam review schedule. Any time Emma, Killian, or David brought up the dragon or the stone, she huffed and buried her nose deeper in her book. Killian found himself being dragged away from their books over and over again so they could have a conversation without Mary Margaret clearing her throat every few seconds.

She wasn't even phased when Hedwig appeared at breakfast a few days later with a note from Hagrid.

It's hatching, it read.

"We've just got Herbology," David said. "Sprout won't care if we skip."

"We're almost at the end of term," Mary Margaret snapped. "And you need all the lessons you can get if those essays you have me reading are any indication."

"Well, they'd be better if the professors didn't drown us in homework."

"I'm with Mary Margaret, mate," Killian said.

David looked at him like he'd grown a third head. "So you think the chance to watch a dragon hatch comes around on the regular?"

"Shhh!" Emma flicked her eyes at Regina, who was leaning toward their table, listening so hard it was a miracle her ears hadn't turned red.

Mary Margaret ignored David's needling and Emma eventually caved to her wisdom as well. Killian decided he might as well have skipped, though, he was so preoccupied with whether or not the dragon had hatched that he hardly heard a word Professor Sprout said.

As soon as the lesson was over, he, Emma, and David—Mary Margaret refused to go with them—rushed down to the hut and were greeted by a bright-eyed, red-faced Hagrid.

"Yer just in time," he said and ushered them inside quickly.

Through the deep cracks in the egg, Killian saw something moving, heard a clicking. He drew a chair up to the table and held his breath. The “something” inside the egg scraped against the shell and then it split open and a small, black dragon fell out of it with a squelch.

Emma raised an eyebrow, leaning into Killian. "It looks like a crumpled umbrella."

Killian hid his laugh behind his hand.

Hagrid dabbed at his eyes. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

“Hagrid, how fast do Norwegian Ridgebacks grow?” Killian asked, jumping back as the little dragon snapped at Hagrid’s fingers.

“Well—” Hagrid froze, staring behind Killian.

“What? What is it?”

“There was someone lookin’ through the window.”

Sure enough, when Emma, David, and Killian peeked out the window, they caught a familiar figure rushing back up the slope. Killian’s blood iced up, despite the sweltering heat.

“Regina,” Emma growled.

#captain swan #csbb #captain swan fanfic #emma swan #killian jones

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