Because i feel like i might be overestimating what the average is, i shall Conduct Research

This isn't about how many languages you speak, but how many youre able to count up to at least 10 in, since basic numbers are some of the first words you learn in a foreign language and sometimes you catch them without having studied the language at all

Choosing which prompt to send you from list was an impossible task!! They’re just all that good🥺 but if u feel inspired, maybe 15 or 76 would be really cute for stevetony?

Also, hope you have the best and loveliest day, friend 💖💝

thank you for sending one!! for #76 - "thank you for making me smile" - here's 1.6k words of getting together and absolutely terrible jokes

also i hope you have the loveliest day too 🥺

"I'm never listening to your advice again," Steve says the second he walks in the door. He lets it slam shut behind him and stomps off to his bedroom with another rough bang.

Tony and Bucky exchange a look on the couch, and Tony pauses their video game.

"Me or you?"

"Probably you," Bucky says. "Your advice is usually shit."

Tony scoffs, "Please, I'm a genius for a reason. All of my advice is amazing. Or are you forgetting that I'm the reason that you have a boyfriend right now?"

"One time in the last three years and you won't let it go."

"It'd be you and your right hand for the rest of your life if it wasn't for me."

Bucky rolls his eyes, "I would have made it work with Sam on my own eventually. But that's besides the point. I haven't given Steve any advice lately, so it has to be you. And in case you forgot, I don't even live here. He didn't know I was here when he said it."

"You don't live here?" Tony says with mock surprise. "Wow, you eat an awful lot of our food then."

Bucky grins, "It's payback for all the times you did the same to me before I moved out. Now go fix Steve. We'll rematch tomorrow."

"I didn't break him," Tony argues, even as he sets his controller down and stands from the couch. "I am a beacon of wisdom."

"You started a fire in the microwave twice last week, beacon."

Tony flips him off on his way to Steve's bedroom. He knocks once and ignores it when Steve tells him to go away.

Steve is sitting at his desk with his back to the door and his sketchbook open in front of him. He has a pencil in his hand, but the page is untouched.

"So, uh, what's up with you?"

"Nothing."

Tony nods slowly, "Right, okay. Care to share what advice of mine went wrong exactly? Cause I gotta say I'm drawing a blank."

"I was talking to Buck."

"Oh," Tony says in relief, then he frowns. "How'd you even know he was here?"

"When isn't he here? Our fridge is always empty because of him."

Tony smiles and flops down on Steve's bed, propping himself up against the pillows with his arms folded behind his head. He pushes the back of Steve's chair with his foot, making it spin his way.

"So what did Bucky do?"

Steve looks like he's about to say, but then he bites his lip and shakes his head instead. "Really doesn't matter."

Tony looks at him for a long moment, taking in all those subtle tells of his. The slight downturn of the corners of his mouth and the crease between his brows, but they don't come with any tension in his jaw or shoulders, which means he's more disappointed than angry. His eyes never hide hurt, but there's none to be found in them. Whatever it was didn't crush him, and Tony knows just how to fix him when he's like this.

He pokes Steve's arm with his socked toes. "Hey, Steve, why did the golfer bring two pairs of pants?"

Steve sighs, but there's already a hint of a smile. Further evidence to support Tony's hypothesis.

"Why, Tony?"

"In case he got a hole in one."

Steve presses his lips together and shakes his head. "That's not very funny."

"Why do bees have sticky hair?"

The look Steve gives him is long-suffering.

"Because they use honeycombs," Tony grins, and Steve relaxes back into his chair a little. "What kind of music do planets like?"

"Neptunes," Steve says, smirking a little, and Tony pouts dramatically.

"Nooo, how did you know that?"

"Used it on me two months ago. Remember when you broke the sink and you didn't want me to be mad at you anymore?"

"I also remember fixing the sink in the same day, but fine dwell on the fact that I broke it in the first place."

Steve laughs, and Tony feels the knot in his own chest loosen. He hates it when Steve's upset. It throws him off his own axis, because his world revolves around Steve's sun.

He gets up from the desk chair, and Tony shifts over to make room for him on the bed. They reach for each other's hands at the same time, interlocking fingers in the small space between them.

It's moments like these when the longing hits him the most. When Steve is this close, but it doesn't mean nearly as much to him as it does to Tony.

Sometimes he pictures what it would be like if he leaned over a little more. If Steve's eyes would flicker down to his lips, then away quickly like he didn't want to be caught. He wonders what Steve's cheek would feel like under his hand as he pulls his attention back, silently telling him it's okay to look.

It always stops there in his mind, right before a first kiss that he just knows would change his life. Guilt creeps in, because he should be happy with what he has. Happy with all of the pieces Steve lets him have now. It's more than most people will ever get.

"Thank you," Steve says. "You're the only one who can ever get me to smile after a day like today."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Tony asks, tilting his head to the side to look at him.

Steve bites his lip again, staring up at the ceiling. It takes a long moment for him to talk.

"There's somebody that I like, but they don't like me back. Not like that, anyway."

Tony's heart sinks, but he tries not to let it show. "You told them and they rejected you?"

Steve shakes his head, "No, I don't need to tell them to know how they feel. But Bucky said that I should find someone else to get over them, so I asked out that girl in my art history class."

"The one with the nose ring?"

"That's the one, yeah. We went for coffee this morning."

"How was it?" Tony asks, and more guilt accompanies the fact that he's actively and selfishly hoping Steve is about to say that it was awful.

Steve shrugs, "It was fine, technically. But then she tried to kiss me, and I sort of freaked out and ruined it. She looked at me like I was insane, and, god, it was so embarrassing, but I just couldn't do it when I know that I don't actually want anything like that from her. I didn't want to lead her on. It's not fair to her."

"Not fair to you either," Tony says softly. "You shouldn't force yourself to like someone you don't. And whoever the other person is, the one that doesn't want you back, they're missing out on someone really amazing, and they're stupid to let you go."

Steve smiles, but it's tinged with sadness as he turns his head to look at Tony. "I don't know about that. They can do better than me."

"Hey, no, don't say that. You're incredible. You're funny and smart and gorgeous, and I've never met anyone as kind as you in my entire life. There isn't anyone better than you, okay? And if they don't see that, then fuck them. Clearly, they're dumb as hell anyway," Tony rants, getting progressively louder as he goes and his free hand gesturing wildly.

"They're kind of a genius, actually."

Tony rolls his eyes, "Yeah, sure they are. Way to miss the point."

Steve's smile turns amused. "No, but they really are."

"What is this?" Tony asks with narrow eyes. "Are you trying to make me jealous by saying you know other geniuses? Cause I'm the only know-it-all in your life. I claimed the spot. It's mine."

"Definitely yours," Steve agrees, and he shifts a little to turn on his side. With his left hand, he tentatively reaches up towards Tony's face, and Tony's breath catches at the brush of fingertips against his cheek. "I think I might have been wrong, though, about how they feel about me."

It takes a few seconds for it to click in Tony's, but even when it does he doesn't believe it just yet.

"Why's that?"

"Apparently they think I'm incredible, and they get really angry when anybody else thinks otherwise."

Tony smiles softly, "Yeah, they really don't like that."

Steve's thumb strokes across his cheekbone, then his fingers drift back to run through his hair.

"They think I'm funny, too, but they've also got a terrible sense of humor, so I don't know how accurate that is."

Tony laughs, then says, "You know what I think?"

"What's that?"

"I think you should kiss them. Just go for it and see what happens."

Steve smiles, slowly leaning down, "You really think so? It could make things weird. We might not be able to be friends anymore."

Tony puts his hand on the nape of Steve's neck, drawing him further in until he's a scant inch away. "Trust me, they don't really want to be just a friend, anyway."

He finds out that Steve's skin is smooth and warm beneath his palms, and his lips are unexpectedly soft. His hands are constantly in motion, slowly mapping out Tony's hips and sides and back like he's memorizing the feeling. As if it's his one chance to learn what Tony feels like he won't let it get away from him. But it won't be the only one. There will be second, third, and hundredth kisses, because Tony knows better than to let someone like Steve slip away.

"Hey, Tony?" Steve whispers after.

"Yeah?"

"What's the best thing about Switzerland?"

Tony smiles, "What?"

"I don't know, but the flag is a big plus."

They stare at each other, and Steve is the first to crack, but his laugh makes Tony follow right behind him.

When the Wind Roars

(I can’t believe I finally finished this!!! This story was originally intended to be much shorter, but...obviously I got a bit carried away. Expect lots of angst. There’s some fluff, too, but mostly ANGST.)

(Plot Summary: In the past, Starscream and Skyfire made quite the team, but even then, that partnership was put to the test. In the present, Starscream and Skyfire do battle, as Starscream tries to rid himself of their shared memories once and for all.)

(Warnings: violence, guns, injury, a bit of disturbing imagery, death mention, lots of vengeful thoughts)

Present

The wind roared deafeningly at the peak of the mountain. It had only picked up in intensity in the few cycles they’d been stationed here, bringing with it a relentless rain that blanketed the world in hues of grey. Starscream scowled as he hastened to catch a stray bit of metal before it went tumbling off the mountainside, his feet nearly slipping out from under him in the sea of mud. He hated this weather. It was cold and wet and impossible to work in.

Of course, Starscream had faced far worse weather than this, but that was of little comfort.

Rumble was also fed up. After face planting in the mud for the fourth time, the minicon threw down his supply of metal beams with a cry of outrage.

“This is stupid!” he exclaimed, “How does Megatron expect us to build anything up here?!”

Starscream scowled at him, “I did not say you could stop working!”

Rumble’s small fists balled up at his sides, “What are you gonna do about it?”

Starscream didn’t like to be challenged. Without hesitation, he chucked the piece of metal he’d been holding at Rumble, who toppled over once more.

“I said work!” The other Decepticons hastened to comply as Rumble crawled out from under the metal, studiously avoiding Starscream’s withering glare.

In all honesty, Starscream was just as furious as Rumble, though his frustration was more because he was forced to work up here on this Primusforsaken mountain; he should be leading an attack on the Autobots, not laboring in the mud. This was far beneath him.

Despite his demand that everyone keep working, Starscream paused to look up at the sky. It was grey and murky but a ray of light shone through, reaching only so far as to give a hint of warmth.

He was reminded of another planet he’d visited millions of years ago. It was just as wet and windy as this one; just as meddlesome. He hadn’t been alone then, either, nor was he alone when he’d first visited this accursed planet.

A few rain drops splattered on his optics and Starscream violently wiped them away, an irritated snarl escaping him.

“Starscream!” It was Thundercracker.

“What now?!”

“Autobots!”

At first, Starscream didn’t believe him. There was no road up to this mountain. The wheel-bound Autobots would be unable to make it up here; even by foot, the journey was too perilous. The only way up was through flight.

Starscream’s optics widened. He lowered his servos from his face to find the mountainside cast in shadow. His gaze flicked upward.

Above him, in a halo of light, hovered a large, white jet.

Starscream felt sudden heat swell within him despite the cold.

“Shoot him out of the sky!!!”

A distant planet, millions of years ago...

“This is very likely a bad idea.”

“You say that about everything.”

“No, I only say that when a situation seems hazardous...this situation seems hazardous.”

“Honestly, Skyfire, you can be so cowardly sometimes,” Starscream transformed back to root mode as he touched down on a muddy precipice. He scowled as his feet sank into the muck but kept a chipper tone as he addressed his partner, “I can barely feel the wind!”

Skyfire set down beside him. The sudden weight of the two jets shook the cliffside, sending a few boulders tumbling over the edge. Skyfire watched their descent and frowned.

“You’ve seen the weather report, Starscream,” he said quietly, “The storm could pick up any moment now.

Starscream waved a flippant servo. Raindrops spiraled off his digits, “If it does, we can handle it! We’ve suffered through far worse, you and I.”

“Perhaps,” said Skyfire, “But nothing which hampered our ability to fly away.”

Starscream shook his head; he loved Skyfire, but sometimes he was a real pain in the afterburner. They’d been on countless exploration missions before and faced plenty of unsavory weather conditions; floods, earthquakes, they’d survived them all. What was a little storm to them?

“If you want to go, fine!” Starscream started walking, “I’ll complete this mission myself.”

He’d barely taken two steps before Skyfire was at his side, as Starscream knew he’d be. The smaller jet grinned up at him and Skyfire sighed.

“Let’s just get a lay of the land and go. We can come back for those crystal samples we’re supposed to investigate when the storm lets up.”

Starscream heaved a dramatic sigh, “That could take ages, Skyfire, and we’re on a tight schedule! We’re meant to be returning to Cybertron soon.”

Skyfire glanced away at that. Starscream narrowed his optics.

“What is it?”

Fiddling with his portable scanner, Skyfire shook his head, “It’s just...Cybertron has been so...contentious of late. Part of the reason I volunteered for this expedition was because I wanted to get away for a while.”

“I thought you volunteered because I volunteered,” Starscream said with a slight smirk.

Skyfire glanced at him and smiled, “I do have a mind of my own, you know.”

“Yes,” Starscream agreed, “And it’s smart enough to follow me.”

A laugh escaped the larger jet, “Or dumb enough.”

“Nonsense! We’re highly intelligent bots, Skyfire,” Starscream ruined the sentiment by tripping over a boulder, but Skyfire righted him before his face hit the mud. Coughing slightly to hide his embarrassment, Starscream continued,  “That’s why we work so perfectly together.”

Skyfire still kept a hold of Starscream’s arm as he considered his partner’s words. At last, he let his servo drift down to clutch Starscream’s hand.

“Interesting hypothesis.”

Starscream’s processor seemed to momentarily short out, but it came back online as Skyfire regarded him fondly with those brilliant blue eyes of his. Flustered, Starscream only stared, until eventually he managed to connect his processor back to his voice.

“Interesting fact,” he corrected, squeezing Skyfire’s hand, “That we shall prove now!”

He pointed up the mountain with his free servo. High above, the faintest gleam, as of polished metal, twinkled in the faint light.

“Those are the crystals.”

Skyfire squinted up at them and raised his scanner, “Hmm...they definitely have a high energy output. Akin to energon.”

“We need a sample,” Starscream broke away from Skyfire so he could take flight. Skyfire laid a hand on his shoulder before he could.

“Starscream, look at those clouds,” Skyfire gestured up at the - admittedly - ominous sky above them, “I would not advise flying.”

“So what, we climb?” Starscream had to shout to be heard over a sudden gust of wind.

“No, we wait until the weather becomes more favorable.”

A burst of lightning and a rumble of thunder punctuated Skyfire’s words. Starscream couldn’t deny the sudden thrill of apprehension that shot through his system, but he wasn’t about to be bested by a mere storm.

“I’m going for it!”

“Don’t!” Skyfire’s grip on his shoulder was more insistent, “The wind is picking up. You could get blown into the mountain side or crash to the ground. And those crystals are brimming with unstable energy! We shouldn’t get too-!”

“I am a scientist, Skyfire!” Starscream shook free of the other jet, “I know how to handle dangerous substances. And I know how to handle myself, thank you very much!”

Skyfire opened his mouth but whatever he said was lost to the wind.

“What?!” Starscream shouted.

“I said, we must seek shelter!”

“We’re on a cliff! Where-” Starscream’s response was cut short as a large rock tumbled down from above, forcing the smaller jet to leap out of the way. Scowling, he glanced up to where the rock had come from, and his optics widened as he saw still more crashing down.

“Move!” Skyfire yelled. As one, he and Starscream dove off the cliff and transformed back to jet mode. Instantly, Starscream felt the wind buffet his wings, threatening to splatter him against the cliff side. Okay, he conceded to himself, Maybe the weather is too much.

The rain poured down in earnest, now, blanketing Starscream’s windshield to the point where the world became a hazy, grey blur. A bolt of lightning arced down. It was far, far too close for his liking, and Starscream instinctively swerved away.

Extending his long range sensors, he sought a safe place to land below. Skyfire would be doing the same, he knew. His sensors probed the sky around him, trying to pinpoint the white jet so they could touch down together.

Something within him froze. He extended his sensors further, as far as he could. His engines faltered. The wind pressed in around him, rattling him to his very core, but he paid no heed.

In a moment’s frantic decision, Starscream transformed back to root mode and scanned the landscape with his optics.

Even as he plummeted to the ground, he called out desperately.

“SKYFIRE!”

Present

Energy bolts lit up the gloomy mountain as the Decepticons opened fire. As if sensing the sudden hostility, lightning split open the sky and a deep, resounding rumble followed soon after. Starscream’s optics were momentarily dazzled by the stunning displays surrounding him, and when they adjusted, three Autobots had leaped down from the sky to stand before him.

He recognized their leader, of course. Optimus Prime leveled a weapon at Starscream, though the jet paid little mind. Even as the Prime spoke, his voice deep and commanding, Starscream didn’t heed. Instead, he watched as the large, white jet above transformed and fell to the mountain top just behind Prime.

Something within Starscream burned as he locked gazes with Skyfire. Blazing red optics met piercing blue. They sliced through Starscream, as cold as the ice Skyfire had rested in for millions of years. Starscream didn’t recognize those eyes. He couldn’t even recall what they’d used to look like, though he remembered how they’d made him burn with a fire entirely different from the one raging within him now.

Prime shouted something. The Autobots charged. Two of them - Ironhide and Prowl - rushed to meet Thundercracker and Rumble. Prime defended himself against an emboldened Skywarp. And Skyfire, stance steady despite the shifting mud, raised his gun at Starscream.

The seething rage within him ignited and Starscream opened fire. Despite his immense size, Skyfire dodged, nearly trampling a terrified Rumble. Starscream didn’t let up, even as Skyfire took aim and forced him to launch off the ground to avoid the blast. Transforming into jet mode, he streaked through the air, null rays zeroed in on Skyfire’s bulky frame.

Skyfire fired off a few more shots, forcing Starscream to alter his course. His flight took him close to the other battling Autobots and Decepticons. Ironhide fired a few bolts at him and Starscream hurried to avoid the crossfire of his and Skyfire’s weapons. The distraction infuriated him and Starscream took a moment to fire on the red Autobot. Suitably cowed, Ironhide returned to his tussle with Rumble, leaving Starscream to focus every bit of his ire on the white mech firing on him from afar.

Their battle grew removed from that of the others. With each attack, they drew further away, further toward the edge. Starscream didn’t care. He refused to be beaten by this mountain or the wind and rain that assaulted him. He wanted Skyfire dead. That was all that mattered.

He streaked through the air. He was close now. Skyfire stood no chance. Sudden giddiness grabbed hold of Starscream as he imagined Skyfire offline at his feet. The traitor would die a traitor’s death; there would be no mercy.

But Starscream’s perceived victory was short-lived. Before he could even slow down, Skyfire dove forward, managing to come up under him. A servo closed around his wing and Starscream shrieked as Skyfire swung him into the ground. He landed painfully and it took a moment for him to recover enough to shift back to root mode. When he did, Skyfire stood over him, gun leveled at his face.

All was quiet, as if the increasing downpour had muted the world. The wind that howled so relentlessly before had petered out. The battle raging behind them was a distant nuisance, almost inconsequential. For all Starscream cared, the world consisted of only him, Skyfire, and the gun between them. The shaking gun.

Starscream’s gaze flicked to meet Skyfire’s. Those blue eyes stared back with a wavering resolve. For a moment that seemed to stretch across millions of years, neither made a move.

The wind sprang back to life, the distant battle drew nearer, and Skyfire still hadn’t fired. What are you waiting for? Starscream wanted to shout, Finish it!

But Skyfire didn’t, and this, more than anything, sent a surge of loathing through Starscream’s system. It fueled his null ray as he raised it in one deft movement.

Skyfire had no time to react. The force of the blast sent him careening back, his feet slipping in the mud, gun falling from his slack hand. There was no time for him to regain his balance.

Starscream watched him fall over the edge. He didn’t react for a few long moments after. All he could do was stare at the space Skyfire had occupied.

He’s gone, Something within Starscream’s spark shrank in on itself, I can’t see him.

His processor fixated on that one thought. I can’t see him. I can’t see him!

He stumbled forward, a desperate cry escaping him.

“SKYFIRE!!!”

Past

Not even the relentless gale could slow Starscream’s descent. He tore through the air, the wind shrieking as if in protest, his limbs flailing uselessly. He knew he needed to transform; if he didn’t, he’d be nothing but a mound of smashed metal and circuitry. As the image flashed in his mind, he couldn’t help but envision a similar corpse, this one much larger and a stark white against the dark landscape.

Starscream quashed the thought as soon as it arose. Skyfire wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. Those were two differing thoughts, Starscream knew, but his processor couldn’t help but bounce between them. He’s not dead, because if he is then...There was no conclusion that Starscream dared consider, so he focused his processor, attempting to ignore the threat of his imminent demise.

He felt his transformation cog whir to life, though the transformation was made clumsy by the unconventional circumstances. The mess of green below drew nearer, serving as an unnecessary reminder that he needed to pull up fast.

Acting purely on instinct, his engines rocketed him forward. He felt leaves skim his wings as he struggled to pull upward, making for the murky grey of the clouds above. The wind was a constant assailant that threatened to dash him into the trees or the mountainside. Lightning split open the sky over and over, closer and closer.

Was that what happened? Had Skyfire been hit by a stray lightning bolt? The concept forced Starscream to tax his engines harder than he ever had. With a burst of speed, he shot upward, letting the trees be swallowed by the mist once more. Again, he extended his sensors and cursed his lack of visibility.

“SKYFIRE!!!”

No response. Starscream knew he wasn’t thinking straight as he veered closer to the mountain, seeking any hint that Skyfire may have crashed. His wing clipped a jutting boulder and he nearly smashed into the cliff face himself as he went careening off course. He was forced to climb higher in a desperate attempt not to meet with the rocks below.

Where is he? He couldn’t think. Couldn’t see, Where is he?!

Something glittered nearby, almost like…

Metal. Starscream threw himself forward, heedless of the risk, “Skyfire!!!”

The wind pulled at his wings, trying to drag him down. The noise was cacophonous, forcing his engines to roar all the louder. He would not be bested. He was so close…

The glittering material suddenly sharpened into focus. The hope glittering just as brightly within him dimmed.

In the faint light shimmered the very reason for this accursed mission. The energy crystals. No sign of Skyfire.

Starscream’s spark sank. He was sure it would drop right out of his fuselage and shatter on the jagged rocks far below. Maybe another spark was already waiting for it.

Thunder continued to growl overhead. Lightning tore through the darkness and illuminated the entire cliff side in brilliant white. An instinctive part of Starscream knew what was coming, but there was no time to react. He could only stare as the lightning zigzagged down and struck the shimmering rocks.

The crystals exploded. Shards smashed open Starscream’s cockpit and embedded themselves in his battered frame. He may have screamed, but he couldn’t hear it. Stabbing pain coursed through his entire being. It overwhelmed him, so much so that he didn’t realize he was falling until he smashed into a jutting, sloped cliff. The impact jarred loose a faint recollection.

Those crystals are brimming with unstable energy! We shouldn’t get too-

Skyfire had warned him. He’d warned him about everything, and what had Starscream said? Honestly, Skyfire, you can be so cowardly sometimes.

He felt himself sliding slowly toward the edge. Desperately, he forced himself to transform. His cockpit grated over the rocky terrain and another dizzying bout of agony washed over him. He could hear his scream this time.

Legs dangling into nothingness, Starscream sought for something to grab onto. His servos dug into the mud, clutching at nothing but loose pebbles. The cliff was too unstable and his body too heavy. The inevitable outcome to his struggles became alarmingly clear.

I’m going to fall, he stilled and felt himself slip further, I’m going to die.

There would be no saving himself this time; he’d smash to pieces on the rocks below before his taxed transformation cog could even come online. His vision flickered as his cockpit continued to grind over the rocks, bringing him ever closer to his doom. All Starscream could manage now was a faint whimper, his screams spent.

He knew he deserved this; it was his fault that he and Skyfire had been caught up in this Primusforsaken storm on this Primusforsaken planet. His fault that Skyfire was likely a shattered corpse on the mountain side. Still, as he began his final descent, a voice - a shameful voice that refused to be quieted no matter how much he tried - shrieked in his head, clamoring to be heard above all else.

I don’t want to die!

Terror seized his spark, shocking his limbs into one last, frantic attempt at salvation. It was futile.

I DON’T WANT TO DIE!

He fell. Opening his mouth, he let out a final, broken scream.

“Skyfire!!!”

“I’ve got you!”

As suddenly as the fall had begun, it stopped. His arm pulled taught and lances of pain pierced through it and his cockpit. The world disappeared, sapped of everything but a cold blackness. After countless moments, warmth and color seeped back in, as a familiar voice, the one that had called to him, spoke again. It was insistent, desperate, as were the arms clasping his limp form. Starscream’s optics fritzed a bit before coming back online. He was in some kind of cave. He could see the deep grey of the sky just beyond and feel the wind and rain graze his wing. It was all remote though. He was more aware of the arms wrapped protectively about him, the feel of someone large and sturdy holding him close. Above all else, he saw brilliant blue optics staring down at him. He watched them soften as a quiet sigh reached his auditory sensors. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

“Thank Primus,” Skyfire breathed, “Starscream, can you hear me?”

Starscream wanted to respond but he couldn’t. All he could do was stare, drinking in the sight of the bot before him. Skyfire was alive. Somehow his mind couldn’t yet process it. He was here. They were together again.

Skyfire’s anxious voice broke in on his thoughts, “It’s okay, Starscream, it’s okay,” It was only then that the smaller jet realized he’d started babbling.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he gasped, “I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Skyfire repeated, “We’re okay.”

Starscream couldn’t stop, “We almost died! I-I almost killed us!”

“But we’re okay now,” Skyfire replied gently, “I’ve got you.”

He rested a servo on the back of Starscream’s head. The touch snapped Starscream back to his senses and he shoved him away. The movement sent shards of pain through him and he clutched a servo to the mangled cockpit situated over his chest.

“Don’t,” he hissed as Skyfire reached for him. He was still shielded by the cave, but he could feel the wind lap hungrily at his wings as he moved backward.

He stopped -  afraid to move any further - and met Skyfire’s worried gaze.

“How...” he began, pausing for a moment to gather his strength, “How can you...This is all my fault! I should have listened to you! Skyfire, I...You could have died because of me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Stop saying that!”

Skyfire regarded him helplessly. Starscream hated it.

“Why aren’t you mad?” he prompted angrily, “You should be furious! You should be...Stop looking at me like that!!!”

He didn’t. “Do you want me to be mad?” Skyfire asked quietly.

Yes...No. “I don’t know!!! Just-” he had to pause before the pain overwhelmed him.

Skyfire moved closer. Starscream told himself not to, but his whole frame ached and trembled and he yearned to be back in Skyfire’s arms, so when Skyfire reached again, the smaller jet could do nothing but melt into him. He cursed his weakness.

“Starscream,” Skyfire’s voice pierced through the turmoil within him. Defeated, Starscream could only listen.

“I’m not angry with you. I don’t think I could ever be angry with you. Don’t ask me why; I don’t know either. What I do know is that I lost you in the storm and assumed the worst, so even though you’re upset, I’d like to just hold you for a while, if that’s okay.”

It was far too easy to comply. Already relaxed against Skyfire, Starscream let himself be pulled closer. The larger jet took special care not to aggravate his injury. It would need to be dealt with, but not now. Right this moment, all Starscream needed was the surety of Skyfire’s arms around him. All his guilt and shame still burned within him, but he couldn’t focus on it if he tried.

They were safe. They were together. That was all that mattered.

“I’ve got you,” Skyfire murmured again, “I’ve always got you.”

Present

The edge of the mountain was shrouded in rain and mist. Even as Starscream dove toward it, he couldn’t be certain he hadn’t flung himself off. His arm extended into nothing. His feet dug into the mud as he felt himself fall forward, just barely managing to snag a jutting rock.

As his entire frame came to a jarring halt, Starscream’s processor seemed to rattle with it. What was he doing? He couldn’t think. The image of Skyfire’s frightened face as he tumbled over the edge was seared into his mind. It was all he could focus on.

I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.

“Skyfire!!!” The call reverberated through Starscream’s spark, splitting it open as forgotten feelings and buried dreams clawed their way out. He couldn’t halt the flood; it washed over him, drowning him in memories.

“Starscream!”

That voice - as it always had - snapped him from the mire of his mind. He peered downward. Just below him, hanging by a crumbling ledge, was Skyfire.

For a moment, it was Starscream hanging for dear life, crying out for rescue. He blinked and the roles reversed again. 

As his precarious handhold collapsed beneath his digits, Skyfire desperately tried to bring another servo up to help. He was forced to stop as the movement only made him slip faster. Rain hissed over the place where Starscream had shot him and he grimaced as smoke blended with the mist. He looked up, blue optics shining in the gloom. Starscream nearly lost his grip when they focused on him.

He recognized those optics. They were the very same that used to look at him as if he were the most lovely thing in the universe. Even when they’d explored new, vibrant planets, he’d felt those optics gazing at him with a fondness that made him want to both laugh and scream. He wasn’t sure which he did now, but from the way the blue of Skyfire’s eyes widened with recognition of his own, he figured it was laughter.

“Skyfire…” he reached for him.

Eyes shining, Skyfire’s servo lifted to meet his, “...Starscream?”

His handhold crumbled even more but neither paid any heed. The storm and the clash of Autobots and Decepticons became remote. This time, though, the world didn’t seem to shrink until it was just the two of them. It seemed to grow. Starscream felt a heavy weight in his spark start to lift. His servo reached past millions of years to seek out that familiar yet forgotten touch. He wanted it more than anything, just a hint at what they once were and could be again.

In the faltering light, the insignia affixed to Skyfire’s chest gleamed.

The world shrank. The weight in Starscream’s spark settled back down until he almost felt it would drag him over the edge.

He snatched his hand away just as Skyfire’s digits grazed his own. The touch was like electricity arcing through him. It was tantalizingly, achingly familiar. It promised love and security and everything that had been denied him for millions of years.

It was a convincing lie, but Starscream couldn’t be fooled that easily. 

As he stood up slowly, Skyfire’s round, wide, and impossibly blue optics followed him. Starscream wanted to plunge his digits into them until the Autobot started screaming. The flicker of horror he felt at the thought died instantly as Skyfire spoke again.

“Starscream?” he repeated, his voice wavering.

It was his voice, and for the first time in his long, painful life, Starscream was not consoled by it.

“You…” His voice should have been lost to the wind but somehow Skyfire heard and grew deathly silent.

Memories collided within Starscream’s mind. Skyfire holding him, speaking softly to him, laughing with him, exploring with him, rescuing him...

They were all lies. Skyfire betrayed him. Starscream had circled half the globe searching for him, carried the weight of guilt for so long that it had become as familiar as flight, suffered in silence for cycles upon cycles, all for what?

“Starscream,” the Autobot begged, “Please.”

The plea was music to Starscream’s auditory sensors. He let it play, let Skyfire try to sway him again, enjoying every moment of the Autobot’s agony.

Skyfire’s voice grew quiet, “Don’t you remember?”

Starscream hesitated. He did remember. All of it. His fists clenched as his foot stomped downward.

“TRAITOR!!!”

Helpless, Skyfire could only give a strangled cry as Starscream’s foot crunched into his upturned face. The Decepticon watched his enemy fall, his own face lighting up with a terrible grin.

Skyfire barely managed to slow his descent by digging his servos into the muddy cliffside just enough to crash into a protruding ledge. He lay there motionless for countless moments, his recent fall marked by dents in his fuselage and muddy stains dimming his crisp white. He looked broken. Starscream couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy.

When Skyfire at last came to, his gaze was unfocused. The clear blue of his eyes were crusted with dirt and likely cracked by the impact of Starscream’s foot. The steady rain did a poor job of washing all the muck from his frame, only succeeding in making it bleed into the remaining white. His optics turned upward and somehow found Starscream in the hazy mist. He almost seemed to know where the other jet was without needing to see.

It was there, atop that war torn peak, that Skyfire first looked upon Starscream with fury. No, not fury. Hate.

“Skyfire!” Optimus Prime’s booming voice echoed across the mountain, “Where are you?”

Starscream turned. The Autobots stood on a field of victory, the remains of the Decepticons’ machine scattered amongst its fallen creators. He scowled and turned to confront his foes, when he felt a sudden whoosh of air blast past him. Looking up, he watched as Skyfire sailed over his head to land heavily on the mountaintop.

Without hesitation, Starscream opened fire, only to hit the dirt when the other Autobots returned it. By the time he tentatively lifted his head, all three Autobots had retreated into Skyfire’s fuselage. NO! Starscream rushed forward, his guns vainly attempting to bring the cargo plane down even though he knew he was out of range.

“NO!” he shrieked into the mist, “COME BACK, YOU COWARD!”

But Skyfire had already been lost to the grey sky, leaving Starscream alone. Again.

He continued to stare at the space where he’d last seen Skyfire, unable to look away. He felt as if he’d been awoken from a cruel dream. It took every bit of his willpower not to scream his agony into the sky above. All he wanted in that moment was to hunt Skyfire down and make him suffer. He wanted to hear his screams of terror as he at last cornered him and slammed him into the dirt, gun pointed right between those too blue optics.

How could you do this? He’d scream, Did any of it matter? Did I matter?

Starscream knew the answer already. He turned to face his forces, who all looked to him for guidance.

“Decepticons, take flight!” Without waiting to see if they followed, Starscream transformed and took to the air. To his dismay, there was no trace of the Autobots. They’d be back, though; they never stayed down.

One of them will, Starscream vowed, That traitor will die by my hand.

The rain continued to pour as three jets - and one passenger cassette - returned to their base, leaving the mountain top to be shrouded in mist once more. All they left of their battle were the remnants of an evil machine and a singular gun that had slipped from a foolish Autobot’s hand.

Epilogue- Past

The flight back to Cybertron felt like it lasted millions of cycles. Crouched in Skyfire’s fuselage, Starscream lamented as much to his partner. Skyfire’s only response was an exasperated yet fond sigh; Starscream could tell he was just glad to hear him speak without wheezing.

The damage to his cockpit was extensive but not life-threatening. After a thorough inspection, Skyfire had determined as much. He’d carefully removed some of the smaller bits of crystal from Starscream’s frame and left the larger ones to be handled by a medic. Starscream had wanted to appear brave, but he hadn’t been able to stifle the quiet whimper that escaped him. Luckily, Skyfire responded by wrapping him up in another hug, which had instantly soothed the smaller jet.

When they at last returned to Cybertron, Skyfire was quick to usher him to a medic. In fact, Starscream’s feet barely touched the ground before Skyfire scooped him up and rushed into the medical facility. The hospital was just one branch of the science center that had been built there. For the most part, the civil unrest that had broken out over Cybertron had not affected the science community. It was only a matter of time, though.

Starscream and Skyfire were meant to report to their superiors in the Scientific Exploration department. After much convincing from Starscream, Skyfire had at last agreed to leave his side and speak with the higher-ups, taking a few samples of crystal with him, also at Starscream’s urging. It was what they’d been sent for, after all; it shouldn’t matter that they’d ended up having to gather it from Starscream’s mangled cockpit.

The procedure to repair his cockpit was fairly long but luckily Starscream was in stasis for most of it. When he awakened and examined himself, he was pleased by the results. He didn’t think he’d ever seen his windows shine quite so brightly. He couldn’t help but hope Skyfire would notice, too.

Skyfire was pacing in the waiting room when he emerged. The moment Skyfire spotted him, he almost seemed to teleport to his side.

“Are you okay? I was worried something had gone wrong.”

“Don’t worry, Skyfire,” Starscream said with a slight smile, “I am the picture of health.”

Skyfire looked him up and down, “You’re certainly...shinier,” he said with a bit of awe.

Starscream beamed internally, “Thank you for noticing.”

The two walked out side by side, arms brushing. Starscream wanted to savor the moment, but his curiosity got the better of him.

“So, what did our bosses have to say?” he asked, barely hiding his disdain. He didn’t like having to report to superiors; he’d rather make his own decisions than comply with someone else’s. Maybe one day…

“The crystals seem promising, though they’ll have to perform further tests,” Skyfire replied, “In the meantime, there’s another planet they want us to investigate right away. It’s uncharted, as of yet. There might not even be intelligent life on the surface, though long distance scans hint to a great energy source.”

Ordinarily, Starscream would have leaped for joy at an assignment such as this, but as he watched Skyfire speak, he couldn’t help but recall how close he’d been to losing him. They were lucky to stand here together at all.

Sensing his hesitation, Skyfire favored Starscream with a concerned frown, “What’s the matter?”

“You know what’s the matter,” Starscream huffed. He didn’t mean to take his anger out on his partner - especially since he was really mad at himself - but it was difficult. Skyfire didn’t respond in kind, though. He never did.

“It’ll be okay, Starscream,” Skyfire reached down to grasp his servo firmly, “So long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.”

And because Skyfire’s voice never failed to console him, Starscream believed what he said. He squeezed his servo back and smiled up into Skyfire’s brilliant blue eyes.

“Together, then.”

Fanfic: Purr

Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends Summary: Jayce was curious to know if Viktor could purr after his transformation. Contains: Jayce/Viktor, catboy!Viktor, sad ending Notes: Set after S1, but ignoring the ending. Rating: G Genre: Horror Word count: 4,478 Status: Complete "I think we need to slow down," Jayce said, watching Viktor eat as they had dinner in the lab, hunched around the one small table that wasn't covered in blueprints, calculations or prototypes. The tip of Viktor's right new triangular ear flicked, mirrored by his raised eyebrow. "Oh?"

Why was there even a question? When Viktor brought his fork up, Jayce's attention was drawn to his transformed hand, the brown short fur covering the back of his hand, his nails now curving down into sharp claws. "I just want to make sure you're all right first." What if the transformation had changed more than just his body? Viktor took a bite, and were his incisors longer than before? "What happened to forging ahead for the sake of progress?" Jayce ran a hand down his face as he sighed. "There's a difference between getting caught up in the moment and dealing with the aftermath." And currently? Viktor was doing both. "We have a result, so now we can recalibrate, find what-" "We can do that by using the hexcore again," Viktor said, his gaze steadily. "We don't know how much it's changed you, if it's affected you in other ways." Viktor huffed, tracing small signs in the air with his fork. "I feel fine," he said as he continued eating. Jayce watched him for a few  more seconds before he sagged, nodding. "I know. I'm just...worried." He started eating, his food a little cooler than it had been a few minutes ago. But Viktor still sounded like himself, was still talking. He would keep an eye on Viktor in the meantime though, just in case. * * * "No, no, no," Viktor said, shaking his head, the tips of his ears quivering. "That wouldn't work because..." Jayce had been listening, waiting to see if he could follow Viktor's thought process, and he saw Viktor's pupils constrict to slits, his ears going stiff. Without explaining, Viktor span around, his tail swishing and batting Jayce in the leg as he strode towards the blackboard. Viktor's tail flicked from side to side, like he was on the hunt and Jayce couldn't help himself smiling as he followed. They had been all this time, hadn't they? * * * "Do you think you can purr?" Jayce wondered out loud as he opened the door to their bedroom. "Very scientific," Viktor said, amusement clear. "There is a scientific reason for it!" He held the door open and Viktor headed in. "Which is?" Incessant curiosity. "Iiinnn case you've changed where we can't see or test. And it would be a good way to check if your instincts have been affected, since we don't purr." Obviously. Viktor leaned his weight on his cane some more, his tail swinging left and right in slow arcs. Jayce had started to recognise it as something it would do when Viktor was thinking hard about something. "And your proposal to make me purr?" There were a lot of things Jayce could think of that he was sure would make Viktor purr, and by Viktor's slowly growing smirk, he had the same idea as well. Jayce closed the space between them, tracing his fingers along Viktor's jaw before leaning in to kiss him. Viktor narrowed his eyes at him, his ears pinned on Jayce, when he pulled away. "You don't seem that invested in researching your hypothesis." "Just setting a baseline," Jayce said, reaching up to rub at the base of Viktor's cat ear, where he knew he was more sensitive. "So we have something to compare to." It made sense. "Then you'd best start comparing," Viktor said, leaning into his touch, his eyes going to half-mast. Grinning, Jayce leaned in again. * * * "I think that experiment yielded no results," Viktor said, as he pulled the blanket up to cover himself afterwards. "Hey! I think there was some bias going on," Jayce protested. He was still too far hot and he would wait until his heart rate had settled down first before crawling under to join Viktor. "Oh?" "You were trying not to purr." He had seen Viktor trying to keep quiet, biting his lip at times, which had made him push all that harder. Even then, there had been no purrs; there had been lots of other sounds though, which made up for it. Viktor smirked briefly before he yawned, his ears flipping back. "If you can't make me purr after trying, then we can confirm my hypothesis was correct and all changes are surface only." "Under one instance," Jayce countered as he moved back under the blanket. "We have to repeat it to make sure." Viktor's eyes were drooping, but he moved closer, Jayce wrapping an arm around him. "Under the same conditions or...more intense?" he murmured against Jayce's chest. "Both?" Both was a good idea. He got a snort as a reply. "Next time." Jayce grinned, drawing slow circles over Viktor's skin. "Of course." Then they could plan out what exactly they could try. Viktor didn't say anything else, his breathing evening out as he fell asleep. Jayce listened to him for a minute or so, before following him. * * * "Do you think catnip would work on you?" Jayce asked. The purring experiment hadn't shown anything, but testing how Viktor's body reacted to catnip could show something else. "Another test?" One of Viktor's ears turned towards Jayce, and that was one of the best indicators now to see how much Viktor was paying attention when he was working on a calculation or something else. "I wouldn't be a scientist if I didn't want to test everything." He was still worried about Viktor, but Viktor seemed to be settling into the new changes. "I seem to remember a few times when you didn't," Viktor said, still working on his calculation, but Jayce could just see his small smirk. "We were under time constraints then!" They hadn't been allowed to test as extensively as they wanted. It had worked out in the end with...only a few hiccups, and they'd learned more about what they needed to improve on. It still wasn't something Jayce wanted to do every time. He heard Viktor's low laugh, the final tap of chalk on the blackboard as he finished, before he turned around to face Jayce. "We can try it." "Really?" Viktor nodded, his gaze flicking over Jayce. "Where are you holding it?" Oh. "I haven't got any on me." He hadn't expected Viktor to agree straight away, so he hadn't bought any. Viktor shook his head, but Jayce could see the smile he was fighting back as he walked over. "I suppose it's near lunchtime. We can find some and then eat here." "Sure!" Jayce wanted to test Viktor's changes, but this was the only time he hoped his theory would be wrong. * * * Jayce watched Viktor roll the small bag of catnip they'd bought between his hands, used enough to his changes now to keep his claws away from the fabric. Viktor had gone through a few clothes near the start when his claws had caught and just tore holes through them. "You look more worried than I feel," Viktor said, lifting his gaze to look at Jayce. "Well, can you blame me? If you do react to it, what then?" Physical changes for the sake of progress, maybe. But the potential for losing himself, losing Viktor completely? It wasn't something Jayce wanted. "We would figure something out," Viktor said, fingers, going to the drawstrings. "We always do." They did. Jayce still couldn't help holding his breath as Viktor opened the bag. Viktor stopping himself from purring was one thing, but he couldn't stop how his body would react to drugs. The reaction was instantaneous. Viktor grimaced, jerking his head back as his ears flattened. Jayce breathed out. "No?" "No," Viktor confirmed, still grimacing. "It's too sharp, and I certainly feel no change in my mental facilities or have an urge to run or anything else." "Good." Jayce relaxed, watching Viktor tie the bag back up again, getting up to drop it into the filling bin in the corner. They should probably have that emptied soon, since they'd moved ahead enough that anything left in there wouldn't be relevant and they definitely wouldn't need it anymore, but for now, they would finish lunch first. Viktor may have physically changed, but mentally he was still the same. * * * It wasn't strange to wake up alone, Viktor getting up first to write down a new revelation before he forgot it, so Jayce got ready and headed for the lab, breakfast in hand in case Viktor had decided to skip it again. When he opened the door, Viktor wasn't working at the blackboard, pacing in front of it instead, his ears flat, his tail twitching. "What's wrong?" Jayce asked as he closed the door behind him, walking over. Viktor's jaw tensed, his tail lashing before it settled again. "Nothing. Why would you think there was something wrong?" "It's a little harder to hide your emotions now," Jayce said, lifting a hand  to stroke one of Viktor's ears. Viktor exhaled, his ears straightening for a second before folding again. "It's less hiding my emotions and more that there's something in the building now that sounds like it's trying to dig into my skull." He tried to lift his ears again, but he flattened them almost as soon as he did. He eyed Jayce. "You can't hear it?" Jayce turned his head, trying to pick out anything that seemed out of place, but he didn't hear anything new. "No." Was Viktor's hearing more sensitive now since he had larger ears? It would make sense. Viktor made a grumbling sound as Jayce handed him breakfast. "Come on," Jayce said, patting his shoulder and leading him back outside. Viktor looked up at him, an eyebrow raised. "What are you thinking?" "I want to see if we can find the source." He wouldn't be able to do that himself if he couldn't hear it. Viktor's ears flattened a little bit more. "It's fine," he muttered. "I'm used to ignoring annoyances." Jayce glanced back at the blackboard - the calculations were the same as the ones that had been on it the night before. "How much work did you do this morning?" Another grimace, Viktor relaxing a little as he sighed, leaning against Jayce. "Not as much as I would like." "Then the faster we sort this out, the faster we can get back to work." Viktor didn't say anything as they left the lab, but one ear pricked up, swivelling around before flattening again. "True. The source appears to be coming from the north." "Then that's where we'll start," Jayce said, moving in the direction Viktor had indicated. * * * They had visited a few places with no result. Either the walking or the sound was taking a toll on on Viktor, leaning more on Jayce and slowing down the longer they continued. "Have you made any changes or adjusted the machinery this morning?" Jayce asked the engineer manager, a short man with ginger hair that looked like it had been singed in a few places. They were on the edges of the building, almost the furthest point from the lab, but it seemed a likely place. Though he had thought that of the other places they'd investigated... Still, they were narrowing down where it wasn't. "The turbines were maintained this morning, like they are every year, sir," the manager said, jerking his head behind him. "Everything is to standard." "Could you check to make sure everything was put back properly? I just want to make sure everything is running as best as it can." It was easier putting it that way, than drawing their attention to Viktor. The manager opened his mouth and then closed it, nodding. "Of course, Counsellor." He span on his heel, barking instructions to the other workers. While he did that, Jayce went back to Viktor. Viktor had found a chair to sit on near the entrance, leaning on his cane in front of him. "They're not very happy about this," he murmured, making Jayce turn back to watch the workers. It looked like they were inspecting everything about the turbines without complaint. "It wasn't that much of an ask, was it?" And if something hadn't been put back right, doing this could prevent an accident. Viktor continued watching the workers. "Hmm, they had to delay working today due to the inspection, so they're already behind, and the turbines are large..." He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "You can't hear them?" How sensitive were Viktor's ears now, hearing all that when his ears were flat? "I can't." Even as the turbines wound down, he still couldn't hear much clearly. Jayce reached over, Viktor tensing when his fingers first caressed the top of his skull, but he relaxed a little as Jayce started massaging the base of an ear. Did it hurt to keep them down all the time, like continually using a muscle? Or was it still better than hearing whatever Viktor was? They stayed like that for a few minutes, Viktor leaning towards him. Viktor hummed, moving away from Jayce's touch, and when Jayce tried to follow, he was warned off with a look. "We've wasted a lot of time; this may be a new thing-" Viktor swayed, sucking in a breath. "Viktor?" Jayce gripped his shoulder, making sure he wouldn't fall if Viktor had suddenly lost his strength. Had they walked too much? He'd made sure Viktor had eaten breakfast, but maybe that wasn't enough. Or was it a new change they hadn't been aware of? "What is it?" "I think..." Viktor exhaled, and Jayce watched as one ear slowly flicked up, and then the other, both of them swivelling around. Staying up. "I think whatever it is has been fixed." Grinning, Jayce wrapped an arm around him in celebration before going off to find the manager. Once he told the manager, they could get back to the lab and start working again. * * * Viktor was swaying on his feet, leaning more weight on his cane, his hand dipping every so often as he wrote on the blackboard before rising again. Jayce came up behind him, knowing Viktor knew he was there with his ears pinned to him. "I think it's time to go to bed," he murmured into Viktor's ear, wrapping his hand around Viktor's. With deft fingers, he removed the chalk and set it down in one of the holders. "Hmmn," Viktor said, his tail curling around Jayce's leg. "I shhhould..." "Go to bed," Viktor repeated. "You won't be thinking straight right now anyway." There had been too many times where they thought they'd had a breakthrough one night, and then come the next morning, couldn't make any sense of their notes. "If it's that important, you'll remember tomorrow." Viktor didn't move, his focus still on the blackboard, as if he was trying to memorise everything that had been written there, before he sighed, leaning back against Jayce. "Yes, I think it's time for bed." Smiling, Jayce gave him a quick kiss on the temple, and they left the lab together. * * * Viktor was tinkering with something when Jayce entered the lab a few days later, the shape instantly recognisable.   "What are you doing?" Viktor's cane hadn't seemed so worn down to need an upgrade, and Viktor hadn't been complaining about it either. "Trying to design a new cane," Viktor muttered, nodding towards his old cane that was leaning on the table next to him. "My claws are stronger than I thought." Jayce sat down next to him studying his old cane. There were claw marks along the handle where he held it, and in the space between the arm and hand rest. "What are you thinking?" "Metal, for a start," Viktor said, turning the prototype in his hand. "Hollowed out to make it lighter." Jayce nodded. "And the design?" "Well, I was hoping for your input on that," Viktor said, giving him a small smile. He smiled in return, reaching for a sheet of paper with some space on it. * * * Viktor smirked down at Jayce, bracing his hands on Jayce's shoulders, pinning him to the bed, mindful to keep his claws away from Jayce's skin. "Still interested to see if you can make me purr?" Jayce grinned back, resting his hands on Viktor's hips.  "A little, to hear what you sound like." It was obvious now Viktor was fine; if his instincts or his mental capacity had changed, it would have been obvious by now. "Hmm, then you'd best try harder than last time." Chuckling, Jayce ran a hand down Viktor's thigh, Viktor gripping his shoulder. "I accept your challenge." He would be listening out for purrs, but that wasn't the main goal this time. * * * Jayce rubbed his neck as he entered the lab. The council meeting felt like it had gone on for hours but sunlight still st- He paused, seeing Viktor curled up on the windowsill. That wasn't like him, and as far as Jayce was aware, Viktor had slept well last night. Viktor was napping, wasn't he? Jayce kept an eye on his chest as he walked over. It rose and fell, Viktor's face relaxed, not grimacing. Sleeping. Not collapsed. He sat down next to Viktor, resting his hand on Viktor's shoulder, feeling his warmth. Good. He was okay. Viktor made a soft sound, one ear flicking towards his hand, his tail curling at the tip. He didn't wake up, but he moved closer until he was pressed against Jayce's thigh. That seemed to be what he wanted, sighing and then settling down again. Jayce leaned back against the window, moving his hand up so that he could run his hand through Viktor's hair. Yeah, a break seemed like a good idea for now. * * * Out of habit, Jayce scanned the hall, noting where everyone was, his eyes settling on Vik - oh boy. Over the years, he'd gotten more experienced at reading Viktor's body language and expressions, but sometimes it was hard to read him, especially when they were in formal events, and revealing a new invention and the socialising that followed after was one such event. Viktor's transformation made him a little easier to read across the room though, and right now, Viktor's ears were quivering, probably from Viktor trying to control them, and his tail was puffing up every so often as it lashed from side to side. Whatever they were talking about, Viktor wasn't happy. Jayce strode over, grinning widely as he placed a hand on Viktor's shoulder. "Ah, there you are, Viktor. You don't mind me borrowing my partner for now, do you, Sassan?" He didn't wait for a response. "There's just something I need his input on." Jayce directed them away, and Viktor exhaled, leaning into him slightly. "What's wrong?" "It's about the..." Ah, what could he say? There were ears listening on all side. Viktor's expression cleared. "Oh, that," he said, nodding. "Yeah, that," Jayce agreed. "We need to see to that immediately." "Of course." They exited the hall, Jayce nodding to the guards as they passed. "I can make it from here," Viktor murmured, relaxing the further they got from the hall. "They won't miss me if I disappear - you on the other hand, they'll wonder where the Councillor has gone." Jayce sighed, continuing to walk to their bedroom. Viktor was his partner, but he shied from the spotlight and people seemed just more willing to talk to Jayce. "Not immediately." At that, Viktor snorted. "Everyone saw you leave with me." ...There was that. "And they won't expect me back until later, while we sort out the 'thing'." It drew a small smile to Viktor's lips. "I didn't see you come up with much better." "No," Jayce admitted. "But it means I won't have to remember any particular details to make sure it all matches up later." And it was true, in a way. The problem had been Viktor being agitated, and he was dealing with it by getting Viktor out of there. "But, thank you," Viktor said. "No problem. Now, let's get you back." * * * Viktor wasn't eating. Jayce watched him ignore his food, eyes drifting around the lab. "Do I need to feed you?" Jayce said, Viktor's attention snapping back to him. "Mm?" "We still need to eat, Viktor," he said, scooping up a spoonful of food. "We can't do our best if we miss meals." It was something they sometimes did, when they were too caught up in their latest idea, but Jayce did try to keep regular meals, and Viktor usually ate once he had food in front of him. He held out the spoon, waving it from side to side, in case that somehow made it more enticing. Viktor tracked it, ears following the movement. "So do I need to feed-" Viktor leaned forward, taking the spoon in his mouth.  He pulled back, swallowing. "Hmm, maybe." Well, if it got Viktor eating... Jayce got another spoonful ready, Viktor already watching the spoon, his tail swishing from the corner of Jayce's eye. * * * Jayce approached Viktor in the lab, turning a new idea in his head. "Hey, what do you thi-" Viktor's ears flattened and he whirled on Jayce, grimacing. "...What?" Had he forgotten somet- "What are you wearing?" Viktor demanded, his nose wrinkling. Jayce looked down. It was his usual dress, and that couldn't be what Viktor was reacting to, since he already knew something was up before he turned around. Was it something he smelled of? Oh. "A gift from our new visitors," Jayce said, pulling at his top to sniff at the cologne again. "You don't like it?" It hadn't seemed that too strong when he'd put it on. "I'd rather not have my nose assaulted every time you come near me." That strong? Damn. "Do you want me to-" Viktor grabbed him by the lapels, jerking him forward a step. "Wha-?" Viktor closed the space, pressing up against Jayce, rubbing his face against Jayce's neck. Before Jayce could make sense of what he was doing, Viktor stepped back again, studying him as he sniffed the air. He nodded in satisfaction. "Much better." That done, Viktor turned his attention back to the blackboard. Uh, all right...? So Viktor's sense of smell was stronger too now? * * * "This should make the hexclaw less sensitive,"  Jayce said, watching Viktor slip on the controlling glove. But they'd thought that about their previous adjustments as well. "If not, I think I know what needs to be changed," Viktor said, flexing his hand, making sure the glove fit. They'd had to make a few changes so that Viktor's claws and fur didn't get caught, but the design was better, and they were able to think about how the glove would be used by different people of different sizes. "Hey, let's see if it works or not before we start thinking about what to do next," Jayce said with a small laugh. They couldn't get too ahead of themselves, or else they would lose sight of what was right in front of them. "Hmm." He quietened down as Viktor pointed, making sure neither of them were distracted. The beam was steady, the colour a little brighter. It appeared to cut through about the same, though they would have to measure the deepness once Vik... Jayce frowned. The beam wasn't moving, focused on one spot, cutting through the block. He glanced at Viktor, who was staring at the beam, his tail flicking at the tip. Viktor took a breath, and Jayce heard the beam move again. Except it wasn't a drawing or writing to show precision like Viktor normally did. It was just a bunch of short zigzagging lines with no order. The beam stopped a few seconds later with a crackle, and Viktor yanked the glove off. "I think...I need some sleep," Viktor said, setting the glove down. It was starting to get dark. "Let's go," Jayce said, watching Viktor. His shoulders were trembling, his ears flat. He must have been more tired than he realised. They left for their bedroom together. * * * Viktor had been missing for a few days. It...wasn't unusual, and something Jayce had gotten used to, but their last test with the hexclaw weighed on Jayce's mind. He'd tested it himself and their changes had helped, but... There was something about how Viktor had reacted afterwards. He turned his head at the sound of the door opening, relief flooding him as he saw- His grin fell. "Viktor?" he said as he rushed over. "What happened?" Viktor had entered without his cane, dragging his foot a little as he walked in. Had he been mugged? Viktor didn't reply, his ears pricked, and his tail at a relaxed curl. Focused on reaching Jayce. His expression seemed...a little blank. Jayce didn't like it; it wasn't like him.   Jayce reached him, placing his hands on Viktor's shoulders, trying to see if there were any injuries or bruises. Nothing that he could s- Viktor's eyes were slitted, Jayce realised, now that he was closer. They only used to do that when Viktor was excited about something, but there was nothing to be excited about here. Viktor hadn't been working on a calc- "Ow!" Jayce winced. Viktor had lifted his hands to rest them on Jayce's chest, flexing them so his claws dug into Jayce's skin. "What are you..." Viktor continued doing that. Like a cat trying to make a good spot for themselves. That wasn't what made Jayce's heart drop. It was the low droning in the air that hadn't been there before. It was a continuous sound, and when Viktor pressed up to him, the sound vibrated through Jayce's chest. A purr. "Viktor...?" Jayce whispered. Viktor lifted his head to look at him, and as he blinked slowly, Jayce saw a third eyelid sweep across his eyes. No... The sound was all Jayce could hear over the sound of his own thundering heartbeat. It didn't make sense. They'd checked and Viktor hadn't reacted! Viktor had been the same! Except, how much had his behaviour changed over the last couple weeks? It hadn't been anything too obvious or sudden, just a few small things that they had assumed was part of his new senses. Viktor still didn't say anything, the purr growing louder as he rested his head on Jayce's shoulder, rubbing his cheek there. Jayce had been curious to know if Viktor could purr, but now that he could hear it, he didn't want to hear it ever again.

Ghost

There’s a ghost in Beatrice’s attic and she needs help to exorcise it. She finds, however, that some of the things that haunt her aren’t so easy to get rid of.

characters: Ella Sagen (of @leechobsessed), Leila Lonan (of @leila-of-ravens), Beatrice Viano / beaellaleila

also Julian Devorak (he’s here too)

words: 3530

warnings: a bit of angst 

Squeak

Beatrice is startled from her sleep, her eyes opening to inspect the dark room around her. She wordlessly casts a light spell to dispel the darkness and tries to calm her racing heart. As she sits in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin she hears it again, the sound that she’d thought was simply part of a dream. 

It sounds like something is scraping against the floorboards of the attic above her. It’s an awful, grating noise, like nails on a chalkboard. The next time she hears the noise it’s more of a squeak than a scrape. She stifles a nervous squeak of her own and pulls the covers over her head, feeling a bit silly for how childish she’s acting. 

On any other night she might have been able to ignore it, but Beatrice has been doing a lot of reading about the paranormal lately. 

She wouldn’t normally consider herself superstitious, but she’s come to the conclusion that if magic exists- ghosts must exist too. And due to the volume of books she’s been reading on the subject, she draws the hypothesis that the mysterious sound might be caused by something not quite of this world. 

As much as she’d like to ignore the problem and hope it goes away, a hypothesis requires testing. Beatrice tells herself she’s being ridiculous, it's probably the wind making a strange noise, or perhaps the building settling, but as the scraping squeak happens again she decides it’s time to take action. She is a rather proficient magician after all, she should be able to handle this even if it is a ghost. 

She’s careful to avoid the creaking floorboard in the doorway as she creeps out of bed and in to the hallway. There’s a narrow stairwell that leads to the attic, but she hardly has cause to go up there anymore. The ceiling is so low she has to crouch, everything is covered in a layer of dust, and it’s full of memories she’d really rather forget. Nevertheless, she creeps up the stairs, ducking to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling. 

She finds the door to the attic slightly ajar. 

Beatrice stops. There’s no way someone could have broken in, she’s certain she would’ve heard more from that- breaking glass or voices. And besides, all of the merchandise is in the shop below rather than her apartment. As a precaution Beatrice checks to see if she can feel anyone’s aura in the room.

She stands in the doorway and peers carefully into the darkness, casting out her senses. Nothing. And then- the noise again. It’s even louder now that she’s up close, and she feels a flash of distress from the corner of the room.

Something in the room is very upset. Beatrice can’t tell if they’re angry or scared and she doesn’t really want to find out anymore.

“Nope!” Beatrice says out loud, and then she runs down the stairs as if her life depends on it. 

She bangs her head on the ceiling on her way down and her hand goes up to cradle her bruised forehead. Whatever’s in that room, she doesn’t want to face it alone. She watches the stairs with wide eyes as her logical mind scrambles to find a course of action.

There had been a spell to contain and dispel spirits in one of the books she’s been reading, it’s probably her best bet. She frantically pages through the book to find the correct section, eyes skimming over the instructions. A chalk sigil, a spoken incantation, it seems simple enough. In her haste she nearly misses the note at the bottom of the page, 

“This spell is best performed by three magicians standing on each of the three points of the sigil. The power of three must be invoked for complete spirit exorcism.” 

Three. She needs help, and luckily Beatrice knows just where to find two other magicians, though they might be less than pleased to see her at this hour. Beatrice pulls on her cloak and shoots one last apprehensive look to the attic stairs before heading out of her apartment. 

Leila isn’t too far away, she only has a few blocks to walk in the comfortingly well-lit streets. Beatrice tries not to run, but as the tea shop comes into view she finds herself quite out of breath. She knocks on the door, wincing as the sound echoes off of the cobblestones of the empty street.

A few moments pass and she considers knocking again when the door finally opens a crack and a very tired looking Julian appears.

“Oh, good evening Julian! My apologies for the late hour, can you get Leila, please? It’s a bit of an emergency.” Beatrice smiles politely, hoping neither of them will be annoyed with her for waking them up.

Julian looks concerned and takes an immediate step towards her, “Are you alright Beatrice? Do you need medical assistance?” 

“No, thank you, I’m quite alright. I need magical assistance actually,” Beatrice says, though her head does throb a little where she hit it on the ceiling. 

“Ah yes, well I’m afraid I can’t help with magic. I’ll go get the woman who can.” Julian opens the door for her to enter and heads up to find Leila. He comes back a few moments later with Leila who pulls her dressing gown closed with the tired motions of someone who might be sleepwalking.

Leila rubs at her eyes as she takes in Beatrice standing in the doorway, “Julian said it was an emergency? Are you alright?”

“I think there’s a ghost in my attic!” 

“A ghost? Are you sure?” Leila’s tone is concerned, and perhaps even curious rather than annoyed like Beatrice had feared.

Beatrice nods her head as she explains, “Yes! I felt something up there, and I heard an awful noise. There seems to be a spirit of some kind who needs to be put to rest, but I need your help to banish it. The spell I read about works best with three.”

“Three?” Leila frowns in confusion, “Oh, you want to go get Ella?”

Beatrice nods again, “Yes, I think it’ll be safer with the three of us.”   

“If you need medical backup you know where to find me!” Julian says as the women head to the door. Leila just laughs as she swaps her dressing gown for her usual shawl. She kisses Julian’s cheek in goodbye and then they’re off.

Leila links her arm through Beatrice’s as they walk across town to find Ella. When Ella answers the door she looks a little confused, and very tired, but she’s not annoyed either. 

“What are you two up to this late?” Ella opens the door to let them in.

Leila collapses on Ella’s couch in a tired heap. “Beatrice has a ghost.” 

“Well technically, my attic has a ghost. I’m not possessed.” Beatrice moves Leila’s legs so she can sit down on the couch and Leila promptly lays them across her lap.

“I’m sorry, did you say a ghost?” Ella perches on the edge of the couch next to Beatrice, who takes in the tired circles under her friend’s multicolored eyes. 

Beatrice reaches a hand out to rest on Ella’s. “Have you still been having trouble sleeping? I’m sure we could find a potion for that.” 

“Believe me, I’ve tried it all,” Ella sighs, and then she turns to look at her friends with an only slightly false smile. “But let’s focus here, you have a ghost?” 

Beatrice explains the full story to both of them, describing everything from her research into the paranormal to the distressed aura she’d felt in the dark attic. Neither girl interrupts her as she talks, and by the time she's finished both of them are looking much more awake. They seem to believe her, which is quite a relief for Beatrice.

“I think I need some tea.” Leila swings her legs off of Beatrice’s lap and heads towards the kitchen “Do you mind, Ella?” 

“You know where things are as well as I do, go ahead! I’ll have some too if you’re making a pot.” Ella replies, “Maybe something that will wake us up.” 

“I’m on it! Beatrice would you like tea?” Leila disappears into a cupboard, already reaching for three mugs.

“Yes please.” Beatrice smiles politely.

Ella gives Beatrice’s hand a reassuring squeeze, “Don’t worry, Beatrice, we’ll get rid of that ghost.” 

“Yes, so you can get back to dreaming about Lysander,” Leila laughs as she hands them each a cup of tea. Beatrice scoffs and hopes her blush is hidden in the dim lighting of the room.

“I was having a perfectly lovely dream about being on a boat actually, it was quite soothing before I awoke.” Beatrice takes a delicate sip of tea and nearly spits it out when she realizes she hasn’t added any sugar yet. She covers for the clumsy moment by reaching for the bowl of sugar Leila has placed on the table in front of her.

“Was Lysander on the boat?” Ella smiles, stirring her own tea.

“He might have been,” Beatrice says vaguely, hiding another blush as she thinks back to the dream she’d been having of staring over the vast expanse of the sea with Lysander. His arm had been around her waist, familiar and warm and pulling her closer towards him. Dreaming about Lysander always makes her sad when she wakes up, and she'd much prefer to have mundane dreams about sorting library books or whatever it is she thought about before him. 

“Well I’m sorry to break your fantasy, Beatrice, but Lysander hates boats. He gets seasick.” Leila’s face pulls into a frown, as if thinking about her brother’s discomfort. 

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Beatrice takes another sip of tea, trying not to get distracted by her thoughts of him. “I'll go over the plan.” 

She explains what she’d read in the book again, detailing the procedures of the banishing ritual, “We need to draw the sigil, stand on the three points, and repeat the incantation. It should be quite simple. I’d have done it myself but…” Beatrice was too afraid. 

Beatrice doesn’t like to admit how easily frightened she is. As a magician she feels she has no logical reason to be scared of anything, but she is. Some of the things she’s afraid of make sense, like loneliness or the unknown, while others are much more specific to her. There are fears she keeps hidden deep inside of her that would be far too difficult to explain, far too revealing. To share them would be like cutting herself open, and she doesn’t want to bleed.

And ever since she’d had the accident with the cursed book, she’d learned her lesson about running into magical situations without thinking first. Her fear is there to protect her, though she’d rather not have its suffocating presence in her life. She knows her friends wouldn’t judge her for any of these feelings and fears, but she keeps quiet all the same. 

She sips her tea and tries to avoid thinking about the dark attic and the ghost. She tries to ignore the thought of boxes full of things that had once belonged to her aunt, whom she misses terribly, and her mother, whom she doesn’t miss at all. The guilt of not missing someone you’re “supposed” to miss has followed her for years, just as the guilt of being the last one in her family has kept her stuck in the old magic shop.

Beatrice finds it entirely too likely that a ghost would choose her attic to take up residence, it’s already full of ghosts after all. 

She hasn’t noticed the conversation come to an end around her, but when she looks up from her mug she finds both Ella and Leila looking at her. She clears her throat and sets the mug down on the table. “Right well, let’s get going then shall we?” 

“We’ve got a ghost to catch!” Leila grins, pulling Beatrice up off of the couch by the hand. 

“Yes! This’ll be exciting, I’m curious to see this ghost for myself.” Ella pulls on a cloak and gestures towards the door. Leila and Beatrice follow close behind and Leila links her arm through Beatrice’s again as they wait for Ella to lock up.

“You look cold.” Leila remarks. She’s right, but it’s dread rather than the weather that’s making her shiver. She doesn’t quite know what they’ll find in that attic.

They talk as they walk through the empty streets, keeping the conversation light as Ella talks about one of the patients she’d seen earlier that day. But all too soon her shop comes into view and they’re at the door. When they step into the dark shop Beatrice hurriedly lights the candles in the room with a flick of her hand.

“It’s upstairs.” Beatrice murmurs, a bit afraid to raise her voice. Leila and Ella nod and follow her up the stairs to her apartment. She opens the door to let them in and, as if on cue, the scraping squeaking noise sounds from above.

Leila takes a step towards the attic stairs, “Was that the ghost?” 

“Yes, I believe so.” 

“It sounds like it’s moving furniture around, can ghosts do that?” Ella asks, joining Leila on the bottom step. 

“A few of the books I’ve read said it’s possible.” Beatrice eyes the stairs warily, and decides to light a few candles in the living area just to feel more secure. When she’s done she finds Leila has already made her way up the stairs with Ella close behind. 

She takes a deep breath and forces herself to focus, this is magic, she can do this.

“Alright, when we get inside we need to draw the sigil as quickly as possible, just in case,” Beatrice instructs. 

“Do we have everything we need?” Ella turns to smile encouragingly at Beatrice. She’s glad Ella and Leila are here, neither of them seem scared in the slightest. They’re both excited in fact, and it’s enough for her to be able to press forward.

“I’ve got a piece of chalk right here.” Beatrice reaches into her cloak pocket and holds a piece of white chalk up for them to see. “And the book too.” 

Leila goes in first, opening the narrow doorway for the others to enter behind her. They all have to crouch a bit, but poor Ella is almost bent in half and still nearly touches the ceiling. It’s a good thing they hadn’t brought Julian along, he wouldn’t have fit. 

The room is eerily silent and dark but Beatrice stops herself from reaching for one of her friend’s hands for comfort. She conjures a ball of light instead, so she can see to draw the sigil. Ella and Leila walk around the small attic as she works, looking for signs of the ghost. 

“I can definitely feel that something isn’t right in here.” Leila turns in a circle, surveying the room. 

The scraping noise comes again from the back of the room and Beatrice swears she can see a box move out of the corner of her eye. Leila squeals in surprise and moves closer to Ella.

“It’s done! Ella please stand on that point there, and Leila you join me over here.” Beatrice points to the corresponding sigil points. Her friends hurry to follow her instructions and they all join hands. “Now repeat after me.” 

They repeat the incantation together, nine times- three sets of three. Beatrice recognizes some of the words as a binding spell, one used to bind potion ingredients together or, in this case, to trap something. The girls wait for something to happen, a flash of light or another squeaking noise, but there’s no response. 

Beatrice lets go of Leila’s hand to look through the book again, but finds they’d followed all of the directions perfectly. The three friends stand looking at each other in confusion until suddenly the scraping noise starts up again. Leila raises an eyebrow and steps out of the chalk markings, crossing the room purposefully.

She steps over to the darkest corner of the attic where the noise had emanated from and picks up an overturned box on the ground. Immediately, something rushes out into the darkness. Beatrice suppresses a scream as the dark shape approaches her. 

She shuts her eyes and braces for impact, but is met instead by the sound of her friends’ laughter. 

“Beatrice look!” Ella says. 

She opens one eye and peers down towards the ground. Immediately, she’s flooded with relief when she notices the shape of a small brown rabbit at her feet.

“Bramble!” Beatrice scrambles forwards, pulling the rabbit into her arms. Her familiar looks at Beatrice in a way that manages to convey that she’s upset, but glad to have been rescued. “Did you get stuck up here?”

“She must’ve been scratching on the floor, it looks like the box overturned on top of her.” Leila picks up the box in question, “It also looks like she was trying to push past some of the furniture stacked up over here, which would explain the scraping noise.” 

“I think the distressed aura you felt was just Bramble,” Ella suggests, making another turn about the room to inspect a few of the dusty boxes.

“Yes, it did feel a bit like her. Oh, I should've known better!” Beatrice strokes Bramble's ears, checking her over for any sign of injury. 

She seems unharmed but she’s quite annoyed at having been trapped in the attic. Bramble often wanders throughout the house, but she’s never come up here before. Beatrice can’t fathom why she would have wanted to, nor can she understand how the rabbit was able to get the door open. But Bramble is no ordinary rabbit after all, she’s always been able to do peculiar things. 

“Poor bunny.” Leila reaches out to scratch Bramble under her chin.

Beatrice feels terrible, and she can’t help but fret out loud, “All of that fuss over a ghost and I never once thought to check where Bramble was. What if there actually had been a ghost and she’d been in danger!” 

Ella stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder, “It’s not your fault, Beatrice. You couldn’t have known she got stuck up here, and she doesn’t seem hurt.”

“I’m so sorry I pulled you out of bed for this.” Beatrice ducks her head so her friends can’t see her embarrassed expression.

“Don’t apologize! This was fun.” Leila smiles and holds the attic door open, “But let’s get downstairs, there might not be a ghost in here but this attic is still creepy.” 

“Yes, I’m quite ready to leave this place.” Beatrice gives Leila an almost smile and follows her and Ella back to the living room. 

“I’m glad you thought to call us, you never know what could be lurking when magic is involved.” Ella takes a seat on the couch and gestures for Beatrice to sit next to her. “Better safe than sorry!’

“I’m sorry I let my nerves get the best of me.” Beatrice avoids her friends eyes, staring at Bramble instead who is contentedly falling asleep in her lap, none the worse for wear.

“It’s ok to be afraid, Beatrice. There are plenty of terrifying things in this world, and you’ve always got us to help you face them.” Leila joins them on the couch and offers Beatrice a comforting pat on the shoulder.

“Thank you.” Beatrice still can’t meet her friend’s eyes, but now for entirely different reasons. She’s still not used to having people in her life who care about her this much. 

“That’s what friends are for,” Ella says, giving her hand another reassuring squeeze.

“Well, I’d better get home and let Julian know I didn’t get possessed by a ghost,” Leila jokes as she stands up from the couch.

“And if you need us again, you know where to find us!” Ella adds as she joins Leila.

“Maybe stop reading those paranormal books for a while.” Leila pulls Beatrice and Ella into a goodbye hug. Beatrice nods in agreement, she’s certainly had enough of the supernatural for a while.

As Beatrice tries to get back to sleep, her mind wanders to the attic and all of the things that are stored up there. She’s avoided going through it for years, too afraid of the hurt it might cause her. But perhaps now she’ll be able to face it, perhaps Bramble had not-so-subtly been leading her up there.

There’s nothing in the attic but her memories. And while some of them are sad, there are just as many nice memories up there as well. She deserves to remember those, and maybe she’ll be able to banish some of her guilt in the process. She could even invite Leila and Ella to help her organize it, they’ve asked about her family before and maybe now she’ll be able to talk about them. 

Talking about the past might hurt, but Beatrice is finally realizing that she doesn’t have to hurt alone.

Wash Day Delight Pt. 3

Rating:  General Audiences

WARNINGS:  None

Fandom:  Undertale (Video Game)

Relationships:  Papyrus (Undertale)/Reader, Papyrus (Undertale) & Reader,  Papyrus (Underfell) & Reader

Characters:  Papyrus (Undertale), Reader, Edge (UF Pap), and Mentions of Other AU Skeletons

Additional Tags:  Reader Is Not Frisk (Undertale), Reader Is Not Chara (Undertale), reader is poc, Reader has curly hair,  Undertale Monsters on the Surface, Friendship, Wholesome, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, I'm Bad At Summaries, Not Beta Read, Romance if you squint, Subtext, Let Papyrus be Sassy, Edge Is The Unwilling Dad Friend, Idiots in Love, Fluff and Humor, Slice of Life

*I was vague with reader's scent on purpose. Some of use love coconut milk or oil or Shea butter, but it's not universal. I like Manuka honey blends~

And it's always the bra that get ditched first!

PREVIOUS || FIRST || NEXT

“So, what took so long with Mrs. Ida?” She had just finished locking up the house and they were now descending the back staircase.  It had been a mad dash to get finished and out the door since she flustered Papyrus in the bathroom.  If it was petty vengeance for teasing him, she didn’t know, but he had threatened to carry her out in a much similar way to how he does with Sans if she didn’t “MAKE HASTE.”  Needless to say, she hadn’t been given a moment until now to inquire what had happened earlier that evening.  “I was startin’ ta wonder if you’d gotten lost…” she mumbled, her tone giving away just how worried she had been despite trying to joke it off now.  She could hear him lightly click his teeth in acknowledgement.  

“Mrs. Ida Had Not Driven Here,” he started and she arched a brow before chuckling as it clicked.  How had she not considered a woman of Ida’s age might not drive?  Would it have been presumptuous to have asked though?  “She Had Said She ‘Caught’ A Cab, But Not Literally,” he was rambling a bit, but she wasn't complaining.  She lifted her gaze from the paved pathway they were walking along and up to her friend.  She could hear an edge of bashfulness to his voice as he admitted the old woman taught him about “euphemisms.”  His retelling was quickly veering off into a tangent, ranging from complaining and praising the many different facets of language to pondering if it was worth getting his brother some study materials.  He griped it was a fifty-fifty chance to either improve his jokes and puns, or make them so much worse.  

“Oh, I think it’d be worth it!” she piped up, looking away as he cut off his rant and directed his gaze down at her.  She didn’t need to look at him right now.  She could very easily guess his expression and just knew those sockets of his were narrowing as he sent her a suspicious look.  

A beat of silence then “THEN I WILL LEAVE SANS ALONE.” 

She fought back a giggle, “Aw, c’mon!  Don’t you want his puns to be up to your standards?”  She tipped her head back as she directed a cheeky grin his way.  

Papyrus just huffed, crossing his arms over his chest which was now missing the pastel sweater from earlier.  He had taken it off before they left the house to reveal his “Jog Boy” top.  “IT IS OBVIOUS YOU ARE HOPING FOR THE OPPOSITE!” he rebuked, “AND DON’T EVEN TRY TO ARGUE. I KNOW YOU TOO WELL! BEST. FRIEND.”  He emphasized those last two words like it was the most solid evidence to ever exist.  

With a little defeated shrug of her shoulders, she blew a raspberry his way.  “Fiiiine,” she drug out the word, “But you know you love his jokes and puns anyways.”  A frustrated noise hissed past his teeth as he shamefully agreed.  “Soooo, going off that logic…” she started, a devious curl to her lips and twinkle in her eyes as she moved in front the skeleton.  “Wouldn’t you love his jokes EVEN MORE if they got WORSE?” she pushed, brows waggling as she watched Papyrus freeze, his mind working through what she just said.  Once his mind finally wrapped around her hypothesis, he gripped his skull, falling to his knees, and let out possibly the most anguished, dramatic scream.  Apparently, he couldn't find fault with his human friend’s absurd logic.

○●○●○●○●○

     The temperature outside had dropped once again in such little time and despite the slight chill, she couldn’t feel any of it.  It would be a miracle at this point if she could.  No, she’d be thankful to as it would mean she wouldn’t be having the workout from hell right now.   Maybe she had teased him a wee bit too much.  

“Paaaapiiiii!” she griped, surprised she could even get out a whine that long considering she could barely catch her breath, “I said! I was-!”  What was supposed to be an easy jog had turned a into suicide run.  “SORRY!”  Papyrus was behind her setting the pace and any time she slowed too much, he would pinch or smack whatever part of her he could reach at that moment.  So far, her left butt cheek had felt the brunt of it along with her upper thighs.  

“FOCUS!  CONTROL YOUR BREATHING, HUMAN!” he snapped, ignoring her plea,  and she wondered briefly if maybe Edge had snuck up and taken her normally gentle friend’s place.  A pinch on her elbow had her picking up her pace and focusing on the now.  She had already learned she wasn’t allowed to look back, plus it didn’t help any with balance or keeping pace.  “LOOK!  THERE IS YOUR GOAL ONLY A FEW MORE STEPS UP AHEAD!”  Curse him for not even sounding out of breath.  She knew these skeletons don’t technically need to breathe, but at least huff a bit or something in sympathy here.  

Papyrus had not been lying though.  Just one more block down was the gym, or as she thought of it: her salvation.  Zeroing in on the building that was getting closer and closer, she focused on her breathing to bring it down from frantic pants to something more disciplined: slower and deeper.  It was a strange feeling as her mind calmed.  Heh, maybe her old coach had a point when he said the human body can do a lot more than the mind thinks.  

“START SLOWING DOWN,” she gratefully followed the order and began easing her pace, but aware of him behind her still setting the pace.  She supposed one day she would be grateful to him for not letting her come to a dead stop.  Today, in this moment, she wasn’t as the slow ease of the pace was almost as tortuous as the marathon she had been forced to run.  “WE’VE ARRIVED.  YOU CAN REST NOW.” He didn’t need to say it twice as the young woman nearly crumpled before the doors of the gym.  Bent over with hands on splayed knees as she sucked in air like it was going to get away.  She could feel a large hand rubbing her back and was aware that Papyrus was saying something, possibly praises or encouragements, but she could barely hear over the rush of blood, her pounding heart that seemed so much louder and next to her ears, and her puffs that were thankfully slowing as she caught her breath.  

○●○●○●○●○

Papyrus felt just a little guilty as he watched his friend recover from their run, but not enough to apologize.  He kept rubbing soothing circles onto her hunched back.  “AMAZING WHAT WE CAN ACCOMPLISH WHEN WE PUSH OURSELVES,” he gently pushed at her spine, encouraging her to straighten it rather than bowing.  He had a feeling she wasn’t hearing a word he was saying, but continued to sing her praises as he opened his dimensional box and took out a bottle of water.  “LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE! YOU ALREADY HIT YOUR HEART RATE GOAL FOR TONIGHT AND WE CAN WALK BACK,” he cracked the cap on the bottle.  He couldn’t hear her gasping for breath anymore, but she was still hunched over.  “COME ON,  WE STILL-”

“I THOUGHT I RECOGNIZED THAT UNCEASING CHEER,” a new voice cut in, one he recognized as well.  Looking up from his friend, he spotted the pricklier version of himself leaning out the doors of the gym.  Edge’s narrow sockets stared the two of them down, but he felt no ire from the other, just curiosity and some irritation.  

“OH, WELL HELLO, EDGE,” he greeted as cheerfully as he could despite the mounting confusion he was feeling.  He could feel his friend tense for a moment beneath his hand before relaxing again.  Her heart rate had slowed to normal by now, but had picked up just a bit at the mention of Edge.  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” If he remembered correctly, his fell counterpart usually didn’t work out this particular day, or at least not at night.  

Edge only huffed as he finally stepped fully outside and marched up to his doppelganger.  “WHAT DO YOU THINK?” he snipped, arms crossed as he came to a stop just a few feet from the two.  

Oh, how hard Papyrus’s eyelights would have rolled if he had them.  “OH, I DON’T KNOW, BUT SINCE YOU ASKED SO NICELY!” he started, hand lifting to tap a phalange against his chin in feigned thought.  “AHA!  YOU HAVE FINALLY DECIDED TO VISIT THE CHIROPRACTOR WHO WORKS TONIGHT AND GET THAT ATTITUDE STRAIGHTENED UP!” he declared with utmost confidence, somehow managing to sound sincerely elated in a way only Papyrus could.

 A silent staredown ensued as Papyrus just kept smiling brightly in feigned innocence.  He could see that Edge wanted to be mad at him, but couldn’t hide that little proud quirk of his sharp fangs.  The moment was broken as his friend brought attention back to herself with a poorly smothered laugh.  

○●○●○●○●○

She had been quiet through the entire encounter.  Hearing Edge’s voice after just wondering about him during that hellish run had her wondering if she had somehow summoned him with just a single thought.  She took a moment to pray to whatever gods or deities were out there to take mercy on her.  She would hold back on the teasing and being a little shit, just no more torture tonight.  Maybe if she stays real quiet, she could avoid getting Edge’s attention and lessen her chances of irreparable damage.

That all went out the window as a little snort pushed past her lips.  Leave it to Papyrus to sass one of the pointiest, scary-looking monsters around.  “I need to know where you get that audacity from,” she didn’t bother trying to contain the laugh anymore as she straightened up with a roll of her shoulders, “I could use some of it.”

Both skeletons huffed at that, but it was Edge who spoke up first, “YOU HAVE PLENTY OF IT ALREADY, BRAT.”  

Papyrus nodded along, “ESPECIALLY CONSIDERING YOUR BEHAVIOR TONIGHT.”

She pouted, parting her lips to argue, but froze as Edge had uncrossed his arms with an appraising look sent her way.  

“OH?  AND JUST WHAT HAS SHE DONE?” Edge questioned, voice full of amusement as he watched the human between them shake her head and send a pleading look to Papyrus.  She was begging with just her eyes for him to not throw her under the bus. No such luck as he began filling Edge in on all her teasing and poking fun that night.  He decided to add on that she had been running late at that.  

Throughout it all, Edge was prowling closer and closer until he was practically invading her space.  He must have already been working out when they came since she could smell something spicy, like cinnamon, with just a little musk wafting from him once he was close enough.  Usually he was very keen on making sure his scent was barely noticeable, especially after the first time she commented on it.  It hadn’t been a bad comment.  It smelled quite nice, just like now, but since then she only got lucky to get a whiff here and there.  As much as she wanted to take a step back, she stubbornly kept eye contact and straightened up even more.  

“BUT SHE DID RUN ALL THE WAY HERE. NONSTOP,” Papyrus had finished his recount with her most recent accomplishment.  She let herself feel proud as she watched Edge’s cruel smile soften just a bit with awe and pride.  With how close he was though, she could practically feel the rumble as he hummed thoughtfully.  

“Then I Guess She Has Earned Forgiveness,” his voice should not be allowed to be at that volume.  It still had that scratchy quality to it, but the low volume just increased that damnable rumbling that was causing warmth to bloom in her chest and hopefully not on her face.  “BUT,” she gulped as that cruel lilt returned and he leaned in, “WHY STOP THERE?” No.  “I THINK IT’S TIME WE HELP OUR FRIEND LEARN WHAT HER NEW LIMITS ARE.  AREN’T YOU CURIOUS, BRAT?” No, no she was not.  

In a last ditch effort to get out this, she leaned to look pleadingly at Papyrus, but he wasn’t even paying her any mind as he seemed to be pondering something.  One foot was tapping as he rested an elbow in the palm of his opposing arm’s hand.  A water bottle was pinned between his arm and chest.  A distal phalange tapped away at his temple as he hummed.  Sockets squinted for the few moments he took to think it over.  Hope bloomed as he finally looked to them with that signature toothy grin of his.  “GREAT IDEA, EDGE!”  How quickly hope shattered.     

○●○●○●○●○

~THREE HOURS LATER~

○●○●○●○●○

“I hate you both…” the words lacked energy and any true vitriol.  She couldn’t even muster the energy to feel any shame or shyness pertaining to her current predicament.  She was now aware of muscles she never knew she had and she was sure the next morning would be hell.  Would she even be able to move tomorrow?  These two had done just what they promised and pushed her to find new limits, but the cost was her ability to pretty much function on her own.  Her legs were like jelly and her arms were just barely listening to her.  Her core wasn’t putting up a fuss right now, but she knew it was coming.  Hopefully it wouldn’t be too bad as the two had made sure she drank water, stretched, and did cool downs.   

Papyrus had taken pity on her when he saw her physical state and insisted he carry her.  He had won despite her stubborn efforts to stand and walk in the locker room afterwards.  Edge had even chided her, telling her to quit being fussy, and just accept the help or crawl.  She doubted he would have actually let her crawl out the gym. 

“We Know You Don’t Mean That,” one of her tormentors answered with a far too jovial tone.  The other just snickered off to her left and feeling contrary, she turned her face the opposite way, which ended up with her pretty much nuzzling into Papyrus’s neck as he was currently carrying her piggyback.  Rather than looping his arms under her knees and holding her that way, he had gone with braiding his fingers behind his back and letting her pretty much sit on his palms.   His arms kept her legs pinned to his sides.  He was bent forward slightly which kept her from having to hold on as tightly and instead just lay against his back.  

An indignant huff was the only answer she graced them with.   She could feel Papyrus’s little laugh more than hear it as it caused her to bounce gently on his back.  Meanwhile, the smell of sweet mint and citrus invaded her senses from where her face was tucked.  It was honestly a little unfair how these skeletons could smell so good after a hard workout.  She hoped she didn’t stink… 

A sharp distal poked her shoulder and stubbornly she ignored its owner.  The pokes continued until finally it was just stabbing into her already sore flesh and she gave in, rolling to face the sharp skeleton once more.  To her surprise, a banana was currently being held right in front of her face.  It had already been partially peeled.  She blinked and it was still there.  “A banana?” she mumbled, mentally slapping herself for stating the obvious.

Edge snickered, “AT LEAST THAT MUSCLE IN YOUR HEAD IS STILL SOMEWHAT VIABLE.”  His humor had always been drier than the Sahara and now was no exception.  Any witness would have thought he was beating a dog that was already down.

“If you’re talking about my brain, it’s actually made of fat,” she replied, just as dry and resting her cheek against Papyrus’s shoulder.  For a skeleton, he was surprisingly comfy and his easy pace was gradually rocking her to sleep.  Said skeleton made a noise best described as a “SNRK!” not long after what she said.  Edge had only released a drawn out sigh.  At least one of them appreciated her humor.  

“JUST EAT THE DAMN BANANA, YOU BRAT,” he moved it closer insistently, looking and sounding very much like a tired mom trying to get her child to eat the last piece of broccoli on their plate.  

A pause then, “No.”  

“NO?” 

“No.”

“WHY?”

“Where did you even get a banana from?”

“I HAD IT.”

“So, you just carry around a banana all the time?”

“NO, YOU DISCOUNT KAOLA.”

“Awww, and here I thought I was an upgrade.”

“QUIT TRYING TO DIVERT THE CONVERSATION AND EAT IT.”

“Fine… but only if you tell me why I should.”

Edge sucked in an unneeded breath as he nearly vibrated in irritation.  He took a moment to calm before gritting out, "FINE."  She was just a little impressed he had an answer.  “POTASSIUM IS SUPPOSED TO BE GOOD FOR EASING AND PREVENTING CRAMPS.  BANANAS, I READ, APPARENTLY CONTAIN IT.  THUS EATING IT SHOULD HELP YOU BE LESS OF A USELESS LUMP TOMORROW,” he explained, concise and leaving no room for argument, “AND QUIT YOUR LAUGHING, CREAMPUFF.  YOU’RE NOT HELPING THE MATTER.”  Her sleepy, tired brain processed the information and found no fault.  A memory of an old movie where the parents were shrunk and the kids were left on their own came to mind as she remembered it mentioning something about bananas and potassium as well.   

“Okay, you win,” she conceded, chuckling quietly as the scarred skeleton sighed in relief.  Edge had far more patience than most give him credit for.  At one point in the past, he would have just shoved the fruit in her mouth or just stormed off, but now he was willing to put up with the back and forth.  Maybe he actually enjoyed banter?  Earlier, he seemed to be proud of Papyrus’s sass.  

Sleepy and not thinking, she leaned forward and took a bite of the banana.  It was just at the right ripeness she noted as she chewed contentedly.  She didn’t notice how quiet either skeleton was or that they had come to stop before a black classic Ford Mustang.

○●○●○●○●○

Edge’s mind had blanked as he watched the scene play out.  This human, rather than simply taking the fruit from his hand and eating it normally, had instead leaned forward slowly and carefully.  There was a little sway to her movement, a little shake in her arms as she curled her fingers tighter in to the Creampuff’s shirt to steady herself, and he instinctively brought up his free hand to hover near her just in case.  “WATCH WH-what you...” his words faded out as she finally reached the fruit and took a small bite.  To top it off, she was doing that absurdly cute little wiggle and hum that human women seemed to commonly do when they ate something they liked.  

“I Can Just Feel The Cavities Forming…” he grumbled under his breath, diverting his eyes from her and her adorable display before a blush could rise.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his doppelganger sending him a sly look and he didn’t bother suppressing a growl.  It was cut off as he felt her taking another bite.  “WOULD YOU JUST HOLD IT?” he snapped.  

“But I’ve got to hold on,” she had mumbled in reply after swallowing her last bite, “And you told me to eat it.  You didn’t tell me how.”  He resisted the urge to pinch her nose for that smart remark and just sucked in a deep breath before slowly releasing.  

“She Makes A Good Point,” his softer counterpart imputted.

Edge could only level a deadpan stare on his duplicate, “NOT. HELPING.”  Papyrus had the nerve to laugh and the woman resting against his back giggled as she bounced due to it.  Shaking his head, he fished his keys from his black joggers’ pockets and unlocked the driver’s side door.  Before he got too far, he pushed the banana into the young woman’s hand with a quick order to hold on to it since he needed both his hands.  He swiftly put down the seat so the back seat could be accessed.  While he was sure Papyrus wouldn’t mind her riding in his lap on the way home, he didn’t think he could take anymore public displays of affection tonight.  No matter how platonic they are.  

“Alright, Get In The Backseat,” he ordered as he moved to the side.  He pinched at his nose ridge as he watched Papyrus move to get in the back with her, “NOT YOU. HER. JUST HER.”  There was no room for argument and no matter how much the Creampuff looked like a puppy that just had its treat stolen, he wasn’t giving in.  Thankfully, the woman’s little head pats she placed on his skull seemed to appease him.  Wait, how was she- oh.  He held in a snicker at the ridiculous image she presented.  She had freed up one of her hands by holding the banana in her mouth, while her other still gripped at his shirt.  A good sign she had some of her strength back at least.

○●○●○●○●○

Papyrus had at first been annoyed at the thought of Edge butting in on their hang out time, but had warmed up to it rather quickly.  Plus, Edge had informed them that he had missed his usual work time session the day before due to an emergency at his restaraunt.  It truly was coincidence.  It had been fun and having Edge there kept him from going soft on her tonight.  It was honestly amusing how she’d gripe and moan and beg, but would push through through the sets and exercises anyway.  He’d seen a new side to her as Edge decided to poke at her pride during weight lifting and she had lifted more in that deadlift than he could have ever expected.  She’d said it had been fueled by “pure spite” at that moment and not to expect it as the norm.  They had new bars set and she’d be less peeved at them when she saw how far she had come along.

Afterwards, it had been decided they would take Edge’s car back to her house, rather than parting ways.  While he wasn’t feeling it nearly as intensely as his companion currently resting on his back, he had been pushing himself as well to be fair.  Edge, being as observant as ever, had noticed.   He couldn’t argue against the logic that it wasn’t a good or safe idea for an exhausted monster and person of color to walk home this late.  By now, Sixth Street should be bustling with life and sometimes a few strays wander down teh other streets.  They’re not always trouble, but why risk it?  

With her this close, he was surrounded by her scent.  Mostly her hair products, but he could smell the musk of her sweat as well and sweet lotion.  It wasn’t bad, but he knew not to comment on it either way.  He was sure she could smell him and he just hoped she didn’t mind.   She hadn’t pulled away at any point or complained so maybe he was safe.  He kept one gripe to himself about tonight.  At this moment, if she had kept her hair down, those curls would be touching his face and neck.  A sorely missed opportunity.

Her and Edge had bickered most the way and he had valiantly tried not laugh, only to fail in the end.  It was just such ridiculous little diatribes.  It was all so cute, Edge included, but now they had reached his car and he’d have to put her down. 

She was currently petting his skull in an effort to comfort and it was working.  Her cheek still rested against his shoulder with her lips wrapped around the banana, just holding it in her mouth.  Her free hand that wasn’t gripped his shirt had stopped the gentle petting motion and now just rested her palm against the top of his skull.  He could feel one of her fingers just rubbing in a slow circle.  Now, that just isn’t fair-

“I WILL HAVE DUSTED BY TIME YOU TWO DECIDE TO FINISH WITH THIS,” his doppelganger snipped with an irritated huff and jerk of his hand to the back seat once again.  “EITHER PUT HER DOWN OR I WILL CONFISCATE HER MYSELF,” he threatened, his already sharp sockets narrowing further as his sharp teeth tipped up at the edges.  

Papyrus didn’t know if he should be impressed the other had not threatened to just leave them or flustered at his counterpart's subtext.  He would leave those thoughts for later.  For now, he crouched down carefully and with Edge’s help, they helped their companion off his back and into the seat.  By the time he made it around the vehicle and settled into the passenger’s seat, Edge was already seated in the driver’s side and in the rear view he could his friend eating with ease.  He called her name and she looked up curiously, still chewing her last bite, “Do You Need Require Any Water At The Moment?”  

She just shook her head and swallowed her mouthfull, “Not unless that water is part of a shower.”  

“A Shower Does Sound Nice Right Now,” he agreed.  He could hear Edge grunting in agreement as he turned the key in the ignition and put the car into gear.  The engine roared to life and the dash board lit up, showing off the upgrades Edge had done to the classic model.  It wasn’t long before they pulling out the spot and onto the road, heading back to her little abode on Eighth Street.  

“Human,” the sharper of the two skeletons called and glanced into the mirror to check if she was paying attention, “Hopefully, You Do Not Plan To Work Tomorrow After Tonight.”  It should have been a question, but it sounded more like a command.  

“I Have To Agree With My Cousin On This,” Papyrus piped in as he saw her looking like she wanted to argue.  She pursed her lips as he kept talking, “You’ll Be Dreadfully Sore Tomorrow Most Likely.”  

“And I wonder whose fault that is,” she didn’t hesitate with a little click of her tongue.  Papyrus atleast had the shame to wince, but beat down the guilt as their driver sent him a sharp look.  A look that said don’t back down.  

“No Matter Who's At Fault Here,” Edge started, coming to a stop at a four way and putting on his blinker.  Sharp red eyelights lit in his sockets and locked with the young woman’s gaze in the mirror.  “Your Body Still Needs Rest.  Doing Anything Other That Tomorrow Would Only Be Punishing Yourself For No Good Reason,” he scolded and gave her a moment to nod and voice her understanding before extinguishing his eyelights.  

The rest of the car ride was void of chatter as Edge put on some soft music and his passengers fought off sleep.  One because the trip was too short to provide a decent nap and would just result him being groggy.  The other because she was now responsible for an empty banana peel and she’d rather not drop it on any part of this vehicle that felt far too expensive for her to be sitting in. 

○●○●○●○●○

Finally, Edge was pulling the black Mustang over and parking just infront Papyrus’s red Ferrari.  She swears these two just visiting the area raised property values.  She scooted closer to Edge’s side as he got out and started putting down the seat.  Once it was down, she took Edge’s offered hand and let him help her out.  She was happy to see she could stand again, but that didn’t say anything about the stairs she needed to climb.  Even ground was one thing, but an incline… she may be crawling to bed after all. 

“Do You Think You Can Make It OR-?” her sharp friend started to question, but let the rest hang for her to fill in.  Despite how prickly he could be, he was honestly a sweetheart once you earned his trust.  

“Well…” she trailed off as Papyrus cleared his nonexistent throat and made his presence known once again.  One glance at him and she felt like smacking herself for almost forgetting.  “Oh right, Papi, you left your sweater inside,” she laughed, “You’re lucky, I could use another comfy sweater to add to my collection.”   There were a few of the skeletons whose sweaters she’d love to steal; namely, the lazier of the brothers had the prime specimens.

Papyrus just shook his head, “Maybe Asking Nicely Would Get You Better Results,” he adminished.  

Is that so? “Pretty please, can I keep your sweater?” she went for it with a hopeful smile, which was quickly dashed as he cackled softly with a dry “NO.”  She could even hear Edge snorting as he stifled a laugh behind his fist.  If she had the energy, she’d whine a bit, but her bed was calling her.  Turning her attention back to Edge, she nodded, “Thanks for joining us tonight.  It was fun.”  After a moment, she added one last thought, “You should join us more often.”  She meant it.  Even if the workout had been harder than she was used to, it was nice to have someone who knew how to push her buttons and get her to push herself.  

Edge’s sharp visage softened just slightly and he sent her an appreciative smile, nodding.  “Maybe I Will.”

○●○●○●○●○

It had been a blessing that Papyrus needed to get his sweater from the apartment as she had nearly crumpled going up the stairs.  The poor skeleton had been fretting about her something fierce and ended up just carrying her up the stairs as watching her struggle had apparently been too stressful.  It had taken plenty coaxing and reassuring that she would be fine and wouldn’t be completely helpless on her own.  He’d made her pinky promise to not shower or bathe tonight as he didn’t trust her to not slip and fall or fall asleep and drown.  He’d ordered her to bed immediately and she wasn’t arguing.  That had been an order from the heavens.  

She’d wasted no time after sharing a hug goodbye and he was on his way down the stairs to lock up and draw her curtains.  She’d shed her clothes like a snake once she had stepped foot in her room.  A trail of clothes, starting with her bra and ending with her socks and shoes now stretched across her floor.  She didn’t bother finding a night shirt and simply face planted on her bed with relieved sigh as the cool sheets and comforter kissed her bare skin.  

She wasn’t too worried about going to bed sweaty.  She’d decided on the way home to have a  wash day tomorrow.  It’s been due, but now with this workout, it was definitely needed.   She could just enjoy pampering her body, hair, and scalp.  A nice little spa day.  She could change and wash her sheets then as well, so no harm done.  

Her phone buzzing from somewhere in her room barely registered with her.  It wasn’t until it buzzed a few more times that she forced herself to sit up and look around her dark room for the infernal device.  It needed to be plugged up anyway now that she remembers.  Spotting the phone on the floor near her abandoned clothes, she slid off her bed and scooped it up.  Tapping the screen, she winced as it lit up and quickly lowered the brightness.  

No longer in danger of being blinded, she saw the notifications from earlier that she had forgotten to check and a few new ones.  Some were junk, but most were messages from friends, family, and one for work.  She would reply to the work one tomorrow when she has a fresh mind and it was a decent hour.  She rolled her eyes good naturedly as she opened a message from Papyrus.  

 

Papaya:  REMEMBER TO REST TOMORROW.  GOOD NIGHT!

Papaya:  WHY ARE YOU NOT SLEEPING?!  

Papaya:  PUT DOWN THE PHONE AND GO TO BED!

Papaya:  I KNOW IT’S A DIFFICULT THING TO DO WHEN YOU HAVE A TXTING BUDDY AS GREAT AS ME!!

Papaya:  BUT YOU MUST. 

 

    A little snort burst past her lips as the messages kept coming in, all along the same note.  She tapped the little text box and sent him a quick little message:

 

Flooffie:  Pot calling the kettle black

Flooffie:  XP

 

    Closing the convo as she saw him typing, she breezed through the rest of her texts.  She sent quick little replies where needed, but most turned out to be bad puns and one liners from the jokesters of the family.  Coffee had sent her a cute little doodle he had made her with a note saying he’d like to see that hairstyle on her.  It was cute.  She sent him a couple heart emojis and a thumbs up.  She could type a thought out reply tomorrow.  Switching her phone to silent, she plugged it up and crawled back into bed.  It seemed her head had barely hit her pillows before sleep swept her under.  

Among the Gods of Asgard -5

A dark!Thor x Reader, minor Loki x Reader story with all the drama and angst you’re craving. Including Alexander Skarsgard as Balder. –> Read also on AO3

WARNING: dark story, manipulative Thor, heavy rape/non-con elements, no happy ending in sight

____________________________xXx____________________________

Sleep hadn't come easily that night when the maid was finally laying in one of the many beds of the slave quarters. Because while each fiber of her body yearned for rest, her mind wouldn't stop thinking of that just had happened between her and the god in the baths, reviving each moment anew. She could still feel his throbbing flesh on her palms...

No surprise then that _______ felt awfully tired throughout the next day, not to mention the shock and the confusion. Haunted by indecent pictures, the maid fulfilled her duties and tried to remain within Balder's chambers so as not to accidentally meet the crown-prince, knowing that she wouldn't be able to bear to be in his presence today. Would I ever be? And so her mind kept rattling while she polished the wooden table inside the salon, absentmindedly wiping over the same clean spot for the 10th time. Luckily Gerlinda wasn't around, for she would have barked at the girl for slacking. Yet despite the mental efforts she employed - and which began to cause a serious headache - ________couldn't comprehend why Thor showed sexual interest in a mortal,  a slave even, who was far below him.

According to latest rumors, the crown-prince already had a betrothed in spe - Idunn, the goddess of youth, who was known for her divine beauty. So why, in the Nine, break all the rules of etiquette, risk an outgrown scandal and have ________ pleasure him like that? Of course, she had fantasized about the princes sometimes before but in her imagination they had been kind and tender like gentlemen. Last night, in contrast, Thor had shamelessly used his power to force himself on her, to serve only his own satisfaction regardless of how ________ had felt during that all. She had been nothing but a frightened helpless mess but Thor didn't care the slightest, groping her with his large hand which could also end her at ease. The way those hungry dark-blue eyes had rested on her was most terrifying and even now upon recalling, it caused goosebumps to spread all over her skin.

Maybe it was just too much alcohol. Everybody does stupid things when drunk, right? She kept telling herself to calm her sensitive nerves. A one-off not worth fussing about. Probably he has already forgotten about me!

Two days of hiding out later, Gerlinda informed the maids that their master and the crown-prince were sent on a mission together in Vanaheim. When the abigail added that they would be away for at least three weeks, ________ had almost yelped aloud out of joy. Even if the personal slaves would have to work elsewhere during that time, this also meant that _________ needn't worry about running into Thor accidentally and her nerves would finally get a break. Thor would be occupied by other, more important matters than her and perhaps the distance would do one last thing for him to forget about ________. Or so she hoped.

xxx

"Your turn." the raven-haired prince announced as he leaned back in the comfortable chair, his hands folded in his lap as he waited for his opposite to make her next move. It didn't matter though, because Loki had already won - actually he already had two turns ago - but Idunn wasn't aware of that fact. Neither did she realize how bored the Trickster was by her foolish attempts to beat him at this new game called 'Chess'. A few months ago it had been brought over from Midgard and due to its sudden popularity the trendy, stylish board game had soon been introduced to the gods too. The clever sorcerer had loved it from the beginning but unfortunately he ran short of worthy opponents, especially now that Balder wasn't available. So Loki had to come to terms with less challenging sessions and with those gods (still) willing to play with him - Loki could be a mean winner. Admittedly, Idunn hadn't been a good choice but she just happened to be in the library too and she didn't decline. He regretted asking her in the first place.

"There aren't this many possible moves for you to ponder that long!" The youngest prince grew impatient as he watched the goddess, his gaze dripping from those plump lips downwards to land on the showing decollete. At least her sight is delighting...

"Please don't tease me, your highness! You know I haven't played this one often!" she replied and leaned forward, her heavily laden bosom touching the ivory table. "And besides, this whole lot of rules is rather confusing..." The edge of the dark wood pushed her pale flesh upwards, leaving only a narrow chasm between her marvelous hills.

"If you say so." With his usual elegance, the prince tilted his head sideways to rest the most precious part of his body on his arm, his index finger brushing along his temple in order to calm his growing annoyance. So this is why Idunn is famous for her apples, not her wits. He didn't avert his gaze from said fruit though. The seconds ticked by and nothing happened on the black and white square, the chess pieces standing still. If Loki would have kept rubbing his temple it would soon become sore. "You do realize that it is still your turn?" Maybe she was getting senile. Wouldn't be a considerable loss... "I'm concentrating. Please give me another moment, your highness!" Then Idunn finally reached for the bishop, lifting it up determinedly as if she was about to turn everything in her favor, and took one of Lokis' pawns. "So that is the outcome of all this mental effort? Seriously, my lady?!" Loki couldn't believe it, and when Idunn innocently nodded he pinched the bridge of his nose - hard. "Norns help me..."

Of course Idunn wasn't completely oblivious so she noticed how unchallenged the prince was, yet still he needn't be rude either. She could become his future queen after all. Well, if she managed to keep the crown-prince as madly interested in her assets as he was at present, lusting after her at every glance. Idunn was somewhat thankful for the current vacation her womanly parts were granted. Thor was an insatiable beast and far from gentle.

"We can't all have such brilliant minds as you, your highness. So please stop mocking me." she replied and leaned back in her chair, the plump lips showing first signs of serious girlish sulking. "Seidr requires brilliancy, my lady, but this game certainly doesn't! Remember that it was invented by Midgardians so any mortal should be capable of playing properly!" Loki retorted in a harsh tone, his temper getting the better off him as always when he was bored plus annoyed - a dangerous mixture. The goddess took the offense by heart and pouted like the spoiled girl she was, her cheeks slightly aflame by anger. "Really? Let us test that hypothesis!" she said through gritted teeth and glared at Loki for a split second before her cerulean eyes scanned the library for a fitting candidate - in a sense that he or she would loose against the prince and prove Idunn's point. So....which of those looks stupid?

"You there, get over here!" Idunn barked at one of the maids currently busy with cleaning some shelves and a moment later she hurried over. "How can I be of service, my lady?" the pretty maid said and Loki recognized her to be ____________ Haraldsdottir, daughter of the merchant he had tricked recently. What a coincidence... Loki mused to himself while his facial expressions remained an unreadable mask. ________ sensed the emerald eyes on her. "Tell me how to win this game!" Idunn commanded and watched expectedly how the maid surveyed the positions of the chess pieces. It didn't take long for her to conclude the only solution. "With all due respect, my lady, but winning is impossible at this constellation." Loki's eyes narrowed at that, he sensed expertise on the girl. To Idunn the maid's reply wasn't satisfying the least so she decided to take her grudge out on her. "Are you implying that I'm too stupid to play sucessfully?!" "No of course not, my lady!" _________ retorted quickly, but she suspected that this was leading to her being unable to save her neck. I should have played dumb... "Oh yes you do and-" That was when the third party present decided to end this annoying clucking which only made his head ache. "Enough!" his calm voice cut through the air like a blade. "That was simply a satement of facts - which you failed to realize, I might add - and the implying was on your side only.  But yes, you have proven a point."

The Trickster's interference led to the desired outcome: an offended Idunn leaving without comment and making way for another, more promising play mate. "Don't keep me waiting. Sit down!" he ordered the maid with a puzzled look on her face, his rising eyebrows signaling that he wouldn't say it twice. Thus _________ obeyed and climbed the over-sized chair while Loki magically reset the chess pieces. And yet another god I ought to entertain...

xxx

Heavy rain drops fell continuously from the grey misty sky of Vanaheim, their drumming against the canopy of the tent not able to drown out the woman's moans coming from inside. In an iron grip she slid along the thick shaft, his large coarse hands guiding her and keeping her in motion according to his preferred pace. Because his lust demanded to be quenched - at least for a short while - and Sif felt wonderful around him. But it wasn't her cunt that kept the god bucking his hips, no, it was the thought of a certain maid back on Asgard. This small, fragile body....the girl had been on his mind ever since their session in the baths, like a quiet voice whispering dirty ideas for his daydreaming, and so his yearning for her grew each day. Soon his loins would be stirring at the mere thought of her - if not for the current mission he was on - and even now while plunging deeply into Sif Thor imagined how it would feel to have the mortal maid pinned underneath him instead. He would have to be very careful not to crush her with his weight, let alone tear her apart with his cock... Thor came with a low grunt and relished in his apex and the relief it entailed, knowing that this sensation wouldn't last for long. A thought of the mortal's swaying hips sufficed to have him horny again.

Forget Me Not

Characters/Pairings: established Malia/Lydia/Reader (Quim), Malia, Lydia, Scott, Stiles, lots of snow, and I never say it but the literal yeti. 

Summary: Amnesia makes the mind go brrr, but in a bad way...brr (sad). [This not being a published imagine for my followers means I can mess with the summary and other info as much as I want. XD]

Word Count: 5.9k

Notes: I am using a sideblog that is empty and not tagging bc this is only for your eyes (hopefully and technically the gif maker’s...thank you @ gifmaker for the gif), so no need to reblog/like, etc.

Hope you enjoy and it gives you a boost for dealing with your aunt. :-)

I wrote this around October 11th 2019, so apologies about the style not being quite as fluid as my other writing. My other stuff is a bit more recent, if you maybe wanna read it. Most of my teen wolf phase was around here and then it re-sparked in 2020 towards the fall so I added a tiny bit to that one story I told you about with the warnings. 

Also, apologies for the ending, lol. >.>

- - - - -

She is cold... So cold. It feels like a slab of ice is being used for a bed; her back aches all the way down to the individual vertebrae that compose her spine. Pain is slowly causing her other senses to return, enlivening them in cruel way so feeling anything means to hurt to some degree. A whooshing sound makes it hard to think, it rips across her mind dashing the thoughts that slowly trickle in through the haze and the ache. What happened...? Whipping wind continues to bear down on wherever here is. There is hardness under her, so she is probably on the ground and outside based on the frigid temperature. Moving an arm to check the hypothesis causes pain to lance through her shoulder so sharply a feeling of vertigo sets in. The firm ground suddenly tilts slightly. The leverage is increased almost mockingly, it edges up bit by bit like she is about to be slid off a cold metal tray to join the next batch of suffering. A choked whimper leaves her at the odd sensation of slipping. Just before the final plummet, she snaps back into herself viciously. Jolting does nothing good for her body, but now her eyes snap open with a slight burn as if they were sealed shut previously with chilled glue...At least she thinks they are open. Blinking confirms that her eyelids still function, which is good because she is trying not to think about how her arms and legs are not, though she can still mostly feel them. Everything is white. A flurry of white is all she sees after staring long enough to detect movement in what was thought to be a static image. Snow from what may be an impending blizzard continues to beat down on the surroundings, coating them in freezing rain, smatterings of hail, and ice. Why isn't she buried yet...? How long has she been here? A large conglomerate of flurries landing on her cheek causes her to wince, because it will not melt for a time, but the question remains. The left side of her face is stinging brutally, while the rest of her exposed skin only feels like a wind chap is starting to set in. Frowning makes it seem like there is something frozen to her skin; the downward curl is not reaching the left corner of her lips as if they are stuck. Is there something on her face? Staring blankly at the sky is not helping any of this make sense. Turning her head a miniscule amount causes her to feel sick, so she stops, trying to breathe evenly although the slight shaking is making it difficult. Being still is not an option, but the jolts of pain makes her wish it was. Evergreen trees were glimpsed in her peripheral vision; they looked towering and dark, not all fit for a happy Christmas. Woods plus winter with injuries does not sound good. Why is she even here? Working up the will power to try and get up is not something she has even entertained, since moving a single appendage hurt way too much. The snow fall is becoming less like the interior of a cheap snow globe and more like sheets of rain are freezing and then coating the forest solidly. Her right arm is no longer visible. Maybe getting under a tree would provide some protective covering? Don't get up, just shuffle. She can do that. Her feet ache in a disconcerting way like they fell half asleep. Digging her heels into whatever frozen packed dirt or snow is under her takes a few minutes, but little divets were clumsily formed. Now, she just has to leverage it. Her left arm is tucked close after what happened when she moved it. Shakily drawing her legs up again allows her to try and push back slowly, more so scrambling a few inches than moving back with purpose. Sliding against snow should be easy. The rocks and sticks that litter the ground seem to dig into her when she attempts the awkward dragging motion that causes a pull of tension across her body.

It hurts. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she mumbles hoarsely. Anger at not knowing why, where, or what lead to this prompts the pain signals to be ignored, instead she attempts to continue the mutilated crab walk back. Powdery snow sticks to the black of her pants with less finding purchase on the plastic shell of the navy jacket. A bit of red is spotted in the snow, but checking for the source of bleeding is secondary to getting away from the flurries. A trail of blood spottily forms from where she started to where she has hauled herself to. She is practically panting, which causes the cold air to stab her lungs like multiple knifes each time a ragged breath is drawn in. Her movements become out of sync, bordering on frantic. Less than a few meters of progress has been made... A foot digging in is mistimed with the curl of her back and placement of her arm, so that the stretch wracks through her painfully. A gasp muffles the cry of pain. She ends up off balance, crashing to her side heavily. Snow forces her to reflexively turn her head slightly to the side, but she still feels it burning in a way only ice can against her cheek. Throbbing stemming from her left temple encapsulates her head in a vice and is likely what makes the white dance with undulating blots of black for a while until her vision slowly clears back up. She could just rest and then try again. Maybe she should just close her eyes... Lean back and try to conserve warmth until the effort to move again seems possible. A cat nap could work? She tried and is tired; it's deserved. A sudden shrill howl barely stirs her, but a primal part of her mind urges her to become slightly more alert. That kind of sound belongs to a predator. Laying semi-buried in the snow with the inability to move may as well be an open invitation for dinner to whatever can survive the harsh conditions of the forest; it is probably a wolf or something canine. The tree line is watched between too slow blinks for whatever just made that noise. Nothing happens... She didn't imagine it. The cold has penetrated her gloves, it has penetrated her to the very center of her being, but fingers weakly search for something of use. A large rock? A stick? A phone? A conveniently placed gun? There is nothing she can use for defense, so her right arm stops extending outwards from her side to come to rest with her useless left one. Guarding her vital organs may at least help a little... Another howl sounds, but this one sounds deeper and echoes across the space; it sounds low, haunting, and mournful. There is more than one... They could play tug-a-war with her.  She can barely make it to a tree for makeshift shelter, so climbing one to impede them locating her is also a 'no'. No weapon or means to deter the animal was magically found in the snow. The state she is in is yet another limitation, because she could not fend one off in perfect health either. ...What does she do?  A short yip sounds like an announcement that her time to wrack her weary mind for a solution has trickled away. The source of the sound is located immediately as a small wolf with large, rounded ears makes a bee line for her. She vaguely thought it would have white fur or maybe a light gray, but a tawny brown sticks out against the snowy surroundings and looks distinctly out of place; it should be in a rich pine forest with browns and greens. Mentally critiquing the animal is not what she should be doing. Fear laced adrenaline causes her to clench her right fist tightly as she attempts to shift upwards to appear less prone—less weak. Gathering snow in her palm is so she has something to throw, even if a snow ball is a poor choice against a predator. The animal skids to a stop a little ways away, raising its head towards the sky to scent the air. Is it smelling her blood and judging that she is easy prey?

Teeth grit at the thought, because she has no idea about wolves or whatever dog thing this is. Could noise scare it away or only incite it further? How do you deter a canine? Looking it in the eye may be taken as a challenge or as a warning, but she still stares into its' eyes sharply, trying to project an intimidating aura as she narrows her own. The little quakes racking her paired with the fact she is on her back does not make her cut an imposing figure. A slow step forward is taken as the small wolf lowers its body more to the ground; it must be savoring how easy a kill this will be. Her arm draws back in warning. Will the wolf call her bluff and edge closer? "Go away," she seethes, knowing that saying something to it is a lost cause, but it is eyeing her oddly for an animal, almost thoughtfully. Lunging for her throat or springing forward to pounce should have occurred by now. Why isn't it attacking? Ears fall back, almost dropping at the tone, rather than being pressed flat against the skull in anger. Another step forward is taken and then another, until the wolf is close enough that she thinks she can hit it...The snowball is poorly compacted and falls apart, but some of it lands on its fur, which causes the wolf to shake its head at the action, giving a disgruntled chuff at the coldness.  ...Did she expect that to go any better in her head? No. But it was her only real projectile. The wolf does something unexpected, it sits down like a dog and stares at her with those too human eyes. The forest in summer again comes to mind; a rich hazel that borders on brown like wood bark aside from the lightness around the iris is trained on her. She glares right back. Maybe its not a wolf, because it looks small and lean with a body that seems more agile than powerful. A long snout reminds her of a fox, and those ears that are still down are not really that wolf like either, too floppy... Maybe it's a special breed to this area or something else, not that it matters when it definitely has vicious claws, sharp teeth, and she can't get away. A decision must have been made as it creeps closer with tentative footfalls that barely displace the snow. Her arm is pinwheeled to kick up the remaining snow at her side at it in a last ditch effort for distance, but it keeps coming closer heedless of the weak icy barrage. The coolness likely does not seep through its thick fur. "Stop! Please, just go back!" She raises her voice sharply, distilling a hardness to her tone that causes the near hyperventilating quality of her breathing to abate for a moment as she tries to issue a command to a wild animal. Surprisingly, the wolf does halt its progress, but what it does next has her trying to get away as if the promise of being eaten was only a slight offense. Hazel just flashed a brilliant, glowing electric blue that seemed to pierce through her. Its an unnatural wolf thing. There may be worse things than death. Scrambling away using both hands and legs was a mistake, one that was made more than once as she groans. Her jaw locks like a steel trap as she continues, now on her stomach rather than side to crawl away. Tears feel momentarily warm against her frozen cheeks, before causing the burning to redouble from the wind. Everything hurts. She claws desperately at the snow, trying to get away, because there is no explanation for what she just saw or how odd the creature is in general. Her vision seems to be becoming the view used for wide screen movies; darkness creeps around the edges. She is struggling to make sense of things other than the need to move away, because that creature goes against the natural order.

Its too intelligent, it knows too much. Those eyes. It won't just kill her... Something grabs a fistful of her jacket, tugging backwards to prevent the flagging forward motion. It must have a mouthful of her jacket. She kicks out. Her legs feel like lead weights that she only has a minor degree of control over and no contact was made with a furry body, instead only the inevitable collision back with the hard ground occurs. The additional jolt is nothing compared to the rest of the pain that is maddening at this point, because the adrenaline rush is failing at dampening it. Her actions are catching up with her. An angry sob leaves her when she inelegantly falls face first in the snow. Her arms are shaking and she can't support herself anymore while also resisting the wolf. The grip on her jacket is suddenly replaced by a clamping sensation on her shoulder. There is no tearing or teeth burrowing. What feels like fingers squeeze her shoulder, until another hand is placed flatly on her back. What the Hell? What. The. Fuck. Being turned over slowly causes her to whimper; her eyes screw shut because nothing makes sense and she hates it all. Fighting has gotten her nowhere. Something warm settles on her cheek, and she should look to see what is going on, but she is too cold and tired to care. The whipping wind gains an additional sound, though she can't process what it is except that is softer and more pleasing to the ear. A voice? No, that isn't possible. The falling sensation comes again; this time she does not try and stay upright or grounded against it, allowing herself to go along with it. She gives up. . . . . . . "-the blizzard is only increasing; it took out the power lines. We can't go out in that." "You can't, but I can." A dull bang sounds like someone hit something wooden with their fist. "We can't!" This is half shouted in clear exasperation that may be hiding anger. "Losing anyone else isn't an option, ok? I want to know where he is too, but you can't see, smell, or even hear when it's this bad out, and we don't know what is out there that did that to her. You're not thinking it through, Scott." "He's a part of the pack." Listening to the argument unfolding any further is prevented when warm fingers graze her neck. She stops playing possum. Her eyes snap open to meet startled green ones that reminds her of emerald gemstones. A strawberry blonde girl is sitting on the burgundy upholstered couch she lays on, and may just be checking her pulse, but her right hand wraps tightly around her wrist just in case the action is not so innocent. Only a cursory glance is given to the surroundings, since she feels on edge. Where is she? A ski lodge... Thick wooden logs make up the walls, though it is hard to tell how large the space is when only candle light provides light. She does spot the underside of the A-line architectural support that is made of exposed beams. A few mounted deer heads leer at her with glassy black eyes. One wall boasts a large crackling stone fire place that has ancient crossed ski poles above it as a decoration; this is the main source of warmth and brightens the large 'U' of couches that could fit a dozen or more comfortably. This must be a lobby, not a home, based on the few informational areas and posters she saw. Was she out skiing? Returning her attention to the girl has her pausing, because she is being watched so closely, but there may be fear to that gaze too. Pale skin seems to lack much color, even though the fire is casting warmth on both of them and making the red to her hair more vibrant. Her grip is not that tight, and she was touched first, so why is she being looked at like that? Releasing the hold after moving those probing fingers away occurs; she did not mean to frighten her... "She's up! Thank God." The sudden announcement breaks the silent stare off. A guy with spiked brown hair dashes over to the couch alongside a taller guy with black hair that is somewhat obscured by a beanie. These were the two who were arguing. She simply observes them, unwilling to be the first one to speak, because she has no clue how she got here and would rather not be at a deficit by admitting that. Letting them do the informing is a smart move. "We set your arm back in place, but you may need surgery for the cuff," Stiles explains, coming to kneel beside the couch. Soft brown eyes sweep over her form that has less snow and blood caked on it; however, he is still worried about the injuries, especially when they only have a small first aid kit and makeshift sling on hand. "We bandaged what we could. Also, you will probably need a CT scan because your head has a crack in it like Humpty Dumpty. We will figure it all out, Quimmie." He seems pretty caring, so she nods stiltedly in agreement for him to continue speaking. The taller one, who must be Scott, draws closer, fiddling with a walkie talkie in his hand, before sighing. She waits for him to muster up the will to speak. "I know you're hurting, and I'm sorry, but where is Liam?" Once one question is asked it seems that it breaks the dam so a deluge of them come forward as his dark brown eyes narrow at the faint popping of static that comes from the device. There has not been a check-in in a while. "What happened to your team? Was it the ridge that you investigated or did it come after you on a trail? Were the hikers right, and it's just a crazed wolf or something else?" "You can't ask her all that at once." "Stiles, the temperature is dropping further and he is still out in it." "Yeah, and she just woke up, Scott. So back off." A hand finding her own diverts her focus from another brewing argument between the two. Fingers interlace with her own one at a time with a gentleness that confuses her after how hard everything else has been, so she doesn't immediately resist it. A pinky edges over the row of her digits until her hand is covered and then a hold is formed that she does not return. The question must be evident on her features, because a sad smile of understanding is given; it looks like the girl is trying not to crumble, which she accomplishes, but the underlying cracks are still there for all to see. What did she do to be looked at like that?   "Malia is right..." Stiles practically rounds on both of them, knocking his knees against the edge of the couch at the softly spoken statement. "No, Lyds," he disagrees immediately, before locking eyes with impassive (Y/E/C) that watch him, but do not really take him in or express much emotion. He thought it was from the pain and shock, not because... "What is my name?" "Stiles," she answers correctly, because it was spoken already.

"Scott said it earlier," Lydia points it out calmly.  Stiles runs a hand down his face, not wanting to test the theory that Malia suggested because of what it could mean, but he also knows he needs to. There is a reason the werecoyote is listening from behind the couch and not present with the rest. The earlier fear towards her cut her to the bone. Explaining it away as confusion or discombobulation did not convince Malia, who he tries to not glance directly at, even though he can see the glowing blue to her eyes, because this is upsetting to her. He balls his hands into fists; it can't be that. "What school do we all go to?" She says nothing, but wishes the couch cushions would absorb her into it. "What does our dad do for a living?" He asks it more sharply at the silence that seems to say more than any answer could. No, no, no. A hand is placed on the edge of the couch to keep balance as he sinks to his knees, rather than kneel; he meets her eyes squarely. "Come on, try and answer."   Her brows furrow at this, because she does not look particularly like him for them to be blood related. His features are mentally compared to what she intuitively knows to be her appearance. The skepticism is not voiced.  Being stared in outright disbelief by Stiles makes it clear that anything she could say about the situation would make it worse. "What is your name? Where are we from? What is the year? Who is she-" A hand gestures quickly to Lydia, though he quickly unfolds his fingers so he is not rudely pointing at her, but his palm shakes, "-to you? Malia, come over here and-" "Stiles." Lydia's voice holds a firm warning as she places a hand on his shoulder, pushing him slightly away from the couch edge before he looms closer. She scoots to be blocking his stare that practically tears into them with its desperate edge. He probably does not even realize he was raising his voice, almost shouting out each question so it warped into a demand. "Don't push her; it's not her fault." "She isn't saying anything!" Stiles counters. "It wouldn't be what you all want to hear..." That causes the pack to grow quiet for a moment as they each consider the matter of fact statement. "So, what? You were just going to go along with it?" Scott asks, confused. The realization that they have no idea what they are facing or how Liam is doing also weighs on him in addition to how this amnesia will affect the pack. Did they just lose two friends tonight? He sits down heavily on the coffee table, shooting Malia a sympathetic look to try and silently communicate she needs to dim down. "There are five of you and one of me, not great odds, so-" "We aren't going to hurt you." The vehement interjection causes her to reword the point, though green eyes practically blaze as they meet her own; any of that fear has burned away, replaced with conviction. "I don't know anything about anything," she admits softly, glancing at the red and black plaid blanket draped over her legs to cope with so many people staring at her. Her head still aches and this is tiring. "Waiting to see what you had to say was the logical thing to do. I don't know your intentions, but I wasn't going to lie to you. Thanks for helping me out of the snow..." "That was Malia," Scott supplies automatically. She has the feeling that none of the ones in the seating area is this Malia person, so a nod is given. Stiles rises from the stone floor, trying to figure out how to fix the situation. This is no broken bone that can be set or a cut that needs to be stitched up; her memories are not murky or mixed up, but are completely gone. "Can you please tell us what you do remember?" "Why?"

"So we can help you and our other friend." Scott answers honestly, before Stiles losses the bit of composure he just re-gained. He is in older, adopted brother mode and is obviously upset. "We can answer your questions too." "I didn't say I had any..." "You don't know anything, so you should. Unless being amnesiac is how you want to reinvent yourself before senior year." Stiles snipes, but backs off when his best friend gives him a warning look that does not compare to the one he will get from Lydia and Malia, if he keeps pressing it. He is mad at what happened not her...But she is not acting like his adopted sister, who has been with him for years, but someone else entirely. Fingers pull at the worn tassels of the blanket for a moment as she considers the alternatives, turning them over in her head given how tense things are and her own deficit. They did help her, so being difficult is not her goal. She can't shake that there is something not quite right about them, especially Scott, it makes her feel on guard like there is a potentially hidden deadliness. Why are they in an empty ski lodge? The owners should be present or at least the other customers. She is mostly laying down aside from a pillow that elevates her back, sitting upright would put them more on equal terms, but the pain that will come with moving is considered. "Okay, one quick question: why are you all here alone? This place does not seem to be in operation, so did you break in...?" Scott shares a look with Stiles. Telling the full truth would only work with someone acquainted with the supernatural and all of that must have been wiped away too. He runs his hands down his thighs to stall. "We got, er, permission to come up. There's an unsolved mystery that we are trying to crack. The resort is temporarily closed down, because of it and the blizzard..." He trails off, trying to balance the truth with the lies. "We are trying to help." "You do seem the helpful type," she observes dubiously, before crossing her right arm carefully with her sling encased left. The position helps her feel a bit more distant from their prying eyes; it feels like they are judging her, though that makes sense when she is expected to actually be someone, not a blank slate. She turns her attention to the fire. "I don't know a Liam. I don't know why we were on a team or what our objective was. All I remember is snow: white, cold, burning snow. I was on the ground trying to get up, but failed because everything ached. I actually felt like I was falling..." She presses her lips together, mulling over what else can be said. Those glowing, unnaturally blue eyes come to mind so vividly, it feels like she is staring at the creature again. They probably already think she is crazy enough without mentioning it. "There was a wolf, or maybe it wasn't a wolf, that kept coming towards me. I assumed it would maul me, but it didn't...I'm not sure how it was going to kill me, it seemed too patient and smart, not really like a typical animal. I freaked out and tried to crawl away when it got too close, which made all the pain a lot worse. I fainted. I'm assuming Malia scared it off or dealt with it, because I think I would remember it biting into me...Then I woke up here." Lydia wants to reach out to her, but prevents the urge with how previous attempts were received. She can tell that she is still struggling with the pain on top of everything else; however, the far off look in her eyes must mean something is not being voiced. They still have not shared her name...

"Okay, so everything before the snow is blank?" Stiles confirms, getting a curt nod in response that makes him want to throw something into the flames of the fireplace. This is not how the weekend's mission was meant to go. He is pacing in front of the hearth, chewing on the cap end of a pen as he thinks about where to go from here. She was also their only lead with Liam and the creature. How will his dad react? He's older--the older sibling, and feels responsible for her, and now she's a very familiar stranger..."You're sure that's it? So like an hour or so comprises your entire, new existence?" "Yes, Stiles." He ignores the slight irritation to her tone, because he is busy thinking. "Maybe we can jog her memory?" This is posed to the pack, like his sister is another murder case or mystery that he can add to his pin and red string laden board to puzzle out the connections and causes. He can solve this. "We should wait until my mom sees her and the doctors run legit tests. There may be rules on how to deal with head trauma patients," Scott disagrees gently. "Maybe the head trauma is not the cause...It could be something else?" "She is still healing and we don't know how bad everything is." Scott sees the way Stiles crosses his arm abruptly at the disagreement, annoyed. "I want to help her. We need to find Liam too." "The answer could lie with her if we just try and remind her who she is!" "That could make it worse." Lydia is unsure who she sides with between the two guys, but knows talking about the one in question like she is not present in the room is almost always a bad idea. Malia getting up from the wooden chair that was pulled from behind the receptionist's to rest behind the couch is mostly ignored. Supple leather comprises her winter boots that only make a faint clack against the wood floor. She moves purposefully, ignoring Lydia's questioning look as she rounds the couch and stands in front of it to peer down at its occupant. The lack of recognition causes her to feel a deep ache in her heart, while the early fear left a ragged wound behind. Taking a knee, she tilts her head slightly as she watches (Y/E/C) eyes look her over cautiously, rather than softly, because the one in front of her does not know her. "Uhm, thank you for saving me?" Malia ignores the tentative gratitude. "Malia, I-" Scott's concerned warning is stopped short when Stiles holds up a hand, silently asking for him to let whatever is about to happen unfold. He locks his jaw, knowing how affected his beta was when she arrived back at the lodge. She was practically incoherent in describing what happened, instead whimpering and growling when anyone got too close to the two and unwilling to let go of the one bundled up in her arms. She was more coyote than human... Scott slides to the very edge of the coffee table to intervene, if needed, as a precaution. She looks kind of angry...Hazel eyes are not nearly as searching as the green ones that were first on her, rather they seem to be invasively prying without hesitation. The shoulder length cut to her brown locks frames her face nicely, which makes her gaze that much harder to look away from. Being stared at like some sort of freak show is grating on her patience, so she eventually manages to glance away to look back at the fire, though her view is soon occupied by Malia shifting closer with a challenging look. A lightly tanned hand rests on the back of the couch, effectively caging her in. "If you have something to say, then please go ahead," she requests calmly. "How could you forget about me?"

"It wasn't a choice." "Then why aren't you remembering?" Malia almost snaps out the question. A scoff almost leaves her at the presumption, because this girl is really blaming her...Are they all placing the fault on her alone? Maybe the inkling that something is not right with some of them is because they are actually a threat; the lodge is becoming more inhospitable by the second.  "I can't. It's not like I'm repressing it," she replies sternly. "I don't know my own name, so it's definitely not personal. Get over yourself." "Quim. That is your name" Lydia offers, trying to mediate between the two, though she knows this is hard for Malia. It is hard for her too, but someone has to be on Quim's side as a source of support. "Oh, okay..." Fingers burrow deeply into the upholstery of the couch, nails threaten to extend and rip out the plush stuffing. Her coyote aspect howls in her mind. Malia grits her teeth against the hurt those words just stirred, trying to let anger mask it because she would have never thought this would happen to them. This is not how it should be. Relying on instinct, she surges forward, placing a hand firmly over Quim's heart to pin her in place as she joins their lips without asking for permission. She is her's, so she should not have to. The kiss is forceful, demanding and not at all how a kiss should be...It is also one sided. She is doing all the action, while her partner is frozen and unresponsive, though that stasis eventually breaks for Quim to turn her head away abruptly, before a hand is against her shoulder, pushing away. Trying to move away from Malia causes a sharp pull in her back that earns a wince. Fucking oww. "What the hell are you doing?!" "I was trying to jog your memory!" Malia counters. "You can't just kiss people!" "We've done way more than kiss, Quim!" That causes the indignation to leave her in a rush, making the anger feel unwieldy and too large for her to handle. She retracts her hand from Malia, re-crossing her arms as best she can to serve as a barrier between the two of them. Now, she is more confused. "What...?" "Maybe now isn't the time for this..." Scott attempts to reason with his beta. "Mal-" "My soulmate forgot me!" "Not on purpose." Lydia pipes up, earning a huff from the werecoyote, but at least she is listening to her. She links their hands to try and pull Malia away from the couch edge. "We need to be patient." "How are you handling this well? She forgot you too--both of us!" "Not. By. Choice." "I have two girlfriends...?" Stiles runs a hand down his face at the turn in conversation; this is not going to fix her memory, but of course that is what his sister takes away from the conversation. "Yes," he answers at the perplexed expression, rolling up his shirt sleeve to show his blank wrist. "Soul identifying marks. Ring any bells? No, well, you have two of them, so you have two soulmates, even though it is rare to have even one. Lucky you."  Oh... Green and hazel eyes no longer meet in a silent, tense stare off, settling back on the occupant of the couch. Quim falls silent under their attention, unsure what could be said when forgetting your literal fated other halves.

Beth and WOD!Billy - ❤♡❥ღ💕💘💝💓💌💟💙💚💜💛

This || Not Accepting

❤: who is more affectionate in public? in private? 

In public Billy becomes a distant shore. Too far to reach no matter how hard she swims, how much sea water she ends up swallowing, how far she stretches out her fingers to reach him. To hold his hand, to press her cheek against his arm, to take umbrage in the shelter of all that he is. He reminds her there are cameras everywhere. There are covert agents like himself, there’s research assistants, Extraordinary Citizens. That are all on the Front Lines ready to devour any mistake he makes. To bring the whole thing crashing down on their heads, and that as radiant as he finds his older sister, that she is not exactly shy about flying her Deviant flag, is she?

It crushes some of her spirit and Billy regrets having to do it, but it’s for the Greater Good. He always tells himself that but alone, in his own sanctum, those beliefs are starting to crumble. One part of him wonders if this is all a test of his truest loyalties to his convention, carefully constructed in the Ivory Tower by Control. Forcing him to choose between humanity and three very high value targets. If capture and indoctrination is the plan, or eradication if he doesn’t manage to bring them over. Another part of him, the one that is still fur and fang and not quite the eidolon of his Enlightened Genius shakes its head in shame. Billy should know better. He should remember that dying light in her eyes and swear to make it up to her, no matter the cost. Maybe this is malfunction. Maybe this is what madness feels like. ♡: who is the bigger romantic openly? secretly?

There’s a movie she’s made him watch, that she’s seen a dozen times, enough that she doesn’t miss the words, doesn’t need them to flash across the screen. She curls up against him and jokingly tells him the main protagonist is clearly an Ecstatic ~one of her so called Nine Traditions~ and that she thinks the paradigm contained in it is beautiful.

He enjoys it because it makes his apartment feel less lonely, less sterile. It leaves the ghost of her as an impression against his skin. The scent of popcorn and the coconut and sandalwood and cinnamon that always clings to her skin will now linger on his. She’s soft and curved and quiet, all the things that his world is not. And he has that weird feeling that she somehow bypasses his circuitry, his implants, even though that should be impossible, to dig a place inside of him that she can fit.

But even when she’s gone, a line from the film sticks with him. One he can’t shake, so he hides it in an internal file buried so deep that even he will have trouble finding it again.

"Have you never met a woman who inspires you to love? Until your every sense is filled with her? You inhale her. You taste her. You see your unborn children in her eyes and know that your heart has at last found a home. Your life begins with her, and without her it must surely end." 

❥: who is more likely to plan something big for valentine's day?

He’s going to punch the other two dead in the face when they get back. Because it can’t be anything less than a conspiracy between the three of them that he goes to sleep in his own bed, all algorithms in suspend mode, only to wake up to the sound of waves lapping against the wood and fibreglass of the hold, the sea choppy and cold and grey. Like the sky if he bothers to look out of a porthole.

The bunk is a little cramped for his liking, not exactly built for a man of his stature and construction. The benefit of hypertech enhanced limbs is that they don’t exactly ache for the narrowed confinement. The space beside him still holds the ghost of her warmth, her scent, and it isn’t hard to imagine the sheets wrapped around her lithe frame. Hair spilling over his arm like a dark flood. But it’s her voice that teases him awake.  “So since we no can do da whole public kine,” she murmurs, “I t’ought I’d surprise ya. Ren’ned one boat for couple days. An’ bonus... my friends who helpin’ us out... says dey know of a crew a pirates dat need t’ be... how ya say it? Sanitise?” He winces at the word, and how close it is to the reality of it. He raises a brow, loath to interrupt her when her voice is still raspy from sleep, and because everyone else is used to discounting her, cutting her off. “Cause dey fangy-fangy/bitey-bitey.” She makes comical fangs with her fingers curled in front of her mouth. He slides out of bed and into a slumped seating position and she comes over, sits beside him. She presses a mug of scalding hot tea into his hands. It’s dark. Slightly sweet. It doesn’t matter when she smiles. “Happy Volentimes day. An’ good mornin’.” He presses his nose into the crown of her hair. “Mornin’ Izzy.”

ღ: who is more likely to initiate hand-holding in public?

Standing on the upper deck, face in the wind, eyes closed, Billy can hear it. The distinct creak of timbre. The whip-snap of the canvas in a gale, his hands weathered and calloused as he climbs the shrouds to secure a ratline. Everything is heavy with sea spray and the acrid smell of spent powder. The rush of having overtaken a heavy vessel. The pounding of his heart after a successful boarding action. New men aboard. Supplies and wealth taken and secured below. He can see faces and hear names that were long since dead, maybe never existed at all.  There’s a word on the tip of his tongue but when he reaches for it, it vanishes. It tells him he doesn’t really want to know because Billy doesn’t really forget, does he? He doesn’t. And so the only person standing against him is himself.

He blames her with her talk of pirates and her gift of the open sea past the international dateline. Gives him fanciful day dreams, that’s all it is.  He stiffens when he feels skin on skin. Rudimentary procedure tells him it’s her before he even opens his eyes. Which he chooses not to. Instead he curls his fingers around hers; too small, too delicate. Afraid he’ll crush them if he isn’t careful. Afraid he’ll crush her. 

💕: who is more likely to make huge declarations of love in front of other people?

“I will NOT have you shaming the family, Elizabeth!” For a moment with his voice roused in anger, Andy sounds exactly like their father. And she stands there, taking the brunt of it, doe eyes full of a shame and grief that did not come close to being able to be described. She is reduced to something less than herself, something barely more than a child the way she twists her fingers into the waist of her skirt, head tilted toward the floor where maybe that gaze could burn a hole into the wood floors. Shoulders forward and down, all of her making itself as small as possible. Perhaps protectively, perhaps because it cannot hold up the heaviness of Andy’s anger. “....m’ sorry.”  Barely two words, slurred into one.

She hadn’t meant to do or say anything wrong. She hadn’t meant to make a scene at the party. Hadn’t meant to make Billy chase her into the room. Of course, there’s a lot of things she doesn’t mean and it makes it so hard to breathe sometimes.

She can’t say she really understands why he’s mad. Why he’d waited until everyone, including Billy had left, why Baz’s half-hearted interference from the kitchen where he’s cleaning up... “Leave’r ‘lone, Andy” ... goes unheard. “May I be ‘scused?” “Go to bed. We’ll deal with damage control in the morning.” Beth decides then and there, she hates Halloween.

💘: who developed a crush on the other first?

It’s called the Westermarck Effect. A psychological hypothesis that people who live in close domestic proximity during the first few years of their lives become desensitised to sexual attraction with one another. And when a brother and sister, for example, are brought up separately, never meeting until they reach adulthood or adolescence they might find one another highly sexually attractive. The science clearly bears out.

But he wants to hear it from Andy’s own mouth.  The source of his bitterness, his distance, the rage that has him lifting hands and laying them on his little brother. Panting, he looks up from where he’s crouched. Jaw hard. Back of his hand swiping at the lick of blood on his lip. He hitches himself to his feet and reaches out a hand, waits until Andy reaches back and helps pull the other man to his feet. An honest dust up that’s gotten most things out of the way so that they can actually talk. “So tell me, Andrew, is it that she’s makin’ eyes, or that it’s not at you?”

💝: who spends more time (possibly overthinking) what presents to get the other?

The adverts on the telly and radio and every bit of media give off suggestions. Every kiss begins with Kay. De Beers A Diamond is Forever. It’s all part of the carefully cultivated stratagems of the Syndicate. A means to control the economy based on the products it chooses to endorse, and which they decide to bury.  But the problem isn’t his fellow conventions, but rather the fact that Beth isn’t that kind of woman. She doesn’t want for material things, not in the way that can be neatly wrapped up in a box with a bow. She wants for the sea in her soul. She wants for a quiet acceptance. She wants for the soft kisses and hands pressed to hearts vowing forever at the end of the fairy tale. She wants an end to the War or at least an escape from it. She wants all of humanity to achieve this mystical Ascendance of hers, that reminds him of a song from the 70s or something What can you give a woman like that? You don’t exactly. You can’t. It means switching sides. It means becoming a traitor to your own. Not that she’s ever asked. Not that she has to, what with everything that is changing within him. She’s shown him things that he never contemplated before, things he’s never hoped to experience. For the first time, he’s starting to question the party line. And that’s dangerous. “Let me see the other one. The one with the pearls.”

💓: who initiates most physical contact?

She tucks her feet under his leg when they’re cold. Which is always. Her fingers find a home intertwined with his the moment he stops typing. Even if there’s a mile of couch, she tries to climb into his lap at every opportunity. She talks with her hands and smiles with her eyes and her lips at once. Small kisses on the back of his neck. Somehow she’s always brushing against him as she walks by. She’s always been the physical type. It’s a language as well as a form of affection and he thinks he’s starting to figure it out. Or at least he thinks he has, but then she changes the rules.

Suddenly she doesn’t quite meet his eyes. How she finds a way to not be in the same room even if they are seated right next to him. When she dances with him it feels like they’re on other planets.

For all that he wants to give chase, he doesn’t. Gives her space. Hopes that’s enough to bring her back around because he’s starting to miss the little things. Teeth has other things to say about it but you don’t always listen to your not so imaginary weasel.

💌: who is more likely to send cutesy texts to the other?

Sheryl from R and D eyes him when he laughs out loud. He waves a hand and recites the pithier parts of an Onion article he’d read weeks before. All while staring at the face she’s making, rubber glove on her head like a cockscomb. She’s always sending him little things. A picture from the ER. Something silly she saw on the way to or from work, depending on what shifts she’s taken. Corny little jokes he knows has taken her weeks to come up with. Things he memorises and deletes because he doesn’t want a single trace of her that can be caught by the higher ups. But that doesn’t mean that he wants her to stop. In a lot of ways it speaks volumes that she cares enough about him, that she thinks about him as much as he does her, that she sends them. His favourite so far is the Giraffe prodding a duck with one enormously long leg. He normally doesn’t send anything back, no channel completely secure, but he does make a point to mention it when he gets back to his place. Which reminds him, she’s been spending an awful lot of time there.

💟: who spends time reading their zodiac compatibility?

She sits sprawled on the floor. There’s books and charts, some ancient and some new, all around her. She has graph paper, pencils and pens, a compass and slide rule, all the trappings of higher mathematics. But she’s not solving complex equations or a new hypothesis for string theory. “It’s complete rubbish!” he laughs, stirring the garlic green beans around the wok with a touch of sesame oil. “The stars aren’t even in the same position as they were back then, some have burnt out, the gravitational axis of-” “Nu-uh!” she counters, just as amused, just as passionate. “Astrology one of da very firs’ sciences, William. In fact, ya very own Celestial Mastahs-” Void Engineers, Beth. They’re called the Void Engineers. “-spoke wide an’ advocated it in academic circle. Related it t’ astronomy, alchemy, me-meat- “Meteorology.” “Yeah, dat. An medicine. Da Greek, Chinese, Mayans, Egyptians, Macedonians. All’a da big civilisation. Even in da political circles of literature, li’dat Dante Alighieri an’ Chaucer, Shakespeare, Lope De Vega, Calderon de la Barca, who I don’ t’ink was related t’ Hannibal but mebbe. No was til da nineteen century when you guys edged forward wi’ da Sleepahs-” “Beth?” “Yeah?” “Could you come here a second?” She rises like a very strange Polynesian Venus from her sea of pseudoscience and pads her way over to him. He leans down and kisses her gently on the lips. She pulls back from him and shakes her head, flashing him her shark-smile. “See? See dat? Spoken li’ true Libra.”

💙: who is more protective?

He watches her from near the treeline, crouched down low, one set of knuckles in the deep loam offering himself balance. She rabbit runs and for a moment he is consumed more in her motion than watching the surroundings. Shapely legs and perfect little feet fleet, flashing their tawny hue in the sun. Braids bouncing down her back. Go, girl, go. She almost makes it. But on her blind side there’s a blur. Taller than her. Near twice as broad. Intends to take her down like a lion on the Savannah. Billy sees red. Literally. And he springs. Primium laced muscles and bone primed and pumping at optimal levels. Gives him a deceptive speed and the length of his stride eats up the earth at his feet. He clips the body at the waist, drives him to the ground. Makes him drop the weapons at hand that break harmlessly open. There’s a struggle. Of course there is. Half-powered punches that gain his victim no leverage, a rolling tussle where he keeps coming on top, shoulder crashing into chest until he turns and coughs. Gasping for air. Body changing to something harder than flesh, but slow. He gets in one more good punch.

“Billy.” He looks up. Andy’s standing there. Pinning her in his arms. Her feet dangle off the ground, her eyes wild. One of his hands wrapped around her throat. A short jerking twist and she’d-- ”Let him go.” He blinks. Looks down at Baz, sees him for the first time. Realises the weapons are water balloons. And Beth? She still has the football in hand, because she’d crossed the finish line. Their point, then. He still doesn’t understand all the rules to this combination flag {American} football and water balloons and trivia game. Billy hitches to his feet. Offers an apologetic hand to Baz who declines. Politely. When Baz crosses over to Andy’s side, Riley lets her go. Gives her a little shove toward Billy. There’s a fading hand-print around her neck, but she smiles and kneads her head into his chest. He puts an arm around her and glares at the other two who are checking each other over.

Riley will learn one of these days that he’ll keep his hands off her. And he’ll learn it a broken bone at a time, his or someone else’s.

💚: who tends to get sick more often? who is better at taking care of the other?

She stitches his skin. He feeds her soup. They sleep like the dead.  She tends to his scars the way he shepherds her dreams. They work.

💜: who said "i love you" first? or, if neither has said it yet, who is more likely to say it first?

He said once, the first time. She rejected it out of turn. She repeats it later. They never speak it again. But they do everything to make it manifest. Every touch and every look everything they do for one another.  But the words sit in their throats. Haunt their eyes. Loud. Shrieking. How the rest of the world doesn’t hear it, he’ll never know. She’s asleep now, and his fingers trail through her hair. She looks so innocent, so untouched by anything, even him as her chest rises and falls with quiet breathing.

How many times are they going to spiral around each other?  As many as it takes. Until they can howl down the heavens.

💛: who believes in soulmates?

Nails dig into the back of his neck as he holds her fast. One arm around her hips. One climbing the trellis of her ribs like ivy, fingers resting in the space between her shoulders as she arches back. His face pressed into the wide valley between her breasts. The harsh echo of his panting breaths, the sweeter song of the guttural moan he’s dragged out of her throat, her throat exposed, mouth parted in a rictus of pleasure-pain. She calls it the Lotus position, the way she’s seated in his lap, and he’s buried to the hilt. Legs wrapped like chains around him as the last twitches and jerks bleed him dry inside of her. She calls this tantric. Finishing together. Raising power. He calls it love and his is hers and hers alone. And there’s only one way that will ever end. “Death first, Izzy.” He writes the words across her sweat soaked skin. “Always.” She answers and swans her neck into his shoulder where her teeth draw blood.

Move on Dragons Chapter 13

Jay swung his legs over the edge of the Bounty’s railings as he looked out at the view ahead. Sensei Wu left on his trip to find Garmadon as he was sure that the Garmadon Lloyd had wasn’t quite him. As for large dragon Garmadon’s ability to understand them, they had a hypothesis for that. Since the longer they spend in their world, the more they began to adapt and become like them, the reverse must be true for the dragons. After all, understanding their language is the first part of the change. There was a chance that the dragons might be able to take a human form the longer they stay and wasn’t that a conundrum. The dragons being able to become human would be handy but if they lost the ability to shift back because they were spending too long of a time here was what they were worried about.

They would have still been puzzling over a solution if he hadn’t reminded them of a certain pink haired dimensional traveler they knew. That was another issue: pinning her down. She could be in any dimension right now and might not be back for who knows how long. But then Cole helpfully pointed out that her father might have a means of contacting her. But they ran into the problem of their new appearances and their inability to switch to normal just yet. They were working on that now. Jay already knew he wouldn’t be involved in anything unless they needed his lightning. He gave a light huff. Or should he say, other him’s lightning. Two days of the week that other him had to sort himself out had already gone by, today being the third.

In 4 days, he won’t even be a memory once he comes back. He was fine with that. Really he was. Existence was the biggest bother right now. It’s just certain death and problems at every corner with no escape. That wasn’t his kind of thing. Though… He tilted his head back, looking up at the partially clouded sky. He’d like to fly before he dies. That could go wrong in so many ways, he knew but… He’d like to know what it’s like to feel the wind under his own wings. Would he feel as free as the dragons look up there? He wanted to find out. After that, he’d be satisfied. But if he doesn’t get the chance… Well, what does it matter? He reached up and carefully scratched at his scalp, well aware of just how sharp these claws of his are as his horned tail thumped the deck of the ship lightly. Man existence really was a bother. Here he was thinking about complicated and depressing things. He blames his other part for having such a depressing mindset.

“Isolation never does anyone any good you know…” Jay huffed, glancing over his shoulder, his slitted blue eyes meeting Cole’s green and golden orange ones.

“Conssidering I’m amongsst the likess of you, I think issolation iss jusst what the doctor ordered.” Jay hummed as he looked out at the almost plain like landscape just before the rainforest that was Hiroshi’s Labyrinth.

“I don’t think you really mean that.” Cole huffed as he walked over, leaning against the railing. “After all, everyone needs someone…” He murmured as he looked out too, the tip of his tail flicking back and forth as his folded wings relaxed further.

“Iss that ssso…” Jay whispered softly, not bothering to correct him.

Needing someone might be a necessity to him and the others…But he only had so long left… And really, all he felt like he needed… Was a chance to fly. He chuckled to himself, Cole watching him curiously as he did. This was becoming troublesome…

_____

“Ok.” Lloyd says as he looked at his supposed dragon father from where he set him down on the ground just outside of the dragons’ tower, sitting just across from him. “If you’re my dad, what’s my favorite colour?” He asked with narrowed eyes.

The small black dragon paused, its long body coiled like a snake before it skittered away. Lloyd watched it curiously as it did, his small frame disappearing in the nearby bushes making him tense. He could get lost- His thought was interrupted once he came skittering back with something red in his small mouth, making Lloyd’s eyes widened. He walked forward, holding the- the raspberry up for Lloyd to take- which he did. His favorite colour actually was red. He picked up the glossy back dragon and the ripe berry he held in his small mouth still before accepting it, looking him over.

“You really are dad…” Lloyd whispered before taking a bite of half the berry, offering the rest to him. “But how’d you get like this? And who’s the other dad out there Sensei Wu is going after?” He asked him but his father he should probably nickname to save confusion- only looked at him while eating the berry in bites before tilting his head in a sort of shrug.

This dragon was definitely human.

‘Everyone always thinks it’s green for some reason.’ Lloyd looked up at his dragon self as he walked over, eyes on the miniature dragon that was his father.

“Right?” Lloyd huffed, a smile tugging at his lips, revealing his fangs. “I wear green all day. Of course I’d get tired of it. It’s one of my least favorite colours actually.” He says as the green scaled dragon laid next to him, Kai walking around with his dad not too far away.

‘I don’t mind it too much but it’s not my favorite colour. Dad says that I came out like an emerald because I’m his treasure… It’s hard to hate it after that…’ He rumbled fondly and Lloyd looked up at his counterpart surprised.

He then looked down at his dad without really seeing him. Other him was lucky. He got to grow up with their dad… He blinked once something touched his forehead, focusing to see his father pressing his forehead against his, warmth filling him a moment after as a soft purr left him. He’d hug him if he could but he supposed this was good enough for now.

‘I know how to walk on all fours. I do that almost every day.’ Kai huffed as he paced back and forth to prove his point.

‘You may be used to it as a half human but the fundamentals are different as a full dragon.’ Garmadon lectured as he sat patiently, watching his stride carefully.

‘I’m ready to fly! Watch me!’ Kai declared.

‘Kai do-’ He was too late.

Kai had flapped his wings and had taken air, beating his wings still to keep himself hovering high up mid air.

‘See? I’m…’ Kai blinked once he suddenly banked left without meaning to, then dipped right, his flight pattern unsteady. ‘Uh-oh.’ Was all Kai got out before he dropped suddenly, his wings failing to catch him somehow- but Garmadon did, catching him by the tail, leaving him swinging as he blinked at the ground below.

‘Learn to listen to your elders Kai.’ Garmadon rumbled, setting him down. ‘Flying as a dragon is not the same as flying as a half dragon.’ He scolded and Kai looked up at him sheepishly, rubbing his front leg with his paw.

‘Yeah… Sorry Dad…’ Kai apologized as his wings drooped.

‘It’s fine. Mistakes were meant to be made. Some of our most crucial lessons are learned from them.’ Garmadon reassured then sat again. ‘Now, wing exercises.’ He says, spreading his wings and Kai held back a whine at how boring it is.

He did want to fly after all…

________

“Uh-” Was Vortica’s first word uttered once she stepped out of her portal hours after her father contacted her, looking up owlishly at the huge structure that certainly wasn’t around these parts before, filled with dragons.

“That was surprisingly quick.” She glanced over to see Lloyd as he got to his feet, staring at him wide eyed.

“Wanna explain why Dragon Dimension Alpha 106 looks like it puked all over this area- and you?” She asked, glancing at his dark wings.

“It’s a long story you really should hear.” Lloyd says sheepishly.

“I really should, considering this cluster of dimensions are under my jurisdiction and my mother will quite possibly kill me if she finds out about this.” She says, gesturing to the building and the Dragons gliding about.

“Ok, so we got rid of the Oni in the Dragon Dimension but their cloud cover kinda blocked the sunlight for the flora there for too long- and deprived them and the creatures living there of oxygen- and kinda caused a mass extinction. The dragons-”

“Couldn’t stay there or else they’d die due to lack of food supplies and decreasing oxygen levels. So you all decided to take them here to allow their world to recover as time passes slower here but now you’re concerned that they might be here for too long and become too human and lose their ability to shift into dragons, correct?” Vortica asked as she reached for her satchel and dug around it.

“Well- yeah.” Lloyd says surprised.

“Happened with Dragon Dimension Delta 8032 and Ninjago 35994.” Was all she said as her explanation, pulling out a small, sort of chip. “Where’s your Kai? I need to borrow that Dimensional Crystal real quick.” She says as she looked around then paused once the large red dragon all but trotted over.

‘It’s back at the Bounty actually. I don’t have the uh… Means of keeping it on me right now.’ Kai rumbled.

“She can’t-”

“That’s fine. Could you fetch it real quick Lloyd? I gotta make some notes in the meantime of the other dimension I’m observing. My old woman is really cracking down on dimensional order, you know?” Vortica says as she rolled her shoulders’ pulling a pen out of her bag. “And yes, I can understand all languages throughout all dimensions and anyone I speak to will be able to understand me.” She answered before Lloyd could ask.

‘It’s under my pillow.’ Kai told Lloyd and he nodded, getting down on all fours and taking off.

She then pressed a button on her pen, revealing writing in thin air that was done in her trademark colour and continued where she left off, writing in mid air as Kai circled her a few times curiously, Garmadon, the large dad dragon loomed over her curiously.

‘What language is that?’ Kai asked, never seeing it before.

“It’s a secret language that only the Federation of Dimensional Safety and Order knows so don’t bother trying to figure it out.” Vortica mumbled as she kept focus. “Even like this, you lot are nothing compared to their power… They might come in handy actually…” She continued to mumble, more to herself now.

‘Another version of us?’ Garmadon asked curiously.

“The ninja more specifically.” Vortica clarified. “I have to head back and keep an eye on them still to check their progress. They’re insanely powerful. God tier. Above that actually.” She says, pulling up an image of the vaporized spot where the Monastery in that realm was.

“This was done by that world’s version of you.” Vortica says and Kai stared with wide eyes.

‘Are you even allowed to show me stuff like this?’ He asked her and she snorted as she minimized the picture and continued writing.

“Look at yourself. You’re literally stuck between two dimensions right now. This Ninjago may be your Dimension of origin but you’re also just as tied to the Dragon Dimension. With how frequently the distances and borders of your dimensions have been crossed, that’s really no surprise. But I knew that when I gave you the Dimensional Crystal. I just didn’t expect all this. I’m curious to see what both your dimensions will do to cope with the link you opened up between them… But you’re another project I don’t have the time for right now. I only came because my dad said it was an emergency. Speaking of, I might as well leave you guys with your own way of getting to me, just in case.” She says, writing still.

“Oh.” She added, turning the notepad off and looking to Kai. “And when you guys manage to track down your version of Garmadon- the bigger one I mean, make sure to let me know. That’s a problem I need to fix so my mom can get off my tail.” She huffed, reaching a hand out towards Lloyd and the others once he came with the magenta crystal.

“Thanks.” Vortica says as she took the crystal in hand, opening a portal and sticking her hand and the chip inside.

She waited for a bit before pulling the chip back through as it glowed pink. She then tossed it up and they all watched in awe once it went up and up and up still, disappearing over the top of the tower.

“Don’t worry it’s up there. I had to put a sort of field up around the Labyrinth that’ll adjust the Dragons’ internal dimensional clock to this Ninjago, so you won’t have to worry about them losing their Dragonly touch. They can leave the area but it’s recommended that they don’t stay out for long. And if you think it’s easier for them to regress then don’t let it pass what will most likely be Kai’s new normal. If it does then the chances of them turning back will be significantly low- and painful.” She told them with a sigh, pushing her short magenta hair back tiredly. “Also, for conta-”

‘Wait, what do you mean my new-’

“-cting me, use this.” She says, tossing a small device to Zane. “You’re smart, you can figure it out. I’ll allow one test message and a confirming reply but after that, don’t contact me unless it’s absolutely dire- that or you found your Garmadon- the big one. Please nickname them for now, this is getting old. I’ve really gotta run back to that dimension though. Everyone got that?” She asked them.

‘You said something about my form?-’

“This is advanced technology, an instruction manual would-”

“Ok good. Bye!” She yelled, backing up into her portal that opened behind her, tossing the Dimensional Crystal into Cole’s hands as she did. They stared at where she disappeared collectively.

“... Now what?” Cole asked.

“... We figure things out on our own I suppose…” Zane says as he looked over the small device in hand.

____________________

(So I didn’t get this out when I wanted to but hey! Update! Ok so we have a drop in from Vortica! Long time no see my faithful oc! Hey! That rhymed! Anyways, we all know where she's investigating ;).But! The beginning arc as ended and it's time for the middle arc starting with a small time skip! I'll include what happens in times past and snippets of important parts (like Jay's upcoming parts. Might actually write all of that out actually) but that's all in the next update! (hopefully tomorrow but if not then definitely the day after). The middle arc is still gonna be focused on the ninja but it's time for others to share the spotlight. Thanks for reading!)

MSA: Winged Arthur AU (part 8)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7,  

Part 9: here

. 

Vivi POV 3

“What the?” There is a loud declaration of confusion from Lance. Vivi follows his line of sight to Arthur. Vivi assumes he has just spotted the wings.

“I know. I have no idea how they got there. He collapsed before he could say anything.”

Lance, attention moving between her, the ghost, and Artur, exhales long and hard. Then he angles the gun more towards the ground, ordering, “Keep an eye on that bastard. If it moves, give a yell.”

She nods, stepping forward, allowing Lance inch around her and crouch next to Arthur. He needs to do a bit of manoeuvring to avoid stepping on Arthur’s mess of feathers, but he manages it in his grumpy Lance fashion.

While Lance checks on Arthur, she once again makes eye contact with the ghost. Now hovering closer to the entrance, near a beat-up semi-trailer – where had that come from? –  the ghost is anxiously clenching and unclenching its fists. Purple eyes are tracking their movements with a disturbing intensity. Creepy. Doubly so now ‘Lewis’ looks like a flaming skeleton again. She glares and receives that pitiful expression. Thankfully, with both her and Lance there, the ghost has decided to keep its distance. Vivi would rather it go away and return to its middle-of-nowhere-mansion, but it appears she’ll have to settle for whatever this was.

“He’s okay, I think, apart from the wings anyway. Too dark out here to see much besides feathers. I want to move him inside ta get a better look.” Lance leans back, muttering under his breath, “Also, it’s gotten mighty cold all of a sudden.”

Vivi nods again, relieved to have confirmation on Arthur’s wellbeing. She’s not really feeling the cold but going inside seems like a good a course of action as any.

“What happened to that tree creature?” She asks while Lance goes about trying to pick Arthur up.

“Gone, ran off into the desert with the giant fox.”

“That’s good…I think?” Vivi can’t help the twinge of worry for her fake dog who had been bleeding heavily last she’d seen. Mystery, who had been injured protecting her. Secret or no secret, she feels responsible.

“I got in a few good shots on the tree before they went outta range.” Lance continues to speak, before narrowing his eyes at ghost-Lewis, “What’s that things deal?”

“It’s a wraith,” She states, ignoring the way ‘Lewis’ wilts, flinching back, “They’re dangerous. It’s probably best we keep an eye on it.” Sure, ghost-Lewis seems relatively fine now but she knows that calm is a facade hiding a whole lot of angry fire.

“Right.” Lance doesn’t question her, focusing instead on carrying Arthur which looks difficult due to how the wings flop about. Vivi wants to help but doesn’t like the idea of taking her attention off the ghost for any length of time. Luckily, after a little fussing and several swear words, Lance manages to sling Arthur over his back, so it looks like he’s wearing a very feathery coat. He shuffles his way to the front door. The trip takes an unreasonably long time, considering the door is only a few feet away. Vivi tracks their progress, on edge and anxious.  

There is some difficulty fitting Arthur through the screen door, forcing Vivi to turn and help arrange the wings in a way that will allow them past the frame. Once done, she about-faces to find the ghost has drifted closer, appearing hopeful now neither her or Lance are acting outwardly aggressive.

“No,” She says, brandishing her bat again. “You stay out here.”

“What,” The ghost, stunned, freezes in place, staring like she’s grown an extra head. Vivi steps forward, blocking the entrance.

“You’re not welcome inside this home,” She reiterates. “Uncle Lance. Tell ‘Lewis’ he’s not welcome inside.”

Lance, now just through the doorway, stumbles almost dropping Arthur, giving an abrupt, “Huh?”

“First rule of supernatural anything. They have to be invited into homes.”

“Not what…” Lance shakes his head, “What do yeh mean by ‘Lewis.’”

Okay, so Lance knows who Lewis is…Perfect. That doesn’t change anything aside from confirming her theory that she had known this ghost at some point. She waves pointedly, giving Lance as serious an expression as she can manage.

Lance’s gaze snaps to the ghost in befuddlement.  “Hold up. Yeh not tellin me that that, right there, is Lewis?”

“That’s what he said his name was. Right before he tried to burn me and Arthur,” She states.

“I would never hurt you…I swear. It’s just…Arthur…he’s done something. I don’t know...there’s a lot I… you… don’t know. If you would just let me explain,” The ghost pleads again, genuinely remorseful. Talk about your mood swings. Another point in favour of her wraith hypothesis.

“Is that before or after you burn us both to a crisp.” Vivi snaps back.

Lance side-eyes her seriously. Then he examines the ghost, expression hardening.

“Hurt my nephew and yeh ain’t welcome here. Simple as that,” He grunts and turns, heaving Arthur with him.

“No! You can’t. I’m telling the truth!” The ghost reaches out, fire guttering and flickering to his more human form. He sounds desperate. With one shaking arm, he grasps towards her, “Please.”

Vivi glowers and deliberately slams the door in the, now human, face.  For a second, she doesn’t move, waiting to see if ‘Lewis’ is going force his way in. There is only a loud cry of frustration, more sad and mournful than angry. Back against the door, Vivi exhales hard. Why does her chest hurt like it’s full of breaking glass? She runs a hand along her collar bone trying to massage the ache away. It’s useless, the pain isn’t physical. An inhale, and she pushes herself off the door. 

When she enters the combined living-dining space, Lance has already dragged Arthur to the couch and is in process of wrestling him into a comfortable position. He’s doing his best to work around the copious number of feathers but is struggling to find success. Vivi rushes forward to help, glad for the distraction. They end up lying Arthur down on his stomach so the wings are draped over the couch’s backrest and spill onto the carpeted floor.

“That true? The stuff about welcoming in supernatural creatures?” Lance grunts, while he checks Arthur’s pulse and breathing, running a hand over Arthur’s head and the rest of his limbs, searching for breaks or other injuries.

“I don’t know,” She sighs, straightening, “There’s a lot of lore spanning multiple mythologies, and it crops up a lot in older superstitions. It's more of an educated guess.”

A thoughtful hum.

“Suppose it’s better than nothin. Those myths happen ta mention anything like this?” Lance is now repositioning the wings to look more natural while muttering, “Don’t know nothin about birds. Do these look like they’re sittin right?”

“No myths that I can think of off the top of my head. I mean there are a few where people turn into birds. Not that I think that Arthur is turning into a bird,” Vivi hastens to clarify when Lance gives her an expression of acute alarm. She shuffles nearer, pointing at Arthur, “I think those are flight feathers. They’re definitely not supposed to be bent like that.”

They spent a few seconds straightening the plumages in soft silence.  

“There are a bunch of mythical humanoid creatures that have wings and such. I don’t know…maybe you’re related?" Vivi breaks the quiet and is met with a blank expression. “Do you have any relatives who mysteriously vanished for a few years then rocked up pregnant or with an unknown baby? Was anyone adopted into the family? Like, did someone find a child abandoned on the steps to your house and decided to keep it? Any sudden changes in a family member’s personality like they’d been mysteriously replaced?”

“What are yeh on about?”

“The most common reason why humans’ manifest supernatural traits is usually bloodline related. Someone somewhere had a fling with something not quite human,” Vivi elaborates to which Lance frowns, obviously thinking.

“There’s nothin like that that I can think of. But, don’t get along with the bastards, so who the hell knows.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. I guess I can jump online and look into it.” She looks back to Arthur. “Maybe later...”

Carefully, she reaches out from where she is crouched to smooth out a few more feathers which are twisted at odd-looking angles.  They feel real, growing from between Arthur’s shoulder blades and extending into smaller downier feathers a little along his back. His shirt has ripped from where the appendages had grown in. No sign of that golden light from earlier.

“Who’s Lewis.” She asks, the question coming suddenly. The response is particular. A huff of air followed by tired and drawn eyes. Lance appears almost haunted.

“Humph. Ain’t that a question and a half,” He stands, glancing towards the broken windows. From this angle, they can just make out the back end of the semi-trailer but said ghost is out of view.

“I know him, right? This Lewis person?” Vivi prods.

“Yeah. Yeh know him.”

Lance turns, calculating, “Suppose I could tell yeh more, seeing as ya seem to be retainin the name ‘Lewis’ well enough.”

“Wh...?”

“But not before I get a drink and yeh see to any of ya own injuries. Arthur’s fine enough, but yeh look dead on ya feet."

What did Lance mean by ‘retaining the name?’ Was this linked to her memory gaps? Probably.

“I’m fine. I mean, I wasn’t fine. I got stabbed here,” She rubs her shoulder, “but, Arthur kind of took care of it.”

Lance peers at her shoulder. There’s a lot of dried blood but no sign of the injury it came from.

“Arthur? He did what now?”

“Healing magic. It’s what knocked him out. He just, I don’t know, healed everything. I actually feel great, like I’m on some crazy energy drink. Ah… Sorry.”

Lance snorts, rubbing his eyes, “Don’t apologise. That boy wouldn’t know self-preservation if it hit him over the head. If you’re sure ya ain’t injured any, then how about yeh keep an eye on the kid while I get us something to drink. Then I’ll tell yeh what I know of Lewis.”

Vivi relaxes a little and nods.

“What can I get yeh?” Lance pauses in the doorway.

“Uh…Tea I guess? Herbal if you have it.”

Lance disappears and she hears things being moved around in the kitchen. Vivi settles down into a more comfortable position on the ground next to Arthur, continuing to smooth the feathers. So, she was right, ghost-Lewis fit somewhere into the swiss-cheese that was her memory of the last several years.

.

Note: Okay, so do people want to read a ‘Lance explains Lewis to Vivi’ conversation (if so, then whose POV do you want it in). Or do people want me to skip to Arthur waking up. I’m leaning more towards skipping atm but if there’s interest I’ll probably write that scene first.

Part 9: here

The Mistakes We Made - Chapter two

Summary: When her high school girlfriend comes back to town after two years with a baby and a terrible story she won’t tell, the Librarian has to deal with the feelings she had worked so hard to keep at bay.

Read it on Ao3: (chpt1) (chpt2)

Notes: Hey guys, I just wanted to thank you for the support you’ve been giving this fic. it makes me really happy to know I’m making other sketchbookers happy. And look at this moodboard/header I made! I’m really proud of it too!

Johanna took a deep breath as Maven ran away from the cafe. This wasn’t just a matter of asking for help anymore. There were too many broken things between them, and she had to fix this.

“A little help over here?” Johanna asked as she knocked into the kitchen door. “Can you just watch my baby for a minute?” She asked the barista when she poked her head through the door.

It was not the same woman that had worked in the cafe for as long as she remembered, she realized. This one had thin, blond hair, and Johanna was sure that the girl had been one or two years before her in school, as opposed to the old barista, a woman in her late thirties with flowing brown hair. She briefly wondered what had happened to her.

When the barista nodded, Johanna bolted out of the establishment to look for her friend. The sun had already set, and the sky was beautifully dotted with stars. As she stepped into the chilly street, she realized she felt pleased, and even happy that Maven hadn’t gotten over her. The feeling was so selfish that she tried to squash it down, but without success. She couldn’t help being glad that she wasn’t the only one nursing a broken heart.

The streets were empty, so she could easily make out her silhouette by the lamplight, wearing an oversized cardigan, black jeans and dark blue boots. She looked so damn beautiful.

“Maven, wait!” Johanna shouted as she ran after her. “Please, let me talk to you!”

The raven haired woman stopped dead on her tracks. She looked up at the waning moon as she did whenever she needed strength and filled her lungs with the cold air. Johanna slowly approached her as she breathed in and out, suddenly realizing how ridiculous her outburst had been.

Maven turned around to her old friend, the wind messing her hair and the moon shining above her head, and even though her face was wet with tears, Johanna thought she had never looked so strong.

“I’m sorry.” She began. “That was childish. If you need a place to stay, of course I’ll help you.” Even if it hurts, she added to herself.

“I know you will.” Johanna said calmly. “I know the kind of person you are. And I’m sorry too. I never meant to make you hurt.”

Maven knew she was talking about what had happened five minutes ago, but her mind couldn’t help but take her to three years earlier, when everything had began to crumble.

“Neither did I.” She whispered into the wind.

“Look.” Johanna rubbed at the back of her neck in exhaustion. “Can I at least pay you a coffee? For old times’ sake?”

The corner of the librarian’s mouth twitched for a moment. She wasn’t feeling like tea anymore.

_#_#_#_

Once back in the cafe, Johanna ran to the stroller which the barista had kept by her side in front of the counter, making Maven feel a sting of guilt at having made Johanna leave her baby with a stranger. Well, Johanna hadn’t em>had to run after her, she told herself in order to feel less like an irresponsible, selfish idiot.

After securing that her baby was fine and still sleeping, the mother turned to Maven. “Can you take her back to our table? I’ll join you right away.”

The librarian did as she was asked, parking the stroller just beside the seat Johanna had used earlier. Sitting on her chair and propping her head on her hand, she took a better look at the child. It looked so peaceful and adorable that way. Maven sighed sadly. The baby was a perfect little angel. Nothing less than what Johanna deserved.

She had been so amused by the twitchings of the baby’s face as it slept that she only noticed Johanna coming closer when she placed a small coffee in front of her. She was looking at her in a funny way, and Maven blushed. She had probably caught her staring longingly at the child.

“You didn’t have to! You didn’t- I didn’t just come back here for the coffee!”

“I know.” The brunette chuckled. “But it’s the least I can do.”

They spent a minute or two in relatively comfortable silence as they both drank their coffee. Maven realized Johanna hadn’t ordered any sugar or cream for her cup. She still remembered how Maven took it.

“So.” Maven finally broke the silence. “What’s the name.” She asked, nodding in the baby’s direction.

“Oh! Hilda. Her name is Hilda.” Johanna smiled. “She’s such a beautiful girl…”

Suddenly, Johanna’s face clouded up. With sadness or anger, Maven couldn’t tell, but like every emotion other than happiness, it didn’t belong there.

“Yes, she is.” Maven said, truthfully but also in an attempt to take Johanna away from whatever memory she had just buried herself in. However, she was so distracted with the baby, and the funny little expressions she did in her sleep, that she only realized that Johanna had began crying when she heard a sob.

“Jo-“ she barely had time to say her friend’s name before she cut her off.

“How am I going to take care of her now?” The brunette cried. “Look at me! I can barely take care of myself! Hell, we’re even homeless!”

Maven leaned forward and took Johanna’s hands in her own, forcing them away from her face so that she’d look at her. “What are you talking about? You’re married!” Surely her husband would be somewhere nearby to help her with whatever he could, and didn’t they live in his cottage in the woods?

Johanna chuckled darkly between her sobs. “Oh, I was until last night!” She said, looking away from both Hilda and Maven in shame. She took a few deep breaths, trying her hardest to regain her composure. She experienced a brief moment of panic when she realized the information that she had let out, but quickly told herself that it was okay. She could trust Maven. If she had trusted Maven from the beginning of it all, she wouldn’t be in this situation at the moment.

“Would you excuse me for a minute? I need to throw some water on my face.” As she got up, the librarian did too, but Johanna was quick to ask her to stay and watch over Hilda.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come along?” Maven asked, genuinely worried for her friend. The sight of Johanna so obviously distressed made her nervous and she didn’t like it.

“Yes. It will be alright.” The brunette tried to smile in a reassuring way, but the result was something unnatural and slightly creepy. As she walked away, Maven tried to process the new information. They had broken up? The last time she saw Johanna, she had seemed like she couldn’t be happier with the man by her side, so what had happened? Maven couldn’t honestly imagine anyone being stupid enough to just let Johanna slip through their fingers if they had her love. She was just too damn precious.

A terrible hypothesis formed on her mind. Maven had always known that her friend’s husband was a “bad boy” on the literal sense, even if he had made the rest of the town believe otherwise, but he wouldn’t be terrible enough to abuse her, would he? Johanna didn’t seem to bear any damage aside from emotional, though Maven supposed she couldn’t really tell since her friend was wearing long sleeves and pants. The thought made her restless, and she promised herself that she’d ask as soon as she had the chance.

Johanna emerged from the toilet few moments later. Her shoulders were still slumped, and she kept her head down, but her face looked better, even if a little puffed and red.

She stopped before the stroller, looking down at her child, but her next words were directed at Maven. “Can we go home now? Please?”

“Of course.” Maven got up quickly. There was nothing that Johanna could ask in that small, sad voice the Maven wouldn’t grant within the second. “Do you want me to take the stroller?” She asked, not wanting Johanna to tire herself more than absolutely necessary.

“No, it’s fine.”

They walked out of the cafe, Maven leading the way. Even if she didn’t know the first thing about Johanna’s current situation, she had a feeling that she wouldn’t want to be seen by a lot of people at them moment. Trollberg wasn’t exactly a small town, but it had the mentality of one, and news traveled fast in it. So given the current situation, staying off the beaten path seemed like the best option.

The narrow little passages that Maven was so used to using began getting darker, as no street lights had been put there. The only light was that coming out of the windows from the houses they passed by and the moon.

Johanna hadn’t been thinking about the route much. Maven had lived in the same place her whole life, she surely knew where she was going even if these streets seemed a bit seedy. Even though she too had lived in Trollberg since ever, she only recognized the place they were in when the trio passed the front door of the Hoodoo shop everyone in town knew existed yet no one talked about. It belonged to Maven’s twice removed cousin, if Johanna’s memory wasn’t failing her.

Straight ahead of them, in the end of the street, there wasn’t a shop or house and a bifurcation like there had been on the other streets they passed through, but they could see an open field dotted with stones. The cemetery.

Stopping in front of the last door to the right, Maven reached into her pant’s pocket, and took an old iron key out of it. She unlocked her house and put the key back in her pocket.

“Come on in.” Maven opened the door wide for Johanna, waiting by the frame in case she needed help with the stroller.

“Wait!” Johanna whispered. “What about your mother? Are you sure she wouldn’t tell anyone?”

“Oh” Maven’s eyes widened, though not with insecurity about her mother’s ability to keep a secret. “My mother has died over an year ago.”

Johanna gaped at her, feeling a blush rise at her face. Mrs. Amaris… was dead? True, the old cemetery caretaker had never felt quite real to her, with her whispers to the wind and love struck gazing at the moon, but she wasn’t judgemental, she was wise like no one else, she knew how to comfort with few to no words, and now she was… dead.

This felt even less real than the woman herself had felt.

“Maven.. I’m so sorry. I- I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. I know you didn’t.” Maven gave her a forced, small smile, trying to offer Johanna the comfort that Johanna should be offering her. “It was all quite sudden. But I’m okay. I have the means to be economically stable and I know my mother hasn’t left me. As long as I keep her memory, she’ll be here. Now come inside. It’s getting cold.”

_#_#_#_

It was ridiculous how much better one could feel after a warm bath, Johanna mused. Maven had let her stay in her mother’s old bedroom, that aside from a view to the cemetery and the fact that it’s former owner was dead (“don’t worry, I cleansed the room with sage”, Maven had said. Although Johanna didn’t really know much about the Amaris family’s Wicca traditions, the statement had put Johanna relatively at ease.) was a way better place to be spending the night then whichever place Johanna would have been able to find on her own. She had a comfortable bed and a bathtub, which was a far improvement from any of the inns Trollberg had.

While Johanna soaked on her bath after a long, exhausting day, Maven had taken her car keys and walked back to the area surrounding the Poet’s Retreat and driven her car to a much closer spot, though one hidden by the cemetery storage house, so as not to raise suspicions. And if this wasn’t enough, she even got the trunks with Johanna and Hilda’s most essential belongings and brought them inside the house. She considered for a moment that Maven was doing all of this to apologize for her earlier tantrum in a way, before feeling ashamed of the thought. Maven had always been this good to her. She just had always taken it for granted.

Now, they all sat in the sofas in the living room before a small fireplace. Johanna had happily drunk the soup that Maven had offered to share with her and was now feeding her little Hilda, while the librarian drank camomile tea, staring at the roaring fire in her cotton sleeping pants and shirt.

The only sounds were those of the flames and of the baby making a mess of her meal, until Maven broke the silence.

“What happened?” She asked, sounding so utterly curious that Johanna knew she must have been holding that question back for hours. “Between you and Torrin, I mean.”

Maven kept her gloomy theory out of her question - Johanna wore shorts and an old t-shirt to bed, and Maven had been relieved to find no marks upon her skin - but still regretted asking the moment she did. She really didn’t like the way Johanna’s eyes darkened.

In that moment, Hilda finished her milk and Johanna dabbed at her little mouth with a piece of white cloth. Kissing her baby’s forehead gently, Johanna sat her down on the stroller and took a deep breath.

“Maven… you have no idea of how much you’re helping me right now. I’d truly be lost without you, so I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but… I’m not ready to talk about this. I- I think I need to sort of… make sense of what happened in my head before I tell it to someone else, you know?”

Johanna lifted her head to see that Maven had stood up and placed her tea cup on the small round table in front of them. “Is that okay?”

Maven sighed. She was dying to know what on earth was going on, but she would never force Johanna to tell her something she wasn’t ready to. She was hit by the realization that, two years ago, Johanna wouldn’t have asked if it was okay. She would stick to what she thought was best for her well being.

What had changed, Maven wondered. What had happened in those two years her friend had been away?

“Of course it is.” She answered, picking up her teacup and getting up. “I’ll just wash the dishes and go to my bedroom, then.”

Just as she finished speaking, soft weeping sounds came from the stroller.

Entrapta is escaping. Micah thinks he’s helping. 

Adora and Bow are escaping. Dak is actually a big help. 

...

Using her hair to cut her one meal of the day into tinier pieces, Entrapta listened for the guard’s footsteps to disappear from her cell block. Chewing one tiny piece, she counted to ten after the corridor went silent before sliding her tray out of the way and laying down on the floor in its place. Her hair once again slithered out through the slit at ground level to continue her attempts at guessing the four digit code to unlock her cell.

Cycling through all the 10,000 possible numerical combinations that could unlock her door.

Entrapta was over halfway through the sixes now. 6660… 6661… 6662… She would go through all ten thousand if she had to. Entrapta was very good at taking things in stride. She was just fine living in the vents of the Fright Zone for three days. Sleeping in tight spaces, trying to move unseen, stealing food from empty rooms, using the toilets when she was sure they were empty. Entrapta was not a delicate and ‘wilting flower’ princess.

But there was a limit to how much filth and discomfort she could take. The Horde prison compound on Beast Island had found her line. Then crossed it.

She was ready to leave now.

And since it seemed Hordak had written her off and abandoned her, just like Adora had, and just like Catra had, she would just have to rescue herself.

6669… 6670… 6671-

There was a CLICK and her door creaked open, swinging slowly on its hinges.

Entrapta lifted herself up off the floor, walking on her hair instead of her feet. She very carefully closed her cell door behind her and locked it back to give the illusion that she was still inside. After all, no alarms were triggered. How would anyone know she wasn’t in her cell anymore.

Then she caught the number printed on the metal door. Six-six-seven-one. The number of the cell was the code used to open it. Not what she would have gone with. Certainly not as secure as some other codes, but then if the prisoners on the inside couldn’t see the number, or couldn’t reach the keypad on the outside there was no need to go overboard on the security. They weren’t in Dryl. This wasn’t the Crypto Castle. This place wasn’t designed by Queen Ensnarea.

Entrapta looked to the cell next to hers. The one that held the nice guy who encouraged her coping mechanisms and defended her process to the other prisoners. She looked at the number on his cell, then typed it into the keypad on his door. It, likewise, swung open slowly on its hinges. She pulled it the rest of the way open with her hair. Suspended in the doorway, the silhouette of a female figure surrounded by almost spider-legs of hair.

“Hi. You wanna escape?” She asked.

The man looked up.

Raising his head, dark eyes stared up at her through a curtain of equally dark hair. “You- you’re the new Princess? How’d you get out?”

He lifted his hands and tried to brush his hair out of his face. Unlike Entrapta, his hands were bound. The wrists locked together in a wooden plank.

“Are you asking me about my process?” She asked. “Well, the last place I was staying I got around by the air vents mostly, but this place doesn’t have ventilation, so I had to improvise. The first hurdle was figuring out what kind of locks they used for security. I was hoping for analogue key-and-tumbler locks because those are fast and easy to pick. But it turns out here they use digital locks that require a numerical code. There’s a finite number of possible combinations for the key-code, so it was just a matter of cycling through the possibilities until I found the correct one.”

The man just continued to stare at her.

His scrutiny began to make Entrapta feel uncomfortable, and she lowered her welding mask over her face. “You weren’t really asking me about my process. I’ve learned that when people ask me about my experiments, theories, or processes, they aren’t actually interested in learning about me.” Entrapta turned to leave him. “I won’t bother you. Doors open now, you can escape if you want. If not, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t raise the alarm.”

The man stood up, shaking his long dark hair out of his face. “No, wait! I was just- surprised.” He tried to explain. Then held out his hands. “The lock on my cuff is an analogue key-and-tumbler lock.”

She paused in the doorframe. Looked back. Entrapta was getting used to people just using her for the things she could do by this point. ‘Lasting friendships’ were not a luxury she could enjoy. But as long as she was useful to someone, she’d always have temporary friends. That was something, right?

Lowering herself down onto her feet, Entrapta entered the cell to make her newest temporary friend.

Tendrils of hair slithered into the lock on his wooden cuff. Turning each of the tumblers until they lined up like the crenulations of a key. There was a soft CLICK, and the lock fell open. The man twisted his wrists and flexed his hands and the wooden cuff fell away.

“Thank you.”

“It was easy.” She answered honestly.

“I’m Micah.” He informed her, a bit of a pause after the name as if he were significant. As if Entrapta was supposed to instantly recognize who he was and gasp with shock and awe. He was a significant General and hero of the original Princess Alliance and first attempt at rebellion. Plenty of new prisoners that came in responded to his name with almost reverent disbelief. To the outside world, King Micah of Brightmoon was dead. A martyred hero.

She did not react, however. She just nodded back. “I’m Entrapta.”

Then left the cell. Walking on her hair again because it was quieter than her shoes.

“Wait!” Micah followed after her.

“You should probably keep your voice down.” Entrapta informed him, not bothering to regulate her own volume. “The acoustics in here cause sound to travel more efficiently than the architecture implies.”

Then because that was true, and it was something she had been wondering about herself, she paused to really examine the stone of the walls. The corridor was much cleaner than the inside of her cell had been and Entrapta lifted her welding mask to get a better look at it. Smooth, almost flawless, and with an odd shine to it. In fact, out here in the corridor, it didn’t look much like stone at all. Not something that was cut from the earth. Dryl was a mining Queendom, Entrapta knew what cut earth looked like (in all its forms). No, this was artificial. Manufactured. But not metal.

“Fascinating.” She muttered to the wall, eyes sparkling with the realization that there was something new to learn about and understand. Even here, on Beast Island, in a Horde prison that might as well be a gulag, Princess Entrapta could find things that catered to her passions.

Behind her, Micah cleared his throat. “Ahm. We were escaping?”

“Oh. Right.” For a half of a moment, Entrapta had honestly forgotten that she was in danger. “You can go ahead and go.”

There was a pause in which Micah just stared at her. Partially disbelieving, partially assessing, all concerned. He almost looked like a parent that had found someone else’s child lost and alone in a dangerous situation.

“No…” He said slowly. If she was the Princess Entrapta from Dryl, daughter of Queen Ensnarea, then she was not a child, she was very much an adult. But there was just something about her, something… atypical, that made Micah feel like she had to be looked after like a child. Or, at the very least, not left alone without supervision. Certainly, not abandoned in a narrow corridor of an enemy prison. Micah reached out and grabbed her by the hand. “We’ll go together!”

Entrapta only sighed. Great. Another temporary friend that was just sticking with her because she had talents they could use, and was pulling her away from more interesting things under reasoning of ‘necessity’. If this was what ‘friendship’ truly was –and her experience was beginning to support that hypothesis- then maybe Entrapta didn’t need friends after all.

And yet, she allowed herself to be pulled along anyway.

They turned a corner, and came face-to-faceplated-helmet with the first guard encounter of their escape.

All three of them froze. In shock, and equal parts not knowing what to do. No one had ever escaped Beast Island before. The there was no president for this. The guard had no training for this! Entrapta had been hoping to not have to encounter any guards until she was out. She was not a fighter and the narrow corridors didn’t have ventilation shafts for her to slip into to avoid running into guards. Micah was several years out of practice fighting the Horde. He was older than he used to be, his reflexes not as quick. He hesitated.

Entrapta was the first to recover.

“Hey, so, this place doesn’t look like standard Horde construction.” She announced, gesturing with her hair at the walls and ceiling. “I spent a lot of time in the Fright Zone, so I’m very familiar with Horde construction. Did you find this place instead? Refurbish and repurpose an older structure? The acoustics are very interesting. Not how one expects sound waves to usually travel. This place is almost like an amplifier!”

The guard was the second to recover. They raised either weapon at the pair of escaped prisoners. “Don’t move!”

That was when Micah finally reacted.

Maybe it was the lavender hair, or maybe it was her youthful and child-like air, but Entrapta reminded Micah of his own daughter (a child he hadn’t seen since she was a toddler and had no concept of her current personality). Seeing a Horde soldier point a gun at her triggered a primal and paternal instinct in him to protect her.

Moving his arms in quick, angular motions, Micah traced a design in the air. Lines of glowing blue power forming where his hands traveled, forming a magic sigil. With his palm flat-forward in the center, he sent the sigil wafting at the guard whom winced expecting injury or pain.

There was no injury of pain. The guard just stopped. Immobile. Frozen in place. Not frozen like ice-frozen, frozen like a living statue frozen.

“Oh, shoot!” Said Micah, inexplicably feeling remorse for the move. “I only meant to stop their weapon, not their body.” Then a terrifying idea occurred to him. “Shoot! I hope I didn’t stop their heart!”

He had been out of practice with his magic for easily over a decade. With his hands bound he could not continue to practice in his cell. One needed the full range of motion of their arms to draw the magic sigils.

Entrapta, however, seemed not to be quite so bothered by the possibility that her escape companion might have just killed the guard. She crept up to the still-standing body on her hair, curling herself around it to get a look from all angles. “Fascinating.”

Entrapta never really studied magic. She found that it did not adhere to strict rules like everything else in the natural world seemed to. She was sure it must have rules, of course. Otherwise, how could magic be taught as a discipline? But the rules of magic that she did know seemed arbitrary to her. Any results she received from her –admittedly limited- study of magic were equally as arbitrary and inconsistent. In short, magic was nonsense.

Still, examining the immobile guard, she had to admit. Magic was nonsense that yielded tangible results.

Micah drew a different sigil in the air and threw the new one at the frozen guard as well. The body collapsed to the ground.

“Aw.” Entrapta hadn’t finished her examination.

Micah knelt next to the body, slipping two fingers in the gap between the collar of their armor and the base of their helmet. Feeling for the artery in the neck to check their pulse. They were still alive. His first action upon escape was not to end the life of another sentient, living being. Micah stood.

“Let’s go!” He once again grabbed Entrapta by the arm and pulled her down the corridor. “We need to get to the harbor!”

She had no idea where the harbor was. Entrapta had been unconscious when she was brought in.

With no better ideas, she allowed herself to be lead through corridors and down hallways by the old sorcerer. Only pausing when she saw something of interest. Usually something that did not seem to belong in a Horde structure. Each time, Micah pulled her arm, or her hair –one time he even picked her up- to keep them moving through the complex.

And it was a complexed complex.

The corridors twisting in odd directions at odd times, the floor sloping down inexplicably, the ceiling bowing up for no perceivable reason. Entrapta had spent a lot of time in the Fright Zone, and a lot of time exploring the buildings there. Some had been made from the cannibalized parts of other buildings. So, they did look cobbled together from junk. They did not look neat and orderly. But if one ignored the grime, and mismatched plate colors, the old wiring, or the inefficient electrical systems, one would see that some level of planning did go into their construction. Fright Zone buildings were laid out on a grid. Their corridors were all at right angles. This prison complex was not a grid, and had very few –if any- right angles.

“Halt!”

Sometimes they would come across a pack of guards. And Micah would let go of her then. He needed both hands to form the sigils required for his magic.

After the second encounter, Micah got better that the spell he initially tried on the first guard. Only static-freezing their weapons, or their feet so they couldn’t pursue the escapees.

Entrapta found it interesting that, to spite the acoustics of the building, she never heard an alarm. One of the guards did manage to get off a warning on her communicator before Micah could stop her. So the prison staff was definitely aware that a break-out was going down. But there was no red alert. No flashing lights, no blaring siren sound. Just a swarm of guards around every other bend or corner.

Micah pulled Entrapta down another corridor.

“Shoot!” He hissed, “they’re herding us away from the harbor! At this rate the only way out would be into the jungle.”

Entrapta didn’t see why that option sounded so terrible. At least they would be out of this –admittedly, very interesting- gulag.

Shifting her mental paradigm from ‘observe and study what you can while your new flavor-of-the-week-friend drags you around as they please’, to ‘Princess of Dryl, you’re in charge here’. Entrapta wrapped almost an entire pigtail around his body and pulled Micah off his feet. “Then let’s go!”

“Wait, what!?”

Now it was Entrapta’s turn to drag him around. They were forced to double back several times while he was the one in charge. Any corridor that was blocked by guards was avoided. But Entrapta wasn’t bothered by immobilized soldiers. They were immobilized by illogical but inexplicably effective magic. What harm could they do? Really, now.

Using her free pigtail to lift them, and a tendril from the one still holding onto Micah to steady them, Entrapta climbed over already frozen guards. Carrying her companion and herself through the hallways until they arrived at something she was pretty sure she glimpsed while Micah was busy playing ‘strong older man must be the hero’ and dragging her around pointlessly.

An exterior door.

A narrow access door. Meant for one soldier to pass through at a time. With a number pad lock same as the cells. But there was a window in it that showed lush green jungle outside. Entrapta set Micah on his feet next to her and began cycling through the 10,000 possible combinations that could unlock the door. It took her two days to get to the one that unlocked her cell. She hoped it would not take that long for their escape door.

“Don’t suppose you have any spells that can unlock this?” She asked, her tendrils of hair never pausing in their frantic typing of keys. “Are they spells? ‘Cause it looks more like drawing. Sigils, I guess? That’s a thing in magic, right? First Ones writing also has sigils, so I might be getting it confused, but I’m fairly certain mafic also has sigils.”

The door clicked. Entrapta stopped typing with her hair.

“Oh. Never mind. Guess we didn’t need your magic after all.” Entrapta walked out the door. “Thanks for your help. You look just like your daughter. Bye.”

Micah blinked at her retreating back for a moment. ‘His daughter’? Glimmer! Princess Entrapta knew Glimmer? Micah found himself sprinting after Entrapta –not just because he also wanted to escape the prison.

“Wait!” He called after her. “You don’t want to go into the jungle!”

…

The Horde Captain of Dryl was walking through the corridors when the Little Lord came up to her. They were flanked by two soldiers in full armor –full armor including helmets with visors down- almost as if the pair were ready for an attack at any moment. It was the first time the Captain had ever seen Lord Hordak’s heir being accompanied by anything resembling a ‘royal guard’.

“Hi. I’m Hordak.” They announced.

“I know.” She informed him. There wasn’t a soul in all of the Crypto Castle, or even the greater extended Dryl Queendom, who didn’t know who Hordak Second of Their Name was. Then the Captain realized this might sound a little rude and the last thing anyone wanted to do was be rude to Lord Hordak’s heir. She cleared her throat. “How may I serve you?”

The hybrid child raised their hair, arching it over their heads and using it point at the magic sword the Captain carried on her back. The sword that had been confiscated when they took the rebels into custody. She had not left it out of her sight. Not once. She didn’t quite know what the sword was, but she was able to recognize its importance. The Captain was determined to make sure the weapon remained safe and controlled until the real Lord Hordak could return and claim it.

“I need that.” Announced the younger Hordak.

The Captain hesitated. It was true that children in the Horde were taught how to handle weapons almost as soon as they had to dexterity to hold them. But this was not some kidnapped youth taken from a nameless village to be trained as a child-soldier. Or the offspring of two enlisted with an unhealthy lack of self-control and an inability to understand the importance of contraceptives. This was Lord Hordak’s heir. This was the future of the entire Horde. What would happen if they injured themself on it? What would Lord Hordak do if his heir was injured by a Rebel sword that one of his own Captains gave to them.

Perhaps the captain hesitated a little too long. Because one of the guards flanking the young hybrid cleared her throat.

“Lord Hordak requires both the sword and his daughter’s presence immediately.” She said in a voice of authority.

The Captain didn’t recognize the voice, but the soldier spoke like someone accustomed to a command position. But, if she was in a command position, why was she dressed as a common soldier? The Captain narrowed her eyes at the one who spoke, giving their uniform another critical analysis.

Standard issue. Nothing special. No personal alterations or modifications, and people in command positions were allowed to augment their uniforms to suit personal preference or fighting style. But this one had not altered it at all. Not even to take it to the quartermaster to have it tailored to fit better. It was baggy in the torso, and tight in the hips, as if originally meant for someone of a different body shape.

“What’s your ID number, soldier?” Demanded the Captain, pulling out a datapad to search the number.

They hesitated. Much longer than the Captain felt was appropriate.

Even Lord Hordak’s heir looked back at her, questioning.

Finally, the soldier rambled off a number.

The Captain punched it into her datapad. She frowned at the name and profile it displayed. Then looked back up at the soldier. “Your name is Kyle?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.” She nodded. “My name is Kyle.”

“It says here that you’re just a grunt soldier, barely out of training.” She informed the other woman. “And that you’re assigned to Force Captain Catra’s division. Force Captain Catra is not here.”

Not that the Captain even knew if Force Captain Catra was even still a Force Captain anymore. A lot seemed to have happened in a very short time. They were kind of cut off from the rest of the Horde up here in this mountain Queendom of Dryl. Force Captain Scorpia showing up with Lord Hordak’s heir from Princess Entrapta was shocking enough. Maybe in all the chaos this lowly grunt, Kyle, had been up-jumped to a Royal Guard.

There was another hesitation. Then, “Force Captain Catra is with Lord Hordak.” She finally announced. “He requires both his heir and the sword, so Catra ordered us to come and collect them.”

That made sense.

The Captain glanced down at Lord Hordak’s heir. They did not seem nervous or in the least bit threatened by either these guards or the prospect of going to see their father. The hybrid looked perfectly at ease. Maybe a little impatient. The Captain held out her hand. “Alright. Give me the order so I can copy it to my datapad and file it in the records here.”

“Uh…” That was the first time the hesitation came off as actually nervous or concerned.

“You do have a copy of the order, don’t you?” The Captain pressed. “Lord Hordak wouldn’t trust his heir to just anyone.”

“Uh…” Now both guards seemed jumpy and nervous.

“No data trail.” The Heir snapped suddenly. Their hair curling under them to lift them up to be on an eye-level with the Captain. Those glowing red eyes narrowing at her. For what might very well have been the first time since meeting this child, the Captain actually saw them as Lord Hordak’s heir in practice, not just name. “It’s a secret mission. No data trail. No copies on your datapad. Nobody knows.”

That seemed to be the theme with this child. Secrecy. No data to be found. The Captain certainly didn’t know about them until Scorpia showed up unannounced, also with not orders handy, and dropped the Heir off at their mother’s home castle and Queendom.

“No data trail.” Nodded the Captain. If the Lords of the Horde wanted to play cloak and dagger games, who was she to question them? She reached an arm behind her to withdraw the sword. “Will Imp be staying here, my Lord? I don’t see him with you.”

There was another hesitant pause.

There seemed to be a lot of hesitant pausing going on in his conversation. That could just be because the Heir was young and hadn’t quite gotten the hang of military command yet. But something told the Captain that it wasn’t. A deep feeling in her gut saying that something just didn’t feel right. The instincts that allowed her to raise through the ranks and become a territory Captain practically screaming for her not to take what they said at face value and double check the orders.

Except there were no orders to double check.

The Captain’s hand tightened on the hilt of the sword. She did not hand it over to the Heir. Something was off about this. Imp was not with the Heir, and that terrifying little espionage goblin was almost always with the Heir whenever the Heir was out and about in the castle. The only time Imp was not with the Heir was when the Heir sequestered themself in the Princess’ lab, or else asleep in their own chambers.

Stowing her datapad, the Captain placed her free hand on her hip. “Lord Hordak, come here for a moment.”

“Okay.” The Heir complied easily enough. They closed the space between themself and the Captain to stand at her side, the side that was still holding the sword. As if expecting to receive the sword at any moment.

She did not immediately hand it over to them. Instead, the Captain fixed her eyes on the Heir’s guards. Helmeted and masked. Their faces hidden from her. “Kyle,” she began, “I’m going to ask a different question –just one question- but I want both of you to answer at the exact same time.”

Both guards exchanged a look.

The Captain pointed to the second guard whom –thus far- hadn’t said anything. “What’s his name?”

There was a final pause.

Then,

“Lonnie.” Said the one she was asking about.

While at the exact same time ‘Kyle’ announced, “Rogelio can’t speak.”

They were caught in the lie.

“Darn it, Bow!” Shouted ‘Kyle’. She pulled her helmet off to reveal she was the same intruder from earlier. The traitor and defector former-Force Captain Adora.

“How was I supposed to know which of Catra’s underlings you were gonna make me!?” The second done pulled off his helmet to show that he was, indeed, the second intruder from earlier. The Rebel Archer and insurgent, Bow. “I’m very clearly not reptilian, so Lonnie just made more sense!”

The Captain pushed the Heir behind her, placing herself between Lord Hordak’s child and the rebel intruders. She hefted the sword in her hands. A large broad sword. Wide blade and gold hilt. As long as almost half her height. But it wasn’t as heavy as it looked and the Captain swung it with ease.

“Whoa! Carful with that!” Adora shouted at the other woman as she dodged the attack. The blade made deep marks in the wall where the blow landed. “Don’t bunt my blade!”

“Adora! That is not the thing you should be worrying about right now!” Bow snapped at her as he tried to duck around the Captain to get close to Dak.

Realizing the Heir was in danger, the Captain turned her back on Adora and lunged at Bow instead. He didn’t have any weapons, his arrows and bow were confiscated when they were captured, and it looked like he didn’t think to pick up any weapons when they stole those uniforms. So Bow was unarmed. All he could do was dodge.

“Stay close to me, Little Lord.” She commanded. “I’ll protect you from the intruders.”

The Heir did move closer to the Captain, but not for the protection she offered. Dak’s hair coiled around her arm, the hand holding the sword, and pulled. Tightened their coils on her wrist to make it harder for her to hold her grip, and tried to pull the sword out of her hand.

“Lord Hordak, wha-?”

“I said I need that.” The Heir reminded her. “Give it.”

More confused than anything else, the Captain just stared at the little hybrid. Unsure of what was going on here.

Adora took advantage of the other woman’s confusion and came up behind her. She jumped on the Captain’s back and wrapped one arm around her neck, her forearm pressing on the woman’s throat.

The Captain did drop the sword, but only because she needed both hands now to claw at the arm that was restricting her breathing.

“Adora! You can’t just choke people!” Bow shouted at her. “They’ll die!”

“People pass out before they die.” Adora informed him. It was a detail of Horde training she remembered well. You can choke an enemy until they stop moving, but that doesn’t mean they’re dead. People pass out before they die. Just because they’re not moving doesn’t mean they’re not breathing.

The Captain slammed her back against the corridor wall, squishing Adora between herself and the metal-paneled stone. Adora hissed in pain at the impact, but did not let go. She kept her hold around the Captain’s throat, determined not to let the other woman go until she stopped moving. The Captain’s clawing grew more frantic, finger nails almost digging through the seams of her own gloves in her desperation to get the rebel intruder off her.

But Adora held firm. Her arm wrapped tight around the other woman’s throat. Squeezing tight. Making sure she got no air.

Finally, the Captain’s struggles slowed. Her arms going slack. Her body going limp as she collapsed to the ground.

That was when Adora finally let go and crawled off of her, climbing to her feet. She looked to Dak, still holding the Sword of Protection in their hair. “I’ll take that back now.”

Wordlessly, not even looking at Adora, Dak passed the sword to her. Their hair moving on its own while their eyes seemed transfixed by the unconscious Captain. They knelt next to her and sniffed her unconscious body.

“She smells like prey.” Dak announced.

“Thank you, for that.” Bow groaned. Because a child-Hordak, that also crawled through vents and small spaces like Entrapta, and moved around on spider-leg like tendrils of hair wasn’t unsettling enough.

“Imp’s been teaching me to hunt prey.” Dak added by way of explanation. It did not succeed as an explanation. It just succeeded in making the hybrid seem more unsettling.

“Okay…” Adora began slowly, channeling her inner-Mermista. “Not touching that… In any event, we need to get outside somehow. The courtyard, the roof, it doesn’t matter. Just somewhere Swift Wind can pick us up.” She lifted the sword above her head and shouted the words that had become a sort of fourth member of their Best Friends Squad. “For the Honor of Grayskull!”

There was a flash of light, and Bow –whom had witness this multiple times before- picked at his nails, unmoved.

Dak, on the other hand, was enthralled. They watched with rapt attention as Adora grew in height, increased in musculature, changed her clothing, grew her hair longer, and just seemed to all around glow as if her whole body was lit by an internal light. Not glow like the bioluminescents of Dak’s eyes, but glow like a halo of power that just couldn’t be fully contained in the vessel that was her body.

“Interesting…!” They breathed in much the same way Bow and Aodra remembered Entrapta saying ‘Fascinating…!’

Closing the distance between them, Dak rose up on their hair to get a better look at Adroa now that she was She-Ra. She wasn’t just taller, her already blue eyes were bluer. Her muscle definition was firm and strong, more like the results of hard work and diligence rather than chemical enhancements. The tiara was gold like the sword and looked like they might have been cast by the same craftsman, the wing motif was so similar in design.

They wanted to examine her more, but She-Ra grabbed Dak and threw them over her shoulder so that all they could examine now was her posterior. A section of her form that they did not find quite so interesting.

“Now is not the time, Dak.” She announced, in a voice similar to the one she had to use several times on Entrapta during their strategy meeting to rescue Glimmer. This child might look like Hordak, but in personality and actions they very clearly took after their mother.

Dak gave a ‘hmph’ of displeasure. Baker carried them like this whenever they tried to escape their lessons. Was this just how grown-ups interacted with young people? There weren’t any other children in residence at the Crypto Castle for Dak to compare to. They had missing variables and incomplete data to form a hypothesis.

Bow fell into step beside She-Ra. “We also need to get my bow and arrows back.”

“Those will have been put in the armory.” She told him.

“Great! Do you know where that is?” He asked.

Because the Crypto Castle was a maze. Entrapta designed the building to be a puzzle. Something to stimulate thought and force a person to think outside of conventional special norms.

“Uh…” She-Ra paused in her step. “Well, the dungeon was down below, so the armory would be… uh…”

“The Horde don’t keep their important stuff in the castle.” Dak informed them, impatient. “They’re afraid of getting lost. They set up their own buildings in the courtyard so they know where everything is.”

“Really?” Bow asked. It could not be that simple. “So all we have to do is just get outside?”

“How do we do that?” Asked She-Ra.

“Put me down.” Dak commanded in a tone that was more like Hordak than it was Entrapta.

Sliding the hybrid off her shoulder, She-Ra set Dak on their feet. They looked around, trying to decide which corridor they were in since She-Ra basically just threw them over her shoulder and ran in a random direction after beating the Captain. Dak took note of the artwork on the walls, as well as their height and curvature, if there were any landings above them, or below them. Navigating Crypto Castle wasn’t easy, it took the hybrid –literally- all of their life thus far to figure it out. But once Dak learned to recognize the nuances of the design, they learned to figure out where in the castle they were, and how to get to where they wanted to go.

“Short cut!” They announced happily. Before using their mohawk of blue hair as a rope and swinging themselves up to an air vent.

Bow and She-Ra watched the hybrid disappear into the tight crawlspace.

“Does she know we can’t follow her in there?” Asked She-Ra.

“I don’t think he considered it.” Bow replied.

They turned to look at each other. “Wait, do you think Dak is a-“

A wall slid open under the vent the hybrid vanished into. There stood Dak, their tool bag in one hand, their hair holding a soldering torch, their other hand raised in a wave. “C’mon, I said this is a short cut!”

Both She-Ra and Bow shrugged. Getting to the courtyard and getting out was far more important than whatever conversation they were about to have in that exact moment. They followed Dak through a dark and narrow passage. No overhead lights. Just dim guiding lines of a muted yellow on the floor. Other than that, the only light came from Dak’s glowing eyes and She-Ra’s sparkling body.

Then they saw a light at the end of the tunnel.

Bright morning light from the Glow Moon.

When they got to the end of the tunnel, Dak grabbed the edge of the exit frame and swung themself out of the passage.

That action should have given She-Ra a bit of a clue as to what they were about to come out onto –or not onto as the came may be- but it didn’t. She-Ra steped out onto empty air.

“Wah!” She would have fallen were it not for the flagpole near buy, wafting a Horde banner in the wind. She managed to grab a corner of the banner and held on for dear life. And shouted angrily into the sky. “What the hey, Entrapta!”

Only Princess Entrapta of Dryl would build her castle with a passage that lead out into a sheer drop with no railing, safety net, or even warning.

Bow leaned over the edge, seeing how far down the drop really was. Yup. That could definitely kill a person. He looked to She-Ra hanging off the flag to make her she was alright. Then to the side to see Dak clinging to the side of the building, the toes of their boots perches on the tiniest bit of decorative trim, their talons sunk into the seam of the stones. Dak looked confused, as if they didn’t see the problem here.

Unable to suppress it, to spite the serious situation, Bow couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, we were promised a short cut.”

The courtyard was directly below them.

Dak smiled. They liked Bow.

“I slide down the pole.” The hybrid informed their companions. “Like this.” They jumped from the wall to the flagpole. Hugging it koala-style, and using their hair to control their decent, Dak slid down just enough to be on level with She-Ra. “Swing over to grab it and follow me.”

Then they were sliding down again.

From still up in the passage, Bow gave a shrug. It wasn’t like this was any more dangerous than some other things they’d done in the past. At least, they didn’t have to worry about killer robots, or Horde sharp-shooters firing at them like sitting ducks. Walking back a few paces into the passage, Bow got a running start, then jumped for the pole.

He wasn’t quite as graceful as Dak had been, but he caught the pole in a similar koala-style hug and started to slide down.

“This is actually kinda fun.” He announced. “C’mon Adora! It’s easy!”

Growing to herself, She-Ra began swinging the banner she clung to until it brought her close enough to grab the pole. All three of them slid down into the courtyard. It was much faster than if they had tried to navigate from inside the castle. Dak was right, it was a short cut.

Looking around She-Ra took note of the temporary bungalows the Horde had erected. A barracks, vehicle hanger and maintenance shed, field showers and toilets, communications tent, and-

“There.” She-Ra pointed. “That’s got to be the armory.”

“Okay.” Dak straightened, brushed off their overalls, and marched right over to the bungalow She-Ra indicated.

The guards straightened when Dak stopped in front of them, using their hair to raise them up to be on eye-level. Bow and She-Ra were starting to recognize that posture. It was an odd sort of tilt in shock, but straighten with discipline that came from not really knowing what this child was, but also knowing that said child might very well be their overlord one day. It was a little refreshing to see that Dak threw everyone a little off kilter. The feeling was not unique.

The guards let Dak walk into the armory without being challenged.

Moments later, the hybrid walked out again carrying Bow’s bow and quiver of trick arrows.

“I can’t believe how easy things are with an enemy higher-up helping us.” She-Ra commented. Things were just a little too easy, in fact. Something was going to go wrong for them. She just knew it. Nothing was ever this easy.

“Dak’s not an enemy.” Bow argued. “Dak’s just a kid!”

“Frosta is just a kid.” She-Ra reminded him. “That doesn’t make her any less dangerous. And Dak is Hordak’s… something. That makes Dak an enemy higher-up.”

The hybrid rejoined them at the flagpole. “Are we ready to go?”

She-Ra nodded. She lifted her eyes to study the cliffs above the castle. Light Hope said that she and her steed had an empathetic bond. That they could sense each other and Swift Wind would know when he was needed. Truth be told, Adroa was still trying to make sense of the nuances of that kind of relationship. It wasn’t a very proactive part of being She-Ra and so she was not good at understanding it or training it. Empathetic bonds were passive. Background noise, almost. She didn’t know how to use the bond to actually ‘call’ Swift Wind in real time.

A shrill screech ripped across the courtyard.

Whatever concentration She-Ra had was broken.

The trio looked up to see Imp, as the source of the screech. He was perched on the shoulder of the Dryl Horde Captain. One hand clutching her bruised neck, the other hand using the outer frame of the castle entrance to steady herself. She croaked something out of her damaged larynx, but it was too soft for them to hear all the way across the courtyard.

Unluckily, Imp was obliging enough to make sure she was heard.

‘Intruders!’ The little deamon repeated in the Captain’s scratching croak of a voice. ‘Intruders! Kidnappers!’

“Bad Imp.” Dak growled from between Bow and She-Ra.

She-Ra raised her sword. She knew something like this would happen. Things were going just too easy with Dak helping them. Something had to go wrong. Something had to hit a fan and spray trouble everywhere. Their missions never went smoothly. That was just a fact of life for them. Nothing ever went according to plan. She charged at the nearest Horde soldier to them, knocking the poor reptile into two of her comrades that were foolhardy enough to think they could take on the legendary She-Ra.

Bow notched and arrow and shot it at the ground between the three soldiers. The arrow tip burst on impact, covering all three in viscous goo that quickly hardened, gluing them to the ground. That was three soldiers that wouldn’t be bothering them.

Shame they still had a courtyard full of them.

With another shrill screech, Imp took to the air. Flying across the courtyard to master’s clone. He tried to grab the hybrid by the hair and pull them back to the relative protection of the Captain. Imp could not allow master’s heir to fall into the hands of the enemy.

“Imp, no!” Dak snarled at the little deamon, trying to pull their hair free. “I’m going to meet Mother!”

The deamon shrieked a disagreement. Master’s heir was not going to Beast Island to die with the Princess. Master’s heir was going to stay right here where they could learn to be a proper Horde clone.

Bow came up beside Dak and smacked the deamon hard with his quiver.

Imp let go in shock, but did not relent. He refused to relent until master’s heir realized the mistake they were making and came back with him.

Their hair free now, Dak reached into their tool bag and pulled out a heavy pipe-wrench. They smacked Imp with it. Knocking the little deamon out of the air. Imp his the stony ground and his yellow-gold eyes went to static for a moment. The blow interrupting his conscious processors. His eyes shut as his back-up unit began a safety reboot to avoid any lost data.

“Imp!” Dak knelt down next to the deamon.

The little flying troll had been their most consistent companion for –literally- all of the hybrid’s life so far. Dak couldn’t stand the thought of having damaged him permanently. Picking the deamon up, Dak stowing him in their own tool bag and zipped it shut. If Imp didn’t wake up on his own, then they would try and fix him –just like they were teaching themself to fix the robots in Mother’s Locked Room.

More soldiers swarmed around She-Ra and Bow.

Dak clutched their tool bag closer to their chest. Even going so far as to wrap their hair around themelves as if it could protect them.

“Uh, Adora, we’re completely surrounded.” Bow observed. He notched another arrow, but did not pull back the string. There were too many targets and he couldn’t shoot fast enough to hit all of them.

“I know.” She-Ra snarled back.

“Well, do you have a plan?” Bow pressed. They always managed to get out of tight spots in the past. If only Glimmer had come with them, then they all could just teleport out.

She-Ra did not roll her eyes. No, she did not have a plan. Every time she made a plan it all went to heck in a handbasket so fast it rendered the making of the plan pointless in the first place. There were no plans here. Only actions.

Then a shadow fell over the courtyard.

A winged silhouette blocking out the light of the Glow Moon.

Everyone looked up.

Bow and She-Ra smiled. They’d recognize that feathered wingspan anywhere.

“Swift Wind!” Bow hugged the stallion just as he landed between the trio and the soldiers. “Boy, am I glad to see you!”

“I sensed Adora needed me.” He announced. Then noted that they were surrounded by enemies. “Get on!”

Bow reached for Dak’s little hand to help the hybrid on first. They were easily the smallest of the group and couldn’t climb up on their own (unless they used their talons, but Swift Wind probably wouldn’t appreciate that).

“Hi. I’m Hordak.” Dak announced only after they were already on the horse’s back.

“You’re who!?” Swift Wind bucked his hind legs and twisted his head, trying to get a look at what Bow had hoisted up onto his back. He could not turn his head completely around, but what he could see did not look like the evil overlord of the Horde that was described to him. This Hordak looked like a… foal. Hordak’s foal? Hordak had a foal? Were they kidnapping a foal from its mare? “Adora, what have you gotten into this time?”

Both She-Ra and Bow jumped up onto Swift Wind’s back.

“No time for explanations right now, just fly!” She-Ra shouted at her steed.

“Taking a foal away from their mare goes against everything I stand for!” Swift Wind protested.

The soldiers seemed to have gotten over their shock of a winged and talking horse dropping down into the midst and were closing back in around them.

“We’re not taking Dak away from their mother!” Bow promised the highly opinionated stallion. “We’re taking Dak to rescue his mother.”

“Mother is on Beast Island.” The foal announced.

One of the nearer soldiers charged up a stun baton.

Welp, that was good enough for Swift Wind. He jumped up into the air. “You can explain the ‘you are Hordak’ part in the air.”

Bow held onto Dak as they climbed in altitude, and Dak held onto their tool back which –in addition to their tools- held the unconscious Imp.

…

1950 - Spencer Reid

wow I'm actually back!  this one is inspired by 1950 by king princess.  I have some new songs in my library so that is why this one and the next few are out of order.  enjoy!

word count: 1,377

In all honesty, you did not hate being the person to typically stay back at the police station and talk to the officers and locals who came in.  In fact, you enjoyed it a lot of the time.  

Sadly, in St. Louis, Missouri, you were not tasked with your favorite job.  You were to head off to the scene of the latest murder of a serial killer, which happened to be a damp and dark alley, and as you walked up the street from your car towards the alley with Spencer and Derek, your eyes wandered the city around you.  You had only been in St. Louis one other time - in the same circumstances, and you oddly liked the city.

As Spencer and Derek talked, you remained quiet, going over the case in your head.  You were drawing connection after connection, coming up with so many things to tell the others when you were done thinking, but, quite frustratingly, your train of thought was interrupted by a deep, ignorant voice.  “Hello, sexy!”  A sleazy looking man across the street had yelled to you.  

Before you could even process what he had said to you, Derek stopped and pushed his jacket back, resting his hand on his gun tauntingly.  “Keep walking!” He shouted back to the man as you half hid behind Spencer, glancing out from behind him to the man. 

The man scoffed but did as he was told, and Derek gave you a small wink as the three of you continued walking.  “So rude.”  You muttered under your breath as you put your hands into your jacket pockets, half pouting.  It honestly drove you mad half the time when men called out to you.  You had sometimes even wished it was like the 1950s, when there was respect.

Spencer tiled his head to the side.  “Does that happen often?”  Spencer asked aloud as you crossed your arms over your chest. 

“More than you’d think.”  You muttered as Derek chuckled lightly, placing a hand on your shoulder as you scowled. 

With a crooked smile, your close friend smiled.  “No need to worry, little mama, we are right here and no one will mess with you with us around.”  He told you comforting as you approached the messy scene in front of you.  

“Not that you can’t protect yourself.”  Spencer added, a small smile on his thin lips.  “You just shouldn’t have to.”  He told you quietly, causing a similar smile to form on your own lips. 

You had a very close relationship with every single person on the team.  it was typically easy to get along with each of them, given that you were quite talented at adapting to other’s personalities.  But, with Spencer, it was different.  You exchanged little comments and looks with one another that were entirely different than the others.  

The looks you shared were the first hint that Spencer had interest in you.  Whenever something stiff was said, or there was a particularly shocking photo or scene in front of you, his eyes always darted to you first, as if to see if you were okay.  He cared for you far more than he let on, and you knew this.

Spencer walked next to you, closer than usual, as if he didn’t want you to be too far away from him.  You stood back, watching as Derek spoke quickly with the police man, and instinctively, you looked up at the walls above you as you walked through the scene.  “I wonder if someone could reach that fire escape...”  You wondered out loud as you wandered off, a small frown playing at your lips now.

You turned the corner, around a building, and Spencer’s hand grabbed your arm, yanking you to the side as you walked.  His hands were warm, and surprisingly soft, and it was not until now that you realize what little physical contact you had with Spencer.  Just by this unreadable touch, you wanted more.  With an alarmed and worried look, your eyes shot to Spencer’s.  However, he looked to the ground as you steadied yourself.  

With wide eyes, your eyes followed his and you sucked a sharp breath between your lips as your eyes found the broken syringe on the ground.  “Ick.”  You muttered as you stepped to the side, avoiding the glass and metal.  

Spencer crouched down, looking at it closely.  “This is medical grade.”  He murmured, digging a pair of white gloves from his pocket and tugging the onto his hand.  

“So?”  You asked blandly as you approached the fire escape and jumping up, trying to reach it.  Frustrated, you couldn’t. 

Spencer stood, the syringe wrapped in a cloth between his fingers.  “It means that we might have the tool that gets the women away from their surroundings, and potentially narrowed down who the unsub could be.”  Spencer told you as he held up the needle.  “We need to get this to forensics to determine what was in this syringe.  And if it is in Taylor’s body.”  Spencer said as he marched off, leaving you to look at the fire escape.  

With a small hum, you glanced over to Morgan, who was speaking to an officer still.  You looked up to the fire escape again and a small smile formed on your lips.  “And a possible escape route that would prevent him from being seen.”  You muttered to yourself.  With your hands in your pockets, you trailed after Spencer, excited to hear his hypothesis and tell him yours.

~.~

Days later, you sat on the plane, staring out the window at the night sky.  Most of the team was asleep or preoccupied, and you were content.  The case had been solved and the unsub was apprehended rather than killed, and now his fate was in the justice system’s hands.  Both you and Spencer had been correct.  The unsub worked in the medical system, where he had access to medical grade syringes to inject his victims with ketamine, and he would dump them in alleyways and call the police to alert them, and flee from the scene through fire escapes, to avoid being seen.  It had been wild from start to finish, but you felt accomplished, nonetheless.

As you looked out the window, you rested your head on your hand and sighed softly.  You were ready to be in your own bed again, to say the least.  As you dazed, you felt someone sit down next to next to you, and with lazy eyes, you lulled your head to the side to meet Spencer’s eyes.  

“Can’t sleep?”  Spencer asked you in just above a whisper, trying not to wake anyone else. 

With a small sigh, you shook your head.  Spencer nodded in agreement as you looked out the window once more, watching the lights pass below the plane.  Spencer’s eyes followed you and you sat in silence for a few moments.  “Hey, Spence?”  You asked in the same whispered tone.  you looked at him once more, and he watched you with great interest.  You were feeling oddly brave, so you thought you would shoot your shot.  “When we get back, will you go to dinner with me?”  You asked him out of the blue with a small blush playing on your cheeks.  Before he could answer, you kept speaking.  “As a date.  not friends.”  You added, the blush worsening and the small smile on your lips turning nervous. 

Spencer raised his eyebrows, but smiled lightly as well, and laughed lightly.  “You know, inner-office relationships are strongly frowned upon.”  Spencer reminded you as you shrugged.  

“Do you care?”  You asked Spencer with a small frown, pressing your lips together after you spoke. 

Again, Spencer laughed, and you were not entirely sure what was so funny.  Either way, he answered quietly, a small smile still playing on his lips.  “Honestly, I do care, but I will get over it.”  

Once again, you smiled, leaning your head back on the leather seat.  “Perfect.”  You mumbled in response, almost unable to contain your bliss.

Ace Mindhunter - 4th Interview

Characters: Simon Blackquill, Athena Cykes, Shi-Long Lang, and a rogues gallery of AA villains. Fandom: Ace Attorney Pairings: N/A. Warnings/rating: 16+, I would say. Talk of heavy themes such as death and abuse, plus cursing. Spoilers for every AA game up to Spirit of Justice, AAI2 included. Gratuitous amounts of headcanon for antagonists. Summary: Simon Blackquill is roped into a Behavioral Analysis project along with Athena Cykes. They must sit down with convicted murderers for interviews, in hopes of finding out just what drove them to their convoluted crimes.

4th Interview Luke Date: June 16th 2028 Time: 3:00 PM Location: Interpol H.Q. - B.A.U. Office. Simon returned to the B.A.U. office after a very long, calm weekend and a morning of indicting a common burglar for tomorrow's trial. He would've counted himself lucky to still be handling any court cases on a part-time basis at all, were it not for the looks he was getting from his colleagues at the Prosecutor's Office. Even worse than that; he was certain Winston Payne was getting more murder trials as a result of his little venture with Interpol, and that notion chilled him to the bone. He walked through the door to find that Athena was already waiting for him, seated by the desk and a cup of coffee in her hand. “Hey! Right on time!” she said. “And you are early for once. Am I merely dreaming, or have you earnestly adopted a sense of punctuality?” “Very funny. I wrapped up my investigation with Mr. Wright early, so he dropped me off here. How was your weekend?” Simon slipped himself into his own desk chair and heard it creak under his weight. He really wished Interpol would invest in furniture that hadn't been around for three decades already. “... It was uneventful. And yours?” “About as eventful as a weekend at the Wright Anything Agency is, really.” Athena paused, took a quick sip of her coffee and proceeded with visible discomfort. “… Listen, I thought we should discuss our interviewing strategy before we take on our next subject.” “Our strategy?” Simon asked, uncertain why such a thing would need discussing. “Let's face it, our interview with Furio Tigre was a mess.” “Was it really? We got answers, did we not?” “We could've gotten a lot more if he hadn't stormed out! I don't think either of us really knew how to approach him, so we were all over the place. It's no wonder he got upset.” Simon sniffed loudly. “It's hardly our fault that he has such large toes to step on.” “He was right, though! If we keep working like that, at some point it will go wrong. Now, I know you feel like you need to play the bad cop, but I just don't think that you should. Don't take this the wrong way, but... You're not the bad cop to them.” Tempting as it was to pinch himself for verification, Simon knew he couldn't possibly be dreaming. This was real. Athena had uttered those ludicrous words to him. Well, perhaps he couldn't fault her for her ignorance. She hadn't witnessed his time in prison. He wouldn't have wished her to, either. Still, he could illuminate the situation a bit. “You must be joking. Simply because of the Tiger's attitude problem, you believe our subjects won't take me seriously? For seven years, I was one of the most notorious names in death row. Even the guards knew better than to cross me. I had inmates currying favor with me, groveling for my approval and my mercy.” “Yes, and that was when they believed you actually killed someone,” Athena said in the bluntest of tones. “But you yourself outright said it to Mr. Tigre; you never stained your hands with blood. They know now that you're bluffing. So... I'm really sorry, Simon, but you can't be the bad cop when the person you're trying to threaten knows that you're, well, a good cop. Or prosecutor, in this case.” “And I suppose you would be more intimidating to them? A colorfully-dressed teenage girl? Yes, I'm certain someone like Engarde will be shaking in his manacles at the mere sight of you,” Simon snapped. He knew he was being immature, but it was better to contradict Athena now than to let her make a fool of herself in front of a more dangerous inmate. She'd already pushed her luck with Tigre. “Nobody said we had to play good cop and bad cop in the first place! Gosh!” she huffed at him. “There's other ways to get a person talking, you know. We just need to gain their trust. And I'm not really talking about speaking their own language, either. Think back to Ms. Vasquez and Mr. Retinz. Remember how we got them to be more open with us?” “... We engaged them on their interests,” was Simon's conclusion. With Athena's questions about the Diva Producer's movies and Simon's urging for magic tricks, that seemed to be the common denominator. “Kind of? I think, to put it in broader terms, we gave them what they wanted. We asked them what they wanted to hear; the sort of thing they would want to respond to. Their emotional states played a big part in that too. Mr. Retinz was angry, so of course he'd want to let off steam about his family and the Gramaryes. So what's most important when we first meet with a subject is that we analyze their emotional state and what interests them.” Simon thought back to the interview with Tigre and how this strategy would've been applied to him. The resulting hypothesis led to a mean grimace and he tapped a finger against his forehead. “Hmm... So, had we complimented the Tiger on his absurdly small dog's fashion sense, he would have opened up to us more?” “Hah! You know what? I honestly think he would've!” Athena replied with a wide gin. “Seriously though, you may not be a convicted killer, but you spent all those years in death row anyway. I think that's the best way to play it. Just let them know that you understand what they're going through, and you'll do whatever you can to make it easier for them. Like when you got coffee for Mr. Retinz. That was a smart move.” “What does that make me? The sympathetic cop?” “I think sweet-talking, manipulative cop has a better ring to it, don't you?” “Hah! Manipulative cop is the sort of title I will settle for.” The door to the office opened and in walked Lang. He was carrying a box under one arm and something told Simon they weren't about to be treated to pastries. Sure enough, when it was set down on the desk, there was a distinct rustle of paperwork. Athena greeted him with a cheerful tone, Simon merely hummed in acknowledgment. “So I've got good news and bad news. Which do you two want to hear first?” Lang asked. “Uhhh... I guess the bad news, so we can recover from that with the good news,” was Athena's reply. “Right. I'm needed overseas. Big assignment, can't say too much about it. The bottom line is that I'll be gone for at least a week.” Simon smirked and leaned back in his chair, once again enduring its creaking. “Why, Agent Lang, I believe she asked for the bad news.” “Hah. Very funny, Blackquill. The good news is that I got a few inmates to meet your criteria. You can find the profiles in here,” Lang said, patting the box. “And you can schedule most of the meetings whenever it suits you. Just call the prison, tell them what it's for and they'll arrange everything for you in my place.” “Really?! Thank you, Shifu!” Athena pumped both her fists into the air, then reached for the box. Lang didn't release it just yet, instead pulling it closer to his end of the desk. “Ah. Just one more thing. The profile on top? You gotta do that one first.” “Hah? Why is that?” “Because the subject specifically asked to be included in the project and after looking over his profile, I don't see why not. If it fits, he sits- before you, that is.” Simon's eyes narrowed. “Someone specifically asked to be included? Who told him about the project? I cannot imagine the Cowardly Tiger was singing our praise.” “He sure wasn't, and I'll let your indiscretion slide because from what I hear, nobody listens to Tigre's ranting either way. No, apparently he heard about your work from Roger Retinz. You came 'highly recommended', even.” “Highly recommended? By Mr. Retinz?” Athena looked as if she'd just stepped through a portal into some sort of alternate dimension. Indeed, Simon felt quite the same way. “Yeah. Sounds like you made a friend in there,” Lang said with a shrug. Athena leaned in closer to Simon to whisper under her breath. “The manipulative cop strikes again.” “Mmh, I will have to wind every single one of those butchers around my little finger,” Simon remarked in turn, smirking. “Anyway, the guy wants to see you as soon as possible, so I booked you in for tonight.” And just like that, their amusement had vanished as if it'd been subjected to one of Mr. Reus's magic tricks. Athena threw both arms forward, onto the desk, and put her head down. As for Simon, he'd started so badly that he was sure some vital part of his chair had broken. Without a doubt, something had made a snapping noise. He was now sitting as still as possible so as not to test the structural integrity of the construction without drawing attention to himself. This chair was free to come apart once he was standing upright again. “Tonight?!” Athena wailed against the inside of her left arm. “But I was going to help Mr. Wright sort through clues from our investigation!” “And I must do battle in court tomorrow morning. My case requires due preparation,” Simon insisted, though it was only an excuse. The trial for such an obvious burglary could've been prepared right there in the prosecutor's lobby and he'd still have time to spare. He simply didn't want to spend his evening at the prison. “Well, then you'd better hope this interview won't take long. You can report to the usual place at 7 PM. Once you've worked your way through the rest of the inmates I compiled for you and you've got some results to show for it, I'll see about getting you playdates with the bigger fish.” “Uuugh... Fine...” Athena grumbled. “Good luck, and I'll see you when I get back.” With that, Lang left the office. Almost a minute had passed before Athena mustered up enough energy to reach for the box and open it. She took out the top folder, flipped it open and skimmed the papers inside. Simon, who was still attempting to assess whether his chair would hold or not, didn't dare lean in for a glance of his own. “... Oh, this looks like fun! I mean... as fun as meeting with a convicted killer can be. But the way he tried to cover up the murder and abuse a loophole in the law was pretty clever. I guess that makes sense, seeing as he was some kind of ace detective.” There was a loud crack and a thud as Simon fell to the floor. ------- Date: June 16th 2028 Time: 7:02 PM Location: Interview Room. When he'd first accepted to take part in the project, Simon had dreaded a lot of scenarios- and still did at this very moment. He dreaded that Athena might be hurt, either physically or emotionally. He dreaded facing someone who would be quick to draw a shank. He dreaded failing to bring results to the table, thereby disgracing Interpol's name and betraying the trust the Chief Prosecutor had bestowed on him. To some degree, he even dreaded facing the Phantom, should that day ever come. What he hadn't considered, up until that afternoon, was that he might face the most irritating inmate of all. Luke Atmey. Roger Retinz was no friend of theirs, he knew that for certain now. That damned Greasy Producer must've run his mouth about the project on purpose. There was no one in death row who could stand Atmey's long-winded boasting. Those who would pass him in the hall would avoid making eyecontact to the best of their ability. Those who were doomed to sit at his table in the cafeteria would instead stand in some faraway corner. Those who were scheduled to share a workroom with him would feign acute illness. When it came to being avoided like the plague, not a single violent psychopath in prison could hold a candle to Atmey. This little interview would cost Simon and Athena their entire evening, and for what? For absurd tales about Atmey's elegance and grace? This would be the first and last time that Lang would schedule their meetings for them. Atmey entered in the most flamboyant manner possible, his enormous nose stuck high up in the air and one hand held up like a limp animal paw. At first glance, he might've seemed the sort of man who hadn't been dented in the least by almost ten years in prison, but a smug grin could only hide so much. The dark lines beneath Atmey's one visible eye told Simon more than enough. He came to a full stop before the table and instead of sitting down, he leaned forward to assess the both of them up close with his magnifying glass monocle. Already, Simon's first instinct was to leave. He fought it. “Zvarri! The elegant truth has been revealed to me!” Atmey proclaimed. “The both of you were sent by Interpol, on behalf of the Behavioral Analysis Unit!” “We were not sent by Interpol such much as we were sent for. By you,” Simon replied dryly. “Naturally! I, Luke Atmey, heard whispers of your professional psychological project and saw its powerful potential. That you had not come to me sooner is beyond my grasp.” Simon had quite a few things to say about including pompous, pretentious pricks in their professional psychological project, but held his tongue. He wasn't supposed to be the bad cop. “Haha... Well, we're still getting started, you know,” Athena explained. “Baby steps.” “Aaah, you wished to save the best for last? Understandable! I, Luke Atmey, am indeed the finest dish on the menu, so to speak. But you needn't be intimidated by my greatness! We are all only human!” Athena shot a most impressive Look Simon's way. Something between incredibility, amusement and secondhand embarrassment. The only response he could think to give was a helpless shrug. He had warned her beforehand. She hesitated, then turned her attention to the recording device, only to find that Atmey had already taken hold of it. He pressed record and placed it on the table in the most meticulous of fashions. “There we are. This is Luke Atmey, reporting to you live from the Los Angeles prison. With me now are Prosecutor Simon Blackquill and...” Atmey trailed off, slid the recording device at an arm’s length and cupped a hand to the side of his mouth to shield it, speaking to Athena in a whisper. “What was your name, Miss?” “Ath-Athena Cykes...” “And Miss Athena Cykes!” Atmey finished. “Now, I'm sure you'll want to hear all about my daring, elegant adventures in the field! An Ace Detective has many superb, scintillating stories to share!” “Actually, I thought we should start with this statement Interpol prepared. You see, we’ll be asking you about your family history, antecedent behavior and thought patterns surrounding the-” “Yes, yes, I got the gist of it from Sir Retinz.” “Not the most reliable source of information,” Simon pointed out before he could stop himself. He needed to put their new strategy to the test, he knew that, so he changed his tack. “Perhaps an Ace Detective such as yourself would like to review the statement, so as to be certain there are no loopholes we might employ?” Atmey removed his monocle and began to polish it on the sleeve of his prison garb. “Hmm... Well, I suppose I have ten seconds to spare. Very well.” Athena shot Simon another Look, this time one of excited accomplishment. Following that, she issued the full statement to Atmey, psychological profile, statistical analysis and all. Judging by the furrow of his brow and the way his fingers slowed their movements, the man appeared to be listening intently. “Mmh... What does Interpol's confidentiality clause entail, exactly?” he asked once Athena was done. “Well, ah... The specific answers to our questions will be kept within Interpol and can't be shared with outside sources, I guess?” she looked unsure even as she said it. Had she not read the details at all? “Those outside sources include other types of law-enforcement,” Simon supplied. “It is for that same reason that anything you say here cannot be used against you in your applications for parole. If the LAPD or the Prosecutor's Office were to request so much as a sample of these recordings, their request would be struck down without delay.” “Well, that's a shame, isn't it? This is about posterity! I, Luke Atmey, do hereby give anyone who has a desire for it full permission to review the recordings!” “... Right.” “Now, you'll want to know all about some of the amazing cases I've solved!” Atmey stated, lacing his fingers together and stretching them in a leisurely fashion. “Oh! Yes!” Athena opened her folder and tapped at it with a finger. “In particular, we're interested in your involvement with Mask☆DeMasque and the death of-” “No, no, no no no nooo,” Atmey tutted. “How boring! I've talked about that case so often, it would dry my tongue. No, let's talk about some other cases, shall we? I, Luke Atmey, did not gain the title of Ace Detective for nothing.” “I was under the impression you knighted yourself an Ace Detective,” Simon remarked. Atmey pretended not to have heard him. “Let's start from the beginning! My very first case! It was the year 2011! I was a mere twenty seven years old at the time and I had only just opened my doors to the world as a private detective. A fresh-faced rookie, I was eager to prove my worth. In came a woman wearing a red dress- and I remember this distinctly. I have a very keen eye for details, you see, as any detective ought to have. In she walked, and I could see on her face that she-” Simon refused to listen to any more of this tripe. He drew a few calming breaths and leaned back in his chair. Atmey's voice droned on and on in the background as if it were the chatter of distant birds. He closed his eyes for a moment. ------- Date: June 16th 2028 Time: 7:38 PM Location: Interview Room. Sudden pain exploded near Simon's shin, starting him back into awareness. He was sitting. He'd just been kicked. Athena was glaring at him and... Atmey was still talking. The man must've been oblivious to what'd occurred, as he looked quite carefree. “-And so ended my second case, which I like to refer to as Luke Atmey and the Missing Macademias. It is a reference, you see. Quite clever, if I do say so myself. Wasn't it just the most thrilling thing you've ever heard? Now, for the third case I tackled single-handedly-” Athena nudged his arm with her elbow, her eyes narrowing even further. Evidently, she'd been unable to stop Atmey's rambling and was now looking to him for assistance. Tempting as it was to shout the word “silence” loud enough to shatter windows, this was not at all the strategy to stick to. He had to give Atmey what he wanted, so... what did the man want? A listening ear, obviously, yet it was more than that. Atmey wanted a chance to boast. If that was the case, they simply needed to change the way they formulated their questions. “If I may interject,” he said, moving his chair closer to the table and leaning forward. “These tales are all quite interesting, but I do believe the details of your detective career were already recorded in your autobiography.” “Oh! You've heard of my autobiography?” Atmey looked positively delighted. “... I have heard of it, yes,” Simon said slowly, as there was only one source who'd kept bringing it up these past seven years and that source was sitting right in front of him. “However, as I've been unable to attain a copy for myself-” “-Oh, what a shame!” “Yes. A shame. As I was saying, I have not perused it myself and I find myself wondering... Does this autobiography also describe the illustrious Atmey family? As the apple does not often roll too far from the tree, I expect that they must all be successful go-getters such as yourself.” A cringe flashed across Atmey's face, just for a second. Then he was right back to talking. “Yes, yes of course! I'm afraid they aren't mentioned all too much in my book, as their ventures would be too elaborate to describe. Why, every single one of my siblings would be deserving of their own book, and so... Well, I would hate to bank on their glory.” “How many siblings do you have?” Athena asked him. “Seven,” said Atmey. “SEVEN?!” “I have four brothers and three sisters, yes. I was the youngest of eight.” Atmey removed his monocle as he spoke, once again idly polishing it with his sleeve. The most it accomplished was that a greasy blur spread itself out across the glass. “Just as Sir Prosecutor theorized, the Atmey family is quite known for its success. One of my brothers is working with the GYAXA space project to design rockets, another is a top plastic surgeon in Miami... Two of my sisters are the CEO of their own companies... As I said, each one of them would deserve their own biography.” Athena pumped both her fists, excited. “So... Are you like rivals? Do you all compete to show off your best accomplishments when you get together for Christmas? Ooh, I can see it now!” “No, no... Such a thing would be petty and quite beneath the Atmey family. We each value our own worth. There is nothing to prove.” “Even if there was nothing to prove, you must've tried very hard to live up their standards, right?” “Hum... Success comes naturally to any member of the Atmey family, or so they say.” Simon cast a quick glance towards Athena, wondering whether Atmey's voice might've betrayed some sort of emotion, but she was unreadable, just as the notes were that she was taking. When Atmey placed his monocle back before his eye, it was so smudged that one had to wonder whether he could see anything at all. “The Atmey family sounds a formidable, elegant group indeed,” Simon remarked. “They must have come to visit you in prison, yes?” Once again, Atmey cringed. “Ah. Well... They are quite busy, as anyone in our family tends to be. None of them live in Los Angeles, currently, and so it would be entirely too... Too much of a hassle. I have received letters, of course!” Simon glanced towards his partner and this time, Athena did show dismay. Whether it stemmed from Atmey's words or the feeling behind them was debatable. Regardless, she took a few more notes. “What a shame. Family may be considered one of the most important things in the world,” Simon mused. Then he realized that he was speaking to a convicted felon. “Though... Whenever my darling sister visited, she would rub my situation in my face. Quite a vindictive one, she is. Perhaps limiting communication to courteous letters would be a blessing.” “Perhaps...” said Atmey. Interesting. Taking into account a situation where eight siblings were all too occupied to pay notice to one another, it made sense for the youngest of the lot to be thirsty for attention. Atmey must've scrambled to keep up with their reputations quite a bit, as well. With those conclusions in mind, Simon attempted to divert the topic back to the murder of Kane Bullard. They were about to enter the thick of the jungle. “If I may be so bold... I took the liberty of reading through the transcripts of the Mask☆DeMasque trials. You fought some fierce battles, I must say. Your attempt to target a weak spot in the law's armor by utilizing double jeopardy, in particular, I found to be a stroke of genius.” “Oh... Did you really? Coming from a prosecutor, that is quite the compliment indeed.” Atmey smiled at him, but it was not at all a pompous smirk. It was, if anything, born from gratitude. “Yes, I had hoped... Well, no criminal is meant to get away with their crimes, of course. It just goes to show that I am an Ace Detective, not an Ace Murderer. Don't quit your day job, or so they say. Even so, it's disappointing that one man could see through my ruse.” “Mmh, what's important is that you went down fighting. Isn't that so?” “Yes... Quite right. Atmeys are nothing if not determined and I, Luke Atmey, am perhaps the most determined of the lot.” “Now, there was one thing in particular that caught my eye in the transcripts. I had hoped that you could clarify the matter for me, as I find it quite puzzling.” “Ooh, a puzzle?” Simon had Atmey's full attention, now. The former detective looked beside himself to be presented with a conundrum, his fingers drumming along the table. How unfortunate, then, that Simon was sure this was one mystery Atmey might wish to leave unsolved. The only way to be certain would be to ask. “... You said, and I believe this to be a direct quote: “Take a good look, everyone. Unable to find a rival worthy of my genius, I was forced to create one by myself. Here I am. The tragic clown.” Do you recall these words?” Atmey's complexion had drained quite fast. He withdrew from the table, looking as if he was suffering from pain, or perhaps embarrassment. “Ah. Hum. Yes. That does sound like... something I may have proclaimed in the courtroom, yes.” “Then, my question is as follows. Why did you identify yourself as the tragic clown?” “Elementary! It is a reference to Pagliacci! It's a well-known opera. The tears of a clown! Have you truly never heard of it, Sir Prosecutor?” Simon had expected that answer. Athena, it seemed, was missing the point. “I think I've heard of it...” she mused. “It's that story where a man and his wife are part of an acting troupe, known for a play where a clown finds out his wife is cheating on him. Except then, just before going on, the man playing the clown discovers that his wife is really cheating on him. He murders her on-stage, and the audience believes it's all part of the play.” “Yes, yes! That is Pagliacci! See, your assistant knows of it.” Athena hummed quietly, tilting her head. “... It is strange that you would compare yourself to Pagliacci, I suppose. I don't see what it has to do with blackmailing Mask☆DeMasque into working for you, or with killing the man who was blackmailing you.” “That is not what caught my eye about the proclamation,” Simon said. “What puzzled me is that a brilliant detective would lower himself to the same level as a clown at all.” “I beg your pardon?” Atmey asked, looking rattled. “Oedipus, MacBeth, Death of a Salesman, the Great Gatsby... Ah, yes, Javert from Les Misérables is another good example... My question is, why choose a tragic clown when there are more than enough tragic heroes to choose from?” Atmey was so startled, the monocle sprang away from his eye and hit the ground a few feet from his chair. “I... I... Well, that is to say... I don't know...!” There was a very long silence. Nobody dared to speak. Finally, Athena got up and reached for the monocle. There was a crack running along the glass. She frowned down at it, then handed it back to Atmey. “I see,” Simon concluded. “Well, no matter. Be it as a clown or as a hero, I'm sure you will be remembered as a tragic figure all the same.” “Yes... Ah. Thank you.” Still shaken, Atmey was no longer meeting their eyes. Instead, he peered down at the monocle in his hand, forlorn. They'd gained enough to think about from this interview, and apparently, they'd returned this sentiment the other way around. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Atmey,” Simon said, pushing himself to his feet. “Yes, thank you!” Athena chimed in, more cheerful and less formal than the situation might've called for. “We'll visit again if we have more questions.” “Oh. No, that... I don't believe that to be necessary. You must have other things to do.” It wasn't until about five seconds had passed and Athena was already reaching for the recording device that something inside Simon's head clicked. He froze in his tracks and his hand shot towards the device as well, shielding the 'stop' button from Athena's finger. There was one more question to ask. One thing which Simon had overlooked, because he'd categorized it as 'frustrating' and nothing more. “Why did you insist on scheduling this interview today? Could it be...?” “They didn't inform you?” Atmey paused, then raised his cracked magnifying glass to observe Simon closely. “Aaahhh, zvarri! You've figured it on your own, have you? Marvelous! You would make a wonderful detective.” Simon cringed. A prosecutor had no place deducing these sorts of things, he felt. A prosecutor was meant to deal with the truth after it had already been exposed. Athena, as it turned out, hadn't followed Simon's train of thought. She peered back and forth between the two men, her nose crinkled with concentration. “What? Figured what out?” she asked. “Why, he's realized that soon, the opportunity to schedule an interview would be lost,” Atmey said. Simon had never liked Atmey, yet that didn't stop the cold chill from running down his spine. This turn of events was inevitable, a fact of life and horrible all at the same time. He remembered the screams of those who were about to be subjected to that same fate. He could close his eyes and visualize how they would be dragged down the halls of death row by several guards, their attempts to dig their heels into the ground nothing more than futile scrapes. “How soon?” he asked, unable to keep a strained, anxious tone from his voice. Atmey spread his arms out, almost as if he were welcoming what was about to be said. “My execution is to take place two days from now.” To Be Continued

A Break in the Chain

Part 3 of The Man Who Sold the World

First | Previous | Next

To Dr. Jonathan Holmes’s surprise, when he returned home from his investigation, the landlady greeted him at the door looking more than a little frazzled.

“Dr. Holmes, there you are! You’ve had two visitors while you’ve been out. Talia Houghton came by to say that she has the phone numbers you asked for.”

“Excellent,” Dr. Holmes replied - that, at least, was going just as planned. “Who else?”

“An old man. He let himself in and said he was going to wait in your sitting room - said he was a friend of yours.” She dropped her voice a little. “He hardly made it up the stairs, I was worried his legs were going to give out.”

Dr. Holmes recognized that description. The man was no doubt disguised as an old sailor, no doubt. He only belatedly remembered to say, “Thank you.”

There was one player absent whom he had not expected to make an appearance. But it seemed here he was, right on cue; it was two days after his dear Mary had come to ask for Holmes’s assistance when an old sailor had arrived in their sitting room and insisted he had some knowledge as to the whereabouts of the Aurora that he would only deliver to the detective himself.

Did the culprit think Dr. Holmes needed some help to solve their little puzzle? A hint? They had already made a poor imitation of his dear departed Mary, he had thought they considered him a sufficient enough substitute for the detective himself and would not disturb his dear old friend’s watery grave, but apparently they had decided to bring him in after all.

Dr. Holmes clenched his fists in anger. Could they not let the dead lie where they were? He had already suffered through their deaths once, he did not need these cruel, mocking reminders. He knew that the whole world he had once known was gone, he did not need a hollow recreation.

“Is everything alright?” the landlady asked - he heard her as though from some distance away.

Dr. Holmes forced himself to calm down. He would see what the mastermind behind this whole contrived game had in store for him now. Perhaps this would provide him with some fresh clue he could use to bring all of them to justice. He let out a long breath and unclenched his fists.

“I’m fine,” he said, though he did not even convince himself. “I suppose I’ll go up and see what this old friend of mine has to say.”

With that, he climbed the stairs up to the flat at 221B. He found the door unlocked as he had not left it - someone attempting to imitate Sherlock Holmes ought to, at the very least, have some small portion of his skills. Dr. Holmes stepped inside, locking the door behind him just in case he needed to detain his guest.

Sure enough, seated in what had once been Holmes’s and was now his usual place by the fire, was an old sailor. The man’s face was mostly covered by a scarf and bushy facial hair, no doubt fake. The distinctive dirt caked on his boot clearly indicated that he had spent a lot of time on Baker Street of late, and they did look familiar - it seemed the homeless man he had used as a blind when he was following Miss Marston had been watching him in turn.

“Hello, Sherlock Holmes, is it?” he asked without any attempt at pleasantries.

Keen, bright gray eyes stared back at him. Somehow the sight of this imposter made his blood boil even more than the mockery of Mary had. Perhaps it was his own fault for giving the culprit so much to work off of in imitating Holmes. All the others had been superficial replicas at best - after all, it was impossible to replicate someone’s appearance from a mere description - but for some reason this one cut him to the core. He felt tears threatening to moisten his eyes. He knew Holmes was dead, he needed no reminder.

“I am he,” the man said simply, his quick, high, somewhat strident voice was clear and young and achingly familiar.

Watson wanted to stand up and punch him, to demand that whoever it was stop his damned charade and face him as himself. It was impossible to repeat the past, no matter what anyone may want, he knew that and the culprit ought to learn it!

But Watson did none of those things. Instead he demanded, “What do you want with me?”

The man hesitated, but soon came to an answer, “I am here to see an old friend, is that not enough?”

“What? Do you not have news about the Aurora?” Watson’s voice came out harsher than he knew it should have if he wanted to get evidence out of this man, but he was beyond thinking clearly.

“I do have news of the Aurora as well, but I found my personal reason for visiting to be more important.”

“And pray tell, what is that?”

The actor’s eyes fell as though he had actually been injured by Watson’s scathing tone. He stood and for an instant Watson readied for a fight.

Slowly, the man lifted his hand to his scarf and drew it away from his face. Watson's every instinct screamed to stop him, to push him out the door before he could do more damage than he had already done by his impersonation. But Watson stood transfixed as familiar features gradually made themselves known. Next, the man removed bushy white fake eyebrows and whiskers, and lastly took off a white wig, which he held in front of him in both hands with an entirely sheepish air.

“Hello, my dear old friend,” Sherlock Holmes said at long last.

It took all of Watson's constitution not to faint on the spot. He was left breathless as though the wind had been knocked out of him, standing face to face with a ghost.

The ghost peered back at him with sharp, piercing gray eyes that practically shone with all the emotion that dared not encroach upon his thin, firm lips. His black, close cut hair, messy from the wig, framed a narrow, eager face that was much more gaunt than Watson remembered. Still, his hawk-like nose and square, prominent chin gave him an air of alertness and determination. Now that he stood at his full height, Watson remembered just how tall and lean he was. The sailor’s costume hung off of him, suddenly baggy about his thin frame. His long, delicate fingers, as always blotted with ink and chemicals, fidgeted nervously with the white wig.

It was utterly impossible. Watson may very well have conjured the vision straight from his memory. There were small differences here and there, but for all Watson knew, the man before him could have just stepped out of his past. Holmes looked little older than 40, not well over 100 and long dead besides. Watson’s brain recoiled and time seemed to stop in its tracks or perhaps even reel backwards from the shock.

“You- you’re dead,” he stuttered in shock that threatened to approach hysterics. “You died at Reichenbach. Moriarty-”

Holmes deliberately placed the wig upon his chair and took a step toward Watson so that there was only a foot between them. He held out his arms and took Watson’s hands in his own. He was solid and warm - real, alive. A hundred years seemed to fall away around them, as though it had all been a hazy dream.

“I am alive,” Holmes said, his voice calm and reassuring with only the slightest hint of a waver, “As are you. You are not the only one who has been deceptively bereaved.”

And so Watson stood at the heart of a paradox. Perhaps they were both dead, perhaps he was hallucinating, perhaps it was all an impossible dream and he would wake up back in the home he once shared with Mary, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps… The possibilities swirled around his skull and poured out his ears. But there Holmes stood in front of him, his hands warm and solid and alive in Watson’s own. No imposter could be this indescribably familiar.

“How?” was all Watson could stammer out.

Holmes gave him a crooked smile. “That’s the question. I can only begin to answer it, perhaps you may be able to fill in the rest. Come, I’m sure we have much to discuss.” He led the way to the settee, not relinquishing his hold on Watson - he could feel Holmes’s hand shaking a little in his own.

“How I reached my 160th birthday, I cannot say,” Holmes continued once they were comfortable. “I assumed I was some fluke, a freak of nature or a cosmic mistake - utterly inexplicable. I hardly expected you to share my sorry fate, but I cannot deny that I am glad to see you alive.”

The man before him displayed more of his heart than Holmes ever had. The emotion in his words was more likely a figment of Watson’s memory tinged by ages of wishful thinking than any reality. Holmes had cared for him, that Watson knew, but never like this.

Holmes seemed to take Watson’s wide-eyed gaping for incredulity and explained, “I am not quite so miraculous as to have returned from the dead. I faced Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, prepared, as you know, to face my death. But at the last instant, I managed to wrest myself from the Professor’s grasp and he tumbled to his death alone. Perhaps it is because I evaded death then that it has missed me since, but that is hardly a scientific hypothesis and it does little to explain your situation.

“Having bested Professor Moriarty at Reichenbach, a wiser man would have returned the way he came and resumed his life the better for it, but I did not. At the time, I believe I rationalized my flight with fear of being pursued by Moriarty’s men, but even after I bested each of them in turn, I still hesitated to return. And so, the years passed and I remained on the run. Somehow it was all too easy to come up with excuses not to come home; it had already been too long, I would only disrupt the lives that had gone on without me. It built upon itself so naturally that before long it was too late. I could not have imagined that you would still be alive as I was.

“For the first several years - or it may have been closer to twenty - I continued working as a detective, traveling here or there under various pseudonyms, solving cases for hire or sport and writing my monographs - perhaps one or two of them reached you in England. Then the Great War came and Mycroft, who aided me all those years, until his death,” - Holmes’s face fell at the mention of his long dead brother - “He called upon me to spy for England in her hour of need, and that is how I have lived since. I was stationed in Germany through the World Wars and then sent to Moscow.

“For the past twenty years or more, I have been serving as a humble bartender, forgotten by the world at large. Once I eavesdropped on the most powerful men in Russia, but they have long since moved on, and I fear my British employers believe me dead as I assumed you were. When I heard word of the ‘Sherlock Holmes murders,’ as the press has been calling them, I decided it was past time I return to London, perhaps try my hand at solving the case and meet this Dr. Jonathan Holmes whose name I had heard in connection with the mystery. I could not have imagined that this promising upstart could possibly be you, but I would want it no other way.”

Holmes’s eyes practically glimmered as he looked at Watson, so earnestly, like there was nothing he wanted more in the world that to see him there.

“And so you have my tale,” Holmes concluded.

It was all too much. The way Holmes was looking at him, that impossible, incredible story, the fact that this man before him was such a perfect rendition of the dear old friend Watson had known so long ago.

“I can’t believe it” - Watson may have said the words aloud.

Even his wildest imaginings could not have created such a tale. And, as Holmes had always said, when the impossible was eliminated, what remained could only be the truth. Still, even as the evidence stood before his very eyes, as he held it in his hands, he could not believe it.

“I see that you’ve done very well for yourself,” Holmes remarked, cutting through Watson’s erratic thoughts.

“I’ve only been following your methods,” Watson insisted as his mind raced to catch up with the conversation. “I owe it all to your tutelage.”

“And a century of experience, no doubt. I confess, even I have been able to glean little of your history. To your neighbors, you are known only as a fixture, of course none are old enough to remember more.”

“It was after Mary’s death,” Watson began haltingly. “She died in ‘93.”

Holmes’s grasp on Watson’s hand tightened a little. “I didn’t know.”

Watson just shook his head. “It was long ago.” Watson paused a moment to collect himself before he continued, “I started to take some interest in crime for something to do, as a distraction. After you, well I always read the criminal section in the paper, and I even took up a bit of a hobby reading the agony section in search of something beyond the usual twaddle.

“It didn’t amount to much until the Adair murder. I was interested in it from the first; it seemed like exactly the sort of thing you would go for. Our old friend Lestrade was on the case. The papers made it sound like he was onto something, but I knew well enough by then that he couldn’t make head or tail of it. It got so bad that one evening he showed up at my practice and asked if I could take a look, that maybe, after working with you, I might be able to shine some light where they couldn’t. We caught him more by coincidence than anything, but after that it became something of a regular thing.

“Eventually, I moved back to Baker Street and started back up your practice. I was never as successful as you were, but I made do. I don’t know why my age hasn’t caught up with me, but I confess I haven’t paid it much heed. I changed my name because I ran into some trouble with the records department on account of my age. There was some suspicion of fraud - that was probably the first time I realized I should have been dead. So, I thought I might as well take your name, since I was already living in your place.”

“You certainly do it justice,” Holmes said with a smile. “It’s a shame you haven’t published accounts of your own adventures. I particularly enjoyed the ones you published while I was on the run. Meanwhile, I’ve been playing the part of a man by the name of Ivan, but I fear another John Holmes would be redundant, so perhaps it is time I dig back up my old name, if you have no objection to sharing it.”

“Of course! It’s yours after all.”

“Thank you, I’m honored to share it.” Then Holmes changed topic and remarked, “I don’t suppose you require some aid in your current case? I have discovered that the Aurora is in the hands of a fellow named Johnson who was asked by a man with a peg-leg to repair its fully functional rudder. I was informed that it will be leaving at seven o’clock tonight. I have stationed a street boy by Johnson’s yard to signal when they launch. All we need to do is commandeer a faster boat of our own and the chase is on!” He rubbed his hands together in enthusiasm.

His enthusiasm was contagious, but Dr. Holmes had already considered and dismissed such a plan in favor of something the culprits would be less likely to expect. Still, Watson struggled to find the right words to explain. “I tried that with Jefferson Hope, doing the same thing you did and expecting the same result, but he fled before we could catch him. The man behind these murders clearly knows your old cases, so we have to stay one step ahead of him. I actually have a plan of my own...” Watson faltered.

Sherlock Holmes leaned toward Watson to examine him with an expression of utmost interest. Watson was convinced he hadn’t explained it half as well as he should have, but Holmes was impassive as ever.

“Go on,” Holmes urged.

“Well, Mi-” Watson corrected himself, “Detective-Inspector Houghton came by earlier today to say that she has the culprits’ cell phone numbers, which she can use to locate them - I’m not exactly sure how it works, but it does. That way, we can find their hideout without them ever knowing and ambush them there. There are already officers watching the river as backup, just in case, but hopefully we won’t need them.”

Holmes watched him with the most peculiar expression. Watson was half convinced it was disgust and half convinced it was ridicule and somehow, between the two, he managed to find the space to hope that it was pride. It was as though he was some fascinating specimen, the likes of which Holmes had never before encountered.

“Very well,” Holmes said at last, leaping to his feet, “If that’s the case then we have no time to waste. Shall I call a cab to take us to the Scotland Yard to speak with this Detective-Inspector?”

Watson shook his head, still bewildered by it all. “I can just use the telephone. We’ll meet her wherever they’re hiding out.”

The doctor forced himself to his feet and made his way over to the telephone. Holmes watched keenly over his shoulder as he dialed Mrs. Houghton’s number from memory.

“Hello,” she said, “Dr. Holmes?”

Dr. Holmes nodded though he knew she couldn’t see him.

“Did your landlady tell you? I got the phone numbers and I’ve located Small not far from the river. We’re ready to go in and arrest all of them unless you have something else in mind.”

“No, that’s exactly what I had in mind,” Dr. Holmes said with some relief. “What’s the address? We can meet you there.”

He scribbled down the location as she recited it.

“We’ve found where the Aurora is being kept,” Dr. Holmes added, just in case. “It’s in for repairs at Johnson’s yard, not far from there. If they flee, that’s where they’ll leave from.”

“Great. I’ll tell the officers who have been patrolling the river to get over there.”

“If the boat is about to depart, a boy will stand by the dock and wave a white handkerchief.”

“I’ll pass it on. See you soon.”

“Yes, see you soon,” Dr. Holmes said and hung up the phone.

Holmes was still watching him with a quizzical expression.

“What is it?” Watson asked a little more tersely than he had intended. “If I’ve done something wrong, I ought to know before we put it into action.”

Holmes shook his head. “No, you haven’t done anything wrong. I’m sorry for getting in your way, you seem to have everything well under control.”

Watson wondered if this was what it felt like to be an Inspector of the Yard working with Sherlock Holmes. Maybe he was just imagining the sharp undercurrent of ridicule, but whether it was there or not, he needed to focus on everything that was about to unfold that very evening, “We ought to be going - if you wish to see the resolution of the case.”

“I wouldn’t miss it!” Holmes declared, any hint of an edge gone from his voice as though it had never been.

And so they were off, speeding through the busy London streets. They spent most of the ride in a tense silence. Watson attempted to focus, to make sure that no detail had been forgotten, while Holmes reclined almost languidly in his seat beside him, staring out at the city as it passed them by. Holmes made no effort to begin a conversation, and despite all of the questions that churned in the back of his mind, Watson was at a loss for words.

They saw the flashing lights of several police cars before they reached the address. Watson told the cabby to stop there and they walked over to the perimeter. Holmes remained silent and let Watson take the lead for the time being.

“What’s going on?” Watson asked the officer watching over the scene. With Holmes watching everything over his shoulder, Watson felt like a rookie officer being tested by a superior, but he forged on all the same.

“There’s nothing to see here-” the officer began to recite, but stopped short. “You’re Dr. Holmes? You work with D.I. Houghton?”

The doctor nodded.

“Everything’s mostly taken care of here. D.I. Houghton is just finishing up.”

“Good, I have to talk to her.”

“After you.” Holmes helped Watson under the perimeter with exaggerated politesse.

“Who’s he?” the officer asked.

“He’s with me,” the doctor explained the complicated situation as succinctly as he could.

The officer seemed to accept it and they made their way past the line of police cars without further incident. The doctor soon spotted Mrs. Houghton leaning against one of the cars, talking with Detective Inspector Charles Gregson, her partner in the squad.

“Dr. Holmes,” Inspector Gregson called out to them, “Talia said you’d be here. I’m afraid you’re running late.”

“Not too late, I hope,” the doctor said.

“That depends,” Mrs. Houghton said darkly. “I hope you’re not looking for Jonathan Small because he was dead when we arrived. According to a couple of men who were working for him, the child that Small kidnapped killed him with his own poison when she tried to escape. So, all we’ve got left now are the child, who we can’t talk to until we’ve found a translator, some people who were working with Small, and Patrick and Alan Smith - you’d recognize them as Mordecai and Jim - who claim they were just hired by Small to get the boat.”

“What about Miss Marston?” he asked urgently.

“We’ve just traced one of Small’s contacts to the address she gave you. Do you think it’s safe to bring her in for questioning?”

“It shouldn’t tell her employer any more than he already knows, now that we’ve found Small - or at least his men. Do you have enough evidence for an arrest?”

“Would you say she’s a flight risk?”

“Certainly.”

“In that case, I think we have enough evidence to hold her for a little while, at least,” Mrs. Houghton said with a glance at Inspector Gregson.

“Then we have not a minute to waste,” Dr. Holmes declared.

All four of them piled into a police car, Holmes and Watson in the back and Mrs. Houghton at the wheel. Once they were comfortably outside of the perimeter, Mrs. Houghton glanced at Sherlock Holmes through the rear-view mirror.

“So, who are you?” she asked. “I take it he’s the ‘we’ you mentioned on the phone.”

“Sherlock Holmes, at your service,” he said with a flourish, despite the cramped quarters.

“What? Is he your brother visiting from out of town?”

Holmes chuckled and Watson had to bite back laughter as he answered, “No, he’s an old friend. He’s the one who inspired me to become a consulting detective - he’s the original.”

“You flatter me,” Holmes said. “I am but a visitor who has been away from London for much too long.”

“I see.” Mrs. Houghton sounded a little less than convinced.

“You’re a consulting detective too?” Inspector Gregson asked with a glance over his shoulder at Holmes.

“I merely dabble in deduction,” Holmes demurred. “I believe I missed your name?”

“Charles Gregson,” he said.

“Detection must run in your family. I take it you are descended from Inspector Tobias Gregson?”

“What? How did you know that?” Inspector Gregson nearly leaped from his seat in surprise despite the seatbelt fastened across his chest.

“I am somewhat familiar with the criminal history of London.”

“I knew Tobias was well known in his day, but I didn’t know people recognized the name even now!” Inspector Gregson exclaimed.

“You do not do your great-grandfather - is it? - enough credit.”

Watson detected a hint of sarcasm in Holmes’s tone, but Inspector Gregson seemed deaf to it as he answered, “Apparently!”

The doctor only half listened as Holmes plunged into an account of some old cases that had involved the late Inspector Gregson, much to the younger Inspector’s amusement. Holmes portrayed the late man of the Yard in a much more flattering light than Watson had ever heard him speak of Inspector Gregson in life. But the doctor had little thought to spare their conversation as he kept an eye on the road, hoping with mounting nervous energy that the impostor, Miss Marston, would still be there when they arrived.

Finally, the car rolled to a stop and they all stepped out. Holmes and Inspector Gregson fell silent as they all hurried to the front door of the darkened house. Mrs. Houghton did the honors of pounding at the door loudly enough to wake anyone who happened to be sleeping inside.

There was no response.

Mrs. Houghton tried again, even louder if possible, and Inspector Gregson rang the doorbell for good measure.

Still, no answer.

“I'll go take a look around back,” Inspector Gregson offered.

Holmes joined him as he went to circle the house. The doctor and Mrs. Houghton were left waiting in the front in case someone came to the door after all.

As soon as the other two were out of earshot, Mrs. Houghton said, keeping her voice low just in case, “Sherlock Holmes, that was the name of the detective in those stories. Who is he really?”

The doctor sighed and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. With everything else, he had forgotten that he had initially mistaken Holmes for an impostor. It still seemed too good to be true.

“That’s his real name. It’s just a coincidence.” The lie even sounded hollow to him, but the truth was even more unbelievable.

“You’re sure?”

The doctor nodded. “I would know him anywhere.” That, at least, was the truth.

“And you don’t think he’s involved?”

“No, he couldn’t be.”

More conversationally, she asked, “So, what’s he doing in London?”

“He heard about the case and it piqued his interest. I don’t know what he’ll do now; I suppose he expected to see me as much as I expected him.”

“He showed up unannounced?”

“Yes, in disguise,” the doctor could not help but add. 

She laughed. “He seems like he would.”

“It was a favorite trick of his. At least this time he didn't remove the disguise while my back was turned - I would have fainted from the shock.”

“It's been a while? How do you two know each other?”

“We were flatmates until I got married. A mutual acquaintance introduced us.” He smiled at the old memory, no doubt rosier for all the time that had passed.

“You were married?”

He nodded. “A long time ago.”

Inspector Gregson returned before they could continue. Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Holmes?” the doctor asked, a little more exasperated than perplexed.

“I thought he’d come around to join you,” Inspector Gregson said. “He told me he would meet me around front. You’re sure he’s trustworthy?”

The doctor answered reflexively, “I would trust him with my life.”

Inspector Gregson appeared taken aback, but did not question it. Mrs. Houghton gave him a knowing smile.

“He’ll probably make an entrance any time now,” the doctor explained. More importantly, he asked, “Did you find anything around back?”

Inspector Gregson shook his head. “Not a peep or even a footprint to go off of. Either they’re holed up in the house or have been gone for some time. Unfortunately, it hasn’t rained recently enough for there to be any useful footprints.”

“In that case, we have no choice but to enter by force,” Mrs. Houghton said.

However, before anyone could attempt to kick the door down, they all heard a loud creak from inside. The door swung open to reveal Sherlock Holmes standing upon the threshold.

Watson was the first to recover from the initial shock. “I take it the house is empty?”

Watson thought he saw a flicker of disappointment cross Holmes’s face and for an instant he felt a little sorry for his impatience, but Holmes recovered so fast Watson almost suspected he had imagined it.

“You can see for yourselves, if you like,” Holmes said with a wry smile.

They all stepped inside and the four of them searched the house from top to bottom, but Miss Mary Marston was gone without a trace. There was little evidence that anyone had lived there at all and no suggestion of where its former residents could have possibly gone. All that had been left for them to find was a pair of disposable phones sitting in the middle of the dining room table.

Plainclothes officers were stationed in the neighborhood to keep an eye on the abandoned house, but Dr. Holmes did not have high hopes.

It was getting on toward the middle of the afternoon the next day. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson had reclaimed what had once been their usual chairs by the fireplace in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

“He died in ‘84,” Holmes was saying, “And when the Soviet Union dissolved in ‘91, my mission followed. As the regulars would tell you, I’ve been handy in solving a few of their little problems, but those are mere trifles. I’ve been stagnating, Watson! I’m sorry you have to see me in such a state.”

“You’ve given up on the criminal class of Moscow too?” Watson asked, only half joking.

“Pah!” Holmes exclaimed. “Forget criminals! I’ve been chasing after lost boots and cheating wives.”

Watson gave a dark chuckle. “I’ve had a few of those cases myself. The job of a consulting detective is becoming increasingly obsolete as the police force improves - they’ve co-opted many of your old methods. People come to me mainly for cases outside the officials’ jurisdiction. Ever so often Mrs. Houghton, and sometimes a colleague of hers, will come to me for consultation when they come across something particularly puzzling, but I fear even then most of my expertise is in old cases that they will soon be able to more easily find on their computers. ”

“You underrate yourself and your occupation,” Holmes insisted. “I find the officials often need someone to put the pieces together for them.”

Watson gave him a skeptical look, but did not argue.

“And if I am not mistaken,” Holmes said, sounding quite confident that he was not, “Here one comes now in search of our aid.”

Watson glanced out the window to see Mrs. Houghton walking up to the front door. He heard her knock, followed shortly by the pounding of her footsteps on the stairs. Holmes stood to welcome her into the flat, allowing Watson to remain in his chair.

“Mr. Holmes,” she exclaimed in surprise, “You’re here just in time to hear the latest news on the case from last night.”

Holmes chuckled. “It’s little coincidence. The doctor was kind enough to provide me with refuge for the night, so I’ve been here since.”

“Come in.” The doctor waved them both into the room proper. “What’s the word?”

Holmes resumed his chair by the fireplace and Mrs. Houghton took the near end of the settee.

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” she explained once she was seated. “Doctor?” she asked with a glance at Holmes. The doctor nodded his assent and she continued, “I’ll get the bad news out of the way first. We haven’t had any luck locating Miss Marston, and from what the men working for Small have said, she was the one organising things. Other than that, they haven’t given us much to go off of, and we’re starting to suspect it’s because they don’t know much more about what was going on. They were just hired for one job.”

“What of the good news?” the doctor asked warily.

“We’ve finally found an interpreter to talk to the girl. Thankfully she knows Hindi, I don’t know what we would have done otherwise. She’s actually from Andaman Island, from one of the indigenous tribes. A couple months ago, the man who was calling himself Jonathan Small arrived in her village with a few other men - we’re still trying to find them.

“They visited a couple of times and seemed particularly interested in talking to children around her age. One night, they broke into her house. She remembers waking up to see them in her room, but they must have knocked her out because she doesn’t remember anything after that until she was on a plane over the ocean. They flew her back to England, dressed her up in a loincloth, handed her a spear, a blow gun, and a bunch of poisoned blow darts, and told her that she had to kill Mr. Duvall or they would kill her. When they didn’t need her, she was kept her in a small cage in their hideout.

“She described what happened with Mr. Duvall, and it’s pretty much what we expected. They had her climb onto the roof and inside through the attic. When she arrived, Mr. Duvall was probably already dead, but they made her shoot him with a blowdart anyway, and help Small in through the window. They finished setting up the scene, had her step in some tar, and left back over the roof.

“When they were done, they locked her up again. Yesterday, before we reached their hideout, they were apparently getting ready to move and she tried to escape. She still had one of the blow darts and stabbed Small with it when he tried to grab her. His accomplices managed to get her back into the cage, where she was when we found her.

“Smith and his son deny knowing anything about her. We’ve got one of Small’s accomplices who corroborates most of it. The other is still keeping quiet, but I think we’ve got enough without him. We’re working to get the girl home as soon as we’ve finished questioning her. She’s pretty shaken up, as you might imagine.”

“It’s horrible,” Dr. Holmes said at last.

Mrs. Houghton nodded in grim agreement. “We’re going to prosecute Small’s accomplices on charges of human trafficking and murder.”

“At least the child will have justice,” Dr. Holmes said, though it seemed to be little consolation.

He was at a loss for words and Mrs. Houghton seemed to be of a similar mind. The doctor had been so preoccupied with defending his own past that he had not even paused to consider those alive who were affected by the culprit’s heinous crimes.

They hardly noticed Holmes, who up until this point had remained an impassive portrait of contemplation, leaning back in the chair, his eyes all but closed, and his hands tented in front of him with his fingertips pressed together. He glanced between the doctor and the Inspector before he broke the silence, “The best we can do now is stop them from doing any more damage. Do you have any other leads?”

“We’ll do what we can to find ‘Mary Marston,’ but the trail’s only getting colder,” Mrs. Houghton said.

“What of Mr. Thaddeus Sholto?” the doctor suggested. “Have you gotten anything out of him?”

“No, he’s sticking to his story about being an out of work actor. I doubt we have enough to prosecute him.”

“We may be forced to wait until they strike again and hope they make a mistake,” Dr. Holmes said, none too happy about it.

“We’ll catch him yet,” Sherlock Holmes insisted with a gleam in his eyes.

“Hopefully before he does too much more damage,” Mrs. Houghton said. “It’s time I get going. I take it I’ll be seeing more of you, Mr. Holmes, Doctor.”

With that, she stood and took her leave. Holmes watched the door close after her with an appraising gaze.

“She seems a promising young officer,” he remarked.

Watson couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or sarcastic and made to reply.

Holmes beat him to it, taking the conversation in an entirely different direction, “What would you think of that? Seeing more of me. I don’t have anything to return to in Moscow and I admit I miss the old detective work. Perhaps I’ll start up a practice in London again, though I don’t mean to be in competition with you. We could even work a few cases together, for old times’ sake.”

Watson smiled at the thought. “You’re always welcome in Baker Street.” He hesitated. “There’s still an extra room if you’d prefer the company of a flatmate. Though, I must admit, I’ve been living as a lone bachelor all these years, I fear I’ve accumulated many habits that aren’t exactly conducive to company.”

Holmes seemed uncertain, fidgeting his long fingers as he rambled, “If you wouldn’t mind it, I confess I’ve had more than my share of solitude, though I could certainly find other arrangements if that would be more amenable to you...”

“No,” Watson interrupted, “Solitude has become distasteful to me as well. I would like nothing more than for you to return to Baker Street.”

“You’re certain? I doubt I’ve become any easier to live with.”

“Absolutely,” Watson said and he held out a hand to Holmes, who, after an instant’s hesitation, eagerly took it.