#he would finally be able to place somewhere the grief he carried and didn't know where to place
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If any of the s1 archival team had survived until the very end of the podcast, would they remember the real Sasha? If the fears aren't there anymore, would they have been able to grieve her properly?
#i gust relistened to the s1 finale and im having thoughts about Sasha again#and i dont really remember if at the end the fears leave the earth completely or if they still linger somewhere#but if they're not there anymore would their memories of her come back?????#or is it just already done and the damage cant be undone???#maybe in some point they give the info but i dont remember anything#so i like to imagine that if for example tim had survived#he would finally be able to place somewhere the grief he carried and didn't know where to place#and she would be remembered#anyways#tma
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IMPORTANT NOTES:
So I know I have mentioned that my Pegasus is canon-divergent in terms of his age. Apparently, in canon, he got married at 17, the love of his life died not long afterwards and he’s only 24 by the time the events of the first season take place.
I simply don’t find that believable for everything that is supposed to have happened.
I will post a more detailed about at some point, but for now…
Maximillion and Cyndia did meet when they were children and quickly fell in love. They did, in fact, get married at 17, as soon as they could with parental consent.
Now this is where mine begins to differ [ though, the details are, of course, able to be adjusted as necessary with plotting for interactions/verses with others ] .
Cyndia did not die the same year they got married. She lived for another three years. They were both twenty when she died.
Now, what else is divergent is that my Pegasus has a daughter. That information is not widely-known. Most people are of the understanding that his wife died of mysterious illness. The truth of the matter is that she had a difficult pregnancy, though it wasn't until just before the delivery/during the delivery that it became more serious. Though the baby was delivered, Cyndia did not survive the delivery… or, at least, not long afterwards.
Pegasus was utterly devastated, just as in the canon material. Enough so that he could hardly look at their newborn baby girl. He held her once before having to pass her to the nurse, overcome by his grief.
Much as in the canon material, Pegasus, unable to accept his wife's death, begins trying to discover some way to be reunited with her, to return her to the land of the living. As such, his research––a couple of year's worth rather than whatever timeline the canon said––led him to Egypt. As per the canon, this is where he was caught by Shadi and the Millennium Eye forcefully bestowed upon him. This is where he learned the secrets of the Shadow Realm and the Duel Monsters, and where he devised his plan to return Cyndia to life.
He became even more obsessed. Over the course of the next several years, he gathered as much information as he could, researched everything that he could. He feverishly and painstakingly drew the monsters and everything else that was involved in the game, utilizing his artistic abilities again for the first time since Cyndia's death. Once the designs were finalized, he set about establishing rules, the method of play, everything that would be needed to revive the ancient game. And then he funded its creation. A few more years and it became quite popular, though he had yet to see the results he desired for his plan to come to fruition.
He had time for nothing else, only working ever closer toward his goal. Their daughter, Alice, was almost exclusively raised by nannies and tutors. Her education was done at home––as her own health was a bit fragile as well––but still she hardly saw her father. Occasionally on holidays, they would spend brief periods of time together before he had to rush away somewhere. Even more brief instances between those times. For all intents and purposes, Alice didn't have a father.
At least, not until after the Millennium Eye was forcibly removed, which is, consequently when Pegasus had a moment of clarity.
As his attacker approached and as he removed the Eye, there was the very vivid thought that he was going to die. Which was quickly followed by the thought that his daughter wouldn't have anyone left… which was then even more heartbreakingly followed by the question Would she even notice the difference?
[ Another couple of divergences here: 1) my Pegasus is 36 by the time of Duelist Kingdom. It has been 16 years since his wife's death and his daughter's birth. 2) Unlike the manga, my Pegasus does not die when the Eye is removed. Unlike the anime, it is not so slight of an injury that his guards can simply carry him out on their back and call it a day. It was a very serious injury, and it was touch and go for a while. It was unclear whether or not he would pull through. The ramifications of the Eye being forcibly removed still persist to the current day with severe headaches/migraines that will appear out of nowhere, and being able to see flashes of futures or other planes without being able to discern anything of it, usually until he sees it play out in realtime and recognizes it. ]
In the delirium of his pain, he kept asking for his daughter––though she was still in the United States, where their main house was located. The private jet and a couple of his guards were sent to retrieve her.
When she arrived, Pegasus was on pain meds, and yet the moment he realized she was there, he gave no excuses, uttered no explanations to smooth over his mistakes. Barely coherent between the meds and the lingering pain and the tears, he didn't ask, demand, or beg for her forgiveness for the sake of his conscience. He just wanted her to know [ whether he pulled through or not ] that he was sorry for everything. Just telling her again and again how sorry he was and that it was his fault and he's sorry and he loves her. He needed her to know, for her sake.
He was upset enough––outright brokenly sobbing despite the excruciating pain it caused––that the hospital had to administer a sedative to keep him from further aggravating his injury, and so that he would rest and not put any further stress on his body.
[ Alice largely did not leave the hospital room from the moment she arrived. She remained with her father who has had barely anything to do with her since the day she was born, and remained without anyone else there to support her, fighting all of the anger and the feelings of abandonment and the guilt at feeling those things now… and also terrified because what if him saying all of that was too late. What if it won't matter because–– And so she remained, holding tight to his hand and hardly leaving the room until, hoping over and over and over again that he would make it, because, at the end of the day, she was a lonely 16-year-old girl who had lost one parent before she could even know her and didn't want to lose another. Because, despite everything, she still loves her father and she wants to have the relationship she had been robbed of all these years. ]
Once Pegasus does pull through and recovers a bit and they have a chance to talk––for her to vent and to ask questions and for him to answer the questions honestly––Alice at least understands that her father has not been Well all this time, which she doesn't consider an excuse and he doesn't attempt to use as one… but it does give her a better understanding. [ It wasn't her. It wasn't her fault. He didn't blame her for her mother's death. He hadn't abandoned her because he hated her. ]
Over the course of the rest of the events following Duelist Kingdom, it isn't all smooth sailing––there is still a lot of hurt and anger, after all––but the two do begin to take steps toward building the relationship that should have existed all along.
#|| out of cartoons || { ooc }#|| power without heart gives birth to tragedy || { about pegasus }#long post#tw; pregnancy#tw; childbirth mention#tw; death mention#// Sorry for the length of the post#// but I am currently on the mobile app.#// I will see about inserting a 'read more' later once I'm at a computer.#// I will likely make a better/more detailed post at some point#// but I think this explains it fairly well for now.
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Kismet
Summary: Evie prepares a meal for the stranger who helped her and finds herself more than a little smitten.
Previous Part: Hope
Word Count: 5707
Warnings: Language
Tag List: @ramilicious, @txmel, @edteche2, @gloriousdarkangelsworld, @diasimar, @xmxisxforxmaybe
(Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)
A/N: Okay, I almost didn't get this up today because I was up most of the night sewing kilts for Highland Weekend at the Ohio Renfiare. BUT I stayed awake and did my final read-through, so this should be mostly okay. I skipped a couple steps in my editing to get this up on time but I think, for the most part, it's okay. If you see a grammatical booboo, just ignore it, I'll get in here sometime this week with my other two editing steps and find it, then repost this. Capisce? Okay, cool...now. I hope you enjoy it, I also hope my trying to phonetically write Mer's accent doesn't get too annoying. I know you really shouldn't write accents, but I think it helps add to the characters. And I do try to keep it to a minimum so it doesn't get annoying. Thanks for the love the first part received last month! I know waiting so long between updates is a bit sad after weekly updates with LtR. But life is busy right now and once a month is all can guarantee.
Jonny did not know how to keep a house.
In fact, Jonny did not know how to do much more than drink, argue, and get into fights. He was nothing but a thorn in Evie's side—never mind how much she needed him for a place to lay her head. A necessary thorn was still a thorn. Given the opportunity, she would rip it out as soon as she could and dress the wound promptly so she was finally able to heal better. She stayed only because she had no other choice. And every time Jonny raised his voice or stumbled in reeking of alcohol and red-faced, Evie could hear her best friend's warning in her head. Cynthia had begged her not to go with him, but she hadn't listened.
Oh, how she wished she had.
Luckily, Jonny wasn't the kind of man who liked to stay home which eased the ache of the ever-present thorn in her side. Whatever money he did have, he spent out on the town—the town being New Orleans. Like Evie, Jonny had been born and raised in the Big Apple, the noise and the chaos was part of him. As such, he hadn't taken to the quiet suburban life Bridge City offered as well as Evie. She liked the quiet, easy flow of the sleepy town. Her housemate loathed his new home. He thrived in disarray, thus, he found a group of like-minded young men to run amok with in the neighboring metropolis every chance he got.
If Jonny had been any sort of amicable company, the notion of him leaving most every night to wreak havoc several miles away would have been upsetting. Thankfully, his penchant for city life meant a good portion of Evie's days were spent out from under Jonny's tyranny. The hours he was gone were blissful and calm, and she relished in them. Whether she was creating art or tending to chores around the old house, Evie didn't care as long as Jonny wasn't there—never mind how lonely the routine often was.
Evie had never gotten the chance to meet Jonny's maternal grandmother, though she suspected she would have liked to. Unlike her grandson, she seemed like any other sweet elderly woman judging by the furnishings she'd left behind. There were dozens of lace doilies, and table cloths with soft patterns, decretive china even, but it was the plethora of photos the old woman kept that told Evie she'd carried a kindly heart. All of them were kept in pristine albums or intricate frames; they were the only barbles that seemed to have been cleaned or dusted with any regularity which spoke of how much she must have treasured them. Evie loved those tiny trinkets and black and white memories. It didn't matter that they were not her legacy of family heirlooms to keep, she adored them anyway.
She couldn't count the number of times she'd replaced a broken frame that had fallen victim to Jonny's drunken belligerence or scrubbed tirelessly at a stain he'd left on the patterned tablecloths. It proved to be a hefty undertaking, but dwelling in the fantasies of someone else's history let her forget the grief of her own. She was willing to sacrifice a little elbow grease if it allowed her mind to roam away from the shadow that never really seemed to vanish.
For all the effort Evie put in on the interior, the cottage held little in the way of curb appeal. The porch was sunken in the middle, the paint was peeling off in chunks, and the yard was mostly weeds. Worst, however, was the screen door which squeaked so loudly, every dog in the neighborhood howled in protest every time someone crossed the threshold. The outside needed love that Evie simply didn't have the energy to lend. Despite the grit, however, the foundations were sturdy enough that she didn't worry. The cottage proved to be stronger than she looked—a feat Evie felt she had in common with the old house. And while it was a swell enough place to rest her head, it never truly felt like home. Home was somewhere safe, and as long as Jonny lived under that roof she wasn't safe. Not really.
Fortunately, Jonny wasn't home when Evie returned after her run-in with Mr. Shelton—Mer, she corrected herself with a hint of a giddy smile. Without her housemate there, her evening promised to be hopeful instead of lonely, and she wasted no time in figuring out what to make for dinner.
With her red pumps replaced by her worn-in slippers and her blue checkered apron secured around her waist, she set a pot of water to boil and dialed the phone conveniently located in the kitchen. Every evening she called her sister-in-law to pass the time and keep up on unimportant gossip back home; this time, however, Evie was excited to finally have some good news to share.
"You got the job, didn't you?" Cynthia Clarke asked on the other end, sounding hopeful. "I knew you would."
Evie grinned, still amazed how the sound of Cyn's voice always seemed to settle some of the ever-present anxieties buzzing in her head. She missed her friend so much.
"I didn't even say yes."
"Did you or did you not get the job?" Cynthia pressed.
"I did," Evie confirmed and her smile grew hearing her friend cheer on the other end of the phone.
"See! I knew it." Cynthia said. "My gut feeling is always right."
Evie rolled her eyes and shook her head fondly.
"I think I'm gonna like working there too, so that's good." she mused as she stood at the stove, eyeing the pot of water she’d set to boil.
"That's so great, Ev. I'm so proud of you." Cynthia paused before continuing. "So, what are you up to tonight? Avoiding Jonny?"
"Sorta," Evie nodded even though she knew her friend wouldn't see.
As she continued to watch her cooking pot of water she told Cynthia all about her trouble with Jonny's car and the man who'd been so kind to help her.
"Wait. You invited the stranger over who fixed the car?" Concern was heavy in Cyn's voice, and Evie half expected a lecture to follow.
Despite knowing each other since childhood, Cynthia had taken on the role of her protector since Evie's family was no longer in the picture. The war had claimed Evie's father, and brother—although they'd never found her brother, Jimmy after he disappeared behind enemy lines. Evie never lost hope that Jimmy would one day be found, Cynthia though, was certain her husband was never coming home. After Cyn’s brother, Charlie, died at Normandy Cynthia had difficulty believing anyone was going to make it home. As for Evie's mother, losing a child and her husband to the war was too much for her tender heart and she passed not long after. Ever since, Cynthia was overcome with the need to act as Evie's guardian.
"He wouldn't let me pay him," Evie explained. "So I'm making him dinner—it seemed like the least I could do."
"I suppose…." Cynthia didn't sound convinced, if anything she sounded slightly irritated there was no quick way for her to argue the logic. "Just be careful, Evie. You don't know this guy—he could be another Jonny Doyle. Or worse."
"He's not," Evie said quickly. She wanted nothing more than to tell her friend all about how benevolent Mer was, but she decided against it. Cynthia would only argue that point somehow.
A long pause followed, and Evie wedged the receiver between her ear and shoulder so her hands were free to work on the meal.
"So, what are you cooking?" This time, there was a hint of jest in her friend's tone when she spoke.
The art of cooking was one creative outlet that Evie struggled with, second only to music. In her youth, her mother did all the cooking—it was a passion of her mother's—thus Evie had done little more than watch in wonder as her mother whipped up meal after meal effortlessly. Breakfast she the meal she was probably best at, apple pies too, but anything beyond that Evie required a step by step guide to prepare. And even then she lacked confidence. Thankfully, when she'd fled south, she remembered to grab her mother's cookbook. It was a cumbersome tome with yellowed pages and notes scribbled into the margins: a piece of art itself cultivated over years of collecting recipe after recipe starting the moment her mother stepped off the boat that brought her from Ireland. And like a witch and her spellbook, Evie depended on it.
"Spaghetti with garlic bread," Evie admitted feeling as though the meal lacked a certain something.
Pasta was something she knew held a low degree of difficulty when it came to preparing. Surely she couldn't mess up pasta.
“Mmm, I can almost smell it,” Cynthia said.
“Shut up.”
“No, seriously,” Cyn replied. “You’re mom’s spaghetti recipe was always my favorite.”
A doleful smile pulled at the corners of her lips, thinking back to her mother happily cooking in the kitchen as she sang a Celtic tune. It seemed strange that those moments would never again play out, instead they’d become bittersweet memories Evie could only relive in her mind.
“Mine too,” she murmured, suddenly missing her family.
Neither of them said anything for a moment, and Evie’s mind roamed the dregs of her grief before blinking back into reality and the hope of something happy to come.
“I need to go, Cyn,” Evie told her friend with a sigh. “I don’t want to burn the garlic bread.”
Cynthia chuckled and said her goodbye, only after making Evie promise to call her in the morning to let her know how everything went.
With her second hand restored after hanging up, Evelyn reached for her mother’s cookbook to give the steps another look over to ensure she had done everything and added every herb and ingredient she was supposed to. She’d followed everything perfectly, even factoring in the little notes scribbled into the margins left there by her mother—those she smiled at fondly and traced the fading ink with her fingers. Everything was as it should be. Even so, without a taste, Evie knew the sauce she had prepared would never be as savory as what her mother made so effortlessly.
“You were the artist in the kitchen, Ma,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll stick to paper and canvas.”
For the smallest of a moment Evie thought she would hear the warmth of her mother’s laugh, and when it never came she sighed again, trying not to dwell on the shadows behind her. What mattered was the light ahead.
Despite her lack of confidence, the meal came together without any severe hiccups. The noodles were not overcooked, the sauce was a complementing mix of savory and sweet (though, as she had guessed after a tiny taste, was not nearly as good as her mother's) and the garlic bread was nicely golden. A small tingle of pride manifested in the form of a surprised, but satisfied, smile as she surveyed the dinner before her.
“Not bad, Ev,” she told herself, knowing her mother would have been delighted.
With the cooking done, Evie threw a glance over her shoulder to the clock mounted on the wall, triggering a surge of anxiety to bubble in her gut. Stranger, perhaps, was the amount of excitement coursing through her veins. It was as though all of her happiness was riding on whether or not she would see Merriell again. None of it made sense; the man was little more than a stranger. The coupling of nerves and delight was not a feeling that put her ill at ease, however. She trusted it. And it was that peculiar sensation that seemed to fuel her movements.
With a few minutes to spare, Evie wandered into the small bathroom to freshen up. She made sure her hair was still pinned the way she liked—up and pretty. Her make-up was holding up nicely despite the heat; all she needed was a fresh layer of lipstick to complete the illusion of a put-together young lady. It wasn't often she wore a dress with heels and a face of cosmetics—she liked to when the opportunity arose, but she was just as comfortable in a pair of old overalls and smudges of charcoal on her face.
Just as she wiggled back into her red pumps—discarding her worn-in house slippers with a couple of calculated kicks—a knock on the door signaled Merriells arrival. Immediately a grin curled onto Evie's lips and her heart began to pound an anxious-excited rhythm. A blush threatened to color her cheeks to give away the torrid muscle beating in her chest—her ever yearning heart already making leaps and bounds for a man she had known for mere hours.
Don't be ridiculous—she warned herself taking in a deep breath to curb the eagerness coursing in her veins. Untying her apron, she tossed it along with her discarded slippers and went to answer the door, taking one last deep breath to steady the fervor in her heart.
Merriell had changed and showered. The sweet bouquet of his shampoo coupled invitingly with the musk of the aftershave he'd chosen, making it difficult for Evie to keep from soaking in the scent he carried. His curls were still somewhat damp—too much moisture in the air to keep the heat from drying them on his way over—though they fought to spring back into their previous fluff. The grease-covered, jeans he'd been wearing had been replaced by a nice pair of tan slacks, and the buttoned shirt he wore was a soft shade of green that made his eyes glitter a deeper emerald as he stood under the glow of the porch light. All Evie could do was stare—utterly beguiled—every rational thought in her head lost to her.
Mer smirked, amused by her ogling. "Hiya."
Evie blinked, coming back to reality, suddenly feeling foolish, and uttered a nervous "hi" before swinging her arm to invite him inside.
"Come in."
Merriell's smile grew as he crossed the threshold, inhaling deeply. "Mm, smells tasty in here."
He gently forced a bottle into her hands as he passed on his way to investigate the savory smells in the kitchen.
"I wasn' sho what ya was makin', but I figured wine usually goes with anythin'."
"Oh, thank you." Evie glanced at the label, unable to read the French words printed there. "You didn't have to bring anything."
"I know," Mer shrugged, placing his hands in his pockets. "I just wanted to make a good impression."
There was something almost boyish when he smiled then—cheeks coloring pink ever-so-slightly—that made him even more of a mystery. One Evie was eager to solve.
"Well," she said placing the bottle on the kitchen table. "It should go perfectly with dinner."
His expression lost a hint of its boyish charm as it grew into a look of delight.
"Make yourself at home," Evie gestured vaguely between the table and the sofa in the living room as she ventured to the cabinet where the stemware was kept.
She placed two crystal glasses on the table along with the wine and retraced her steps to fetch some of the nicer china Jonny's grandmother had kept. Mer watched her, his gaze, gentle and attentive, and a little bit yearning as she methodically sat the table.
"Need help with anythin'?" he asked finally.
"Nope," She replied with a smile. "Everything is almost ready."
The hearty red sauce on the stove was beginning to boil again which told her it was hot enough to serve, and Evie eyed the pot with scrutiny, praying silently her attempt at cooking would go over well.
"I'll pour us a glass then," Mer announced.
"Great, lemme…" Evie spun to fish for the corkscrew in the drawer of misfit utensils, finding it, only to turn to see Merriell holding his lighter against the neck of the dark bottle just below the cork.
Before she could ask, a loud pop sounded, causing her to jump as the cork went flying.
"Oh my goodness!" she laughed, a little surprised, a little impressed. "Where did you learn to do that?"
Mer shrugged, a sly expression on his features, and left her question unanswered.
"How much ya want?" He held the open bottle over the top of her glass, waiting patiently.
"Enough," she said, tossing him a coy smirk without really meaning to.
He bit his lower lip as he smiled, chuckling under his breath when he poured a generous glass of red wine for each of them. She thanked him as he took his seat and grabbed his plate to dish out their dinner.
"How much pasta would you like?"
Mer's face lit with charm and mischief as he turned to face her.
"Enough," he grinned.
The expression on his face was playful, his smirk devious and amused by his own response and his cheekiness settled warmly in Evie's stomach. Not only did she revel in it, but she also played into his whimsy and scooped as much spaghetti into his plate as she could before coupling it with the savory sauce and a slice of bread.
Despite being only strangers, the atmosphere that bloomed that evening was not marked by any hint of bashfulness, instead, it was relaxed and amiable. Warmth that Evie had longed to dwell in again—that unrefutable kindness she'd lost with the passing of her family—flowed uninhibited from the man sitting adjacent to her. His conversation was cautious but still jovial and genuine. It was the first time since running south Evie could recall what life felt like without grief and fear weighing upon her. Merriell was a stranger, but she felt safe with him. Jonny had never made her feel that way.
"So," Evie spoke as she twirled the last bit of pasta with her fork. "What is it you do, Mr. Shelton?"
Mer cast her a look of disapproval—no doubt in retaliation to being addressed so formally—before his features softened back into a neutral, yet somehow still amused side smirk.
"Nothin' too excitin'," he stated vaguely. "The odd jobs are what I like ta do the most—like fixin' ya car this aftah noon."
Without really meaning to, Evie leaned forward, resting her elbow and chin on the table, utterly enchanted by the beautiful stranger at her table.
"You like to get your hands dirty, huh? Fixing things?" she was entirely too intrigued with the thought of what he could do with his hands.
He shrugged, suddenly modest after a foray of playfully arrogant smirks and glances. It made him abruptly twice as charming.
"I've always had a knack for it, I guess." Merriell finished the food on his plate with the help of his remaining garlic bread to mop up the sauce still left on his dish.
"What about you?" he asked after chewing. "Ya workin' anywhere?"
All at once, a proud smile lit up Evie's face. After all the excitement of seeing Merriell again, she'd almost forgotten about her good news.
"Actually, I just got a job today—the general store downtown, Southern Comfort."
Mer's face lit up too, "Birdie's place?"
"Yeah, you know it?" Of course, he knows it! She thought, Bridge City's population was slightly less than the number of people who lived in a single district back home in New York. Everyone knew everyone else.
"Sho do—I was practically raised there…ole Birdie's like a second mothah to me."
"Really?" Evie found a great deal of comfort in that notion. In fact the more she thought on it, the more she realized how similar the old woman and Mer were; they radiated the same magnetism and sincerity.
"Mmhm," he nodded, his eyes focusing elsewhere as the veil of memories danced across the contours of his features. "My mama used ta work there…once upon a time…"
"Does she still work there?"
Merriell's face lost a hit of its levity and he swallowed as though to fight off the onslaught of sudden emotion threatening to cast a shadow onto his expression.
"No…" he said softly. "She—uh—she died, about a year ago."
Shit!
Abruptly, sick knots twisted into Evie's stomach, feeling callous, but understanding of the quiet misery he hid under layers of charm and arrogance.
"Merriell, I'm…I'm sorry—I didn't mean…"
He met her eyes and cast her a quick smile—doleful, but enough to ease the awful feeling in the pit of her stomach.
"It's okay," he reassured her, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a good gulp before changing the subject. "Birdie's great—you'll enjoy workin' for her."
"I hope so…" Evie said softly, still too embarrassed to meet Mer's glance longer than a second or two.
For the first time all night the atmosphere they shared felt cumbersome—perhaps more melancholy—than she'd wanted it to get. Evie sat, worrying her bottom lip, her fingers toying with a loose thread in the table cloth as she stole quick glances through her lashes in Mer's direction.
He was nursing the alcohol in his glass with the same sadness she'd caught plaguing him as he sat at the bar hours ago. And while Evie was eager to know if his grief stemmed only from the loss of his mother, or perhaps more, Merriell was still too much of a stranger to warrant such questions. It didn't matter how easy it was to be near him, she had not earned the right to know his narrative.
A soft sigh broke past her lips as she fought to find a way to properly allay the gloom that was quickly ruining an otherwise wonderful evening. It wasn't until her eyes found their desert sitting on the counter, waiting to save the day, that she perked up.
"Got any room for apple pie?" Evie asked with a hesitant smile. She hoped he wanted to stay long enough to have a slice, though she would not have blamed him for wanting to leave.
Immediately Mer perked up too, the shadows on his features retreating with the promise of something sweet.
"I was countin' on it—seems as how you promised a slice earlier," he said with a boyish grin.
When she stood, he did too, helping clear away their dinner plates, and letting them soak in the sink to be washed later. Evie cut them each a slice of apple pie and the delight on Mer’s face made her smile too seeing him lick his lips as his grin continued to grow. Catching that flash of his tongue was like a bolt of hot lightning striking her without warning; a blush rose so quickly on her cheeks Evie had to look away to keep the blunder a secret. Thankfully, the pie was more than enough to hold Merriell’s attention away from her.
“Mmmm… Almost looks too good to eat,” he said ogling the desert in front of him.
When Evie chanced a look his way, the expression on his face caused her to chuckle, “‘oughta be, I made one for my pa every year for his birthday since I was nine. It’s probably the only thing I have any confidence in making in the kitchen.”
“Coulda fooled me,” Mer quipped as he loaded his fork with as much pie as he could.
The moment he took a bite, his brows creased, and eyes closed as he chewed painfully slow. Those few seconds were like agony. Evie’s heart was pounding in her chest with so much anticipation she feared she might faint as she watched him sample the only thing she could actually make that was worth a damn.
“Fuck me, if that ain’t the best apple pie I’ve evah had the pleasure of tasting.”
A somewhat nervous, but relieved chuckle sounded in the back of Evelyn’s throat as she watched Merriell shovel a larger bite of pie into his mouth.
“Mmm… Yep. God damn delightful.”
“Stop,” Evie said sheepishly, suddenly afraid he was overselling his reaction to keep from hurting her feelings.
“No,” he wiped his mouth and leaned across the table to meet her gaze with a sincere expression that stole away all the doubt writhing in her stomach.
“I mean it. If I wasn’t so full of pasta, I’d eat that whole damn pie right now.”
“Well,” Evie grinned softly, trying not to let her blush color her cheeks too obviously. “Thank you. And you’re welcome to take the rest of it when you go.”
Excitement took form on his face with a smirk that was sweet but roguish all at once—a sort of debonair charm that amplified his magnetism—as if his bright eyes dark curls and razor-sharp jaw did not make him alluring enough already. Again she had to look away knowing the pink in her cheeks would be too strong to combat.
“Imma have ta take ya up on that offah. An’ I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout you every time I cut me a slice.”
That blush was unstoppable; her heart was suddenly so smitten, it felt as though butterflies were fluttering merrily in her stomach. She felt weightless with warmth and hope swelling in her bosom, fearing any slight breeze would carry her off. It was ridiculous how at ease Evie felt sitting there eating pie with a complete stranger. The conversation had been easy all night; even when it had delved into less savory topics he still made her feel comfortable. Evelyn had forgotten what it was like to be in the company of a man who wasn’t easy to anger, who was genuine and kind and wanted only to live in the moment.
For a time the whimsy of the atmosphere faded as the warmth in her heart ached, suddenly missing her brother James and Cynthia's brother Charlie. Both of them were good men, kind and genuine—like Merriell—but they had been swallowed by the rages of war. Brave young men were lost forever, while a man like Jonny Doyle was still alive How was that fair?
No matter how pleasant her thoughts could be, they always fell back to the grief that plagued her. She sighed, deeply, pushing those intrusive memories back into the depths of her mind so she could find joy once more in the moment with a kind stranger.
When Merrill finished his plate he made a beeline for the sink full of soaking dishes.
“Oh, no,” she said jumping to her feet. “I can do those.”
Merriell, however, shook his head. “Uh-uh, you did the cookin’, I can do the cleanin’.”
When Evie tried to argue, Mer simply shook his head, his grin amused but determined as he kept scrubbing the dirty dishes.
“Let me help at least,” she suggested. “I’ll dry and put them away.”
Before he could protest, she snatched the freshly rinsed dish from his hand and began wiping away the droplets of water clinging to the porcelain surface, throwing him a smug smirk that made him chuckle.
“Alright,“ he smirked.
She watched him for a moment not really paying attention to her task as he scrubbed the old plates clean, overcome with a blissful vision of peaceful domesticity. It made her stomach fill to the brim with whimsy and her heart was fluttering again; had this stranger bewitched her already? Or did what she feel bubbling lightly in her gut like a seltzer stem from an end to her loneliness—even if it was only for a few hours? Evelyn didn’t know. Nevertheless, she was intrigued with a profound feeling and she wanted to dwell in it for as long as she could.
Occasionally as he would hand a freshly washed dish her way, his calloused fingertips would brush against her skin, igniting a spark she didn’t know how to react to. It was more than an amicable tingle racing from the tips of her fingers right to her heart. And each time they touched, Merriell would cast her a gentle smile that held nothing more than his inherent charm and magnetism. She wondered if he felt it too, or if her need for companionship was playing a dirty trick on her.
When the dishes were all back in their usual places—the night drawing to a close—Evelyn realized she was not ready to say farewell to her Beautiful Stranger. She longed to stay up all night just chatting with him, she did not care about what, Evelyn only wanted to stay encompassed a while longer in the blissful warmth he brought into her life. Once he was gone, all she would be able to do was stay up and ponder the significance of those little touches and the sparks they brought.
Thankfully, Merriell lingered on the old rickety porch, one hand in his pocket, the other holding onto his plate of leftover pie, seeming to stall their inevitable departure.
“Well,” he said with a grin. “Thank you for invitin’ a stranger ovah for dinna.” He paused, glancing at the leftover pie in his hand. “Can’t recall ever having a better plate of pasta, an’ nothin’ evah gonna beat this pie.”
Evie quickly looked at her feet to hide another blush.
“It was the least I could do,” she told him before looking back to meet his eyes. “You have no idea how much of a savior you were this afternoon…”
A glint of concern flashed in his eye, his brows beginning to crease as his unspoken question lingered between them.
She thought about telling him—telling him how Jonny was nothing more than a throne in her side, and how much she cherished Merriells company—but Mer was still a stranger. It wasn’t right to unload so much onto someone she’d only known for a few hours.
Before Mer could offer any reply, the sound of screeching tires stole all their focus as an old wagon pulled along the curb—narrowly missing a collision with the mailbox. The rowdy passengers were laughing and shouting loud enough even before the door opened to let Jonny stumble out. He staggered on drunk feet and screamed a handful of profanities to his buddies in the car which made them all roar with laughter.
It was only after the wagon full of hooligans pulled away that Jonny began to stagger towards the house, and it was exactly then that Evie’s fluttering heart became consumed with panic.
She and Mer watched him cross the yard, unseen, both frozen: Evie in fear and Merriell in confusion. Jonny’s intoxication level inhibited him from taking notice of them until he was at the base of the steps leading onto the porch. Immediately, his eyes narrowed and he frowned.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Jonny, this is Mr. Merriell Shelton,” Evie said quickly, willing her voice not to shake.
The Doyle’s were not known for their hospitality, nor were they known to trust most people. Especially strangers.
“He helped me this afternoon with a bit of trouble I was having,” she explained vaguely, hoping to thwart any more suspicion. “I made him dinner to say thank you—he’s just about to leave.”
Jonny eyed Merriell, seizing him up as best he could through drunken lenses. Mer stood his ground, eyeing him back with a subtle intensity that never so much as cracked under Jonny’s scrutiny.
Finally, being the better man, Mer held out his hand in a friendly manner, “nice ta meet ya.”
Jonny cast a prolonged glare at Merriell's open hand, his brows furrowed and part of his lip hiked up in a sort of snarl. Instead of returning the kind gesture, Jonny made a show of spitting at his feet before tossing his heavy leer at Evelyn.
"Evie, do not invite any more strangers into my house. I don't care if they are dying." He shoved past them both, purposely bumping Mer's shoulder (most likely in hopes to start something) muttering as he went: "I don't trust any of these filthy southerners."
Shock sent Evie's jaw slack; this time the redness in her cheeks was a symptom of embarrassment instead of infatuation. She should have known Jonny would say something rude and uncouth. Without another thought, she grabbed Mer by his sleeve and pulled him across the lawn until they stood next to his truck parked along the curb.
"I am so sorry about him," she said, crossing her arms and glaring at Jonny's house, ashamed and angry.
Mer shrugged as he placed his partially eaten pie in the passenger seat through the open window before fixing his hands in his front pockets.
"Ya boyfriend's a bit of an asshole."
"He is not my boyfriend," Evie corrected vehemently. "I don't think he knows that though. I'm just staying here until I can figure some things out."
Merriell was quiet a moment, nodding silently. It seemed as though he was taking his time processing the whole situation. There was compassion on his face and behind his eyes, but it was guarded somehow. Evie caught it though and she was grateful when he didn't ask the questions plainly forming in his mind.
"Well," he said finally, his tone light as one corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. "Since he ain't ya othah half, I feel more inclined ta leave ya with this…"
Gently, Merriell caressed her upper arm as he leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on her cheek. He let his lips linger slightly longer than was common for such an act, that all at once wove a new hopefulness into her heart.
"Dinna was swell," he added as he pulled away, his smile somehow more charming than it had been all night. "Hope I see ya again, Evie."
"Me too," she murmured.
Evie watched as he got in his truck to leave, her hand held to the cheek he'd graced with his kiss. And when he drove away, it took everything inside of her to keep from running after him.
#Beautiful Stranger Series#Merriell Shelton x Original Character#Merriell Shelton#Snafu Shelton#HBO War#The Pacific#The Pacific Fanfiction#Rami Malek Fanfiction
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Like Falling Sand
Chapter Fifteen: Never Needed Any More Than This
THE FINALE
Notes: Here we go, the finale! Originally two chapters but it really just combined nicely into one and wrapped it all up. This went on about 11 chapters longer than I had anticipated going in, thousands and thousands of words longer than what I intended when I said "slow burn" but it all worked out, and they got a happy ending just like I promised. And as much as I've enjoyed this journey, I'm glad to get back to one-shots for a while before I decide that another epic is in store. I think you can tell I listened to a lot of Radiohead while writing this chapter.
Warnings: depression, grief, character death (Emily) and not-death (Emily) - this chapter is SUPER tame, sad but soft
Words: 4.7k
Previously On: Chapter List
“Pakistan?!” Derek shouted and try as he might to avoid it, Aaron flinched. The smallest movement, hardly more than a twitch. He caught himself quickly, doubled down on his frown and nodded like he hadn't betrayed himself all. Derek was allowed this anger, after what he'd been through – Aaron grieved in private but it seeped out of Derek's pores and he could no sooner change who he was than bring Emily back. She'd been gone long enough now that they no longer felt the crushing weight of it, as a team anyway – but Aaron sat in his office and he felt it, knowing that four people he loved mourned while he and JJ held the truth close to them, carried the burden on their shoulders. They couldn't even look at each other, couldn't talk. He wondered if she'd told Will, her mother even – he'd wanted to tell Jessica, just to say it to someone, to feel some connection to another human. There was no one he could tell, not safely, not ever. Alone had always been his place but it was worse now, there was a time he'd been able to convince himself he wasn't, that he'd at least had his little work family or his wife and his son but he could no longer even find the words, the conviction to lie to himself.
“Yes,” he replied quietly, hands folded in front of him on the desk. Pressing his palms together, fingers yearning to twitch, to rub against one another, his tell. Couldn't give in to that, had to stave it off or Derek would see and it would be all over. “Pakistan. I leave next week.”
“Is this about Emily? The brass comin' down on you?” A plea, a desperate plea, trying to make sense of it. A temporary assignment wasn't the end of the world except when it was this one, except when it was now.
“No.” Yes, yes it was. But he couldn't say that. They missed her, they wouldn't miss him, easily justified. He licked his lips, just the smallest flick of his tongue and looked down at his hands, willing them to stop twitching. He'd let it happen, her death was on his shoulders – even if she wasn't actually dead, that was just nitpicking a terrible situation. It didn't matter. What mattered was that their trust in his ability to protect them was broken, irreparable and Emily had paid the highest price. Her heart may still be beating somewhere out there in the world but her life as Emily Prentiss had ended, the life she'd worked so hard for, to crawl out from beneath the shadow of her mother and shine on her own. He'd failed to keep her safe, let her down, and now she was starting over again. “The Bureau has been pushing me toward an overseas assignment for a couple of years now, I just managed to get out of it each time it came down the pike – I no longer have the kind of leverage I need.”
“Because of Emily...”
“Derek, please,” he pleaded. How could he tell him why he'd lost his leverage? How he'd called in every single favor owed to him, every single person who offered their support who might be able to help – he was up to his eyeballs in debts of gratitude and still it wasn't enough. He owed more, and this assignment was the tip of the iceberg, the down payment. He would lay down his life to save Emily's, one favor at a time. All JJ would need to do was keep a secret, he would maintain the lie. “It's temporary, we all have to do things we don't necessarily want to do in this job – how many times have you managed to get out of guest lecturing? Trade your way into Academy fitness tests to avoid it? How long have you been putting off the -” he paused, catching himself at the dark shift in Derek's features. “I can't put it off any longer.”
“Whatever. You won't even say her damn name. You might fool everyone else but I see right through you. Going to Pakistan won't bring Emily back...it won't fix anything.”
Blood. So much blood, Derek's hands were covered in it. She stared up at him with her black eyes losing their light, blinking so slowly he wondered if she even saw him at all. Dark engulfed them, eyes only for her. The sound of her breath wet, soaked, life bleeding out of her every second they waited. He begged her to hold on, to stay with him, pressed his hands so hard he thought he might break her and told her he loved her so many times it felt wrong on his tongue. The words stopped making sense as he repeated them. “Emily, don't leave, help is coming...stay with me...”
“I'm being sent overseas on temporary assignment,” he said, the second attempt at dropping the bomb. The dust hadn't settled yet on his talk with Derek, the test subject – worked out his wording, tested out the waters, watched it blow up in his face. Now he set a mug of coffee in front of Jessica and hoped for something better, softer, understanding. It was the first Saturday morning they'd spent together in weeks, and he was giving her awful news. Jack didn't know yet, not sure how to tell him something like that so soon after he'd lost his mother.
“Where? Somewhere tropical I hope,” she muttered, because humor was easier than wrapping her mind around what she knew was coming next – the question of what to do with Jack. And judging by the too serious look in his eye, he already had a plan and she wasn't going to like it. So she offered him a weak smile, tried to drag one out of him in return with no luck. Silence spread out between them, a little too long. “Where are they sending you, Aaron?”
“Pakistan,” he replied, eyes downcast. This was the part he couldn't see, the way a realization that danger might be involved would flash over her features, the way she'd realize that she'd barely had time to come to terms with the loss of her sister and now he might be gone too. “I can't say why or where.”
“Of course.” She knew. She understood. “Are you...is this because of what happened with Prentiss?”
“Why is that everyone's first thought?”
“I'm just curious...I know it's been hard and there are a lot of questions...”
“Jess. It's not that simple.”
Except it was, and they both knew it. She asked him about Jack, listened to his plans already in place, alls he had to do was agree as if she really had a choice. There wasn't any question why he was doing this, why he would go now of all times. He was punishing himself for something that was entirely out of his control and he knew that she was going to bear the weight of his decision and he'd have to pay for that in turn. One thing at a time, racking up debts faster than he could pay them.
Derek was pacing in the waiting room, still covered in her blood. He'd washed his hands but he could feel it beneath his fingernails, sticky and drying against his skin, making his shirt heavy, stiff. Aaron couldn't look at him, couldn't look at any of them. He already had a contingency plan for whatever the outcome – there wasn't anything he wasn't prepared for except how he would feel about it when it came time to make a decision. If she died, if she didn't – Doyle was gone, out there waiting, an ear to the ground waiting for the news. He peered at the staff, wondering who it was that milled around waiting to hear about the FBI Agent on the table.
Closed doors, a hushed conversation between a doctor with blood on his scrubs and JJ standing there wide eyed, in over her head too. They all were. “She's going to make it,” the doctor told them and it almost felt worse, knowing that. Complications, they couldn't know what Doyle would do if he found out. The rest was between he and JJ, locked up tight, a betrayal that would force them both in different directions, unable to look one another in the eye for fear they might crack.
“You can't leave us,” Penelope muttered, choking on a sob. This was the part he'd dreaded most, telling them. Gathering the remnants of his team, the people who once filled every chair in that room and now barely filled half. Staring down at all of the loss they'd suffered, personally, professionally. “Please?”
“I know this is hard, and I'm sorry,” he said softly, as if it helped. Empty apologies, if they only knew they'd push him away faster. “It's temporary. Six to nine months,” he offered, but it wasn't a promise, he was careful not to say he'd be back. He couldn't know that. There was a look in his eye that worried Spencer, he didn't bring it up, just glanced at Derek for guidance – he always knew how to handle Aaron. He was checked out though, staring into space, twirling his pen around and around avoiding the whole conversation. It was odd at first, the way he looked everywhere except at Aaron, the stoic look on his face, the way he paid more attention to the flecks of color in the tabletop than he did the devastation of the table around them.
“Did you already know?” Spencer asked later, cornering Derek in his office. He'd just marched right in, demanded attention. Forced Derek to look up from what he was pretending to work on. “Did you?” He shrugged, leveling a challenging gaze at Spencer.
“So what if I did, pretty boy?” Aggression, he did know and he was upset. Spencer backed down a little, tried to remind him he wasn't there for a fight. Instead he settled himself in the chair opposite Derek and leaned forward, all eyes and pleading for some kind of comfort – it was Gideon all over again, if he thought about it too much. If he let it sink in.
“I just...I wanted to know what you thought. That's all. You guys are...” he stopped himself, realizing where he was at, what he was about to say, the implications if anyone was to overhear him. “I was just curious.”
“What do I think? Hm. Well, first of all I think it's fucking stupid, I think it's a huge mistake, I think it's dangerous and if he really tried he'd be able to get out of it...and I think there's not a damn thing any of us can do about it because he's already made up his mind...” Nothing he could do about it, that's what he meant, Spencer could pick that one up loud and clear He'd been trying to find something, anything to come up with and everything wound up with the same outcome – Aaron was getting on a plane and leaving them all behind.
Leaving him behind.
Emily's photo was placed on the wall, bolted tight, smiling so sweetly but Derek could see the mischief in her eyes. He remembered the day they made her update her employee photo, her previous photo had been too outdated and she couldn't talk her way out of it. She'd tried everything, even tried to get Aaron to file a lawsuit or at least use his power as her boss. Derek went with her, against her will but he followed her anyway and made faces at her while the photographer tried to get one decent shot in a million of goofy, ridiculous moments. He wondered, looking at the photo now, if they had the outtakes somewhere in some database – somewhere he could see a moment in time he'd never get back. Penelope looked and looked, a spark of hope, but they couldn't sneak in any back doors of any systems that seemed to have it and she began to wonder if he'd been making it all up.
Dawn. The sun was barely cresting the city skyline as he waited for the plane's final preparations. He stood on the tarmac, could have been inside getting settled but he was about to be in that plane for the better part of an entire day and wanted the last few minutes of fresh air he could get before that happened. With eyes red, puffy and raw from crying and rubbing fiercely at the tears, he stood watching them load his bags into the belly of the small aircraft. Jack had been tougher than he had, but that didn't shock him, Jack was always tougher than he was. “It's an adventure, daddy,” he'd said, and Aaron nodded, chewing the inside of his lip mercilessly. Tasting blood was the goal. Jessica watched the scene unfold, took photos of them hugging, told him she would figure out how Skype worked if it was the last thing she did because they needed to see his ugly mug. “You're not going to shave while you're gone are you?” she asked with a smirk, knowing damn well he wasn't. He didn't have to wear a suit, hadn't even packed one – six to nine months without his armor, without the facade he kept up every day. Maybe this was a vacation in some sick, twisted way. He just shrugged and tried to force a smile. With his voice shaky he murmured something about wanting to make sure she really had to work hard to give him a good shave when he got back, the last time had been too easy. It made her laugh, goal achieved. Now he really would have to grow a beard, like it or not. He hugged his carry on bag to his chest, looked around and wished for a brief moment that maybe his life was a romantic comedy and that Derek would appear before him, ready for a goodbye kiss, the kind that would make him stay.
With his breath held tight in his lungs, he peered at the city one more time. There was always a part of him, each time he flew, that wondered if it might be the last time he took that skyline in – and it was always sad, in a way, because he realized how little he actually loved it. There was nothing this city had given him but pain.
Nothing to do but settle in. There were others on the flight, not many but enough of them and each had a row of seats to themselves – eventually he might sleep, they'd given him a tiny tissue weight pillow and a papery blanket, as if that would keep the chill from his bones. Meal services were planned at regular intervals, none of which he was looking forward to, but there was whiskey for the mid-flight doldrums and for that he was thankful. So long as he landed with his wits about him, they didn't seem to care what he did with his time getting there. He opened his bag, pulling out his laptop to start working through the day's emails – he'd arranged his assignment to at least mean he could still be part of the BAU, help them sort through requests and consults so long as the requesting entities didn't mind emails at odd hours, time zones be damned. As he pulled out the computer he felt something fall out into his lap, too small to be of any real consequence but too large to be nothing. One of Jack's toys, most likely, he loved to sneak a tiny dinosaur or Lego superhero into Aaron's bags but they were usually better hidden than this. He would pull out his socks and they would be tucked deep inside, a surprise for him when he got dressed in the morning. Reaching down to the floor, he pulled the object up and was hit with a wave of intense regret. Already raw, it wouldn't have taken much to set him off, but here he was staving off another round of tears and regret. Six to nine months wasn't that long, was it? Not long enough to fall out of love with someone right? Because Derek had taken a page out of Jack's book, sneaking something into his luggage when he'd left it unattended, but it was no lego. He pinched the tiny SAVE THE ORCAS pin between thumb and forefinger and found that he was temporarily unable to breathe – what had felt like a short enough time that he could manage it with ease now felt hopeless.
**
“They did what they had to do,” Emily said softly, sitting beside Derek. She wanted to touch him, to put her hand on his knee and assure him she was real and she was there. “If they hadn't, Doyle would have finished the job one way or another.”
Each of them was taking this differently, seeing her alive again. Spencer the worst, he couldn't get over the feeling of betrayal. Penelope accepted it gladly and clung to her harder than ever, Dave hardly seemed phased, maybe they were too close for him to have ever wondered at whether or not she might darken his doorstep again in this lifetime. The angel and devil on Aaron's shoulders, only he would tell you they both wore devil horns more than angel wings. “Lucifer was an angel,”Emily would remind him, and he would roll his eyes and say that about summed it up while he asked for another finger of scotch to top off the night.
Derek floated somewhere in between, so relieved, so incredibly happy but angry at the fact that he hadn't been in the know. After all his years, after everything he'd done for this team and for the Bureau and he still didn't get to be let in on something this important. Couldn't be trusted, it was a low blow. He was angry at himself for thinking he was owed that, angry at Aaron who sat at his desk so quietly now, unable to go into the field, unable to do much since returning from Pakistan in worse shape than he'd gone – a shell of the man he'd been. Whatever he'd seen, whatever he'd done had taken its toll and he was the worse for it. The cane he leaned on, limped from room to room against was an almost constant reminder of what he'd lost and for what? It hadn't ended like any of them had anticipated – a hail of bullets, Doyle dead and Emily alive. Derek hadn't looked him in the eye since he'd walked back into the building, since he'd come face to face with a man he adored who looked more like a wraith, haunted, broken. He wasn't mad at him, not really – he saved Emily's life and ruined his own, he saved her from Doyle, he had to make all of the hard decisions and in turn take the full force of their anger and blame. He'd been hurt in an explosion, an IED, and they were right back where they started only this time he couldn't hide it – burns licked their way up his leg, from his ankle to his knee, broken beneath healing skin and he'd continued working. Offered a trip home to heal, he'd stayed – didn't want Jack to see him like that, not again, so he stayed and he worked through their cut rate medical care in the hopes that he would eventually heal anyway. Maybe the hair would grow back someday, maybe the skin would smooth out, not look so rough, so like putty in a child's hands. Now he was back and Jack had to see it, they all did. He'd put the suits back on, they fit different now, hung from his thin frame in ways they never had before and they could all see through the facade. Derek wanted to hold him so badly it hurt, wanted to ask him if he'd seen the pin, if he knew what it meant or if he was too stupid to get it.
“Dave,” Aaron said softly, pulling him aside while everyone else met in the conference room. While they waited. At separate times they'd all turned their back on him, in ways they thought maybe he wouldn't notice, but not Dave. Never Dave. “I think...we need to do something drastic to pull this team back together.” That was it, Dave rolled his eyes with his old dramatic flare but he couldn't tell Aaron no, not when he looked so desperate. He didn't know how to fix this, he'd done too much damage, so much that his own confidence was shattered but Dave could, he was great like that.
Pasta and wine, a cooking lesson and he'd made them all stand around his island watching the way he tossed the food together. As if none of them had ever prepared a meal before, and frankly, he thought maybe it was true. The way Emily and Spencer practically took notes, the way JJ and Penelope licked their lips in anticipation, the way they all sucked their wine down like it was fruit juice. Liquid courage, loosening them up, softening the edges until they remembered how much they all loved each other. How it was something to celebrate having Emily back, not something to harbor anger over. Derek wound his way in, started by Emily but slipped through and between until he was standing beside Aaron, working up some kind of courage, ignoring the entire demonstration. He didn't care about how to make pasta, he could cook, wasn't worried about that. He was worried that he had this one last moment to make something out of whatever enormous feelings he had, this one last chance. Like sand falling through an hour glass, he felt his time running out – the last grains were there, ready to make their way through. Bacon sizzled, pasta boiled, Aaron sucked in a deep breath and beat Derek to the punch.
“I'm sorry,” Aaron whispered, leaning over only for a moment, only long enough for Derek to hear him never taking his attention off of Dave. He spoke low enough that it was between them, the rest of the team engrossed in lesson or maybe just starving and able to ignore everything that didn't look like it could feed them. Their conversation didn't smell like bacon, didn't taste like handfuls of Parmesan cheese and would go undetected at least for the time being. “I wanted to tell you so many times, it was all I thought about.”
“I'm glad you didn't,” Derek returned, stepping a little closer, leaning in while keeping his eyes trained on Dave and his pan as he tossed the pasta into the air. “You saved her when I couldn't...it's gotta count for something.” Derek slipped impossibly close, hooking his thumb into Aaron's belt loop and slowly began backing up, tugging him away from the island toward the doorway. Aaron struggled, forcing his injured leg to retreat with the rest of him, cane dragging awkwardly before he got his footing and followed. Dave watched but said nothing, and Aaron just offered him a shy little smile and a shrug before disappearing around the corner, just out of sight. Back against the wall now, Derek pressed in against him, held him close, thumb hanging heavily in his belt loop. The weight pulled his pants down just slightly, exposed tender warm skin, his rounded hip and Derek could feel it against his skin.
“I miss you,” he said softly, selfishly, greedily. “Did you find the pin?”
“This one?” Aaron asked, a coy smile dancing on his lips as he lifted the collar of his shirt to show Derek what he'd hidden beneath. SAVE THE ORCAS it said, and he thought he smelled kelp and briny Seattle air and grinned a little wildly.
Derek wanted to say more, say he'd been an asshole, say he understood why Aaron did what he did, but he didn't say any of that. The words were there and if it was anyone else he might have said them – words were important, people needed to hear them, but with Aaron it was pointless. He was so observant, he knew Derek inside and out, they could communicate with nothing but glances. There wasn't a single thing Derek would say that Aaron didn't already know. He may not have known it before this moment, but he could see it now, feel the electricity crackling over Derek's skin. He wouldn't be here right now if he didn't feel that way, he'd be devouring a mess of bacon and cheese and wine in the other room. Aaron just smiled, the first easy smile he'd had in a very long time. It was rusty, he wasn't sure all of the muscles still worked the way they should have but he was glad to try, nothing made him happier than knowing it was all for Derek. Pulling Derek closer to him, a little nervously at first, worried Derek wouldn't come, would pull away but he didn't. He came willingly, didn't need much coaxing, and he was gentle, careful not to press in too hard, make him lose his already precarious footing. “I think I love you, Aaron Hotchner. Just in case you get any other stupid ideas to up and leave the continent again, I thought I should spell it out for you this time.”
Aaron smiled, pressed a kiss against Derek's lips and smiled again as he pulled away only far enough to use his lips for something other than kissing. It wouldn't be for long. “I think I already knew that,” he whispered. He wanted to say he felt the same but he'd save that for somewhere else, not Dave's hallway, not pressed up against the wall where his entire team was probably listening. Things had gone a little quiet in the kitchen, and he knew they were either eating or listening – probably both. He wasn't ashamed of it, how could he be? But he'd never been a fan of public displays and he wanted the first time he told Derek that he loved him to be for his ears only, no audience. He owed him that much. The last person he'd said that to was Haley, he took it a little too seriously, wouldn't share it with just anyone. No words, just a silent nod and they disappeared without telling anyone they were leaving, just slipped away. The team were happy, they were getting along, it was more than Aaron could have asked for and now he was going to be more than a little selfish with the rest of his evening. He'd wanted his team back but got far more than he bargained for.
“Where's Hotch?” JJ asked, peering around the room. Spencer smiled at her, really smiled at her. It was gentle and friendly, the first in a while that he'd offered her and he was surprised at how easy it was.
“Hey....Derek is gone too...” Emily added, sipping her wine. She didn't seem terribly concerned. Or surprised. In fact, she really just wanted more wine and Dave obliged with a wink. He'd watched them leave, watched the way Derek had slipped his thumb into Aaron's belt loop – all the proof he needed to solidify what he already knew, evidence to back up suspicion.
“I guess you've missed some things...” Spencer said softly to both of them, shaking his head. JJ's eyes went wide, and suddenly she was piecing a few things together – Jack, Derek, Haley...it made sense in a way she hadn't considered before. She scrunched up her nose, hardly able to believe it at first, and then as the dust settled, as she really thought about it...maybe nothing had ever made more sense. “I think we should eat...they won't be back.”
He was right. They had a lot of catching up to do.
#aaron hotchner#derek morgan#emily prentiss#spencer reid#jennifer jj jareau#david rossi#penelope garcia#jessica brooks#jack hotchner#hotchan#mortch
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The Battle Between Love and Fire-
Ivar the Boneless × Reader
Chapter Nineteen: Defamed
Chapter Eighteen
Word Count 2.2k
Warnings: mentions of blood, mentions of rape (nothing in detail), beatings, angst
Ivar has been restless but at the same time, resting. Hvitserk has been talking strategies with his brother Ubbe, as well as his wife Torvi. He has been drinking heavily and has not slept in the last forty eight hours. Ivar on the other hand, has slept fairly well, considering the circumstances that they are all in. Hvitserk as well as Ubbe have noticed his behavior and had grown fairly aggravated with their brother.
Ubbe "What is up with Ivar hmm? Do you know what our brother's problem is?"
Hvitserk "I don't understand it Ubbe. How can he be so calm when his wife is being held captive somewhere...could be dying."
Ubbe "And carrying his child nonetheless." Hvitserk lays his head down and does not say a word. Ubbe notices and catches on very quickly and giggles to himself. "What?"
Ubbe "I knew it. I knew that Ivar could not get a woman pregnant." Hvitserk chuckles and puts his head down.
Ubbe "So I am assuming you are the father, yes?"
Hvitserk clears his throat, "Yes. Ivar is aware, Ubbe. He allowed it."
Ubbe "Wow. I am shocked. But at the same time, I am happy to hear this news. It is good news that you are going to be a father, Hvitserk."
Hvitserk "Hopefully."
Ubbe "Hey," he places his hand on his shoulder, "she's gonna make it brother. She is and so is your baby." Torvi sat there and listened.
Torvi "Have hope, Hvitserk. Never give up on hope and faith. That is all we have to get through this time."
Hvitserk "It is kind of hard when I lost her...the only woman that I have come to love since….well...she is gone and I don't know where to begin to look."
Ubbe "We sent our men to Vestfold and Rogaland-"
Hvitserk "She isn't there, Ubbe. I can't see her there."
Torvi "Where can you see her?"
Hvitserk "Wessex. That is the only place that makes sense to me. Her father tortured her numerous times in the past, endless beatings...he would take her." Ubbe looks at Torvi and sighs.
Ubbe "If we do not find her there, we will go to Wessex immediately, okay?"
Hvitserk "Fine."
…
Ivar has been absent. Just nowhere to be found. But he wanted it to be that way. He feels immense guilt and regret that he just cannot look at his brother's in the eyes without breaking down right in front of them. So there he is, sitting in the woods, waiting for news from his men that traveled to Vestfold and Rogaland. He is sitting in the grass with his black cloak on and his hood up.
"What have I done? Why did I say that? Why?" He said to himself. He looked up at the sky and screamed. Letting himself feel every emotion and grief that a man in his position should feel. Hvitserk sees his brother in the woods and watches him from afar. His hood is on and he waits for his brother's screams to stop before he joins him.
Hvitserk "Finally feeling the emotions, huh?"
Ivar "I feel like I can't breathe, Hvitserk. Ever since she left-"
Hvitserk "I know. I know."
Ivar "I feel so guilty. So responsible for her disappearance."
Hvitserk "Why do you think so harshly brother? Is there something that you aren't telling me?"
Ivar "I said something that I regret."
Hvitserk "Said what?"
Ivar "When she got mad at me, I told her that I hoped your vision would come true."
Hvitserk "You did what?!"
Ivar "I regret it. I never should have said it."
Hvitserk "You NEVER hope for bad things! The gods hear everything!"
Ivar "I know this, Hvitserk."
Hvitserk "So why did you hope for such a thing?!"
Ivar "I was angry-"
Hvitserk "WELL I HOPE THAT YOU ARE HAPPY! BECAUSE IT CAME TRUE, SHE'S GONE!"
Ivar "I'm sorry-"
Hvitserk "Do not apologize to me, apologize to your wife that is being tortured somewhere. If she comes back, if she is still alive, you owe her an apology."
Ivar "For what?"
Hvitserk "For letting it happen," he gets up, "and for not saving her when she needed you the most."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You wake up the sound of the chain doors opening. Your father comes in with a plate of food.
Father "Eat up. You are going to need your strength today."
"What? Why?"
Father "King Harald wants to show his prize to the people of Wessex."
"I am not his prize."
Father "You are if you want your father to stay king. Now eat, I don't know when the next time I will be able to feed you."
"I can't believe that you would think that I would lie about being pregnant."
Father kneels down beside, "I do believe you. And I am happy for you. But I can't save you anymore."
"Anymore? You never did."
When you watch your father leave, you start to cry again. You fear what will happen this day. What Harald would do to you. You don't know how much more you can take. Last night, he came in four more times and had his way with you. Each time being more harsh and painful.
"Hvitserk...if you can hear me, I don't know how much longer I have. I don't know if I have weeks, days, hours or minutes but I just want you to know. I love you and our daughter loves you."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hvitserk hears you loud and clear. He falls to his knees, walking back to the house. In front of his people and weeps.
"Y/n...Y/n I can hear you okay? Please stay with me. I am going to find you. I am going to save you, you are going to be okay. Just stay strong, and know that even though you can't see me, I am with you." He runs to Ubbe and tells him what he heard.
Ubbe "Did she tell you anything else? Like where she is or who has her?"
Hvitserk "N-no! She just said that she doesn't know how much time she has left. Ubbe, for the first time in years, I am afraid. So afraid."
Ubbe "Everything will be okay, dear brother. You hear her. You can feel her, yes?"
Hvitserk "Yes...but she is weak."
Ubbe "We will get to her okay? Keep your head up."
Hvitserk "Yes. I will try."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You hear him and smile. You do not know if Ivar can hear you, or if he did yesterday when you called for him. Because unlike Hvitserk, Ivar did not respond. You don't know if he is worried or even cares. Since he told you before all of this happened that he wanted this to happen to you, does he really care? Does he really love you like he said he does? We will find out.
When you finish the little meal that was given to you, you wait because that is the only thing that you can do.
Harald comes in after what feels like an eternity, with a smirk on his face. "Good morning! Did you sleep well?"
"How could I? You raped me five times yesterday?!"
Harald chuckles, "Ah yes. Thank you for that by the way. I guess I should have thanked you for giving me such a prize."
"I didn't give it to you! You took it!"
Harald leans down and grabs you by the throat, slightly choking you "That is right! I took it, because I am allowed by your father to take whatever I want, when I want it. And you are what I want."
"What are you going to do when they find me, hmm?"
Harald "Who?"
"My husband, Ivar the Boneless. And his brother's."
Harald "Well I am not too worried about that. And if they do come, I will get much use out of you before then." He let's go of your throat and throws your head down onto the pavement. You wince out in pain but hold your composure. He watches you squirm to get yourself together. When he is done watching you, he grabs you by the wrist and yanks you upwards. When you feel the pain in between your legs, it takes your breath away.
Harald "Let's go see what your people will think of you when they see you now!"
….
When you walk out in front of your people, you spot your childhood friend first. She puts her hand over her mouth and starts to cry. You watch her breakdown at the sight of what happened to you, and all you can do is mouth "I'm okay, I'll be okay."
Harald "People of Wessex! This...is your princess! This is who you looked up to, idolized! And now look at her, broken and beaten."
"BY YOU!" He hits you so hard in the face that you fall to the ground. You hear the people shout out in your defense.
Harald "Do not listen to her! She is a liar, a whore! She is not the woman that you thought she was!"
"HE'S LYING! DON'T LISTE-" He kicks you while you are still down. Kicking you until you are coughing up blood. But you won't stop. You won't let this man defame you and your image. You love your people. Even if they are not yours anymore, they once were.
Harald "I have come to save this kingdom from ruin!"
Father "That is right! You have a new king now! He will rule Wessex by my side and things will be much different! Now I assure you, brighter days are ahead!"
"NOT IF YOU KILL THE PRINCESS!" Your best friend shouted.
Father "I AM NOT KILLING MY DAUGHTER! I AM SIMPLY ALLOWING KING HARALD TO TEACH HER A LESSON!"
"And what lesson is that?!" She yelled.
Father "A lesson in blasphemy against the king!"
"Father please...let me go-"
Father "SILENCE!"
Harald kneels down in front of you, using his boot to raise your chin so that you look at him "Now tell me, where are those wonderful dragon's of yours?" Your heart sinks in your chest. Not only do you have to worry about your child in your belly, but your babies back in Kattegat as well. You don't know if you could live without them. They are your entire world.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hours and hours go by without any news from the ships that sailed out in search for you. Your dragon's have not eaten all day. People of Kattegat are barely talking, everyone is just so silent. But their thoughts, however, are screaming. The constant thought, where are you, who has you? Hvitserk sits by the fire and prays:
"Dear Odin, please help her. Please keep her strong. Be with Y/n now. Be with her and give her the strength that she needs to survive this battle. Be with my child. Keep him or her alive. Please, I need them." He stops when he hears a creak in the floorboards behind him. He turns around and sees his brother Ivar standing there.
Hvitserk "What do you want?"
Ivar "Look, you can be mad at me all you want. That is not going to bring her back. We need to all stick together to get her back...to get through this. And afterwards, if you want to hate me you can. You have every reason to, and I do not blame you. If I was in your place, I would hate me to-"
Hvitserk gets in his brother's face, "I loved her."
Ivar "I know that you do, Hvitserk. If I didn't before, I definitely do now." Hvitserk scuffs and walks back to the fire.
Ivar "I will find her and we will get justice for her-" Ubbe comes in the room.
Ubbe "They are back!"
Hvitserk "AND?!"
Ubbe "She wasn't there. I am sorry."
Hvitserk "So can we go where she is?!"
Ivar "Wessex.."
Hvitserk "Wessex."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You lay on the ground, getting snowed on. You are too weak to stand. Your friend waits for King Harald and your father to leave your side for a moment, then runs to you.
"Y/n...Y/n?"
"...Heyyy." you force a smile and even a giggle.
"OH MY GOD!" She starts to bawl and holds you close as you both ride out your emotions.
"You can't stay here.."
"I don't care! Is there anything I can do to help?!" She asked.
"Write to Kattegat. Tell Ivar that I am being held captive and tortured...tell them I don't have long."
"Y/n.."
"Just do it for me, please."
"I-I will. Is there anything else?"
"Yeah...tell them to bring my dragon's." She smiles and kisses your cheek.
"I love you. Stay strong. Stay alive."
"Always. Oh, you are going to be an auntie!"
"W-what?!"
"I am with child. Well I was before he brought me here. I am hoping and praying to the gods that I still am."
"Y/n...congratulations."
"Thank you, beautiful. Now go before you get caught." She hurries off and you watch her leave. You look at your people who are rioting over the sight of you. You look at the chaos unraveling right before your father and King Harald. You watch with a smirk on your face. Death is not an option. It never was an option. You can't wait to see your dragon's burn these men to ashes. And only ashes will they be once your family arrives. You can only hope that that is as soon as possible.
@hvitserkmarcosource @a-mess-of-fandoms @youbloodymadgenius @ivarsgoddess @jzr201 @conaionaru @ivarzeitgeist @herestherealproblem @kaitieskidmore1 @heavenly1927 @saldelys
#the battle between love and fire#ivar the god#ivar lothbrok#ivar the boneless#hvitserk lothbrok#hvitserk#ubbe lothbrok#torvi vikings#alex hogh andersen#marco ilsø#marco ilsoe#jordan patrick smith#vikings
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Alright I'm translating more of my stuff here!
beta: @themenkhuslegacy (thank you SO MUCH)
rating: G
characters: Stakh, Artemiy, Lara, Grief, Isidor Burakh
this is pre-canon, also sorry if I'm not making the post right bc I'm still figuring out how to make it convenient to read! there also is a Community series reference haha
***
"A good knife you have, kid," said the man before Stakh, smiling with yellow teeth. "Got anything else?"
Stakh's skin crawled under his gaze. He didn't want to give away his knife, the blade sharp and solid, the handle carved by Oynon Burakh himself. It was a gift, not for work. They had a lot of knives for work: to cut grass, to draw lines on bodies, to cut bread -- this one was for love. This was the reason why Stakh cherished it so much: it was given to him for the sake of giving. It was for him to carry it on his belt, to brag to his friends about, to carve wooden figures with.
"I also got this," he said. "Hazelnut. Found it on the other side of river. A whetstone, see the symbol? It's for good luck, Erdene herself made it. Five fishing hooks, ten needles, a razor."
"Give me all of it," the guy said, his tone allowing no protest. He rolled the whetstone in his hands, as if assessing it. The words were like jabs under Stakh's skin.
"Are you serious, man...?"
"No exchange then?"
Rubin bit the inside of his cheek, handing the man all the treasures he had. It was was a pity to give the knife away, yes, and all the other things he could look or exchange for. But it was worth what he was exchanging them for!
He held his breath for a moment when he got his hands on the guitar. It was old and scratched, but it still made a good sound. Its pegs were beautiful: big, angular, made of shiny brass. He was craving for it for -- how long? Half of his life, probably, and he was already twelve.
It was late, so late, and scary to walk home from lamp to lamp. His head sank in his shoulders from the thought of Isidor's reaction; he gave his gift away, after all. But joyful excitement -- his dream came to life, finally! -- was stronger than any fear.
He crept into the house from the back door, careful to not attract Teacher's attention. He sneaked into his room, taking the guitar off his shoulder; the strings made a long, pitiful ring. Tema opened one eye, watching him with quiet laughter.
"You're a spy, eh?" he whispered. "Where'd you get it?"
"The Skinners," Stakh answered. "Traded with a guy."
He took off his jacket, threw his boots and pants in the corner, crawled in bed, and hid under the heavy blanket. He still had his shirt on, and Tema wouldn't stop laughing at him. "Get out, Cub," Stakh shushed him without bitterness, hearing Isidor's heavy steps. Then, just in case, he covered his face with the blanket. In his old house, his father would cuff his ears for this. Why should he expect any different from Isidor?
The older Burakh came in with a lantern, shadows dancing around him. He sat on the side of Stakh's bed and gave him a sad, serious look. "I wanted to go look for you, you know," he said, voice soft. "If you go somewhere, at least tell Temka -- understand? We worry about you".
Stakh gave a slight nod. It looked like he wasn't going to be yelled at. "Oynon Burakh," he said very quietly, "remember the knife you gave me? A beautiful knife... I gave it away".
It was important he confessed, for some reason.
"For the guitar?"
"It's not like I didn't want it," Stakh babbled, wanting to explain himself and not wanting to upset Isidor. "I feel bad for it. Really. But I also really wanted a guitar! You see?"
"I understand, little one. See how your eyes are sparkling. It's good that you regret it, though. You now know how it feels to pay a price". Burakh's gentle hand patted his hair. "I'm not mad at you".
These words made Stakh terribly want to cry. Isidor grumbled something like "what a bastard, took a child's toy" and left the room. Tema sat up on his bed as soon as his steps went silent.
"Who are you gonna study from, blockhead?"
"I'll find someone", Stakh answered.
"Let's ask Grief, eh? Maybe he knows someone? Dad can also be of help. You can show me the guitar tomorrow! Come on, dude. Did you really give everything you had for it? You're wild! At least he spared you your boots .... "
Stakh wanted to stay up and listen to Tema's excited babbling, but his eyes went shut and he drifted away to sleep.
When he awoke the morning after, he didn't seem quite as excited as during the night before.
"Man, it's ugly."
"So what? I'm not gonna look at it."
"It doesn't work like that. If you exchanged for it, you need everyone to go, 'Woah.'"
"So what do you propose?"
Tema did have a plan. They took red paint and varnish, and took off the guitar's strings. "This symbol is a guiding star," Tema explained. "It's for luck. This is a bull's heart, for strength. This is a hawk's eye, so they can't take their eyes off you. And this is a hare's ear, so they listen to you and can't listen enough".
Red lines wound along the guitar's deck, the designs tying into knots. It was beautiful -- and there was one thing Stakh didn't know. On the inside, with a nail, Tema scratched a special symbol for him: the wind singing in the Steppe.
Stakh wasn't a proper student with a teacher when it came to music. He picked up some things from kids, learned something from Isidor, and found an old book to study. He didn't understand much. Still, after several months, he was able to play decently -- Tema wouldn't even cover his ears.
"We need to show Gravel," he decided. The story with the guitar was kept a secret from Lara, for Stakh was a bit shy of the girl. They ran to the house on the riverside, and Tema shouted, "Hey, Lara Gravel!"
Lara's fluffy head showed up in the window.
"Confess now or hold your peace forever! Can you sing?"
"A little bit!"
"Come to our warehouse then and we'll see!"
They called Grisha Filin over, too. He brought a lantern with colourful glass and put it on the floor; red, blue and green sparkles shone on their faces. Stakh sat down on a big box, Lara next to him. "What do I play, though?" Stakh asked.
"Play a sad one that the kids sing, the one about a kitten and a puppy," suggested Tema. "You and Lara look a bit like ones."
"And who is, I'm afraid to ask, the kitten?"
"The kids believe all cats are girls and all dogs are boys," said Lara "So I am the kitten".
"Those kids are stupid".
"Never believed this nonsense".
Lara snorted and pushed Stakh's side to make him play; he placed his fingers on the guitar's strings. The song was an easy four chords, and Lara's singing was so pretty. Unlike Stakh's wacky, breaking voice, it was quiet and tender -- like glass bells ringing.
The echoes rose high under the warehouse's roof; the wind wept in the Steppe. The evening's cold came closer, the kids pressing close to each other like pups. They kept singing, trying to catch up with each other. Lara looked at him with fascination, and Grief with a soft smile. Tema looked so proud as if it was him who taught Stakh to play. And Stakh felt he wouldn't regret giving away ten knives for this.
#pathologic#мор утопия#stakh rubin#artemiy burakh#bad grief#lara ravel#isidor burakh#precanon#headcanon#mine
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