#i think what i planned for the next part ill just tack onto this one | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

reinvent-and-believe · 4 years

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another taste of heavenly rush

So this was supposed to be a silly little breathplay PWP drabble as a birthday tribute to the lovely @witchertrashbag but then it kind of...evolved??? Mutated??? lol who knows what happened, I sure as hell don’t. Anyway happy late birthday Wine Aunt, you’re a credit to this fandom, I hope you enjoy this belated smutty mess 🖤

Jaskier is utterly bewitched by the sight of a huge, leather-clad hand on the man’s throat.

He should be paying attention to the words being exchanged, seeing as he started the quarrel that led to the aforementioned hand-on-throat situation. Well. Hadn’t started it, per se, but he had certainly escalated it, and gods know Geralt won’t appreciate that particular nuance.

But the red-faced man currently gasping for breath beneath the witcher’s considerable grip had simultaneously insulted Jaskier’s songwriting and Geralt’s honor in one ill-begotten, unoriginal sentence after Jaskier’s performance in the tavern common room, something about “don’t clap for that little prick’s filth, praising freaks and monsters.” The bard had simply smiled sweetly, taken a sip of his ale, and intimated that the man’s wife was something of an expert on the subject of little pricks.

And then the man tried to hit him with a chair, and Jaskier can hardly be blamed for that, although Geralt will, inevitably. He’d scurried away from the onslaught and called out an only vaguely panicked “Geralt!” which led them here, the ugly sour-breathed man pinned to the tavern wall, his feet twitching desperately for solid ground, held up by one huge, bulky hand.

This little misadventure won’t make it into one of his songs. There’s nothing poetic about a prejudiced drunk man being rude and getting choked for his efforts.

Although...Jaskier’s eyes are drawn again to the sharp contrast of the brown leather of the gauntlets against the greasy pink of the man’s skin. Maybe there is something poetic to choking, after all. Choking, choking out, feeling the life drain from your body by a huge, leather-clad hand. Choking as in choking something else, draining something else from...jerking off, choking as in jerking off, and it’s not his best work but he’s fairly distracted at the moment because the thought of a huge, leather clad hand gripping a swollen, leaking cock has burrowed its way into Jaskier’s mind and fuck, how is he supposed to think about anything else now? Slick red head squeezed a little too hard, beading pearlescent drops disappearing into a supple russet fist that’s a little too coarse, too cold, too dry but feels divine nonetheless…

“Jaskier!”

Fuck.

The innkeep is shouting at them to get out, holding a broom as menacingly as one can hold a broom, and Geralt is glowering at him. “Go, bard! Roach!”

Right. He grabs his lute and flies out the door, the cool night air a shock on his overheated skin. He sprints to the stables and sets to work quickly tacking up the mare as he coos at her soothingly. “Deepest apologies, my dear lady, but it seems our plans for the evening have been altered somewhat.”

He’s leading her out and back toward the tavern when the door flies open, Geralt charging out. He fixes Jaskier with an exasperated glare and snatches the reins from him. “Dammit, Jaskier,” he mutters, swinging into the saddle. “If your cock doesn’t get us both killed, your mouth will.”

And if Jaskier’s arousal had flagged in the process of fleeing and fetching their escape horse, all it takes is a reference to cocks and mouths in close proximity to bring it roaring back to life as Geralt drags him up behind him and spurs Roach into a gallop out of the village.

It’s new, this thing with Geralt.

He’d met the witcher just over two years ago, back in Posada. They’d travelled together and parted near half a dozen times since, but this current sprint is by far their longest together, going on four months. They’ve fallen into a routine, found ways of traveling that make both their paths smoother. Jaskier’s songs are more lucrative when he can theatrically proclaim that their hero, his muse, the town’s savior is in their very midst; Geralt’s presence protects him from beasts and monsters and bandits and keeps him fed on fresh game between towns when they make their camps beneath the stars. And though Geralt’s never mentioned it, he can tell he’s come to appreciate Jaskier’s contributions, too: he sets up camp and builds a fire while Geralt hunts when they stay in the country, procures rooms with less humiliation and rarer downright refusals from rude innkeeps and for significantly less coin when they stay in the village. Noticing Jaskier’s penchant for picking wildflowers on the roadside, Geralt’s even started teaching him the herbs, flowers and berries he needs for his potions.

Traveling together does have its drawbacks, of course, particularly Geralt’s reticence to stay within the confines of civilization. He’s perfectly content to go weeks without sleeping in an inn if the town doesn’t have any contracts available, wont to ride away from perfectly good villages where Jaskier would be able to find perfectly good lovers.

This came to a head a few weeks ago. Jaskier tried to settle on the lumpy ground for the night, tried to ignore that prickling restlessness beneath his skin, but he couldn’t will it away, couldn’t force himself into a fitful sleep like he had the past several nights. He tossed again, unable to stifle a sigh, when the witcher rolled onto his side to glare at him.

“Would you stop your fussing?”

“Fussing? I’m not fussing, Geralt, I can’t sleep.”

“Can’t you not sleep quietly?”

He snorted. “What a very stupid question. Weren’t you just saying yesterday that I don’t even think quietly?” Tired and frustrated and horny as all hell, Jaskier opted for the truth. Watching Geralt get that uncomfortable, vaguely constipated look he got when Jaskier talked about sex always provided an amusing distraction, at least. He sighed melodramatically, adopting a most put-upon voice. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve indulged in the wondrous carnalities of a companion, Geralt?”

“Don’t really care.”

“Ages, Geralt, it’s been ages. At least a week. Some may bear the cruelties of celibacy with stoic fortitude, my dear witcher, but alas, some of us simply are not so equipped. We really should stop in the next village. It’d do us both a world of good to sleep in a bed, particularly one that’s warm, if you get my drift.”

The witcher looked at him with that inscrutable expression. “Plenty of chances for you to get your dick wet once we reach Gors Velen.”

Jaskier darted up, horrified, all pretensions forgotten. “Gors Velen?” he whined. “You said yourself we’re still a month away from Gors Velen!”

Geralt shrugged. “You’ve got a hand.” With that, he turned his back to Jaskier.

And well. It had been Geralt’s suggestion, after all, and Jaskier may have many attributes to his credit and otherwise but shyness has never been counted among them. And if perhaps he put on a bit of a show, fucking up into his hand with a little more bitten-lip moaning, a little more breathless panting than was strictly necessary, well, it served Geralt right for brushing off his perfectly legitimate concerns so rudely. And if he came particularly hard with a surprised gasp that was all too genuine when he shot a glance at his companion and saw the witcher facing him again, perfectly still, with an intent, impenetrable expression that Jaskier thought looked almost intrigued, well, that served Geralt right, too.

And that’s how this thing with Geralt started.

The next night, Jaskier made no such fuss when he laid down atop his bedroll, brazenly pulling his cock from his smallclothes and stroking himself languidly as he met that golden stare with something akin to a challenge. “You too?” he asked, breathless, and moaned as he watched Geralt’s hand drift down to palm himself through the rough cotton.

A few nights later Jaskier laid out their bedrolls side by side, not touching but nearly. “It’s not quite fair, is it,” he explained, rolling his balls indulgently with one hand as he set a lazy pace with the other. “You with your extraordinary superhuman witchery senses, you get to hear every little noise I make, see every little expression on my devilishly handsome face from all the way across the fire. Seems like we ought to level the playing field, as it were.”

“Don’t need witcher senses to hear you,” Geralt groused, but the corner of his lip crooked in what could only be the hint of a grin as he settled in beside him without protest, taking himself in hand and echoing Jaskier’s tempo.

(Geralt can maintain his blank expression fairly well while getting off, Jaskier knows now, but he’s slightly less guarded when it comes to sound, to the noises too soft and unintentional to be noticed without such proximity. The little hitch when he twists his wrist just so at the head; the low rumbling of a moan in his chest that never reaches his lips when he’s close, so close; the voiceless exhale when he comes that sometimes, when it’s really good, sounds as though it’s been punched out of him; the abortive, shuddering breaths as his strokes turn into the gentlest trailing of the fingertips down his shaft just past the point of oversensitivity, prolonging that sweet touch until it can no longer be endured.)

The next night, well. A hand’s a hand, and there’s not so very much difference between wanking and assisting your very best friend in the whole wide world wanking, really.

And that’s what this is. Jaskier has no grandiose romantic notions, not about this, not really. It’s not about the passionate heat of bodies entwined, it’s just hands and cocks to aid with sleep and that’s all it has to be. This thing with Geralt is about getting off, not about sex, and he’s not entirely sure he understands this arbitrary boundary he’s constructed but the distinction feels crucial nevertheless. It’s a matter of convenience, not lust. Jaskier is content with this arrangement. It’s more than he ever hoped to experience with his lovely, taciturn friend, and that’s enough. He can enjoy these encounters with Geralt without needing them, without craving something more, without deluding himself into thinking they’re...something else. Paramours. Lovers.

Anyway, this was all going swimmingly until Geralt throttled a man on his behalf and it was the most arousing thing he’d ever witnessed. Now Jaskier is pressed up against him on a horse riding from a town in which they are no longer welcome with what has got to be the most obnoxiously persistent erection of his life because he can’t stop imagining those hands around his throat.

“Whoa, Roach.” Jaskier feels the witcher’s body tense against him as he pulls on the reins, halting as they approach a small copse of trees. “This’ll do.” He dismounts gracefully and Jaskier scrambles behind.

He’d assumed that Geralt would be furious that they’d finally stopped at an inn only for Jaskier’s uncanny ability to find himself in trouble got them ousted, but he doesn’t seem furious as they set up the campsite. Not that he says anything, of course, and not that he would say anything if he were furious, but Jaskier has grown rather accustomed to reading Geralt’s silences. This particular silence doesn’t seem to be perturbed in any way. If anything, it almost seems amused. Surely he’s misreading something.

He’s just finished situating the bedrolls when he turns around and nearly slams into Geralt. “Bloody hell Geralt, are you trying to...oh.”

Geralt unceremoniously tugs the bow fastening Jaskier’s trousers loose, reaching into them and immediately setting to work with a sure, steady hand.

“...oh, you’re trying to...that.” He closes his eyes at the sensation.

Geralt’s hand stills, gripping him lightly. “Will I get some rest if we don’t?” His face remains impassive as ever, but there’s something in his grumble that Jaskier could almost swear sounds teasing, fond. “Rather deal with you now than listen to you toss about and whine for an hour pretending you’re trying to sleep.”

And Jaskier could protest because honestly, he hasn’t since that first night, but he allows it, lets Geralt have his excuse because something’s different tonight. They never touch until they’ve undressed and settled into their bedrolls for the night. It’s just a part of the routine.

Nothing about this feels routine.

He lets out a laugh that’s a bit higher than he intends as Geralt resumes fisting his cock. “My, my, someone’s eager tonight,” he breathes, and all right, he may have no room to talk, but Geralt initiating this is beyond uncharacteristic.

A hum resonates deep in his chest. “Felt you rubbing up on me since we left town. You’re not subtle, bard.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not…subtle? Fuck.”

The witcher rolls his eyes. “Smelled you before that,” and honestly, fuck Geralt for wanting to have a conversation all of a sudden now that Jaskier’s completely incapable of it, “back in the tavern. What was it?” Geralt is shifting them, guiding him carefully, his hand never losing its rhythm, until Jaskier feels the trunk of a sturdy oak at his back. “What got you so hard in the middle of a bar fight?”

A knee slips casually between his legs, and the hard line of Geralt’s still-clothed cock presses against his hip, rutting ever so gently. “Gods, Geralt.” It comes out a whine, and Jaskier’s sure he’ll hate himself later for how easily he’s undone but now there’s just contact, so much touch all over and hot breath against his neck and he lets his eyes flutter closed, lets himself feel.

“Did you actually fuck that man’s wife earlier? While I was at the armourer’s, maybe? Did she leave you with some good memories?”

It takes a second for Jaskier to catch up to the question with Geralt’s hard body leaned against him, a delightful weight. Right. Man in the bar. Implied he’d cuckolded him, that’s what determined the course of this whole bizarre evening.

“Or was it the barmaid? Was she what distracted you in the middle of that scene you caused?” Geralt sounds perfectly unaffected, somehow, that mild, ribbing tone he uses when he pretends to scoff at Jaskier’s antics. “The redhead. The one whose bed you hoped to be in tonight.”

And he’s right, of all the people in the crowded tavern she’d been the one who caught his eye, the one he’d be planning to direct his next song to. Of course Geralt had noticed. Geralt knows what Jaskier wants. Knows what he needs.

And that’s...that’s what this is, that’s what he’s doing. Jaskier had planned to find a lover for the evening, planned to slip into a blissful haze of fucking where he doesn’t have to concentrate on keeping this unwelcome longing at bay and even though it’s Jaskier’s own fault that opportunity slipped through his fingers, Geralt wants to give him some semblance of that release. It’s why he’s talking, why he’s bringing up these women he assumes drove Jaskier to distraction.

And with Geralt’s breath on his skin and hand on his cock and body leaned so heavily against his, Jaskier wants to give him an answer. Wants to give him everything there is.

What got you so hard in the middle of a bar fight?

Jaskier grasps the hand not stroking his cock and brings it to his throat.

The world stops.

His eyes fly open to meet Geralt’s, and he knows he’s made a mistake. The witcher withdraws quickly, stepping away, turning his back.

“Fuck, Geralt, no, I’m—”

“Stop.” Geralt doesn’t face him, but he’s not leaving, at least. “Don’t.”

Jaskier leans back against the tree, trying to catch his breath. He scrubs his hand over his face. Leave it to Jaskier to fuck up something this divine.

He watches those broad shoulders lower, his breathing even out, but the tension is still written in every line of his body. Geralt stands silent for a moment before he quietly asks, “That’s what...at the tavern?”

Wretched, Jaskier nods, but of course Geralt can’t see that, so he stammers out, “Ah, yes. It seems so.”

When he speaks again, his voice remains carefully flat. “You were afraid of me?”

“What?”

“Were you afraid of me? Back at the tavern.” He considers, then adds, “Or now?”

“Geralt, no,” and maybe he shouldn’t, maybe he should give him space, but Jaskier pushes away from the tree, scurrying over to him and clutching his shoulders frantically. “No, listen to me, Geralt, I’m a horny idiot, that’s the thing, it was just...I don’t know, it was sexy! It was sexy, seeing you manhandle him, imagining if you manhandled me, maybe, with your gloves and your hands and your muscles, I don’t know, it was just a fantasy, I suppose, it just happened, but certainly not because I was scared you’d hurt me.” An ugly, desperate laugh rises from his throat unbidden. “If anything it’s because I know you wouldn’t, Geralt, I know you’d keep me safe.”

The witcher looks past him, but Jaskier sees the tension in his jaw release, sees his chest move a little more freely with his breath. After a moment, Geralt nods. “Thought perhaps I’d misread this.” It’s low, almost too low to hear.

“I want you,” Jaskier blurts out, and he should stop talking, he really means to stop talking, “I want you. Quite a lot. The rough, ah, the choking thing, that’s all just...I don’t need that. Don’t want anything you don’t want.”

It’s all a little too raw, a little too genuine, and Jaskier realizes with a sudden sinking feeling that this may actually be worse than his initial blunder, that an unexpected predilection for rough sex is one thing but voicing that longing he’s worked so hard to keep sectioned away is something else entirely.

He’s about to apologize when he hears the low hum.

Geralt is studying him, head tilted to one side. There’s nothing on his face to indicate disgust or excitement, no rejection or acceptance; just those golden eyes meticulously examining him, just like they had that first night. Curious. Intrigued.

Fuck. Jaskier doesn’t need a hand on his throat to make it hard to breathe.

“No gloves.”

“Sorry, what?”

Rough fingertips map his throat lightly, not pressing, not caressing, just exploring. Jaskier recognizes this look, it’s the same studious evaluation he’d seen Geralt give that nekker corpse yesterday before he began harvesting organs from it and that should definitely kill the mood here but it doesn’t. He pauses, wide finger resting over a thunderous artery. “They’re too thick. Wouldn’t be able to feel if it’s too much.”

“Right,” Jaskier rasps out. “Right, yeah, good. No gloves is good.” And if the image of being thrown about like a ragdoll and forced against a wall had seemed erotic, it somehow doesn’t compare to the overwhelming potency of these careful, analytical touches with Geralt monitoring his breath, his heartbeat, his face.

“Do you still want to try?” It’s a low rumble, but Geralt’s eyes are boring into him and all Jaskier can do is nod aggressively, grabbing Geralt’s hand and pulling him back until he’s leaned against the tree again, pausing only to fling off his open doublet.

Geralt shakes his head, quickly disciplining the little entertained smile that flits across his features but not before Jaskier sees it. It sends a reckless, euphoric thrill through his whole body. “Ah Geralt, admit it, you think I’m endearing,” he grins, striking a dramatic pose against the tree.

“You’re a nuisance,” he snorts, but he snakes his hand down the front of the bard’s trousers again, stroking him with just enough pressure to coax him back to hardness.

Jaskier rocks gently into his fist, a small contented sigh morphing into something much more ragged when he feels that solid hand back on his throat.

“Tap my arm if you want to stop.”

Jaskier nods, delighting in the way his flesh shifts under Geralt’s hand at the motion. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the fingers tighten. “Good?”

“Good.”

“More?”

“Please,” and it’s a whine but he doesn’t care. His eyes drift shut. It feels like the pounding pulse is flowing straight from his throat into Geralt’s hand, or maybe the other way around, it doesn’t matter when all he wants is to lose himself in this swelling, living tattoo.

The pressure lets up and there’s a rush, a bright heady flood of exhilaration and he can feel every cell tingling in his body as his lungs work overtime to compensate and he can’t help thrusting forward faster into the tight fist on his cock.

Geralt’s other hand stays in place, loosely cupping his throat, idly stroking the skin. “Eyes open,” he murmurs, nuzzling into the crook of Jaskier’s neck for just a moment, breathing him in, his own breath labored. When he pulls back he looks a little wrecked. “Eyes on me, yeah?”

Jaskier nods, leaning into both warm hands a little desperately. “More?”

Geralt groans as he applies careful, steady pressure.

It’s good. There’s something soothing about the gentle acceleration of that drumming, far-off and immediate at the same time, the only sound that exists here. Peaceful. Floaty, almost. He wonders vaguely if this is what Geralt feels when he meditates.

“Jaskier.” The voice cuts through the haze, low but firm, the softest command. He focuses on Geralt, that unwavering gaze fixed on him. “Stay with me.”

Where else would he want to be?

And he’s still floating but somehow those golden eyes are a tether, not grounding him entirely but keeping him from drifting away. And when the tension releases and the tidal wave of elation sweeps through him again it’s met with chapped lips on his throat and fingers scratching through the hair at the nape of his neck and a steadying weight against him, and when the dizziness settles and he rests against the reassuring stability of the oak behind him, then there’s shifting, moving, the harsh grinding voice asking a question Jaskier can’t make out but understands anyway, golden eyes full of that question staring up at him and Jaskier answers by threading his fingers through pale locks shining silver in the moonlight and the warm, strong hand stroking him is replaced with the soft heat of Geralt’s mouth.

He won’t last much longer, not with the way Geralt’s thick fingers grip him, digging into the meat of his ass, with the way he chokes a little taking Jaskier all the way down but keeps pulling him in, deeper, and it’s wet and messy and a little too divine.

“Fuck, Geralt, I…” he gasps, the closest to a warning he can formulate, but the witcher’s staring up at him through dark lashes and sucking him down harder and Jaskier surrenders, coming with a keening cry.

Geralt diligently works him through it, swallowing and dissolving into desperate noises around Jaskier as he feverishly strips his own cock. He releases Jaskier and buries his head in the crook of the bard’s hip, shoulders heaving harshly. Jaskier pets him soothingly, long fingers massaging his scalp tenderly through the broken moan, the shuddering aftershocks, the shallow breaths slowly evening out.

They stay that way for a few endless moments, neither willing to break the trance, the intimacy. Jaskier barely notices gentle fingers unlacing his boots, pulling off one then the other. Geralt deftly tucks the bard’s softening cock back into his smallclothes before carefully pulling off his trousers and folding them neatly. He stands slowly, guiding Jaskier to his bedroll and settling him there, crouching beside him moments later with a waterskin he presses to Jaskier’s lips.

“Best take care, witcher,” Jaskier teases softly, “a man could get used to such treatment.”

“Don’t,” Geralt grunts, but there’s no heat to it. He thoroughly inspects Jaskier’s neck, tilting his head one way then the other with two light fingers on his jaw. “Pain anywhere?”

“No pain.”

“Good.” Apparently satisfied, Geralt stands, undressing methodically and lying in his own bedroll. After a few moments of silence, he adds, “Wake me if anything hurts. Or if you have trouble breathing.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh, turning on his side to fix his companion with a rueful smile. “Geralt, have you ever known me to suffer in silence?” Those inscrutable eyes hold him, searching, so Jaskier reaches a tentative hand to his jaw. “Thank you. For your...indulgence.” There’s an entirely different tightness in his throat, suddenly. “For taking such good care of me.”

For a moment, Jaskier thinks Geralt may answer as he watches something unguarded yet still utterly indecipherable flit across the witcher’s scarred, handsome face. When he speaks, there’s something soothing in the low rumble. “Get some sleep, bard.”

And he does.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fic #breathplay cw #choking cw #choking during sex cw #this is just self-indulgent smutty softness i'm so sorry #my fic

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guqin-and-flute · 4 years

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Are You Here to Stop Me? (Pt. 2)

[First post/Setting of Peony to Lotus]

[Part 1]

(TW for JGY having...JGY thoughts--violence and general bloody nastiness)

Jin Guangyao let himself slowly wander the Hall of Swords, hands clasped behind his back, one thumb worrying at the other as he waited. Waited for what was arriving on gilded swords, probably in force. He was not anxious, so to speak, but filled with the restless energy of a plan in suspension, ready for the next step to land. Alone--and the implications of that solitude sat oddly in his chest.

When Lan Wangji had flown them back through the freezing, torrential skies, they had tracked through the back halls of Koi Tower, avoiding his father, Madam Jin, and their personal servants in search of the Jiang contingent. After they had finally found them in their rooms and sent someone to clean the conspicuous trails of muddy water they had dripped everywhere, he shared what had happened and the plan that had begun its quick flourish into a many branched thing throughout his trip back. Their response had been shocked dismay, quiet panic, and...determination. It had taken startlingly little convincing to get A-Li to agree. Jiang Wanyin had taken longer, waffling about image, about expectations, about politics but, between the two of them, A-Li and Jin Guangyao had broken through his doubt enough for him to grudgingly agree to it.

After that, they had followed his every suggestion, up to and including leaving Lotus Pier to his lone stewardship while A-Li, Jiang Wanyin, and a few top disciples flew to meet up with and protect Wei Wuxian on his mad dash from Lanling to Yunmeng.

“We must still behave naturally--and you would be expected to try to find him,” he had reasoned, more than anything trying to convince A-Li that this was not some sort of strange Jin coup on her home. “If we are too calm, they will suspect a plot. I have the story straight and can cover from there. And it would be odd if you brought me along, considering how new I am to your clan--”

A-Li had laid her hand on his cheek, eyes wide with fear and fierceness. “A-Yao, you don’t have to explain. We trust you to watch our home. Just tell us what we must do.”

That had been...new. It had made it easier to slide around the dissonance this sleight of hand was causing him. Such blatant opposition to his father. It wasn’t that he objected to manipulating him--how else would he have secured a place in the Jin Clan had he not maneuvered himself to be too powerful of an asset to ignore any longer? It was just that, not so long ago, he had been prepared to do anything for the man, anything for his approval, his acceptance. In fact, he had. He had allowed himself to be blatantly discarded and married off almost immediately. It had...tilted him. The sudden shift in priorities, the derailing of his lifelong goal was disorienting to say the least and he was still sorting through the bloody, seething mess of it within himself. Foundations cracked. Absorbing information. Formulating. Deciding.

The still-leaking carnage of him was partially being soothed by the salve of A-Li’s gentleness and the easy acceptance of his presence in Lotus Pier, bit by bit, but….

He had covered A-Li's hand with his own, smiled, and neatly pared off that dissonance like an unwanted branch, tucking it out of sight behind a swell of protective warmth. Anything for her. Anything at all. This was simple enough.

Being trusted with the whole of Lotus Pier was still a different experience. In Lanling, Madam Jin hadn’t even trusted him to carry her tea. Here, the whole of the cove was laid in his hands without so much as a follow up question--the servants and disciples had hardly blinked. The strange weight of such faith did not go unnoticed, hanging from his shoulders like an unfamiliar cloak.

Far away, there came faint voices from the courtyard. Loud voices. Enough rumination. It was time. He needed to focus.

He had slept badly, mind churning with contingencies and when he had awoken, his lungs had been heavy with the cold and wet from their envoy pushing through the night on their swords to reach Lotus Pier with time enough to finalize their plans. It would distract and slow him, if he let it. Not for the first time, he had cursed his lack of spiritual power and ignored it. There would be time for such weakness later. Now, as light, quick steps came down the hall, he needed to be maneuverable.

He left his back to the door so he could jump a little when the servant opened it and poked her head in. “Gongzi? Jin Zixun-gongzi is here to see--” she bit off the tail of an indignant sound when the man himself brushed by her, not waiting for the introduction to be finished.

He was windswept and radiating an ill-contained temper as he slowly circled the room, studying it with deliberate disdain before coming to a stop before him. “Cousin,” Jin Zixun dripped as much malice as was socially ignorable onto the word and Jin Guangyao feigned an involuntary half-step back. “Let’s talk.”

The servant was still hovering by the door, eyes darting between them, her face hard, and Jin Guangyao could see the flashes of listening forms in the hall. The servants liked him, he knew--he had heard them murmur protectively over their new young master, heard whispers of their surprise at how well A-Li and he worked together, how much calmer things had gotten. He gave her a purposefully nervous smile and nodded. “You may go.”

Reluctantly, slowly, she obliged, closing the doors behind her. His obvious discomfort would not let them go far; listening, at the door as servants did. Good.

“So. Where are they?” Jin Zixun took back up his slow circuit of the room, intentionally moving around his back like a circling predator.

Jin Guangyao turned with him as if it made him nervous to have him at his back, face in a stiff and uncertain smile. “They are out looking for Wei-gongzi. He disappeared after the scene he caused at the banquet--”

“The Wen-dogs,” he cut across him irritably. "The ones he stole. Where are they?"

His smile widened uncomfortably, let it show in his voice. “I haven’t any clue. Probably with Wei Wuxian, wherever he is? Like I said, Jiang-furen and Jiang-zong--”

"Shut up," Jin Zixun snapped, wheeling on him. "You think you can talk your way out of what Wei Wuxian did? He killed our overseers and freed our prisoners, acting against our alliance with this backwater clan. We would be well within our rights to...respond."

They both knew that the Jiang Clan was still one of the major 4 after their reconstruction efforts. Jiang Wanyin had done an impressive job for one so young and inexperienced--and such an aggressive move would be seen incredibly unfavourably by both Chifeng-zun and Lan Xichen. It was an empty threat. A stupid one. He widened his eyes anyway. “I’m sure there will be no need to be so hasty--our Clan Leaders can talk, and we can straighten out this misunderstanding.”

He could see Jin Zixun looking him over, curling his lip. Men like him always thought they were smarter than people they deemed ‘lesser than’ and it was incredibly clear that he put Jin Guangyao into that category. There hadn’t been much time for Jin Guangyao to prove himself as an intellectual asset to his father before being married off, hadn’t been able to implement many political workings, and so he was virtually unknown to his cousin beyond ‘upstart bastard interloper’. Jin Guangyao saw the thought process ticking behind his eyes, deciding which tack to take. Saw his eyes narrow and his smile curve sharply predatory. Bully, then.

Alright.

“So they left you in charge while they look for him.”

Jin Guangyao shrugged, a quick jerky thing, looking away. “There wasn’t much I could do on such a search. I haven’t the strength yet to fly my sword and so….” he sighed like he was embarrassed and frustrated. “It’s all such a terrible mess.” Jin Zixun was silent and so he let it rest, let the tension build, let him think he controlled the flow of the conversation.

“And so what’s their excuse for their servant behaving so outrageously?” Jin Zixun finally asked coolly, hands behind his back as he slowly sauntered over to a tall lotus candle holder.

“He wasn’t--” He purposefully winced as Jin Zixun caught the base of it with his foot and, with a little jerk, knocked it over, spilling fast cooling wax all over the rich carpet. “...Supposed to do that.”

“Oops.” The idiot raised an eyebrow at him, as if he had done something clever. Waiting for Jin Guangyao to come over and pick it up.

Slowly, he did, tamping down the irritation in his gut with habitual ease. Such humiliation wasn’t new--and it would enrage the servants, who took pride in a clean home. Straightening the delicate ornamentation around the candle at the top, he turned his apologetic smile back to his cousin. “He just got overzealous--everyone is aware of his temper and how he views things he thinks are unjust. Wen Qing had just asked Jiang-zongzhu to look into the treatment of her people, as a favor to her, now that they’re--” he clamped his mouth shut as if he had misspoke and turned back to the candle, arranging it busily as Jin Zixun slowly tilted his head.

“Now that they’re...what.” My, he did like to think of himself as threatening, didn’t he? Certainly saw himself as the type that could pull off a quiet menace.

Unfortunately for him, Jin Guangyao had seen real menace. All he saw in him was a puffed up gentry brat.

“Married,” he said as if he regretted even mentioning it, threading a grimace through his wince of a smile. “It wasn’t supposed to be announced yet.”

Jin Zixun stared at him, a small, cruel smile of fury curling his lips. “Married. We haven't heard of this union. When exactly are you claiming this happened?”

Helplessly, he shrugged. “It wasn’t final until very recently, apparently--the Jiang, they marry for love when they can, and with the political tensions being so fraught, they wanted to wait until after things died down to announce it. And they thought it to be in poor taste to air such a thing before it was finalized.” He couldn’t resist the subtle dig at his father, parading A-Li around for so many years as a bauble for the future, only to be discarded. “But surely...surely it’s understandable for Wen-furen to want her family safe. It’s been months since the end of the War. Wei-gongzi was trying to be filial but overreacted….”

Jin Zixun smiled wide under rage filled eyes, slowly approaching and nodding, until he came within arms reach; then he all at once hauled him close by his collar, hissing, “You seem to think I'm an idiot.”

Jin Guangyao let his face fall into one of startled fear, shrinking in his grip. He indeed did think he was an idiot--but not an entirely stupid one, more’s the pity. The beauty of this excuse was that the Jin didn't need to actually believe it--no one truly did. The Jiang just needed enough plausible deniability to make an outright retaliation disadvantageous and protect the Wen remnants from future attack. He angled his voice to pleading. “This is all I know, Zixun, they don’t...they don’t confide in me for things like this.”

Jin Zixun gave a snort, shoving him away and off balance. Jin Guangyao’s hand itched to tug his robe back into place, but he simply patted at it ineffectually, as if anxious, keeping his head down. Let him see what he wished to see.

“At least they have sense enough not to trust you. Looks like you’re not fooling anyone, you snake; except maybe yourself. Did you know that Jin-zongzhu speaks of being rid of you often?”

Ah. So they were here already. Despite the curdling, vicious darkness that stirred in him, Jin Guangyao could have snorted. What an unpolitic moron. Spilling his Clan Leader’s private conversations for the chance to get a cheap jab. Perhaps it was true--it very well could be. But his father was still riding on the low profile waves of alliance this marital eviction had gotten him. Had Jin Guangyao not already been aware of the reason for his being married out, had he been pettier (and he how he sometimes yearned to be--but no, it was unwise to squander a pressure point so readily) this could have seriously damaged the relationship between the two clans. Having it known that he had given his treasured allies the dregs.

“He was right to get rid of you when he did,” Jin Zixun was continuing, turning back to wander again through the room. “Clearing the trash from the Clan. I hope you're not getting ideas above your station, here. I know they put up with more, but you should always remember what you are.” He turned around, lips curled into a smug smile. “Bastard. Son of a whore. The reject.”

It was difficult to know whether this was Jin Zixun’s attempt to strategically goad him as an interrogation technique or if it was simply venting his frustration--probably both.

And it was working, to a point. There bloomed a bright star point of rage behind his breastbone as the words pounded through him like poison, squeezing the breath from him and he forced himself not to smile in defense; he was supposed to be cowed by this, this was supposed to hurt. He swallowed and let his mouth tighten as his chin tucked in shame and imagined digging his thumbs into Jin Zixun’s eyes like so much overripe fruit. Bursting.

When Jin Guangyao remained silent, his cousin’s face twisted at his lack of reaction, before hiking back up into a sneer of a smile. “But that’s alright, because you two seem to make a perfect pair--the leftovers together.”

Something incredibly dark shifted within him and turned its attention to this conversation.

“Don’t.”

It left his mouth on a breath, a spark from the flint striking in his chest without design. He managed to dart his gaze to the ground before Zixun could see the flame of it within him.

“What did you say?” Jin Zixun rounded on him, close again, smile small and cruel, eyes gleaming with the prospect of a weak link. So it was calculated provocation, then. Searching for an excuse for violence and offense. Even more dangerous. He sank the nails into his palm.

It was possibly one of the hardest things he had done to speak evenly when the small dagger he had hidden at the small of his back seared into his skin, pulsing like an eager creature’s heart, calling to his hand. “Don’t talk about Jiang-furen in that manner….Please.”

Any other circumstance, and he could have protested--would even be justified as a husband to come to blows over such a thing. But there was a plan. And it was hard to seem weak and unthreatening in the midst of murder.

All Jin Guangyao needed him to do was leave. Take this filtered information back to his father. Tell him of the web of complications woven against them, Jin Guangyao’s manufactured outsider status in the Jiang’s--an open avenue for false information, exploitation.

All he wanted him to do was leave.

“Aww.” Blunt fingers suddenly sank into his jaw, forcing his chin up, trying to meet his gaze. He allowed the wince, squeezed his eyes shut because he knew his own limits--he knew where this is heading. He knew what he could and could not keep from his eyes. “Is the little whoreson actually in love with his pity-wife? The little wannabe-noble getting ideas above his station? You know the only reason you were paired with her, little filth, is because no one else wanted her, right?”

There was an approaching ringing in his ears, the tide of blood pounding louder and louder. Fire and water, drowning and devouring. His breath seared. Focus on the outcome. Focus on the fact that the servants are hearing this. The repercussions. The plan. Wei Wuxian. A-Li. It’s for her. Focus.

Focus.

“She’s a boring, talentless cow with the weakest golden core I’ve ever seen--”

Distantly, he was almost grateful for the throb coursing through him, that shook him in Jin Zixun’s grasp like a fish on a line, for it muffled his words to almost unintelligible garble, had him sinking his fingers into the bracer at the wrist of Jin Zixun’s imprisoning arm, as if he wanted to escape, as if he was afraid.

He did not want to escape. He was not afraid.

His palms prickled with emptiness, begging to be filled with a throat, a hilt, a heart. Soon, his own blood-heavy organ whispered from the crush of his chest, soon. “Stop,” he whispered, voice pressed thin by the weight of his rage.

“Or what?” Jin Zixun taunted, voice muffled, coming to him as if through water.

Or I will ruin the carpet of the Hall of Swords. Or I will lose my grip on this careful mask. Or I will have a blade through your gut faster than you can die and I will watch you writhe and shit yourself to death in far too short a time. And then I will have to find a way to make this work without you. Which would be tedious, difficult. Dangerous.

Almost worth it.

It’s for her.

Soon.

“I don’t know anything more, Zixun. You need...to leave.”

“Are you going to make me?”

It would be so easy to dart his head to the side and sink his teeth deep into his knuckles, to go for his throat. Slide the dagger neatly through his eye and into his brain. Like a keyhole unlocking such possibilities as blessed fucking silence.

Clearly disgusted with his lack of response, Jin Zixun shoved him away from him with a snarl. Jin Guangyao caught himself on a pillar and stayed pressed there, head down, hair fall masking his expression, feathering over the pulsing bands left on his jaw.

“I should have known it was useless to talk to you.”

Jin Guangyao stayed motionless as the doors slammed behind him, as Jin Zixun’s footsteps retreated. As the side doors flew open and the servants and the disciples they had clearly summoned rushed to his side, the exclamations of their indignant anger washing over him in shallow waves. Hands patted his robe, gripped his shoulder, raised his chin carefully and he managed to analyze his own expression, reassuring himself of its blankness. It would have to do. They might take it as stunned.

“--bastard! That--that--! I can’t believe he said that about Jiang-furen! I’ll skin him alive!”

“--alright? You’re so pale--”

“I always knew the Jin were pompous and selfish, but this is too much! To come here and say this in the heart of Lotus Pier--to Jiang-furen’s own husband, of all people!”

“The gall! That piece of shit!”

“Jin-gongzi, talk to us, are you alright?”

It took him a few breaths to be able to look up, to regain his voice, and when he did, he made no effort to steady it. “I am. I’m fine. We need--we need to prepare for Wei-gongzi’s arrival.”

There came more sympathetic hisses, more fretful tugs of his clothes--he knew from experience that it was nearly impossible to tell the difference between a voice shaking from fear and a voice shaking from barely suppressed savagery, if one's face was arranged correctly. His was. He made sure of it.

The tightness of his rage-lit chest did not abate when he went to the front courtyard to bow off the small glittering retinue of JIn, where he was, of course, ignored. Watching their receding backs as the clouds swallowed them up, he let his face drop entirely for a moment with only the ornately carved door ahead of him. Let his eyes burn.

When he turned around, he offered the crowd behind him a harried smile. “We should probably send a few of Yunmeng’s delicacies after them. As an apology for the imposition of their journey.”

This sparked muttered suggestions of what bodily fluids might be able to be included and what species’ feces could be hidden most easily behind heavy spices. “I could kill him for what he said about Jiang-furen,” one of the shimei’s said, eyes blazing.

Oh, Jin Guangyao did not say, shuttering his eyes as if regretful. You needn’t bother.

Soon.

Back in their room, in front of A-Li’s round, polished mirror, he impassively considered the bruises on his jaw, the heat in his gut at a low, murderous simmer. He would have preferred a black eye, but perhaps less was more, in this case--more subtlety meant more double takes, more chances for curious ‘what ifs’. The story was bound to evolve anyhow, to become more fantastical as the enraged servants gossiped with their friends, their waiters, their fruit vendors.

The noble Jiang, marrying for a love forbidden, taking beleaguered, harmless Cultivators under their wing and being threatened for it. Those villainous Jin, demanding back their spoils of war, treating Jiang-furen’s new husband as if he were still a common Jin servant. The indignity of it, the insult. Just like those star crossed tragedies. The Young Masters and Mistress of Lotus Pier were already folk heroes in the eyes of the common people--rising from the ashes of their slaughtered family to build anew, kind and just. This all would appeal greatly.

Ever loyal, the people would probably find a way to alert them if any Jin lurkers were to show up. Ingratiation of the Wen, alienation of the Jin, deification of the Jiang. Truly, this couldn’t have gone better.

There would be a more formal--not to mention informed--meeting later, involving Jiang Wanyin, Jin Guanshan, and possibly Wei Wuxian himself. This was probably supposed to have been a precursor to that, a scouting mission meant to gather information, meant to be secretive and unnoticed. What a pity.

His smile stretched thin and sharp at his own metallic reflection. His chest was still tight and full, and his fingertips still ached for the rust of someone’s pain, but he simply straightened his robes, slowly and deliberately. Time to prepare for their guests.

And figure out how slowly he wanted Jin Zixun to die.

#[Sings Zixun's Gotta Die to the tune of Earl's Gotta Die]#Peony to Lotus #my fic #my stuff #text

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masterofmagnetism · 4 years

Text

The Other Side

WHO: @jeangrcysummers and Erik. Mentions of @burdenedxtelepath, @firstxman, @mysteriousdumbass, @mistressxfmagnetism WHEN: The first night of the siege of Manhattan WHERE: Stark Tower WHAT: Jean confronts Erik, suspicious (correctly) that he’s done something to Kara to make her act out of character. Erik pulls out the ye olde manipulation skills and gaslights Jean into doubting herself, growing angry about things long past, and eventually comforting him by the end of a very long and hard conversation and trudge down memory lane.

(He’s very good at what he does.)

WORD COUNT: 12.8k. It’s me and Lola. What do you expect? TWs: This one’s a doozy. Manipulation/gaslighting, murder, ptsd, anxiety, violence, torture, holocaust mention, suicidal ideation, injury. It’s a heavy one emotionally, so proceed w caution.

JEAN: Jean Grey was an angry kid. From her very first day in the classroom, the teacher was phoning her parents, or talking to them with a frown at the school gates, explaining that Jean just seemed to feel things more intensely than most people. It manifested in ways that made other people’s lives more difficult, but the person who suffered the most, undoubtedly, was Jean. It always came back around on her in some way, in some fashion that she couldn’t predict, that she didn’t want to predict when the rage was burning its way through her chest and causing her hands to ball into fists.

Jean Summers was an angry woman. She told herself she had changed from that kid on the playground with arms crossed against her chest arguing against the injustice of it all, told herself she had matured from a teenager who would fight her own shadow as long as it meant she had something to go to war for, but it wasn’t true. She knew it wasn’t true. It just took reminding, sometimes, for her to realise just how little she had changed through all of her lifetimes.

What happened to Kara? That was one of the biggest reminders she could think of. Kara’s face flashed in her mind, and instead of warmth, or comfort, or a smile coming onto her face, Jean wanted to rip the world in half.

No. The world could wait. Erik would meet her first.

She lowered herself onto the landing strip at Stark Tower, scrunching her nose as the logo shone back at her in the diminishing sunlight. The day was almost over, a full twelve hours since they stepped foot into that U.N. meeting, a full eleven and a half hours since Mystique dropped a man to the ground, staining the carpet with his blood.

Oh, Jean was angry about a lot of things.

“Erik,” she called out, the second she was through the doors. Her voice reverberated through the empty corridors, bounced off the marble steps, mingled with the metal in the walls. He would know she was here, just as she knew, instinctively, when he was on the same continent, even in those years they spent apart. Jean loved people, and they settled in her ribcage. It was the way it had always been.

Jean Summers never changed.

“Erik!” she called out again, ascending a staircase -- and then she found him. At least, she found the back of his head as he stood, looking out over the city they’d taken. A city they’d taken through violence, and bloodshed, and intimidation. It was what they needed, to win a war, but what right did they have to stoop to those levels? What right did he have, to do it without speaking to her?

She came to a stop, crossing her arms against her chest in an attempt to stop her hands from shaking. “We need to talk,” she started, voice even, clear, crisp -- at least at the start. The next time her mouth opened, the words came out shaky. Not with fear, not with hesitation, not with trepidation, but with a simmering anger that she couldn’t shake off. “We need to talk about Kara.”

ERIK: Erik was no fool. He knew Jean was angry--he'd known Jean was angry from the moment they'd been transported to Stark Tower. He could feel it rolling off of her, targeted at both Raven and himself, but Jean hadn't said anything. Not at first.

She was simmering. He knew more than a bit about that. He knew when she left the tower shortly after they'd gotten there that she wanted space to think, to stew, to gather her thoughts before she confronted him. He was ill-inclined to complain, since it gave him time to think, too.

So when she landed, he thought he knew what was coming--mentally followed her steps until she was in the room behind him. And then she spoke.

And made her first mistake. Erik frowned in the window, adopted an expression of surprise as he turned to look at her. His mind was locked down, now, without the need for a psylink. He couldn't afford to betray anything.

"I knew you wanted to talk. But Kara? Your friend the...journalist, was it?" he asked, eyebrows knitting. "Is she stuck in the city? Do you want me to let her leave?"

He knew the real reason. Knew that Kara was Supergirl, that that was the relevant problem. But Erik had no reason to know that. And to admit that he did would admit to far more.

"I thought you wanted to talk about Raven."

JEAN: The age old adage was that love and hate were separated by a very thin line, the insinuation that intense emotions clouded you to what side you stood on. Jean had been dealing with that assumption her entire life. People looked at her burning with rage and they wrote her off. Irrational. Childish. Too passionate for her own good, her empathy conflicting with judgement. They were all wrong.

Jean knew she loved Erik. She’d known that for a long time. It was as much a part of her as the ring around her finger, or her ability to move something across the room, as much as part as the Institute was or Charles. Charles, Rogue, all of these people she’d left in the dust … for what?

For a chance to fight a better war. For a chance to make a difference, to stop someone else from losing the love of their life. For a chance to make Jean Grey worth more alive than she was dead, to spit on that memorial plaque tacked onto the side of the mansion and scream that she was still here, still breathing, still fighting, still a massive pain in everyone’s ass.

She left the people she loved because she trusted the man standing in front of her. At least, she trusted that he loved her enough to hold back when it counted, selfishly believed that for all the forces that had been unable to restrain Magneto, it would be her hand on his arm that would pull him back.

“You know everything, don’t you?” It wasn’t how she’d planned to start this. In the hours she’d had in between the U.N. and now, she’d mapped it out, logically, in a way that would garner his respect instead of prompting an equally emotional response. They both knew how that would end. Well laid plans, and all that. “You know damn well who it is. I can’t read your mind — which really makes me be able to trust you, thanks very much — but I know you. And you know everything.”

He could be so cold, when he wanted to. It wasn’t reflected in his eyes yet, but it would be. She’d seen it before, she’d no doubt see it again. “Talk about what, Erik?” Jean asked. “How she murdered a man in cold blood? How she went against everything we planned before we walked in there? How you could’ve stopped her, but didn’t? Don’t give me bullshit about her being her own person. You know her as well as I do, better.”

A breath, a beat of a moment, then Jean was frowning.

“You’re distracting me,” she said. “You— asshole.”

ERIK: He didn't like manipulating the people he loved. He took no pleasure at all in the conversation he knew was coming, here, in the urgency of diverting Jean from knowing the truth about what had happened with Kara. Not here, not now. Not ever, if he had his way--people liked to say the truth always came out, but Erik had more than his fair share of skeletons long-buried that hadn't dug their way out yet. This could be another.

He didn't like manipulating them. But he'd learned ages ago how to do things he didn't want to, anyway.

Jean was so much like him, when it came down to it--her rage, her impulsiveness, her ability to see the bigger picture, the way that very ability got narrowed in throes of fury. She hadn't been angry often, with him, before Cuba, but he'd seen it against others, knew it well. That meant he knew exactly the buttons he needed to push.

He ignored the accusation and focused on the entitlement, because that... that he could use. "Oh?" he asked, and managed to keep the coldness from creeping in yet because she would feel that, would see it as disingenuous. "I can't possibly know everything, Jean, and I certainly can't keep track of every person every single mutant associates with. Kara was at the wedding, yes, I remember her--and I fail to see what she has to do with any of this."

This next was dangerous, liable to spark the tinderbox, but it was necessary. "In better news," he started, and there was a tone in his voice that even he couldn't quite manage to stick a label on, "I'm glad you seem to have grown use to using your powers on others whenever you feel like it. Mutant and proud, at last. You're not shy about using your telepathy, anymore, are you? Don't even ask anymore, and that's alright. You know you've always been welcome in my head." She knew he was trying to distract her. That didn't mean it wouldn't work. "I've got a lot of things on my mind, I didn't want to bombard you when you're a woman on a mission. And I think we can both agree it’s for the best that we’re not in each others’ heads during an argument."

The board was set. Time for the distraction. “But since you’ve brought it up—you’re right. I could’ve stopped Raven if I wanted to. And so could you. You were in her head, Jeannie, like you were in everyone else’s. One thought, and you could’ve stopped her in her tracks. But you didn’t, did you? Easier to blame me, I understand. Feel free, everyone does. But you could’ve stopped her, just as easily—if not more easily—than I. And you didn’t, and don’t tell me it’s because you didn’t know. You knew what she was going to do. If not at the beginning, than certainly before she snapped his neck. I warned you—and I know you picked up on some of the thought process as I did, because of the way you looked at me. But you didn’t stop her. Because you knew that would show weakness we couldn’t afford in front of the humans. Because you respect Raven’s autonomy enough not to seize control of her like you did him. And maybe, just maybe, because you didn’t mind so much that he died when you could see how much he wanted to do the same to us. So what is it you’re angry about, Jean? That I didn’t stop her? That you didn’t? That she hasn’t been punished? Or are you actually here to ask about what else you heard when I gave you that moment’s warning to make your own choice?”

Distract, deflect, direct. Coax her into a conversation he could have without bringing this whole thing down around his head.

JEAN: She knew how this was going to go down before she arrived, which was why she hadn’t chosen to discuss this conversation with her husband beforehand. Scott shed far too much light on a situation, made her see what was to be gained versus what was to be lost, and right now, Jean didn’t need that logical approach. She needed answers. She needed something to settle the uncertainty that had been swirling in her gut ever since the Raft, ever since the funeral, really, the uncertainty that only grew when she looked across a room and felt none of the warmth from the wedding, or the easy familiarity that came from dropping beside him on the couch, or the comfort of his voice reading poetry. All she found was the other side staring back.

“Don’t do that.” Boundaries. She would do things differently this time than she had in the apartment, before. They could do so much damage now. She needed to keep it controlled, needed to stop it getting close to the chest. Of course, with Erik, everything was close to the chest. “You know exactly what I mean. You’re being pedantic. You’re picking my words apart because the sentiment is right and you know it.”

Kara’s secret was one she trusted Jean with. Jean would die before she said the names Kara and Supergirl in the same sentence. Erik would know that. He knew what loyalty meant, what love meant, how it tore Jean up and tied her in knots. They were stuck at an impasse, and if he could just give her a moment to breathe, to think, she could find a way around it that meant …

“That is not what I meant,” Jean argued, viciously, biting down on her lip to stop words from spilling forth that she knew she wouldn’t mean tomorrow (though wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she mean them? Everything she’d said so far, she meant). “I’ve never read further into your mind than you’ve allowed. I read you aura, Erik. It … I can’t block all of it out. You don’t think I’ve tried?” Over and over and over again, she’d tried to give the people she loved some privacy. She’d even tried with Scott, and instead bonded them permanently to each other’s minds. “And how dare you— how dare you suggest I would—”

I didn’t want to bombard you … I think we can both agree …

Jean could hear her own heart thumping loud in her ears. “Do not,” she hissed, “decide what I am thinking!” She made her own choices. She defined her own destiny. That’s what she said, that’s what she always said, that’s what kept her sane when she was six feet under again and again and again…

He was talking, again. He was talking and he was well past three sentences, and Jean knew all of her well laid plans were well and truly out the window. They were standing in this place, in the building representative of Avengers and all their follies, looking out over a city that despised them, and they were supposed to feel … proud? They were supposed to feel as if this was something other than another hollow victory gained through violence?

Erik was well past three sentences, and that meant Jean was losing. She didn’t like to lose. The more words he got out, the more they curled around in her brain, turning inside out, making her doubt herself and her decisions and her sanity, if he did it right.

Because this is what he did. This is what he had always done. As a child, she thought it was putting the world to rights, guiding her with a soft hand on her shoulder. Now?

Now she wasn’t so sure.

“I didn’t stop her because contrary to your belief, Erik,” she snapped, “I don’t use my powers to change people’s decisions, or their choices. I held that man there, yes, but I didn’t stop him from saying what he wanted to, deep down. I didn’t make him understand us, because I could. I could’ve walked in there and made every single damn one of them agree with us, but what you don’t seem to understand is that forced submission isn’t genuine victory!”

A good point, well made, but in the beat when she caught her own shaky breath, Erik hit her with another.

That I didn’t stop her? That you didn’t?

Jean’s hands flew down to her sides, hands opening, energy pushing back only strong enough to get him away, to get him to stop, to make him …

”To make him hurt?” a voice provided, from the back of her mind. Jean was gasping, now, heat building up in her throat. She wasn’t going to cry, yet her eyes were burning. ”We could do that. You and me, together, we could take him apart … piece by little piece. He wouldn’t underestimate you then, Jean. He wouldn’t be alive to say a word …”

“Stop,” she said, to the voice or to Erik or to herself. “Just—“

The rest of his words sunk in, and slowly, Jean raised her head to look at him with narrowed eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

(She knew.)

ERIK: This conversation wasn’t going to be fair. It never would be, when he and Jean were fighting, not really, because Jean Grey knew Erik Lehnsherr as a professor and as a parental figure before she’d ever known him as anything else. He’d been in her heart, and she in his, for years before Cuba had happened and ripped everything apart. Jean had seen Erik in battle, since then, though he’d always been holding back a bit around her. His goal had never been to hurt any of the X-Men.

Jean didn’t know who he’d been before the Institute. Jean had never met the man who spent decades as a spy and an assassin, who had spent nearly forty years of his life lying and stealing and trapping and killing. She knew he was a good orator, but she didn’t know just how that skill had been honed over the decades by learning to read people and tell them what they needed to hear to respond the way he wanted. Jean trusted him because as a professor, he’d had no cause to lie to his students. As a parent, he had no cause to lie to the children. And as an enemy, he’d never been anything but forthcoming about his goals and what he would do to get them—and what he wouldn’t do.

He’d never lied to her, before, which set expectations. He wasn’t playing by the rules, right now—and miraculously, the Phoenix didn’t seem inclined to out him, for all her the Phoenix shows you the truth. The bird knew, then, that this was a necessary deceit. That he was in the right.

( Then why did he feel so guilty?)

“Don’t do what, Jean? I’m not being pedantic, you’re being vague. You mention her name and expect me to know exactly what the problem is? I’m not the mind reader, I don’t keep tabs on your friends, and I don’t have any idea what sentiment you’re talking about let alone what I could do to fix it!” he snapped in exasperation, throwing his hands up.

And then she took the bait, and the conversation mercifully shifted. Exactly as he’d expected. He knew Jean, knew how dearly she held to Charles’ teachings about the responsibilities of telepaths to not pry unnecessarily, and he knew it’d get the rise he needed to turn the conversation. “I know how telepathy works, Jean, which is why I’m blocking you out. You can’t do it yourself, so I give you a hand, and suddenly I’m the one at fault for trying to let you think through things in your head without my mind putting out interference. Well, my apologies.”

He could see the shift happen in her, could see the vein pulsing in her temple, the fingers twitching at her sides, the color rising in her cheeks. She was even angrier than she’d come in, and part of Erik wanted to wrap his arms around her the way he used to and give her something to direct it at—tell her to shatter the glasses behind the bar, because glass could be replaced more easily than walls. But he didn’t, because he needed her angry to give her the pushes she needed in the right direction. Jean hated being told what to do, as she’d just so clearly emphasized, which meant he had to do it more subtly than orders.

He’d always been so good at twisting words, twisting reality, to fit what he needed others to believe. She knew he was doing it, and it was working anyway, because it was one thing to know what someone was trying to do and another to be able to stop it.

Jean’s defense earned a laugh he didn’t bother to fight down. “You didn’t change his decisions, did you? That’s interesting, because I seem to remember him looking distinctly surprised when he started talking. He couldn’t move except to tell the hall what he thought, what you needed them to hear. He wasn’t going to say anything at all, but you made him do that. But no, no, changing his mind was a step too far,” Erik scoffed. “Better to make him a passenger in his own body, was it? More moral? You can’t have it both ways, Jean. How does this end, do you think? Voluntary submission? We’re forcing them, either way, because that’s how it was always going to have to go, but rather than make things easy by changing their minds, you and Charles would rather let people on both sides die in a good old fashioned war when we have the tools to win before it even starts.” And this…. this was a conversation he didn’t need to have with Jean, because he knew, he knew, it’d go no better than it ever had with Charles in their philosophical debates. But he needed her to doubt what she was saying, because she needed to doubt what she’d came in here about in the first place.

It was working, it seemed, because she knocked him backward a few steps with a flick of her hands, and Erik let her push until she got a grip on herself. Gave her a moment, to pull her mind back together just enough that this wouldn’t go like it had in Brooklyn, so she wouldn’t bring the Tower down around them in a burst of Phoenix-fueled anger.

( The Phoenix was being quiet, for him, now, for the first time in a while, and wasn’t that funny. )

“You know what I’m talking about,” he answered, meeting her eyes unabashedly. Stepping back to where he’d been a moment before, and then closer, closer. “You heard me think of him, in the moment before Raven snapped that man’s neck. Felt the déjà vu. And you want to know why. Want to know what could’ve possibly happened that would remind me of him in the midst of a murder.” He was standing in front of her know, and reached out for her hand, pressed it against his temple. “You want to see into my head? Fine. Look.”

It was a gamble. A dangerous one. But he’d kept secrets from Charles and from Jean alike, before. He was confident he could keep memories of Kara under lock and key while letting her in to see this.

Part of him didn’t want to share this with her. What had happened all those years ago was still one of the more painful parts of his past, certainly the most painful in the last fifty-some years, and he often did his best to avoid thinking about it.

But part of him was desperate for it. He didn’t know what Charles had told her, after Cuba, what any of the others had said to the young students, but they’d seemed angry, the first time he’d seen them afterwards on the other side of a battlefield. They knew enough to take sides. He could give his side to Jean, now, mistakes and all, talk about it with someone other than Raven for the first time in years, and one way or the other, she would understand.

JEAN: She couldn’t say that he was one of the few on Earth to prompt this response from her. It wouldn’t be fair, especially in recent times, to suggest that Erik was capable of getting under her skin and igniting the flame from her chest in ways that would normally remain tempered and flickering just under the surface, ash that still glowed red. Jean was always like this -- searching for something to scream at, something to rebel against. When she was sixteen years old, Scott only a few metres away from her in battle, Bobby being thrown by a giant robot and Warren desperately trying to save civilian onlookers, Scott had met her gaze across the battlefield and yelled, ‘Let go, Jean.’

Let go.

They were words she’d dreamed of hearing in every fight after that. It didn’t even take a beat, not a second of hesitation, before those walls she’d so carefully, painstakingly built over the past five years, over her entire goddamn life, crashed to the ground around her. The robot was thrown back. A building fell. Lampposts bent, cars went flying. Her friends were shielded from all of it by an invisible barrier she had tried, many times since, to replicate and and failed.

The world broke apart around her, and all Jean could think was this is how it feels to breathe.

Then the Phoenix came, and she never managed to catch a breath that didn’t taste like smoke in the back of her throat, that didn’t remind her what happened when she lost grip for even a second -- a lost night, darkened weekends, blood on her shirt, red dust on her knees. All of these unexplained mysteries, all of these lifetimes she’d lived with the Phoenix, and she couldn’t remember. All she could see were the flames. All she could feel was the power simmering in her veins.

So it wasn’t Erik, not entirely. But he didn’t help, either. He knew exactly what to say, exactly what expression would turn it from mildly irritating to infuriating. He knew what he was doing, and she knew what she was doing, but whether it worked didn’t rely on Jean’s introspection or her perceptiveness regarding the issue. Whether it worked entirely depended on Erik’s motivation for it working -- and he’d been extremely motivated in the past few months.

She pretended it wasn’t since the Raft.

“You’ve never needed a book full of details from me before to provide some degree of comfort,” Jean replied. “If you knew nothing about Kara, you would say that. You’re talking around it. You’re saying all these words and you’re flipping it back on me, and I know you’re something to do with it. I know it isn’t a choice that she would’ve made, because--”

Because it wasn’t a choice Jean would’ve made up in that space shuttle so many years ago, if she knew what came with it. If she knew death was no longer an option. If she knew worlds would fall to its talons. If she knew that she would never again, not really, be free to be her own person. No one chose to give parts of themselves up. No one chose to have someone else in their head.

Jean was not going to be to humanity as the Phoenix was to her.

“I’ve lived with this my entire life,” Jean retorted, voice picking up in volume. “I’ve been hearing the world’s thoughts since I was fifteen years old, and you really think your mind is going to interfere with mine? I know my own thoughts, thanks very much. I don’t need you to try and make things easier for me.” All you’ve done is make them harder, she thought after the fact, but she didn’t broadcast it -- couldn’t broadcast it. His mind was closed off, and it wasn’t fair. Erik wasn’t the reason things were going to hell. That was all on Jean.

And then he was speaking again, reminding her of that fact, and Jean wanted to put him through the glass window Loki had thrown Iron Man from during the Incident. (They’d been watching it, from the mansion -- had been protecting their own, fighting the good fight within their own walls. They’d always been battling against extinction. This was nothing new.)

“You brought me,” Jean snapped back. “I’m a telepath. You know what I do. There’s no way for me … you talk about using my gifts. You talk about them as if they’re something to be proud of, and then you judge me for my implementation. There is no way to use telepathy that doesn’t fuck people up, Erik. There’s no way I can be in someone’s head and not leave a trace there, not make them … not change them in some way!”

Emma might’ve been capable of that. She was a surgeon’s scalpel while Jean was a battering ram. It had always been that way. She wondered if that meant Erik respected her more. She wondered if Scott looked at Jean, sometimes, and wondered why she wasn’t capable of that much discretion, why she tore things apart in her wake.

This wasn’t about Jean. This was about Kara. She was focusing on Kara. She was focusing--

On Erik. On the lump in her throat that was forming at the memory that was far further forward in her mind than she would’ve admitted to, the memory she’d been turning over ever since the U.N. It mingled with the blood that had pooled on the plush carpet, meaning that all Jean could think was death and secrets and applying both to a man she trusted, a man she needed to trust if this was to go to plan, if this wasn’t just one giant mistake …

“Is that supposed to be a dare?” Jean asked, but there wasn’t nearly the level of bitterness in her voice that there perhaps should’ve been. She looked at Erik for a long moment, at his familiar, tired face, at the weight he’d been carrying on his shoulders for the past few weeks, at hands that crafted a music box for her wedding, at the fact that he was standing here, in front of her, when John and Elaine and Charles and her siblings were not.

She sucked in a breath, stepped forward, and touched her fingertips to his temple.

“Show me,” she whispered.

ERIK: The distraction worked. She argued, she pushed back, but in the end it worked, and she was closing her eyes and pressing her fingers to his temple and letting him turn the subject matter to something else. Something just marginally more comfortable.

He couldn’t just go to what she’d seen in the UN. She needed context, needed some sort of background on how they’d gotten to that point in the first place, which meant… he needed to start at the Institute.

Charles stares at the chessboard, fingers tapping lightly against his cheek in a gesture that’s far more endearing than it has right to be as he attempts to make sense of Erik’s last play. It’d been a circuitous move, the midpoint of a maneuver for checkmate that Erik had started executing three moves before and Charles seemed not to have caught onto, yet. He would, no doubt, the next turn, but by then it’d be too late to mount much of a defense. Erik tipped the martini glass to his lips, raising a brow as Charles made his move and spoke for the first time in several minutes—not that he’d minded. Silences were companionable, between the two of them.

“Shaw’s declared war on mankind. On all of us. He has to be stopped.”

Ah. So that’d been where his mind was. On tomorrow. Charles sounded like he was trying to convince himself, because Erik knew already. But Erik had been hunting Nazis—hunting Shaw—for decades. He was used to operations like this. Charles was a young academic, used to the safety and security of ivory towers. He’d been happy to push the kids to hone their powers, but tomorrow they’d be going to fight someone dangerous. Someone deadly, someone who’d made no bones about killing one of their own in the middle of a CIA building. The man and their students were about to have their first taste of war, and nerves were to be expected. But he needed to correct one word—one little word that made a world of difference.

“I’m not going to stop Shaw. I’m going to kill him.” Charles blinked, brow creasing, and Erik leaned forward to capture the man’s queen without hesitation. “Do you have it in you to allow that?” he asked as he leaned back in his seat, watching Charles across the board. The telepath huffed out something that sounded nothing like a laugh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he avoided Erik’s gaze. “You’ve known all along why I was here, Charles.” He’d never made an effort to hide it, not once. He’d let himself be sidetracked somewhat by the school, but the mountain of papers in the safe under his desk were ample testament to the fact that he hadn’t let his mission about Shaw go. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Had Charles thought that had changed?

He’d known from the beginning that that was, perhaps, part of the man’s goals. Charles had gotten into his head, that night out on the water. He had seen Erik’s past written out as plainly as if it were emblazoned in the stars, because those memories had been the only thoughts in his head as he nearly drowned trying to drag Shaw and his submarine back from the depths. He’d felt the fear and the anger and the pain, felt the jagged shapes of the memories Emma had dragged out of his mind of Shaw’s leering face over him on an operation table. He knew. And that night, and every night since, he’d tried to give Erik calm. He’d forced it into his mind, that night, to stop him from inhaling lungfuls of seawater, and had been carefully managing things since. And Erik had felt more at peace than he had in a long time before. The days were filled with caring for children, teaching them, training them, the nights filled with chess games and drinks and nights curled up in bed with a man who chased off nightmares—quite literally, if need be.

But he hadn’t forgotten the mission. Charles knew that, had to know that. He’d walked in on Erik’s attempts to track the man’s movements by newspaper clippings and hear-say. He knew that Erik’s rare ‘vacations’ on weekends weren’t to go lay on a beach but to track down sources. All this training for the strike team of some of their more gifted students had been formulated to stop Shaw based on the information they gathered from those missions and the CIA’s attempts to keep tabs on him.

He knew the hunt was still on. Was he really betrayed by the notion that Erik wasn’t content enough not to finish it properly?

Evidently so, judging by the rest of the exchange. Charles was still so insistent that they could shift the narrative about mutants, that saving the world from a madman intent on wiping humanity off the face of the planet would be enough to make humans less hateful. Erik knew better. He knew they wouldn’t focus on the saving. They would focus on the mutant who’d been mad enough to attempt triggering nuclear armageddon in the first place. Mutants would never, never, be able to do enough good to make humans like them. ( Erik had saved their lives, in the factory, and they’d repaid him by burning his house, his family, his life to the ground. )

But Charles—optimistic, naïve Charles, didn’t want to hear it. Even now. Didn’t want to admit that his own research supported Erik in asserting that humans would never do anything but fight them, looked indignant that Erik would even bring up his thesis to defend the simple truth and yet could not articulate a rebuttal. Not on that front, at least.

“Listen to me very carefully, my friend,” Charles said lowly, urgently, across the board as his eyes locked onto Erik’s. “Killing Shaw will not bring you peace.”

“Peace was never an option.” Not for him. Not for mutants. Not for anyone in this mess of a world. But if he couldn’t have peace, he could have vengeance, and maybe that would be similar enough to chase the ghost of his mother out of his nightmares.

He couldn’t have peace. But maybe he could give it to her.

Charles had been angry, after that. Had gone off to bed when Erik had rounded up his king with a brief ‘goodnight.’ He didn’t need to be a telepath to know he wasn’t welcome to follow.

Jean needed to know that he’d made no lies about intent, that he’d never obfuscated what he intended to do that day in Cuba. Perhaps he hadn’t been forthcoming on the how, but he’d told Charles the night before that Erik fully intended to make him an accessory to murder.

<<I warned him.>>

The words sound guilty, anyway, as Erik shifts his mind in the direction of Cuba.

JEAN: For a moment, Jean wasn’t entirely sure whether it was two years before and she was back to missing entire nights, waking up in an alleyway with blood smeared on her shirt with no idea of how it got there, no idea of how to get it out, no idea of who to turn to because how did you explain what was happening without sounding completely insane? The room around her in this memory was familiar, achingly so, with just enough minor differences that she could pinpoint within a matter of moments exactly what had changed since the last time she was there — books with crisp white pages and intact spines, leather that wasn’t worn from the sunlight, curtains a slightly lighter shade of cream. Everything was tinged with a newness she never learned to associate with the mansion, which was always so steeped in history right from the first day she walked in to the last day she walked out.

She would return one day, no doubt, and one day soon. They’d all return, and they’d have done something important, something grand something that allowed mutant history to begin being written in stone instead of passed down via oral tradition and altered because it was stripped from them every step of the way. She would return one day, and it still wouldn’t look how it did in this memory, because memories were in the past. No matter how they tried, they could never go back.

Not even if the Phoenix promised to make her think she had.

Shaw. Jean, ever curious, knew enough to recognise the name. One of the first, if not the first, mission of the X-Men — before her time, of course. She was one of the original members, but there were leaders before she arrived, people who fought the fight decades before she fell to her knees in the middle of the road. There was a shining office, and there was a feeling of warmth, and there was the memory of something foreign bubbling warm in Erik’s chest … no, not foreign. Familiar, just unexpected. Fears assuaged, stories listened to, nightmares swept away.

(She did the same for Scott. The second the thought crossed her mind, she knew it was a dangerous one. Bringing Scott into anything was a surefire way to have Jean crumbling like a house of cards, her weakness and her strength rolled into one. But she couldn’t stop it any more than she could stop herself from reaching for Erik when he offered. She couldn’t hold back the memories that came to her mind, then, of nights spent with her fingers threaded through Scott’s hair, his head in her lap, doing everything that it took to keep the demons at bay so he could sleep for even a few hours.

He never wanted her to do it every night, even if she begged him. He never wanted to burden her, never wanted to let himself forget what had happened. It sharpened him, turned him into the man — the boy — she’d met on that park bench. She had the distinct impression Erik followed a similar school of thinking. They always seemed to.)

I warned him.

A few words, a glance in her direction, a familiar thought that brought her right back to the Raft, because she knew how it felt to kill people, how to rip them apart, how to want to, desperately …

<< Sometimes warnings aren’t enough. >>

It wasn’t broadcast with any kind of confidence, though. This, what he was showing her, wasn’t a fraction of a second before an action in battle. It wasn’t a decision that was made on the basis of discriminatory thoughts yelled across a room. This was a conversation before a fight — not so much a warning as drawing the line in the sand, stating their position. He couldn’t be any clearer.

Jean swallowed thickly, looking at Erik with renewed perspective. << Shaw deserved to die. >> It wasn’t a question. Even without the rest of the memory, even at this stage, she knew enough to read through his subconscious. << You told him. What happened next? >>

ERIK: It never ceased to be an odd sensation, the feeling of someone else in your mind—watching your memories, letting their own flicker in. Brief moments, because Jean was skilled but not as controlled as Charles had been: a flash of Scott with his head in her lap, a flicker of nightmares being tweaked so her now-husband could sleep. Familiar in content, if not in perspective. Erik didn’t mention the momentary intrusions, only responded to the thoughts she deliberately sent his way.

Not enough. Perhaps not. But he didn’t know how to give anything else. And then she asked what happened next, and Erik grimaced. He didn’t want Jean to see him like he’d been, that day. But he’d started this trip down memory lane knowing it was necessary. That didn’t make his pride any easier to swallow. Even so, the memory shifted solidified into the engine room of the submarine.

“I’m sorry about what happened in the camps,” Shaw tells him, and Erik’s thoughts stutter briefly to a halt. It’s a lie. He knows it’s a lie. Shaw was a psychopath, a sadist, an unapologetically cruel man. Every single word this man has ever uttered to him was meant to hurt, including this. And yet. “Truly, I am,” the man continues, and Erik hasn’t moved, hasn’t breathed in those intervening seconds that feel like an eternity as he tries to make sense of why the man would ever say those words to him.

It’s obvious, a moment later, as the hesitation makes it pathetically easy for Shaw to step forward and tap him between the eyes, sending Erik flying into the mirrored walls behind him, and suddenly he’s back on overdrive. Pain lances through his ribs, through his head, and he feels the panic that he’d managed to shove aside when he’d heard the doors close behind him surge back with a new vengeance. He’s on the ground, alone with a man who delighted in making him hurt and had the force of a nuclear reactor behind him to do so, and he’s going to get tossed around like a ragdoll and get a hand shoved through his chest, he’d seen it happen before...

Charles’ voice is back in his head. “Erik! Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it, it’s starting to work.” That puts the brakes on the spiral of panic, at least temporarily. Was it the glass, keeping Charles out? One way to find out, unfortunately. Erik starts to get to his feet, but he’s slow. Purposefully. And Shaw’s talking again.

“But everything I did, I did for you. To unlock your power. To make you embrace it.” Another tap, this one under the chin, and Erik sails across the room to crash into the opposite wall and feels a rib crack as the glass tumbles down around him. Charles’ voice in his mind informs him that it’s working, but he can’t get purchase on Shaw’s mind, not yet, and no. Not the glass. Can’t be. There’s something else blocking Charles, something—

The helmet. The man doesn’t need armor, has never needed protection from physical attacks a day in his life. A bomb could go off over his head and he’d swallow the energy no worse for wear. Had Emma sensed the presence of another telepath, back on the boat? Protection from telepathy was the only thing that made sense, and maybe that was why the thing looked like metal but didn’t respond at all to Erik’s senses.

“You’ve come a long way from bending gates. I’m so proud of you,” Shaw says with a smirk, and takes a step toward Erik, and no. No, no, no. Erik pulls whatever metal he can get a hold of from the walls and ceiling around them, throws it between him and Shaw to keep the man away. It does nothing except make the man’s eyes spark with amusement as he keeps talking, keeps walking without so much as pausing. “And you’re just starting to scratch the surface. Think of how much further we could go. Together.” Erik’s pushing the beam between him and Shaw as far as it will go, but it bends around Shaw like water parting, despite all his effort, and Erik realizes with a shudder a moment later that he’s pinned.

Oh, g-d.

One of the man’s hands stays pressed against the steel, keeping Erik stuck, as the other comes up to rest against the side of Erik’s head like a cage, the man’s face inches from his own. It’s like being chained to an operating table all over again. Worse, because for all his age, all his improvements, Shaw is still playing with him as easily as he had when Erik was a child. Humiliation burns in the back of his throat, terror filling his veins and making him clench his fists to hide their trembling. One twitch of the man’s fingers could collapse his skull, his ribcage, could crush him like little more than a bug on a windshield. Instinct kicks in, and Erik keeps his gaze on the ground, because staring the man in the eyes had only ever made things worse all those years ago.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Erik. I never did. I want to help you,” Shaw says gently, and Erik would laugh if he felt like he had the air in his lungs to do so. “This is our time. Our age. We are the future of the human race. You and me, son.” Erik’s stomach turns at the word, bile rising in his throat, and he sucks in a breath that’s not nearly enough to keep him from feeling like he’s drowning all over again. “This world could be ours.”

Ours.

No. Not his and Shaw’s. There are others he wants to share this world with, to claim it for, people outside waiting for him. The doctor who’s stayed a step ahead of him for decades has made a miscalculation, thinks he’s broken Erik enough that he’d come in here alone to die. Maybe he would have, not so long ago.

But not today. Erik swallows, and lets his powers slowly reach out into the room around him again.

“Everything you did made me stronger,” Erik rasps out. “Made me the weapon I am today. It’s the truth. I’ve known it all along.” Distractions, but not lies, and Erik prays that Charles isn’t listening to the ring of truth in that moment as he finally turns to look Shaw in the eyes, sees the man’s grin at the concession. He thinks of that photo on the wall in the bar in Argentina, Shaw’s grin as he clasps his arms around the two Nazis Erik had left in a heap that day. They’d asked what he was, and Erik had responded that he was Frankenstein’s monster. “You are my creator,” he says, and steel piping lashes out to pluck the helmet from Shaw’s head.

Shaw turns, but Charles is faster, and the man freezes mid-reach, the helmet hovering just away from his fingertips. Erik lets the beam that had been pinning him drop to the floor and steps over it to circle around to the front of the man. His blood is roaring in his ears as he looks between the helmet and Shaw, in the silence.

The man is an unparalleled threat. Unapologetic of the damage he’s done, eager to do more. There was no prison that would keep him restrained, Erik was confident. Not with his connections, not with his powers. Moira had promised that there was a cell fitted for him, and Charles had seemed to take her at her word, but Erik didn’t trust the CIA. They’d invited Nazis into the United States for Operation Paperclip, had let them hide amongst the ranks of the government to pursue the ends of the Americans despite the atrocities that sat on their hands. Shaw had connections across the globe that the CIA was no doubt eager to exploit. They’d cut a deal. Shaw would go free.

No.

“I’m sorry Charles,” he says, and lets the helmet drop into his hands, and hears the immediate protests start up in his mind. Pleading. “But I don’t trust you.” Not for this. Not after last night. Erik settles the helmet on his head, and Charles voice and presence disappears.

He has to finish this. By any means necessary. Erik steps forward, presses his head against the Shaw’s outstretched hands, and stares him in the eyes. “If you’re in there, I’d like you to know that I agree with every word you’ve said. We are the future. But,” he says, after a moment, turning on his heel, putting some distance between them. “Unfortunately, you killed my mother.”

The Reichsmark the man had pressed into his palm all those decades ago is burning in his pocket, and Erik’s hand wraps around it again as he turns back to face him, echoing the words the man had uttered to introduce the challenge that Erik had failed. That had killed his mother. “This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to count to three. And I’m going to move the coin.”

He counts. The coin rolls on towards Shaw’s head, through the air, and Erik knows that Charles is the only thing keeping the man still. That if Charles lets go of his mind, even for a moment, Shaw’s powers will kick in, stop the coin. Shaw will kill him, if Charles lets go, and there’s no two ways about it—the telepath won’t have the chance to seize control of someone like Shaw again. Charles is inside the man’s head, and will have to remain there as the coin goes through the man’s skull.

Erik doesn’t stop. He had come here to kill Shaw. He had known the only way to do so would be if the man was under Charles’ control. Getting him to do this was a necessary evil. There's not a bone in his body that wants to hurt the telepath, but he knows this is the only way things can go. This only way he can get a moment of revenge for his father, for his mother, for Ruthie, for everyone who’d suffered in the camps. For himself.

He doesn’t stop until the coin comes out the back side of Sebastian Shaw’s skull and drops to the ground.

More than he has in his entire life, Erik feels like he can breathe, even with the guilt fizzling low in his stomach.

Wars are never won without sacrifice.

There's no defense he can offer Jean but this, no way he can expound upon his reasoning beyond what she's now seen, heard, and felt for herself. No excuses. He doesn't try.

JEAN: Everyone felt different. Everyone felt unique, in their own ways. It was one of the phenomena the Phoenix was so fascinated by, when it first emerged in her mind. It had marvelled, in fact, at the idea that humanity could be seen to be so separate, that each soul was something intrinsically special, worth defending, worth preserving. Originally, the flames were willing to engulf any and all because life (the energy, the force that it considered to be life, at least) was recyclable. Everything lived, everything died. It was a constant circle, and nothing mattered so much as long as it didn’t deviate from the lines that had been carefully constructed at the beginning of all time.

Jean hoped she’d changed that. She hoped that, if nothing else, she showed why she fought so desperately to protect every single life -- every single life until the Raft, until Central Park, until the U.N. Every single life until it came back down to what the Phoenix had always prophesied -- that life, ultimately, came down to numbers and numbers alone. The greatest benefit for the majority outweighed the suffering of the few. In numerical terms, Scott dying in that park was justifiable. Jean knew that it wasn’t, just as she knew she would never be able to recompense the loss of those men in the prison, regardless of what they had done, regardless of the war she was waging or message she was sending.

Death was never to be celebrated. Death was, always, to be revered, to be respected, in Jean’s case to be feared. There was a reason why, even when Erik opened his mind completely to her when she was scarcely a teenager, she refused to look any deeper than the surface. He always knew how to project memories forward that he knew she needed, that would help her steady herself. He knew how to hide other things away, because Jean, for all of her love of him, knew she couldn’t swallow what he had been through.

She knew, even then, she would burn the world down to get the memories of all that death purged from her own brain. Jean knew her limits, once. She wasn’t so sure anymore.

She wasn’t so sure as she listened to the curved words turned razor sharp as they passed Shaw’s lips, so similar to Mr. Sinister’s in another set of memories, curling and wrapping themselves around her. She wasn’t so sure as the scene screeched to a halt, as she realised that Erik wasn’t powerless, that he never would be again, that this was the moment where childhood officially ended, despite all that he’d suffered before the fact. She wasn’t so sure as she had a flash of a bullet ripping through flesh, and how that felt, how it sung to him even as it dropped his mother to the ground, how it became a part of him like this coin, this coin the same shape as the world, everything condensed down into something he could push into the palm of his hand so hard it left a faint, red circle to remind him.

That coin was covered in blood. That coin was called back to him -- she wondered, briefly, where it was now. Shaw was on the ground, and Charles had felt that, all of that, and Jean knew how it felt to be in the head of someone who died. She knew because that was her first experience of the thing Erik called a ‘gift.’ She knew because, as a child, she’d fallen to her knees beside Annie and known the dread that usually only came to adults who looked at the faces of their parents and knew, inevitably, what was to come.

She knew because she’d been replaying that moment in her head every single goddamn night since she was eleven years old. She knew because that moment, that memory, was all she needed to let the Phoenix get its talons into her back, because the devil … it was worth making a deal with whatever she needed to, to give up anything it asked for, as long as she didn’t need to taste that grief again.

The room fell into silence, Erik’s mind once again fading as her finger dropped from his temple, as her arms went around her own torso and gripped tightly. There was a lump so thick in her throat Jean didn’t think she could speak, but she didn’t want to broadcast, either, didn’t want any of this, not to hear other people’s thoughts or to get back in Erik’s head or to see all of that, again, or hear his reasoning, or justifications, or the war rhetoric she was sick of, over and over again …

“You gave him an Annie,” she said, finally, low but loud enough Erik would hear it (he always heard her). “You … you made him see Annie. You made him … do you have any idea what that feels like?” Her voice was higher, now, thinner -- thready and almost hysterical despite her best intentions otherwise. “To be in someone’s head, to … to have yourself ripped out, to see the last minutes and feel yourself bleeding, to know … God, Erik, what did you--”

ERIK: Jean took her fingers from his temple, and he knew what was coming, then. Had gambled on this getting under her skin enough to make her forget her anger about Kara—that was the whole point of this, after all, of dredging up those memories he usually kept back by way of drink or cigarettes or working himself into a state of enough exhaustion that he could have one of those blessed mostly-dreamless nights that were so rare anymore. Evidently, showing her had gotten the rise he bet on.

( What did it cost? )

Erik didn’t reach for her, didn’t so much as move as he watched her struggle to find the words to say what she needed to. When she spoke, though, the words weren’t at all what he’d anticipated. You gave him an Annie. He didn’t know who Annie was ( which felt like an oversight, in this context, and how close were they really if he didn’t know? ), but he could put the pieces together.

Somewhere, somehow, sometime along the line before the UN, Jean had been in someone’s head while they died. Not just in the vicinity of a death, but there in their head watching them die. She knew what it felt like to feel someone else die, in addition to all the times she herself had done the same, and it wasn’t fair. A child shouldn’t have to know that.

But children did know that. Lots of children, long before Jean, knew what it felt like to die.

Not him. Never him.

“No,” he answered, just as quietly as her first words, forcing her to cut herself off to hear. “No, I don’t know what it feels like to die, Jean. Despite everyone around me doing so, I never got the privilege.” That’s not what he should say, makes this worse instead of better and he knows it, but the words tumble out anyway.

It’s wrong to say to her, as his daughter, as someone who’s died three times and had apparently lived more than one death vicariously. It’s wrong to think, and he knows it, knows that it’s not a privilege to die and that anyone who’s died around him would much rather have continued to live, thank you. It’s wrong on so many counts, so many ways that are enumerated so many places, and yet.

And yet.

He doesn’t look at her, can’t, when he speaks. “Scott died, and you know how it felt to be alive when he wasn’t. Lasted all of a few weeks before you brought him back, and I’m happy you did Jeannie, I am. You got to bring him back. I—imagine,” he says, and his voice has gone suddenly hoarse. “Parents. Sister. Friends. In-laws. Wife. Lovers. Sons. Daughters. Every single time, it feels like that, and I can’t do what you did. I don’t get to bring them back, I don’t get a do-over. I get that feeling you had laid on top of itself over and over and over and over again and know that so many of them were my fault but I don’t get to change it, I just get the ghosts. Shaw never threatened me with the gas chambers in the camps, you know. I was useful. The only time I tried to escape before the riots, he dragged in the boy from the bunk beneath mine and made me watch him break every single bone and then dig the grave. I didn’t get to die with my first family, I didn’t get to die with my second one, I didn’t—I’m ninety years old, Jeannie, and still.” Still alive. Still useful. And he doesn’t begrudge Jean, doesn’t begrudge anyone for that fact but himself and his own insistence that no one else have to deal with the scale of loss he had.

“I am sorry that you know what it feels like to die, sorry that he knows it too, but I did what I had to do to live.” He hadn’t planned what he would do after killing Shaw, had never spared it a thought until Charles and the school and Jean. And then he’d lost that, too. “I should’ve died so many times, I should’ve died on the beach five minutes after Shaw when Moira starting shooting, but I didn’t and it’s always other people who pay for it because I can't save people.” No matter how hard he tried.

JEAN: She remembered sitting in a college lecture hall learning about child development, hearing the professor talk about these linchpins, cornerstones of existence that everyone came back to. ‘Every child has these, in different ways,’ she’d said. ‘If they miss out on them, if these core foundations start to crumble, that’s when things get difficult. It’s the same in adult life, too. So many things are. What happens to us as children, that digs deep down, it settles within us.’

At the time, Jean hadn’t been able to understand it, at least not entirely. At that point, she still had cornerstones. She had her parents back in Annandale-on-Hudson, had her sister on the other end of the phone, had Scott and the X-Men waiting at the mansion. She’d lost people, lost Annie and Erik most significantly, but she still knew who she was. She knew where she lived, knew she could count on the breath in her lungs.

It was easy to pretend the space mission never happened. It was easy to assuage Scott’s fears with a dismissive wave of the hand and a bright smile, to tell him that everything was fine and trust that he would believe her. It was easy because, for the most part, no one looked any deeper. Jean Grey was perfect. Jean Grey had it all together. Jean Grey was the best of them, the strongest, the most powerful, the one who would change the world …

The one who couldn’t falter. The one who couldn’t die, until she could.

She held patients’ hands as they passed. She looked into families’ eyes and told them that their loved ones’ time on Earth was limited, their days numbered. She was screamed at and swung for and cursed at. She took all of their rage and anger and frustration and pain, and she felt it more than any of the others, felt it more than any empathetic nurse or sympathetic doctor could manage, because she could hear every thought in their head, could see every memory.

Sometimes, death could be peaceful. Sometimes, it could be bittersweet, come at the end of a life well lived. Jean didn’t have much experience with that, outside of her career. All she knew was young mutants, underground. All she knew was a rapidly growing graveyard at the back of the Institute, how trees had to be ripped from their roots to make room for children.

All she knew was how it felt to look down and see blood seeping through her own uniform, to know, somewhat belatedly, that something vital had been hit, that it was over, that this was her numbered day. The end, and then the end again, and the end again …

“How dare you say that to me.” Her voice, scarcely more than a whisper, and her hands trembling by her side. “And how dare you talk about him.” They’d had this argument before, the last time glass shattered and flames raged around her and Erik’s arms wrapped around her shoulders and held onto her. That wouldn’t happen this time. She could feel something shifting, something almost maturing between them.

He knew she wasn’t a child anymore. It wasn’t a revelation, but … they’d been apart for so long, Jean almost forgot how much time they lost, how quickly their relationship had to change.

“Is that what you think I did with Scott? With myself?” Jean asked. “A do-over? You really think I just … that I just wave my hand, and we’re back, and I didn’t need to sacrifice anything to do it?” Jean would make the same decision ten, fifteen, a hundred times if it meant Scott was standing next to her, that she could marry him, that she could feel what it was like to be his wife — but she also knew she’d made a bargain. An exchange, a promise, a deal with the devil. “I’m playing with a god, Erik. The Phoenix … it does what it wants. It made me lose weeks, months of my life. I don’t know what I did. I just know I woke up and there was …”

Blood. So much blood, smeared over her hands and in her hair. Dust on her knees and the soles of her feet, different colors than anything she’d seen before. Her fingers and lips were blue, most mornings, like she’d been gasping for air, or blasted with wind for hours on end.

The memories came with Erik’s words, subconsciously or not, bleeding through and melding around and Jean felt her heart pound harder in her chest. Suddenly, his voice wasn’t strong anymore. He wasn’t arguing a point. She could scarcely remember why she had came here in the first place — she didn’t want to remember.

Because someone she cared about was hurting. Someone she loved was in pain, and she might not be able to erase her mistakes, but if there was one thing people associated with the myth of Jean Grey that she didn’t loath having to live up to, it was that she was kind. Compassionate. Comforting.

“Erik,” she whispered, taking a step towards him, hand reaching to touch against his cheek this time. “No matter what we do, people are always going to die. It’s … it’s a fact.” She swallowed thickly, eyes dropping down. “We’re born, we live, we die. It’s that middle part, that’s what matters the most. The time we spend giving, laughing, alive, sharing, learning… that’s what makes life worth living in the first place. And what you’ve given me, what you’re giving us, our people — that’ll make up for all of it. I promise you.”

ERIK: She responds about as well as he’d expected, which was not well at all. She isn’t threatening to bring the building down on them for mentioning Scott, which is, at the least, an improvement from last time. He’d probably deserve her throwing a chair at him for those words.

Because Jean wasn’t the child he’d left behind at the Institute all those years ago. That Jean had been young and brilliant and still bright-eyed with what childish innocence mutants were ever allowed to have. She was safe and protected at the school from the unrest outside their walls. The Jean Grey before him now was a warrior, was someone who had fought and died on the battlefield alongside her kin time and time again now and still came back to it each time she resurrected to help protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. This Jean Grey wasn’t just the most powerful telekinetic Charles had ever seen, but had served as the vessel for the force of life itself for decades, now, and not fallen to pieces. Jean was an X-Man who risked her life fighting for mutants and then turned around and tried to save lives in the hospital. She was not a stranger to death. She had borne the pain of countless people, patients and friends and family alike, and not broken.

“I know,” he murmured, in response to her own quiet outrage and the trembling of her hands at her sides. It wasn’t fair to say that to her, of all people. But Jean knew death was a fact but everything around it was subjective, knew all too well the ways people could respond to it, and Erik had never been the sort to blunt what he felt to be true for the sake of someone else. Jean’s feelings about the matter could be a world different from his and still, both could be right. Perhaps not fair. But correct in their own ways. Maybe it was unfair to burden her with thoughts about it from him, here and now, but this conversation hadn’t started out fair, either, had it?

( Erik hadn’t been good for so many people in his life, maybe this was no different. )

“I’m not saying it was easy, Jean. But you still got the chance. Do you know what I would give for that?” Of course she did. They were so similar, in the best and worst ways, and they both knew it went without saying that either of them would sign away just about anything if it meant keeping the ones they loved safe. Even now, they were making that bargain: laying siege to millions of people in order to secure a safe place for their people, their family, to rest.

No cost too high.

He could mention that he knew more than a bit about the Phoenix himself, now, too. That a shard of it had buried itself in him, that he knew it wasn’t all sunshine and roses. That he was increasingly unsure what was him and what was it ( and how far apart they’d been in the first place ). That where she had holes in her memory, he had memories he avoided looking at too closely, now, because if he dwelled too long they felt off and set his mind off on paranoid tangents. That he was sleeping only a few nights a week. That he was increasingly unsure who and what he could trust, that he felt like he was constantly on more of a hair-trigger than he’d been in a long time.

But he didn’t say any of that, tried to not even think it too loudly because he knew Jean already blamed herself for what had happened on the Raft. He didn’t blame her for this. The Phoenix, for all its… side effects, had proven useful. Shown him to his daughter, helped him realize powers he’d not pieced together, provided a boost to his reach as the stakes got higher and higher.

Everything is fine.

And it was. Because in the next moments, Jean’s anger at him seemed to dissipate. ( On her own? ) She stepped forward and cupped her hand to his cheek, and Erik closed his eyes and wrapped a hand around her wrist—not to pull her away, not to keep her close, just to be grounded. ( It was a coincidence that filled his chest with warmth, the knowledge that Jean and Wanda both made the very same motion as comfort. Both of his red-headed girls. )

Jean always knew what to say. She always had. What you’ve given me, what you’re giving us, our people—that’ll make up for all of it. Yes. It had to. Everything he’d done, everything he lived through, everything he was doing now. even the very thing she’d come in here to confront him about were all done for the sake of the future. For the greater good. Sacrifices had to be made, unfortunate and tragic and painful as they were, but here and now, they were finally in the endgame. They were almost free. Just a little bit more time, a little bit more struggle, and then he’d be able to give her, give all of them, the world they deserved.

Erik brought his hand up to cup her cheek in turn, and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her head, letting out a slow breath. “Danke, schatzen.” She’d come to pick the fight he’d wanted to avoid, and instead ended up lifting a weight from his chest on that very matter. “You always know what to say. My brilliant Jean,” he murmured, pulling away and offering her a smile that was back to its usual warmth.

JEAN: Jean could handle a lot. She could handle being killed in the middle of a battle, knowing from the look on Scott’s face that there was a bloodstain so large on her uniform that she wouldn’t be coming back from it this time. She could handle fighting since she was a teeanger in a war that her people were always destined to lose, because that’s how history worked. She could handle facing off against a man who, for all intents and purposes, was the closest to a father she’d ever had, and definitely considered family long before an enemy. She could handle being part of the X-Men and going to medical school, could hide at work, could come out at work, could watch friends and family fall.

What she couldn’t handle, what she couldn’t even begin to cope with, was the idea that her entire life was falling down around her and she was entirely to blame. If Jean indulged in that level of thinking, she could go down the rabbithole quite quickly.

If she hadn’t thrown that frisbee. If she’d just been able to hold herself together, stop herself from tearing down the school around her. If she didn’t need therapy, or counsellors, or over-medicated to try and keep her calm before her parents were just desperate enough to consider calling Professor X. If she didn’t go on that space mission. If she’d trained a little harder before it. If she hadn’t used Scott’s feelings for her to convince him she was ready. If she hadn’t called for the Phoenix, had just dodged that bullet, had controlled the fire a little better.

If she’d protected Scott. If she’d reached for Erik when he went to leave. If she reached for him now.

Life wasn’t about living in the past. Life wasn’t about memories, no matter how easily they came to her when they were like this, Erik’s smell and warmth and presence so familiar to her now, even if there had been a decade or more in between. Jean knew people. She knew them at their best, at their worst, in between. She told herself that was her superpower, her responsibility beyond all others to ensure that she preserved that special uniqueness all humans had -- the uniqueness that the Phoenix had doubted, for a long time.

She was overstating herself. Her power wasn’t knowing. That would mean she could accurately plan more than two steps ahead without setting things on fire in her wake. No, Jean’s power wasn’t reading minds, or levitating furniture, or even ripping atoms apart.

It was making things, however briefly, just a little bit better. A bandage around a wound. Painkillers, a gentle touch on the arm, the comfort of knowing someone was finally listening. A hug, her fingers running through their hair, poorly baked cookies that were misshapen but tasted half decent, enough to fill your stomach. Warm blankets and warmer sofas.

Erik in her arms.

Because this -- this was where she felt like Jean Grey. This was where she knew who she was. When Jean was mean, she could rip the very stars from the sky. When Jean was kind…

Oh, when Jean was kind she could put them back up there and make sure they shone brighter than before.

“Not always,” she muttered, but there was a small smile on her face, a lesser weight on her shoulders despite it moving to sit solidly in the square of her chest. She pushed her head into his shoulder, arms around his waist, and stood there for a long moment, swaying as she did.

Then he pulled away, and Jean had the distinct impression she had lost.

That was okay, she figured. She reached out to push hair off his forehead, to touch once more against his cheek before she let her hand fall. She could afford to lose sometimes.

“Love you,” she said, holding up a pinkie finger for him to link with his own. “Always.”

#c: jean grey #f: discord #d: the other side #tw: manipulative behavior #tw: gaslighting #tw: murder #tw: ptsd #tw: anxiety #tw: injury #tw: torture #tw: holocaust mention #tw: violence #tw: suicidal ideation

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grimmseye · 4 years

Text

A Bird in the Hand: Chapter Seven

Read on Ao3 here!

Rating: M

Fandom: Critical Role

Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast (eventual)

Chapter Characters: Mollymauk Tealeaf, Essek Thelyss, The Mighty Nein

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Molly Rez, Amnesiac Mollymauk, Oh My God They Were Roommates, Essek’s Ex-Catholic tendencies, Non-explicit sexual content and discussion, (Sexual content is not between main characters sorry)

— — —

Messages from the Nein — more specifically, from Jester — always brought with them a sense of dread. Any amount of joy or amusement or frustration he felt at her jabbering in his mind could always be accompanied by the undercurrent of foreboding as he remembered exactly what he had done. Sometimes he grew convinced they'd found out, a spiral of paranoia leaving him sick and shaking and running through contingencies as madly as a demon's thrall —

Counterspell for Caleb, though maybe Jester would earn it first. They would be the ones to harm him with magic. Caduceus would have to be put down swiftly, an illusion might be enough to hold him in place but then he wouldn't be able to handle the rest — Yasha would fall easily to control, he didn't know her as well and wouldn't suffocate on his guilt if he pried her mind apart and made her into a puppet one more time, trained that sword upon the rest — though again, maybe that was best reserved for Caleb, even if he was likely to shrug it off with the same teachings Essek had faced to turn that fire against his friends had nearly been the end of them before —

No, running would be his best option. Running, hiding. A spell to hold them still or stunned to grant him his escape. Alone, Essek could maybe pick a few of them off, but at the end of the fight he would be dead on the ground. It was best if he just ran.

And now he had someone to take with him just in case they tracked him down.

But every time it was just Jester's voice, overly-friendly as she always was, and the panic calmed into confusion or mirth or exasperation, all depending on the day. Today the dread remained, as he slipped down the stairs to where Mollymauk was lounging across the floor, scratching images onto paper with his tongue half poked out between his teeth. His gaze lifted to Essek's approach, tail curling up into the air. It was a hello, he'd determined, remembering how Jester's did the same.

"The Nein are going to be returning," Essek told him.

It was a curious range of emotions that darted across Mollymauk's face, and none of them looked good. When Mollymauk did not fill the silence, Essek continued, "I am going to be teleporting them to their next destination. It is a visit, not an extended stay."

The silence continued, Mollymauk sitting upright but not speaking, his tail coiling over the floor. Essek hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Do you want me to tell them you're here?"

It was enough to get Molly's gaze to refocus. "That's an option?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Not forever," Essek gave a wan smile. "But for now, if you do not feel ready to meet them again, you do not have to."

"Huh." He puffed out a breath, laying back down in time with the exhale, until he was splayed out across the rug and staring up at the ceiling. "Maybe. Yeah, you know what? Let's call that the plan until I say otherwise."

"Just be sure to tell them you wanted this when they do find out," Essek said, with dry humor. "I do not want them to think I've lied to them." And certainly not to know.

Time was running low. The exchange approached, and then it would be over. The mystery could fade, never to be solved. The Nein didn't need to know, and would never find out. Eventually the guilt would fade. There was hope on the horizon, but he had expected the feeling to be much warmer than he found it.

"They will be here soon," Essek added, after a beat. "It will take a while to complete the circle and travel across the city, but —"

"You won't even know I'm there." Mollymauk rolled over to get to his hooves, gathering up his supplies — they'd made a run to an art store to get more materials for his cards.

With Mollymauk gone, it left Essek in pensive silence as he waited on the Nein. Once upon a time, he'd planned to call in a favor or three, send them in a few separate directions to throw them and anyone else off his trail, use the idiots who'd thrown a wrench in his plan to put the pieces back into place. It would be smart, to cover his tracks, to let them believe the trail had gone cold. Now, he couldn't bear to further his own deception. He made empty threats, promising some dreadful task with no intention of following through. At this point the farce was embarrassing to keep up.

It would be over soon. He only needed to wait for the Peace Talks to conclude. Ideally, whatever they were doing now would eat up the time left over, let them trudge back home to where Essek could finally breathe in the same room as them, to where he had their friend safe and sound, to a brand new day where the past could be left to rot and Essek could —

— what? Sever himself from the Assembly? Impossible. He'd already done too much to break ties now. If he turned his back on their research, then what was the point of any of this? And if he couldn't turn his back, then the deceptions would continue. He would betray the Nein, again and again and again, each new falsehood tightening the noose he'd placed around his own neck.

Ice-cold dread splashed down his back. He clasped a hand to his mouth, wheezing through his shaking fingers. Then what, his mind demanded. Then what?

When the Nein arrived, Essek had cleaned himself up, his guilt and his panic sealed behind a cool facade. They came in their usual whirlwind of chaos, and he wondered if Mollymauk was listening in as they chattered among themselves, talking over each other and at him as always, a trait that had gone from infuriating to only a mild annoyance. Any time their jabbering grew to be too much, spiked anger in his chest, some part of his heart reminded him that he liked these people, and the resentment couldn't take hold.

"Hey. Hey." It was Beauregard's abrasive voice that broke him from his thoughts. She lifted a quizzical eyebrow. If there was anyone to be wary of, aside from Caduceus, it was her. Her eyes were dangerously sharp. "You get stuck up there?" She asked, pointing upwards.

Essek looked up, pausing for a long moment. He knew he was wrong even as he asked, "Upstairs?"

"No the — the sky, the clouds, you know." She waved a hand. When Essek didn't grant her an inch, she blustered, "Head in the clouds? Stuck with your head in — never mind." She deflated with a sigh. Rubbing her temples, Beau said, "You're being weird, what's up with that?"

And that was exactly why he was wary of her.

It would be safest to just brush it off. He could blame it on a project, on stress, on other responsibilities. That would be safe, that would be smart, but curiosity, as always, was present to drag him down.

"Something you asked a while ago stuck with me, that's all," Essek told her. He brushed his hair up and back, out of his face. "Nott asked me about a — Lucien? Molly?" He struggled not to tack the mauk onto the end. It had been Jester who gave that name, hadn't it? Molly had a cult.

He should probably ask Mollymauk about said cult.

It took Essek a moment to notice the others had gone quiet. A few of them looked to Yasha, whose fingers were squeezed tight around her own arms.

Of course. He instantly realized how idiotic he'd been — they still thought Mollymauk was dead.

"Yeah," Beau said, with the kind of casual tone that was audibly forced. He didn't know the details of Mollymauk's death, not even how long ago it had been, but the Nein had arrived without him quite some time ago. They'd likely grown used to the sting, even if the tension in Beau's body was unmistakeable. "He used to travel with us, and then one day he died. Was killed. He — yeah. You know something?" She glared, defensive in the same manner as a dog that bared its teeth when it was hurt.

Essek ignored the question. "I just wondered who he was," he murmured, voice soft. "I... apologize if I've stumbled onto a sore subject."

If anything, it was just tense. They hadn't seemed to mind the conversation much when they brought it up, but it seemed that from an outsider, the question was ill received.

"He was..." Veth piped up with some hesitance. "Kind of a dick, honestly?" , It sent a ripple through the Nein. Yasha tensed, the rest looking torn between amusement and discomfort. "He'd make people squirm on purpose and had a lot of sex when he was rooming with Fjord." Her voice took on a hesitant laugh. "Like. A whole lot —"

"Yes, yes, but let's not speak ill of the... departed." Fjord's interjection petered into something soft. "He was a friend, you know."

"Of course!" Veth gave him a halfhearted glare. "I know that, obviously! I loved him as much as the rest of you. He was an — an asshole, and the fact he's dead makes us all act like that isn't true. But I loved him." Her shoulders sagged. "He danced with me, remember? That was fun."

The silence stretched. It was, of course, Jester who broke it in the end, with a bright, "Molly knew things!" Even through her cheer, there was a watery quality to her smile, while Beau winced. "When we first met, he told my fortune. Look!" She whisked a hand into her back, pulling out a deck of cards. She fanned them out for Essek to see, revealing that they were incomplete, most of them still blank. Several held a different art style from the rest, and the imagery presented made it easy for Essek to guess she'd picked up the legacy. Her art was actually quite impressive when she wasn't desecrating holy sites. "He made these himself!" She beamed. "He was — he was still making them — he —"

Essek's heart jumped. Her smile was broad, but tears were welling up in her eyes as she spoke, her voice starting to crack. He floundered, a hand lifting and hesitating in the air. Beauregard was already sweeping forward, putting an arm around her shoulders to pull her close.

"He was full of shit and every other word out of his mouth was a fucking lie," Beau bit out. "But he made people happy. And then he died." She clenched her jaw. "And I'm sure he's lording it over us somewhere."

The truth had become a jagged thing. It wasn't such an easy secret to hold onto now, barbed with thorns and drawing blood. Not his own, but theirs, it wrapped tight around their throats and threatened to slice. So Essek held his tongue, watching as the Nein recovered from the hurt he'd returned to them. Yasha turned and left, Jester breaking away from Beau to give chase. The rest remained in place, and Essek's gaze panned past Caduceus and to the other one of them who hadn't said a thing — to find Caleb with his eyes shut as he ground his thumb against his forehead.

There was the impulse to question again, wanting Caleb's opinion. What did he think of the tiefling, as ostentatious as he was, far too bright and too loud and yet...

The question would be out of place. And it was inane, regardless. The Nein clearly loved him. There was no reason to question their deeper bonds. But gods if he didn't want to know what the two of them had looked like side by side.

A flush rose to his cheeks, half embarrassment and half outright shame. Whatever depraved curiosity had seized him, this was not the time for it, when he'd just reawakened his friends' grief. It was wrong. And gods help him, Essek wanted to be better for them.

But he couldn't be. Not yet, and maybe not ever. That was something to calculate later. For now, it was just another feeble tally in paying back his debt to them all, as he gathered them up to whisk them away. Whatever he earned was nullified at once, with Jester spending paints of magic beyond even the best conjuration caster, just to make him a parasol. She could use those to open holes in reality, and she had wasted her paint to shield his eyes from the light.

Essek returned home with a burning in his eyes, and he wished it was thanks to the sun.

Working with the Cerberus Assembly did not mean Essek liked them. In return, he knew all too well they did not like him.

They needed each other, however. Mutually assured destruction was an excellent motivator. So as scheduled, Essek strode to the full length mirror in his bedroom. He'd locked and warded the room, so that no sound could pass beyond that door, no nosy tieflings could stick a hairpin in the lock. What Mollymauk was even doing wasn't of much concern right now, not when he'd spent the day scrambling through his reports to make sure he had all the right details in place, what to offer and what to withhold, what questions to ask as well.

The stern form of Ludinus Da'leth shimmered into view. As usual, Essek's gaze was drawn to his eyebrows, elaborately shaped caterpillars that they were. He missed the man's greeting entirely, but offered one of his own, coolly polite.

It was little more than the usual exchange of information. "I will be meeting you as usual, in the guise of Dezran Thain," Essek said, as they'd already established half a dozen times before.

"Yes, yes," Ludinus sighed. "We are all quite aware of the plan by this point. Do not mess it up, Thelyss."

Essek's gaze was cold. "Thus far my pieces of the operation have run perfectly. I've had no annexes gallivanting with demon cults thus far."

Ludinus' face pinched, to his gratification. "I'm sure there is much you could tell me about demon cults," he returned, and Essek hated to feel his lips peel back in a snarl. He schooled his expression, fingers curling into fists beneath his robe.

"After all," Ludinus continued, "you reported attacks by gnolls within the city."

Essek paused, then frowned. "How did you know that?

"Previously, we had seen similar activity in the Empire," Ludinus reported, "though not nearly so dramatic. We have good reason to believe they may be followers of Yeenoghu."

It wasn't really an answer, Essek noted, but let it slide. Yeenoghu was the demon prince of hunger, worshiped primarily by gnolls. Some even believed that gnolls were all demons sent by him to the Material Plane, but some also believed drow all worshiped Lloth. It would, unfortunately, explain the near-feral behavior of Xhorhasian citizens. The Nein had been dealing with demons — or at least fiends — for a long time, after all.

"Regardless, it's being handled," was all Essek said, getting a grunt in return. "If that is all?"

"It is. Farewell."

The mirror blurred an instant later, before returning to a reflective surface. Essek stared at himself, stiff and clean and not a hair out of place, and let out a long groan as he rested his forehead against the glass.

And then what.

He couldn't cut ties with the Assembly. He couldn't admit his sins to the Nein. So then what. One side was going to go up in flames and burn the other with it, and where did that leave Essek except as a wretched creature, sobbing that he'd been burned after reaching into the fire.

Returning Mollymauk was not going to relieve his guilt. He knew that. The lie had been a pleasant fantasy while it lasted.

Essek stepped away, taking a glance at the clock. The entire day had slipped by in a blink, and he hadn't eaten a thing. Nor had he heard from Mollymauk. Perhaps they could find a place to sit down and eat dinner, with Essek too tired to cook and too hungry to wait.

Mollymauk was not in the house. The suspicion settled in when he checked the tiefling's bedroom and the living room, and then the kitchen for good measure, and didn't find so much as a spaded tail. It was when he'd trekked around the house calling for him that Essek felt dreaded confidence take hold: Mollymauk had left.

A string of curses followed Essek out the door. He grabbed a lock of fur out of his bag, burning it to ash as he cast his senses out for Mollymauk's presence. The ley lines that twined through the air reverberated in response, empty of his target.

The cabbie he hired was more than a little confused at Essek's request, but happy to comply for the pay it would earn him. They marched up and down the streets of Xhorhas, combing through that web strand by strand. The spell ran out and he cast it again, irritation building at the sheer waste of magic. It only spiked when the spell reacted to its target.

The spell picked up on Mollymauk within a crowded bar. Essek grimaced as he handed over a handful of coin, waiting for the cabbie to trot away before he burned yet another spell. A drow who did not look nor dress like Essek Thelyss walked inside with a sour look on his face, eyes cast about the bar in search of the easiest person to find.

Mollymauk stuck out, but the tones of his skin actually gave him a vague chance at blending in. Searching for tails wouldn't do him much good, as some elves did have them, tufted instead of spaded at their tips, so it was horns Essek looked for instead.

He found the tiefling at a booth of the bar, seated in the lap of an elf with a hand rested on his cheek. There was a woman at his side, leaning against the first elf to murmur something in his ear, the two speaking conspiratorially as Mollymauk's smile grew broader, leaning away from the man to catch the female elf's lips.

It was a filthy kiss. Essek could see their tongues, an outraged blush rising on his cheeks. He twirled a wire tight around his forefinger, hissing, "Mollymauk, what in the hells are you doing?"

Molly's head twitched. Essek voice was a growl as he added "You can respond in a whisper."

The tiefling relaxed back into the lap of the male elf, tipping his head back on his shoulder and toying with his hair. "I'm having fun. You're free to join." By the movement of his head, Essek knew he was searching the bar. His eyes slid over Essek, not recognizing the disguise. "Where are you?"

"Looking directly at you."

It took a beat for their eyes to lock. Molly smiled, murmured something to his companions, and gave them each a kiss on the lips before sauntering his way across the bar and towards Essek. "I didn't think you were the type!" He grinned. "If I'd known, I would have invited you."

"I'm not," Essek said, voice terse. "I was looking for you because you left without saying a word."

"And you can just track me down?" He looked alarmed at first, then just sighed. "Fucking wizards. Well, apologies for the scare, Mister Thelyss, I'll be sure to at least leave a note next time, yeah?" He cocked an eyebrow.

"You should not be here at all," Essek hissed. Mollymauk's brow furrowed. "Aside from the blatant danger of a tiefling wandering around the city, it's depraved."

Molly blinked at him. "Huh," he said. "You're full of surprises today, Mister Thelyss. It's a little depraved, sure, but it's not bad."

"That —" Essek drew a breath and let it out with a huff. He'd been taught to be careful with such contact. Representing Den Thelyss meant having all eyes on him. Any amount of childish irresponsibility would be seen and remembered. "That is fair," Essek admitted, before his voice sharpened again. "I misspoke, but I still will not have you bringing some..." He waved a hand, "venereal disease back to my home. I am not paying a cleric because you played with the wrong person."

"Fucked," Mollymauk corrected. "Had sex with. Let's use our adult words." He gave a smirk, and in that moment Essek rather disliked Mollymauk Tealeaf. His glower must have translated, because the tiefling put up his hands a moment later, "But, alright. I'll be safe about it, pinky swear."

He dropped one hand, sticking the little finger out on the other. Essek just stared at him until Mollymauk gave a, "Oh for the love of — seriously?" Then he grabbed Essek's hand, bending his pinky up to hook them together. "Pinky swear! Like this! I didn't even have a childhood and I know what this is!"

"I didn't have much of one, either," Essek frowned. "I know what it is, but it seems... inane."

"Gods, you're so sad," Mollymauk breathed, looking aghast. "Are you sure you don't want to come back with me? You need to relax, and they like group stuff —"

"I am fine," Essek hastily interjected. "Thank you, Mollymauk, but I am quite fine."

"What if it was just me, then?"

The offer was stunningly sincere. It was blunt and honest, a genuine question, Mollymauk meeting his gaze with his head tipped to the side.

Essek swallowed.

Did he want to kiss Mollymauk Tealeaf? Yes, far too much. He wanted more than he should, and not just from Mollymauk himself. But it would be wrong, wouldn't it, when Mollymauk's mind was still piecing itself together, when everything Essek presented of himself was deception.

So he said, "No." And Mollymauk just shrugged, seeming perfectly unbothered. "But —" He sighed. He knew his irritation was born of jealousy, and now that he'd just turned down exactly what he wanted, he had no leg to stand on. "Just keep it subtle along with safe, please. I have a reputation, and you are beginning to extend to it. If the Shadowhand is seen with a tiefling with a reputation for being..." He grasped for a word.

"Slutty?" Molly suggested.

"Promiscuous," Essek said. "It will reflect badly."

Mollymauk stretched his arms over his head, and Essek decidedly did not look at how his muscles flexed with the motion. "Alright," he shrugged, going lax again. "That's a tall order, Mister Thelyss, but I'll see what I can do."

"You will?" He blinked.

Molly gave him a bemused look. "Yeah? You asked, so, sure."

"Fjord said you were a terrible roommate," Essek said. "You would invite people into your shared room without his input."

"Hey, he never asked me to stop! I think." Molly pondered it for a moment before seeming to give it up. "Ah, whatever. At the very least I'm respecting your wishes this time."

Essek shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I suppose that will have to do."

"So if we're done...?" Mollymauk looked expectantly, and Essek sighed as he waved his dismissal. He watched the tiefling rejoin his partners, sinking back into the booth, and turned away before he could witness anything unsavory.

His life had become a stack of contradictions. The Nein were his friends, and yet he betrayed them at every turn. He wanted nothing to do with the Assembly and yet couldn't sever his ties. He wanted... something from Mollymauk Tealeaf, and refused it when it was offered. Essek's heart was heavy as he made his way home, the house quiet and empty and yawning.

Today, he was jealous of the other peoples of Exandria. Humans and halflings and tieflings, nearly anyone who wasn't an elf, they got the luxury of sleep at the end of the day. At least they could escape their thoughts when they rested.

#shadowmauk #mollymauk tealeaf #mollymauk #essek thelyss #essek #the mighty nein #cr #cr fic #my writing

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cannonalise92 · 4 years

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bountyofbeads · 5 years

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Justice Dept. Reverses Course and Seeks to Add Citizenship Question https://www.nytimes.com/2019/07/03/us/politics/census-citizenship-question.html

The MAD KING IS ON THE LOOSE!!!

"It was the second time in two days that Mr. Trump said he was directing the Commerce Department to defy a decision made by the Supreme Court..." Just let that sink in for a moment. On the eve of our birthday celebration of our American democracy, our president spits on the very foundations of that democracy. Mr. Bantree, USA

"It is official: there is no longer a rule of law in these United States of America. The Supreme Court has no clout. It is now Trump's law or no law. Really people, you think this is OK from a man who lacks the basic knowledge of our Constitution?" Bea Durand, Planet Earth

"We're in the end game of America if Trump puts the citizenship question on the census. When the Executive Branch refuses to abide by Judicial Branch decisions, it's all over. Authoritarianism would be officially installed. I hope everyone is paying attention." David, Los Angeles

"The chaos that is this administration, and President, is disheartening. No statement can be believed. The judgment of the Supreme Court has no force in the White House. We will have a military show tomorrow, strutting by the President in front of the Lincoln Memorial, and our descent to being a democracy in name only will be all but complete." View From the Street, Chicago

"A president who defies the rule of law and refuses to recognize the authority of the Supreme Court or the Congress, as this president has done by refusing to respond to subpoenas lawfully issued by Congress and now stating that he will include the citizenship question in the 2020 Census despite the Court's ruling, is no longer acting as president. He has crossed the line into tyranny. He should be removed from office at the earliest possible time." Dianne Walsh, Miami FL

"SO the dictator has told us that he has no responsibility to reply to the oversight function of the Congress, that he will not leave office if he loses, that he desires presidency for life and now that the Court he has packed has no authority over his power. So tomorrow he will be using the military as a prop to celebrate the death of American democracy. Not quite the context for fireworks in my mind." Greg Jones, RI

"At the end of the Nixon administration in August 1974, Richard Nixon was acting in an irrational manner, and there were concerns that he was going to declare martial law. The Secretary of Defense put out a memo indicating that any command from Nixon that did not pass through his office and did not get his approval was not to be obeyed. Today, trump is running a reality tv presidency, so he gets to make up all sorts of things. (He thinks he OWNS the US Government.) But that does not make any of his nonsensical statements truthful or effective. I suspect that if he starts to issue illegal orders (for example orders that contravene a Supreme Court decision), there are still a few people in our sorry government who will make clear that illegal orders from the White House are not to be followed. If there are no such people, we are in much worse shape than I imagine. I still expect and believe that the US Constitution will be followed. Vote a straight Democratic ticket, federal, state, and local, on November 3, 2020. Vote as if our democracy depends on it, BECAUSE IT DOES." Joe From Boston, Massachusetts

"The goal is to sow fear and confusion among immigrants (both legal and illegal) so that whether or not the question ends up on the census (I bet it won't be) the damage is already done." Sean, Earth

Justice Dept. Reverses Course on Citizenship Question on Census, Citing Trump’s Orders

By Michael Wines, Maggie Haberman and Alan Rappaport | Published July 3, 2019 | New York Times | Posted July 4, 2019 |

WASHINGTON — A day after pledging that the 2020 census would not ask respondents about their citizenship, Justice Department officials reversed course on Wednesday and said they were hunting for a way to restore the question on orders from President Trump.

The contentious issue of whether next year’s all-important head count would include a citizenship question appeared to be settled — until the president began vowing on Twitter on Wednesday that the administration was “absolutely moving forward” with plans, despite logistical and legal barriers.

Mr. Trump’s comments prompted a chaotic chain of events, with senior census planners closeted in emergency meetings and Justice Department representatives summoned to a phone conference with a federal judge in Maryland.

On Wednesday afternoon, Justice Department officials told the judge that their plan had changed in the span of 24 hours: They now believed there could be “a legally available path” to restore the question to the census, and they planned to ask the Supreme Court to help speed the resolution of lawsuits that are blocking their way.

The reversal sends the future of the census — which is used to determine the distribution of congressional seats and federal dollars — back into uncertain territory.

The Supreme Court last week rejected the administration’s stated reason for adding the citizenship question as contrived. But Chief Justice John G. Roberts Jr., writing for the majority, left open the chance that the administration could offer an adequate rationale.

Faced with tight printing deadlines, administration officials said on Tuesday that it was time to abandon the effort and begin printing forms this week that do not contain the citizenship question.

Justice Department lawyers told United States District Judge George J. Hazel in a telephone conference that a decision to eliminate the question from census forms had been made “for once and for all.” Commerce Secretary Wilbur Ross, whose department oversees the Census Bureau, issued a separate statement accepting the outcome.

But a day later, an extraordinary scene played out on a conference phone call between Judge Hazel and Justice Department officials, who appeared to be blindsided by the president’s comments online.

On Wednesday afternoon, Judge Hazel opened the call by saying that Mr. Trump’s tweet had gotten his attention. “I don’t know how many federal judges have Twitter accounts, but I happen to be one of them, and I follow the president,” he said.

Joshua Gardner, a Justice Department special counsel for executive branch litigation, responded: “The tweet this morning was the first I had heard of the president’s position on this issue, just like the plaintiffs and Your Honor.”

He added: “I do not have a deeper understanding of what that means at this juncture other than what the president has tweeted. But, obviously, as you can imagine, I am doing my absolute best to figure out what’s going on.”

Mr. Gardner said that census forms would continue to be printed without the citizenship question, and that federal court rulings barring its inclusion, upheld in part by the Supreme Court, were still in force. But he added that he could not promise that would remain the case.

“This is a fluid situation and perhaps that might change,” he said, “but we’re just not there yet, and I can’t possibly predict at this juncture what exactly is going to happen.”

That seemed an apt summation of the entire census process, which has lurched from lawsuit to crisis and back since the citizenship issue arose, and seemed on the verge of being upended on Wednesday.

Looming over the latest disruptions was a July 1 deadline to begin printing 2020 census materials — a deadline that the Justice Department said could not be stretched without imperiling the schedule for the census itself.

Since Mr. Ross tacked the citizenship question onto the census in March 2018, long after other aspects of the questionnaire had been settled, the Census Bureau has been at the center of a ferocious partisan battle over the 2020 head count, its carefully tended reputation for trustworthiness and political impartiality all but shredded.

An army of critics, from cities and states to ethnic and civil-rights advocates, have argued that the question is an ill-disguised effort to skew the census’s results to the benefit of the Republican Party. That was only reinforced by the disclosure last month of a 2015 study by a Republican strategist, Thomas B. Hofeller, that explained how data from a citizenship question could be used to exclude noncitizens from the population bases used in redistricting. The newly drawn districts, he wrote, would tilt toward non-Hispanic whites and Republicans and hobble representation of Hispanics and Democrats.

Mr. Hofeller, who died last year, was the first person to urge Mr. Trump’s transition team in 2016 to add the question to the 2020 head count. Three separate federal courts — in New York, Maryland and California — have ruled that the Commerce Department violated federal procedural law and the Constitution in tacking the question onto the census. They called the department’s rationale — to improve enforcement of the Voting Rights Act — an obvious cover for some other motive.

On Wednesday, Judge Hazel ratcheted up the pressure on the administration to make up its mind, ordering the Trump administration either to confirm by Friday afternoon that it was not placing the citizenship question on the census questionnaire, or offer a schedule for continuing the Maryland lawsuit.

“Given that tomorrow is the Fourth of July and the difficulty of assembling people from all over the place, is it possible that we could do this on Monday?” Mr. Gardner asked.

“No,” the judge replied. “I’ve been told different things, and it’s becoming increasingly frustrating.”

As Judge Hazel spoke with the two sides in the Maryland case, the federal district judge overseeing the New York lawsuit ordered the Justice Department to update him on those discussions so he could decide whether to schedule a similar conference in that suit.

On Wednesday afternoon, White House officials were actively working on a way to satisfy Mr. Trump’s demand but had not yet settled on a solution.

The Justice Department ultimately acted under pressure from Mr. Trump, who had reacted angrily to the Supreme Court’s handling of the census case and insisted that his administration move forward despite the court’s ruling. Mr. Trump had blamed Mr. Ross in particular for the handling of the census question.

The suggestion that Mr. Trump was prepared to charge ahead on adding a citizenship question stirred fears among opponents of the plan who hoped the debate had been put to rest.

Attorney General Letitia James of New York, whose office oversaw the census lawsuit that led to the Supreme Court ruling last week, dismissed Mr. Trump’s statement as “another attempt to sow chaos and confusion.”

“The Supreme Court of the United States has spoken, and Trump’s own Commerce Department has spoken,” she said in a statement. “It’s time to move forward to ensure every person in the country is counted.”

Census results are used to determine House of Representatives seats and to draw political maps at all levels of government across the country. They are also used to allot federal funding for social services.

Adding the citizenship question could lead to an undercounting in areas with large numbers of immigrants, who tend to vote Democratic, potentially costing Democrats representation and government funding.

The defeat before the court came as a surprise to Mr. Trump, who for months was assured that the change was on track, and has placed Mr. Ross back in the hot seat.

Earlier in Mr. Trump’s term, the president soured on Mr. Ross’s handling of trade negotiations and suggested that the 81-year-old investor had lost his deal-making touch. Mr. Ross has largely avoided the president’s ire since then, but the census matter has continued to dog him.

Mr. Ross has also drawn anger from Democrats in Congress for offering shifting explanations about whom he spoke with to determine the legality of adding the citizenship question. In 2018 he acknowledged that he had discussed the issue with Stephen K. Bannon, Mr. Trump’s former political strategist, after originally claiming he talked about it only with the Justice Department.

Administration officials said that the president was not planning to fire Mr. Ross, but that the situation had renewed concerns about his performance.

By Wednesday afternoon, whatever frustration that Mr. Trump had with the commerce secretary had largely dissipated, a second administration official said, and the president was focused on finding a way to add a question to the census. Mr. Trump told aides that might mean tacking on a question after census questionnaires had been printed.

Mr. Ross’s department will soon have to clarify the status of the census publicly. The House Oversight Committee said on Wednesday that the director of the Census Bureau, Steven Dillingham, would appear before a subcommittee on July 24 to review preparations for the 2020 head count.

“It is time for the Census Bureau to move beyond all the outside political agendas and distractions and devote its full attention to preparing for the 2020 census,” Representative Jamie Raskin, a Maryland Democrat on the committee, said in a statement.

A Commerce Department spokesman did not respond to a request for comment.

Read the Transcript of the Conference Call( On Website... WELL WORTH THE READ😂🤣😱)

A transcript of a call with Judge George Hazel and the lawyers in a Maryland court case about the proposed citizenship question on the 2020 census. (PDF, 15 pages, 0.11 MB)

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raywritesthings · 7 years

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Forging Ahead, Chapter 2/2

My Writing Fandom: Doctor Who Characters: Donna Noble, Tenth Doctor Pairing: Doctor/Donna Summary: On an alien planet, the Doctor falls under the influence of a mysterious force and it is up to Donna to save them all. AO3 link

Smoke billowed dark and thick in a growing cloud above them the further they went down the path. The silent town she’d left the Doctor behind in was long out of sight and what could be called daylight here seemed to be fading fast. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

“It’s coming out of the canyon,” her young guide told her.

“Is there anything in the canyon?”

“Caverns,” he shrugged. “We’re not supposed to play in them, but sometimes we do anyway.”

“So no reason why there should be smoke coming from them,” she surmised. “It’s awfully dirty, isn’t it? That can’t just be a wood burning fire.”

They walked on, until Donna could see the edge of the canyon and the great plume of smoke rising out of it obscuring the other side.

Beside her, Pac stilled. “I can hear something, in my head.”

“It must get stronger the closer you are,” she reasoned, “and you’re older than the others. Do you think you might have some empathic ability?”

Pac squeezed his eyes shut, his head shaking. “I...I’ve never used it before. This isn’t what they said it’d feel like at all. It’s wrong.”

“Okay, that’s — that’s good. You know it’s not supposed to be there, Pac, you can fight it,” Donna encouraged. “Don’t listen to what it says. You need to go back to the others.”

“No,” the boy stubbornly shook his head. “If I leave you now I won’t remember why I’m supposed to stay away from this place. I said I would show you the way. That’s the only thought keeping them out — you’ll stop them.”

He sounded so convinced. Donna had no idea how to tell him she hadn’t the faintest clue what was happening on this moon or where to begin putting an end to it. But that was also precisely what he didn’t need to hear right now. Donna could pretend for one young boy. She could do that if it’d keep him safe. It was what they did all the time, her and Doctor, and while he couldn't be here she'd make do.

“Alright then. You stick with me. Tell me if it gets any worse.”

Pac nodded, then took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “There’s a safe passage down into the canyon this way.”

He led her around to a slightly steep and rocky path. Donna was so glad she’d worn sensible shoes for this outing. Pac took the lead, having a better handle of the narrow path and she was careful to follow in his exact steps. It was slow going, in part as the less noise their approach made the better, but as the path curved more and more on the descent they began to get a view of what all was below them.

What looked like countless people were milling about, all with the same vaguely blank expression. Some of them were entering one of the largest caverns, while others were leaving with baskets full of what seemed to be rocks, at least from a distance. Still others were working on the construction of something totally separate from the caverns. It looked like a giant drill. So this was the oh-so-appealing Forge the Doctor had been drawn to. All these people being forced into what looked like terribly hard labor not of their own will.

There was also a fairly small spaceship sitting on the canyon floor. In front of it stood two more aliens, though these were clearly not local. They were taller and a slightly greenish color. Also, they did not appear to have mouths. Or ears.

As they watched, the two aliens turned as one and began walking over to the drill, leaving their ship unguarded. Donna supposed they didn’t have to worry about that sort of thing when they had everyone in the immediate area under their control. Well, almost everyone.

“If we want to know what they’re doing, that’s the place that’ll have the answers,” Donna whispered, pointing at the ship. “Come on.”

She and Pac hurried the rest of the way down to the canyon floor, then crept around the side of the spaceship trying to avoid being spotted. They needn’t have bothered; the few people who she thought might have seen them did not have a visible reaction. They must not have been given any commands regarding intruders. The two of them slipped through the doors and had a look around.

There were two main areas of the ship. Half of it comprised of what she supposed was a cockpit of sorts, and the other half seemed more like an office. There was a desk and chairs at any rate. A large map of the moon was tacked up on the wall along with star charts like the ones her grandad showed her sometimes. Their course appeared to have been charted on them, and it looked like a return trip was being planned at the moment. Only it didn’t seem to be a round trip; so far, it looked like their next destination would be orbiting this same moon.

A couple pieces of rock sat on the desk, some of them misshapen but even more of them in the shape of cubes. She picked one up and found it much heavier than she expected. “It’s some kind of metal. Silver, or — platinum, maybe. My mate Veena, she dated a jeweler once. She was really hoping for a good ring.”

Pac did not appear to be listening. He had his eyes squeezed shut again and looked to be putting every effort into fighting off the influence of those aliens so nearby. Donna decided it was definitely best to keep moving and then get them out of here. She went around to the other side of the desk and tried one of the drawers. It opened, much to her relief — God, why hadn’t she thought to take his sonic with her? Even if it was rubbish with wood. — and she removed a sheaf of important looking papers and flipped through them.

“This looks like a map of some kind. It’s of one of the caverns.” It had plenty of helpful annotations, like the fact that it was platinum ore deposits they were after, and the spot they planned to engage the drill.

“Some of these diagrams keep going on about structural integrity. I’m not really sure what they mean about that.”

“Donna,” said Pac.

“Just a minute. This isn’t talking about the structural integrity of the mine. It’s talking about the moon.” She looked back at the map on the wall. “Spaceman said it’s barely six miles in diameter. That’s way too small for a drill like that. They’re gonna destroy the Sixth Moon of Kazzarack just to get at the platinum,” Donna realized with horror.

“Donna!”

“What is it, Pac?” Was the voice in his head becoming too much? “Is it them?” She spun back around and froze.

The two aliens had returned and stood in the doorway, staring at them and blocking any path to escape.

“Yeah,” said Pac.

—-

The Doctor awoke with a muffled groan and a pounding headache. It felt as if he’d been walloped over the back of the head and left to lie in the dirt somewhere.

Oh right. He had.

He turned his face to the side, blinking his eyes open to see a little girl standing a ways off. Something told him she wasn’t of any concern, not while he needed to be on his way to the Forge—

“Oh no you don’t,” the Doctor growled.

The little girl jumped. “What?”

He winced. “Not you. Sorry.” It wouldn’t do at all the frighten her any more than he must have already. Slowly he sat up, rubbing the back of his head. That was quite the lump; did Donna really have to strike him that hard? Given the choice, he would have preferred a slap.

In fairness, he had caught her rather unawares with his ill-timed admission. In his somewhat weakened state the words he’d spent so long reigning in had left him freely as he’d pitted his hopes and trust and very love of Donna against the unwanted influence in his mind.

And now thanks to that his very friendship with Donna was probably about to be called into question. Hang on, where even was Donna?

“Where’s Donna?” He asked the little girl suddenly, or at least it must have seemed sudden to her for she jumped again.

“She went to the Forge,” said an even smaller voice, and he turned his head — ohh not so fast, really not a good idea to move that with any speed at all — to see a little boy sitting in a far corner of the room. “She promised she’d come back.”

“Right, I’ll just go get her then,” he said, pushing himself onto his feet. The rational side of him knew it was pointless worrying too much about Donna; she'd already proved immune to the as yet unknown mental influence. The rational side of him didn't seem to have much success when it came to matters of Donna, however, as had clearly been proven with this little exercise.

“I don't think she meant for you to follow her,” the little girl asserted quite accurately as he reached the door.

“She doesn't mean for me to do a lot of things,” was the Doctor's flippant reply.

He took the dirt road out to the growing smoke plume at a jog at first, then increased it to a run when it didn't prove too bothersome to his head. There was a lot of time to be made up for, after all, and the faster he got there the less time he’d have to dwell on how he was ever going to fix things with Donna.

Unfortunately, he was forced to draw up short at the edge of what looked to be a very deep cavern. The smoke was coming out of it and distantly he could hear the sounds of machinery — the missing Kazzarackians had to be down there, and Donna with them. But how to get himself down there?

The Doctor paced back and forth with increasing agitation. He could go back and ask one of the children or simply take the TARDIS straight down to the bottom, but would that take too long? The compulsion was still trying to get another foothold in his mind, and it was even stronger now, which meant whatever or whoever was doing this hadn't been stopped. What if they'd gotten Donna first?

But then, abruptly, the Doctor noticed a shift in the voice. It was no longer soft and soothing; it sounded insistent, almost forceful. He nearly staggered under the weight of it, and it was only his fear that kept his mind his own. There was only one thing that could have caused such a change.

The Doctor cupped both hands over his mouth and drew in as much of the smoky air as he could stand.

“Donna!”

—-

The creatures hadn't made a single move, merely continuing to stare. Not one for tense silences, Donna finally broke it.

“Look, there's no point pretending. We know what it is you're here for and what you're planning to do to this moon. Well we're not gonna let you! You can let all these people go from your mind control or whatever and fly away in your ship right now!”

The only reaction they made was to narrow their eyes. One of them tilted their head to the side, as if struggling to understand what she'd meant. But that made no sense; the TARDIS was supposed to translate for her!

“Oi! I mean it. If you don't want reported or whatever the space equivalent is you’ll clear out!”

Again they didn't give her the slightest indication one way or the other. Were they just ignoring the fact she was talking? Donna fumed. If there was one thing she couldn't abide, it was being ignored.

Beside her, Pac shuddered. “They're irritated.”

“Yeah, well they're not the only one,” she muttered.

Yet still, neither of them were making a move towards her or to respond. Were they just stuck in some kind of standoff then?

“Donna!”

Donna and Pac both started at the sound; the other aliens started only after they’d started.

“That sounds like your friend,” the boy said.

“Yeah,” said Donna. The Doctor sounded a long way off, and just what state was he in?

Deciding the invaders could wait since they were proving so uncooperative, Donna pushed past them, dragging Pac along by the hand. It wasn’t like they’d had any weapons, and they seemed taken aback enough at the sudden move that they were easily bowled over.

Once outside, Donna looked around but didn’t see a sign of her best friend. “Spaceman?”

“Up here, Donna!”

She looked up and even further up to just make him out standing at the top of the canyon.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay! Are you?”

“Oh, just fine me! Just looking for a way — nevermind, no time.”

The two aliens had finally come running out of the ship after her and Pac, though they did little more than stand a few paces back and glare at her a bit. Though Donna couldn’t really be bothered by that when she looked back up to see the Doctor had begun to lower himself over the side of the canyon and seemed to be feeling around blindly for a foothold.

What was he doing? “You’re gonna break your neck! Go around, there’s a path thirty feet to the left!”

“Your left or mine?”

“Your left is my left right now, Martian!” She shouted up at him, watching with no small amount of panic as he attempted to scramble back up over the edge of the canyon.

“Donna,” Pac was tugging on her sleeve, and she turned to see what he was pointing at. A few of the people had stopped in their tracks, blinking and staring at them curiously.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Asked one of the women nearest to them. “And what are we all doing here?”

“All I remember is the strangest urge coming over me to dig up some rocks in the caverns,” remarked another.

“Pac!” Cried a man, running forward and embracing the boy.

“Dad!”

She only had a moment to appreciate this unexpectedly happy reunion before she was grabbed up in a hug of her own. “Oi!” Donna was about to hit whoever it was until they spoke.

“Just me, just me,” said the Doctor, and she relaxed and returned the hug, only for a moment before she pulled back and looked him straight in the eye.

“You’re not here for the Forge?” She checked.

“No, I’m here for you, he answered plainly. “Anyway, looks to me the Forge is over.”

Several of the people who had only just minutes ago been toiling away unawares were now approaching the two aliens with their tools in hand, clearly having identified them as the source of all the trouble.

“But, how’d they break out of it?”

“You,” he told her. Donna stared at him. “The Telarpians — the Kazzarackian’s would-be invaders — are a purely telepathic species. They have written communication to keep records and history, but no verbal. They’ve never needed it, never encountered a non-telepathic species before. Until you.”

“So that’s why they didn’t act like they got what I was saying.”

He nodded. “Right. Apart from them not remotely understanding speech, they were rather cross you weren’t out here mining with everyone else no matter how many times they tried to impart that command. Must have been like being sent straight to voicemail. The Telarpians redoubled their efforts to control you, which weakened their influence on everyone else. And when the Kazzarackians all saw you standing there, loud and free, it broke through to something in them, something that wanted the exact same thing. You shouted at the world and the world heard you.”

He was looking at her with pride, maybe even a little bit of awe, and Donna was tempted to bask in it a little. She’d saved a whole moon on her own.

But then, that also meant she’d saved Spaceman, and not with the bat.

“Hold on, that wasn’t the mind control talking when you said—” Donna faltered; her face felt warm again and there was something making her insides all fluttery “—what you said?”

The Doctor blanched and couldn’t seem to meet her eyes all of a sudden. “Probably best to head back to the TARDIS,” was his non-answer. “I think the Sixth Moon of Kazzarack is about to have their first ever fight.”

“Yeah, alright,” she agreed for the moment. But if he thought they were just dropping it completely, he had another thing coming!

The walk back to the town was uncharacteristically quiet for them, but then, she supposed they were both thinking about it. He had to be thinking about it, right? She was.

Though she was momentarily distracted when the door of the small building they’d briefly stayed in opened and out ran Wen and Gil again.

“You came back!”

“Where’s Pac?”

“He’s with his father,” Donna answered. “The grownups are okay now. They’re just getting rid of the Forge and then they’re coming home.”

The two kids cheered, and she could see other children poking their heads out of doors or looking out the windows at them. Donna smiled.

The Doctor had continued straight on to the police box, however, and so she apparently was being left to make their excuses. Typical. “Listen, we’ve got to be on our way now. You take care of yourselves.”

“Thank you!” Wen hugged her briefly around the legs and she patted the girl on the head.

“Bye now!”

It really was a nice town. Even if they hadn’t gotten round to that market. Maybe she could convince him to try for it again after a few trips. And after they talked. Right. Donna drew in a breath, then entered the TARDIS. Her Spaceman was already standing by the controls, but he waited silent and still as she came up the ramp.

“Right, so,” the Doctor began. His gaze had fallen to the grating. “Home, yes?”

Donna gaped and her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. “What do you mean? What’d I do wrong?”

That got him looking back up at her. “You? You haven’t done anything. Actually, that’s the problem, you’ve done everything right and I — I can’t keep lying to you, Donna, or pretending.”

“Pretending what?” Her voice hardly sounded her own, soft and yet oddly choked.

He grimaced. “You’re really gonna make me say it again?”

“Well I’m still finding it hard to believe you said it the first time! Why would you say it?”

“Because it’s true?” His voice was rising to increasingly high decibels. She was starting to worry about him.

But still, she had to know. “Is that a question or is it actually true, Martian?”

The Doctor groaned. “Look, let’s just forget I said it altogether. You want to keep traveling clearly, and I’m fine with that. More than fine, obviously, but — it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t have to matter, Donna. Donna?”

He approached her haltingly, like he was unsure of his welcome. She supposed he had good reason to be.

“It’s just, I thought you—” she paused, and rethought how she wanted to say it. No point bringing up old pain unnecessarily. “You’re really sure it’s me you’re in love with? The Telarpians didn’t cross some wires in your brain?”

He sighed. “No, Donna.”

“But how can you know for sure?”

“Because I remember being in love with you before we ever came here.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Oh.”

He was looking down again and fiddled with a knob on the controls. “Yep.”

“And you — hold on, why am I supposed to forget about this?” That was the part Donna couldn’t wrap her head around. He loved her, but he wanted to act like he didn’t? “Is this one of those ‘I love you, but I just can’t be with you’ things? There was a bloke who tried that with Susie Mair, you know, but really he just wanted what they all want.” Her eyes narrowed momentarily. “So if that’s what this is about, you can forget the whole thing!”

He was staring at her like he’d only got half of that. Almost like the Telarpians, really. Eventually he shook his head. “No, Donna, it’s an ‘I love you, but you don’t want to be with me’ thing.”

She froze. “Oh.”

“Yep.”

Donna replayed the whole conversation in her head. Had she really not said? Well no, because first he’d started off with the whole dropping her home thing and that had terrified her, then she just couldn’t believe he’d meant it, and then she’d had to make sure just what he’d meant by it — but in meantime she’d clearly given him the completely wrong impression.

“Doctor.” She stepped forward, but he walked around to the other side of the time rotor.

“Seriously, Donna, I’d rather we stop talking about it.”

“Well I’d rather we not,” she said, following him. “You’ve barely let me talk about it! You don't even know what I think about it!”

“I told you how I felt and you hit me over the head with a bat,” he reminded. She winced, watching as he touched a hand to the spot in question. “Really hard.”

“Well I thought it was the mind control!” She defended.

“Why would it be mind control?” He sounded incredulous. “What would be the point in that?”

“I dunno, you could've been — dazzling me, so I'd let you go and you’d be free to do bad stuff!”

“Why would you be dazzled?”

Donna's mouth opened, but she couldn't seem to say it. She'd spent all this time holding it in that she just didn't think she could.

“I...dazzle you?” The Doctor asked. “Donna?”

She turned away abruptly, knowing her face had to be about as red as it could get. “I didn't say that,” she muttered.

“Donna.” He was cajoling her now, reaching for her elbow to spin her back around. Oh this was so shaming. How had he turned this around on her?

More than a little flustered, she prodded him in the chest. “Oi, you were the one who said you just wanted to be mates!”

“Well you said I was a long streak of alien nothing!”

“Right!” Donna agreed. “So how’d we end up here?”

He shrugged helplessly. “Love?”

Donna felt the beginnings of a smile tug at her lips. She reached for his hands. “Will you say it again? Please?”

“You haven't even said it once,” he pointed out, but when she stared him down he caved. “I love you, Donna Noble.”

He had to catch her round the waist because she threw her arms around him, but he was soon returning her hug with equal fervor. Donna pulled back, and, that strange fluttering sensation having returned in full force, pressed her lips to his. She hadn't thought she'd ever get another chance after the detox, and this was already miles above that mess of a kiss!

The Doctor broke away disappointingly soon, however, looking at her with big, brown pleading eyes. “Are you gonna say it ever?”

She rolled her eyes. Was it seriously still in question? Admittedly he’d obliged her and she had given him a rather hard time today; her fingers, where they were now tangled in that ridiculous hair of his, were able to find a sizable lump on the back of his head. She'd have to get a proper look at that later, but in the meantime there were other ways she needed to tend to her alien.

“Yeah, alright.” Donna pecked him on the lips once more for good measure. “Love you too, Spaceman.”

#ten x donna #doctor x donna #donna noble #tenth doctor #doctor who #the doctor #my writing

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it-refused · 7 years

Text

Working Title: Forward, Back (5/?)

Summary: Knowing what’s going to happen doesn’t mean Sans can stop it. Maybe he could’ve put it off forever. Sans decides to go.

Rating: T

Part Summary: Sans has a bad dream and hangs out with Alphys. There’s robot tag.

>>First Part<<

C/N: Mental Illness

In the middle of a warm sunny day and surrounded by people, Sans felt a shock. It was like ice water was dumped down the back of his spine.

He stopped walking and slowly turned around, 180°. There was a shape, there, behind him. There was a face, like a mask, with two asymmetrical eye sockets staring right into his. The figure had a white outline that filled up with bright light that made the inside of Sans' skull loud with static.

Sans slowly lifted his hand. He had a headache already. "hey."

He thought he saw shapes, words, shaking in the air. Sounds, too, almost like a voice.

"sorry, pops," Sans heard himself say. "didn't get a word of that."

The voice cut off. Sans blinked rapidly, trying to clear the afterimages from his vision. Dad was gone.

The person Sans was walking with asked him if he had stopped for a phone call.

"nah. you didn't see the weirdo following us? heh."

No one else would see him. Sans knew that. Dad was shattered across time and space. There were a couple bigger pieces hanging around. He wasn't so much stopping for a visit as he was just a little bit always there.

Well, there was no fixing it.

That night he uncovered his homemade telescope and fussed with it for a little while. He'd tossed a tarp over it after his last visit from his dad, intending to leave it outside until it rotted. The months hadn't been kind to it, but it hadn't gone completely back to its natural garbage state quite yet.

"hey, pops," Sans said. "you there?"

Everything stayed quiet.

"oh well. look, you trying to tell me something? you've been showing up a lot lately. now's your chance. you show up right now, i'm all ears. heh." He finished setting up and peered through the eye piece. "lay it on me."

No visions, no sound. Whatever triggered the visits wasn't happening. Sans hung around and found all the planets that were visible. If anyone asked what he'd been up do, he'd tell them he was "checking out uranus" and they'd probably leave it alone.

The night stayed quiet.

Something felt off-kilter. The smell of dust in the lab was thick, overpowering. Sans was looking at blueprints, and was sure he had never been doing anything else.

He couldn't make out specific words or lines on the blueprints anymore, but they seemed to have meaning, anyway. They shifted and he was struck by a realization. The answer had been staring him in the face. He could fix everything, now.

Sans knew he needed to call Alphys so she could bring over materials and confirm he was correct. He reached for his phone.

He woke and, not entirely aware yet, he fumbled for his real phone and brought up Alphys' number.

Sans rubbed his head and groaned. What a stupid dream. At least a real nightmare made a cool story.

Before he set the phone back on the nightstand, he took another look at the picture he had set for Alphys' contact info. She was in one of her cosplay wigs. Undyne had her arm over her shoulders, and Alphys looked happy.

The details of the dream were slipping away, but that didn't matter. When he'd had that one before and tried to hold onto them, his burst of inspiration always turned out to be something like rubbing the broken machine with vinegar or sticking a car engine into it and having Papyrus drive it. His idea was always something random related to what he'd been doing that day.

Sans wished his own head would quit jerking him around.

Grillby made a confused crackling sound and pushed at the hand Sans was still holding the phone in. His meaning was clear enough. He should put it down and go back to sleep.

"snack time. want me to grab something for you?"

Grillby dropped his head back down.

"more for me."

Sans carried his phone into the living room. Soozen was on the couch, an entire box of cookies (box included) halfway in her mouth.

"hey, kiddo," Sans said. He noticed she had an unopened bag of chips next to her, too. Maybe Papyrus was right when he said there was a major growth spurt on the horizon. "let me have some chips and what's happening here is between you and me."

She nodded. The pact was sealed.

He carried his phone and a handful of chips into the kitchen and settled in at the table. It was a little after four in the morning.

"heeeeey, alphys, my best buddy."

"S-sans? What the hell are you--wait. is-is someone sick? Dead??" Her voice went up in pitch the longer she talked.

"nah."

"W-well, good! I was about to say 'someone better be dead' and then I thought 'what if they actually are, Alphys, oh my god?'"

"you up?"

"No! Well, now I am!! I guess!" He heard her sigh. "I didn't want to wake up Undyne answering my phone in the middle of the night, like a jerk."

Yeah, this was a bad idea. Still, Sans felt himself relaxing, hearing her voice. She'd really tried to help him, back in the day.

He hadn't been the best friend to her. He wanted to excuse himself because he'd been dealing with a lot at the same time she was, but that was probably just a cheap excuse for being lazy.

"geez, it's later than i thought. sorry, buddy."

"Uhoh. I know what this is!"

"uh. what is it."

"It's been years since we had a, you know, club meeting."

"oh right."

"W-well then, get over here. I, uh, have a couple movies we could watch and I can grab some snacks! I mean, if you want."

It was their club for monsters with shit sleeping schedules. It met only in the middle of the night and they were the only members. Alphys was the founder and she had given Sans the title "first officer." He hadn't wanted it.

Sans didn't reply right away, so the next thing Alphys said had a nervous edge to it.

"...that's not why you c-called, is it? God, sorry, just please tell me what it is so I can climb out the bottom of this trash can, okay?"

"nah. that was it." He'd just wanted to hear her say something, but getting out of the house actually sounded like a good idea. "i'll be there--" he took a short cut "--two seconds ago." He spoke from directly behind her.

She jumped and electricity bolted out of the end of her phone. She was still holding it to her ear, so the lightning singed the floor.

A panel in the wall opened up and a small robot rolled up to the spot and hit it with a fire extinguisher.

"Sans! Just for that, we're watching the movie I know you'll hate."

"i'll watch anything," Sans said.

She patted the little robot on the head. "Even if you don't like it, you should at least appreciate it. The animation is top tier even if the fanservice almost crosses the line into exploitation. Uh. It’s sci fi!"

They went downstairs into her work room. Robot parts were scattered around and plans were tacked up on the wall next to pictures of anime characters Alphys found inspirational. There was an old, worn couch in the back of the room for her to pass out on if she'd worked too long without taking a break, and a very expensive looking television in front of that. Sans would've gone for the nice couch and the crap TV if he'd been the one making the choice, but everyone had their own priorities.

"This really takes me back!" Alphys said, as she set up the television. "Feeling like garbage in some dirty basement in the middle of the night!"

"yeah. i'm getting all, uh, nostalgic."

"Right?? Except, in the bad way? Like, thank god I'm not back then! Nostalgic for right now? No, ignore me. That doesn't make any sense."

"i dunno." Sans yawned and stretched out. He needed to send a message to Grillby, but he didn't want to wake him up again. "feels like we're all still back down there sometimes, anyway." Time travel was a rip off, Sans decided. All you had to do to stay in the past was have a lot of messed up stuff happen so you always felt like part of you was back there when it happened. All that scientific research and there'd turned out to be a much lazier way to go back that didn't risk destroying reality.

"God! You're in a bad mood." She sat down next to him. "But, yeah. I wake up in the middle of the night and come down here, and when I open the door I feel like I'm going to step right into my old lab and all the stuff I did to make that...not right, really, but better--it's going to just be gone."

"that sucks." He patted her arm.

"Yeah, I know!" She turned on the movie.

There was an edge to the conversation. There was always that chance that it could literally happen--they could wake up back then, and everything good they'd had since then would be gone. That sucked.

He was really tired.

Sans watched an anime character with carefully but unbelievably animated breasts swoop around in the movie intro. "wow." Well, this was distracting.

Alphys started to explain the plot, since it was a movie based on an anime Sans hadn't seen. Sans started to fall asleep.

He heard footsteps tromping down the stairs, and opened one eye socket to see if it was Undyne or one of the kids.

"Hey!" Undyne stage whispered. "When did this loser get here?"

Alphys paused the show.

"hey," Sans said. "you can see i'm awake, pal."

"Oh! Sorry! When'd you get here, loser?" She laughed and came over to smack him affectionately on the shoulder, but he decided to sit on the other side of the couch.

"Uh, we decided to watch a movie," Alphys said. "Kind of a weird time for it, but...um..."

"nah. i think you've gotta watch a show like this when no one else is awake."

"Time is a meaningless social construct anyway, am I right? Eheheheh..."

"Well, shove over and let me watch, too! I love this one!"

Now that Undyne was there, she and Alphys started to discuss the intricacies of the plot. Sans' skull fell back and he let their impassioned discussion of something he didn't care about act as white noise to nod off to.

"So, what's his deal?" Undyne asked. Sans was still awake, but he guessed he looked like he was out.

"Ummm...like a bad dream, maybe," Alphys said.

"still awake," Sans said, before the conversation got embarrassing. "maybe i just missed the sound of alphys' voice. you think of that?"

"Ha, right!" Undyne reached over Alphys and gripped his shoulder. "Just cop to it! No one cares! We're not going to think you're any more of a wimp because you had a nightmare. I have them all the time, and I can kick anyone's butt!"

"It's true! It's completely normal," Alphys said. "The kids get them pretty bad."

"We woke up just a couple nights ago because Striker was wailing her friggin heads off. I couldn't even get it out of her what she'd been dreaming about."

"man, you two are really giving me a revelation here. people have bad dreams. wow, thanks."

"Hey, Sans? Don't be a jerk!" Alphys said.

"yeah, sorry. you're helping me out." And neither of them had even mentioned that they probably had to get up early and haul some kids to school.

"And don't forget it!" Undyne's hand was digging in so hard he was starting to worry about HP loss. "Because we'll do it any time, no problem." She was smiling.

Jeez, he really must look like he was messed up. "thanks."

She sighed and let go of him. He rotated his shoulder. It still worked, some how. "You know--this movie's great, but there's something that really distracts me when I need it!"

"ok?"

"Robot tag!" She jumped up and grabbed a loose robot arm off the floor. It looked a little like an extra one of Mettaton's.

"Maybe we should just watch the show?" Alphys said.

Undyne came after her with the robot arm.

"W-wait! Let me get a hiding space, or a head start--or something!" Alphys scrambled off the couch.

"you'd better get armed, alphs," Sans said.

"You aren't getting out of this, either!" Undyne said. "Arm YOURSELF!"

"k." He got off the couch and picked up the closest robot leg.

Sans spent half an hour leaning against the edge of the couch holding a robot leg while Alphys and Undyne chased each other around their basement. It did give him something to look at when the women in Alphys' movie started to get weird.

Undyne suddenly charged at him and he dodged out of the way to the other side of the couch. Alphys popped right up from where she'd been hiding behind it and booped him in the back of the skull with a robot hand.

Alphys laughed, delighted at herself. "You're so predictable!"

"And, you're SO IT!" Undyne added. "Teaming up is the key to victory!" She ran over and gave Alphys' robot hand a high five with her robot arm.

That was a little annoying. "k," Sans said.

"N-nothing can defeat the p-power of...of...love! And friendship!" Alphys exclaimed. They were both so excited about tagging him.

"k." He decided to get Alphys back, since she was the one who actually got him. He looked at her.

"Jeez...uh...maybe...tone down your creep eye?" Alphys said. "And, um---no tag backs!"

Sans was sure that wasn't true, since Alphys and Undyne had been chasing each other and mostly ignoring him until then, but ok. He turned his glowy blue eye that was totally cool and not at all creepy onto Undyne.

"I'd like to see you TRY, punk!"

"ok."

When Grillby asked him how his late night hang-out with Alphys had gone, Sans shrugged and said "it was mostly just weird." The game had ended for Sans when a stampede of children came down the stairs at six in the morning and joined in. He'd given up his leg to some tyke way more excited about physical activity than he was, and gone home.

He finished watching the movie at home. He hated it, sure, but he still needed to know the ending. Alphys gloated when he told her that, and said there was a sequel if he needed to stop by again.

He had the best friends in the world.

>>Next Part<<

#sansby #my fic #fanfic #fb fic

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hamletandthegang · 3 years

Text

The end.

Laertes stood on the balcony of the throne room, looking down at the chattering nobles and rich snobs below. He was not one for pleasantries of this sort; he was much more inclined to a hard day’s work than ever putting on some of the foolish clothing he saw the men below him wearing. The King had made this small duel into a massive banquet, which Laertes thought was ill-advised seeing as how it would just add more witnesses to his nephew’s death, but he didn’t think it wise to say anything.

A large hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Laertes turned with a start. Claudius, the King himself, had slipped away from the crowd and was smiling at him. “Are you ready? There’s only an hour left till the fight.”

Laertes gave a sullen smile, “Yes. I’m just a little worried about all these people here. If something goes wrong-”

“Nothing will go wrong, I have made this plan completely foolproof.” Claudius smiled again assuredly and took his hand off Laertes’ shoulder. He knew Laertes was concerned about witnesses, but that’s what he was counting on. Laertes was the final tie that left evidence of Polonius’ unfortunate death, and setting him up to be an enemy of the state would rid him of two problems at once.

Claudius shared a fatherly look with Laertes, assured him again not to worry and sent him down to where he was supposed to wait for the fight and get ready. He stared after him as he walked down the stairs to the lower level and smiled.

Gertrude touched his arm and startled him. “There you are, dear. Our party guests are missing you!”

“Of course, darling, I’ll be right there.”

Gertrude smiled sweetly at him and followed where Laertes had gone. Claudius turned and watched her go down the stairs to where the crowd was swelling and laughing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw where Hamlet, Horatio, Anna, and someone- he couldn’t tell who as they were wearing a hat and mask- entered through one of the side doors and sat down. Hamlet was wearing his typical attire for when he practiced fencing- he didn’t like wearing the whole suit so he settled with just the blouse and black pants- and carried the white helmet under his arm. Laertes was wearing a similar outfit but with white pants and a white padded chest plate. Hamlet spoke to his friends before they sat down, then continued to the edge of the hall opposite to where Laertes was. Claudius could see how the two of them tensed at their enemy’s arrival. The hall began to quiet when the people noticed the fighters had arrived.

Claudius made his way to the dias where he and Gertrude were to sit, and rose a glass of wine to make his speech.

~~~

Horatio gripped the bottom of his bench with white knuckles. He knew Hamlet’s abilities were very strong, and that the plan was well thought out, but he still felt nervous about it all. They were about to overthrow a government— what could go wrong?

They had checked with the rebels outside the door before coming in, all decked with guard gear and nearly unrecognizable under the specific low hanging hats they had stolen, and they had locked the doors the moment they were inside. There was no going back now: the plan was in motion.

Monica had successfully cut the Wi-Fi from the castle, and if needed had access to the power itself and all the information in any camera or vault in the whole building. Her hacking skills had grown scarily powerful, but Horatio just hoped she was good enough on her feet to be able to fix whatever went wrong. Because, at least in his experience, something always went wrong.

~~~

Maggie stood on the bridge between the Denmark castle grounds and the army of troops that stood behind her. Marilyn had arrived over an hour before, and they were waiting for the signal from the rebels that the doors had been locked before they were to circle the building and begin the siege. Wind ruffled through Maggie’s hair, and she pushed it out of the way when it hit her face.

She didn’t start when her watch buzzed, she simply looked down and saw the four simple words: The duel has begun.

She then raised a fist in the air, and the troops behind her went silent. She turned and faced them, rays of sun outlining her hair and torso as it peeped over the bridge’s edge. “Move out.”

~~~

You could almost see when they realized what was happening inside. The castle itself seemed to shift nervously on its feet, as guards began to buzz back and forth and the very windows turned to each other in a sort of confused expression.

Guildenstern and Rosencrantz shared a glance. They were standing with their backs up against the side of the van at the edge of the parking lot, across from the intersection and bridge that led to the front doors of the castle itself. The remaining rebels were inside, and small curtains and sheets had been tacked up over the windows so no one could see the full-on armory that had been prepared inside. Marc was sitting in the driver’s seat, waiting in position for when they were supposed to advance.

The guards around the entrance hadn’t yet moved, but one had exited through a side door and came around to talk to them in low tones. Eloise had found a way to lock the doors from the inside and outside- no one was coming in or out.

Just over the edge of the row of hedges that outlined the castle ground, Guildenstern could make out the troops, led by Maggie and Marilyn, hurriedly taking their positions around the far edge of the castle from the back of the castle where the other identical bridge lay.

“Now?” Rosencrantz asked, hands dancing around each other as he tried to keep calm.

“Wait for the signal, then we go,” Guildenstern whispered back, already feeling the muscles in his calves beginning to tense.

They both looked down as their watches beeped simultaneously.

Guildenstern opened the door of the van and jumped inside, followed by Rosencrantz, as Marc revved the van and it began to move. Louise, Ryzza, and Jackie were sitting behind them ready for what looked like an apocalypse. It certainly felt like one, so their appearance was vaguely comforting.

They sped across the intersection between the cars and parked just outside of the gates with a lurch, and Louise opened the back door and shot something out of it into the parking lot behind them.

The projectile flew up into the air and burst into a million red particles with an exploding sound. The light it created was blinding, and they all looked away and covered their ears. There was no more secrecy anymore.

The castle burst to life. Guards stumbled back at the sudden blinding blast, and alarms began sounding as Jackie, Louise, and Ryzza rushed around the van and through the castle’s gate onto the bridge.

~~~

Ping! Ping! Crash!

Laertes and Hamlet crossed swords again and again, this time Laertes shifting backward, another time Hamlet stumbling to the side and turning. They were very easily matched, standing in a large rectangular area of the floor while the crowd of nobility sat with baited breath and hushed mumbles around them. Claudius sat on the small platform on his throne, a glass of red wine standing on a table next to him.

A distant ringing noise found its way to Annalise’s ears, and she tensed. Was that the castle alarm? She couldn’t tell, and since no one else seemed to hear it, she brushed it off and stayed focused on the flashing swords. She, Ophelia, and Horatio sat near the back of the room, shifting to see the action over all the heads and bodies. They didn’t speak, as the others around them did, but stared completely silent, as if willing Hamlet to win.

Finally, a touch was called and the duo parted. “Hamlet!” The referee called out, and a round of gentle applause echoed around the room as the pale dark haired boy raised his hand. Ophelia let out a breath under her mask, and Horatio’s hands loosened a little from where they were nailed to the bench he sat on. Only two more and Hamlet would win.

Laertes and Hamlet circled each other, raised their points to touch, and the referee slipped his sword under theirs and raised it, shouting “Allez!”, and they began again. Dancing around each other, swords tapping and breathing heavily. Hamlet was surprised at how calm he felt. This was an old hobby. He had grown very skilled and accustomed to the light weight of the metal in his hand and the way it swished through the air. He focused on the light glinting off of the points and the way Laertes’ feet shifted, anticipating his opponent's every move and blocking it with the utmost agility.

Laertes was not as tactically calm as his enemy. To him, this was revenge- a finishing of things. He was glad for his helmet covering his reddening face and sweat trickling down his temple. His hands felt sticky as he swung the sword. He had once been a renowned fencer, but he knew how much his skills had weakened over the years of not practicing and military work teaching his body to be more forceful and less agile than his college days.

He had never seen Hamlet’s style of fighting before, and he would have stopped to marvel how swift and pointed his attacks were, if there weren’t a million other thoughts he was drowning in. He was waiting for the moment when he would just tip his blade against his calf, or perhaps his arm or even his cheek- he wasn’t wearing his helmet. Laertes relished in the thought of what would come after, his enemy sinking to the floor and turning paler than ever before, before spilling his life out and finally putting Laertes’ revenge to rest.

But he hadn’t had an opportunity yet; Hamlet was too fast. Before many minutes had passed, another touch was called, again in Hamlet's favor. Laertes gritted his jaw under his mask and tried to remain calm. Hamlet raised his hand just as before and prepared to begin a new set when the King interrupted.

“Goodness, Hamlet, you look so pale! Gertrude, darling, go wipe his brow and let him have some wine before the next set begins.” He gestured to the cup beside him. Gertrude stood happily and began to descend the platform, but Hamlet held up his hand.

“No, Mother, thank you very much. I will have some afterwards. You may take it yourself if you’d like,” Hamlet said, rewrapping one of his knee pads and smiling solemnly.

Gertrude laughed, “Alright, if you insist!” And picked up the glass.

“Darling, wait-” Claudius tried to stop her hand, and the room stilled, all eyes turning to the King.

“It looks wonderful, honey, there’s no harm in just a taste!” The glass was raised to her mouth before Claudius could say another word, and she set it back on the table and motioned for the fight to continue as she settled back into her seat.

Claudius looked as though he might throw up, such a horrified expression crossed his face. But he covered it quickly and sat back in his chair as the fight began. The two circled each other- “Allez!”- and the fight began again.

Laertes huffed under his helmet, and Hamlet rushed forward and clashed his sword against his, shoving his opponent backward. Laertes only took a step though, before sliding his blade against Hamlet’s and slicing him on the cheek. A rose of satisfaction bloomed in his chest, and he prepared for the referee to part them as a whistle blew.

Hamlet stumbled back when Laertes shoved him, confused at the sudden hot sensation on his face. He reached up and touched his cheek, and came away with a red stain on his gloves. Before he even thought about what he was doing, instinct took over and he rushed at Laertes again, taking him off guard and sending both their swords to the floor in the fray. The referee blew his whistle again, but Hamlet had already bounded to the floor and grabbed the nearest sword- the one that happened to be Laertes’- and was up on his feet and back on top of Laertes again. Laertes scrambled out of the way and rolled to the side, grabbed for the sword that had fallen and used it to parry Hamlet’s blow as he twisted back around.

The referee couldn’t get between them, they were fighting again, and a few people in the crowd had begun to stand, including Horatio, Annalise, and Ophelia.

Hamlet made a swift movement to the side, and Laertes followed, trying to dodge his next move, but Hamlet faked him out and turned behind him, sending his sword into his back. Laertes let out a gasp and stumbled forward.

A piercing scream drove them apart. Gertrude was standing on the platform, hands gripped on the side of her chair and eyes wide. “The cup!” she shouted, and Claudius tried to grab her hand so she didn’t fall. “Hamlet, the cup is poisoned!!” She screamed again, and the whole crowd was on their feet. Gertrude coughed once, twice, and red liquid dripped from the side of her mouth. Hamlet ran to the platform, the sword clanging to the floor. He took her hands and guided her to a comfortable position against the chair, and watched as she smiled gently at him and the life left her body.

Hamlet rose as her head drooped back, hands shaking and breath quickening. He froze as his eyes met Claudius, and he knew what he had done to the wine.

“Hamlet!” Laertes shouted from behind him. He whipped around, ready to fight again, but saw that he was propped up against one arm on the floor. His helmet was abandoned a few meters away, and his hair had fallen into his face. Hamlet went to his knees, and as he did he saw Ophelia, Horatio, and Annalise fighting their way through the crowd. “Hamlet, I’m sorry- the blade was poisoned! The King told me to, he said it would avenge my family. Hamlet, you’re going to die, no medicine in the world can save you. I’m sorry, I just wanted revenge- please forgive me before I’m gone!”

Hamlet looked him in his eyes, with his mother’s blood still lingering on his hands. “I forgive you, and I’m sorry. I suppose I’ll be seeing you soon.” Laertes fell forward and caught himself on his wrist.

Ophelia burst through the crowd and skidded over to her brother. She bent over him, and he turned his face and saw her. A look of horrible realization crossed his face before he breathed and was gone, and Horatio forced Ophelia to stand up and walk away so their cover wouldn’t be blown. Annalise dashed from the side to follow them. Hamlet caught Horatio’s eye, and although he couldn’t hear what he said from across the room, Hamlet knew what he had said almost as perfectly as if he had whispered it into his ear: “Finish this.”

Hamlet stood and slowly turned to Claudius.

~~~

Guildenstern dug rapidly through a box that was half falling out of the back of the van, and grabbed out a roll of charges. He tossed them to Rosencrantz who set them off as fast as possible, sending flashes and bangs into the sky. Shots rang out from somewhere in the castle, and they shared a glance. Ryzza, Jackie, and Louis were still up by the doors of the castle, trying to keep the guards' attention by any means possible. Guildenstern noticed his watch blinking, and backed up against the van to check it.

It was a message from Horatio, but when he tried to read it, all it said was reloading, over and over. The Wi-Fi had been completely cut, and Horatio knew he couldn’t get a message out to anyone on the outside. So if he had tried to…

“Rosencrantz-” Guildenstern started, but he was at his shoulder before he even finished.

“What’s wrong?”

“Horatio tried to send a message but it won’t load.” Guildenstern looked at Rosencrantz, and he understood immediately.

“He wouldn’t try unless it was going wrong,” Rosencrantz thought out loud and Guildenstern nodded. “We need to get in there.”

“How? All the entrances are shut off because of the siege, I don’t think we’d have time to find a side door that was open-”

“We bust in the front,” Rosencrantz motioned to the doors where the commotion was.

“How?” Guildenstern asked incredulously.

Rosencrantz thought for a moment. “The van. It’s three thousand pounds of pure metal- we can get through some unsupported decorative doors.”

Guildenstern tried to think quickly, and Marc came around the side, panting.

“What are you guys doing? We need-”

“Horatio tried to send a distress message- something went very wrong,” Rosencrantz spoke, already taking the boxes out of the back of the van and placing them on the ground.

Marc paled. “Okay, what are we going to do?”

“I’m going to take this van and ram it straight through those doors and all the way into the throne room.”

“You think you’ll make it?”

Rosencrantz looked at Marc. “No idea. You coming?”

“Absolutely.”

~~~

Hamlet stood over Claudius’s dead body. The poisoned wine lay sprayed all over him and the floor around him, and the poisoned sword lay plunged in the body on the ground in front of him.

For the first time in his life, Hamlet felt like time stopped dead around him. It died along with Claudius, and now Hamlet stood in the center of absolute chaos, completely at peace.

Across the room, standing by the locked entrance that the crowd was flocking to, stood his father’s ghost. He heard his voice in his head, saying, “You have avenged me. Good job. I am sorry for my wife, and I am sorry for you as well. But I suppose you’ll be here with me soon enough.”

“Yeah,” Hamlet said, an iron taste in his mouth. He could feel the veins around the cut on his face getting hot and could feel the poison from the sword trickling quickly through his skin. He didn’t have much time.

Funny, he had wasted so much of it leading up to this moment. So much planning, procrastinating, attempting, so much time had gone into this one moment. And it was done. And he was done.

And if he was being honest, it felt right. No main character ever lived ‘happily ever after’. It only made sense for him to go this way. Covered in the blood of his soulmate’s brother, his uncle, his mother, and his own, with poison dripping through his body at frightening speeds. But he wasn’t frightened. He had looked death in the face and refused to let it take him so many times, it felt like an old friend had finally caught up to him.

Hamlet wondered if he’d go to hell or heaven or whatever happened to come after this. He figured he didn’t need to worry about it- there wasn’t much he could do at this point.

He had read so many stories where the hero went through loads of trauma and turmoil, but always came out on top in the end. He had checked all the boxes, and it was time to take his final bow.

The world began to speed up again as Horatio, Ophelia, and Annalise appeared at his shoulder and caught him as he fell. They lowered him gently to the ground, and Ophelia tried to say something to him, but he didn’t hear her.

A massive crash brought his attention to the doorway. The crowd had moved away to avoid it, but there sat the van, partially crumbled but wholly intact, and Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Marc piled out of it and took off across the room and to where Hamlet was laying on the floor.

“We got a message from you but it didn’t load so we figured we ought to- oh fuck,” Guildenstern stopped and put his hands over his mouth. Rosencrantz dropped to his knees, and the other two followed him.

“I’m sorry I dragged you all into all of this,” Hamlet choked out. He could feel himself slowing down. “You all are a better family than I could ever have imagined. Stay alive for me, yeah?” Hamlet looked up into Horatio’s face as he said it, and he nodded. “No more cheating death, no more suicide attempts, I want you to do what you need to do to get over me, let Maggie take the crown and help her set up a new government, then go and do what you want to be happy.”

“You want some kind of last words? I can write them down for you,” Rosencrantz said, and tried to force a smile.

Hamlet smiled, then said, “Actually yeah. I read it in a play in highschool one time, and it really stuck with me.

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,

Absent thee from felicity a while,

And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain

To tell my story.”

Hamlet’s eyes dulled, and his head slipped back on Horatio’s arm. He felt himself slip from reality. It felt familiar, like the moment as a child when he first went to the lake on a family vacation, and was told to jump off the dock. That seemed far too intimidating- it being his first time and all- so he sat himself down on the edge with his little life jacket on, and rocked back and forth until he slipped over the side.

He felt his feet hit the water. He felt his head dip under the warmth. And Hamlet, the Dane, Tragic Protagonist, Prince of Denmark, met death at a crossroad, as if it were an old childhood friend that he had long longed for, but never seen.

Hamlet was gone.

~~~

Horatio knew he couldn’t hear him, but he finished the line anyway.

“Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince,

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”

He let his hand drift over his best friend's eyes, and they were shut. Maggie had taken the castle by now, they could hear her outside the door.

They had won.

Hamlet had won.

#this one’s long but it is the final chapter #hamlet modern au #hamlet #shakespeare #hamletandthegang #horatio #ophelia #oc annalise #hatg1

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