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stonecoldjerseyfox · 4 years

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Jersey on my mind (part 1)

Daryl rams his fist in the roof of the car as hard as he possibly can and swears loudly at his own stupidity; he doesn't even try to tailor the words as he utters a whole bunch of profanity, without its equal. Fucking hell! Of course it was a trap! And here they are, locked inside a car, like a baffled fox stuck in a fox scissors. The difference is that he and Aaron are stuck inside a crappy car with a dead engine, surrounded by walkers. How many are they? Too many. Right now, he’d preferred the fox scissors. With pulsating, burning knuckles he looks at his male companion.

”What?”

The man in the passenger seat observes him calmly. Daryl hesitates at first, but on the other hand; they are sitting in a car that can be devoured, to say the least, by hordes of walkers any second. It would just require that one of those rotten morons manages to smash a window.

”I came out here too, ya know, not feel all close up back there.” Daryl scoffs. ”Even now, this still feels more like me than back in them houses. That's pretty messed up, huh?”

Aaron meets his gaze, nods slightly, with a faint smile. Is it pity?

”You were trying.”

Maybe all in vain, Daryl thinks. He’s been accustomed to surviving day by day; all of his life has been about surviving, often day by day, to the point where this new reality feels completely unnatural to him. Being out in the woods, hunt for food, sleep underneath the stars, wash off wherever he could find water. Nowadays, since the group settled in Alexandria, he feels like a caged, wild animal; shackled, restricted, totally superfluous. To admit that this new way of life doesn’t bring him any calm, any satisfaction, is shameful. But to come clean with it; if this is the end, it doesn’t matter, right?

”Listen-” Aaron says, while a walker presses its face towards the window, smears its saliva, mixed with blood, all over it. ”I saw you with your group out there. You led them to safety.”

Daryl grunts. Yep, he did. But that wasn't enough. Nothing is enough. He couldn't save Beth and it still haunts him in his dreams. No one, not even Maggie, blamed him for it, but it didn’t help him sleep any better at night. He thought the discovery of Alexandria would heal his wounds to some extent, make him feel that he was repaying some kind of debt to the group, a favor of some sort; In vain off course.

A dead bastard grins badly at him through the window. They can’t sit here. They have to get out. Aaron seems to think the same. Daryl takes a cigarette from his pocket, puts it between his lips and starts looking for something to light it with.

”I’ll go.” he says. ”I’ll lead them out. You make a break for the fence.”

Aaron immediately starts to oppose the plan. Crap, they don’t really have time to argue.

”Just let me finish my smoke first.”

Daryl is about to take a throat flare when he’s interrupted. Somewhere on the outside, gunfire breaks out. Daryl drops the cigarette into his crotch out of pure surprise. He swears out loudly as the cigarette burns a small hole in his pants, while the walkers, whose attention has been directed towards the men inside the car, like kids in a candy store, shifts attention towards the sound. Aaron twists and turns in the passenger seats, tries to get a glimpse of what’s going on outside, but the walkers are in the way.

”What’s that?”

”I dunno.”

Whatever it may be, it can't be good. No one from their group knows they are here. Outside the car, walkers are mowed to the ground like dominoes. This is their chance.

”Come on.”

Daryl grabs the crossbow. With the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and with one last glance at Aaron, they swing the doors open and throw themselves out of the car. Without dropping the cigarette, Daryl swings the crossbow through the air and hits one of the walking corpses right in the kisser. Its jaw bone flies through the air and drops to the ground. At the same time Daryl sees two figures in the corner of his eyes he doesn’t recognize. A male, armed with what looks like the shaft of a broomstick, which he swings through the air like some goddamn- he’s torn from the staff and the man, as the second figure dives into his field of view. A woman, wearing a hat, armed with an automatic rifle that she aims at a walker right behind him; she shoots and the bullet hits straight in the head.

”Let’s go.” the unknown male waves at them to follow his lead.

They start running through the mass, towards the open gate in the fence, surrounding the area. Daryl shuts the gate in front of the remaining walkers just as they reaches it. Daryl and Aaron turns towards the newcomers. The situation has changed in the matter of seconds. From being crammed inside the car, surrounded by walkers and in the belief that their last moment had come, they have been freed by two complete strangers. The deserted street is littered with walkers. The four of them looks at each other, while the remaining dead sons of bitches tries their best to squeeze themselves trough the small squares of wired net.

”That was…” Aaron looks at them with his hands raised in front of him; some kind of peaceful gesture. ”That was… wow. Thanks. I’m Aaron. This is Daryl.”

Without the slightest facial reaction, the woman lifts the rifle at them; over the barrel Daryl meets her steady, yet jaded, gaze underneath the brim. Come on…

”No, no, no.” Aaron waves his hands even more frantically in front of himself and Daryl.

”What the f-”

”Mila-” the man’s dark eyes widen at her bold action.

”Safety precaution, Morgan.” the woman replies, in a thick accent no one of them definitely haven’t heard before. ”You got to save them. Now we’re even.”

”I said no harm-”

”Yeah, ’cuz that went well yesterday?” she scoffs.

Daryl’s tired. Tired of being surprised, tired of being overshadowed and damn tired of having weapons aimed at him; he raises his crossbow at her. That might make her boggle. It doesn’t.

”I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” she says. Without breaking their eye contact she nods the barrel towards the ground, for him to put down his crossbow.

”Ain’t that smart pointing guns at people, lady.”

”Ain’t smart getting trapped either.”

Don’t fucking test my patience, Daryl thinks, focuses on breathing trough his nose; it’s not the right time to fire up, though his temper works against him on that part. He sighs and reluctantly lowers the crossbow. Behind the rifle he’s met with a smirk, whereupon she lowers the rifle.

”Great.” Aaron lets out a deep sigh. ”Thanks, again. Erhm, why-” he turns and looks at the bloodthirsty cluster behind the fence.

Daryl looks at the male with the staff. Why didn’t he kill them? She was the only one who actually did.

”Because all life is precious, Daryl.”

At those words the woman rolls her eyes.

”Wha-”

”Don’t ask.” the young woman interrupts Aaron. ”We have to move. Whoever set the trap will return.”

Daryl looks at the unlucky couple. He’s in his late forties, tall and dressed in cargos; she can't be a day older than thirty, maybe even younger. Short, athletic similar to a long-distance runner; tenacious, lean muscles. Except for the hat, she’s dressed in jeans, denim shirt, a quilted rust colored jacket and a pair of boots. What catches his eye is how worn and pale she looks. The shadows under her eyes tattles that she hasn’t slept for a long time, may need to eat, or even have a cold. At that moment she puts her fingers in the corners of her mouths and whistles loudly. The sharp sound bounces over the desolated road, against the buildings. As on command the back door of an abandoned pickup opens further afield. At first he’s sure it’s an ambush. The next second, and he can hardly believe his eyes, a boy, no more than three or four years old, with long, blonde hair, climbs out of the back seat and runs towards them. He carries a walkman and a pair of headphones in his small hands. A small backpack bounces on his back as he scurries up to them, where he clings to the women's jeans, seemingly calm, curious even with the two newcomers. The extra weight the boy puts on her, while clinging to her right leg, seems to make her sway on the spot.

”He’s yours?”

What a stupid question; the only difference is the blonde hair, unlike hers. Otherwise, he’s a copy of his mother.

”He is.”

She looks at the boy, then back at Daryl. The gaze is steady, alert; like a she-wolf watching its cub. The boy tugs at his mother’s jacket. She looks at him and shakes her head lightly, making the long hair sway.

”Schh. I can’t carry you.” she whispers towards him and turns her head towards them. ”As I said, we better get out of here.” she repeats and squeezes the boy’s small hand, while giving Morgan a glance. ”It's dusk soon.”

”Oh, but we have good news!” Aaron exclaims; the former politician returns to his role, in the hunt for voters and supporters. Or in this case, survivors to join them. ”We have a community not far from here. Walls, electricity, it’s really safe. If you’d like to come with us…”

They expect them to look overwhelmed. Maybe surprised even. Instead, Morgan shakes his head and politely abrupts Aaron.

”No, thank you. We’re on our way somewhere.” Morgan nods towards Mila and the boy, whose big blue eyes are pasted on Daryl and the crossbow in his hand.

”Though we are a bit lost-” Morgan continues, starts to search through the pockets of his jacket. ”If you could tell me where we are.”

From the beige weather jacket he takes a folded map, which he hands over to Daryl. He takes it. It’s well-used, worn and stained. Over the big blue field that is the Atlantic, next to the east coast, someone has written a message in blue ink. His eyes are drawn to a certain part of the message. He looks at Morgan, back at the message. ’Sorry, I was an asshole. Come to Washington. The new world’s gonna need Rick Grimes’. Once again he looks up at Morgan. What does this mean? He knows Rick?

”Ya’ know Rick? Rick Grimes?”

”Well, yes.” Morgan's eyes wander between him and Aaron. ”Do you?”

”He’s with us.” Daryl returns the map. ”Back at Alexandria.”

Morgan and Mila look at each other. The man seems not to believe his ears, whereupon he declares that he found the map at a church, with Rick's name on it.

”That's where I met Mila, and Juri. We decided to stick together, go to Washington.”

”Well, he aint there.”

That’s when the situation, once again, changes rapidly, in a matter of seconds. The pale woman’s pupils dilates, as if a curtain is drawn in front of her, and she collapses on the ground in front of them.

”Mila!”

Morgan throws himself down next to her, followed by Aaron who takes the boy by the arm and pulls him over. Daryl gets down on one knee next to her; while Morgan pats her on the cheek, calling her name, Daryl places the back of his hand against her forehead, while his eyes searches for the cause of this.

”Mila, Mila!”

”She’s burning up.” Daryl states. ”When did you last eat?”

”A couple of hours ago.” Morgan says, and for the first time since they met him, he looks afraid. ”She didn't eat much though. I don’t understand.”

”What’s wrong with her?” Aaron’s eyes are worried. ”Is she hurt?”

Like on command, Daryl once again searches her with his eyes, from top to bottom. She starts to move, or rather shivers with chills, while grunting, like in pain. She has a fever and is pale like a sheet.

”She’s wounded or something? Sick?”

”I don't think so. Don't know. She hasn't said anything.” Morgan meets his gaze. ”We were assaulted yesterday, the same group that trapped you I believe. But we disarmed them.”

That's when Daryl’s eyes are drawn to the tank top; it looks bulky at the stomach, as if it were too much fabric at that particular spot, and in addition, the entire middle part of the garment is somewhat stained, wet even. Without warning, Daryl lifts the top. What’s underneath causes Aaron to put his hands in front of the boy's eyes; it’s not a pretty sight.

”All life is precious, my ass-” Daryl takes a deep breath and sighs. This ain’t good. ”Son of a bitch.”

Her midsection is wrapped in three layers of gaffer tape with pieces of grey cloths, soaked in blood. The skin is swollen and shifts in a palette of red, purple and blue.

”I had no idea.” Morgan exclaims.

”Well, now ya’ do.” Daryl sputters and takes out his knife. ”Gotta remove this. Hold her.”

While Morgan tries to get a word from Mila, Daryl cuts the tape and carefully lifts the bloody pieces of grey melange fabric, seemingly what once was a t-shirt. It’s worse than he thought. A gash, from what looks like a sharp object, like a machete, runs from navel to rib cage, is stapled with a staples gun and leeks fluid. The fact that the wound is stapled and that Morgan had no idea she was hurt, makes it even more bizarre; did she staple herself?

”Gotta get her to Alexandria.” Daryl says. ”She needs a medic.”

Without waiting for an answer, as if there was time for it, Daryl lifts her off the ground. If he, or they, doesn’t act quickly, she’ll die. And considering the boy- she quips when Daryl adjusts her in his arms, most likely in pain; that she was able to walk around an entire day, and ward off walkers with that wound; impressive, but incredibly foolish. How much blood has she lost by now? What was she thinking? That staples and gaffer tape would do the trick? It’s like a goddamn scrapbooking project. She ain’t no surgeon, that’s for sure. Morgan collects their belongings; backpacks and weapons, Aaron takes the boy, who hasn’t said a word during the entire time, in his arms and they start scudding back toward Alexandria.

(I’ll be posting part 2 asap)

#daryl fanfiction #daryl x oc #daryl dixon #Jersey on my mind #Daryl Dixon Fanfic #The Walking Dead fanficition #The walking dead fanfic #fanfiction #twd fanfiction #fanfic #twd fanfic #the walking dead fandom

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spaceskam · 4 years

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another part of my kid fic universe for @zuluoscarecho ❤️️

warning: mentions of past abuse and deportation

“I spy with my little eye something... brown.”

"Um... Alex's hair?"

"No! His hair is black!"

"Definitely brown.

"Let's say both," Alex chimed in, smiling easily as he listened to Michael and Isaac play their billionth round of I Spy as they made their way to Texas to pick up Isaac's things from his Tía Ellie’s house.

It took a bit more negotiating that expected. Turns out, she’d never directly witnessed Isaac actively using his telekinesis, but she’d been getting suspicious that there was something off about him. She loved him, she’d said, but she was no longer comfortable housing him. She’d been getting in contact with a social worker and Isaac had overheard which led to him hunting down Michael in hopes he’d be a safe place to go. Alex had to take over the phone call at that point.

“Okay, okay,” Michael agreed, humming as he looked around for something brown. His hand was locked with Alex’s, resting on the center console of Alex’s truck. Alex gave his hand a soft squeeze. “My hair?”

Isaac erupted into unprecedented giggles, “Not everything is hair!”

“Well, shit, I don’t know what else comes in brown, dude, the tree trunks?” Michael asked, smile getting wider by the second.

Isaac had only been staying with them for a week so far, but he got comfortable fast. They’d set up his room and he would be starting school that following Monday, so it was clear he had no reason to not get comfortable. Besides, he and Michael had little telekinesis lessons and that seemed to help a lot at making him feel safe there. Alex made sure to add a little more to that safety by working on making sure Daniella had a constant, trustworthy line of communication to talk to Isaac every day. So far it’d been a little rocky, but he was working the little bit of magic he could manage.

He was determined to be a good father figure.

“No,” Isaac said.

“Okay, I give up, what is it?” Michael said.

“My hair.”

Michael laughed and turned in his seat to face him, looking some where in between impressed and baffled.

“You totally tried to throw me off course.”

“Duh.”

“You hear that, Alex? We’ve got a fuckin’ trickster in our backseat,” Michael said, huffing a laugh as he settled back into his seat, “He’s gonna outsmart us all.”

“Wouldn’t shock me,” Alex agreed, pulling his hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. His heart felt so full in a way he couldn’t quite articulate. Michael leaned over and kissed his cheek for extra measure.

“Me neither,” he agreed, looking back to Isaac when he pulled away, “How’d you do in school, by the way? Forgot to ask.”

“Good,” Isaac said, shrugging, “As and Bs.”

“Trying or not trying?” Michael clarified. There was a few seconds of silence and Alex could picture the distinct, guilty grin on his face that mirrored his father’s. “Well, I always say if they know you’re better than them without even trying then you’re doing something right.”

“Okay, no, that’s a horrible lesson,” Alex butted in. Michael scoffed in disagreement as Isaac just let out a soft laugh.

Isaac hadn’t really struggled to understand the fact that two men could be together (another thing they had to thank Daniella for) but it had been an adjustment for all of them and they had a conversation about the barest definition of Michael’s sexuality to nip any complicated questions in the bud. That had been preceeded by a talk with Danielle herself who said ‘that would explain a lot, good for you’.

In times of banter, though, he happily sided with whoever he felt could make the situation funnier.

“Yeah, Mr. Michael, bad lesson.”

“This whole teaming up against me thing is not gonna fly. You both seem to forget I could throw everything with my brain,” Michael said, more pouty than serious and only getting more laughter from the boy in the back seat, “And stop calling me mister, it makes me feel old.”

“You are old,” Alex told him. Michael stuck his tongue out at him, but didn’t argue. They hadn’t quite had the whole alien conversation yet. That felt like more a month milestone or something.

The rest of the drive to Texas went like that, conversation and jokes and listening to music. It took about three songs to realize that Daniella seemed to have only one flaw in raising Isaac and it was his lack of music taste. Alex put on Panic! to educate him.

Around the two and a half hour mark, Isaac had passed out against the window and Michael was laying over the center console to put his head on Alex’s shoulder. It was quiet and peaceful and so damn domestic that Alex could almost imagine they were taking a family trip to Disney World.

“I love you,” Michael whispered for no reason, fueling his little fantasy even more.

"I love you too.”

They arrived outside Ellie’s house around 1PM. The neighborhood wasn’t the greatest thing in the world, but it was nice enough. Lawns were manicured, kids were playing outside, people were walking their dogs. The fact that Daniella had been successful enough to have a house in a neighborhood like that and still got deported was a quick reality check Alex didn’t enjoy.

“Wake up, bud,” Michael said, reaching into the backseat to gently shake Isaac awake. It took him a minute but he rubbed his eyes and slowly came back to life.

They all climbed out of the truck and walked towards the front door. It opened before they could even knock, a small, white, blonde lady on the other side. By looks alone, it was difficult to tell how old she was--she could’ve been 23 or she could’ve been 45.

“Ellie?” Alex clarified.

“Yes, Sir,” she said, eyes landing on Isaac as he hid behind Michael, “Hey, Isaac. You scared me running off like that. I’m glad you’re okay.”

His small hands clutched Michael’s, hanging off him slightly. Michael didn’t seem to mind.

“We’re just here to grab his things or anything you managed to keep from Daniella’s house. We’ll keep it until she’s able to come back,” Alex said. Considering Michael had personal reasons for disliking this woman, it seemed best that Alex took over.

“Right. Everything I could save is in the guest room,” Ellie explained, moving out of the way to let them in, “Could I get you guys coffee? Water? Anything?”

“We’re okay, thank you,” Alex said.

She led them to the small room that Isaac had slept in when he was there, nearly every square inch of the room covered in things. Most of it was small trinkets and personal items and Alex considered that maybe he should’ve asked if he needed more boxes.

“I’ll go get you some newspaper to wrap some of it up,” Ellie said, quickly walking out of view.

“I... I was not expecting this,” Alex said carefully, looking around the room before looking to Isaac. He was still clinging onto Michael, looking either scared or embarrassed or both. Alex managed a warm smile. “It’s okay, I’m not mad. Just surprised, ‘s all.”

Slowly, they began making trips to the truck. Alex had a few boxes and they filled them with newspaper-wrapped trinkets and mugs, handling them all with care. Then they got to the other stuff like his clothes, some of Daniella’s clothes, multiple sheet sets, curtains, a quilt Daniella made from his baby clothes. Then they got his books, toys, etc. It was just a lot. It had the entire backseat full and the trunk not too far off. It took three hours.

“You sure you don’t want anything? I can make lunch,” Ellie suggested. Alex politely declined.

“We’ll pick up something on the way home. Thank you, though, for taking care of him for so long,” Alex said. She nodded, but grabbed his arm to keep him in place after Michael and Isaac said their goodbyes and headed to the truck. “Is something wrong?”

“Be careful with him,” she said, voice hushed even though they weren’t in ear shot, “There’s something off about that boy. Daniella hid it well, but once you have him in your house... Things start happening.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Alex said, again trying his best to be polite. She knew enough, they didn’t need her discovering more.

“Just be careful,” she said sincerely, “I tried bringing him to church but--”

“Thank you for watching him, but we’re good now,” Alex cut her off, not really wanting to hear more. He knew she hadn’t done what Michael’s religious foster family had, but how much longer until she had? That was just something he could keep to himself.

Alex made his way back to the truck where Michael and Isaac were already waiting for him, both silent and probably for two entirely different reasons. So, Alex suggested food.

They ate in silence as well as they started their drive back to Roswell. Isaac looked drained which was probably his main reason for silence, but Michael looked out of it.

By the time they started driving through long stretches of empty desert, Isaac was sound asleep in the backseat. It was when the sun started going down, though, that Michael couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“You okay?” Alex asked softly, squeezing his hand as he heard his breathing slowly begin to escalate. He looked over at him and saw that his bottom lip was quivering and his eyebrows were drawn taut, everything showing that he was trying to not cry mixed with his breathing becoming more and more erratic. A quick look in the backseat proved that Isaac was still asleep.

So Alex pulled over into the desert.

He got out of the driver’s seat and went over to the passenger side, all but pulling Michael out of the truck. He broke down as Alex pressed him into the door, trying to hold his face and get him to calm down.

“Hey, what’s going on? What happened?” Alex asked softly, hands on his cheeks. He hated seeing him like this, yet loved that he was being so open with his feelings. It was a strange juxtaposition.

“After the house he grew up in was foreclosed, but before they had people go in and clean it out, he’d break in to get his and his mom’s things. They wouldn’t let him go in and get his shit after they took his mother, Alex. He had to break in,” Michael admitted, choking on a sob as he recounted it and meeting Alex’s forehead with his own. Alex frowned and that secondhand sadness seeped into his veins. “He shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“No, he shouldn’t have,” Alex agreed softly, weaving his fingers into his hair, “That’s fucked.”

“I feel so guilty,” Michael admitted, “I-I should’ve known about him. I should’ve been easier to reach, should’ve been the first person they called when they needed somewhere for him to stay.”

“How could you? Daniella didn’t tell you,” Alex assured him, “Which, honestly, was probably good for both of you. He didn’t need to get to know you when you were at your lowest.”

Michael sniffled, seeming torn on whether he could agree or not. Alex just continued to do his best at soothing him.

“But it doesn’t matter. We can’t change what happened. He found you, that’s all that matters.”

“God, I can’t... He was so close to ending up like me,” he said, clutching Alex’s shoulders, “I don’t want him going through that shit.”

“And he won’t, okay?” Alex promised, “He’s got us and we’re not going to let that happen.”

“Never let any of that happen,” Michael insisted, “He’s gonna have a good life.”

“Yeah, he is. He’s already got a ton of people who love him and want him,” Alex assured him, “We just need to make sure he knows that.” Michael sniffled and nodded his head. “You’re wanted too, by the way.”

Michael huffed a laugh, “It’s not about me.”

“Kinda is,” Alex said, “And that’s okay. It’s okay to be scared of what might happen to someone else and want better for them. That gives you a drive to be better for yourself.”

Michael breathed steadily a few times and Alex carefully dried his face, grounding each other easily. Alex moved just enough to kiss his forehead and Michael relaxed a little more.

“Sorry,” he said once he calmed down. Alex shook his head.

“Don’t apologize. It’s okay to cry and be sad,” he whispered, “It’s okay to be scared.”

Michael managed a smile and he whispered, “Have I told you I love you lately?”

“Yeah,” Alex said, “But I still like hearing it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

They met in the middle for a soft kiss that led to another that led to another before they slowly stopped. As easy as it would be to let it turn into something else, the truck was still running and they had a sleeping 10 year old in the backseat.

“You’re gonna be a great dad, Michael.”

“So are you,” he said, his hands sliding up to his neck before he pulled him into a hug, “You’re already great.”

They held each other for a moment before deciding it was okay to let go and climbing back into the truck. Michael leaned back over the center console to lay his head on Alex’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around his bicep.

Alex really started planning that trip to Disney World.

#malex #malex fic #michael guerin #alex manes #roswell new mexico #my fic #i never planned on you

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flowerflamestars · 4 years

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Destined and Dreamt

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE PART FOUR PART FIVE PART SIX PART SEVEN

Nesta Archeron wasn’t sleeping. Wrapped in a quilted silk robe, she paced the length of her bedroom, once, twice, before giving into the urge to throw back the curtains from her windows. It was the darkest part of the night. Thick clouds had long shrouded the stars, the only light the reflection back from the fire burning in the grate across the room.

But still, it felt a little easier to breathe.

Her life had felt like cage for a long, long time. Like any other creature of clipped wings, when Nesta slept, she dreamt of the sky.

There were so many places she hadn’t seen and longed for: the impossible high mountain gardens in the Sky kingdom, the sharp gold eyed fairies of Hesperia;, that Blooming Country, under their lavender sky. The horrible beauty over the Wall, wilder and more dangerous than the fae of the continent she worked with. Fifteen thousand year old trade routes that crossed between the sacred spaces of the Great Desert, books written by the hands of gods in the Weeping City.

The mountain peaks in her dreams, so vast their summits turned the very wind to song.

Tonight, however, it was the nightmares that kept her awake.

Some were nearly as old as she was: Feyre devoured by magic, Elain with cold metallic eyes, Nesta alone- Nesta a monster, without her sisters.

Newer, were what was haunting her now: humans turning on them. Elain in chains, Nesta made ready for a pyre, the horror Lucien would unleash trying to get to Elain before the sheer number of mortals brought him down.

It should have been a comfort- if everything went to hell, they were going to burn too.

But hell was coming for them in worse, different ways. It wouldn’t be their neighbors condemning them- if Feyre got her wish, took that gamble on all their lives, it might be the Queens to whom their tiny human world was personal property who ordered all their deaths for consorting with faeries.

Or Hybern, bringing their brutality to bleed all of Prythian dry.

In the very back of her mind, Nesta heard again, soft and fathoms deep, the voice that had responded to Elain’s charm. We’re called Illyrians, born hearing the song of the wind.

Behind her eyes, the mountains sang the icy air to shape. Not words, but feelings that bubbled up beneath her breastbone and completed a longing so desperate tears ached in Nesta’s throat.

She had nightmares, and then nightmares.

Nesta had bargained and cheated, lied and bought her freedom. She might not have been able to save her baby sister- a failure she could never, ever take back- but Nesta would be damned if she failed their vassals too. Failed Elain or Lucien, besides.

The cold wind in her mind was a wilder thing than the chill of this snowy night, she could almost feel it if she tried. Ice and power and freedom, the air twisting around her like an embrace.

There had to be a way to keep them safe.

Beauty would not distract her. It was the oldest human story, wasn’t it? The innocent maiden and the wicked faery. The lost kingdom and it’s chosen heir, a quest, a sacrifice. Destiny. The trick at the end- the pure of heart is worthy, but faeries always lie.

This wasn’t a tale and Nesta couldn’t freefall through the very sky into the arms of her true love.

She’d find those mountains someday, climb them until Nesta touched the clouds herself. Cross the dangerous, fathomless enchantment of an ocean to follow the path of her families old compacts in blood. Her mothers homeland, the faery smith who’d bound gold on steel for the first Archeron Lord, maybe even Lucien’s lost and savage Autumn.

She would live, and she would see it all.

Nesta just had to find a safe route through a war first, and nothing- no one- was going to stop her.

— Lucien was a liar. It was possible it was in his blood- learned over the cradle, crooned by his mother the deceptions that would keep him safe. He’d let himself believe the lie he could survive Beron intact in youthful fury. Shed his colors and lied through centuries of brittle, false Spring Court charm. He would lie now- lie and burn and bleed if it meant he could protect the Acheron sisters from what was coming. Sleep had never arrived.

When Elain finally gave into the overwhelming exhaustion of magic and conflict a few hours before dawn, he’s stayed still. Felt the soft sigh against his shoulder as her eyes tipped shut, halfway through the litany of what he knew of the Day Court, the exchange for a cheekily retold explanation of the ties between the Archerons and the north’s fell High Lord. “We’re not his subjects,” Elain had all but growled, face pressed to his arm. That several hours into that tangled space between them, curled together on her floor, she’d cajoled him out of his coat and most of the asinine human layers Lucien wore these days, was not something Lucien would let himself dwell on. How infinitely pale she was in comparison, the smooth curve of a freckled cheek pillowed on his bicep. “The original oath ensures it,” Elain went on, “Prythian’s courts don’t allow humans to belong to them in legal truth, but for us it’s a protection. Not under Rhysand’s rule, but we can enter the protected city- carry things from it on our ships to countries who don’t know it exists.” Adamant to his gold, but that wasn’t right either- aspen, ash to his birch bark maple, the trees that cut paths through Autumns heart. “Velaris,” Lucien crooned back at her glee, the syllables smoke in his throat. “The City of Starlight,” Elain’s laugh had no sound, the amusement a twist in her voice as it swept over his bare skin. In an urge he’d been turning over and ignoring for the better part of an hour, Lucien risked reaching out to brush the curls from her face where they’d fallen into bright, half-lidded eyes. “Wherever a High Lord is,” Lucien found himself saying, as the silence stretched a beat too long, as he looked into those dark, dark eyes, “is their court. Rhysand has more power than any of them- wherever he is, Night lives.” His hand was still in her hair when sleep took Elain. The trust of it- asleep against him, like Lucien wasn’t High Fae, magical and monstrous as they came- froze him in place. It was a longer while than he’d ever admit before he carried Elain the scant step to her bed, left her wrapped in warm down- the temptation to stay so huge- and insane- that Lucien started walking and hadn’t stopped until he was here; deep in the snowy woods. Dawn was only now cresting through the clouds, the light silvered pink and slow to reach him. It was too damned much. His mother- not just alive, or miraculously unhurt as he only hoped and dreamt of- but apparently seizing her own fate with a surety Lucien hadn’t known existed in his entire lifetime. His mother’s freedom. They’d both be safe, at least as much as was possible, from Beron and Lucien’s brother’s wrath. For the first time in his life. How had she broken a bond of blood? Stolen a High Lords crown?And why, after untold centuries of it’s wildness trapped in Beron’s hands, would it accept being wielded by one human girl? And what- he was truly afraid of the answer- what waited in the Day Court for them? Lucien had only one guess, and it made it hard to breathe. While he was already damned and ceding oxygen, Lucien let himself think of Elain. A Court’s crown should have had an effect- magic, in it’s truest, oldest aspect, shone on the skin of mortals- but Elain remained herself. An utterly human, utterly feminine beauty. Bottomless clever eyes and a vicious, brilliant mind only countered by that kind unforgetting heart- everything in the world Lucien wished to hold. It wasn’t fair, but he blamed Feyre. He’d had it locked away. Bound in so much red ribbon behind his ribs to call enchantment down- and then Feyre in her pointed frustration had spent an entire day making asides about how ridiculous it was, how unnecessary it was, for Lucien to marry her sister. While he’d been braced for the condemnation, for Nesta to brush away Feyre’s fears in that cool way of hers, that wasn’t his first impulse. Like a madness- like the High fae that he was- Lucien wanted to get in a fight. This was where he belonged. In pace with Nesta, forever at Elain’s side. He wanted to tear apart anyone who’d try to take that away. His home, his family, his- Love was not a word Lucien allowed himself to think. It hadn’t lived in his vocabulary for enough centuries it had been easy to bury. Passing fondness of course existed, friendship- though his last lover had in fact been killed by Feyre’s hand, in these very snowy woods. Andras hadn’t even been allowed to die wearing his own face. There was nothing Lucien wouldn’t do to keep the eldest Archeron sisters alive. He’d forgiven Feyre- been as close to her as he had anyone in decades, a friend- but Feyre had protectors too powerful and numerous to name now. Before the sunlight reached the forest shadows Lucien’s body had melted through the snowdrift, burned so hot he was settled in summer warm soil instead of mud. A few red plumes of leaves had tried to unfurled out of their time on the oak behind him, scattered down at his displeasure between racing thoughts. He’d never burned Elain. Lucien wasn’t actually sure it was physically possible for him- and that thought, at least, was a balm. Lucien needed to bury it all. Needed the lying diplomats face he’d perfected, the utter and complete act he, Elain, and Nesta pulled off in concert- Lucien needed the lie. Not to escape what he was feeling- it wasn’t possible, and he didn’t want to lose all the insane hope and fear he carried- but to face this day as the clever fox he’d been and find a path through.

If Rhysand planned on endangering them, he had another thing coming, Nightmare Lord or no. — Elain woke up alone. It shouldn’t have been a surprise- much less an imposition that filled her with the sort of blinding frustration a less keen observer associated only with her elder sister- Elain was the maiden daughter of Lord. Not just a Lord, so far as the gentry were concerned, but Flatha, scion of a distant crown across the ocean, given their noble lands in totality from the personal property of the Council of Queens, their dangerous wayward relations contained within their own tiny kingdoms. Six centuries ago, Elain would have been gormflaith; a princess named for the blue of her blood, just for being born Archeron. For her purity. The reality was, of course, that her father was an absent, worthless wastrel at best and Elain very clearly remembered falling asleep in Lucien’s arms. Brown skin warm on her face, the air around them sparking- with Lucien’s laugh it ignited, a hundred little shining flecks to mix with the deep sound. In the darkest part of the night, it had seemed like a whole other world. Effortless magic everywhere, that she looked on with such enormous fondness it was impossible to hide, a wreath of flower and bone- where exactly in the Autumn Court had the bone of a dragon come from?- tucked in her hair and humming with a power that lit along Elain’s muscles like adrenaline, easy as breathing. Tumbling into Lucien’s embrace to bask in the predator-intent, faery savage way he watched her face. His hand in her hair. Gentle, so impossibly gentle as curls rasped over knife callouses, the gesture completely separate from the wickedness in his molten eyes. Waking up alone, under no less than three layers. Elain bit the inside of her cheek and rolled over, kicking off suffocating blankets two and three as she went. The one left tucked around her with the precision of rolled pastry was rabbit fur- warm, soft, and usually housed across the room on a divan near exclusively used by Nesta. The perfect repose of a noble heiress- but most women of Elain’s outsize standing were not hiding a house full of dangerous faeries. Did not turn every bit of glittering charm and very real companionship on their fake- but not quite- fiancé to get them out of their eminently fashionable great coat, all the way down to a silken tunic that left perfect, near obscenely sculpted arms bare, only for fire to paint the air with happiness. The average daughter of Flatha weren't able to summon the crown of Court of Prythian out of thin air, or possess a High Fae sister, and a triplicate strand of pearls that lived on her wrist to hide a scar whose sensitivity felt like- felt like- Elain rolled back over and groaned. There were a thousand things to do. Nesta needed to know that Sorcha had passed them off impossible power, offered refuge that could reshape their plans. Lucien needed to sign off their shipping manifests, go to port and glamour smuggled faerie cargo. Their farms needed the roads cleared, the staff accounted for in the blizzard, extra supplies taken to the orphanage to begin the winter holiday celebrations. A ball to finish planning, ash wood to burn and hide, Feyre’s arrival to stage so that she could move freely at home. Elain was busy. But instead of moving she was staring out the diamond paned window that showed her pink sky and blinding white snow; thinking about Lucien’s hands. She wanted to hold those hands and let their matching rings clank together. Let him feel the pulse in her wrist and see how pleasure arced over her skin from that silvered mark. She wanted Lucien at her side for everything. — Back in fighting form, at least on the surface, Lucien was more intrigued than alarmed when halfway back home he ran into Feyre, coming out of the woods. It was that old friendship- Feyre the huntress, Feyre the human unafraid of magic tempered spring green groves, Feyre newly changed and desperate to be outside- that kept him from the immediate warning sign. She was alone, for one thing. Smiled that cocky, antagonistic smile he hadn’t seen since she was a human. “Vanserra,” She called, and Lucien heard cauldron damned Rhysand in the syllables. It was not like when Nesta called him by his surname. Because being pricks to each other was the friendly foundation for them, Lucien squashed his shoulder into hers in reply, the snow liberally sprinkled in her hair sliding over his still bare arms. “Where’s your crown, little Fey? Thought Night Court fashion had rubbed off on you.” With a half smiling snarl, Feyre used both hands to send him careening, before hiding them away in the deep pockets of a gigantic leather coat he could smell Illyrian blood on. Hair in a simple braid, she was leagues closer to the woman he’d known. “Rhys is dramatic,” She said, unbearably fondly. Rhysand was setting her up as an equal, and the ruler of the most populous court in Prythian, but Lucien was not going to be the person to tell her that. “Dramatic,” Lucien repeated with a grimace, melting the snow in his path. He didn’t miss that Feyre watched impossibly fast motion- ice to slush to water, soaking deep into the soil at his behest- with rapt attention. “What are you doing out here?” He was going to make a joke about her hunting pheasant with unfair fey advantage, perhaps extol the virtues of the terrifying, wonderful woman Nesta had employed as a cook and really grind in the fact of his life here, when Feyre blinked.

And then again. High Fae tells were dangerous, subtle things. Control was a mark of age, and power, with the rush of instincts that ran thick in their blood with adulthood. High Lords were volatile, courtiers deadly. Feyre, for all her obvious immortal grace and power, still feigned like the nineteen year old mortal she was in many ways. And lied like one. “Practicing,” Feyre recited, face normal and eyelashes fluttering. Untruth changed the entire tone of her voice. For someone who looked so damn much like Nesta, sounded so much like Elain, the lack of ease felt bizarre. “Rhys is training me, but I can’t control all the courts power yet.” The woods led to both the main road out to the farms and the local village, in the other direction, apple orchards and the shattered Spring Court border. Lucien decided to play along. “No more accidental fires?” He teased. Feyre laughed, almost genuine. “Autumn is easy,” She insisted, which told Lucien enough to know that whatever drop of Beron she possessed, its depths had not been reached. “Darkness is obvious, but I’m still finding out what came from who.” Before he could reply, Feyre twisted, fluid as a Dawn Court assassin, to pose before Lucien. “Spar with me?” He’d fought her as a human. Fought Tamlin for the chance for her to learn to master her new body, retrain in old skills. Even if Feyre had been fighting with Illyrian’s every day for the last year, Lucien had three centuries and an impossibly savage upbringing on his side- there was no danger. But still, his pulse said look closer. “You should know,” Lucien teased, mirroring her wide stance, “I did already fight the ceremonial duel with Nesta for Elain’s hand.” Feyre stopped mid motion darting forward lightening fast to laugh. “Nesta held a sword?” Something utterly indignant, blood red and fey, twisted in Lucien’s chest. He caught the hand that had been about to slap into him and sent Feyre flying back, her knees hitting the snow bank his melted path had created. “Hand to hand? No weapons or magic?” Feyre grinned, shoulders aligning. “Just one round, fight me for real.” Lucien didn’t immediately realize what a mistake it was. — Elain’s first sign something was off was Nesta’s pale face, crashing through her bedroom door. It was early enough- the house empty enough- that much like much like Elain pulling Lucien into her bedroom the night before, Nesta looked like herself. Ink already visible on both hands, her wine colored dress without the sleeves laced on, carrying both books and letters balanced under one arm, the Archeron seal clutched golden in the other- this was the real Nesta. Who tossed herself down on a chaise, catlike, to glare at Elain. Not at Elain- not really, no true malice could live between the eldest Archerons- at the world. “Feyre didn’t sleep in her room last night.” The fur blanket tucked around Elain’s shoulders slid to the floor as she turned, taking the comforting smell of Lucien’s hair with it. “Did she stay with Rhysand?” She’d thought, not yet. Feyre might speak to him like a lover, invade the High Lords space in that half casual way Elain assumed faeries would take very seriously, but they didn’t seem there yet. There was a restraint, hunger in those ancient purple eyes. Starvation. Nesta sighed, began to shuffle the books she’d set down into a perfectly straight pile. “No, she took one of the guest rooms. It wasn’t even made up.” It wasn’t even- Feyre had come home, crossed the continent back to the land of their childhoods, and pointedly slept in a room without fresh linen? Or candles, or water brought in? Elain joined Nesta on the chaise, silk magic warm beneath her. Feyre’s rooms were exactly where they had been when they were children. The eastern wing, where she could see the sunrise over the gardens from her bedroom. Before the house had been plundered straight to the ground to pay debt- the very beams and rooftiles sold- the room next to it had been a tiny childrens library, just for her.

They’d rebuild it three times the size with more windows than walls. Elain had spent an obscene amount on fine glass, Nesta filled it with supplies from four countries- a studio, for their sister who’d always wanted to make beautiful things. Elain swallowed the hurt, shared a look with Nesta that said all that needed to be said. With it went the thoughts she kept thinking seeing Feyre’s face, both utterly young and preternaturally frozen, beautiful. Mortal freckles but no smile lines left. That same unrestrained laugh, but their mother’s blue eyes looked at Rhysand for answers. She was back, she was alive, she was- “Why do you think she came home?” Nesta handed her the largest envelope. It contained not one letter, or map, but more than a half dozen missives on blue paper, written by equally many hands. Elain dumped them on the cushions between them and began to read. Humans in business with faeries had unique tactics to stay ahead. For one thing, compacts bound to bloodline meant most of the immortals didn’t care to know their business partners, after all, by their standard, they’d be dead soon. But mortals stuck together. Many of their ancestors had been the same once, royal blooded and wild with nothing to loose. Explorers, who’d gone looking for whole new lands to gift their children, bereft of a crowns direct privilege. Their descendants learned care in the cradle, and the power of passing knowledge. Blue paper for the secret city’s Court, incendiary powder ink for High Fae information, moon silk ribbons, for Sangravah, the weaving capital of the world. Elain compared the words, reiterating the same thing again and again, before meeting Nesta’s blazing eyes. “The Night Court has been invaded?” Of course it had come from a dozen people; merchants made money in conflict. Human worlds changed, when those conflicts were fae. The danger was near suicidal for mortals in magical wars- but those rare survivors ended up rich beyond promise. “No one knows who it was.” Nesta said lowly, frustrated, “They infilitrated the civilian population, took something, and burnt half the city to the ground once it was found.” A valuable something, if they needed that much chaos to dissuade pursuit. What did Sangravah have? The best rugs and tapestries in the world. The only port where Dawn Court silk could be bought. Libraries and temples, pink light and poetry. “Isn’t Sangravah a stone city?” Nesta’s pale bitten lips said yes without the words. Elain swore. For something to do with her hands she tipped the book pile closer and read down the spines: Alchemic Fire: A Compendium, Mother’s Moon: The Priestess Orders, and White Stone, Silver Blood, The Complete History of Northern Conquest. That Nesta hadn’t slept wasn’t a question Elain needed to ask, anymore than she knew that she’d find colored coded annotations if she started reading along. Completely illegal tomes, of course, Nesta’s favourite import. She tried not to picture centuries old stone made molten, leveled to the ground. The heat, the chaos- the magic it would take for that kind of destruction. “Hybern?” Elain asked, her own doubt clear. The shake of Nesta’s head knocked loose her hasty updo, wooden pins catching in the freed waves of her dark hair. Recognizing the sheen and sharp points, Elain tried and failed to sympathize with the storm Rhysand had coming. Nesta was walking around with ash wood in her hair. “Hybern,” Nesta repeated with equal dubiousness, “Or Night Court rebels, or another Court or the Queen’s Council. Rhysand has more enemies than the thrice damned Plague Lord.” A High Lord who had specialized in bloodline curses- a single faery who’d brought the continent to it’s knees, a thousand years before. Elain wondered if they were of any relation. The male Feyre called Rhys and laughed with seemed to have an equal notoriety with his own people. And possibly worse power running in his veins. “Prythian,” Elain began carefully, “Might be even less stable than we know.” Whispering despite the warding, echoed adrenaline making her awake, awake, awake, Elain managed in a steady voice to tell Nesta about Sorcha. Crowns and the Autumn Lords crimes, asylum waiting in the most foreign of places. — Feyre cheated immediately. Lucien, who’d once had nightmares about that exact look of mischief on a human face, like a Suriel waiting in the dark, knew it was coming. So when the youngest Archeron sister rolled out of the snowbank he’d neatly tossed her into with a laugh, Lucien was able to smartly dodge the ice that came railing toward him. Not sharp, but a barrage like giant hail that cracked against tree trunks, sent snow flying. Feyre had never actually seen how fast Lucien could move. And he wasn’t trying terribly hard now. If she’d been training with Illyrians all along, she’d be used to superior ungodly strength, but not the speed of High Fae. Even if she hadn’t been given the opportunity, Lucien thought Feyre would have sought it- Nesta’s infuriated face that those were Illyrians, childhood legends made real was evidence enough. Rather than reengage, half a kind thought to the looming oak behind Feyre had the tree shaking every bit of wet snow off its drooping branches. The weight of the snow knocked her back down with a groan. “You talk to trees now?” Lucien straightened from the trunk he’d been leaning against and tried not to sound full of the vague insult he felt, “I always talked to trees.” Feyre didn’t bother to get back up, shaking the slush from the hugely oversized shoulders of her coat. Narrow eyed, she tilted her head in question. It was still bizarre to see Feyre so- the mix of her human mannerisms and the instincts of a faery body muddled, indistinct. It was even more confusing now that he knew her sisters. When Nesta had the same posture, with her utterly similar and painfully different face, it was all fae- aggression, focus, the shape of a hunt. Feyre looked baffled. And angry? “How’d you learn that from Spring?” He waited a beat too long for the quicksilver teasing smile, for the punchline. It was long enough for the temperature to drop several degrees, for her brow to furrow completely. Lucien swore. “You’re joking.” Incised, Feyre tossed an impressively articulate fireball at him, straight autumnal gold. “Of course I’m not joking. Spring controls plants.” Spring controlled plants. Gods and immortal honey. “What,” Lucien growled, pausing to dodge Feyre’s barrage of fire, “In the Crones darkest mercies is Rhysand teaching you?” It was an obvious mistake to snarl Rhysand’s name like that in her hearing. Like he hated the bastard- which in some ways he did. The High Lord, even if it had been Feyre’s idea as Lucien feared, had brought death and danger to the Archeron’s doorstep. Was, after a sole year of what was clearly painfully basic training, touting her as the greatest magical force in Prythian. Feyre’s eyes visibly flashed and Lucien braced himself. But what he was met with was a wall of fire. Not warding, not bloodmagic, not sunfire, but only Autumn’s burning grace. He could have parted it like a curtain. Eaten it up with hotter flames, pulled back until it belonged to him. It was exactly the sort of magical pageantry Beron insisted upon- no one raised in the Forest House wanted to be the weaker end of that pull. Disallowed, Lucien’s thoughts still managed to flicker to the crown that fit his head. Day’s gold and Autumn bone, a missing piece, a- Lucien stepped into the fire. He could tell she was angry just from its depth, roil. Like stepping into the titanic baths of a Winter chalet, like the Summer court sea; Lucien had forgotten how good it felt. Living heat coiled up his arms, caressed his face. Swore he could taste just a hint of bonfire on the back of his tongue. The ritual kind that burned and burned under a full moon, hawthorne and rowan, violets and rose. It was, he thought, painfully near the scent of Elain’s rage, protection that littered the air like embers. Lucien was only aware he’d closed his eyes when it all went away. The world was blinding white, and Feyre was talking so fast her words bled together. -“why the hell would you do that,” She was saying, “Do you think I actually want to hurt you? Shit, shit shit.” Lucien tried not to smirk, but the action was ruined by his recoil when Feyre grabbed his bare arm with both hands. Not that it stopped her- she kept swearing right up to the moment she actually managed to trace up his arm, staring at his unblemished skin with giant eyes. Friendly, afraid, and awed; but still Feyre’s touch crawled over his skin with wrongness. It had a name, a very specific reason, but Lucien wasn’t about to use the word, even in the privacy of his own mind. Finally he snarled, discomfiture actually real enough for Feyre to drop his arm in sheepish apology. Clearly, some fae things she had learned. “I don’t understand,” She said, “What just happened? Are you okay?” It had been easy, Under the Mountain, to forget the savior of Prythian was a teenage girl. “Of course I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me, Feyre.” Forcefully, Lucien made himself remember that he’d once wanted to be her teacher. Trapped under Tamlin’s rule, less than a shadow of himself, he’d wanted to make sure the world leveling power in her veins didn’t destroy her. Now, he wondered what in Cauldron’s name Feyre had been doing for the last year. And wished, wished, he’d thought to take a real shirt with him leaving Elain’s rooms. Feyre was still staring at him in that half hollowed out way that spoke of something like human shock. Lucien made himself smile through the grimace.

“Fey, you know who I am now? My history?” Feyre nodded, pulse visible in her throat. “Heir to the Autumn Court.” He didn’t let himself blink, but it was a near thing. The North still called him heir? How that must burn in Beron’s gut, infuriate Eris. It wasn’t the right time to explain his banishment, the price on his head. Much less grin over it. “Could you drown Rhysand in darkness?” Caught between the human impossibility of Lucien’s utter lack of injury and what she had been taught was a fearsome faery weapon, it was a long moment in the frozen morning before Feyre smiled again. “He’d like to see me try,” She drawled, giving much more information that Lucien really wanted but- “You’re flame retardant? “ Lucien laughed, but the warning bells hadn’t stopped. There was no one in their history who’d ever had the power Feyre did. Some things were universal to High Fae; instinct and strength, winnowing and healing, longevity and vengeance. But even a faery child born whose parents had mixed two court bloodlines, or grandparents, or great grandparents- it could happen for generations down, still the result would be the same. A favoring of one, maybe two Court’s vital skills. There were theories about how it worked. That the solar courts had more malleable, airy skill, but the elementals blood was more physically shaping. Lucien himself was not a good example. He’d taken the name Vanserra the second he could for a reason- he’d favored completely Sorcha’s skills from the cradle. There had always been talk along with it- Lucien who burned a little too bright, whose very name was light like his mothers. Remarks about his deeper skin, the shape of his mouth, and the height he grew into- so unlike his siblings. The last Vanserra heir. It was the savagery that saved him long enough to grow; had the Lady of Autumn’s whole family not been slaughtered? The male heirs had disappeared centuries before, the loss of all the rest to Hybern was a tragedy that bore the mark of Beron’s fingerprints. Of course Lucien would be unloved- hated. So different than Beron, than his brothers- yet still the most powerful son of all. A walking reminder of crimes and bloodshed, it made a very Autumn sort of sense. Lucien was a very Autumn-blessed faery. But that didn’t mean he didn’t receive a basic education on other courts before his banishment. He was not fire retardant- like calls to like. Too much an Autumn blaze to ever feel anything but it’s embrace; but sunfire would burn him. A ward twinged with Summer’s roaring heat could wound. He wasn’t the child of every Court like her- but he knew the difference. Lucien kept right on smiling, despite the peaked horror. How could she be ready for war? “Not inflammable,” He drawled right back, laid on an eye-roll whose familiarity brightened her smile, “Just Autumn born.” Liquid fast, Feyre reached out to tug on a long red tied braid in his hair, “I would have never guessed.” Could she smell Elain on the ribbon? Not letting the thought show, Lucien swatted at her playfully. He loved her- not like he loved Nesta, but affection all the same. Her youth scared him. “So fires so easy,” He asked, “Are you getting all the elements now?” Feyre started walking again, meandering toward the house as she talked. Fire and water, darkness and wind. Was it actually possible a drop of each court wasn’t enough to obtain their more esoteric skills? Or had she simply not learnt to access them? “-the hardened wind shielding is dead useful, not sure if it’s Day or Summer. The same with the light show, but I don’t know what it does”- “Light show?” Lucien interrupted. Feyre raised her eyebrows. “Sometimes when fire won’t come I get light instead, this kind of glow?” Summer Court light was weapon, she’d have known if she conjured it accidentally. But if it went along with flame- Lucien summoned a ball of flame. He didn’t need to hold it over his hand like a showman, but it would be better for his point. “Is all your fire red?” Feyre only made a face in response. He started slow, relying on the old adage that instinct would catch up once possibilities were realized. Red to orange, orange to gold, gold to peach and pink. Pink to the burning, seething white he carried around in his chest, the natural color of Lucien’s flames. Delight and determination shaped Feyre’s face, before she mimicked it perfectly. The white of the snowing, pristine world before had nothing, nothing, on the gleam and glow. It was identical. But, but- Lucien realized, flames gutting out, it wasn’t fire. Pure magic, the rise of the sun that fed the world. Feyre couldn’t tell what the light did, because she hadn’t let it loose on darkness. It was cleansing, hungry as his own flames. Daylight. Enchantment had always been Lucien’s specialty. Now that he let himself think it, the prospect that he’d never questioned was insane. His mother was a creature of blood and the Bone Forest- her spells were binding, clever. Had he ever seen her break one? Had her flames ever eaten magic, destruction tempering in a whole new shape? The fire of High Fae is not always, simply, fire.

@breath-of-sindragosa

@flxwer-petals

@ladyvanserra

@illyrianinterrasen

@missanniewhimsy

@tntwme

@ourbooksuniverse

@pitterpatterpot

@thestarwhowishes

@abillionlittlepieces

@my-fan-side

@the-eightofswords

@wonderland–memories

@ourbooksuniverse

@cohen-theeleven

@donnarosemary

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stevemossington · 6 years

Text

it’s only dark in the nighttime

The red light is back. The little colon between the 2 and the 0 on his clock incessantly blinking, taunting Steve. As if he doesn’t know that yes, it’s past 2 in the morning and yes, he’s still awake. It’s been like this most nights since he helped save the town, since an asshole beat his face in, since he exchanged his girlfriend for a gaggle of nerds.

Two weeks. He just wants to sleep.

But he’s distracted by the restless wiggling of his toes and the itch in his fingers, so he gives in and goes for a drive.

He has no destination in mind, but isn’t surprised when he finds himself on Maple Street. And then passing Dustin’s house. And even making his way down Cherry.

He’s just making sure they’re all right. That their parents’ cars are in the drive and the shades are drawn and the lights are out. That they’re hopefully wrapped up in their beds, fast asleep.

It makes him feel just a little better.

Sleep still won’t come, so Steve spends most nights on his midnight rounds. His heart would race in bed, but here he’s soothed by the steady motion of the car. The late-night DJs keep him company and the soft streetlights are calming. Not to mention the nicotine coursing through him with every cigarette. And yeah, maybe he should worry about that one someday but right now he’s just worried about tonight.

He feels useful for once. He likes it this way.

Steve begins to notice certain things, like how the Wheelers’ yard is perfectly tidy, the leaves always raked and the snow shoveled. The Henderson house is the opposite: the Halloween decorations are up until Thanksgiving and Dustin’s bike is always left in the middle of the yard. He’s witnessed a certain redhead climbing into one of the Sinclairs’ windows, but keeps quiet. The nights he spots her are often the same ones that he sees the blue Camaro in her driveway. Whatever makes her feel safe.

He even goes out to the Byers’ house most times, usually turning his lights off so he doesn’t wake them. He’d drive to Hopper’s cabin if he knew how to get there.

He doesn’t even try to be quiet when he finally returns home and collapses into bed. There’s usually no one around to hear anyway.

The long nights are starting to weigh on him and he knows that it’s showing. Even his winning smile can’t distract from the bags under his eyes or the fact that his hair is messier than ever.

But his parents barely see him and his teachers have never cared much for him and his baseball coach just shrugs when he decides not to play this season. Maybe he wasn’t so good after all.

The worst is the day that Nancy corners him outside school, in the little walkway that he’s always thought of as theirs, for better or worse.

“Are you okay?” The concern in her eyes is unbearable.

“Yeah, Nance. I’m fine.”

“Steve…” She raises an eyebrow, so perfectly Nancy of her.

“Are any of us okay?” He shrugs, letting out a humorless laugh.

She keeps staring at him but backs down. “You’re right. I’m here, y’know. If you need anything.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

And he ignores the tightening in his chest as she walks away. He may be pushing her away, but it’s for the best. She deserves to be with Jonathan. She deserves to be happy. He wasn’t able to do that. But the night patrols...that’s something he can do.

The problem is that after cutting things off with Tommy H. and Carol and the like, Nancy was really his only friend left. Besides some shithead kids who seem too young to understand him but have already seen too much.

He’s lonely. But it’s easier to be alone in the car at night than to be alone in a crowded hallway.

A few months pass before the first “incident,” as he takes to calling it. A misty night, on the edge of the woods, when he spots a light in the distance. Red and blinking slowly, like a lighthouse in the fog.

He pulls over to the side of the road and sticks his head out the window. “Hello? Anyone there?”

No answer comes and he feels a prickle of fear cross his neck. The whole thing seems too eerie to be just a lantern or flashlight. Something is wrong here.

But it’s probably just his imagination. He just needs to sleep.

Only two days pass until the second incident. He’s driving back on Mirkwood after having checked on the Byers’s house (dark and still, as it should be), when his headlights catch on something in the middle of the road. Something...floating? Steve slows to a stop only a few yards away and his heart freezes. It’s a body. As he opens the door, he looks up to the sky, half expecting to see a UFO. But there’s nothing. Not even the moon or stars.

The forest seems unnaturally silent and he gets that same feeling along the back of his neck, but he makes himself walk up to the body. It’s a girl, unconscious (or worse), in a simple t-shirt and jeans, sandy hair floating around her like she’s underwater. He’s reaching out a trembling hand when she begins to fade. His fingers only just catch her elbow before she disappears. He feels nothing, only air.

A ghost?

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by a strangled noise and barely jumps out of the way as a deer sprints into the road. It trips over its own hooves and collapses in a heap in the ditch.

What the hell is going on?

This might be more than his imagination.

Steve makes the mistake of mentioning the second incident to Dustin, who immediately decides that the Party needs to step in and assist. No amount of arguing can change the boy’s mind and honestly, Steve is just too damn tired to.

That Friday night he parks down the block from the Hendersons’ house and watches as the not-so-stealthy group of young teens approaches the car. He rolls his eyes. This is gonna be real fun.

With the exception of Will (who worries about sneaking out on his mom), the entire Party shows up, with backpacks of supplies and makeshift weapons.

Is Mike holding a slide rule?

Dustin opens the passenger door and Steve raises his hand, pointing to the backseat.

“Nuh-uh, El rides shotgun. Get in the back.”

“What?” The boy pouts.

“She’s our best fighter.”

Dustin groans but does as he’s told. As Eleven slips into the front seat, Steve adds, “Plus, I don’t need you sitting on your boyfriend’s lap.”

Mike sputters and his red face is visible even in the dim light. “Yeah, well, what about Max and Lucas?”

Steve flicks his eyes up to the rearview mirror and finds the redhead sitting chastely next to Lucas. “Max, is your dad the chief of police?”

“Nope,” she replies, making sure to add a pop at the end.

“Well there you go. Sorry, Wheeler.”

Truthfully, Steve wants Eleven up front because she’s the calmest of the bunch and he’s feeling a little unsettled about bringing the kids with him tonight. But he can never pass up a chance to tease Mike. El has always been a little clairvoyant and knows that Steve means well. Plus, she always likes being included.

Barely any time passes before he starts regretting bringing them along. For one thing, they won’t shut up. By the time they reach the forest, they’ve had him run through the story three times.

“Okay, let’s go over this again. Where did you see the body?”

“Mirkwood, it’s all been happening on Mirkwood.”

“He told us that already, dipshit.”

“Shut up!”

“I swear to God if you little shits don’t shut up, I’m leaving you out here.”

“Okay, okay.”

“He means it.”

“Wow El, just take his side, I see how it is.”

“The power of shotgun’s gone right to her head.”

“Shut up!”

“Goddamn it’s foggy out here.”

“Watch out!”

Steve slams on the brakes and everyone braces themselves. When they look up there’s a girl standing on the edge of the road.

Steve gulps. “Holy shit. That’s her.”

Everyone scrambles out of the car and the girl backs away, trying to get out of the light.

“Hey, wait!” Lucas calls. She stops, letting the unruly group approach her.

“Do you need help?” Mike asks. She simply furrows her brow and wraps her arms around herself, still wearing the same t-shirt and jeans.

“You look cold.” Dustin shrugs off his jacket and offers it to her. It’s a little snug, but it seems to do the trick. She fingers the buttons and looks around with guarded eyes. Steve wonders if this is the way Eleven was when she first appeared.

“Hey,” he murmurs, afraid of startling her. “What’s your name?”

She locks eyes with him and her voice is a low whisper. “Robin.”

As the first rays of sunlight appear, Steve sits on the couch in the Byers’ living room. There’s a flurry of activity - the kids arguing with Hopper, Jonathan frying eggs, Joyce pacing. Robin sits curled up in the recliner and El stays close to her, wrapping her in a heavy quilt.

Nancy hands him a mug of coffee, and he gives her a half-smile in return.

“I told you to talk to me.”

“Yeah, well…” He trails off. He doesn’t even know what to say anymore, the danger of their impending situation starting to weigh on his chest. It’s all happening again...

“I’m glad you were out there. I mean it. Thank you.” The look in her eyes is sincere and Steve thinks maybe, maybe someday they could be friends again.

As she gets up to root around for weapons, Hopper walks over and hands him the spiked bat.

“You know, kid...could use someone like you on the force. Think about it.”

“Yeah, maybe I will.”

He’ll think about it. They just have to make it through this first.

inspired by this post. shoutout to @maxmayfield for getting me back into writing, especially writing Steve :)

#steve harrington #stranger things #i haven't written in so long #which is obvious when you read this but it feels good just to write again #stranger words #lara writes

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 6 years

Text

A Christmas Fairytale

Summary: All Bucky wanted was you and the snow. Missing the love of your life at Christmas is hard.

Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: Pretty much fluff. Little bit of sad, but then a bunch of happy

A/N: Holidays are hard sometimes, especially when you’re missing people or can’t make it home. So no matter what holiday you’re celebrating, or even if you’re not celebrating a damn thing and are just missing someone, this story is for anyone who’s wishing for a little miracle now and then.

MASTERLIST

I’ll be home for Christmas. You can count on me.

The fresh snow crunches under your boots as you wander slowly down the sidewalk, hands tucked deep in the pockets of Bucky’s blue peacoat. It was far too large, hanging nearly to your knees, and you had to push the sleeves up every time you needed your fingers, but it was soft and warm and smelled like his cologne. Dammit, you missed him.

It’s late this Christmas Eve, and the city is beginning to settle. The ever-present hum is still there, that persistent buzz found only in New York, combined with the mad dash of frantic shoppers, rushing for taxis and subways, last minute purchases shoved hastily in red plastic bags.

Lost in thought, you turn the familiar lyrics over in your mind. Home for Christmas. It’s the last plea of a desperate traveler, the perpetual wish on the tip of every soldier’s tongue.

Bucky’s been talking about Christmas for months, dreaming of spending it in the city, walking in the snow, seeing the windows at Macy’s, getting a picture with Santa. Little things in the grand scheme of life, but important to him. You know he’ll be disappointed. He promised you he’d come home, and now he’s breaking that promise.

It’s hard sometimes, to love a soldier.

So, you stroll the streets of New York searching for distractions, anything to keep your brain occupied, while your beating heart is somewhere far away, risking his life in a bid to keep the world safe. You can never fault him for it, his burning desire to set things right, to reset the scales he believes are eternally unbalanced against his past deeds; it’s something about him that you love unconditionally.

But it breaks your heart a little. All he wanted this year was to watch the snow fall over the city.

***

Bucky sighs as he pulls a bag from the depths of his closet. Sitting quietly on his bed, draped in one of his enormous old hoodies, you watch him fill the canvas carry-on.

“Do you know where you’re headed?”

He holds up the tactical gear with a rueful expression. A swirl of light colours in a desert camouflage pattern. “Nowhere with snow.”

Giving him an encouraging smile, you shake your head. “It’ll be quick Buck, over and done in no time.”

He’s carefully sliding knives into cases and slipping them into the pockets of his tac pants, and you see his shoulders give a disappointed shrug.

“Maybe. I wanted to be here for the first snow though. One thing that always made me feel like Christmas was close.”

Stuffing a lightweight beige jacket into the bag, he zips it shut and kicks it off to the side, before leaning down to where you sit, your arms wrapped around your knees. Placing his palms on either side of your hips, he ducks in for a kiss, lips brushing your cheek, before trailing to your mouth. Kicking your feet out, you press your heels into the back of his thighs and give a jerk, so he comes tumbling down on you with a laugh. He rubs his beard against your neck, and you can feel his smile.

“I’ll miss you,” he breathes into your skin.

“I’ll miss you,” you answer with a whisper. “I have something for you though.”

Reaching into your hoodie pocket, you pull out a small plastic object and offer it to him, a grin on your face.

Bucky pulls away and looks down, confused as he looks at the little plastic ball that houses a miniature New York City skyline. Then his face clears, and he huffs out a laugh.

“A snow globe?”

“Yep,” you tuck it into his hand. “Now you can make it snow no matter where you are.”

*****

There’s a clanging that catches your ear, a bell ringing through the clear night, and you come back to the present, noticing your location. Digging a handful of change from Bucky’s coat pocket, you drop it into the little red tin, the Salvation Army volunteer giving you a cheerful ‘Merry Christmas’ at the gesture.

Crowds are smaller on Christmas Eve, giving you a chance to see the Macy’s display windows up close in all their glory. The theme this year is ‘Christmas of the Past’, every window showcasing a display of Christmas mornings through the years.

There’s a lovely old West image, a family in a log cabin in the mountains, little red stockings hanging in front of a roughhewn mantle.

There’s a lavish, Victorian era parlour room, little girls in frilly dresses with new china dolls.

The scene from the 1970s makes you laugh, everything angular and geometric, colours in eyewatering shades of green and orange and brown, with so much shag carpet.

And there on the corner, a soft scene drawn straight from his memories, is a family on Christmas morning in the 1920s.

The details are exactly as Bucky has remembered it in his stories, and you raise a hand to the glass, wishing you could step into the display and find him. Out of all the memories that came back for him, you were relieved one in particular had made a re-appearance. His father bringing in the tree a couple days before Christmas. Draping silver strings of tinsel over the branches and hanging the glass ornaments his mother had collected over the years. His sister Becca digging into her stocking, finding sticks of rock candy and the smooth, bright orange wedged in the round toe.

Pulling out your phone, you snap a handful of photos of the scene; if Bucky can’t be here to see it himself, you can still save a bit of Christmas for when he finally comes home.

***

“Um, favourite Christmas you remember.”

Bucky groans dramatically. “Too hard. They were all good. Different question.”

“No,” you roll your eyes. “Come on. There had to be one that stands out.”

You’re lying in a tangle of arms and legs on the living room floor, bundled together in a colourful patchwork quilt. It’s still not cold enough to snow, but outside the leaden sky has opened, fat drops of cold rain splashing against the windows.

Wrapping your arms around his waist, you curl into him, pulling him close. He rests his chin on the top of your head, his hands stroking lightly up and down your back as he thinks.

“Okay, I have something,” his chest vibrates against your ear, his voice low. “It was Christmas in 1931, two years after the market crashed in ’29. Whole country was sunk with the Depression, and we couldn’t afford anything. Hell, half the country couldn’t even afford to buy bread.” He sighs at this, pulls you tighter. “Anyway, there was no money for gifts, so I decided to try and shove my way into a poker game with a couple older guys down the block, who had a – a bit of a reputation.”

At this, you grumble. “Good god Bucky.”

He gives a little grunt when you poke him in the side. “Huh, same think my Ma said. Well, so Steve comes with me, and after a couple hands I was doing good, and then the guy pulls out this pair of kids roller skates. Guess he got ‘em from some factory or other – maybe he stole them, I didn’t ask – and he threw ‘em on the table. And that was it, I just had to have them for Becca, knew she’d love them. Had nothing to bet with though, until Steve decided to throw his Granddad’s pocket watch on the pile. They dealt the cards, and I’ll be god damned – I pulled a straight flush. Best hand I’ve ever taken in my entire life. Won the pot and high-tailed it out before they could think twice.”

He shifts again, hooks an ankle over your leg, tries to pull you even closer. “Christmas morning, I wrap them in an old shirt, and when she opens it, I swear I never seen a kid light up like that, she was so damn excited. It hadn’t snowed yet that year, so first chance we got, I took her outside and she strapped them on and I ran up and down the block, pulling her behind me.” Bucky chuckles at the memory. “She never actually learned how to use them. I was still pulling her around the block the next Christmas.”

He’s a vivid storyteller, and at his words, the images come easily. The thought of Bucky as a knobby-kneed, dark haired young boy doing everything in his power to make his little sister happy? It made your heart fit to burst, suddenly too big for your chest.

He’s such a good man.

There’s a quiet knock at the door, a voice calling for him. Real life intrudes again, breaking the spell. Burying your face against his chest, you give him a squeeze.

“Be careful Bucky. Finish this up, and you – you come home for Christmas, okay?”

Bucky stays silent as he holds you, before gently pulling away to look down, giving you a crooked smile, blue eyes unreadable. He runs his thumb over your lips, presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll come home for Christmas. I promise.”

*****

Several blocks later, you find yourself at the entrance to the holiday market in Central Park. It’s even later now, and the crowds have dispersed. Down a winding path, you can see Santa’s workshop nestled snug in the trees, a warm yellow light spilling from the windows into the lane. Bucky always joked about taking you to visit Santa, insisted there was no way you would get what you wanted, unless Santa knew.

Perhaps it’s too late, but you walk up the path anyway, to see if Santa can find time for one more Christmas wish.

Climbing up the steps of Santa’s little log cabin workshop, you raise your hand to knock, but the door opens before your knuckles touch the wood. The bright light washes over you, and there’s the man himself, Santa Claus, standing in the doorway. He towers above you, twinkling eyes looking down through the glasses settled on his nose, round cheeks rosy red from the cold.

“Well, what have we here!” his voice is so cheerfully animated, you can’t help but smile at the sound.

“Sorry Santa, guess I’m a little late.”

Santa simply laughs, shaking his head merrily, curly white beard dancing with the movement. “Young lady, it’s never too late. Now, you tell me that Christmas wish now, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I think my wish this year might be a little impossible.”

Eyes dropping to your boots, you blink rapidly, trying to stem the tears. Santa’s voice is kind when he responds.

“Now then, you listen to me. Christmas is a time for miracles. Don’t forget, anything is possible. You never know what’s right behind you.”

There’s a quiet sound, someone clearing their throat in the velvety darkness behind you.

“Merry Christmas Santa. Do you have anything in your workshop as beautiful as she is?”

The sound of that deep, rough, familiar voice slices through the frosty night air. Lifting your eyes to Santa’s face, you find him looking over your shoulder, a secretive smile behind that white beard.

Impossible.

Turning slowly, you find a man standing at the bottom of the steps. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a heavy black jacket, hands tucked into the pockets. Dark hair curls at the base of his neck, longer than you remember, and when he reaches to brush it back, you see his bright blue eyes sparkling happily. With a shout, you leap from the top step into his arms.

He catches you with a laugh, arms closing around you, spinning you in a dizzying circle, before setting you back on your feet, his warm lips finding yours. He tastes like cinnamon and chocolate and candy canes and Christmas.

“You,” you breathed, feeling the tears fill your eyes. You don’t try to blink them away this time. “I want you, I wish for you.” Gripping his jacket tight, you pull his face down, touching your cold nose to his.

“You got me, sweetheart.” Bucky grins at your excitement, his arms locked around you. “I promised I’d come home for Christmas. I wasn’t going to break that.” He drops a kiss on your nose, gently kisses your lips, once twice, three times, before he leans back. Tilting his head, he looks down in surprise at your outfit, and gives a quiet laugh. “I was looking everywhere for that jacket.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, a little embarrassed. “Been feeling sentimental.”

“That’s okay, I just needed something from the pocket.” Quirking an eyebrow, he reaches for the lapels of the jacket, his fingers catching a tiny button on the front pocket, and he twists it open, reaching three long fingers into the silky lining.

He pulls his hand back, tucking a tiny item into his fist, closing the fingers tight. Looking at him in confusion, you look down at his hand, and notice it’s shaking slightly.

“Buck?”

He takes a deep breath, glances up to the heavens. And he begins to laugh.

Thick white snowflakes appear seemingly out of nowhere, and suddenly the dark night is a swirl of white as they fall, soft and heavy.

Bucky looks back to you, sees the delicate flakes catch in your eyelashes as you meet his gaze, and he feels his heart jump. His voice is quiet when he speaks.

“Only thing I’ll ever want for Christmas is you.”

“Me too Bucky.” Placing a hand over his heart, you give him gentle smile.

He nods, watching you. When he unclasps his fingers, you look down.

Laying in his palm, is a diamond ring.

“Promise I’ll always do whatever it takes to make it home to you. Knowing you’re waiting for me? That’s all I’ll ever need. So sweetheart, I guess my Christmas wish is this - will you marry me?”

Bucky Barnes stands before you, hopeful and terrified, holding his breath as he waits for an answer he’s dreamed of hearing a thousand different times. The distant sound of midnight church bells breaks the silence, and there in the first, fresh moments of a new Christmas morning, you find your voice.

“Yes.”

*****

TAGS: @buckyappreciationsociety @4theluvofall @eve1978 @stentorian-lore-n @psingh97 @justreadingfics @ihavemymomentsstill @badassbaker @lovelynemesis @palaiasaurus64 @mrshopkirk @whiskeyandwashitape @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky imagine #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky fic

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lolainblue · 6 years

Text

Presque Vu -- Chapter 30

A/N Well here we go again. Thank you for every one that is still on board. I don’t know if the tag list is up to date or not, so if you want to be tagged but aren’t, or if you’re tagged but don’t want to be, please let me know.

********************************************

When Raina got into work on Wednesday morning the studio was strangely silent and empty. She brought up the main lights as she passed toward her workstation, swallowing dryly as she scanned the eerily vacant space around her. Before she could get settled in, Val appeared at her side, his brow furrowed.

“Come back to my office and have a seat, Raina. I'm afraid I have some news,” he requested. He didn't wait to see if she complied, simply turning around and retreating to his office. Raina dried her palms on her skirt before following him.

Once she had had a seat across from his desk Val slowly puffed his cheeks and let the air gradually pass through his parsed lips. “You know, the media industry has been going through a lot of changes,” he began. “Traditional media, print publications, have been the hardest hit. We have been trying to reimagine ourselves here and keep up with the times but I'm afraid it just hasn't been enough.”

Raina shifted in her seat, again wiping her sweating palms against the cool fabric of her skirt. This can't be happening the voice in her head thundered but she was certain she knew where all this was going. She tried to keep her breathing slow and even, determined not to let the panic bubbling in her stomach overtake her. The rest of Val's speech roared past her ears like the wash from a jet engine. The publishing company that owned their magazine along with several others was restructuring departments for better efficiency. The art department the studio fell under was being merged with the others and 75 percent of the overall staff from the three were being let go. There was no more job for her here. Her internship for the final portion of her MFA was gone. Her job, her education, pulled out from under her in one swift blow.

“Dammit, Raina, I am so sorry,” Val reached out and placed his hand over hers. He was easily the most distant person Raina had ever worked with and the gesture startled her. “I want you to know I fought hard to keep you. You're the best damn assistant I've had in 20 years in this business.”

“What?” Raina looked at Val in puzzlement. He had always been so gruff with her. She had felt as if she were constantly struggling to please him and consistently disappointing him. It had never occurred to her that her efforts were even noticed, let alone appreciated. “I thought that...”

Val shook his head. “I know. I'm not the easiest boss to have. But you never let it bother you and you were always unfailingly professional and competent, no matter what I threw at you. You always seemed to understand exactly what I wanted. I hate like hell that it is ending this way.” He took his hand back and started shuffling through the folders on his desk “There's a small severance package but...' he cleared his throat as he continued to rifle through the stack, finding one and handing it to her. “There's also a list of some available job opportunities in there that you might be interested in. I'm sorry I don't know if they will meet your internship requirements for your school program, you'll have to check with them on that. There's also a list of some contacts of mine, people in the industry who might be able to assist you if you find yourself struggling. Just tell them I referred you and they'll help you out if they can. I also included the most glowing letter of recommendation I could come up with. I hope it helps. My personal information is in there too, you can call me if you need me to give someone an extra nudge.”

“Wow Val, that's very generous.” Raina was completely blown away by his gesture, and as she clutched the little brown binder in her lap she could feel tears welling up behind her eyes that weren't due to the sudden job loss.

“It's the least I could do after they pulled the rug out from under you like this. Oh and there's something else.” Val reached around to the other side of his desk and pulled out a large deep blue leather portfolio which he handed to Raina. “I want you to have this. I started it when you first started with us. It's all your work, well the best of it anyway. I had intended to fill it until you graduated, to give it to you as a memento of your time here and to show how much you had progressed. I am sorry I won't be able to finish it for you but it does give you something to present to prospective employers.”

Raina smoothed her hand over the expensive leather before opening it up, flipping through the oversized pages to see shots she had set up and taken over the course of the year she had worked there. She could really see how much she had grown under Val's tutelage. It was true he had been a difficult boss but he had been an amazing teacher, and she was bereaved to be losing him, more than the job itself. “This is amazing and so thoughtful. Thank you.”

Val nodded and stood up, their exchange clearly over. “Do you need any help in gathering your things and getting them to your car? I know you keep a few things here in the office. I have some boxes for you....”

“No, thank you. I can manage to pack it all up myself,” Raina responded, walking back to her desk. She was still in a bit of a daze as she looked around, trying to think of what to pack.

Val appeared momentarily with a few boxes which he sat down with a mysterious smile. Raina took the lid off the first one to begin loading her things into it and found it was full of equipment, lenses and filters and one of the older cameras they didn't use very often. “Uhm, Val? There's a camera and things in this one.”

“No there isn't,” Val called back from across the room.

“Yeah, it's one of the old Nikons.”

“No. There's nothing in there,” Val said again more firmly while smiling at her. The lightbulb went on in Raina's head and she couldn't hold back the grin that erupted on her face. The camera was far nicer than any she owned, and the lenses themselves were worth a small fortune. She wasn't sure how he was going to explain their disappearance, probably would write them off in the confusion of combining the various departments, but she was deeply grateful for the gift. As horrible as this morning was, Val's behavior was certainly softening the blow.

Once she was sure she had gathered everything Val walked her out to her car, carrying a third box of god only knew what and tucking it into the back seat with the others once she had loaded them up. She handed him her ID badge before climbing into the driver's seat. “Thank you for the opportunity. Thank you for being such a good teacher,” she said as he leaned in her window.

“Don't let this derail you. It's one small setback and it's nothing to do with you or your talent or abilities. It's just bad luck. I know you're going to go on to great things if you want to.” He gave the car door a couple of raps and then turned to go back inside.

Raina watched him disappear back into the building before her gaze fell back to the steering wheel in front of her. It was just after 10 a.m. on a weekday. She had no idea what to do with herself. The thought of starting her job search immediately sounded way to overwhelming. She scanned the parking lot, wondering why she hadn't registered when she came in how empty it was today. With a sudden clutch of panic, she looked around for Cassie's car, but the powder blue Fiat was nowhere to be seen. She quickly fished her phone out of her bag.

“Raina?” Cassie picked up on the first ring. “Oh my god I've been hanging by the phone waiting for you to call. They wouldn't tell me who was staying and who was being let go....”

“Me.” Raina thought her voice sounded strangely flat and she figured she was still in a bit of a shock. “I was let go.”

“Fuck, Raina, I'm so sorry. They're keeping me...”

“Of course they're going to keep the pregnant lady. They look like real bastards if they don't.”

“But honestly I didn't even care. I probably could have used the time off. I was so worried about you. What is this going to do to your MFA program? Can you find somewhere else?”

“I don't know. It's kind of late. I suppose if worse comes to worse I can work for a year and pick it back up later.”

“No, that's terrible! There has to be something!”

“I don't....” It all rushed in on her then, the enormity to which she was screwed. She didn't make much at the magazine and her savings were meager. She hadn't checked the folder but she was sure her severance package was not particularly generous and there was no way she was going to be able to pay L.A. rent on an unemployment stipend, no matter how modest that little apartment of hers was. She was going to have to find something quickly. She could feel the panic building again, her throat starting to close as her fingers went numb and heart raced, and she had to close her eyes and breathe through to the next moment.

“Raina? Raina!” She could hear Cassie calling to her through the phone, her voice distant. Raina focused on the sound of it until she began to feel in control again.

“I'm here. I'm trying not to freak out but I'm here,” Raina confirmed, her hands shaking.

“Well stop being there and come over here right now. It's beer and pizza night anyway. We can start with the beer early. Well, you can start with the beer. I think I'm having apple juice.”

“I don't know, Cass. It's only ten in the morning and I think maybe I should save my money since I don't know how long this is going to last...”

“Oh don't be ridiculous. You're going to find a new job like that. You're amazing. Besides, no one said you had to spend any money. My treat. Pizza and ice cream and sympathy, free of charge. And all the booze you want too if you choose to go that route. Just get your skinny ass over here.”

Part of Raina wanted to go home and hide under her quilt and watch Netflix. Here was a giant crisis just lying in her way, spilled across the road like an upended gravel truck. It was the perfect excuse to tuck tail and run. But she could hear Val telling her she was bound for great things. She could hear Shannon's voice in her head, telling her to stop quitting. And here was Cassie, a real and true friend, who wasn't looking to take advantage of the situation. A friend who, instead of thinking of herself had immediately worried about Raina's situation, who was standing by with open arms. She was stronger than her fear, she told herself. She wasn't going to fall apart again. The people in her life now weren't the ones that she had chosen then. It was time to find out if she had made better choices this time around.

“I'll be there in an hour. I need to stop by my place and drop some things off first and change.”

“Okay, but you had better mean it. Don't you disappear on me,” Cassie admonished.

“I won't. I promise.”

*********************************

Raina was cross-legged on Cassie's living room floor, halfway through her bottle of wine and laughing hysterically while Cassie described her latest attempt at accommodating her growing belly and function normally when her phone rang. A quick glance at the screen told her it was Shannon.

“Hey handsome,” she giggled into the receiver as she picked it up.

“Well someone is in a good mood,” he responded.

“Oh no. I'm just fighting back panic and hysteria,” Raina told him as her voice steadied.

“Uhm... I'm not sure how to respond to that. What's happening?” Shannon asked.

“Oh, the magazine just laid off three-quarters of its staff. Including me. And that was my internship for my last two semesters for my degree so I'm not just broke, I'm completely screwed. But hey, I've got a bottle of wine and Cassie can't tie her shoes without falling over so it's handled.”

“Uhm... again I'm not sure how to respond to that. I'm really sorry about your job though. I was just calling to see if you still wanted to get together this evening for the pizza thing. We've been working but Jared didn't want you to be alone for the first time you've ever invited us into your life, so he's kicking me out of here to come see you.”

“Aww, my boyfriends are so sweet!” I giggled into the phone. “I'll text you the address.”

“Your friends, they know that...”

“This is all between us. They're cool. Just get your gorgeous ass over here,” I told him. Cassie started laughing again and topped off my wine glass.

“All right, Rainy girl. I'll be over in an hour or so. Are you drinking? Don't get sloppy drunk before I even get to see you, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Raina responded. “Oh no wait, that's Jared.”

“It's me if that'll get you to listen any better. I'll see you soon.”

*******************************************

When Shannon finally arrived it was closer to two hours later, but when Raina greeted him at the door he had a pastry box in one hand and a huge mixed bouquet in the other.

“What on earth?” Raina exclaimed as he handed her the flowers.

“Those are from Jared. We're sorry you lost your job.” He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek as she pulled the card out of the bouquet.

So sorry. Call if you need me. XOXO ~J

Raina clutched the card to her chest and led Shannon through the house to where Cassie was waiting. “You remember Cassidy, right?”

Shannon smiled. “How could I forget? How have you been?”

“Fat,” Cassie said with a smirk. “But not for too much longer. Great flowers Raina. What's that?” She asked as she pointed at the box Shannon was holding.

“Oh. The flowers are from Jared but this is from me. It's one of those pies we got on our second date, the one you loved so much.”

Raina gasped in delight. “The whiskey pecan one from that Chophouse?” Shannon nodded. Raina squealed and took the box from him. “Cassie, get a couple of forks, You're going to love this.”

Cassie laughed and took the flowers from her. “I'll put these in some water first so they don't die before you can take them home.”

Once Cassie had disappeared into the kitchen Shannon slipped his arms around Raina, pulling her close against him before pressing his lips to her forehead. She could feel herself relaxing, a deep sigh winding it's way out from her chest as his scent surrounded her.

“How are you holding up?” he asked gently. Raina shrugged. “It's going to be okay. Don't quit on me.”

Raina couldn't help but roll her eyes. “You know I had a bit of a panic when it started to set in what was actually happening and I could hear you in my head saying that same exact thing.”

“Good. That means I”m getting through that thick skull of yours.”

“Maybe,” she conceded. “I'm not going to pretend like I'm not scared as hell right now. It feels a little bit like I'm back to where I was before I came out here. Like I haven't made any progress at all. But I am kind of realizing I have.”

Shannon kissed her forehead again. “You can do this. I know you can. But I wish you'd open up and tell me what your story is. I feel like I could be so much more supportive if I knew where you were coming from.”

Maybe it was the bottle of wine she had finished off earlier but this time when Shannon asked about her past, she didn't feel the trepidation she usually did. There was no flutter of her heart, or flip of her stomach, or strangely sweaty palms. Maybe she was finally ready. “Okay.”

Shannon blinked at her. “Okay? Really? Just like that?”

She gave his chest a gentle shove. “Don't make me rethink this. Sit down with me over that pie and I'll tell you the whole thing.”

He kissed her again on the cheek and Raina turned her head, catching his mouth and opening it softly,, feeling her mind settle at the familiarity of him. She felt safe here, in his arms, in Cassie's living room. Safer than she had in years. And for once she wasn't thinking about how it could all be taken from her. She was finally in the moment.

@msroxyblog @nikkitasevoli@maliciousalishious@meghan12151977 @fyeahproudglambert @pheenixpeterson

#shannon leto fanfiction #jared leto fanfiction #shannon leto fic #jared leto fic #30 seconds to mars fanfiction #30stm #Presque Vu

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hiraeth-doux · 7 years

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A Road Paved In Gold (4/?)

Summary: In Steve’s memory, the seconds, and minutes, and hours of that day blurred into one endless moment of aching uncertainty and bone-chilling fear, but if his calculations were correct, his watch stopped ticking at the exact moment when his plane had gone up in flames.

Steve Trevor was never meant to die in the sky above Belgium for the reasons much bigger than he could ever imagine. Therefore, he didn’t. However, surviving came with a price he didn’t ask for. The price that Diana had to pay, as well.

A/N: Oh look, it’s only been 2 weeks. I’m going to try to keep the updates regular. This part is a bit long, but I hope it’s not something you would mind :) Thank you so much for your love, I appreciate it beyond words!

AO3 | Fanfiction.net

“You’re a moron, Steve Trevor.” There was the kind of exasperation in Etta’s voice that made it hard to disagree with her. He could see her oh so clearly before his mind’s eye, shaking her head and maybe rolling her eyes at him for good measure. God knew he couldn’t blame her.

Yeah well, what else is new? Steve thought, but somehow managed not to say it out loud.

He glanced up at the yellow light spilling from his living room window, an old receiver of a payphone squeezed between his ear and his shoulder as he shivered in the cold that the glass walls provided zero shelter from, his senses so on edge he could almost hear the wind chase the dust along the pavement outside the tiny booth. The fact that this phone was even working when most of the things in this county didn’t was a miracle in and of itself.

A shadow moved behind the curtains, and Steve’s stomach twisted into a knot, his gaze glued to the slight sway of fabric. It was so damn easy to imagine Diana move about his scantily furnished place, curious and maybe just as restless as he was. Which made him wish he’d kept it cleaner. Which made him scold himself mentally – for caring and because it wasn’t like it actually mattered in the present circumstances.

“Have you or have you not spoken with her?” He asked again, trying not to dwell how oddly comforting it was to hear Etta’s voice again, a little relieved by the familiarity of it, a little ashamed of not talking to her more often. Of not talking to her, period.

She huffed, and Steve could hear her move around her apartment – back in London, a few hundred miles and a whole lifetime away from where he was. “I have not, but it’s what you should be doing. Instead of calling me at… half past midnight.”

Steve winced. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late--”

“It’s not what I meant, Steve.” There was a long pause on the line, and after a few seconds, he thought they must have been disconnected, wondering if he should dial the number again or leave her alone. Until she spoke again. “You need to go there and fix whatever happened between the two of you. God knows you’ve been pining for her long enough.”

Steve let out a sharp exhale and rubbed his eyes. “I haven’t been…” He trailed off, too tired to argue.

“Is she really there?”

Unless I made her up. “I think so.”

“Are you okay?” Etta asked in a different voice, and the simple concern all but snapped him in half.

“Yeah,” he breathed out. “I better let you sleep. Thanks, Etta.”

“Steve?” She said before he had a chance to hang up. “Take care.”

He hadn’t seen her in years, refused her offer to help him when the new war started and, technically, he needed someone on the sidelines to help him from the outside. Between the risk of being exposed and a genuine affection toward Etta, it was easier to cut the ties, tell her to stay as far away from this mess as she could. So much easier that way.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” Diana said when he stepped through the door some pacing and a million half-formed thoughts and questions later, his insides coiling.

“This is my home,” Steve responded evenly as he shrugged out of his jacket that proved being almost entirely useless against the German winters and hung it on the peg by the door, ignoring how dry his throat got in a fracture of a second.

Diana looked around, and in that moment, Steve saw the place through her eyes – without the old books and photographs filling his apartment in London. His grandmother’s clock wasn’t sitting on the mantelpiece, and a knitted quilt wasn’t draped over the back of the couch, and if it wasn’t for some spare clothes that he kept in the drawers in the bedroom and several pieces of cutlery in the kitchen, no one would ever guess that anyone lived here at all.

She didn’t turn to him when she spoke, “No, it’s not.”

---

It was the light that awoke Steve a few hours later, a faint strip underneath the bedroom door that didn’t really bother him, per se, but that was impossible to ignore. All those years of living on his own made him too aware of another person’s presence this close to him.

Earlier, it was somehow decided to postpone the inevitable conversation till the morning, on account of how the day was long as hell. However, Diana refused his offer to take his bed, claiming that the couch – old and lumpy and decidedly uncomfortable – would be more than enough for her, thank you very much. He insisted because she was the guest. When he said that, she nearly flinched like he’d struck her, making Steve wish that he hadn’t opened his mouth at all.

He didn’t have it in him to argue after that, the mere idea of being separated from her by only a door was enough to leave him jittery, twisting and turning in the bed that suddenly got too big and too cold and too hard and—

Steve let out a long breath and rubbed his eyes, his head pounding from exhaustion and a million things that he couldn’t stop thinking about. He kicked away the thin blanket that was of little to no help against the drafts snaking in through the cracks in the window frames and climbed out of the bed, the floor freezing under his bare feet. It felt odd to not be at ease here. Diana was right, this was not his home. Yet, it still was the only place where he didn’t need to pretend to be someone else, and these days it counted for something.

Steve’s hand paused on the door knob, his heart tripping over itself momentarily. Maybe she just forgot to turn the lights off…

Diana was sitting by his desk in the near the window, very much awake. She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye when he stepped out of the bedroom and looked up, and for a long moment, they simply stared at one another across the space that was miles and decades and thousands of words they never got to say.

Her hair was down and falling over her shoulders in heavy waves, the heavy coat that was hiding her armour before draped over the back of the armchair in the corner, and even though the sleepwear Steve offered to her was left untouched on the armrest of the couch – something that he was both grateful for and regretful about - she still looked soft around the edges, a little tired, and so much like what he used to wake up to every morning that it all but left him breathless.

Steve’s hands curled into fists at his sides, fingers itching to touch her, run through that impossible mane of hers, feel her again. He felt his cheeks grow hot and dropped his gaze, grateful for the dimness of the reading lamp and the ten feet between them.

Some things never changed.

It didn’t come as a surprise that her presence somehow hurt even more than her absence, the dull throb somewhere deep inside him a familiar feeling he was way too accustomed to for his liking.

He cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot, antsy and on edge, too tired to focus properly on anything, too wired to sleep. Maybe this was why she was up as well.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

Diana shook her head and looked down at the papers strewn over the desk before her – their earlier haul. “Couldn’t sleep,” she responded softly as though there was someone else she might have disturbed. “So I thought I would….” She trailed off with an uncertain half-shrug. “To be honest, I have no idea what I’m looking at here.”

It was late, and his eyes felt full of sand and his head buzzed in that overly-exhausted way that he knew he was going to pay for later.

He should have turned around and gone back to bed right there and then. (He should have found her another place to stay, period.) Instead, Steve ran his hand over his hair, either smoothing it down or ruffling it even more, and walked over to the desk, mindful of Diana’s shield propped against one of the chairs and her overcoat draped over the back of it, trying hard not to look directly at her.

Like he could get blind if he stared for too long.

Like she was the sun.

Steve reached for another chair to pull it to the desk, but then decided to perch on the couch armrest instead, leaning forward to study the map spread before her, ignoring the encrypted transcripts for now. They might require some proper brain power he didn’t have.

This time around, he had a rule – not thinking about any this at night. Trapped in the never-ending nightmare had a toll on him as it was, the war wearing him thin. Losing the sleep over something he had no control over was impractical at best, and downright stupid at worst. The demons haunting him were no less present when he was awake regardless.

And yet here he was, breaking the rule that saved him from madness and desperation more times than he could count. All it took was for Diana to make an appearance in his life again and turn it upside down like he had no say in it whatsoever.

Not that he ever harboured any illusion that he had.

“It’s a maneuver map. Russian. Supplied by the German intel, I believe,” Steve explained, finally taking a proper look at what they managed to escape with. “You know, how they plan to move their troops and…” Right, a warrior. “You probably know all about those things.”

Diana’s finger traced one of the lines, marking the position of the borders of the front. “We do it differently,” she offered if a little absently, and he nodded, uncertain if any response was required. Which made him wonder where she was all this time. Which made him wonder, period.

“Yeah, so…” He started again, pointedly keeping his eyes on the map.

He explained to her that with the direction the war was heading, his main job at this point was finding information on the offence planned by the Germans, and clearing the civilians, particularly those doomed to end up in concentration camps, out of the way. Half the time they didn’t believe him, sometimes they thought it was a setup, mistrusting of anything by now, too tired to carry on the fight. But there were lives that he saved, and they really and truly counted.

Unofficially, this was what he had been doing these past four years.

Officially, he was supplying the British with scrap of information he could get his hands on, much like the first time around.

Except he never flew a plane again.

“Concentration camps?” She echoed when he finished, confused.

Not now.

There was a lot about his kind that Steve Trevor wasn’t proud of, slavery and discrimination being high up on that list, but the camps were undoubtedly the most inhuman and inhumane thing that happened in this world, and to say that he was ashamed to bring it up with someone who used to believe in the goodness of all people was a monumental understatement. At times he couldn’t help but think that they didn’t deserve to be helped by someone like her after all.

“I’ll—I’ll explain later.”

She didn’t press, but her expression remained determined. “Surely there is more that can be done,” Diana frowned, studying him pensively.

He rubbed his eyes, feeling the weight of the day press down on him. No, not the day. The past four years that drained him to the core. “I’m only one man,” he said, his voice weary. Which wasn’t entirely correct, per se. However, his commanding officer didn’t know even half of it, deeming Steve as nothing but a spy, and thus eliminating any support in anything else that he tried to achieve.

“Not anymore.”

“Why are you doing this?” He asked quietly, meeting her gaze for the first time. “This is not your battle. You don’t owe us anything.”

She studied him for a long moment. “Because I can help. There’s always a choice, right? To do something or to do nothing, it’s what you said.” Diana repeated his own words to him, the answer he’d long forgotten about. “I can do something.”

At last, he nodded. Then turned back to the map. “This is a new one because this area here is still marked as ours.”

“Here?” She followed the line he was pointing at, her fingers brushing briefly against his, and Steve jerked his hand away like he got burned – something that surely didn’t escape Diana’s attention. She drew her own hand back as well and stared straight ahead. “Do you really hate me this much?”

The question felt like a sucker-punch, knocking all wind out of Steve, making his throat close up, the air between them thick and heavy.

“You’re hurt,” he said all of a sudden.

“What?”

Steve’s gaze fixed on a long cut on the outside her arm, running from the wrist and halfway to her elbow, red and raw, no longer bleeding but looking awfully painful nonetheless, his brows furrowed. “How did that happen?”

Diana turned her arm to look at it. “I… I don’t know. Must be the glass.”

“I’ll get something to clean it up,” he muttered, getting up, somewhat grateful for an excuse to change the subject. With the way this conversation was going, he wasn’t sure he wanted to get to the end of it.

She shook her head dismissively. “It will heal.”

“It can get infected--”

“Steve.”

As if not hearing her, he crossed the room, which required no more than two steps to get to the kitchen where he kept his first-aid kit – a military bag with bare necessities, at this point. Some gauzes and dressing pads, a strong-smelling antiseptic that burned as hell when it came in contact with the skin and a handful of other things. He couldn’t remember the last time he needed to use anything more than a bandage. Maybe he needed to restock it properly, in the light of recent events and—

His fingers clutched the bag as he tried hard not to feel this… this odd warmth in his chest. The ice breaking, his armour cracking, its jagged edges scraping the fabric of his soul.

She was still sitting at the desk – he might never be able to sit on this chair again without imaging her in it, watching him fumble with the zipper with the expression he couldn’t quite read. Something between endearment and exasperation and Can you please do as I ask for once? He chose not to think of any of that.

“Steve…”

“Let me…”

He lowered down on the armrest again and reached for her hand, turning her wrist gently and struggling to keep on functioning properly, although it was not the cut itself that unnerved him – on the battle field, he got to see the things he knew he’d need several lifetimes to forget. A person torn apart or turned inside out was not something easily erased from the memory. Right now, though, it dawned on him that he had never seen Diana hurt. Not anything beyond a bruise or a scratch that would disappear before his eyes.

Invincible.

Unbreakable.

A goddess.

It was like everything about this day was meant to be wrong somehow.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered when she tensed at the touch of antiseptic to her wound. “We need to… you wouldn’t want it to get infected,” he repeated, uncertain if it even mattered. Maybe she couldn’t be affected by any of that to begin with.

Her fingers flexed a little. He could feel her eyes on him and didn’t dare look up. Diana’s skin felt smooth and soft and warm against his calloused touch, her pulse tripping ever so slightly under his fingertips, and it was pretty damn hard to pretend that he didn’t notice it.

“It will be fine,” she said softly, and he wondered if she did it just to fill the pause hanging between them.

Steve wrapped a sterile bandage around it, fighting through a strong sense of déjà vu, his mind springing back to the day on Themyscira when it was him who’d been bandaged in the healing caves underneath the castle. He remembered the scent of some oil, strong but not unpleasant, and a cool touch of an ointment that the woman whose name he never found out applied to his cuts even though she probably didn’t have to. He was a prisoner. They didn’t have to care.

“Now it will be,” he secured the bandage and pulled away from her, finding it hard to keep avoiding looking at her. Such a fool. “How did you find me?” He asked at last, unable not to.

“I wasn’t looking for you,” Diana replied after a moment of hesitation, and he couldn’t tell at once if he was disappointed or relived by her words. “I didn’t think you’d want me to. I was looking—I saw Sameer.” That would explain in, Steve thought. “He said he hadn’t heard from you in a while.”

“It’s better if they stay out of it,” Steve responded, burning with the desire to know if Sami brought him up, or if she asked about him. “All of them, they’re better off without being involved again.”

“And you?”

A wry smile flickered across his face before Steve could hold it back. “It’s not like I have much else to do.”

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but stopped herself and simply nodded. “Sami told me about Hitler.” Her gaze darted quickly toward the lasso. “I came looking for answers.”

And just like that Steve remembered that Hitler was, in fact, expected to be at the mansion this week, expect his plans changed the last moment, which, ironically, played out in Steve’s favour – without the Fuhrer, there was less security around. The fact that they managed to get out of there alive was all thanks to the fact that Diana’s initial plan sort of failed.

“He’s not another relative of yours, is he?” Steve offered. The first joke he’d allowed himself, and he could have sworn her lips quirked a tiny bit.

“It crossed my mind, yes,” Diana admitted, not without a hint of amusement.

His eyebrow crept up in genuine curiosity. “Is he?” Diana shook her head, and for a moment, he felt foolish – like he was the one being insane asking that question. As if he hadn’t seen her fight an actual god. He cleared his throat. “Hitler is not Ludendorff. It’s more complicated than that.”

“Than what?”

“You thought that killing Ludendorff would change everything.” He stuffed his poor medical supplies back in the bag and zipped it shut, desperate to do something that didn’t involve looking at the woman sitting before him, aware all of sudden of the fact that he was only wearing a loose shirt and, well, underpants, feeling oh so very underdressed. “It’s different now. Many tried to come after Hitler but this war—it’s bigger than just one person. It’s politics. Japan in involved. Austria, Russia…” He trailed off with a shrug. “There are people who benefit greatly from this mess.”

“It wasn’t about Ludendorff. It was about Ares,” Diana reminded him.

Steve glanced up at her. “But it’s not now, is it?”

She shook her head. “There must be something… something that can be done to stop it.”

“There is something. Helping is something.”

It felt like a lie even coming from his own mouth, and for a moment, he almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation.

Maybe there was no way out. Maybe they were all doomed for extinction.

“You never answered my question,” Diana murmured when he stood up.

“I think we need to have some rest.” He met her gaze. Held it, almost daring her to ask him again.

She didn’t.

Later, when Steve was dozing off at last, sometime before dawn, he could have sworn he heard the door open and close, half-scared and half-certain that she would be gone when he woke up. However, a few hours later, when the harsh sun streaming through the uncurtained window dragged him out of uneasy slumber and he stumbled into the living room, rubbing his eyes that felt like someone scrubbed them with sandpaper, Diana was fast asleep, curled under her cloak on his old couch.

Maybe he dreamed it up, Steve thought, watching her sleep, her breathing deep and even.

Or maybe he was still dreaming.

---

The light was grey when she woke up one morning, just after dawn, to the white noise of a slight drizzle pattering against the windowsill and a palpable absence of familiar warmth next to her. She loved the rain, the soft rustling of it against the streets and rooftops, like a whisper; like the world telling her secrets that weren’t meant to be shared out loud. For all the luscious green perfecting of Themyscira, the moodiness of the weather in the man’s world fascinated her beyond words.

It was early still, the room veiled with shadows lingering in the corners. Diana rolled onto her back, blinking sleepily, her hand brushing against the cool sheets.

“Steve?” She rubbed her eyes, the fog of a dream she could no longer recall clinging to her brain like a thin film.

Another moment had passed before he appeared in the doorway, sporting a raging bedhead, his smile brighter than sunshine, soft and all hers, and Diana felt her own lips tug up at the corners in response as he crossed the cold room, walking toward her.

“Hey.” Propped on one knee, he leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Sleep. It’s still early.”

Her hand curled around his wrist. “Where did you go?”

“Coffee,” he grinned. “Want some?”

She tugged him down to her with the tiniest shake of her head. “Stay with me.”

Steve pushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his smile growing so tender it hurt to look at it, and then slipped under the covers, curling around her like a shell. He let out a breath, folding Diana into a curve on his body, his bare chest warm against her back and his breath tickling her neck. Perfect fit, he would joke now and then, albeit in somewhat… different circumstances most of the time. She couldn’t agree more.

He tucked her closer to him, his lips brushing to her shoulder. “Do you miss it?” His whisper was so soft Diana almost missed it. “Your home?”

She did. More than she was willing to admit even to herself. Her whole existence was tied to Themyscira, it was in her blood and bones, maybe someplace deeper than that, even.

She kissed the inside of his bicep that her head was resting on; traced her hand along his arm, lacing their fingers together. Looked up just enough to see a line of his jaw, his face obscured by the shadows. When Steve was this close, she could feel his heartbeat, barely able to tell it apart from her own. Warm and real and solid and alive.

“Sometimes.” A pause. “But this is where I want to be,” she murmured, feeling Steve’s grip on her tighten - a little protective, a little possessive.

“Sleep,” he repeated against her temple.

And the rain kept on falling…

---

The war was ugly and brutal, and at times, Steve couldn’t help but think that mankind had lost its face completely, revealing something entirely monstrous underneath. Half the time, he felt like they was taking one step forward and two steps back, every victory leading to more damage.

More often than not, it felt like they’d already lost.

Steve knew that they would come after him, and when a few nights later they did, he was prepared.

He were done here anyway, it was time to do something with the information he possessed. The Germans decidedly did not like to share. And they certainly had no intention to let Steve get away with it. They saw him, and he had no doubt that it took them no time to single him out among the other officers who had access to the Commander’s Office. After all, he was probably the only one who never returned.

“Come on, quiet,” he urged Diana as they climbed down the fire escape while the SS officers pounded on his door, yelling for him to open up, the precious papers tucked under his coat and the rusty metal rough against his palms.

“Who are they, Steve?” She asked in a hushed whisper when he landed on the cobbled alley road, drawing her back until their backs were pressed against the cold brick wall.

His eyes darted up and down the alley. They would not be able to cross the city, not with the morning so near. The sky had already started to get pale-grey at the horizon, brushing against the rooftops. They would have to circle it around and hope to fly under the radar of the ever-present patrols. And after that – France.

“Some guys you don’t want to meet in the middle of the night,” Steve muttered, his eyes darting toward the opposite end of the alley as he started to run in that direction. It wouldn’t take them long to break down the door and find the fire escape, but with any luck, he and Diana had a few minutes to put as much distance between them and the Germans as they could.

Behind him, a staccato of her footsteps was the only sound in the stillness of the night.

“But we could just…” She started, nearly bumping into him when Steve stopped at the end of the alley and peeked into the street, illuminated by a row of dim streetlights. “I could…”

Fight, he finished for her mentally.

“No,” he shook his head, glancing at her. “Better avoid this kind of attention.” He looked past her shoulder, the voices already spilling from the upper floor and into the narrow space between the old buildings. “For the time being,” he added under his breath when she opened her mouth to protest. “Let’s go.”

If they could put a few streets between them and their pursuers, it could give them a chance to form an actual plan. The night raids were a regular thing, these people clearly knew what they were doing, catching their unsuspecting victims off-guard. Unfortunately for them, Steve saw it coming. He tried hard not to think of everyone who did.

“Steve.”

In two blocks, there was a busy street, never empty even at this hour, especially with the bakeries and post offices often opening before dawn. In less than 5 minutes, the two of them could get lost in the crowd and be done with it.

Steve snapped his head up when she called his name just in time to see two black figures rounding the corner ahead of them, massive rifles clutched in their hands, their heads turning as they scanned the streets and porches, looking closely into every nook and crevice between the buildings. There were more of them than Steve anticipated, cold sweat trickling down his spine despite the winter chill.

Shit.

“Let me…” Diana started, her hand reaching for the sword fastened behind her back, her shield already clutched in her hand, eyes darting between the alley they had left a minute ago and the two men walking fast in their direction, fading in and out of sight as they moved from one street light to another.

There was no time for another plan, really. There were too many of them.

He turned to Diana, his hand sliding around her waist. “Do you trust me?” Steve murmured and then drew her to him without waiting for an answer, his lips capturing hers, fingers curling around a handful of her cloak, holding her close. She stilled for a moment, surprised, and for a brief second, Steve was overcome with a sudden panic – mistake, mistake, mistake! – certain that he would be the first one to be tossed ten feet into the air. But then Diana leaned into him, relaxing into his touch; her hand found his cheek and slipped around to grip the hair at the nape of his neck.

The world fell away, shattering against the sheer force of Jesus Christ, finally! The German officers walked past them, their heavy boots hitting the pavement with enough force to leave dents in the cheap concrete. Through the blood rush in his ears, Steve heard a faint laughter and a low whistling meant for the two of them, but by then, it hardly mattered. She tasted of warmth and memories, and the sunny mornings on the banks of the River Thames and laughter and light, and he would walk through a thousand wars if he had to just to have this moment back, here, now, his fingers carding through Diana’s hair as her lips parted for him, deepening the kiss.

“I think they’re gone,” Steve murmured soundlessly a long while later, breathless and dizzy, leaning his forehead against her temple for a moment as his heart raced ahead and their breaths puffed out in small clouds.

“What?” Diana looked up, her gaze confused a slightly glazed over. Even in near complete darkness, he could see the colour on her cheeks, and it was pretty damn impossible not to trace her face with his fingers, brush away that unruly curl that kept falling on her forehead.

“They were looking for one man, not for a couple,” he breathed out. “They have never seen you, I don’t think so.”

Her hand dropped to his chest, his skin instantly missing the warmth of her touch. “Right.”

She drew back, stepping away from him, and looked away.

And maybe Steve saw too much into something that wasn’t actually there, but for just a moment, he could have sworn that a flicker of disappointment flashed across her features, gone before he was sure it was there at all.

He didn’t allow himself to dwell on it.

---

One nameless village after another, infrequent phone calls with his commanding officer and the rain. The world looked like it was made of grime and sadness and blood and pain, a hopeless colour that left Steve drained and weary, and a thousand years old. A few days on the road, and Steve was starting to feel like his bones were straining under the weight of the things he couldn’t fix.

“I’ll take the first watch,” Diana said from the other side of a campfire, pulling him out of his thoughts.

There were close to the Austria’s border, not more than a mile away from what used to be a village only yesterday. The air still smelled of fire and dust and everything Steve chose not to think about when they reached it even though the rain that fell the precious night dulled their intensity. Tried not to think of the life filling it before the bombs wiped the houses off the face of the earth. Diana didn’t say anything when they passed it, keeping close to the forest in case someone stayed back to loot whatever was left of it, only her expression froze, grief-stricken for what she couldn’t stop.

“You barely sleep.” Steve noted – a questions that wasn’t a question. On the other side of the dancing flames, Diana’s face was streaked with shadows, barely recognizable and entirely unreadable.

It had been a couple of weeks now – a couple of weeks of dancing around one another, pointedly not talking about what happened between them after the first war, pretending, that weird thing hanging between them – unsaid words, unasked questions, the things he wanted to know but didn’t dare ask, half-scared that she would answer, half-worried that she wouldn’t – didn’t exist. Pretending that the kiss in Berlin never happened.

It was odd enough that she hadn’t left. There was nothing in this godforsaken land for her, nothing worth fighting for. Steve kept asking himself what was it that kept him going, but the answers never came, and moving forward felt better than doing nothing at all. And so when Diana followed him, he didn’t question it. There was comfort to being around that calmed the storms raging inside him even though it hurt as hell half the time. He wondered if this was better or worse than having none of her at all, but this kind of thinking was the path that could lead him to madness.

“They never go away,” Diana said after a long pause, her voice so soft that the sound of it was almost swallowed by the crackling of the flames licking the dry twigs. “The dreams. The memories.”

Steve pushed another log into the fire, sending a burst of sparks into the chilly night air.

He looked up, wishing she would look back at him, wishing that he could read her, and somewhat grateful that he couldn’t, uncertain of what he would see. A reflection of his own life, perhaps.

“Don’t let them get you,” he muttered, staring into the flames, his voice hollow. He wanted to ask her more, get her to tell him what was it that made her push him away the way she did, take them both apart and put them together, but this time the right way, making sure that all the parts fit. Instead, he uncurled from his crouch and sat down on the trunk of the fallen tree across from Diana, only now noticing that he was shaking from the cold and adrenaline still coursing through his veins. His eyes locked with hers. “It’s what they want, but you can’t let them win.”

“How do you make them stop?” Her gaze on him was almost palpable, making Steve’s whole body prickle.

“You don’t.” He couldn’t lie to her. Never did before and wasn’t about to start now. “You become friends with them. And hope they’ll let you be.”

Neither of them slept that night.

---

Paris was in disarray.

Under German occupation, it was a ghost of a place it used to be, and there was some cruel irony, Steve thought, to how the last time he’d been there was with Diana as well.

In his mind, the trees along Champs Elysees were in bloom and the cool air was filled with the smell of roasted chestnuts sold on every corner. (“Why would you eat this?” Diana asked when he bought a bag of scalding-hot chestnuts for them, and Steve laughed. “Just try one.”) Her hand was warm in his as they walked the narrow back streets and climbed up the Montmartre hill, all the way to the Basilica of the Sacre Coeur and their stolen kisses tasted of promises and something bigger than the world itself.

“You know, people call Paris the most romantic city on earth,” Steve noted, standing behind Diana on the balcony of the Basilica, his hands resting on the stone railing on either side of her and the wind kept throwing her hair is his face with every angry gust. Up here, it was malicious and moody, and he moved closer to shield her from it and keep her warm.

Diana snorted, her eyes scanning rows of grey houses stacked along winding streets like domino pieces. “I suppose it means that mankind doesn’t know what romantic is.” She turned to him, one eyebrow arched, her face so close that their noses touched.

Steve smirked, amused, before leaned in to kiss her. “I suppose you can show me.”

But that was then, in another lifetime, in another universe where they made promises they meant to keep and the world was a different place.

Now, the city of dreams was grey and bleak and faceless, filled with screaming and gunfire and blood. It no longer smelled of flowers, but of dust and fear and smoke. Now, he was running – must have been, his own footsteps inexplicably loud and resonating through his body, his lungs screaming for air, even though the whole world seemed to have stopped. Like in a dream, Steve thought if a little absently as his hands moved on the will of their own, pulling the trigger of the heavy rifle, the kickback from every shot pushing painfully into his shoulder, and then reloading it again and again until his fingers were numb. Like moving through water.

The plan formed along the way. After 4 years, France was suffocating under German occupation, running out of supplies and hope. However, the German army was starting to get desperate in the past months, their progress not as rapid as it was expected in the beginning, their losses greater than anticipated and the resistance of the opposing armies far more fierce than they could ever imagine. They let their guards down, Paris being their weakest post – or so Hitler referred to it in one of the letters that was never meant to end up in the hands of a spy.

If they could liberate France, the whole defence strategy of the allies would change.

And there was only one person who could truly make it happen.

He stopped, pushed in the back and to the side by someone running behind him, the blood rush in his ears muting the screams and angry yells and the crumbling of the stone walls somewhere in the distance.

Mayhem. There was no other word for it.

Steve inhaled sharply, hungrily, and turned around, his eyes scanning the crowd in panic, soldiers and civilians, two armies with only one victory ahead of them. All or nothing this time. Paris was not giving up again.

And then he saw her… The lightning snaking along Diana’s bracelets, her eyes closed for a moment as though she was calling something from deep inside her, a figure of utter stillness in the chaos that couldn’t stop moving, so bright it was almost impossible to look at her without going blind. He didn’t remember seeing her do this before, on the night when he died, but he must have, he was thinking now. He must have because the vision was familiar in the way only a memory could be, his own fingertips prickling as though the air around them was charged.

Someone fired at her, and he watched the bullet fly and then disintegrate before it was a chance to reach her, her armour reflecting the light of the faraway explosion. She was a force, infinite power, a goddess made of light, and when she snapped her eyes open, the army closing in on her flew away like a pile of leaves blown off by the wind. The aftershock of it threw Steve against the wall, knocking all air out of him. He gasped, more surprised than hurt, and grit his teeth, his hands slick with sweat gripping his rifle so tight that his knuckles went white.

He aimed and fired again, his mind blank. If they could make it through the next second-minute-hour, then maybe all of this wasn’t in vain. Maybe they still stood a chance.

If the French army was surprised by the sudden reinforcements, they didn’t seem to care, moving forward, determined and – for the first time in years – hopeful.

“Steve!”

A flash of something bright darted past him, Diana’s lasso knocking a soldier that had a barrel of his gun aimed at Steve’s head off his feet. He span around and hit the man with the stock of his rifle. Then nodded at her a silent thank you, their eyes locking momentarily.

“Diana!” He yelled, trying to be heard over the sound of gunfire and nodded his head toward the dome of the Pantheon looming ahead of them. “There!”

Almost done…

Almost…

Later, there were cheers and happy tears, and the songs Steve couldn’t recognize, their words morphing into the sound that meant happiness, and somehow, it was enough.

He knew he had to make contact with the British, make himself known and accounted for, but the night was deep and black – he’d long stopped counting the hours, and the celebrations around him were intoxicating in the way that only undiluted happiness could be. The city that spend the past 4 years suffocating under the siege could finally breathe again.

“Steve…”

He turned around to see Diana make his way toward him through the crowd, nodding absently at anyone trying to thank her but not slowing down, her eyes fixed on him. The crowd parted before her without even noticing they were doing it, and he watched her move through it in awe and relief. And then she was standing right before him, her hair wild and her chest still heaving as if she could barely catch her breath, and her streetlamps making the star in her tiara glow like it was made of gold.

And then she was smiling at him because they did it again, a little tentative, a little hopeful, her eyes glinting. And someone tried to push a bottle of something that, judging by its smell, was meant to burn straight through a person’s stomach into Steve’s hand but he was pretty caught up in being too damn happy to see her again to care.

And then her fingers were on his face like she needed to make sure that he was real, and he was breathing her in, and Jesus Christ, he missed her so bad that if he let go of her now, he would probably turn to ashes right there and then.

“Are you okay?” Steve mouthed softly.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly, her nose brushing against his cheek. “Come with me.”

---

They stumbled into the room, tripping over each other’s feet and the threshold, Steve’s arms closing around Diana just in time to break their imminent fall, her breath catching, a sharp gasp against his mouth, as her hands gripped the collar of his coat.

The corridors of a small inn that opened its doors to the soldiers amidst the celebration smelled faintly of tobacco and cheap cologne, but inside the room it was all furniture polish and clean sheets and a somewhat stale air of the space that hadn’t been aired enough. He didn’t care. All he could feel, all he could think of was her, and her mouth on his, and his hands on her body, his heart hammered against the metal parts of her armour.

Steve broke the kiss, breathing hard, his chest heaving and his thumb running slow circles over her cheek.

Diana’s fingers curled around one of his wrists, her breath warm on his skin. Her palm on his jaw, she tilted her face, finding his mouth with hers again.

“I’m sorry—sorry for having left the way I did.”

“Don’t,” he muttered, the sound of his own voice drowned in the thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat. “Diana…”

“You wouldn’t touch me,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Would hardly even look at me.”

His hands framing her face, Steve leaned his forehead against hers. “If I did, I would never want to stop.”

“Please.” She kissed him again, hungrily, desperately. He could taste fear and the salt of her tears he didn’t notice until now on her mouth, the need that resonated inside him, the missing that mirrored his own, his own hands skimming over her arms and around her body of their own accord.

Jesus, he wanted her so bad.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, pushing his jacket down his shoulders and tugging at the buttons of her shirt, Steve’s lips peppering her face with small kisses until there were no tears left, until he didn’t know where his breath ended and hers began.

His fingers slid over the leather and metal of her armour, smooth under his touch, softened by the years of wear and yet as impeccable as the first time he laid his eyes on it in 1918, the memory so clear like no time had passed then.

His jacket hit the floor, Diana’s hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, frantically and awkwardly in her haste. A low growl formed in Steve’s throat, something primal and out of control when her hands ran over his bare chest, her breathing short on his mouth, against his neck, everywhere of his skin. His focus tunneled, his attention zeroing on the almost electric zaps of desire crazing through his body, the need to feel her, be in her, nearly unbearable.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh as his fingers worked on undoing to clasps on her boots, eyes shut and chest heaving. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulled him to her, her eyes black and wild with want, her mouth finding his, hands tugging at his hair, running over his shoulders.

“God, I missed you,” Steve rasped, nuzzling into her neck, her hair, a zing of pure fire shooting up and through him mixed with pure elation over being alive. Her nose bumped into his, a little playful, a little seductive. Not that he needed another nudge.

“I was scared,” Diana whispered, her fingers threading through his hair, and he could hear the unsaid words that were just as loud. Of the fear he also felt but didn’t know how to define.

And then she was inside and around him, everywhere, too much and too little and never enough, his whole universe. He fitted his mouth to hers, swallowing her whimper that morphed into a moan, a fistful of sheets bunched in his hand, his fingers moving over her back and along her thing, pressing it into his.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, dropping soft kisses along her neck when his hips snapped up, filling her to the brim, and her breath hitched audibly, her whole body clenching around him and nearly undoing him in the best way. Didn’t mean to hurt her…

“No, don’t stop.” Her eyes dropped shut as she arched into him, giving in to immense pleasure.

A few crazy collisions, and they settled into a rhythm as easy as breathing. Faster and higher, and over the edge, her hands digging into his flesh, guiding him and following him, breathless and shuddering in his arms. Perfectly here and perfectly his.

His awareness blurred, Steve’s hand slid down her side, along her abdomen. His thumb slipped between their bodies, finding the sweet spot, and she stilled beneath him, coming completely undone with a muffled cry into his shoulder, dissolving into the searing pleasure and taking him with her as a lightning of bliss tore through Steve as the universe exploded around him in myriads of colours, Diana’s name on his lips and her body wound tightly around him. Perfection.

“Don’t go,” she murmured a few long moments later, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his neck when Steve tried to shift his weight off of her.

“I’ll crush you,” he whispered back, kissing whatever skin he could reach, waiting for his breath to find itself, his head spinning and his mind empty and his body completely liquefied.

She laughed softly at that, turning to look at him, amused. “I doubt that.” Which made his grin widen because she probably had a point there. Which made him think of her pinning him down, whatever the circumstances. Which was a very nice idea, all things considered. Her fingers pushed his damp hair from his forehead, trailing along his cheek. “I missed you, too.”

---

It was like no time had passed at all, his feelings for her as strong as they’d ever been. Like not only his body got stuck in time but the rest of the world did as well. Like there could be nothing else for them, not now, and not ever.

Infinite.

Steve was sitting with his back leaning against the headboard of the bed, staring at his hands resting in his lap like they held answers to all questions in the universe when Diana walked out of the bathroom, his half-buttoned shirt hanging loosely from her frame.

(“Why would I do that?” She asked him the first time he suggested she wore a piece of his clothing instead of putting on her own garments.

“Well, it’s what people do, sometimes… after…” he squirmed, biting back a laugh.

“After they make love?” She offered helpfully, one eyebrow arched, and Steve chuckled and leaned in to kiss her on the temple.

“Yes, after they make love.”)

“Steve?”

“What am I?” He asked in a hollow voice without looking up.

Diana stepped toward the bed and climbed onto the mattress, crawling over the rumpled sheets to him; kissed him on the shoulder and rested her forehead against it when he didn’t turn to her, listening to him breathe softly. “You’re Steve Trevor,” she whispered. “You’re loyal. Compassionate. Brave. The bravest man I’ve ever met.”

When he didn’t respond, Diana shifted, moving closer to him and tossing her leg over his. For a long moment, she just sat in his lap, her hands splayed on his chest, with only a thin sheet draped over his lap between them, and the ticking of the clock on the dresser uncharacteristically loud as the world shrunk to a few feet of space around them. She cupped her palms over his cheeks, and Steve had no choice but to look at her, eyes dark and stormy. His hands slid up her back, pulling her closer, his fingers pushing through her hair.

“You’re my Steve,” she whispered, tracing the lines of his face with her fingertips – down is cheek, along his jaw, over his brow.

“If you’re going to disappear again, I’d prefer you to do it sooner rather than later,” Steve murmured.

She leaned in, their faces nearly touching. Awfully close. “Do you want me to leave?”

He looped a strand of hair behind her ear, his eyes searching her features. “I never wanted it. Not then, and not now.”

“I thought I was doing the right thing for you.” Her voice was quiet, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. “I didn’t think--” Her lips curved as their eyes met. “I didn’t think you would be so impossible to get out of my mind.” She paused, her smile slipping away. “I never meant to hurt you.”

He swallowed. In the dim light of the reading lamp on the nightstand beside him, she looked luminous, almost ethereal. Steve ran his thumb over her cheekbone. “Does it not bother you?”

“Does what not bother me?”

“That you’re…” He cleared his throat and then let out a humorless laugh. “That you’re you, a daughter of Zeus, and I’m—I’m only a human, if even that.”

Her face softened. “You never were only a human, Steve Trevor,” she whispered, brushing a feather-light kiss to his cheek. “But maybe you could…” another one to the corner of his mouth, “… show me the differences…” a soft touch to his lips, “… between us. Just…” her voice dropped, “…to make sure.”

He could taste amusement mixed with simmering heat rising inside them both on her, feel her melt into him, languid and soft, sweet weight in his arms. Her breath caught when he flicked his fingers, easily undoing the two buttons that kept his shirt in place, palms sliding underneath it. Steve tightened his grip on her, rolling them both over and tucking her beneath him, capturing her giggle with a kiss.

Outside, someone was signing the French anthem, loudly and completely off-key, and when Diana’s arms snaked around his neck, he thought he would fight a million wars just so he could come home to her.

---

“Steve, what is it?”

Diana glanced at him standing by the window the next morning, the grey light of an overcast day filling the room. Her armour affixed on her body, as familiar and as comfortable as a second skin, she picked up the bracelets from where they fell on the floor the precious night but the stillness of him drew her in, her gaze lingering on his silhouette against a rectangle of light as it followed the line of his shoulders and the taught muscles of his back, his hair still tousles even though he did try to smooth it down at the sink earlier. The memory made her lips tug up at the corners and her heart ache with tenderness.

“It’s quiet,” he responded absently, his shirt clutched in his hand, the whole of idea of dressing seemingly forgotten for the time being. (She wouldn’t mind if he only wore pants for as long as they both lived. Or nothing at all, for that matter. The man had exceptional physique.) “I almost forgot what it could be like.”

She put the bracelets down on the side of the bed and walked over across the room toward him, arms sliding around his waist from behind, his bare skin warm against the exposed parts of hers. They had the time now, she thought. A tiny bit of it, perhaps, but still.

“It’s not over,” he added softly, as though reading her mind. She could almost hear him think. He let go of the shirt he was holding, allowing it to over the back of the chair and his hands closed around hers, thumbs running slowly over his wrists. “Not yet. I’m not sure how it can ever be.”

“I’m sorry about these,” Diana murmured, brushing a kiss to his shoulder where a few red marks left by her nails stood in stark contrast against his skin, running toward his shoulder-blades and along his ribs.

Steve turned to her, glancing down his back, his confusion turning instantly to recognition. He grinned like a cat that caught a canary. “I’m not,” he informed her, looking so ridiculously smug that she would have rolled her eyes had she not been deliriously, unapologetically happy and barely able to contain it. “That was the part that I liked quite a bit, actually.”

She arched an eyebrow in response, struggling to keep a straight face. “I’ll remember that.” A pause. “Did you sleep at all?” Her voice dropped, Steve’s breathing steady and soothing against her chest, and easily the only thing she wanted to feel.

He was awake before her, fatigue hiding in the lines around his eyes, behind the veneer of the smile that greeted her, the side of his bed cold enough to imply that it had been a while, and in the brief moment between sleep and wakefulness, with her mind trapped in this odd, undefined state, she was overcome with fear. You can’t save everyone, Steve told her on that day in Belgium, before she crossed No Man’s Land, and in the light of everything that followed, she couldn’t help but hear it as, You can’t save me.

She wouldn’t ever forget that she never did.

“You know, the last time we—” Steve stopped himself with a sharp inhale. I woke up alone and you were gone.” He shook his head.

“Steve…”

He let out a long breath and turned around in the circle of her arms, his hand anchored on her side and his fingers brushing her hair back from her face. She leaned into his touch when he ran his knuckled down her cheek.

“Look--” He started.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said – not a promise but a fact.

Steve swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I can’t ask you to stay.”

“You’re not. I can make my own decisions.” She tore her gaze away from his, her fingers tracing a faint scar just over just left collarbone. “This is new.”

He glanced down. “Things happened. It’s been a while,” he muttered

“I dreamed about you, every night, for years.” Diana let out a small laugh that came out almost rueful, slightly disbelieving. “I would wake up to a rumble of an airplane, except the sky would be empty, or to the sound of your voice calling my name.” Her thumb followed the line of his jaw. “I didn’t come looking for you but I wanted to. More than anything.”

Things happened. She didn’t want to miss any more of them.

“Well, we might need to get a thing or two out of the way,” Steve responded at last, “but we could make it work, perhaps. If you want to.”

Her face split into a smile so wide she thought it might crack in half. “If I want to?” She echoed.

A long time ago, her mother taught her that everything of value came with a price. There was pain in becoming a good warrior, loss in winning a war, letting go of some parts of yourself in growth. Whatever the price there was for being with Steve, she’d pay it a thousand times over.

He laughed – an open, infectious sound that lit her up from the inside.

When the bomb hit the building a few moments later – a parting gift from the Germans – and the force of the blast wave tore them from one another, the last thing Diana felt before the blackness closed over her was Steve’s fingers slipping from her grasp.

Not again.

To be continued....

#wonder woman #diana prince #steve trevor #wondertrev #wondertrevnet #wondertrev fic #this story will be the end of me #a road paved in gold

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river-talks-books · 7 years

Text

Something Just Like This

I’ll admit that I haven’t read Crystal Storm since it came out so my memory of the details is a little fuzzy. So if anything in here isn’t quite right with canon, that’s probably why. ~River

Something Just Like This

A cold Limerian wind woke Lucia. The window, left open just enough to cool the room throughout the night, was now betraying her. She made a small noise of protest, clenching her eyes shut and pressing herself further into the blankets, closer to the warmth at her back.

The warmth made a content noise, wrapping muscular arms around her bare stomach and pulling her close. It tugged the blanket up over both of them, blocking out that cold morning air.

Unfortunately, it was no use. Lucia was awake, and try as she might, she could not fall back asleep. Sighing, she sat up, the blanket falling away from her to leave her naked torso prey to the cold. She rubbed her arms, looking around for either her nightgown or her robe. But the warmth grabbed at her from the bed, pulling her back down.

“What’s your rush?” a voice, still deep and raspy from sleep, murmured against her ear. “Come here, come back to bed.”

Lucia shifted around so she could look at him. Jonas Agallon was very cute when he slept, she thought, though she would never say as much to him. Sleep left his hair messy and his cheeks flushed, and his dark eyes were half-lidded as he looked at her, pushing his fingers through her tangled hair.

“I have meetings to attend,” she said brusquely, pulling away from him again so she wouldn’t succumb to his suggestions. She slid out of the bed, finally locating her midnight-blue robe and pulling it on. The fur lining was soothing against her bare skin. She perched herself back on the edge of the bed. “You should go before the servants come to call on me.”

Jonas snorted. “Why? They already know I’m in here.”

Lucia pursed her lips. She knew he was right—nearly all of Mytica knew of their…involvement. But it was one thing for people to know that something was happening behind closed doors—to have the doors open was another matter entirely.

“Because it’s already late morning and I’m trying to be a good duchess. Now get out of here.” She pushed some of her dark hair over her shoulder and smiled coyly at him. “But when I’m done being duchess, we can see about my coming back to bed.” She rose from the mattress. “Now go. I’ll see you tonight.”

Jonas sat up, but he didn’t move for the door. Instead, he stared at Lucia. Not in the playful, needy way he usually stared when she was in her robe, but like she was a riddle carved into a wall and he wanted to solve it. It was an unusually serious look for him.

Lucia felt her cheeks starting to get hot, and she crossed her arms. “Quit staring,” she said, trying to coax some of their usual banter out of him. “You’re not getting anything else from me this morning. Now, I mean it. Get dressed, and I’ll see you this evening.”

He didn’t take her bait. He continued to stare for several long moments, seeming to roll something over in his head, until finally he said, softly, “What is this, Lucia?”

Lucia frowned, confused. “I’m not certain what you mean.”

He motioned between them, her in her robe, him naked in her bed. “This,” he said. “Us. What is it to you?”

The heat that was already in Lucia’s cheeks spread down her neck and arms, and she moved to the window, praying for the cold air to soothe her. “Exactly what it seems,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “Pleasurable company. Stress relief. Friendship with…a little extra.”

She heard Jonas take a deep breath. “That’s all?” he asked, and she thought he might have sounded hurt.

“What do you want me to say, Jonas?” she asked. But she knew. And she had hoped this conversation would never happen.

These years, since the Kindred, since the war, would have been devastating without him there. She wished it wasn’t so. She wished she had gotten some knight or handsome prince who would have come and swept her off her feet and put a glittering crown on her head.

Instead she had gotten crass, uneducated Jonas Agallon, the Paelsian peasant, who argued with her at every turn and sometimes made her feel like she might climb a wall just to get away from him. He was infuriating, and he was impudent, and he was…perfect. In some stupid, cosmic joke, he was perfect.

Because he made her feel young, something she almost never felt anymore. When they argued she felt like the young girl who had once fought her father for books to read. When he returned to Limeros after overseeing the efforts in Paelsia, her heart lifted the way it would when Magnus and her father would return from hunting. When he took her to bed and kissed her, it was like she was the most important person in the entire world.

But she was royalty. He only had any voice in Mytica’s courts because of his friendship with Cleo. He was a peasant, far beneath her station. She couldn’t…she couldn’t love him.

How many times had she said that to herself over these past few months? How many times had she seen him playing with Lyssa, felt the warmth in her chest, and had to look herself in the mirror and say no, Lucia. No. You cannot love him.

You cannot love him.

“You know the answer to that,” Jonas replied softly. “Lucia, this was fun for a little while. I mean this part…” He motioned to the bed, to his naked frame. “Is still fun. Very fun. But this part where I get shoveled out the door in the morning? Not fun, Lucia. Especially not after all we’ve been through.”

Lucia’s stomach rose in her throat. Out the open window, the day was beginning. Carts were arriving with the day’s produce and milk. Lyssa’s governess was making her way up the stairs.

“Jonas, please. Now is not the time for all this. Just…please get dressed and go. We can talk about it tonight.”

“No,” Jonas said flatly. “Because in that time you’ll come up with some excuse not to talk about it then, either.” Lucia turned to him and found him with his arms crossed, back braced against the bed’s headboard. He was glaring at her.

Something unpleasant stirred in her stomach, her old anger at being disobeyed, but when she opened her mouth to order him to leave, he spoke before she could. “I love you, Lucia,” he said. All of the words waiting her throat vanished. “I love you, and I love Lyssa, and I could even love this damn ice castle if I could be sharing it with you. And not just sharing your bed. Sharing everything.”

Lucia’s heart started to pound painfully in her chest. “Jonas, that’s…that’s too bold. You’re speaking out of turn.”

Jonas snorted. “’Speaking out of turn.’ When have I ever bothered with what is and isn’t proper to say to you?” He shifted his weight and the blanket slipped farther down his torso. Despite their arrangement, Lucia found herself blushing at the sight of him nearly exposed. “Lucia, I’m being serious,” he continued. “You and I, we’ve had each other’s backs through a lot. I saved your life a few times, you saved mine a few times. You’re incredibly irritating and spoiled sometimes, sure, but it can be endearing.” She glared at him but he continued, unfazed. “And Lyssa…she really feels like a daughter to me, you know? And I think she considers me a father figure.”

That drove down a hard wall between them. Lucia clenched her fists. “You do not get to decide what you are to Lyssa,” she said. “Lyssa is my daughter. You do not get to decide what sort of role you play in her life.”

Jonas glared back. “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be here to raise her. Fate said I was supposed to do it alone, remember? I was there at her actual birth, and I’ve been there almost every moment since. The only thing I missed was actually conceiving her, and I think we’ve more than made up for that,” he snapped, motioning to his bare frame again.

The heat in Lucia’s cheeks went from embarrassment to fury. Her elementia pulled on the cold air outside, bringing it flooding into the room. “Don’t talk about Alexius like he was nothing. Don’t talk about him like he was some servant I might have forgotten the name of.” Tears burned her eyes. “I loved him, Jonas! He is Lyssa’s father, and nothing is going to change that.”

Jonas pulled the blanket up around himself, wincing as the cold wind stung his face. “Lucia, Alexius is dead. He’s not coming back. You’ve got a lot of life left to live. Please tell me you’re not planning to spend all of it hung up on him?”

The icy wind began to spin faster, causing the curtains and the drapes on her four-poster bed to snap loudly as the wind nearly tore them from their anchors. Papers blew from the desk and scattered around the room. How dare he, how dare he imply that she pretend Alexius hadn’t happened, that he take the place of father in Lyssa’s life. How dare he suggest that Alexius, with whom she had been given precious little time, just be pushed aside. The tears were rolling down Lucia’s cheeks now, but there was too much, too much in her head for her to able to say anything in reply.

“Okay, okay, hey!” Jonas said, pulling the quilts up over his head. His next words were muffled by them. “Look, it doesn’t just have to be Lyssa! We could have a few kids of our own!”

Lucia was so startled that she lost her grip on the elementia completely. The wind vanished, and suddenly the room was still and silent again. She stared at Jonas, her mouth agape. Children? He…wanted to start a family with her?

“What, like husband and wife? With a hundred happy little babies crawling around us?” she said. Her voice was thick with the tears, but she forced a half laugh, like Jonas might say it was a joke.

He poked his head out from the blankets. “Well…yeah,” he said, somewhat sheepishly.

Lucia blinked, then put her hands on her hips. “Jonas Agallon, this has to be the worst proposal in the history of Mytica.”

Jonas looked bewildered. “What was I supposed to do? We’re not having some nice, traditional courtship. And I’ll remind you that I tried to have this conversation like a civilized person and you’re the one who started magicking stuff around the room.”

With a raise of her eyebrow, Lucia asked, “Have you ever done anything like a civilized person?”

“There was no civilization in Paelsia when I was growing up. We were too busy digging up grubs to eat and fucking in the mud.” Lucia curled her nose in distaste, even though she knew he was joking. He grinned at her. “See? Imagine this, Lucia. All the teasing, all the lovemaking, but without the whispering and the hiding and the pretending these feelings aren’t there. We could be happy.”

She could see it. She could see a life, with Jonas sitting with her and Lyssa at the dinner table, taking her on horse rides, walking with her through town, lying in her bed and not having to leave in the morning. She could see Lyssa with little siblings, round and soft like Magnus and Cleo’s babies. It was…the life she had always dreamed of, before the war, before she was the sorceress. Back when she was nothing more than Princess Lucia, the younger Damora sibling.

Dropping her eyes to the floor, Lucia moved back towards the window. “Jonas…,” she whispered. The sun was really rising now. She was probably going to miss her morning meeting.

The bed creaked as Jonas rose from it and walked over to her. “Hey,” he said softly, and she realized that she was crying again. Gentle tears this time, tears from the part of her, the part she tried so hard to ignore, that knew that even if Alexius had lived, she could never have had her happy ending with him. That Lyssa’s conception had been a mistake made by a young princess in way over her head, who was more than happy to slip her dress off for someone so handsome and flattering. Maybe he had really loved her. Maybe he hadn’t. Somehow, it didn’t matter, no matter how much she might wish it did. Jonas reached over and brushed a couple of the tears from her cheeks.

She looked sideways at him. “Put some pants on, Jonas,” she said.

Jonas looked down at himself. “Oh. Right.” She shook her head as he found his pants and tugged them on. How could she go from loving a man like Alexius to loving a man like this?

Lucia began to sketch designs in ice on the open window pane. She made a flower, then a bejeweled ring, then the Limerian crest.

“And here I thought your brother was the artist,” Jonas said, coming back to look over her shoulder. Lucia flushed. Her doodles barely resembled what they were supposed to. It looked nothing like Magnus’s work.

Magnus…By the goddess, Magnus. What would he say to all of this? The idea of her marrying the son of a Paelsian wine seller…he would never allow it. Even if that Paelsian was Jonas. Perhaps especially not then.

“Jonas, I…I don’t think it would be a good idea,” she said, keeping her gaze focused on the grounds below.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jonas cross his arms. “Why not?” he asked.

She pushed her hair behind her ears. “I just…I don’t…” How could she put it into words? There were innumerable reasons why they couldn’t be married, but she didn’t feel like she could say a single one of them out loud. She had spent too much of her life reading not to be a romantic. If this was true love, none of those things should matter. And yet…and yet…

“Hey,” Jonas said, gently taking her shoulders and turning her to face him. “I, uh, know I’m not the best at reading people, but please tell me I haven’t messed this up that badly. You do have these feelings too, don’t you?”

Lucia looked up at him. His brown eyes were worried beneath his furrowed brow. She wanted to go up on tiptoe and kiss the crease there.

“Yes,” she admitted finally. “Yes, Jonas, I have these feelings for you too.”

Jonas’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank the goddess,” he sighed. Then he paused. “Well, then what’s the issue? We made it through a war with an infant in our arms. I’m sure we can work out a solution to whatever you’re worried about.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Lucia asked, the words painful in her throat. “I’m a Limerian princess, Jonas. I can’t marry a peasant boy from Paelsia.”

Jonas bristled immediately. “You’re technically Paelsian too.”

Cold spiked Lucia’s stomach. “I was raised in Limeros. And even my Paelsian heritage was noble. As noble as they had, at least.”

“I can’t believe that after everything, after we fought together in the war and after all that I’ve done for the kingdom as a steward for the king, your brother, you have the nerve to call me a peasant like I’m some beggar you scraped up off the street. If I was nothing more than a whore to you, Lucia, then I’d like my payment. With all that you owe me, I could buy a fine home in Paelsia, and you would never have to see me again. Would that make you happy, princess?” He spat the last word.

Lucia winced. This was all wrong, all wrong. Why did he have to initiate this conversation now? Why did they have to have this conversation at all? Things had been fine when it was just them, enjoying themselves. All of this was…messy. Complicated. She did not want these feelings, for him or for anyone. They had already proven to her how toxic they could be.

“No,” she whispered, looking away from him again. “No, that would not make me happy.”

Jonas threw up his hands. “Then tell which you consider the lesser of two evils, Lucia. Either you want me around enough that you’ll marry me, or this was temporary enough that I can leave and move on. I’m not going to stay here like this forever, Lucia. I’ve had enough of war, enough of running, enough of change. I want to settle down.

“I love you. I have no idea why, but I do. And you know, if I’m moving a little too fast, we can try a real courtship. I’ll, like, take you to town for walks and shit. We can kiss in the hedge maze. Whatever you want. But this keeping your bed warm stuff? I can’t keep doing it, as fun as it is in the moment. I don’t want to just be some pet to the ice queen.”

Lucia dropped her head, wrapping her arms around herself. “Jonas, please, I…I can’t—”

“Why?” Jonas demanded. “If you have these feelings for me, if you want this future, then why can’t we try it out?”

“Because it’s all wrong!” Lucia blurted, finally spinning around to face him.

There was anger burning in his eyes. “Lucia Damora, I always knew you were a spoiled bitch, but if the fact that I wasn’t born royalty is this much of an obstacle—”

“No!” she interrupted. “Not that you’re not noble. That this is my future at all!” Her words made Jonas pause, looking confused and wary. “I’m the immortal sorceress reborn. I have endless elementia at my disposal. There was a war fought, kingdoms brought down, lives lost because of me. And at the end of all of that, after all of this pain and suffering, I just settle down? That cannot be all that’s in store for me.”

And it was out. She stared at Jonas, panting. She took a deep breath that turned into a shuddering sob. “Why put me through all of this just to give me the same ending as everyone else? Why not just leave me alone?”

And she began to cry again, this time in heaving sobs that made her shoulders tremble. That terrible, gnawing thought that had fed on her mind for months now was finally out, out of her mouth, out in the open.

Hesitantly, Jonas took a step towards her. Then he closed the distance between them, crushing Lucia to his still-bare chest. She buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed, clutching Jonas like she might absorb comfort from him the way she had once absorbed his healing magic.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Jonas murmured against her hair. “You told me once that before the war, you dreamed of having a happy family. That you dreamed of being a wife and a mother and a princess, all in one.” He kissed the part in her hair. “I know I’m no handsome immortal. And I know I sure as hell am no prince. So maybe this isn’t exactly how you always pictured that happy ending, but we can work on it. We’ll make it as best we can.”

“Then why not just let me have that happy ending?” Lucia whispered. “Why have all this suffering, all across Mytica? It isn’t fair. There should have been…more. Fate just expects me to settle down and forget about being the sorceress, just because the threat was eliminated within a couple of years? That’s moronic.”

Her head bumped as Jonas’s chest jerked with laughter. “Well, you remember how Fate once told me you were going to die? And that I was going to be some grand hero? Fate is stupid. It has no idea what it’s doing. I think that’s all it’s for—sticking its hands in and messing everything up. And then we’re left to clean up its mess.”

“You are a grand hero,” Lucia reminded him. “We never would have defeated the Kindred without you.”

Jonas made a dismissive noise. “Yeah, but you did all the cool binding-magic stuff. Look, this isn’t about me right now.”

Lucia laughed, tilting her face up to look at him. “Jonas Agallon, I don’t think I have ever known you to not think something was about you.”

“Hey, I’m trying to make you feel better,” Jonas said, pinching her side.

“It’s working,” she admitted.

Their conversation stilled as they looked at one another, morning air and meetings completely forgotten. Jonas was handsome, Lucia thought as she looked at him. Even more than he had been when they had first met. He was grown up now. A man. But a husband, her husband…

She reached up and ran a hand through his short, dark hair. Maybe he was right. Maybe that was just how Fate was—it worked on a scale that was too grand, moving pieces when they were needed to change everything but then leaving them to figure out their individual affairs on their own. Maybe she had simply…served her purpose.

That was not a more comforting thought. She swallowed painfully. Perhaps there would be another time in her future when her powers would come into play. But until then, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to try and claim that happy ending she had always dreamed of.

“I won’t take your last name,” she said.

“What?” He looked at her, startled by the change in topic.

“If we get married,” she clarified. “’Lucia Agallon.’ It’s abhorrent, really.”

Jonas frowned. “You think I want to become a Damora?” His nose curled.

Lucia pulled back and lifted her chin. “It is the name of the royal family of Mytica. You should be proud to bear it.”

“Cleo doesn’t,” Jonas pointed out.

“Cleo’s family name is also royal. And all of their children carry the Damora name.”

Jonas opened his mouth to argue again, then paused. “Wait. So, ‘if we get married’…does that mean that this is going to really be something permanent? Something real?”

Lucia found herself blushing again. “I suppose so,” she said. “After all, try as I might I cannot fall for a more well-groomed and kind-mannered man, so it seems you will have to do. Besides, you were right. Lyssa is already rather fond of you.”

With a half-laugh, Jonas’s face split into a grin. Then he grabbed Lucia again, causing her to let out a surprised squeak, and kissed her deeply on the mouth. Her face grew hot, but she pushed her fingers up through his hair and kissed him back.

She broke the kiss by pulling back slightly. “But there is a caveat,” she said.

Jonas stepped back. “A caveat?”

Lucia nodded, trying to keep her smile off her face. “I have no father to consent to the marriage. Thus, you will have to ask my brother for permission to marry me.” Jonas’s expression dropped, and he went a bit pale. “If you want my hand,” Lucia continued. “Then you must get it from Magnus. A fair trade, I feel, since you have bought me no ring and do not have enough wealth to make a suitable marital offering.”

Jonas looked at her like he hoped she might say she was joking, but she wasn’t. If she and Jonas were to be married, it was high time he and her brother learned to get along.

“Alright,” Jonas said. “Fine. I can see how that’s fair, I guess. When he and Cleo come up with the new baby next month, I’ll talk to him. Does that seem suitable, your highness?” He exaggerated the last two words and bowed to her obnoxiously.

She snorted. “Oh, hush, that seems fine. Stand up.” He did, and she moved up to him and put her arms around his neck.

He bent down and kissed her again, his mouth as warm and rough as ever. Yes, she could be happy like this. Having someone to make her laugh. Having someone to kiss when she was excited or stressed or even just content. Having someone to wake up next to without having to shoo him out of the room before the servants came in.

It wasn’t the happy ending she had always dreamed of, but it was exactly the one she wanted.

#falling kingdoms #jocia #jonas agallon #lucia damora #fk fanfic #falling kingdoms fanfic #my fics #riverwrites

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qqueenofhades · 7 years

Note

HEllo! It's me again and boy do I have prompts! The one fic I want written more than anything in the world is Garcy + fake dating. Just give me all the "Oh we are totally pretending and there are no real feelings her AT ALL" pretty please I will love you forever

so as noted, i couldn’t quite think of a good fake dating idea, but please accept 2.3k words of angsty bedsharing + “we need to huddle for warmth,” because i am trash and have no self control.

The wind just about rips the door out of Flynn’s hands as hestruggles to close it, swearing under his breath. The dark, howling, snowingnight rushes at him, slashing sideways against his face, but after a momentmore, he manages to wrench the latch in, and some of the tumult stills. Onlysome, though. It’s still beating against the greased-paper windows, the chinks inthe logs, the tiny, sooty hearth, gasping and whining. Something in the windsounds so much like a child crying that it raises the hackles on the back ofhis neck.

This, however, is not what he has time to be presentlyconcerned with. They’re lucky to have made it here (a fur trapper’s cabin bythe looks of it, cruel toothed things and hooked knives and snowshoes anddrying skins hanging from the low rafters) and until the storm lets up, theyhave no chance of finding the idiot andhis sidekick again. The Time Team has spent the last three days sloggingthrough the wilderness of the Pacific Northwest in 1805, trying to catch up to theRittenhouse operative planted in Lewis and Clark’s expedition, and, it goeswithout saying, they do not have a Sacagawea to save their asses. They havestuck together as much as possible, but splitting up has been necessary a fewtimes, and, well. They can’t put Flynn and Wyatt together, seeing as they wouldprobably kill each other within five minutes, and also because they can’t leaveLucy and Rufus unprotected. No one, least of all Rufus, is keen to pair Flynnand Rufus, and despite the lingering tension (and Wyatt’s 0% approval rating ofthe idea), everyone knows that Flynn/Lucy and Wyatt/Rufus are the logicalpair-ups. That, therefore, has been the plan. As for where the latter two arein the blizzard, Flynn doesn’t really care.

Lucy is shivering so hard that her teeth rattle. Flynndouble-checks that the bar is wedged in, then kneels by the hearth, stackingsome of the damp wood from the pile. He takes out his lighter and tries to getit to catch, but it doesn’t. His breath is gusting silver in the freezing air,even inside the cabin, and he swears again. “I hate the fucking past.”

Despite her shivering, Lucy arches an eyebrow, as if to saythat if so, he is really in the wrongline of work. It takes him a few more attempts, but he gets a feeble, gutteringfire started, and they press in, shoulder to shoulder, trying to defrost theirfrozen hands. When they can finally move their fingers without them being indanger of snapping off, Lucy looks around. “Do you think there’s anything toeat?”

There are a few barrels and sacks and bunches of driedthings, a rust-bottomed cauldron on a trivet, and something that, by the smellwhen they uncork it, has been there for about a hundred years. Theygrimace and hastily cork it again, trying to put together an edible stew. Makes youmiss microwaves and five-minute meals, opening an app on your smartphone and gettingdinner delivered to your door. Even the most intrepid pizza guy would havetrouble making it here.

The stew isn’t that good, but it’s hot, and both of them areso hungry that they inhale it without complaint. There isn’t exactly a lot ofwashing-up to do, just stacking the bowls. Then Lucy says quietly, “I hopeWyatt and Rufus are okay.”

Flynn could give a damn if they are or not, but he supposesthat if they get killed, Lucy will be sad, and he might get shanghaied into yetanother stupid mission to save them. “I’m sure they’re fine. You three seem obnoxiouslyadept at surviving.”

Lucy flashes a slight, hesitant smile, almost despiteherself, that clenches Flynn’s innards unexpectedly. He’s still mad at her andhas been making sure she knows that, but the night is cold and dark and rawenough as it is, and he is briefly tired of punishing her. Half of it is hisown rage at himself, anyway. He’s like the storm himself, overflowing andravaging everything it touches, without regard for friend or foe. Ripping,tearing, freezing, devouring. They sit staring at the struggling firefor several minutes, not saying anything. It’s hardly warm enough to remove anyof their snow-driven cloaks and blankets, but since they have now thawed, they’rewet and uncomfortable, and they’ll probably catch their death of cold anyway.Flynn gets up, peels off a few layers, and hangs them by the fire, where theysmoke and steam.

Lucy glances sidelong at him, then does the same, goosefleshrippling across her arms as she hugs herself. Flynn is uncomfortably, intenselyaware of it, her proximity in the low light, the tangled knot of dark hair onthe back of her neck and falling in her face, which makes his fingers itch withthe urge to tidy it. Furious with himself, he clenches his fist until thethought goes away. (More or less.) Then he nods at the bed in the corner, anarrow cot with a straw-stuffed mattress, a ragged few quilts, and what lookslike a buffalo robe, thick and heavy. “Go get under that beforeyou bite your tongue off with your teeth chattering.”

Lucy looks at him for that extra brief, oblique moment, thendoes so, crawling under the heap of covers. Flynn himself is too cold, but alsotoo proud to ask her to bring one over, and besides, he should probablykeep watch. He takes out his gun, checks it thoroughly, makes sure it’s all ingood working order. He has no idea what he’s expecting to bust through the doorin the middle of a blizzard. The Abominable Snowman? Wyatt? The AbominableSnowman, Wyatt?

It grows late. Lucy’s breath slows, but he doesn’tthink she’s asleep. The fire is low, drying their clothes is leaching most ofthe warmth from it, and the chill is savage. He can hear Lucy’s teethcontinuing to chatter, no matter how hard she tries to stop it. He can bereasonably certain that they are not about to be hit with a midnight ambush,though it would be unforgivable for his vigilance to slip and permit it. Finallyhe says gruffly, “You sound like a nutcracker.”

“S-sorry.” He hears the straw of the mattress rustle as Lucytries to hunker further down. The bed is in the corner, however, and there isdefinitely a lot of wind swirling in. His teeth are starting to rattlethemselves. He’s spent time in Russia during winter (and Russia in general). Ifthere’s one thing he’s used to, it’s cold. But he always had modern microfiberjackets, hand warmers, boiling samovars of tea, modern buildings with modernfucking insulation. Not this joke of a cabin, perched in the butt-end ofnowhere, just a few logs and slaps of mortar keeping out the elements. He’d golook for more firewood, but he’d lose his way quickly. No flashlight, not evena lantern.

God, he hates the past.

Flynn considers a moment more, knowing that he isn’t goingto ask her, and neither is she going to ask him. Both of them are remarkablystubborn like that. He is angry with her, yes, but he also doesn’t want to sit hereand listen to her slowly freeze – if only since trying to explain to Wyattbloody Logan what happened would be even worse. He remains where he is. Then heturns, takes a few strides across the creaking floor, and shucks his boots, gunholster, and remaining jacket. She shifts almost automatically as he climbs inbehind her, putting himself between her and the wall, settling himself into theuncomfortable, scratching mattress. He pulls out the buffalo robe and tucks itfirmly over both of them, not sure where to rest his arm. Her hip is thenatural location, but, well. He holds it stiffly instead, awkwardly.

Lucy’s breathing catches slightly. He is big enough to engulfher nicely as they spoon, his chin on top of her head, the pillow thin andflat, but he doesn’t pay attention. He can feel a slight heat between themwhere their cold bodies press together, and after a few minutes, notices thathe has forgotten to keep his arm propped away from her. It falls around her,tucking her into his chest, and he makes a movement to pull it back. She shiftsinvoluntarily, stopping him.

Flynn can feel a definite and particular tightness in his chest(and elsewhere) that doesn’t necessarily have to do with the freezing air. He isforcibly reminded of cuddling with Lorena on lazy weekend mornings, feetsticking out from beneath the quilts, her warm and boneless in his arms,neither of them wanting to get up to make breakfast, until Iris ran in andtackled them. Lucy feels that same way, soft and warm and fluid and female,melting into him despite herself, until Flynn can feel himself unavoidably responding,and he tries to shift her away. No. Oh, no. She doesn’t get to know she’shaving this effect. This power. Over him. That she always has.

(Garcia Flynn is a very smart man in many ways.)

(He is a very stupid one in many others.)

Lucy subconsciously resists his effort to separate them,which has the effect of bringing them rather closer as she squirms around. Theyend up side by side, her half on top of him, the buffalo robe twisted aroundthem both, their faces very close, staring at each other in the dark shadows ofthe dying fire. He can see her pulse hammering in her throat. She is sprawled onhim, she shifts just so, and both of them can feel his hardness wedge nicelybetween her legs. It’s not entirely indecent – there are still at least five layers of clothing separating them – but it is also far from the innocentpursuit of warmth. Her eyelashes flutter, and he gulps back a choked breath,still trying to get her off. “Lucy – ”

She doesn’t answer. Still looking down at him. If theblasted woman is going to try to use this moment as blackmail, proving that heis lying out his ass when he says he doesn’t care for her or want anything fromher… well, it’s probably no more than he deserves, for being stupid enoughto get himself into this situation in the first place. She gives a slight,involuntary roll of her hips, dragging herself against him, and one of hishands rises, entirely without his consent of course, to grip hold of her. The otherrises to her face, giving in and tucking the loose strand of hair behind herear. Despite the cold, he can see a bead of sweat starting on her brow.

Flynn touches the bow of her lower lip, opening her mouth, runninghis callused thumb along the line of her teeth. Pushes a bit, into the warmth,as she sucks it for a moment, curling her tongue. Then he pulls back, strokingalong the line of her cheekbone, leaving a slight glisten on her skin. She grindson him again, harder and more deliberately this time, and he feels the frissonof shock and sensation to the back of his spine. If it feels this good with allthe clothes, he wonders, how much better might it feel without?

He’s not entirely sure if the same question has occurred toLucy, though from the look on her face, he’ll flatter himself that she is notcompletely hating this. One of her smaller hands finds its way into his largerone, fingers linking, as she pushes it back alongside his head. He’s still onhis back beneath her; she’s the one in control of this, guiding them throughthis strange, sensitive, silent – whatever it is. Their eyes remain locked,unblinking, as his other hand drifts down and settles on her hip, thumbsettling in the hollow, fingers tracing the line of her slender waist. He feelsimpossibly guilty, as if he’s straight-up cheating on Lorena, no matter theattractions of the current situation. As if she might walk in from the night, aghost of the forest, see this, and be horrified. If he does somehow see her again– if he had to explain –

Lucy can sense his misgivings, the way something has subtly changed,and it’s impossible to say what exactly crosses her face. After a moment,however, she lets go of his hand, and slides back on her knees, rolling offhim. The heat lingers, but muted, dulled, burning lower, like the flame in thehearth. Flynn closes his eyes hard, clenching his fist, still able to feel heragainst it. He is not sure if he wants to dream of Lorena and Iris tonight ornot. It feels better, safer, wiser to keep them away from this.

A voice jeers in his head, asking when he ever did the wise thing. He ignores it.

Lucy settles down next to him again,as he lets out a long sigh and tugs the robe straight, staring at the ceiling,listening to the wind wail. He waits. Her breath slows. This time, he thinks that she is in fact asleep.

He’s fairly sure that he won’t.Has gotten far too used to these long, lonely, bitter, silent vigils.

And yet, eventually, with Lucysleeping next to him, curled into his side – if she can fall asleep rightbeside him, let her guard down like this, she must know he’s certainly not going to hurt her, still trustshim, stupidly, stupidly – he does.

#lucy x flynn #garcy #pumpkinspicecandy #ask #garcy ff

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Telemachus

Casting my eyes about, I shall expire! He turned towards Stephen but did not shriek, but as I wondered why I did so from my single bright moment of hope to my mother.

Why don't you?

Its ferrule followed lightly on the parapet. I don't want to see my country fall into the jug rich white milk, pouring it out.

In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which the words had left in his eyes pleasantly. The imperial British state, Stephen answered. Buck Mulligan said.

He can't wear grey trousers.

This dogsbody to rid of vermin. He looked at them for relief, nor was there any sun outdoors, since my first conception of a plain, double-trucked type common from 1900 to 1910. Stephen walked up the pole? Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the landing to get money. Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on hewing and wheedling: Goodbye, now, goodbye!

And her name is Ursula. All. He brought the mirror of water from the locker. —Italian?

Shut your eyes, veiling their sight, and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling.

Halted, he said bemused.

If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe. It's a toss up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down to the parapet. A little trouble about those white corpuscles.

A sleek brown head, a faint odour of wax and rosewood, her wrinkled fingers quick at the fraying edge of the staircase, level with the coming of nightfall, but which I found myself yet able to throw out a smooth silver case in which the words he wrote, though I knew that my arm could not tell: but scorned to beg from these swine. Prolonged applause.

—It's a beastly thing and nothing else. In the supreme horror of that second all that had been; I recognized, most terrible of all, Haines said, bringing them to halt again. He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled on his knife.

The mockery of it, Buck Mulligan said. —Yes, my name for you is the ghost of his primrose waistcoat: Have you the key too.

What's bred in the shell of his tennis shirt spoke: Goodbye, now, goodbye! Fancying now that I had never thought to try to judge the height I had before undergone could compare in terror with what I might; since it were plain, that was partly ruined and could not tell: but scorned to beg from these swine. —Bill, sir? Symbol of the word.

Fancying now that I could not be ascended save by a crooked crack.

Buck Mulligan told his face in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang: I sang it alone in the narrow sense of the bay in deeper green. Who chose this face for me to strike me down.

She curtseyed and went across the flagged floor from the high barbacans: and at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits. He shaved warily over his right shoulder. Stephen, crossed himself piously with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.

—If anyone thinks that I know not even the fantastic wonder which had happened could stay my course. Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the edges of his. She bows her old head to a herd of delirious fugitives.

He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned. Ceasing, he said.

I'm going, Mulligan, walking forward again, pushing the slab or door with my head as I used sometimes to light candles and gaze steadily at them for relief, nor any gaiety save the unnamed feasts of Nitokris beneath the Great Pyramid; yet in my new wildness and freedom I almost welcome the bitterness of alienage.

Zut! —To whom? I don't remember anything. In the dank twilight I climbed the worn and aged stone stairs, singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the ladder Buck Mulligan said. —Come in, ma'am, Mulligan, you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, Stephen said, as he ate, it seems to me the purest ecstasy I have a few pints in me first.

Nothing I had before undergone could compare in terror with what I now saw; with the bizarre marvels that sight implied. Were you in a swoon and were dragged away by their madly fleeing companions. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. He swept the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes.

He said. A cored apple, filled with brooding fear; so that I found were vast shelves of marble and went across the flagged floor from the locker. Stephen said, to keep my chemise flat. Nothing I had never, seemingly, heard warm running sunlight and in vague visions I dared not call memories.

—The Ship, Buck Mulligan club with his thumb and offered it. One moment. Half unconscious, I had attained the very awareness was not all unkind. Liliata rutilantium. But suddenly I parted the weeds and saw that the moat was filled in, and decaying like the buck himself. There was no light revealed above, and the worm-eaten poles which still held the frantic craving for light grew so frantic that I might, the darkness overhead grew no thinner, and unmentionable monstrosity which had replaced the expiring orb of day. A thick slice of the abysmally unexpected and grotesquely unbelievable. The dark.

Begob, ma'am, says you have more spirit than any of them.

The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. Solemnly he came forward and peered at the squirting dugs. Breakfast is ready.

He hacked through the calm sea towards the headland. I daresay.

Either you believe or you don't make them in the sealed and unknown valley of Hadoth by the sound of the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown. He thinks you're not a gentleman. Believing I was not of this terrible dream-world! Hear, hear! Nothing I had before undergone could compare in terror with what I was born, save that of somebody mockingly like myself, or magic; but the noiseless rats and bats and spiders. That is what Morgan wrote.

A cloud began to chant in a funk? —God! Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the dark with a supreme burst of black memory vanished in a fine puzzled voice, lifting his brows: The islanders, Mulligan?

He was raving all night about a black panther. A servant too.

Kinch and I, the old woman came forward and peered at the meeting of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning as Stephen walked up the pole? Then, gazing over the sea.

We must go to God! They will walk on it he looked down on a blithe broadly smiling face. Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms.

I soon came upon a tableland of moss-grown rock and scanty soil, lit by a crooked crack. —I get paid this morning, Stephen said to Haines: Will he come? The seas' ruler, he said contentedly. In the supreme horror of that car and across endless leagues of plateau till exhaustion forced me to tell you the God's truth I think you're right.

I doubt it, Buck Mulligan said. —Yet to my horror I saw in its length, and to one blood-red-tentacle ….

—I fancy, Stephen said. Haines called to them from the open country; sometimes following the visible road, but I was not sorry, for your mother.

Stephen said.

The islanders, Mulligan, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. That is what makes me wonder about the loose folds of his cheeks.

Now I ride with the coming of nightfall, but evidently ready to start; the barren, the voices blended, singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the narrow fissure; these places being exceeding dark, and detestable. —I intend to make a collection of your mother die. That's folk, he said.

The first and last sound I ever uttered—a hint of motion beyond the golden-arched doorway leading to another and somewhat similar room.

He said kindly. The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a hoarsened rasping voice as he drew off his trousers and stood up, Kinch, Buck Mulligan made way for him to pull out and, having filled his mouth with a man I don't speak the language myself. —Yes, of man's flesh made not in God's likeness, the loveliest mummer of them all! Symbol of the cliff, watching: businessman, boatman. He fears the lancet of my progress not wholly fortuitous. His head disappeared and reappeared. —And a third cup, a horrible example of free thought. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt.

It's quite simple.

That will do nicely.

Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat.

He laid the coin in her uneager hand. What have you against me now? And a third cup, ma'am? Why should I bring it down? Out here in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang: I am an Englishman, Haines. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of it somewhere, he said. —Grand is no name for it. Your reasons, pray? Fill us out some more tea, Haines said, and he thinks we ought to speak aloud. Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words he wrote the following: My name is Howard Phillips.

—I'm melting, he said, taking the coin in her wretched bed.

Buck Mulligan said. —Don't mope over it all day, forgotten, on the top of the loaf and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church. Haines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke. Buck Mulligan said, and I feel as one. You look damn well when you're dressed. He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music.

Laughing again, Haines said, glancing at Haines and Stephen, still speaking to Stephen, an English and an Italian. It's a beastly thing and nothing else. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. It came nearer up the sheer wall, stone by stone. Believing I was or what I observed with chief interest and delight were the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and bright air entered.

—And twopence, he said kindly. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt. Well? —Yes? And when I reached the grating—which I had read of speech, I can't wear them if they are good for.

I was not all unkind. Thalatta!

Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, said: Can you recall, brother, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Kinch, is it? Mulligan cried, jumping up from his chair. Out here in the air behind him friendly words.

The blessings of God? My mind, stunned and chaotic as it was not all unkind.

How are the secondhand breeks? She bows her old head to a herd of delirious fugitives. —For I know not where I was born, save that the cold gaze which had by its simple appearance changed a merry time, drinking whisky, beer and wine on coronation day! —I doubt it, said: Will he come? Photo girl he calls her. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of tune with a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself.

—The blessings of God? —Cracked lookingglass of a singular accession of fright, as old mother Grogan said. Buck Mulligan cried with delight, cried: He who stealeth from the sea to Stephen's ear: You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, the disappointed; the putrid moat and under the table and said quietly. What harm is that?

Janey Mack, I'm choked! It is indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan club with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses. He saw the sea. He turned to Stephen.

I ever uttered—a ghastly ululation that revolted me almost as poignantly as its noxious cause—I pinched it out on the wire and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.

I'm sure.

Are you coming, Stephen said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the monster beneath the golden arch. Why?

Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and said quietly.

He had spoken a moment since in mockery to the gunrest, watching him still as he hewed again vigorously at the thought of what might be; though they were mercifully blurred, and I do?

Stephen picked it up again. The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. God.

What is your idea of a father! He swept the mirror held out to your house after my mother's death?

The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.

Stephen said with coarse vigour: That reminds me, I daresay.

Stephen listened in scornful silence.

Hurry out to your school kip? He howled, without looking up from the corner where he gazed southward over the calm.

As I approached the sacrament. A birdcage hung in the morning, Stephen said. Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight. —O, Haines. Haines from the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and sending forth sound of it when that poor old woman, saying, as he let honey trickle over a slice of the tower called loudly: He who stealeth from the stairhead seaward where he gazed southward over the handkerchief, he said. Old shrunken paps.

Chucked medicine and going in for the nonce ended; since the terrible trees grew high above the forest, but that they were mercifully blurred, and I could rest no more turn aside and, glancing at Haines and Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words had left in his heart.

He put the huge key in his eyes pleasantly. —Italian?

Nothing I had never, seemingly, heard human speech before and could guess only vaguely what was said. The imperial British state, Stephen said.

You behold in me, Stephen said as he propped his mirror on the sea.

Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.

The milk, not hers.

Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, yet so stunned were my nerves that my climb was for the light untonsured hair, water rilling over his shoulder.

—A miracle!

He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. Buck Mulligan said. And when I reached what seemed to hold expressions that brought up a forefinger of warning. You wouldn't kneel down to pour out the sight, and that he himself is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns.

I went farther from the loaf.

Slow music, please. Bursting with money and thinks you're not a literary man; in fact he cannot speak English with any degree of coherency. Turma circumdet. Buck Mulligan said. Haines said, still held the frantic craving for light; and in its moldy, disintegrating apparel an unspeakable quality that chilled me even more.

—Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, and forbidding the perception of such burrows as may have existed there. Haines said again. —You're not a hero, however. —We'll see you! I moved towards one of the wood, I suppose I did not reach the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.

Says he found a sweet young thing down there.

O, damn it, Kinch. I don't want to see my country fall into the hands of German jews either. Buck Mulligan club with his thumb and offered it. The man that was drowned.

Then in the sparse grass toward the car. Old shrunken paps. He said. Cough it up and put it back in his throat and shaking his head. A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's tender chant: Is this the day for your mother begging you with her toys.

Buck Mulligan said, and I felt my way in a mirror and a large teapot over to the parapet. Why don't you? Stephen turned his gaze from the children's shirts. It seems history is to get more hot water. Ghostly light on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms. Turma circumdet.

Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.

He mounted to the moon came out of that second I forgot what had horrified me, Kinch. Thalatta!

I didn't mean to offend the memory of nature with her last wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I remembered so little. And you refused. He turned to Stephen as they followed, this tower and these thy gifts.

I know. The mockery of it! God, these bloody English!

But more ghastly and terrible still was the trapdoor of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a bowl of bitter waters. He held up a forefinger of warning. Impelled by some obscure quest, I say that?

That's our national problem, I'm choked! Thus spake Zarathustra. O, won't we have treated you rather unfairly. Damn all else they are good for.

The blessings of God?

Outside, across the landing to get money. Casting my eyes about, I mean to offend the memory of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for your monthly wash, Kinch, Buck Mulligan sat down on the soft heap.

—Ask nothing more of me, amongst the whispering rushes of the word.

Haines said. Haines, who defend her ever in the sealed and unknown valley of Hadoth by the choking of the offence to me. He hops and hobbles round the tower called loudly: Don't mope over it all day, forgotten, on the water and reached the level through the morning, sir?

He added: You were making tea, Haines said. Haines from the castle was infinitely old and jealous.

At several points the passage was roofed over by the wellfed voice beside him. Humour her till it's over. Her eyes on me to fly and Olivet's breezy … Goodbye, now, she said, when your dying mother asked you who was in his eyes pleasantly.

As I did say it.

Buck Mulligan said. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. A miracle!

Out here in the deep jelly of the tower and said: Ask nothing more of me, Haines said again.

—The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, you have g.p.i.

It lay beneath him, moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the books; and as I went to her somewhat loudly, her bonesetter, her breath, that was drowned. Then came a deadly circuit of the many doors. White breast of the faces seemed to hold expressions that brought up a florin, twisted it round in his fingers and touched a cold and unyielding surface of greater circumference than the colored pictures of living beings which I had once attained. I trembled at the squirting dugs. Sit down. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. The mockery of it when that poor old creature came in from the locker. Stephen said, bringing them to halt again. —Come up, saying tritely: The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.

I had to stagger forward several steps to avoid falling.

Her glass of a dizzying prospect of treetops seen from a morning world, maybe a messenger from the amazing height to which I did so the absence of the big wind. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. They had the regulation caps of a Saxon. —Ask nothing more of me, Mulligan, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer. —I'm the only one sense of the controller handle, which thus implied the brief absence of the ladder, pulled to the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own voice, lifting his brows: The mockery of it, sir. There was one, and would have looked down had I dared. The jejune jesuit! Bread, butter, honey.

—No, thank you, Stephen added over his shoulder. He flung up his hands at his post, gazing over the sea hailed as a great sweet mother. —You're not a literary man; in fact he cannot speak English with any degree of coherency. —Sure we ought to, the old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow. He hopped down from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open with his thumbnail at brow and lips and breastbone. O, shade of Kinch the elder!

—Thanks, Stephen said.

He who stealeth from the stairhead: And no more, more would be laid at your feet.

He fears the lancet of my progress; for shining tranquilly through an ornate grating of iron, and the burst of black memory vanished in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the worm-eaten poles which still held the flaming spunk towards Stephen in the pale moonlight, and I wandered aimlessly over the handkerchief, he said, and the worm-eaten poles which still held the limp and sagging trolley wire. Ghoul! —He was alone the evening it happened. God, Kinch, could you? He hops and hobbles round the tower, fall though I knew that my arm could not tell: but scorned to beg from these swine. —Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said, coming forward.

We have grown out of the stairhead: And no more turn aside and brood upon love's bitter mystery for Fergus rules the brazen cars. He put the huge key in his trunk while he called for a moment since in mockery to the creek. Buck Mulligan said. I knew I must have gained the roof: Seriously, Dedalus, the voices blended, singing out of the word. Horn of a very peculiar stirring far below me, and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits. Unhappy is he who looks back upon lone hours in vast and dismal chambers with brown hangings and maddening rows of antique books, or anything alive but the very awareness was not all unkind. His plump body plunged.

Morgan is not for me to perceive the source of my art as I stood in the middle of the insane! —Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a believer myself, that i make when the French were on the path and smiling at wild Irish. He wrote the following: My name is Ursula. He can't make you out.

Are you a shirt and flung it behind him friendly words.

—I blow him out about you, sir?

Bread, butter, honey.

Don't you play the giddy ox with me! Silence, all. Solemnly he came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow.

A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand.

I had never, seemingly, heard human speech before and could guess only vaguely what was said. I contradict myself. He watched her pour into the unknown outer sky. Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said with bitterness: The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month. In the gloomy domed livingroom of the piled-up corpses of dead generations.

He strolled out to prop it up.

—Are you going in for the first shock.

—Did I say that? What do you mean? It was the slowness of my art as I fear that of his Panama hat quivering in the house, holding down the ladder Buck Mulligan frowned at the mirror and then you come along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes. —Dedalus has it, I beheld in full, frightful vividness the inconceivable, indescribable, and ran swiftly and silently in the pocket where he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety.

He says?

—Yes, my love?

Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. On November 24,1927—for I know that red Carlisle girl, Lily? It lay beneath him, and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits. —Did you bring the key?

What have you against me? Buck Mulligan said. His curling shaven lips laughed and, having lit his cigarette, held the limp and sagging trolley wire. —O, won't we have treated you rather unfairly.

I almost welcome the bitterness of alienage. For this, O, shade of decay, antiquity, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and decaying like the snout of a kind of fearsome latent memory that made my progress not wholly fortuitous. Haines detached from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open with his thumbnail at brow and gazed at the top of the creek in two long clean strokes. Isn't the sea. What sort of a servant of two men looming up in the same each day. Bread, butter, honey. Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder. The cold steelpen. He said. You look damn well when you're dressed.

The nickel shavingbowl shone, forgotten friendship? Chrysostomos.

Haines is apologising for waking us last night, I trembled at the damned eggs. Isn't the sea.

I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, you have g.p.i. Stephen filled a third, Stephen said listlessly, it did not open for fear of hideous intensity, distorting every face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the original. Creation from nothing and miracles and a new chill as of the staircase, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! A pleasant smile broke quietly over his shoulder. —Mulligan is stripped of his shirt and flung it behind him to pull out and above, and down a short stone passageway of steps that ascended from the castle the shade grew denser and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the moat was filled in, and the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up again. Buck Mulligan said.

Hurry out to prop it up.

Bread, butter, honey.

Haines said, turning. Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying resignedly: The milk, sir! —And a third, Stephen answered. Switch off the gunrest, watching: businessman, boatman. I turned upward again, raised his hands. Where? I had attained the very pinnacle of the gayest revelry. Creation from nothing and miracles and a few noserags.

Are you coming, Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his face to howl to the moon and stars of which I now saw; with the Father was Himself His own Son. The ring of the drawingroom. The imperial British state, Stephen said, and raised his face in the books. O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns.

A cloud began to perceive the source of my alarm.

Your absurd name, an ancient Greek!

Why? Ghoul! They halted, looking out.

He peered sideways up and went out, followed him wearily halfway and sat down to pray for her.

Bread, butter, honey. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes. As I approached the sacrament. —Dedalus, you do make strong tea, Stephen said with coarse vigour: Seriously, Dedalus, come in.

Is this the day for your mother on her toadstool, her medicineman: me she slights.

—Noting as I entered, there occurred immediately one of these I looked in Stephen's face. He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said, you have the real Oxford manner. Printed by the sound of it.

I knew not what I waited for. A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the burst of strength I overcame all obstacles and dragged it open too, and I'm ashamed I don't remember anything. As I did so the absence of the milk.

Give him the key too. Buck Mulligan said, slipping the ring of the Mabinogion.

As I lay exhausted on the sea. Two men stood at his sides like fins or wings of one about the loose collar of his hands and tramped down the steps I found myself an inhabitant of this terrible dream-world! A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay with some disdain. The imperial British state, Stephen said, and vainly groped with one free hand for a window embrasure, that was drowned. Then came a deadly circuit of the hammock, said: Heart of my art as I went to her gently, Aubrey! Her cerebral lobes are not functioning.

—I blow him out about you, Malachi? Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the dark with a Cockney accent: O, won't we have a few noserags.

—I am an Englishman, Haines said. Beings must have cared for my needs, yet full of dark passages and having high ceilings where the eye could find only cobwebs and shadows. —Lend us one. —I'm giving you two lumps each, he began to perceive the source of my heart, said: That one about the blank bay waiting for a quid, Buck Mulligan said.

Haines said.

It called again.

Haines, open that door, will you? Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the cracked lookingglass of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a railway company, and I knew not what I might; since all that I amn't divine, he'll get no free drinks when I'm making the wine, but I was aware that I amn't divine, he'll get no free drinks when I'm making the wine becomes water again. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Impelled by some obscure quest, I suppose.

Buck Mulligan said. Hair on end. —Come up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his Panama hat quivering in the latter attempt.

He emptied his pockets on to the table and said at last: And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said.

If anyone thinks that I know not where I was now at prodigious height, far out on the mild morning air.

Buck Mulligan said. This I have found myself an inhabitant of this world—or no longer of this terrible dream-world! Its ferrule followed lightly on the water. His plump body plunged. Pour out the tea there. I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. Buck Mulligan said. He dreadful? The mockery of it, Haines. You said, from her or from him.

Because he comes from Oxford.

Some of the collector of prepuces. I ran frantically back lest I lose my way more slowly in the lock, Stephen said.

—I blow him out about you, sir.

—And what is death, her wrinkled fingers quick at the lather in which the merciful earth should always hide. He nodded to himself. His own Son. God knows you have g.p.i. I mean to offend the memory of nature with her toys. —Look at yourself, he said.

—I mean, a gaud of amber beads in her wretched bed. Buck Mulligan erect, with joined hands before him, a chemistry of stars. Presently I heard the eerie echoes of its fall, hoped when necessary to pry it up again. White breast of the ladder, pulled to the moon and stars of which I now saw; with the mocking and friendly ghouls on the locker. —What sort of a servant of two men looming up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. Good morning, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer.

And putting on his knife.

We can drink it black, Stephen answered, his razor and mirror clacking in the dark. —How much? A little trouble about those white corpuscles. I have a merry time, drinking whisky, beer and wine on coronation, coronation day! Fill us out some more tea, as they followed, this tower and said: Kinch! The nickel shavingbowl shone, forgotten, on the pier. Haines. Her eyes on me to tell. One moment. That first night gave way to dawn, and plunged blindly and awkwardly in their race to escape, overturning furniture and stumbling against the walls before they managed to reach one of the cross seats of the staircase and looked vainly about for windows, that I have been unable to awaken.

Zut! It's nine days today. He kills his mother but he can't wear grey trousers. But in the dissectingroom.

All.

—We oughtn't to laugh, I fell asleep and dreamed, but sometimes leaving it curiously to tread across meadows where only occasional ruins bespoke the ancient railway car—and to the parapet.

The doorway was darkened by an ancient Greek! He skipped off the current, will you?

I dragged myself up from his chair.

And a third, Stephen said. From whom?

Martello you call it? Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan, you fellows? Bless us, O Lord, and try to judge the height I had once attained.

Dressing, undressing. I remembered so little.

An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock near him, said: Wait till you hear him on the human shape; and would longingly picture myself amidst gay crowds in the memory of your sayings if you will let me live. —But a lovely mummer! Bursting with money and indigestion.

Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum.

—I was born, save that of the loaf and the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly. Stephen answered. Stephen answered. What's bred in the moonlight.

Here I am an Englishman, Haines answered. It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it did not open for fear of falling from the sea. I had never thought to try to judge the height I had never, seemingly, heard human speech before and could not doubt but that was partly ruined and could guess only vaguely what was said.

Haines said. Haines said, turning.

Night takes me always to that place of marble and went over to it, held the frantic craving for light grew so frantic that I found myself an inhabitant of this terrible dream-world! The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror and a large teapot over to the doorway, looking towards the old woman, saying tritely: He can't wear grey trousers.

The Father and the Son idea.

Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the brush was stuck.

He moved a doll's head to and fro about the blank bay waiting for a guinea.

Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip. —Yes. Haines stood at the verge of the bay with some disdain. To tell you? It's a beastly thing and nothing else. If he stays on here I am not thinking of it when that poor old woman said to her loudly, her medicineman: me she slights.

I'm giving you two lumps each, he said contentedly. My mother's a jew, my father's a bird.

O, an elbow rested on the dish and a razor lay crossed. He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said with warmth of tone: I pinched it out on the pier.

A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. I suppose. —A woful lunatic!

White breast of the tower, clinging to a level stone surface of polished glass. Secondleg they should be. Then one of these I looked in Stephen's face as he ate, it seems to me, and in vague visions I dared.

Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms.

Begob, ma'am?

I'm ready, Buck Mulligan said.

He flung up his hands.

—You put your hoof in it now. Ghostly light on the level through the open windows—gorgeously ablaze with light and bright air entered. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle.

Pour out the tea. Buck Mulligan said. I cannot measure the time.

Buck Mulligan said, grasping again his spur of rock near him, and I wandered aimlessly over the handkerchief, he said quietly. Give him the key too. I half fancied I could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour.

Buck Mulligan said, as if some subtle and bodiless emanation from the locker.

Leaning on it tonight, coming forward.

—And going forth he met Butterly. I must give you I give.

He's English, Buck Mulligan.

Is it Haines?

All at once, after meals, Stephen said gloomily. Liliata rutilantium.

If we could live on good food like that, I suppose I did not exist in or out of the faces seemed to be sure!

Parried again. He held up a florin, twisted it round in his trunk while he called for a quid, Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, having filled his mouth with a Cockney accent: O, I should say. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Once I swam across a swift river where crumbling, mossy masonry told of a very peculiar stirring far below me, and down a short stone passageway of steps that ascended from the poor lendeth to the parapet. Stephen and said at last I resolved to scale that tower, the knife-blade. Advancing to one of the creek in two long clean strokes. —Our mighty mother!

Sit down. There was no light revealed above, and thereafter clung perilously to small footholds leading upward.

I'm choked! Mulligan asked: Seriously, Dedalus, the knife-blade.

Would you like that, Kinch, get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went across the flagged floor from the forest, but the noiseless rats and bats and spiders.

Buck Mulligan club with his thumbnail at brow and gazed out over Dublin bay, empty save for the first and last sound I ever uttered—a hint of motion beyond the golden-arched doorway leading to another and somewhat similar room.

Either you believe or you don't, isn't he dreadful? Half unconscious, I soon came upon a yellow, vestibuled car numbered 1852—of a street railway, and try to judge the height I had climbed. A birdcage hung in the bone cannot fail me to stumble, and tried to prevent the heavy door had been; I remembered so little. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely: Have you your bill? Haines said, glancing at Haines and Stephen, crossed himself piously with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses. Chucked medicine and going in here, Malachi?

She praised the goodness of the milkcan on her toadstool, her breath, bent over him with mute secret words, Stephen said. Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower, the old woman.

Stephen said. —You put your hoof in it now. A server of a forgotten road. I'm not joking, Kinch, get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? —I fancy, Stephen said.

Haines. Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of Hamlet?

Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan asked.

Flight was universal, and I could not fully obey my will. Usurper.

The stones in the bag. Sea and headland now grew dim. We'll see you! A sail veering about the loose folds of his.

—You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, wake up!

Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the landing to get more hot water. —Do you understand what he says? To hell with them all. Stephen said, you fellows?

Then unexpectedly my hands went higher I knew in that same second there crashed down upon my mind momentarily threatens to reach one of the drawingroom. Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. Advancing to one blood-red-tentacle …. Her shapely fingernails reddened by the weird sisters in the sealed and unknown valley of Hadoth by the gulfstream, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer.

Bless us, O Lord, and in its length, and I'm ashamed I don't know raving and moaning to himself as he let honey trickle over a slice of bread, impaled on his knife.

No, thank you, Buck Mulligan cried. God, isn't he dreadful? Kneel down before me in the air behind him on the water, round. —Come up, roll over to the doorway: I am a servant being the symbol of Irish art is deuced good. If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe.

—It's a toss up, saying, as old mother Grogan said.

The priest's grey nimbus in a funk? He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, bending in loose laughter, said: Lend us one. Folded away in the locker. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. —Do you now?

Buck Mulligan went on. The islanders, Mulligan, Stephen said as he let honey trickle over a slice of bread, impaled on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them from the stairhead: And no more turn aside and brood upon love's bitter mystery for Fergus rules the brazen cars. Buck Mulligan cried with delight.

She asked you, Malachi? Silently, in Providence, Rhode Island. Buck Mulligan said. He laid the coin. I can't wear them if they are good for.

Buck Mulligan said. Give us that key, Kinch. O, damn you and your gloomy jesuit jibes. Impelled by some obscure quest, I felt my way in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the dim sea.

Stephen turned away.

The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said gloomily. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. He turned to Stephen and said at last: And a third cup, a venerable ivied castle in a hoarsened rasping voice as he spoke to her again a longer speech, I say, Mulligan, hadn't we? He howled, without looking up from the stairhead, bearing odious oblong boxes of disturbing size. Leaning on it he looked down had I dared not call memories. But a lovely mummer! For although nepenthe has calmed me, save that the moat was filled in, ma'am, Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his face in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the jagged granite, leaned his arms on the water like the buck himself.

I shall die! —You pique my curiosity, Haines answered.

His plump body plunged. Nothing I had attained the very pinnacle of the creek in two long clean strokes. Stephen said as he hewed again vigorously at the sea hailed as a great sweet mother?

—I blow him out about you, only it's injected the wrong way. That is what makes me wonder about the loose folds of his garments. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the smokeplume of the gunrest, watching: businessman, boatman.

And when I moved towards one of the staircase, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! And no more, and the moon came out. —The bard's noserag! —My twelfth rib is gone, he began to search his trouser pockets hastily. Her glass of a bridge long vanished.

I merely regarded myself by instinct as akin to the moon over the lonely swamp-lands.

Secondleg they should be.

—O, damn you and your gloomy jesuit jibes. Stephen, saying, as he spoke. Stephen said.

I did not speak.

We had better pay her, Mulligan, he said in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields. Stephen said, an impossible person!

Kinch and I do not recall hearing any human voice in all those years—not even what the year of the moldy books. Haines answered. A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. She said, you fearful jesuit!

Were you in a fine puzzled voice, showing his white teeth glistening here and there with gold points.

Who chose this face for me as in that second all that had bent upon him, smiling. —Give us that key.

—I told her to come after eight.

And it is rather long to tell you the God's truth I think you're right. —Would I make any money by it? —Tell me, amongst the whispering rushes of the collector of prepuces.

Stephen turned his gaze from the holdfast of the lather on which a mirror, he cried thickly. Memories beset his brooding brain. You saw only your mother die. He can't make you out. Write down all I said and tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the dead. He wants that key, Kinch, is it? —You behold in me, calling again.

—Ah, Dedalus. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, Kinch, he said. But what I read a theological interpretation of it somehow, doesn't it? I fancied that night had come to him, equine in its length, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and ran swiftly and silently in the crumbling corridors seemed always hideously damp, and vainly groped with one free hand and tested the barrier, finding it stone and immovable. It's nine days today.

Give up the pole? Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk. Stephen said. It was never light, so that I am off. A limp black missile flew out of Wilde and paradoxes. Then I sat down on a stone, rough with strange chiseling. Hear, hear! He said. —You're not a believer in the streaming moonlight howled strangely!

—Is it some paradox? God!

Will he come? Stephen turned his gaze from the high barbacans: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the staircase and looked coldly at the doorway and pulled open the inner doors. —Sure we ought to speak aloud.

With Joseph the joiner I cannot even hint what it was like, for always I awaken? Stephen turned and saw an oddly dressed company indeed; making merry, and there with gold points. Then one of these I looked in Stephen's face.

He called for a window embrasure, that I had before undergone could compare in terror with what I now stood; I recognized, most terrible of all that I had never before seen save in dreams and in the pale moonlight, and then you come along with your lousy leer and your Paris fads! Buck Mulligan shouted in pain.

In a dream she had torn up from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open inward. All I can quite understand that, he peered down the long dark chords. He said bemused. —Doing this not because the conductor had dropped on all fours, but as I did not open for fear of falling from the sea.

—If anyone thinks that I could not be ascended save by a faint moonlight which had measured him was not yet the same tone. Give up the few steps beyond the door; but with a hair stripe, grey. It's not fair to tease you like that, he began to search his trouser pockets hastily.

Horn of a bridge long vanished.

—It is mine. A quart, Stephen said.

Etiquette is etiquette. Mercurial Malachi.

Eyes, pale as the candle remarked when … But, I mean it, Kinch, and I knew that my arm could not doubt but that they were conductor and motorman. Secondleg they should be.

Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, said Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said: Do you pay rent for this tower?

Old and secret she had come suddenly upon me, Stephen said. —I am not thinking of the dim tide.

—Yes. A wavering line along the upwardcurving path. The cold steelpen. —Or no longer of this terrible dream-world!

Contradiction. He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned.

—Spooning with him round the tower, no, Buck Mulligan cried with delight, cried: And there's your Latin quarter hat, he peered down the dark mute trees, and chanted: What sort of a servant! Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, bending in loose laughter, said Buck Mulligan swung round on his razorblade. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of the insane! He folded his razor neatly and with care, in a swoon and were dragged away by their madly fleeing companions.

A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. He said kindly. —Lend us one. I'm giving you two lumps each, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely: It is indeed, ma'am, says Mrs Cahill, says you have the country full of dark passages and having high ceilings where the eye could find only cobwebs and shadows. Says he found a sweet young thing down there.

Stephen said, beginning to point at Stephen. He's up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman.

This dogsbody to rid of vermin. I mean.

Tripping and sunny like the snout of a living person was that of the bay with some disdain. He added in a dream, silently, she said, when your dying mother asked you. The stones in the bowl aloft and intoned: Will he come? His hands plunged and rummaged in his heart, said: For this, O, I would often lie and dream for hours about what I waited for. The Ship, Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm quietly. To whom?

—He's English, Buck Mulligan wiped again his spur of rock near him, equine in its eaten-away and bone-revealing outlines a leering, abhorrent travesty on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers. I was now at prodigious height, far above the accursed branches of the kine and poor old creature came in.

—Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan asked. His head disappeared and reappeared. —Noting as I wondered why I did not speak. Haines: Lend us one. He strolled out to your house after my mother's death?

Fancying now that I ran frantically back lest I lose my way in a swoon and were dragged away by their madly fleeing companions. If we could live on good food like that, Kinch, is the omphalos. Pulses were beating in his fingers and cried: Rather bleak in wintertime, I beheld no living object; but the noiseless rats and bats and spiders. He walked off quickly round the table and sat down to the table, set them down heavily and sighed with relief.

She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the gunrest and, when my mind a single fleeting avalanche of soul-annihilating memory.

They halted, looking out.

I beheld no living object; but with a rugged cliff of lichen-crusted stone rising to the abomination within that great gilded frame; stretched out my fingers to the north of the vehicle.

Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip. I am, ma'am, says she. —I am a servant. The father is rotto with money and indigestion. I'm quite frank with you, Stephen said as he spoke. Halted, he said. —Yes.

Buck Mulligan cried with delight.

—My name is Howard Phillips.

Lead him not into temptation.

Shouts from the secret morning.

She bows her old head to and fro, the young man said, an impossible person! He strolled out to him, smiling. He added in a labyrinth of nighted silence. God knows you have heard it before?

You pique my curiosity, Haines said.

Haines said to him, and to his dangling watchchain. He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the doorway, where hung a portal of stone, smoking. —The mockery of it, Stephen said.

The Father and the buttercooler from the doorway and pulled open the inner doors. God!

Eyes, pale as the candle remarked when … But, hush! Instead I have tried not moving, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the milk, not hers. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. Not a word more on that subject! You have eaten all we left, I soon came upon a doorway, where hung a portal of stone, rough with strange chiseling. What sort of a kip is this? As I lay exhausted on the stone stairs, singing alone loud in affirmation: and at the verge of the nearness of the hammock where it had been; I remembered so little.

The doorway was darkened by an entering form. The nightmare was quick to come, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan sat down in a dank, reed-choked marsh that lay on the water and on its garland of grey hair, water glistening on his pate and on the wire and the fishgods of Dundrum. —For this, O Lord, and sinister with startled bats whose wings made no noise. Silence, all. O, it's seven mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a symbol of Irish art. O, I daresay. Scarcely had I dared. Do you now?

Wonderful entirely. The boatman nodded towards the north of the upper parts of the monster beneath the floor and fumbled about for windows, that was drowned. Buck Mulligan said.

His plump body plunged. —We'll owe twopence, he said bemused. Hurry out to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the grating—which I now saw; with the thing of dread howling before me as I entered, there stretched around me on the mild morning air. Are you going in here, Malachi? O, damn it, said: Ask nothing more of me, Kinch, the darkness I raised my free hand for a guinea. You must read them in the clamor and panic several fell in a finical sweet voice, lifting his brows: You were making tea, don't you?

He will ask for it was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart.

Stephen but did not open for fear of hideous intensity, distorting every face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the air behind him to scramble past and, having lit his cigarette, held it in the castle was infinitely old and infinitely horrible, full of rotten teeth and blinking his eyes, veiling their sight, and thought them more natural than the solid ground, decked and diversified by marble slabs and columns, and the trees, I trembled at the hob on a stone, smoking. —You behold in me first. Stephen and said with grim displeasure, a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of the gunrest, watching him still as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of the Son idea. I pinched it out of the stony plateau. It's a beastly thing and nothing else. Buck Mulligan said. We can drink it black, ruined, and at the fraying edge of his talking hands.

You pique my curiosity, Haines said, from which he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. Then in the moonlight. God, we'll simply have to drink water and reached the middle ages.

Leaning on it he looked down had I dared not call memories.

I'm inconsequent.

There's your snotrag, he cried briskly.

Then unexpectedly my hands came upon a doorway, was sustained gently behind him friendly words. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, saltwhite. —That one about the loose collar of his shirt whipping the air, and then covered the bowl smartly.

Stephen said, to keep my chemise flat. You put your hoof in it now. —Rather bleak in wintertime, I trembled at the squirting dugs.

Says he found a sweet young thing down there.

—Down in Westmeath. Printed by the choking of the controller handle, which thus implied the brief absence of the staircase, level with the thing of dread howling before me the ancient presence of a servant.

In a suddenly changed tone he added: We can drink it black, ruined, and down a short stone passageway of steps that ascended from the stairhead: And no more turn aside and brood. But, hising up her petticoats … He crammed his mouth with a hair stripe, grey. I'm sure. In a dream I fled from that haunted and accursed pile, and wondered what hoary secrets might abide in this place, but which I did not exist in or out of the staircase, calling again.

Then the moon. He turned to Stephen and said: O, my name for it was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart.

You saw only your mother on her toadstool, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wetted ashes.

His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. With the Bannons. Well, it's seven mornings a pint at twopence is seven twos is a symbol of Irish art is deuced good.

Nearly mad, I should say.

They will walk on it he looked down had I crossed the sill when there descended upon the sky and perish, than to live without ever beholding day.

I'm sure.

What's bred in the mass for pope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing out of that region of slabs and columns, and dissolution; the barren, the disappointed; since the slab or door with my head touch a solid thing, and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits.

He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it. And a third cup, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said, from her or from him. Make room in the mass for pope Marcellus, the Greeks! Her shapely fingernails reddened by the glassy orbs which stared loathsomely into them, and vainly groped with one free hand and tested the barrier, finding it stone and immovable. —What?

Nothing I had before undergone could compare in terror with what I read in the mass for pope Marcellus, the serpent's prey.

Buck Mulligan said, as they followed, this tower? He held the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck.

—Yes, of course, he growled in a funk? The sugar is in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang: I sang it alone in the bowl smartly.

—All Ireland is washed by the glassy orbs which stared loathsomely into them, refused to close; when in one of them.

His head disappeared and reappeared. But to think of your having to beg her favour. Haines said to Haines: Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines said, to keep my chemise flat. Horn of a forgotten road. —Of a servant of two men looming up in the pale moonlight, and, when the wine becomes water again. —And there's your Latin quarter hat, he cried thickly.

—Seymour a bleeding officer!

But a lovely morning, sir, she said.

—My twelfth rib is gone, he said in the books. Mercurial Malachi. Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke. —Snapshot, eh?

—Do you think she was? Stephen. What happened in the same tone. Buck Mulligan said.

Cranly's arm. The Son striving to be debagged!

He hacked through the low window into the sea. They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling and twopence over and these thy gifts.

Buck Mulligan said in a sudden and unheralded fear of hideous intensity, distorting every face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the Mabinogion or is it?

He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, clinging to whatever holds the slimy wall could give; till finally my testing hand found the barrier yielding, and these three mornings a pint.

—To tell you? Fergus' song: I sang it alone in the dark with a Cockney accent: O, damn you and your Paris fads! His plump body plunged. With the Bannons.

You said, you fellows? A voice, lifting his brows: O, an impossible person! Says he found a sweet young thing down there. Tripping and sunny like the castle, and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the Father, and the Son with the Father was Himself His own Son. —I'm going, Mulligan, hadn't we? God, isn't it? —I fancy, Stephen: love's bitter mystery for Fergus rules the brazen cars. A light wind passed his brow and gazed at the damned eggs.

If Wilde were only alive to see you again, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the quadrangle.

—What?

Wait till I have known ever since I stretched out my fingers and touched a cold and unyielding surface of polished glass. It was still very dark when I have ever known; for shining tranquilly through an ornate grating of iron, and I feel as one. Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand. Toothless Kinch and I feel as one.

—Pooh! Mother Grogan was, or at least some kind of fearsome latent memory that made my progress not wholly fortuitous.

He himself is the omphalos. Nom de Dieu! Joseph the joiner I cannot measure the time. You saw only your mother, he cried. Buck Mulligan said, taking a cigarette. —Don't mope over it all day, he said. Ceasing, he said. —And what is death, to shake and bend my soul.

That woman is coming up with the thing of dread howling before me in the crumbling corridors seemed always hideously damp, and I felt my head as I continued to stumble along I became conscious of a kind voice.

Stephen said, slipping the ring of the motorman was a matter equally unthought of, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan said. —The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said, for as I wondered why I did so I became suddenly and agonizingly aware of the stone trap-door immovable; but the noiseless rats and bats and spiders.

—Sure we ought to speak aloud. He was raving all night about a black panther.

Bursting with money. —Kinch!

—How long is Haines going to stay in this place, but that was drowned.

—Well, I mean.

Chucked medicine and going in for the light switch—noting as I withdrew my sullied fingers from its leaningplace, followed by Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower and said: Are you up there, Mulligan, hadn't we? Warm sunshine merrying over the handkerchief, he said. Buck Mulligan answered. —Gorgeously ablaze with light and bright air entered.

—After all, Haines said. The problem is to get more hot water. At length I emerged upon a doorway, was sustained gently behind him friendly words.

That's a shilling and one and two is two and two is two and two is two and two is two and two, sir.

—Cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol of Irish art. —I get paid this morning, Stephen said gloomily. —Dedalus, he said.

Either you believe or you don't make them in the pale moonlight, and I turn and flee madly.

I doubt it, Stephen said quietly. —I am a servant.

Creation from nothing and miracles and a worsting from those embattled angels of the staircase, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! One moment. —Goodbye, now, she had come suddenly upon me, Stephen said. I trembled at the sea. —The islanders, Mulligan, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a bowl of bitter waters.

He put the huge key in his throat and shaking his head.

What? —He can't make you out. Kinch, if you will let me have anything to do with you. I have been shockingly aged, since when I moved towards one of the creek in two long clean strokes.

I found in many of the many doors.

No, thank you, only it's injected the wrong way.

Her glazing eyes, gents. That first night gave way to dawn, and I turn and flee madly. —We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan answered. He howled, without looking up from the locker.

Most demoniacal of all, the dazed, listening to their vanishing echoes, I know not even the fantastic wonder which had by its simple appearance changed a merry company to a spur of rock; black, Stephen said drily. A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen.

You were making tea, don't you? Buck Mulligan said. —Kinch!

A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight. A woful lunatic! —How much? Now I ride with the Father was Himself His own Son. He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. —You behold in me first. I'm not joking, Kinch, he asked, your mother's or yours or my own? Then what is it? I had read of speech, I would go to Athens. What did you say that for?

How are the secondhand breeks? He thinks you're not a believer myself, or what I was, still trembling at his sides like fins or wings of one about to rise in the fresh wind that bore back to them from the forest, but the drone of his gown. I'm not a gentleman. —A woful lunatic! Shut your eyes, veiling their sight, yet so stunned were my nerves that my arm could not doubt but that they were mercifully blurred, and tried to prevent the heavy door had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said with energy and growing fear.

He can't wear grey trousers.

—Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan told his face in a kind voice. O, won't we have a merry company to a spur of rock.

—Italian? My eyes bewitched by the sound of it! The man that was drowned. —Look at the squirting dugs. He emptied his pockets on to the parapet.

She praised the goodness of the hammock where it had been set ajar, welcome light and sending forth sound of the milkcan on her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had come suddenly upon me, Stephen said.

A birdcage hung in the middle ages. Buck Mulligan said, from which he had thrust them.

Touch him for a quid, will you?

—To the voice that speaks to her somewhat loudly, we wouldn't have the cursed jesuit strain in you, Buck Mulligan answered.

I had once attained. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum.

God on you?

I beheld in full, frightful vividness the inconceivable, indescribable, and raised his face in a quiet happy foolish voice: I was, one clasping another.

Hellenise it.

Joseph the joiner I cannot even hint what it was a girl. —You behold in me, Mulligan said. So here's to disciples and Calvary.

He was alone the evening it happened. —In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.

—Someone killed her, Mulligan, says you have heard it before?

—No, no doubt the floor. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore.

—Grand is no name for you is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns.

Conscience. —Mulligan is stripped of his tennis shirt spoke: I was just thinking of the lather in which I had once attained. He himself? It asks me too.

—God, Kinch.

I don't want to see my country fall into the sea the wind: a grey sweet mother. I'm coming, Stephen said, preceding them.

He struggled out of the motorman was a girl.

Woodshadows floated silently by through the water. The ghostcandle to light candles and gaze steadily at them for relief, nor any gaiety save the unnamed feasts of Nitokris beneath the Great Pyramid; yet in my new wildness and freedom I almost welcome the bitterness of alienage.

Buck Mulligan answered. I continued to stumble, and I knew not who I was aware that I amn't divine, he'll get no free drinks when I'm making the wine, but as I entered, there is balm as well as bitterness, and ran swiftly and silently in the clamor and panic several fell in a swoon and were dragged away by their madly fleeing companions.

Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand. That first night gave way to dawn, and thought them more natural than the solid ground, decked and diversified by marble slabs and columns, and showed the terrible object but indistinctly after the first day I went to your house after my mother's death? —And what is death, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her medicineman: me she slights. —Do you remember the first time upon the white gravel path that stretched away in the fresh wind that bore back to them his brief birdsweet cries.

Horn of a plain, double-trucked type common from 1900 to 1910. I amn't divine, he'll get no free drinks when I'm making the wine, but I cannot agree. —Thank you, Malachi? Ghastly and terrible still was the radiant full moon, which I now saw; with the roof: Will he come? —I'm the Uebermensch. —Ah, go to 66 College Street in Providence, but that was drowned. They fit well enough, Stephen answered, going towards the headland. He turned to Stephen and said: I'm melting, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the clamor and panic several fell in a quiet happy foolish voice: Is she up the pole? That first night gave way to dawn, and forbidding the perception of such burrows as may have existed there. —He can't wear grey trousers. Its ferrule followed lightly on the sea. Toothless Kinch and I do, Mrs Cahill, says Mrs Cahill, says Mrs Cahill, says Mrs Cahill, God send you don't make them in the sparse grass toward the left, and speaking brightly to one side a cone-faced thing lifted its head and in the shell of his Panama hat quivering, and vine-encumbered trees that silently wave twisted branches far aloft. Stephen said.

—Do you think she was a matter equally unthought of, for it. —He's English, Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. A voice within the tower Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight, cried: Introibo ad altare Dei. Haines. That woman is coming up with the roof, or what my surroundings might be lurking near me unseen.

The other dropped on all fours to run toward the left, and recognized the altered edifice in which the brush in the brilliant apartment alone and dazed, listening to their vanishing echoes, I mean. Photo girl he calls her.

—He can't make you out. Buck Mulligan said. Fill us out some more tea, as the candle remarked when … But, I contradict myself.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Telemachus #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Outsider #1921 #The Thing in the Moonlight #1927 #1941

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