#realizing ‘ill be cheering for you… always.’ was a THOUGHT line and not a SPOKEN line actually ruined my life fr | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

escxpedes · 3 years

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loopholes (fin.)

Remember when I said I’d post this like two days after the last part? No? Me neither... Sorry about the delay, I’ve had a severe lack of motivation. (It’s mental illness innit.) I feel like every part of this story gets longer and longer, and makes even less sense. If you haven’t read the other two parts, I recommend you do so. These technically can be read standalone, but I think it’s cuter when you read them knowing the context. Even though, again, they seem to make less sense the more I write. Lots of new information came about season 5, and it’s both nerve-racking and exciting at the same time! Three cheers for anxiety, amiright? Hope you all are doing well, I’m excited to hear the feedback on the last part of this series. Let me know if there’s anything you’d like me to write, I’m a sucker for prompts! x

part one | part two

loop·hole

noun | A loophole is an ambiguity or inadequacy in a system, such as a law or security, which can be used to circumvent or otherwise avoid the purpose, implied or explicitly stated, of the system.

hands that wrap around my wrists, (and arms that feel like home.)

Shutting down the monitors she was using, Riley tries not to think about how her sleep deprivation affects her body. It’s one thing to work as a distraction, but the drag in her pace tells her this coping method is wearing her down.

How is she supposed to save innocent lives when she’s so exhausted.

And she is, exhausted, that is. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. Every part of her is weightless, suspended in air, and it feels like she can’t do a single thing about it.

An irritating helplessness encompasses her, tightening its grasp on her sanity.

She wants to cry out, throw something, cause a scene. Instead, she buries her feelings deep in her subconscious and tries not to focus on how tight her chest is.

It’s an occupational hazard, she tells herself. It’s nothing she can’t handle, she repeats daily. It’s almost a mantra by now, echoing inside her head and ramping up what seems to be an infinite supply of determination.

It’s the only way.

Mac waits for her outside, leaning against the building while she locks up. Her vision is still kind of fuzzy due to lack of energy, and her body doesn’t seem to be completely awake yet. She can physically feel Mac’s concerned gaze burning a hole in her cranium as if staring hard enough will give him access to all recesses of her mind.

“Ready?”

She nods, feigning a smile, and bumping his shoulder with her own, “You never mentioned why you stopped by so late.”

Ignorance is bliss, right?

“I left my phone in the labs.” She can hear the exasperation in his voice; concern rushes forward and sends a pang through her heart.

Suddenly, she’s irritated too, not with Mac, but for Mac. He does the right thing for humanity despite all that humanity has done to him. She can’t imagine how frustrated he must be with the entire situation, once again putting the world before himself.

He’s had so little time to process everything.

She knows he could use a break but also knows that he won’t admit he needs one.

For how smart he is, he can be really stupid sometimes.

When she turns her head to look at him, she can tell she’s lost him to his own thoughts. His eyebrows are furrowed, his usually clear eyes unfocused, and his mouth is set in a grim line.

If she listens closely, she can almost hear the gears turning, working out possible solutions, and thinking through every outcome.

It’s not an uncommon expression.

She stops abruptly, “Hey.”

This seems to shake him from his trance, his eyes meeting hers in a questioning manner.

“You are doing the best you can under the circumstances, but pushing yourself too hard won’t solve anything,” Her hand finds its way to his arm and squeezes reassuringly, “You can take care of the planet, but make sure to take care of yourself, too.”

The look he gives her is so full of gratitude and affection that nearly every emotion that Riley’s fought to contain bursts through its confinement and surges through her body.

“Thank you.”

Her breath catches in her throat, making it hard to breathe.

“What for?”

She really hopes the shaky breath that follows goes unnoticed.

“For always believing in me, no matter what.” His gaze is piercing, robbing the ability to form words from her throat.

She rakes her mind for something, anything, to say that will stop her from doing something she would totally, one hundred percent regret.

“It’s what Jack would do.”

It takes everything in her to break eye contact and shrug nonchalantly. Humor laces her tone, despite the sincerity of her statement. It is something Jack would do, something he taught her to believe in. Not necessarily in Mac, but what her gut is telling her.

It seems that in any given situation, before or after Jack’s departure, Mac’s intuition has always mirrored her own. Since the second he broke her out of prison, they always had the same values. Just like Jack, she learned how to read and understand Mac.

She knows how to interpret his rambling. She knows that no matter the situation, he’ll always put everyone else first. She knows that whatever crazy plan he’s come up with, it’s constructed with the best intentions.

She knows that no matter where he goes, and no matter what he does, her instinct is to trust him.

So she does.

With every ounce of her being.

She desperately wants to share this with him, especially if it would probably make him feel better. However, she knows the second she starts talking, she won’t be able to stop. Mac’s got a way of doing that, translating her thoughts into words that tumble out of her before she can control what they might mean.

The grin Mac throws her, which conveys understanding and amusement, allows the tension between them to dissipate.

“Speaking of Jack, he would absolutely kill me if I let you drive home in your state.”

Before she can get a word in edgewise, he’s already opening the passenger side door of his truck. The tone in his voice leaves little room for debate, as if he’s ready to refute whatever argument she can muster up, so Riley doesn’t argue.

She wants to, but just the idea of operating a car sounds exhausting.

Besides, she’s missed this. She’s missed Mac, not just as someone she’s possibly in love with, but as her best friend. With everything going on, she’s hardly been able to see him.

The absence of him in her life hurts just as much as having him in it.

She literally can’t win.

The silence that follows is comfortable, the rumbling engine serving as white noise to Riley as she dozes off against the window.

She tries to, anyway. Driving with Mac is always an adventure, which is useful when trying to avoid being killed by a terrorist organization. Maneuvering Los Angeles traffic? Way, way less so.

“Maybe driving myself home wouldn’t have been such a bad idea.” She mumbles, fighting the urge to grab the handle above the door.

“Hey! I always get us home in one piece.”

“Physically maybe,” an amused smile finds its way to Riley’s face, “But mentally? I should sue you for psychological trauma.”

The look of disbelief that follows is enough to get her through several lifetimes, or it could be the smile he struggles to hide under his offended facade.

“Ouch,” Mac puts his left hand over his heart, “That hurts right here, Riles.”

The nickname throws her off, causing her stomach to flip. It’s just a silly name, it shouldn’t affect her like this, but her heart still clenches uncomfortably.

She attempts to brush it off, trying for a humoring grin that feels more like a grimace.

Though the comfortable atmosphere doesn’t change, the playful energy is replaced by more silence. As buildings pass outside, all Riley can think about is how much she hates silence. Man, what she would do just to get rid of it for a little bit. It’s constant these days, and it always finds her no matter where she goes.

Her fingers tug at her bottom lip, a nervous habit she’s recently adopted, as she tries to think through possible solutions to the predicament she’s found herself in.

She must be pretty engrossed because it takes her a minute to realize Mac’s spoken again.

“What?” Her brain slows down enough to pick out his words, something about how much sleep she’s gotten recently, “Oh, I don’t know.”

She tries not to notice how concerned he looks when he asks, “You don’t know?”

Not really

Logically, she knows that she sleeps almost every night. How long? It’s hard to tell sometimes. If she’s lucky, she can get a couple hours in before her brain goes into hyperdrive. Other times, she’d rather be doing something productive on her rig instead of staring at her ceiling fan.

She props her elbow against the window and rests her head in her hand, “I guess it hasn’t been a priority.”

From the corner of her eye, she can see him open his mouth and close it abruptly, trying to find the right words to comfort or soothe her.

As always, Mac is trying to rectify the situation.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

She doesn’t miss the parallel and throws him the same reclusive look he had given her on multiple occasions.

“That’s my line.”

There’s an irritating tension that fills the space, like the feeling you get when you can’t get past a certain level on a video game. It’s a little stifling, urging Riley to do whatever it takes to make it disappear.

“C’mon Riley, you’ve been off ever since, you know, the whole codex situation. At first, I thought, well, it was kind of traumatizing for everyone involved, but then you moved out and,” He trails off, and she can physically see him putting all the working components together, “Is it the apartment?”

God, she wished it was just the apartment. Sure, it plays a part in all her problems right now, but she knows that it’s more of what the empty apartment represents than the apartment itself.

Still, she’s glad he came to that conclusion. It’s easier to lie to him when it doesn’t pertain to the actual issue at hand.

“The apartment’s fine,” she says after a moment of hesitation.

“It’s the AC unit, isn’t it?” His lips compress shortly before he shakes his head, “I knew I should have looked at it.”

As he starts ranting about the condenser coils in her air conditioner and how easy it is for them to get dirty, Riley can’t help but let a soft laugh fall from her lips.

“Mac, it’s not my air conditioning.”

When he opens his mouth to respond, she holds her hand up to stop him. “It’s not my heater either, or my ceiling fan, or anything that might require your unique expertise.”

“But it has something to do with the apartment.”

The statement is blanketed in excitement as if he knows he’s getting closer to uncovering the truth. He’s always been so obsessed with knowledge and learning, never quite capable of letting things go and living in ignorance.

His eyes light up with child-like curiosity; it’s highly annoying and endearing at the same time.

She feels her self control loosening.

With Mac, she feels secure, like maybe she can put herself back together again. She could confess to a crime, and he wouldn’t look at her any differently.

That helplessness kicks back in, tearing her apart from the inside.

When he slows to a stop in front of her complex, she hasn’t answered him yet.

In the back of her mind, she’s a little proud of herself for only joking about his driving once in the ten minutes it took to get there.

She stares at the lobby entrance and can feel the soft flannel of his shirt, giving him a hug before she exits his truck. She can hear the sleepiness in her voice as she leans against the door and tells him goodnight. She can see herself walk through the double doors and not turning around.

She can see it so clearly, but she remains planted in the passenger seat.

Fear tangles itself in her shoulders, in her stomach, in her heart.

Not just because she dreads the idea of spending another night counting the minutes before her alarm goes off, but because she doesn’t want to leave with their friendship in this state.

She just wants everything to go back to normal, to get back some semblance of their old friendship before she knew how she felt.

Mac waits beside her, a patient and comforting presence.

“It’s just so quiet. Up there, it’s just me and my thoughts. They never cease or quiet down; it’s a constant loop. I try listening to music or watching TV, but I can never focus on any of it. Then, I start panicking because I don’t know if it’ll ever go away. There’s no comfort, no stability. I’m just… alone.”

With every word, a little of the weight falls from her shoulders.

It almost feels like she can breathe again.

“The only time I don’t feel like that is when I’m working,” she clenches her hands in her lap, “At Phoenix, I can get to any room in the dark with my eyes closed, and I’m constantly surrounded by people I’ve known for years. It feels… safe.”

Mac’s silent, reaching over to grasp one of her hands.

“You don’t feel safe here?” He encloses her left hand between his own and squeezes, the pressure and warmth spreading through her body like wildfire.

She meets his eyes, “Not in the way that matters.”

He turns the truck off, hopping out before Riley can say anything else. He walks around the hood of the car and pulls the passenger door open, “Come on.”

“What are you doing?”

He helped her out of the truck, “You trust me, right?”

More than he’ll ever know.

“You know I do.” She eyed him suspiciously as he opened one of the complex’s doors for her, following as she entered.

“From what I can recall, Bozer got you a Nintendo Switch for your birthday earlier this year. It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of destroying you in Super Smash Bros.”

His voice was quiet, trying not to disturb the people trying to sleep.

“First of all, you’ve never destroyed me in Super Smash Bros, and you never will if you keep playing with Luigi,” She grinned, watching as he shook his head in disagreement, “And second of all, it’s two in the morning.”

He shrugged, “That’s never stopped us before.”

He wasn’t wrong, but things were different now.

Riley tried not to think about Desi, wrapped up in Mac’s bed, peacefully sleeping and blissfully unaware of this entire exchange.

Not that she had anything to worry about.

It didn’t matter anyway because clearly, Riley had issues with saying “no” to Angus Macgyver.

“Fine, but prepare to get your ass beaten.”

He grinned triumphantly, “That sounds like a challenge.”

She unlocked her apartment door, stepping into the dark and quiet entryway. She faltered a little bit, her heartbeat quickening with newfound anxiety.

As always, the apartment radiated energy that always put Riley out of place.

Mac closed the door behind him, helping himself to any food he could find in her fridge. There was an intimacy to it, a closeness that made the apartment much more bearable. Her shoulders dropped a little, the anxiety easing a little as she took a deep breath.

She busied herself in the living room, connecting the switch to her TV and grabbing a variety of different pillows and blankets.

It was, after all, a tradition for these types of events.

Mac joined her after a couple of minutes with two beers, “Your fridge is worse than mine.”

“Will you get it started,” Riley ignore his comment, handing him one of the controllers, “ I’m going to change.”

When she returned in a comfy ensemble of leggings and a sweatshirt, Mac was scrolling through the character list. She hopped the back of the couch to sit next to him, watching as he hovered over Luigi for what feels like an eternity.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mac’s determined expression didn’t falter, “You’re just jealous of my skills.”

Those skills proved to be no match for Riley’s, though, after she managed to beat him in the first game. It became much more entertaining when she did it again in the second. She tried not to laugh, but it became nearly impossible with his onslaught of complaints.

“You’re such a cheater, you can’t do that!” He pressed down hard on the keys as if smashing them harder will make Luigi speed up.

Jokes on him, Luigi was the slowest character in the game.

Very slowly, her exhaustion began to creep up on her. She knew she was done for when Mac actually managed to beat her. He seemed just as surprised as she was, but he suggested switching to a movie anyway.

They ended up choosing a documentary, something that Mac had been interested in watching recently. Riley didn’t care what they watched, as long as she got to lay down.

Mac placed a pillow in his lap and tapped it gently.

“So, was this your plan,” She comfortably adjusted her body, so her neck wasn’t in an awkward position propped up on the pillow.

In front of them, a monotone voice explained the phenomena surrounding the universe.

“Homo Sapiens are social creatures; we need people to survive,” Riley could feel Mac’s fingers coursing through her waves, creating a soothing pattern that calmed any remaining tension in her body.

“You feel comfortable at Phoenix, sitting around the fire pit at my house, or spending time with the team at the arcade because we’re there. It’s okay to need us, Riles, because trust me, we need you, too.”

Mac’s words barely resonate with her, and she hummed noncommittally in response.

His fingers gently combed through the tangles at the nape of her neck, “I don’t think we build homes in material things like houses or apartments, but rather, in the people we surround ourselves with.”

Laying there, with her head on his lap and his fingers in her hair, Riley could only think one thing:

He couldn’t be more right.

#macriley #macgyver #Angus MacGyver #riley davis #just cute things #hope you enjoy!!

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farmhandler · 3 years

Text

Spoken, Not Said

Rating: T (for now)

Pairing: Theseus/Asterius/Zagreus

Warnings: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Banter, Bickering, Theseus being Theseus, Slight spoilers

CH: 1/?

WC: 3K~

Read on AO3

Summary: Asterius is taken by Hades as punishment for Theseus' inability to defeat Zagreus. Zagreus feels guilty that he's caused the shades around him so much pain, but he's unwilling to give up on his quest. Instead, he suggests they find Asterius together. What could possibly go wrong?

A/N: Tumblr got rid of line breaks, which is mighty inconvenient and means some parts of the story may seem abrupt. Sorry about that! Anywho, enjoy. Love this game!!!

Theseus does not realize something is amiss until he’s been left standing at the gates to Elysium Stadium alone.

When they are not bound by the duty of reducing the monster endlessly attempting to escape their halls to blood and gristle, it is often the case that Asterius will bide his time in his own quarters or wander the halls of Elysium on his own, ever the watchful guardian; however, rare is it so that Asterius does not meet him at the gates of the stadium once they have received word that the daemon is making his way towards them.

Today—though there are no days, nor nights in fair Elysium—Asterius has not shown himself. Theseus at first does not take it upon himself to grow concerned over his dear friend’s lateness, but as the hour passes, his impatience grows.

Eventually, a messenger shade informs him that the daemon is entering Elysium once again, and Asterius still has not shown.

“You there,” he says, addressing a messenger shade before she can return to her post. “Have you seen Ast— the Minotaur? He has yet to meet me at our assigned post here to face that terrible daemon. Surely you have seen him while delivering your messages?”

The shade hesitates, her eyes flicking off to one side before returning back to Theseus. She shakes her head and apologizes profusely until Theseus dismisses her with a wave of his hand.

“Stay on guard for any sign of him,” he tells her evenly. Theseus does not allow his concern to show. For the shades of Elysium, he is their King, and he must never show weakness.

And how many times have I bested you again? a traitorous voice echoes in the cavern of his mind.

Theseus grinds his teeth together, fists clenching and unclenching at the thought of him. Since being recruited by Lord Hades, Theseus has spent an inordinate amount of time in his presence—far more than he would prefer. Theseus had never expected that his time in eternal paradise would become tainted by the constant clashing with this particularly egregious foe.

He would much rather continue to spar the heroes and champions he is well accustomed to, but he continues with his approach, no matter how often they dispatch of him.

Oh, I think we are long past you dispatching me. I can’t remember the last time I died to your spear.

You wretch! he thinks, imagining a conversation held with him, as he often does. What he wouldn’t give to impale him on his spear one final time—were that he not an immortal, a god—

Theseus stills his thoughts before they can go further. It doesn’t matter what he says, he is no god in his eyes. Compared to the real gods, he is puny. His voice is unbearably grating in every possible way. Elysium is a wondrous and enchanting resting place for those deserving of it, yet that stain continues to enter its impermissible halls, tainting the very ground under their feet with his daemonic presence.

Theseus steels himself with a breath and turns to look for Asterius. He will find him himself, and then they will have a rousing discussion about just how inadequate a foe the daemon is.

Theseus begins to feel concern when, after scouring all of Asterius’ favored resting places, he still cannot find him. He even goes so far as entering into his chambers to see if perhaps somehow he has become ill, despite the impossibility. No other reason would explain his sudden absence when just the night before, they had been discussing battle strategies to increase their chances against the daemon.

With Asterius still not found, Theseus is forced to return to Elysium Stadium to face the daemon himself. He does not vie for the prospect, but he will have to make do.

He is the former king of Athens and the current champion and King of Elysium. He will not fail!

“Oh.”

It is the first thing out of the daemon’s mouth when he approaches Theseus at the center of the stadium. He is looking around, shifting from foot to foot, eyes on the lookout for Theseus’ comrade in arms. Despite having said nothing else, just that single word is enough to ignite the flames of fury from within Theseus.

“You!” he spits, with more vehemence than he usually reserves for their battles. “You dare step foot in Elysium once again? I shall drive you away once more; as many times as necessary until you learn your lesson, foul wretch.”

The daemon appears unconcerned by his very real threat. He cast his gaze about the stadium, turning his back to Theseus briefly while he looks in all directions.

“Is it just us today?” He sounds disappointed, a delicate frown on his sof--horrible features. “Where’s Asterius? Did he finally get tired of being beat by me?”

His humor is lost on Theseus. He slams his spear into the ground and braces his shield as if he is about to charge like Asterius would do during one of their fights.

“Do not invoke his name! You have no right to dare speak it! I will defeat you here and now!”

“Okay,” the daemon drawls, raising one hand in placation. “Fine, have it your way. He’s the one that makes these flights difficult, anyway. After I wipe the floor with you, please do send him my regards.”

“The only thing that will be sent today is your body to the depths of Tartarus, with my blessed spear buried within your midsection!”

The daemon nods, having expected no less, and he shifts back, sliding his horrid flaming foot back and sizzling the grassy plain under their feet while he braces his hands in front of him. He is wearing the Twin Fist of Malphon this time around. Theseus recalls the feeling of it pummeling his lower back until it gave way, but he does not waver.

He slams his spear into the ground again and then points it at the daemon.

“Defend yourself!”

The crowd of shades that have been waiting for this moment abrupt cheers. Theseus feels their spirits embolden him, but just as he is about to lift his spear and aim it, the air shifts.

A familiar presence settles over them. Theseus can feel its oppressive nature almost immediately.

He balks. Since being recruited, Lord Hades has not made himself known more than a scant few times. And never once during one of their great matches, when all of Elysium gathers to watch.

“Father?” Theseus hears the daemon say. He hardly gives it another thought, because in the next moment the Lord Hades words threaten to knock Theseus right off his feet.

“Ahh. I see you’ve made it to the exit gates of Elysium once more. How many times is it now? How many times you failed to defeat him, Theseus, king of Athens?“

His voice booms all around them. Several shades shrink back, while others look up in awe. Theseus feels his grip on his spear loosen.

“Lord—Lord Hades,” he responds. “I…cannot say for certain that I have counted. Rest assured that this time I will—"

“Enough,” he booms. “You have failed me one time too many. It was by my hand that the Minotaur joined you in Elysium, and it is by my hand that he will leave it. Perhaps if you can manage to do your job, I may consider returning him to you.”

The words barely sink into Theseus before Lord Hades’ presence is gone. He stands there for several long seconds, the stadium deathly quiet.

Then the daemon says something to him, approaching on those hellspawn feet of his, but Theseus doesn’t hear it. All he can think about is Asterius.

Asterius. His comrade; his partner. He vouched for Asterius when he came to Elysium so he could have him there. They have been with each other now for so long. To have him torn from him like this is—it is—

“Theseus?”

He is broken from his reverie by him. The daemon. It is always him.

“I’m…sorry about Asterius. I know he was your friend.” Then, lower, to a register Theseus can barely hear, “Maybe despite his better judgment.”

The fists lower, and that hideous, terrible glowing, daemonic eye is cast upon him. Fury course through his veins like divine nectar.

Asterius. Asterius. By the gods, what torture must he be under? A punishment by Lord Hades is to be feared. He could be anywhere in the realm. He could be in Asphodel, or even Tartarus…

“My father will do anything to stop me, but I have to do it. I have to reach the surface again.” The daemon’s face is cast in the shadow of sorrow. His features soften further, shoulders drooping before he raises them and lifts his chin. “My mother—"

“You!” Theseus roars. “This is your fault! You miserable—” he burst into motion, tossing his spear in a single fluid and powerful move. It goes sailing forward, but the daemon shifts out of way “—horrible, forgotten monster. On this day, your death is assured.”

“Forgotten? That’s harsh,” he quips, sailing once again out of Theseus’ way. He has yet to strike a blow, but Theseus is prepared for anything he may try. “Look, Theseus—“

“Speak my name so flagrantly no more! While once I would have encouraged your admiration of me, the sight of you fills me only with disgust! Because of you, Asterius has been removed from my side, and I shall make you pay for it!”

“I think the point was more that the both of you couldn’t beat me,” the blackard points out.

“Because of you—” Theseus continues, undeterred. He is humiliated to find there are angry tears in his eyes. It is no shame for a warrior to offer his tears to his comrades, but this is no warrior. To show any weakness in front of him makes his blood boil even hotter.

He swipes angrily at his eyes with his forearm, clearing his vision quickly before he can be overtaken. But when he blinks, the daemon has not moved, still staring at him with an expression Theseus dare not name.

“I’m…I didn’t know he meant that much to you. You always seem, well.”

The insinuation stings. “Your fiendish attempts to insult me won’t work here! I shall” he sends his spear flying, but the daemon dodges “vanquish you here and now!”

This pattern continues for a time. Theseus attacks, but the daemon, for some reason, does not. He weaves in and out from around the pillars of the stadium and occasionally delivers onto him a glancing blow, but he does not attack with his full vigor. It is almost worse than the times when they are beaten within minutes of the fight starting.

At least in those instances, he is a worthy opponent.

Eventually, Theseus loses steam. His arm begins to tremble and ache, and his grip on his shield is less fortifying the longer that it weighs him down. He has gone on longer before, but with the fresh wound of Asterius being torn from him, he feels weakened.

His anger, instead of fueling him, feels as though it drains him. The daemon does not react to his rage other than to shoot him looks of pity, and the shades watching them aren’t cheering as loudly without the two of them there fighting him together, and with Theseus making no headway.

Eventually, the daemon stops in the center of the stadium and addresses him directly.

“Theseus, I…I think I can help you.”

“You?” Theseus laughs, loud and boisterous although his strength flags. “What a weak attempt to sway the battle in your favor. You cannot help me! Now kindly stand still so I may aim my spear at you!”

“I’m serious,” the daemon says. “I want to help you. Well, I want to help Asterius, but you’ve been looking so pathetic over there I can’t help but feel bad for you, too—”

“Silence!” Theseus shouts. His cheeks flush more than from the heat of battle. The nerve. “Raise your foul weapons and fight me!”

“Why do I even bother?” he hears him say. A sigh, and then the daemon lowers his weapon fully to his side. “Theseus, I know where Asterius is.”

At that, Theseus—in the middle of prepping another toss of his spear—freezes.

“Speak those words again.”

“Well, I don’t know exactly where he is, but I’ve been everywhere throughout my father’s realm, so I have an idea where he might be being held.”

“So you lie!” Theseus cries, aghast.

“Will you be quiet and listen to me for one second?” the daemon snaps. The embers on his feet flare up, sparks flying. “My father, Lord Hades, has been doing what he did to you to everyone that I fight. He’ll take them away to punish them so that they fight harder the next time. I don’t think it’s very effective, but until now…” He shakes his head, sending a few stray petals floating down. Theseus has only just now noticed the crimson laurels adorning his hair. “The point is, I like Asterius. He doesn’t deserve to be punished for doing his job. Besides, I’m sure none of you here are well used to torture like those down below.”

At the mention of torture, Theseus stills.

He is no stranger to what man is capable of, but in Elysium, death is impermanent. And even in combat, their pain is dulled, easily remedied by taking a bath in the river Lethe. If Asterius is in Asphodel or Tartarus, he is certainly being subject to torture of some kind or another.

Theseus drops to one knee. In a single second, his breath has left him, even though he no longer breathes.

“Let me help you find him.”

Theseus lifts his head, lips curled into a snarl. “You are the reason he was taken, monster!” He stands again, abandoning his weapons and approaching the daemon with a single-minded focus. He takes him by the shoulders and shakes him, once, giving no second thoughts to the warm, soft skin resting under his fingertips. “You are the reason all of this has happened! Have you no shame?!”

The daemon stares at him, stonefaced. He says nothing at first.

Then: “I’m doing what I have to do. I’ve already disobeyed my father by embarking on this quest. I can disobey him some more and help you find Asterius.”

His expression shifts then. He looks away, and when his eyes return to Theseus they pierce him even deeper than before.

“But I can’t do it alone. A part of what makes this work is that I can avoid most of the realms if I work fast. I don’t usually go poking around too long, lest my father find ways to reroute me.”

Theseus steps back, the words finally registering. “You ask me to leave Elysium. Blackguard,” he spits, “I will not be tricked!”

“No trick,” he replies. “Trust me, the last thing I want to do is drag you around my father’s realm while everything tries to kill me. I have my own mission.” His shoulders dip slightly, still held in Theseus’ firm grasp. “But you’re right: it is my fault. So I’m going to do what I can to make it right.”

Theseus stares at his foe, attempting to truly consider what he is saying. Assuming there are no lies coming from his wretched mouth, he can find Asterius. He can save him.

But he would have to leave Elysium. Anyone would be a fool to want to leave absolute paradise, and furthermore, it is strictly forbidden by Lord Hades, a god that could smite him on the spot if he so chose.

It would only be temporary, says a voice. That same, familiar voice, the owner of which is standing in front of him.

“You have been enjoying yourself,” Asterius told him once, long before the daemon had begun to beat them consistently. He had heaved his axe from the pillar it had been lodged in and used it to rest his arms upon, peering down at Theseus with a certain glint in his eye. “The short one has given us quite the challenge.”

“Ha! Hardly a challenge,” Theseus replied, wiping beads of sweat from his brow. He would need to reapply with a fresh layer of oils after a bath. “We dispatched of him with haste, and the next with even more!”

Asterius chuckled, a low, deep sound that worked its way into Theseus and sat there, warm. “You are enjoying yourself,” he repeated. “We have not fought this hard in some time.”

“Perhaps, my friend.” Theseus grinned. He clapped Asterius on the shoulder, taking a moment to feel the size of his biceps. “What do you say we make to the bathhouse and discuss our strategy?”

Asterius had nodded, Theseus’ excitement bleeding into him. They had never felt so alive together in many years.

Theseus looks at the daemon now and feels his resolve begin to waiver.

Without Asterius, the paradise of Elysium is a weak and pallid place. Asterius is like no other. Upon imagining the soul as wonderful as his being tormented because of the daemon’s—because of his own failure, he feels a new level of fury rise up within him.

“We will find Asterius, quickly. We will find him and then Asterius and I together shall send you back to the depths of Tartarus where you belong.”

The daemon rolls his eyes. He hefts his fists and shrugs off Theseus’ hands, which had not left his shoulders that whole time. Theseus does not think about its implications.

“Wonderful. Now can you—" he breaks off, sighing deeply before continuing. “Blood and darkness, I can’t believe I’m saying this. Can’t believe I’m doing this. Theseus, I need you to kill me.”

“What?” Theseus barks. “What sort of trickery—”

“I want my sword, Stygius,” he says flatly. “It’ll be faster if you just kill me. I’ll work my way back here and then take you with me.” He pauses. “Come on, don’t act like you haven’t been aching to do it this whole time.”

“Of—Of course!” Theseus answers, taken aback. He moves to grab his spear and shield, only just now reminded that they are surrounded by shades still waiting to see them fight. The crowds look anxious, and they cheer when Theseus picks up his spear.

“Defend yourself, daemon!” Theseus calls with renewed vigor. “Prepare your body for my spear!”

The daemon laughs, though Theseus hardly finds the situation amusing.

“Right. Well, let’s make this look good.” He rolls his shoulders, flexing his admittedly admirable muscles. “And by the way, I’m not a daemon. Call me Zagreus. Zag, even, if you prefer. Though I’m sure you don’t.”

Theseus grins and throws his spear.

#hades #hades game #zagreus #theseus #theseus/asterius #asterius #zagreus/asterius #zagreus/asterius/theseus #theseus/zagreus #secret pining #oh boi here we go #burgerking is the ship name isnt it...? love that

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btxtreads · 4 years

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whispers || min yoongi

CHAPTER ONE

➳ Fate is such a fickle thing. So easy to tamper with.

↳ Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader (Based off of the Daechwita MV)

↳ word count: 1.5k words

↳ rating: PG-13

↳ genre: fluff, angst, historical AU

↳ Warnings: Swords, Death, A gun, Battle Scenes, Forced Engagement, Failed Execution, Assassination

↳Trigger warning note: PLEASE BE CAREFUL IN READING THIS FIC. IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY THE THINGS LISTED ABOVE–PLEASE DO NOT PROCEED UNDER THE KEEP READING SIGN.

↳ a/n: i wrote this for like three days until i realized oh maybe it should be a series so enjoy this first chapter lol also!!!!! i put a lil final fantasy thing here and its kind of a central point to the story lmaooooOoO guys send me some asks im like really bored bls

Empress Y/N

Empress Y/N (1384 – 1461) was the second emperor of the Baekje kingdom during the early Joseon era and one of the best-known queens of the Joseon dynasty. Born to a consort, the ongju only became the heir to the throne when Gongju Sun, only child of the Baekje emperor and the late empress Shin, became the empress of Goguryeo after her marriage with the Emperor—father of the late crown prince Geum—after his queen’s untimely death. Y/N became the first empress to rule without a king in 1413, until her marriage to her royal guard Park Jimin in 1420. The empress was then succeeded by her son, Park Il-Guk, after she and her husband stepped down the throne in 1446. She died of natural causes in 1461.

It was a normal day at the temple when the empress suddenly visited. It was dark and silent—the time of the pig[1].

The heavily pregnant empress of Goguryeo, ever the superstitious, approaches the oracle with a careful bow as she cradled her swollen belly. She was due to birth any time.

“Your highness,” greeted the oracle.

“Priestess Cho,” the empress nodded back. “Apologies for having barged in at such an inconvenient time,”

“None-sense, your majesty.” The priestess replied. “The stars have called you here. Who am I to disagree?”

The queen nodded solemnly before setting her hand on her stomach. “I am to birth at any time. I would like you to tell me about my child.”

And tell her she did.

The priestess whispered a prayer as she lit an incense, then closed her eyes.

As if magic, a prophecy tumbled out of her mouth.

A family of greatness

Birthing a child of weakness

As one approaches his end,

A brother prepares to reign.

The queen gasped as tears welled up in her eyes.

She touched her stomach as she felt her child respond to his mother’s touch.

The stars have spoken.

The unborn child will not reach his seventh year, and he will not see his brother crowned as the heir to the throne.

It had been seven years since then.The country prospered and was better than ever.

The crown prince, Geum, grew up to be a cheerful, kind and intelligent boy. He had an affinity for diplomacy and is exceptionally skilled in warfare and battle strategy. The kingdom loved him.

Prince Yunki, however, was a sad child. Perhaps that was because he was constantly ill and born with a death sentence.

The boy was born with snow white hair, which the queen supposed was the result of his illnesses—though quite unheard of. Despite his affinity for swordsmanship and politics, the boy could barely even wield one.

The queen was disheartened.

Agitated by her son’s fate, the empress once again visits the temple. Once again, she sits across the same oracle.

“Your highness,” greeted the oracle. “You have returned.”

“Priestess Cho. I came for my son,” The queen replied with urgency, no time for pleasantries, “The fates have told you that he will die as his brother ages for the throne.”

“They have.”

“Geum will be groomed for the throne soon,” The queen rushed. “Is the death of Yunki really mapped by the gods?”

“No gods, your grace. Stars—the planet. Destiny. Fate. Whatever it is called.”

“Fate dictates the death of my son?”

“Alas, the stars have changed course.” The oracle whispers. “The spirits whisper.”

“What do they say?”

“That your son will be the fiercest king Goguryeo will meet.” The oracle tells. “The emperor that defies fate and destiny.”

“Priestess Cho, forgive me. I was not talking about Geum.”

“Neither am I.” The priestess replied, shocking the queen into silence as she continued. “He will not die tonight, my queen. Not yet. Not for a long while.”

Perhaps the mistake the queen did that night was not to ask what this entailed.

For the following year, the queen was delighted at what she saw.

Yunki loses his illness, recovering at a fast pace. He grew up a strong prince with fair skin, maintaining his white hair, and a sharp gaze. He became strong and fierce.

The queen perished happily that year, joyed at the fact that her son will live. She returned to the planet as her country mourned.

For years to follow, all was well in the kingdom—they had a crown prince who would rule kindly and another who defied fate.

It wasn’t until years later that it all crashed down.

Prince Geum fell in battle, and the emperor died from grief. Prince Yunki immediately ascended to the throne.

The bitter child that he grew up to be, Emperor Yunki became the mad king. All he did was pillage and burn.

That’s what he did to terrorize nearby cities, that’s what he did to eliminate rebels, and that’s what he did to conquer the Kingdom of Silla.

It was because this that fate finally fixed itself—the planet called the whispers[2].

Min Yoongi was simply… Yoongi.

He didn’t think anything was special about him—well, except for the fact that he was a time-travelling assassin sent to different moments of history to fix details that would change the course of destiny.

It would be nice to see an ancient Korea after the mess I made in America, Yoongi thought as he headed to his mission.

He shuddered at the thought of his previous mission—Yoongi spent two whole years egging Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton’s rivalry to end in a duel rather than amicable terms.

Never again.

Shaking his head, Yoongi stepped through time and landed where he needed to, Joseon era—the year 1411.

Yoongi gazed around at the busy street and the lively Goguryeo culture—but that really wasn’t what he’s here for.

Yoongi breathed and nodded to himself.

He was back here to do his mission: assassinate Emperor Yunki and restore the timeline.

Securing his straw hat on his head, Yoongi started to walk through the busy marketplace.

While he did feel weirdly out-of-place, he found that didn’t actually care as long as his cover wasn’t blown.

Three loud bangs on a drum and airy horns were suddenly heard, making him feel alive—Yoongi came at the same time they were playing the Daechwita [3].

Yoongi has always liked music. He liked to play, to listen, to sing and dance and rap. He liked it modern, classical, and traditional—and the Daechwita was one of his favorites. Perhaps it was the ties to his culture.

Intrigued, Yoongi went to watch the captivating performance.

“You really like music, don’t you?” A soft voice hummed next to him. “Obviously, right? A person wouldn’t smile that big while watching the Daechwita if they didn’t like music.”

He turned to see a girl, donned in a plain-looking blue and purple hanbok, tilting her head at him.

Yoongi blinked and turned to leave. “Hey, wait!”

The girl ran after him. “Hello!”

“Goodbye,”

“What’s your name?” The girl persisted, as Yoongi turned to another pathway, his hands in his pockets.

“None of your business.” Yoongi quipped, shooting the girl an irritated gaze.

“Sorry, I just found it really sweet that you were so happy, watching the Daechwita,” the girl continued. “While I do like music too, I really don’t listen to the Daechwita much.”

Yoongi sighed, deciding to humor the girl.

“You’re a commoner, what business do you have listening to the Daechwita?”

“You’re right, nothing!” She smiled.

“Right.”

Yoongi continued walking, vaguely aware of the footsteps following behind him.

“So, what’s your name?”

Yoongi glared at the happy girl, who only smiled back.

“If you refuse tell me, I will call you Daechwita until you do.”

Yoongi huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “Listen, don’t you have anyone else to bother?”

The girl shrugged. “Not really. Besides, everybody in the country is busy these days.”

At this, Yoongi snapped into attention, turning to the girl to gather intel on his mission. “Why? What’s happening?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The girl snorted before shrugging. “The emperor of Baekje and his… ah… daughters have arrived. The gongju[4] is going to marry the emperor.”

“Emperor Yunki? A wedding?” Yoongi asked. That bastard is getting married?

“Yes.” The girl nodded, smiling.

“Have you seen the emperor yet?” Yoongi asked curiously, taking note of possible locations.

The girl slowly shook her head. “No, I’ve never seen him. I’m just a visitor.”

“From where?” Yoongi asked.

The girl gulped. “Baekje.”

“Ah,” Yoongi nodded. “What was your name again?”

“…Y/N?” The girl replied hesitantly.

So, this is Empress Y/N of Baekje, Yoongi noted before he shrugged. Didn’t know she was this annoying.

“Okay, then.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait, that’s it? That’s your response? To what I just told you?”

He turned his head and raised an eyebrow. “Yes, was I supposed to say anything else?”

The girl’s eyes lighted up. “No!”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and turned to leave when the girl bounded up next to him.

“So, where are you from?”

Yoongi let out an exasperated sigh.

This was going to be a very long day.

LORE GUIDE:

[1] In the Joseon era, people told time via sundials and water clocks. As they did not follow the modern format of time yet, they based off of animals. The time of the pig means 9:00 – 11:00 PM.

[2] Based off of the Final Fantasy 7 remake, Whispers were entities that were meant to keep destiny in line. They appear at instances where destiny could possibly change course and make sure that whatever needs to happen, happens. However, this can be broken as Cloud and his team destroys all entities and changes the past, present and future—altering the timeline and creating a new one.

[3] Daechwita is a genre of Korean tradition music played with snares and woodwind instruments. This is usually performed during marching or when the king is out.

[4] Ongju and Gongju are both princesses. Gongju, however is the daughter of the king and queen—a crown princess. An ongju is the daughter of the king and a consort.

For other questions DM me,,,, also i just really want people to talk to u

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talpup · 3 years

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Summary: Yami Sukehiro just wanted to join the Magic Knights and make his mentor proud. He knew there would be trails. He knew trouble would come his way. Knew he would be faced with discrimination for being a foreigner and a peasant. What he didn’t know. Didn’t expect. Was that literal Chaos would come his way. That he and his mentor’s sister would be at the center of world ending trouble. Or that he would fall in love with his mentor’s sister and face more than discrimination; but the jealously of Nozel Silva who loved the same woman he did.

This chapter is a short one so I decided to do a double update this week. Mostly doing it because I wanna share the drama that happens in chapter76 and can't wait two more weeks to do it. lol

Please remember this fic is rated mature and has warnings of violence, abuse, sexual tension, eventual sexual behavior, and other possible triggers. For a full list of story tags please check the fics AO3 (link to that at the top of my tumblrs homepage).

Chapter 75

Yami woke up the following day wondering how he had gotten up to his bedroom. He remembered waking up on the ground propped up against a tree, a crowd of Magic Knights still surrounding the training field. He had made his way to the nearest tap of ale and given the man tending the barrel a silver coin with the instruction to keep his mug topped off. The alcohol hit him quicker than usual given his empty stomach. It had probably hit him on the first pint he had upon arriving which was probably why had acted the way he had with Teris.

Teris... Yami groaned, sitting up in bed. He had really messed up there. He just hoped he hadn’t done anything else he’d regret. Getting on Teris’ bad side was bad enough.

He had been drunk before. And as long as he was left alone, he was a quiet, subdued drunk. But if instigated, his temper was near instantaneous.

Gendry entered with a cup of coffee and large glass of water. “Good. You’re finally up. The Captain and Bronn are due back soon and I didn’t want to have to explain why you’re still in bed.”

Yami took the water first, downing the liquid messily. “You the reason I made it here?”

Gendry gave a single nod, taking the glass and handing over the coffee. “You’re even heavier than you look.”

Yami rubbed his aching head knowing he’d be feeling worse if he hadn’t been brought in. “Thanks. I didn’t do anything stupid. Did I?”

“You mean more stupid than attempting to challenge Bronn one on one?”

“I could’ve taken him. Bastard deserves a good ass kicking.” Yami set down the coffee and got out of bed.

Gendry stepped back near the small writing desk. “You’re set to take his place. How would it look to everyone who was there watching? You and he tearing into each other.”

“I would think most would be cheering me on, while the rest would be rooting for him.” Yami said. “Neither one of us have many friends. And most of those friends are right old bastards themselves.”

Gendry raised a brow. “You call me a right old bastard?”

Yami smirked. “I said most.”

“And the Captain when he found out? Cause you know he would’ve.”

Yami waved, noting Gendry hadn’t even bothered taking off his boots. “Jax would’ve been fine. Eventually. He knows better than anyone how much Bronn deserves a beat down.”

Gendry shook his head. “Not by you. Not like that.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway.” Yami said, deciding to stay as he was until he got some food in him and had a bath. “The other Vice Captain's talked Bronn out of agreeing.”

Gendry watched Yami scrub his face and neck clean at the wash basin. “You sing when you’re drunk.”

“What’s that?” Yami turned, water dripping from his face.

“You sing. Not half badly either.” Gendry said.

Yami wore a crooked half smile. “What was I singing?”

Gendry shrugged. “Couldn’t understand.”

Yami chuckled, drying off his face and hands. “Thought you said it wasn’t half bad.”

“That’s not the reason I couldn’t understand. You were singing in a different language. I’m guessing it was your native tongue.” Gendry said, looking almost sad.

Yami looked away, trying to remember. He couldn’t.

“Don’t know.” Yami took his belt with its grimoire off the bedpost, and his katana off the chest of drawers; the only two things Gendry had removed. “Thanks for seeing me to bed. And for the water. Gonna get me another glass along with some food and find Teris. Got some apologizing to do.”

“You can do both at the same time. She’s in the kitchens cleaning up from breakfast.” Gendry told.

Yami’s eyebrows pulled together. “It’s not her week for that. Was Tobin sent out on another mission?”

“He’s still here.” Gendry answered. “But you think Tobin’s gonna remind her of his chores when she’s taken them over and shouted him out?”

Yami made a face. “She’s still mad, huh?”

“Don’t know what you did but good luck fixing it.”

“I’ll fix it.” Yami said, passing Gendry as he left his room.

75.1.2

Standing in the doorway of the kitchens watching Teris wash dishes, Yami teased. “I think you missed a spot.” When she didn’t respond he signed and made his way to her. Placing his hands on her hips, he nuzzled her neck. “Come on, Ikigai.”

“I already told about calling me things I don’t know the meaning of.” Teris snapped, trying and failing to focus on scrubbing the plate in her hands.

Yami smiled. She had spoken to him. The first hurdle was complete. “It’s nothing bad. I promise.”

“I don’t care. I still don’t know the meaning of it.” Teris grumbled.

Yami stood there a moment, watching her take up another dirty dish to scrub. Teris didn’t mind doing household chores, but she hated doing dishes. Given that she was willfully doing them when it wasn’t her turn, Yami had thought it would’ve been harder to get her to acknowledge him.

“I’m not going to apologize for enjoying my birthday for once.” Teris said, staring at the soapy water.

“Nor should you.” Yami said, feeling stupid for letting William bait him into jealousy.

“You’re the one who echoed Julius and made me promise to act proper and do what was expected of me.” Teris went on.

“I know.” Yami nodded.

“Then why--”

Yami pressed his forehead against the back of her head. “Cause I’m a stupid, ill-tempered ass.”

Teris turned to face him. “No you’re not. Not with me.”

Yami huffed ruefully and smirked down at her. As hard as he tried to be better when it came to her, they both knew that wasn’t always the case. “I’m sorry.”

As badly as Teris wanted to accept his apology and move passed it. She had to know. “I thought we trusted each other.”

Yami placed his hands on her bare shoulders. “I do trust you. I was stupid. Upset because I can’t take you out like that. I know you did nothing wrong. I’m glad you finally had an enjoyable birthday.”

“I would’ve enjoyed it more if you’d been there.” Teris said, smiling shyly up at him.

Yami grinned at her. “We’ll go together soon enough. Promise. Till then,” he leered over her, placing his hands on the counter-top on either side of her, “I still have a belated gift to give you.”

“Stop it.” Teris laughed, reaching back to grab a soapy rag.

As she turned to do so the light hit her bare shoulder and he caught a glimpse a yellowish, light purple bruise.

“Hold up.” Yami said, his tone making Teris stop and wonder what was wrong.

Now that he was looking, Yami noted bruises on her other shoulder too. His hands lifted hovering over Teris’ shoulders lining his fingers over each mark. He sucked in a breath. A fire raged in his chest, much different than the heated rush he’d felt moments ago at the thought of kissing her. Only seven circular discolorations could be made out; but there was no doubting that she had been grabbed roughly. The light, ugly color of the bruises told him that they had likely been made two or three days ago. He remembered what William said last night, that Nozel had pulled Teris into a room and locked her away with him.

“I’m gonna kill him.” Yami swore his voice dangerously quiet. He turned and made for the kitchens exterior exit.

“Yami! Wait!” Teris rushed after him reaching out and grabbing his arm.

Yami didn’t pull away from her but didn’t stop his steps either. Teris was forced to cloak herself in mana least she lose her hold on him.

“Yami. Please! Stop.”

Yami turned back to look at her, surprised to see her using her magic to keep him there. “Does his life mean that much to you?”

“Yours does. Your future as a Magic Knight means that much to me.” Teris’ hold relaxed a bit now that he stopped but she still didn’t let go of him.

Yami stared down at her, taking in her pleading look of concern.

Stepping to him Teris reminded. “A few days ago you asked me not to do anything that would jeopardize our being together here and now. I’m asking you to do the same. Please, don’t do anything that might see you taken away from me.”

Yami didn’t tell her that there was nothing in this world that could keep him from her. That he would fight. Kill. Lay waste and destroy this kingdom and all the others to stay by her side. His muscles and voice trembled with barely restrained fury. “Royal bastard hurt you.”

“Who do you think you’re with? You think I can’t take care of myself?”

Yami stepped to her. “I didn’t say that.”

Teris shook her head in annoyance. “I swear you and Julius! At least he had the excuse of me wearing a dress at the time.”

“What does stupid clothes have to do with this?” Yami asked.

“Nothing.” Teris sighed, thinking about how much weaker and needy she felt in a gown.

“So Julius knows Bird Braid did this? That he hurt you.” Yami questioned.

“He didn’t hurt me.” Teris stressed.

Yami stared back at her having none of it. “Then who gave those bruises?”

“It’s fine.” Teris assured. “Over with. Handled. There was a misunderstanding which Nozel had a bit of an overreaction about. He apologized. Profusely.”

Yami realized he wasn’t going to convince her that a simple apology, no matter how earnest, wasn’t good enough. Not when she’d been hurt. Not when the markings of Nozel’s hands were staring him in the face.

Yami took a breath forcing himself to relax. “What was the Little Bird so upset about anyway?”

“He thought Mereoleona had told me about the birthday surprise to Racine that he had planned. He went through a lot of effort to make it happen. His father and my brother apparently requiring much convincing to give up the stuffy dinner and ball that’s always put on.” Teris finally released her hold on his arm, confidant he wouldn’t take off in search of Nozel.

Yami looked at her. She might have been telling the truth as she knew but he was sure Nozel would never get upset enough to harm her over such a misunderstanding. There was another reason, a reason she didn’t know, that had caused the royal lose himself and react in such a way.

Yami took another deep breath, tamping down his anger. He had waited months to teach Nozel a lesson for kissing her. While he wouldn’t wait that long this time, he could force himself to hold off for the moment for Teris’ sake.

He took a step toward the sink, nudging her along in ahead of him. Hands resting to either side of her on the counter-top, Yami leered over her. “Want me to help with the rest of the dishes? All it’ll cost you is a kiss.”

75.2

“Again.” Fuegoleon demanded, out of breath and drenched with sweat.

“You’re tired and lagging. I’ll end up sending you to the healers.” Nozel told.

“And since when have you had a problem with that?” Fuegoleon asked, his stance ready for Nozel’s attack,

Mereoleona had gotten after him during the Crimson Lions squad practice this morning. His Captain pointing out his lacking in defensive ability as only an older sister could. It was why Fuegoleon had asked Nozel to help him during their scheduled training session.

Nozel had been all too happy to agree knowing he could attack and Fuegoleon wouldn’t directly attack back. But now the Silver Eagle was slowing his strikes. Using less powerful spells as if worried he would substantially hurt his friendly rival.

It only served to make Fuegoleon angry and more determined. “Again.”

Nozel sighed. “Fine. But don’t blame me when you’re laid up for the rest of the day--”

“Silva!”

Nozel and Fuegoleon turned.

Yami entered the training yard, his anger flaring upon seeing the royal. It didn’t help his temper that he had first gone to the Silver Eagles base only to be told Nozel was at Magic Knights Headquarters training. That had left Yami searching the many training yards at Headquarters to find the man.

Yami hadn’t lied to Teris about his plans when he had left the Black Bulls base. He had stopped at the city of Aster to the few things he said he was going out for.

Fuegoleon watched Yami pass him without a glace and stop in front of Nozel.

The Black Bull reached for the Silver Eagle only to have Nozel blocked his hand.

“You won’t be doing that ever again.” Nozel growled, thinking of the dislocations the last time Yami had grabbed a hold of him “You want to fight. Fight like a gentleman.”

Yami glared at Nozel not sure if he could control his temper well enough for an actual fight. “You talk of being a gentleman after you’ve laid hands on a lady like that. I told you what would happen if you were stupid enough to do something like that again.”

“You kissed her again!” Fuegoleon exclaimed, wondering when that happened.

Nozel spun to face the Vermillion. “No!”

“He hurt her.” Yami rumbled, never taking his eyes off Nozel.

The only reason Yami wasn’t tearing into the royal on sight was because Teris holding him back from immediately acting had given him time to think. Nozel wouldn’t intentionally hurt Teris any more than he would. That much Yami was certain. Teris had mentioned some sort of misunderstanding; only Yami doubted it was the misunderstanding she believed it to be. He would hear Nozel out. Then he would kick the mans ass.

Fuegoleon’s mana roared to life. Fiery eyes on Nozel, he demanded. “You what!”

Nozel turned icy blue eyes on the Crimson Lion. “It wasn’t like that. Teris is my Intended.” His heard Yami’s katana slide a couple inches out of its sheath. Keeping his eyes on Fuegoleon but other senses on Yami, he went on. “Do you really think I would intentionally harm her?” His almost commented how much Teris meant to him but stopped. “I gripped her a bit too tightly when I thought—you know—she knew.”

“And that makes it alright?” Fuegoleon questioned.

“No. It most certainly doesn’t make it alright.” Nozel stated. “You think I’m proud of myself? That I haven’t beaten and berated myself over it?”

“I’ll beat you if it’ll make you feel better.” Yami offered. “I’ll beat you either way.”

Nozel turned on him. “When were you going to tell me that my father tried to have you killed again?”

Yami glanced at Fuegoleon wondering when and how the Vermillion learned about all that. Turning back to Nozel, he shrugged. “Didn’t realize I needed to tell you every time your Daddy tried to take care your problems for you.”

Ignoring the dig, Nozel fiercely stated. “When it comes to this. I need to know.”

“Why? What difference does it make?” Yami asked. “You weren’t able to do anything the last time. How was I to know you weren’t aware this one was coming too?”

It struck Yami then what he should have put together sooner. That if Nozel had been aware of his father's plans the Silver Eagle would have sent him word of warning. As much as Nozel wanted him out of the way, preferably through his death, Yami knew Nozel was too honorable to stand by and let such an attempt be made if he had the time and chance to inform him.

“You just—you tell me. Is that understood.” Nozel told.

Yami smirked at him, wondering if the braid of silver hair hanging down the middle of Nozel’s face ever made the royal cross-eyed. “You think you can give me orders?”

“I out rank you.” Nozel reminded.

“Oh? So we’re going to make this official? I’d like to see Greywright’s face when that order comes across his desk.” Yami teased.

“Shut up.” Nozel snapped.

“Why’d you do it?” Yami asked.

Thinking Yami was referring to the latest attempt on his life, Nozel expelled, voice low and harsh. “I told you! I didn’t know!”

“Hurt Teris.” Yami clarified, finding Nozel’s heightened emotional state both grating and gratifying. “Why’d you hurt Teris? She said it was cause you thought this birthday surprise of yours was ruined, but I know you’d never lose control over something like that. So what was it that set you off?”

“He foolishly thought my sister had told her about all this.” Fuegoleon answered for the Silva.

“About his father hiring people to kill me?” Yami asked.

Fuegoleon nodded.

Yami looked at Nozel. “Just how many people know your father's tried to have me killed?”

“I overheard my father and sister talking about it.” Fuegoleon said. “I confronted Nozel the following morning. Far as I know that’s it.”

“How many on your side know?” Nozel questioned, knowing even if Yami wanted to keep it to himself, someone in his circle had to know.

Yami thought a moment before answering. “Three. Possibly four or five.”

“What!” Nozel exclaimed.

“What? Three on your side know.” Yami shot back. “I’m the victim here.”

“You are far from a victim.” Nozel sneered.

Yami shrugged. “Besides, it’s not like I told them. Julius and Tobin were at the bar the first time. Julius put it together easily enough. He’s the one that told me it was likely your father.”

“Julius knows!” Nozel felt wobbly, the world spinning too fast.

“Tobin might not pick up on most things all that well but he’s quick on the uptake when it comes to threats and other unsavory stuff. No one told him out right but I’m pretty sure he’s put it all together. Especially after this last time and all that went on between Bronn and I after.” Yami soured at the memory of the Vice Captain knocking him out and taking his money to Nathyn Silva in his stead.

Nozel’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What happened with this last time and after?”

“You don’t get to ask that. I’m not playing your sick game where I tell you all the details of where, who, and how your father tried to have me killed. And I’m certainly not telling you what went down after.” Yami said, thinking no one needed to know how stupid he had been in his plan.

As much as Yami hated it, he owed Bronn for knocking him out and delivering the money to Lord Silva. Actually, he didn’t owe Bronn since the Vice Captain had called them even for Yami having saved Bronn's life out on the battlefield.

“So Lord Julius. And I’m guessing your Captain and Vice Captain know as well.” Fuegoleon said, figuring Julius would have informed them for Yami’s safety after the first attempt.

Yami huffed. “Yeah. Julius told Jax and Jax told Bronn. Bunch of gossiping hens.” He muttered, complaining.

Ignoring Yami’s disrespect, Fuegoleon said. “So the three of them and possibly Tobin. You said there could be five on your side. Who’s the fifth possibility? Julius’ Vice Captain?”

Yami hadn’t even considered that Jon might know. Well, he thought, that made possibly six; nine counting the three Vermilion's.

Looking at Fuegoleon, Yami said. “My guess. Greywright.”

Nozel and Fuegoleon’s eyes widened.

“The Knights Commander knows?” Nozel expressed, looking like a startled hare.

“Shut up.” Yami snapped. “I said it was a guess. Mana, you got to calm down. I can see why you lost control of you senses and gripped Teris so hard when you thought she knew.”

“Which is something that none of us want.” Fuegoleon stated firmly, staring at Yami.

“Agreed.” Yami said, eyes trained on Nozel. “Look, I came here to kick your ass for bruising Teris up. But seeing how adamant she was I don’t do anything. The reason why you did it. And,” he looked the royal over, “the state you’re in. I’ll let it go this once. Just know that if there’s a next time, I won’t give a damn why you did it or what state your in. I’ll end you without question.”

Nozel glared. “There won’t be a next time but that has nothing to do with what you said or what you want.”

“Don’t care. Just so long as it doesn’t happen again.” Yami paused a moment, considered the matter over and said. “If you really want to know. I’ll send you message next time your father tries to have me killed.”

“Hopefully there won’t be a next time.” Fuegoleon said.

Yami looked at the Vermillion with interest. “How’s that?”

Fuegoleon glanced at Nozel before answering. “That’s what I heard Leona and my Father talking about. It sounds like my Father spoke to Lord Silva and told him something that would stay his hand.”

“Well that’s good news.” Yami grinned. “So Teris and I can do what we want as openly as we want.”

“No. No! That’s not what that means. You go doing that and--” Fuegoleon saw Yami’s amused expression and stopped. His eyes narrowed with angry disapproval. “You’re having fun at my expense.”

“It’s not like you can’t afford it.” Yami chuckled at his own joke.

“Get out of here.” Fuegoleon snipped.

“Gladly.” Yami grinned, amused at the royals temper.

Nozel watched Yami leave the training yard. “I’m going to executed that foreigner someday.”

Fuegoleon’s eyes slid to the Silver Eagle. “So long as it’s a proper execution carried out within the bounds of the law, I’ll take a front row seat.”

Thank you to those who have left hearts. And a special THANK YOU to those who have recently left comments or re-blogged. They really mean a lot.

Next chapter snippet:

Yami turned, swallowing a stream of curses at the sight of Teris, Nozel, Fuegoleon, William, and Randall. He quickly fished a coin from his money pouch and tossed it on the bar. Getting to his feet, he told the man he’d been talking to something and made his way to his fellows.

“You’re earlier than expected.” Yami said, stepping forward and backing them up through the narrow entryway. “Let’s go.”

#yami sukehiro #nozel silva #fuegoleon vermillion

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avaria-revallier · 4 years

Text

Chapter 8 - She sings for her brothers

Masterpost

Chapter 7

Thorin pathed up and down in front of the large, closed door. He could hear her familiar giggling from inside. It filled him with warmth, but at the same time, cold fear made him freeze when he thought of the possibility of losing this sound.

There were two other, deeper voices coming through the door, but due to the thick wood, he wasn’t able to identify them. He guessed that it was Fili and Kili. His sister-sons had taken quite the liking to his hobbit.

“Uncle, what are you doing here?” asked a familiar voice from behind him.

“We thought you had an important meeting with the elf and the wizard?” Kili continued his older brother's questioning.

“It’s none of your business,” he grumbled, continuing his pacing.

Abruptly, he stopped in his tracks, almost causing his nephews to run into him.

“If you are out here with me, who is it then in there with her?” he stared at the two princes, panic slightly creeping up his spine.

He knew that Oin had left her quite some time ago to gather some herbs from the tree-shaggers garden. Dwalin had proceeded with organizing their camp as they didn’t feel safe staying in separate chambers. Bombur was gone to plunder the kitchens, taking Bifur and Bofur with him. Ori was somewhere in the vast gardens, drawing and gathering flowers for the burglar. Nori was being scolded by his older brother, while Gloin took a nap.

So, who in Mahal's name was in her room? Who dared to laugh and giggle so comfortably with his hobbit?!

Furiously, he stormed inside the room, without even knocking! The door crashed against the wall and all the laughter suddenly stopped. Three pairs of eyes rested on him.

His gaze was instantly drawn to her beautiful eyes, but he warned himself not to lose his composure. Instead of drowning in her eyes, he averted his look to critically inspect the other two.

Two identical elves sat on each side of her bed. Twins, he concluded. They didn’t look as if they were threatening her in any way, still, why would they even be here? What was it that they might want from his burglar?

It was wonderful to see Elladan and Elrohir again. She had missed the twin-sons of Lord Elrond greatly. They had always managed to cheer her up with their mischiefs and the pranks they pulled.

First, she had been surprised to find them in the infirmary, but shortly after she understood that neither of them was ill or injured. They just were here to ‘acquire’ some bandages and mild sleeping pills. Most likely for another one of their mischiefs.

During the first half of an hour, she had been nothing more than a sobbing mess. The brothers did their best to cheer her up by telling her about their best pranks. It was so good to see them again, to talk with them.

They had just finished telling her the story about how they had hidden some really old eggs all over the library, waiting for Lindir to find all of them. Because of the wonderful reaction of his, they had decided to reenact this ‘event’ every year from then on.

Her ribs only stung every now and then when she inhaled too deep and even laughing brought no other discomfort than a light stabbing pain. The healers of Imladris were really the best ones around. They had managed to mend her broken ribs, stabilized her twisted ankle, and even relocated her shoulder so it didn’t hurt all too much anymore. She felt cleaner than throughout the whole journey and the white dress they had organized for her in a hurry was very comfortable. The pain remained in her body but was not as obvious as before.

She had tried to convince the twins to let her leave the infirmary and join the others, but they had managed to keep her there, telling her stories of the past and letting her in on their pranks. She knew some of their stories, but to hear them from themselves was better than all she could have wished for at the moment.

She giggled at their tale about how they had put glue on Thranduil's crown when he visited ages ago. Gesturing to lean in a bit she wrapped her arms around both of their necks, pulling them closer and placing a big kiss on each of their cheeks. She had missed them dearly.

Thorin chose this exact moment to barge in, slamming the door against the wall, making one of the framed pictures fall onto the ground. Under his glare, she shrunk a bit, but corrected herself immediately by straightening her back. She had done nothing wrong!

Behind the fuming king appeared his nephews, Fili and Kili. They only popped their heads into the room, eying the twin elves with suspicion and curiosity. With wide eyes they watched their fuming uncle and leader. Bella feared the moment when both brother pairs realized what they had in common. Their mischiefs.

“Tho- Master Oakenshield, what are you doing here? I thought you had a meeting with Lord Elrond to decipher your map,” she tilted her head in confusion.

Did he just growl at the twins?! He did, she realized when she looked at the panicked expressions on Kilis and Filis faces.

“I believe nobody had introduced you to each other? Elladan and Elrohir meet Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of this company,” she smiled at the two elves and ruffled Elladan’s hair.

Another deeper growl came from the direction of the dwarven king. Bella's hand stopped moving and her eyes wandered towards the dwarf. Thorin was standing in the open door like a wild warg that had finally gone mad. His eyes hard and cold, his lips pressed together in a firm line. One hand resting on the sword, the other clenched in a fist.

“What do you think you are doing?” he barked at Bella, his frosty gaze still resting on the twins.

She knew the tone in his voice all too well. The last time she heard it, he had almost thrown her off the walls of Erebor, marking her a traitor and banishing her from his lands.

Bella flinched at his harsh voice and the memory connected with it. Her ribs ached and breathing suddenly became so much harder. In her mind, she could see the faraway ground under her dangling feet all too well. Felt his hand around her neck, and the cold wind in her hair.

She stared at him, her eyes wide, in pain, panicked. Separating her hands from the twins and hugging herself tightly, ignoring the explosive waves of hot pain in her shoulder and ribcage.

“Is there something you wanted from me? I believe you have somewhere to be. As you can see, I am in good company,” she told him, her voice cold and her eyes flickering.

Elrohir closed in on her. His large hands gently untangled two of her curls. He had taken a liking to the hobbit lass, as did his brother. Elladan tensed seeing the pain in her eyes. He could see the discomfort in Bella's face. Something was not right and the cause was the rude dwarf in the medical wing.

There was more to this conversation than what meets the eye. That, both brothers were sure of. In silence, they swore to get to the bottom of this. A nod sealed their pact.

“I think you should go, father is surely waiting for you already,” Elladan advised the king with a sharp subtone.

“We will gladly escort you there,” Elrohir offered, standing up from the bed and stepping between Thorin and Bella.

“Very well then, burglar. Stay with your precious tree-shaggers. You had no place amongst us from the start.”

His glare was cold as ice, but still burning as hot as dragon fire on her skin. Those words were spoken in anger, Bella knew that. She still flinched and turned away to hide the tears rolling down her face.

Thorin said nothing more as he left the room together with the twins. He didn’t need to. The damage was done and the wound deep enough. He didn’t look back either.

Fili looked at his brother. They had witnessed the whole thing and were not sure if now would be a good time to give her their craft. Still, now was better than never.

“Uncle Thorin did something stupid, didn’t he?” Kili asks as if to complete Fili’s thoughts.

Sighing, he nodded. Of course Thorin would. They all saw it. Bella was special to him. He valued her, her talents, and her advice as much as her company. Thorin's eyes would find her whenever he thought nobody was watching. When she laughed, his mood would lighten and when she was tired he would order them all to rest, even if it was in the middle of nowhere.

Fili had never seen his uncle acting this way towards anyone other than his family. He couldn’t help but wonder what his mother would say about this whole situation. In his mind, a plan was beginning to form. They would have to write to their mother soon anyway. Why not ask her for advice at the same time? He smiled at Kili, his brother would quite like this idea too.

Kili nodded, interpreting the smile wrongly and stepped out of the shadows in the hall and into Bella's room.

The hobbit seemed even smaller than before. The way she sat there, silently sobbing and trying her best to wipe away her tears that constantly flowed from her eyes. She looked frail and tired, and somehow very old.

He cleared his throat a bit louder than necessary. Bella jumped at the sudden sound and hastily turned around. her eyes were red and swollen and her face looked so sad that Fili flinched back. Kili reacted in exactly the same way.

“Ah, well. I am sorry,” Fili started, awkwardly scratching his neck, “Uncle was never really good with words, especially not if he cared for a person.”

Kili stared at the ground, his hands fiddling on the button of the pocket that contained their gift. His determination suddenly dwindled. Maybe she didn’t want to have anything to do with any of the dwarrows ever again. What if she didn’t accept? Or worse, she really would stay with the elves of the last homely house. She did look like she liked those twins quite a lot. More than him and Fili? Surely not.

“May we sit next to you?” he asked instead of voicing all those questions swarming his head.

Bella nodded at the brothers. She was happy that at least they wouldn’t turn away from her, now that Thorin seemed to react even fiercer than in her previous life. His reaction had somehow caught her off guard and hurt all the more.

Her eyes still felt swollen and her vision was still blurry from all the tears. She sat herself upright once more, her back against the wooden head of the bed. Kili climbed first onto the large bed, followed by his brother shortly after. With Fili on her left and Kili on her right side, she relaxed a bit. They gave her a sense of comfort and safety.

“Mistress Baggins,” Fili started again, “ I, we have something for you,” he stopped, shyly looking through the window.

“It is not much, but it was crafted by our own hands,” Kili hurried to help his brother.

Looking down, Bella could spot a pair of silver bells resting in the palm of the dark haired prince. A gasp escaped her and she clutched her hands over her mouth. Tears started flowing once again, this time out of joy and not because of pain or sorrow.

A warm, tingly feeling blossomed in her chest and pulsed through her whole body with each excited thump of her heart. It was a feeling long forgotten. Her hands trembled as she reached out. Her breath hitched. She couldn’t hide the shaky smile any longer and her eyes darted back and forth between the brothers.

Fili still stared out the window, his hands buried in his pockets, while Kili eyed her with a goofy grin, bringing their present a bit nearer to her fingers. Aside from her own fast breath, the princes didn’t seem to breathe at all.

Careful, as if the hairpin was made out of glass, Balla picked it up and held the bells up towards a ray of sunlight shining through the trees outside the window. The golden light made the tiny pair of bells gleam and glitter. They looked even prettier than she remembered. With her fingers the hobbit caressed the engraved runes and moved across the elegant hairpin. A dwarven craft indeed. She couldn’t even see how they had fastened the bells onto the pin. The engraved runes looked so natural on those bells, as if they had been always there, hidden.

Their gleam and soft ring made her heart painfully tighten. Suddenly the bright colours of her surroundings dimmed and her fingers felt cold. These bells had found their way back to her. Maybe, just maybe he would too.

Before, one bell had hung next to her ear while the other gleamed in the raven-black hair of a certain someone. In perfect harmony with the silver strains of hair and beads. Bellas face heated up as she remembered seeing him back in the Shire, without the bell adorning his dark mane. It had changed something deep inside her.

Her heart still fluttered whenever he was near, whenever he looked at her with those unbelievably blue eyes. Each time she had to stop herself from touching his arm or hand even if just briefly.

When she poked at his chest, in Bree, when she touched his arm, and when she felt the brief touch as she freed him from the sack the trolls had put him in. It all felt right and made her soul hum in excitement. Still, it was wrong.

Subconsciously, her fingers brushed over her lips ever so slightly. Get yourself together, Bella, she scolded herself.

Pressing the gift against her chest, she took a few moments to gather herself, dry the tears and find the right words. Her heart felt lighter and the anxiety which weighed her down suddenly disappeared.

“I love it,” she simply said.

There were no words to describe her feelings better. Joy and happiness flooded her like a good wine. Relief made her head spin and the world brightened up. Fili exhaled a deep sigh. A wide grin on his lips. Smiling, he looked so much younger and more like Kili. They both were so young.

Kili hugged her in excitement, resulting in her bumping against the older of the pair. Both started laughing. Bella relaxed, her head cleared and finally she felt at ease. They would not leave her behind here. Like always these chaotic princes, her brothers now, managed to shoo away all bad feelings and dark thoughts.

“Fili, would you do my hair for me?” Bella said, lifting her head from his shoulder.

Kili sat up in an instant. His hair even messier than before, eyes wide and his mouth slightly open, gaping at the both of them. Fili had a similar expression. Well, a bit more royal or kingly or so to say.

“It would be my pleasure, namad,” the blond-haired prince grinned triumphantly at his brother, while Kili grumbled something under his breath.

Bella patted the empty spot next to her. Once Kili had made himself comfortable, she gently started to untangle his strands. Curled up next to her, he looked even younger, vulnerable. Her heart ached, remembering how still he had laid there on the cold stone of Erebor. But here, in the soft warm bed he was safe, alive and definitely breathing as his rising chest proved.

Nimble fingers parted her hair, braided the sections back together and finally brought them all together at the back of her head. The pin held her up and the small silver bells jingled happily with every motion of hers.

With a smile, she gestured at Fili to take place on her other side. Just like his brother, he curled up by her side, his head on her lap. Her hand wandered to her own hair, carefully feeling the artwork Fili had managed to make her wild curls into, before she started caressing the blond and brown hair of her brothers.

Taking a deep breath she starts to sing:

Did you hear from the tale,

Of a land with no name?

Where the earth is still singing,

And the birds flying free?

Did you hear from the eldest,

Of a land with no name?

Where they all come together,

Once a year to celebrate.

Did you hear the winds whisper,

Of a land with no name?

Where the sky seems so near,

Every dream can be reached.

Did you see the smokes pictures,

Of a land with no name?

Where the sky touches the earth,

And the lands smiling still?

Did you hear them all calling,

From a land with no name?

Where we all come together,

Where we all are the same.

As soon as their breaths had deepened and they had completely fallen asleep, Bella carefully tucked them in with blankets and gave each of them a kiss on the head. Brushing again over the braids she had put in their hair.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I had known you all along?” once again she climbed down the bed with a heavy heart.

In the shadows of the hallway, a three-pointed hairstyle vanished just as her feet touched the ground. Unnoticed, the one who heard each of the hobbits' words disappeared to think over the newly gathered information on their mysterious burglar.

Fili and Kili needed the rest more than her. The bells jingled happily as she hopped down the bed. Kili grunted and turned towards his brother. Bella froze on the spot. He wouldn’t wake, would he?

The sun had set some time ago. Now the only things illuminating the halls were the candles on the walls. She didn’t need the lights either way. These halls were as familiar as the tunnels of her smial in Shire.

Here, there lay so many memories. Warm summers, when she explored the gardens and the forest with the twins. Long evenings she spent reading with Lindir. Visits from Gandalf and Lady Galadriel. Wine tasting with Lord Elrond whenever Thranduil visited.

Cold winters with a lot of crying and remorse, while every spring brought a new beginning. Each year in fall she would take a small trip to the surrounding forest and all the way to Shire. In the dead of night she would make her way to the oak tree she had planted all those years ago, greet him, tell him of her pain and sorrow, and share her joyous moments and happy memories with her trusted companion.

“Mistress Baggins?” a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

The song is my own, so I ask of you please do not copy or use it. Thank you!

Chapter 9 - coming soon

AO3

@stuckupstucky

If you want me to tag you as well, please just send me a message.

If you like what you have read consider reblogging my story for others to enjoy too.

I am always open for asks and requests for shorts of our favorite dwarrows!

#middle earth #hobbit #the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction #Hobbit Fandom #my thoughts #story #My Story #original story #fanfiction #the path I choose #Thorin Oakenshield #thorin #king thorin #thorin fanfiction #thorin imagine #bilbo baggins #female Bilbo #thorin x bilbo

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jade4813 · 4 years

Text

Like Moths to a Flame, Chapter 10

Fandom: North and South

Title: Like Moths to a Flame

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: John/Margaret

Synopsis: “I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over.“ Margaret decides to confront John about his unjust judgment of her character, but the two have always been drawn to each other, and things quickly get out of hand. In the aftermath, she agrees to marry him to satisfy propriety, but she cannot forget how ready he was to believe the worst of her. Can love survive without trust, or will the two find a way to work through the misunderstandings that have plagued their relationship from the start?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Though John would never consider time spent with Margaret wasted – nor would he ever regret a single second of it – it did make the subsequent days longer as he strove to find a solution to his financial problem. The debt owed to the bank was a few hundred pounds – a paltry amount compared to what was owed him for orders that his workers had rushed through. He hoped each day for a miracle, that he would receive sufficient outstanding payments to satisfy the bank loan and secure his workers’ payroll, but he waited in vain. The bank’s deadline drew ever nearer, his coffers dwindled, and no miracle loomed on the horizon.

Had he been foolish to refuse Watson’s proposed speculation? If it succeeded, the profit from the venture would clear his debt and secure payroll for months to come. If it failed, however, what little funds he had to pay his people would be lost, with no hope of recovery. He would have left his workers destitute, and he felt he owed them more than to gamble with their livelihoods.

But if it succeeded…

He’d never before understood the siren’s song of speculation, which had led his own father to his death. In the aftermath of the elder Thornton’s self-inflicted demise, John had been forced into a life of poverty and self-deprivation, leaving school to care for his mother and sister and sparing as much money as he could each week to pay his father’s creditors, long after they’d given up any hope of satisfaction.

He’d worked hard, and in the secret recesses of his heart, he’d judged his father harshly for throwing away their fortunes on what amounted to little more than a game of chance. He’d never spoken of his recrimination or his shame aloud, out of consideration for his remaining family’s feelings – though his mother had never been one to mince words when it came to her own judgment, and Fanny had been too young and lacked the sentimental disposition required to be overly protective of either her affection for or her memory of the father she’d lost.

Now, however, he understood the temptation that had lured his father to his ruin, though his own sense of honor and the duty he owed those in his charge had caused him to shy away from the risky venture, no matter how high the potential reward. His refusal had angered Fanny, who had sworn that reward was certain and promised to be considerable, but John knew better than most that speculation was merely that, and not even the wisest of men could guarantee a positive result.

And yet, if it succeeded…

If he’d gambled his mill’s future on the speculation and it turned a profit, his business would be clear of debt. His workers would be paid. He could continue to care for his mother in the manner he had for most of his adult life. He could provide Margaret with the life she deserved, if not the life she’d wanted. And nobody would ever have to know how bad things had been.

John shook his head, running his hands through his hair in a gesture of frustration and despair. No, there was no use in thinking about what might have been. He’d rejected Watson’s offer. He’d refused to engage in speculation, not when the cost of one ill-judged gamble could ruin so many lives. If he’d thrown his hat into the ring and the speculation failed, he’d lose the mill. The house. His workers would be out of jobs and left to starve, if they were unable to find work elsewhere. His mother’s situation would fall to what it had once been, after many years spent in comfort and security. And his wife…

If he’d speculated with his workers’ livelihoods and lost, recklessly subjecting them possible starvation, to the poverty from which he’d once uplifted himself, he wouldn’t be able to look at himself in the mirror without feeling shame. A man who could be so inattentive to his responsibility to others could never hope to deserve Margaret or the love he still wished in his heart might one day be his.

So he applied himself to work, each day seeming longer than the last. His beloved Margaret never chided him for his absence or his neglect, though she always seemed to anticipate the point at which reason was driven to the edge by exhaustion, as she would come to him on those evenings and silently draw him home with her, to sleep by her side. He could not fully confess his fears to her, but neither could he resist her, and his love for her sustained him every bit as much as her tender consideration brought him comfort.

But as the days passed, a nagging sense of doubt grew in his mind, a quiet whisper that warned that Margaret might not be as content as he would wish. Even as his financial apprehensions eclipsed other concerns vying for his attention, he noticed her increasingly troubled expression when she thought him unaware, though the worry lines smoothed from her countenance each time he turned her way. But she never spoke of her concerns, and he – weak, lovesick fool that he was – couldn’t summon the courage to ask, for fear that her preoccupation lay elsewhere. If her distress stemmed from regret, perhaps exacerbated by increasing concerns that he would fail to live up to his promise to provide her comfort and security, his heart would break anew.

Desiring to reassure her of the fidelity of his promise, John was determined to redouble the attention he paid his wife. To that end, he returned home one evening earlier than he typically had of late – the lure of Margaret’s company being far greater than that of the paperwork on his desk – to find her father in their drawing room, the other man having stopped by for a visit. Although slightly disappointed that his more amorous intentions would by necessity be delayed, John always enjoyed Richard Hale’s company and was pleased his calendar was free enough to appreciate it.

His pleasure was only heightened when he saw Margaret’s cheerfulness at the visit. “Mr Bell has invited Father to visit him in Oxford, and I’m encouraging him to go. Don’t you think it’s an excellent idea?” she explained, before turning her attention back to their guest. “It’s been so long since you’ve been to visit, and the weather’s turning warmer, so the roads will be a little easier.”

Mr Hale seemed encouraged by her enthusiasm. “I might go,” he acknowledged. Nodding, as much to himself as to her, he murmured, “Yes, yes. I think I might.”

With that decision seemingly fixed, their conversation turned to other matters for a while, until Richard stood to leave. “I think I will go to Oxford,” he declared, the idea clearly breaking him much joy. John and Margaret wished him well – the latter admonishing him to dress warmly, as there was still a chill in the air – and then he was on his way with their blessings.

Had John known it would be the last time Margaret would share his company, he would have begged the man to stay a while longer. Sadly, prescience was not among his accomplishments.

Although Margaret tried to find contentment in her present circumstances, the things left unsaid between husband and wife preyed upon her thoughts, seemingly increasing her anxiety by the hour. She loved John – more ardently than she ever would have ever supposed – and her silence on that score felt suffocating. She wanted to tell him of her feelings, but questions plagued her mind, sapping away both her contentment and her courage.

She had no illusions that John had come to trust her before taking her hand in marriage. Did he still doubt her integrity? Did he question her faithfulness? Would his opinion of her, once tarnished in his mind, forever carry a shadow of his distrust, even once the truth was known?

Even if she were to put her fears behind her, she couldn’t find the words to share her confession. It seemed impossible to do so without broaching the subject of the scene he had witnessed on the train platform, which had caused him such disgust and brought her so much pain. With so much weighing on his heart already, was it fair of her to upset whatever peace he’d managed to find thus far in their marital harmony?

What if he didn’t believe her? What if he was hurt she hadn’t spoken up before? His anger gave her no cause for alarm, but she couldn’t bear the thought of inflicting additional pain upon him. She would never wish to exact injury upon anyone, him least of all. Not her husband. Not the man she loved. And certainly not now, when his troubles were otherwise so great.

As the weeks passed immediately following her self-revelation, Margaret often found herself on the brink of confessing all to her husband. On each occasion, fear and inconvenient timing silenced her tongue. When the time was right, she promised herself that she would broach the topic of his suspicion and determine whether the trust she so needed to find true happiness in marriage had been regained. If so, she would tell him the truth. And confess to him her love.

In the meantime, she strove to provide him with such contentment, peace, and comfort as was within her power to give. She gave such assistance at the mill as she was able during the day and let her love wash over him at night, her body betraying the secrets of her heart, even if her lips could not. She felt his overwhelming weariness when they made love, pressing her mouth against the deep lines in his brow and offered him her strength when he sagged against her, his cheek pressed against her shoulder. In the aftermath of their coupling, he would fall asleep in her arms, the steady rise and fall of his chest and rhythmic beat of his heart soothing her own cares.

They had been married long enough for Margaret to grow accustomed to the idea but not long enough to overcome the full measure of her shyness – engrained in her from the time she was a child – at her husband viewing her nakedness when she awoke early one morning to see John standing before the fire, preparing his ablutions for the day ahead. He was stripped to the waist, his skin gleaming in the faint light. The fire in the grate was newly lit, its illumination weak and almost begrudging, but it was bright enough for her to see the ripple of muscles beneath his skin as he bent to splash cold water upon his face. She found herself entranced by the solid cord of muscle in his stomach and arms, the play of light and shadow against his upon his bare skin.

Though she doubted he would consider it a compliment, looking at him like this, she could only think how beautiful he was to her. How cherished. He stole her heart and took her breath away.

The sight of him drew her out of bed, the floor cold beneath her bare feet as she crossed the room, resting her hand gently upon his lower back as he straightened. He turned to face her, beads of moisture trailing down his face, and she placed her hand over his, gently tugging the towel from his grasp. He watched in silence as she tossed it aside and didn’t protest when she pressed her free hand against his chest and gave it a firm push, leading him into a nearby chair.

John didn’t say a word as he lowered himself into the seat, but his gaze missed nothing as she cast a critical eye upon the implements he’d laid out beside his washbowl. The shaving razor was open, its blade gleaming, already sharpened upon the strop in preparation for the task at hand. His soap had also already been prepared, the applicator brush resting nearby.

Margaret picking up the brush and mug of shaving soap, working up a lather as she turned back to her husband. His gaze had fallen to her hips, and she realized with a start that, standing before the fire as she was, the outline of her body would be visible through the thin fabric of her nightgown. The thought made her flush, but she feigned ignorance of the view she presented, even as she showed her body off to its best advantage, bending over him to lather his cheeks and chin.

John reached for her, bracing her hips in his palms. His hands were still damp from his morning wash, moistening the fabric of her dress. She shivered, biting back a soft moan of longing, when he pulled her forward until she straddled his chair, her thighs brushing the coarse fabric of his trousers. Unwilling to allow him to distract her from her purpose, she forced her attention to the task at hand, casting a critical eye upon his face to ensure the lather was sufficiently distributed. Then she reached for the razor, her hand trembling slightly as she lifted it to his cheek.

What had seemed like a good idea when she’d started was much more daunting now, when she held the sharpened razor in her hand and prepared to apply it to his bare skin. What if she made a mistake? What if she slipped and injured him? She hesitated, preparing to draw away, but he reached up and wrapped his hand around her own. His eyes were trusting, his gaze warm, as he drew the razor toward his cheek, adjusting the exact angle of the blade before pressing it gently against his skin. Then he dropped his hand, putting his fate entirely in her hands.

Margaret sucked in a sharp breath and narrowed her eyes, focusing the entirety of her attention upon the blade as she scraped it gently against his skin, breathing out a heavy sigh of relief when she managed her first pass without causing injury. Feeling more confident, she applied the blade again, her motions slow and cautious. As she worked, the back of her neck grew damp from the warmth of her fire, and the caress of John’s breath fanned her face as she leaned forward, intent upon her task. She could feel his gaze upon her, but it wasn’t distrust in his eyes. It was desire. Her answering need nearly overwhelmed her, and she required a moment to recollect her composure before she could continue.

With one side completed, John adjusted the angle of his head so that she could complete the job. Her heart pounded when she felt his hands slide under the hem of her nightdress, teasing the soft, sensitive skin of her thighs, and she sucked in an unsteady breath.

As she pulled the razor away, he slipped his fingers inside her, stroking her gently. Her head fell back with a moan, but she strove to gather her wits and regain control. Bracing her free hand on his shoulder, she cast an accusatory glance at his face, only to receive an unrepentant smile in return. However, the consciousness of his own well-being was such that he returned his hands to her hip when she wiped the lather off the blade, lifting it to continue her task.

Margaret’s heart pounded as she slid the razor along the curve of his jaw, and he tilted his head back to allow her greater access to his neck. Her efforts were perhaps not as clean as his would have been, but he didn’t seem to mind. When she finished her last pass, she grabbed a damp towel to wipe away the rest of the lather, but John gently tugged the blade from her hand, letting it fall to the floor. Then his mouth was upon her, teasing the bare flesh above the neck of her nightgown.

She opened her mouth to sigh his name, but the sound was captured by his lips as he pulled her firmly against him, pressing her against his hardness. Grabbing the bottom of her nightgown, he lifted it over her head and tossed it aside, and even in the increasing warmth of the room, she shuddered as she was bared before him. John didn’t seem to find anything amiss, however, as his attention was captivated by her smooth perfection.

Lifting his hand to cup her breast, Margaret found herself enthralled as she always was by his caress. The calluses on his palms were rough against her sensitive skin, but his touch was far from unpleasant. Her head fell back, exposing the curve of her neck, as he brushed a thumb against her aureole until her nipple beaded under his palm.

Her hands had fallen on his shoulders, and she gave in to the temptation to trail her fingertips down his chest, tracing the curve of muscle and bone. She felt first the rapid beat of his heart, then the muscles of his stomach shudder as he sucked in a sharp breath, and knew he wasn’t unaffected by her touch. In the light cast by the fire and the soft sunrise, his eyes were dark and filled with need. She wove her fingers into his hair, pressing him to her, as he bowed his head and sucked her breast into his mouth, teasing her with his tongue. She could feel the strength in his hands when he grasped her hips, guiding her motions as she rocked against him.

Only one layer of fabric separated their bodies, causing Margaret no end of frustration. Pressing her hands against his chest, she lifted off him far enough to reach for the buttons of his trousers. In her haste and her desire, her fingers were clumsy and awkward. Their hands tangled together when he attempted to assist her, causing her to laugh, the sound soft and strained.

She had only just managed to pull him free when he grabbed her thighs and pulled her into his lap once more, pausing only long enough to carefully guide himself inside of her. Margaret gasped as she sank onto him, her response inspired as much by the ominous creaking of the chair beneath them as the sudden fullness of his thrust. Anxious about the unsteadiness of their perch, she tightened her thighs around him and wrapped her arms around his neck, slowly rolling her hips against his.

John tucked his head against the curve of her neck, tickling her with the faint traces of stubble she’d overlooked in her earlier ministrations. His mouth scraped against her skin, eliciting a soft moan, while his hands explored her body, lingering in every spot which had previously brought her pleasure. He kissed the curve of her ear, her cheek, her chin, and Margaret rewarded his efforts with another slow roll of her hips.

Once again, she wrestled with the temptation to speak of her feelings, but this was hardly the time to do so. Her confession – or, rather, confessions, as she believed she had identified a multitude that must be made by now – deserved more consideration than a rashly uttered declaration in the midst of lovemaking. They also required more deliberation than to be hastily blurted over breakfast, or on the way out the door to attend to more pressing concerns and outstanding appointments.

Still, her secret feelings nearly overwhelmed her, swelling within her breast until she couldn't speak for love of him. Leaning back slightly, she wrapped one hand behind his neck to hold him in place as her gaze swept over the face that had engraved itself upon her heart. Their eyes met, and she found she couldn’t tear her gaze away, entranced as she was by the play of emotions upon his face and in his eyes…

Once again, she marveled that she ever could have thought him to be cold and cruel, that she ever could have mistaken his hardness for lack of feeling. Though his features were under his command, frequently schooled into either an impassive mask or a glower of disdain, his eyes betrayed him. Even when he had accused her of impropriety, when he’d told her his passion for her had ended, the chill of his words hadn’t wounded her half so much as that which lay behind those blue eyes, which revealed much, but also saw more than she wished.

Margaret was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of fear at what he might comprehend of her own feelings. In an act of self-preservation, she tore her gaze away, pressing her cheek against the curve of his shoulder as he lifted his hips, plunging inside her.

As she met each powerful thrust with a roll of her hips, Margaret clung to her husband, wishing for nothing more than to prolong this interlude. She felt the muscles beneath her tense and knew he was nearing completion, so she increased the rhythm of her hips, pressing her mouth against his neck to taste the saltiness of his skin as his muscles grew taut and he poured himself inside her. The momentarily respite didn’t last long, however, as he cupped one hand behind her head, holding her against him as he slid the other between her legs, stroking her deftly until wave upon wave of pleasure crashed over her and she found her own release.

She collapsed against him, spent and unwilling to let him go, although she knew she couldn’t hold him in this moment forever. The harsh rasp of their breathing filled her ears, but as their hearts slowed and breathing steadied, the room grew quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire in the grate. When she could put off the inevitable no longer, she lifted her head off John’s shoulder, though she wasn’t yet able to meet his eyes, still uncertain of what her own would reveal.

“Margaret?” His voice was soft and uncertain, and her heart wrenched at the aching vulnerability it betrayed. She was unequal to the task of giving voice to her inner turmoil, so she stared at his lips as she stroked her fingers along the side of his face. Cupped his cheeks in her palms, pressed her mouth against his, drawing his tongue inside her parted lips. In unspoken reassurance, she deepened the embrace until she felt his lingering tension ebb away. When the kiss ended, she drew back to meet his eyes, confident that her own would no longer divulge her secrets.

Climbing off his lap, Margaret rushed to retrieve her nightgown from the floor, quickly pulling it on before turning her attention back to her husband. In the early morning light, Margaret was forced to acknowledge that she made for an imperfect barber, more than one small patch of stubble having escaped her blade, but John issued no complaint. Instead, he used a towel to wipe away what remnants of shaving soap remained, though Margaret noticed that a fair amount had transferred to her person.

Once he had dried his face with a towel, he began to toss it beside the bowl when Margaret grabbed his hand, staying his motion. There, on the bright white fabric, was a small red stain, a sign she had not been as careful with the razor as she had wished. Stretching onto her toes, she examined his skin and noticed the tiniest nick just below his right ear.

“I’m sorry,” she said, speaking as much for her continued silence as the injury she had inflicted upon him.

Touching a finger to the wound, he shook his head. “It’s not deep. It’ll heal soon enough.” He cast a glance at the window, and Margaret knew his mind was turning toward the mill, to the work left undone and the hours that lay ahead of him. Longing to steal just a few more precious moments with him, she helped him to dress, asserting the privilege of such intimacy that only a wife could claim.

The hour was growing late, and Margaret knew her husband was eager to begin his day, but still he hesitated, brushing a lock of hair off her cheek once she had finished straightening his cravat. “Margaret—” he began, a line of worry creasing the skin between his brows, “Forgive me for pressing, but you seem troubled. If something is bothering you, you can confide in me.”

Her heart twisted at the understanding that he had seen more than she’d wished, recognizing the fact of her preoccupation, although he did not yet understand the cause. Pulling him to her, she pressed a kiss against that telltale evidence of his concern. “It’s nothing,” she attempted, though she didn’t need to see his face to anticipate his answering skepticism. Taking his hands in hers, she remarked, “It’s getting late, and work is more important. I don’t want to keep you any longer than I already have.”

John wasn’t willing to be so easily deterred, tightening his hold on her hands. “My work may be necessary, but there is nothing in the world more important to me than you.”

His words gave her hope, and she smiled at him with all the sweetness she felt in her heart. “Very well, but it’s not – I’m not troubled, precisely, but – do you think we could steal some time alone together this evening? There are some matters we should discuss.”

With obvious reluctance at the delay, he agreed, capturing her lips in one more kiss before heading out the door. Little did either of them know that a visit from Mr Bell later that same day would bring news that would drive all other concerns from her mind. For a while, at least.

#like moths to a flame #margaret hale #john thornton #north and south #john x margaret #fanfiction #my fanfiction

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eilonwiiy · 4 years

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Bookends ; A Witchlands AU

Chapter 6

Iseult and Aeduan cross paths and test the limits of social anxiety...

Summary: Iseult det Midenzi never expected to go to a top university, so when her mother falls ill and she is forced to drop out to make ends meet, life has never seemed so unfair. But when she starts working at the local library and is unexpectedly assigned in the Children’s Room, a certain monosyllabic man and his thrice-damned demon child start showing up and Iseult begins to wonder if the threads of fate have a plan for her after all.

Previous chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Ships: Iseult/Aeduan, Safi/Merik, and more… stay tuned!

Tags: modern AU, college setting, family, friendship, humor, fluff, slow-burn, romance, eventual smut

Read on AO3: here

Tag list: (please let me know if you’d like to be added!) @lseultdetmidenzi @twilightlegacy13

* . * . * . * .

4 days had passed and still Evrane had not called.

Friday afternoon found Aeduan parked outside Cora and Lisbet’s school in his car, fingers drumming restlessly across the steering wheel. His phone was stashed away in his pocket, practically burning a hole through his pants for all its temptation. Twice he had almost ripped the damn thing out and made the call to Evrane. Twice he’d thought better of it.

She said she’d call him with her schedule. He wasn’t about to waste his time hunting her down.

A disgruntled noise from the backseat made Aeduan look over his shoulder.

Owl blinked sleepily at him from her car seat, bottom lip puffed out and pouty. She looked more like a puffy pink marshmallow crammed into a much too small space, the shiny nylon material of her winter coat spilling out from underneath the tightly drawn straps holding her hostage. She hated the contraption almost as much as Aeduan. He had taken down 400 lb men high on coke in less time than it took him to wrangle Owl into the damn thing. At least now she didn’t kick and scream.

“Not much longer,” Aeduan told her, checking at the clock on the dashboard.

They’d fallen into a comfortable routine on the weekends. On Friday afternoons, Aeduan, along with Owl, would drive up to Ponzin and pick up the two sleepover bags Ragnor left for Aeduan on the porch of his childhood home. Then, they would head over to Lisbet and Cora’s school and camp out there until the bell rang.

Today had gone the same as usual, except Aeduan had added one extra pit stop along the way: Jitters.

Aeduan took a sip from his lukewarm coffee, watching the regular crossguard unpack his gear from his van. He hadn’t planned on going back to the coffee shop, especially after how irritating his experience with that inept barista had been. But from the moment he woke up, he found himself craving the coffee’s smooth, rich taste.

Fortunately, the girl wasn’t working. He’d been able to purchase his coffee and a muffin to split with Owl in peace.

Outside, the crossguard unfolded a flimsy collapsible chair by the crosswalk and settled down into it with his stop sign resting across his lap. He was an older man, with wispy white hair tucked underneath a faded red baseball cap and wore wire-rimmed glasses. The moment he relaxed in the chair, his head turned towards Aeduan’s parked car. He nodded in greeting and Aeduan nodded back. It was their thing.

Aeduan was so used to people avoiding him when he was in uniform that such a small, customary gesture was unnerving. He was still getting used to it. Sometimes he forgot he wasn’t wearing it anymore. Or carrying a gun. Not that he needed one to be scary. There were plenty of inmates who could testify to that.

The unmistakable sound of a bell announcing the end of the school day rang in the distance. Soon enough kids would be pouring out the doors. It would be some time before Lisbet and Cora would be out though. Aeduan knew by now that Lisebt liked to chat with her teachers after class, ask any one of the dozen follow-up questions she always had about the lesson or go over a problem she got wrong on the previous night’s homework. Aeduan loved that about her. And Cora would wait dutifully by the door until she was ready. He loved that too.

Aeduan continued to rap his fingers on the steering wheel as he watched the crossing guard guide the first and most eager to start their weekend group of kids across the street. Aeduan’s attention stayed with one boy about Cora’s age, around 6 or 7, who broke off from the group, hustling as fast as his little feet could take him. Waiting for him outside a car was a man, presumably his father, and when the boy got to him, he jumped into his arms, backpack and all. The man held him tight and pressed a kiss to his cheek before setting him down and ushering him into the backseat of his car while the kid started jabbering away.

His coffee was down to its very last dregs, but Aeduan took an absent sip from the cup anyway, staring hard at the dad tossing the kid’s backpack in the trunk and closing it shut, all the while the boy had his head poked outside the open window and was still talking animatedly as if he couldn’t wait the 5 seconds it would take for his dad to get into the car.

Aeduan remembered when Ragnor used to surprise him after school to pick him up in his patrol car. Such a spectacle. All the other kids would watch in envious fascination as Aeduan ran to the man in the intimidating uniform waiting by super cool sleek car with the silently flashing lights that he put on just for his son. They’d hover around the car, asking all sorts of questions and beg to hear the siren, to which the police officer would oblige to much cheering. Only when the young pretty school teacher caught up to the boy and slipped into the arms of the man to kiss him would the children scatter.

Aeduan never understood why Ragnor had pushed so hard for Cora and Lisbet to go to Covent Academy. He had stopped coming when Aeduan was ten.

Without much warning, Aeduan slapped his hand down on the steering wheel, and Owl, who had been close to falling asleep, jerked awake confused. Aeduan shook his head, furious with himself for what he was about to do, but he couldn’t stop himself. Something about seeing that little boy outside with his father flicked a switch in him, and he shifted jerkily in his seat to gain access to the phone in his back pocket. When he’d freed it, he didn’t give himself a second to think about it. He swiped open his phone and pressed call on his most recent contact.

“Hello,” a melodious voice said from the other end.

“Why haven’t you called me back?” Aeduan demanded.

There was a pause. “Aeduan. How... unexpected.”

“Unexpected?” Aeduan repeated in a barely controlled growl. “Have you already forgotten our agreement?”

“Of course I haven’t forgotten.” The words were spoken slowly and calmly. There was no defensive edge to them. That only spurred Aeduan on.

“Then why haven’t you called? You said you would look over your schedule and get back to me.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Evrane mused lightly. The casual observation scraped over Aeduan’s tightly-wound nerves. “Well, now that you have me, why don’t you and Owl come in on Monday?”

“Monday,” Aeduan deadpanned. “That’s it? You don’t need to look over your schedule?” He expelled a bitter breath. “What, were you just waiting for me to call you?”

Silence answered him, and somehow Aeduan knew Evrane was smiling. He exhaled deeply.

“You were waiting for me to call you,” he said again, resigned to the truth. But his anger could only be kept at bay for so long, and with a surge of resentful understanding he bit out, “A test.”

“Aeduan,” Evrane said, his name sounding sad on her tongue. “If Owl is to be your child, she needs to be your priority. Always. You can’t wait around for others to cater to her needs. And you certainly can’t let your pride get in the way of doing what’s in her best interest. I didn’t mean for this to be a test. I- ” She cut herself off as though afraid to continue. Aeduan’s ears latched on to the silence hovering on the other end of the line, overly aware of his heart beating against his ribs. “I want to help Owl, Aeduan. But I can’t do that if you don’t trust me. Owl’s issues are now your issues. You’re just as much a part of this agreement as she is. I know this isn’t easy for you, but maybe… maybe it’s not so easy for me too. I never thought I’d get a second chance to help you.”

Aeduan shook his head, looking down at his lap, thankful that she couldn’t see him. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured. He recognized the irony in saying that possibly to the one person responsible for saving his life. Perhaps Evrane heard it too because she chuckled a second later, a watery sound that broke Aeduan’s heart.

“You’ve made it this far, haven’t you?”

Something that might have been laugh escaped Aeduan’s throat. “No thanks to you.”

There was that silent smile again. “Enjoy your weekend with the girls. I’ll see you and Owl on Monday.” And with that Evrane hung up.

Aeduan lifted his head and checked his rearview mirror; Owl was watching him curiously as though to ask if he was alright. He gave her a tired smile.

If Owl is to be your child…

If he was going to be a father. That’s what Evrane really had wanted to say. And she was right. About everything, of course. Aeduan wasn’t an idiot. He could be stubborn as all hell, be disagreeable to even the most patient of people, but he wasn’t an idiot. He knew when he was in the right and he knew when he was in the wrong, and perhaps the worst thing worth knowing was that he had been wrong on all counts when it came to Evrane.

He’d have to try harder. For Owl. For his-

He couldn’t even say the word. She wasn’t his anything. Not yet.

The school lawn was littered with children now. After about ten more minutes, the front doors opened again and both Lisbet and Cora appeared. With a sharp pang of realization, Aeduan recognized Sister Nadya in the doorway behind them and watched as she waved goodbye to the girls. He forced himself to tear his eyes away from her kind smile, discernible even from such a distance, and focused on the two dark-haired girls coming towards him, the smaller of the two rushing ahead of the taller, more subdued one. Aeduan undid his seatbelt and quickly checked that no other cars were driving by before opening the car door.

“Slow down, Cora,” he called as he walked around to the sidewalk. “It’s still icy.”

“The snow is almost all gone,” Cora huffed between pants, slowing down as she got closer to Aeduan. She was so small and the enormous backpack hanging from her shoulders looked almost comical.

“Still.” Aeduan knelt down on one knee as Cora skidded to a halt in front of him and threw herself into his arms. When she eventually pulled back, he perused her up and down. “Where’s your coat?

Cora jutted her thumb over her shoulder. “In my backpack.”

“Wouldn’t it be more useful on you?”

Cora shrugged. Lisbet came shuffling up behind her and Aeduan straightened up from the ground. She, at least, was wearing her coat.

“Hey,” he said, pulling her into his side with one arm, while his other hand became occupied with Cora’s little fingers. “How was school?”

“Good,” she said, and smiling shyly she added, “I got a 105 on my math test.” The statement wasn’t at all boastful or fishing for recognition. Even as she said it, her expression was small and subdued.

Cora gawped at Lisbet while Aeduan pulled her in closer. “How is that possible, Aedie? I thought 100 was the highest grade!”

“There was a bonus question,” Lisbet explained. “Sometimes teachers add them to give students a chance at extra points. Usually they’re harder than the rest of the test, but they can really help you out if you’ve messed up on other questions.”

Cora’s eyes widened. “And you got it right?”

“Yep,” Lisbet nodded and Cora let out another hushed Wow.

“Good work, Lis,” Aeduan congratulated, giving her shoulder an extra squeeze. Her gray eyes sparkled up at him as she gave in to a proud smile.

“Aedie,” Cora chirruped, tugging at his hand. “I wrote a book today!”

“You did?” he said, being sure to give her his full attention. “What’s it about?”

“It’s about a girl who becomes friends with a bird and he leads her on a magical quest and then they meet a troll who tries to kill them, but he’s not really a bad guy and is just really sad and then... ”

Cora was practically dancing circles around him with excitement as she prattled on and on about her story. “That sounds like quite a tale,” Aeduan finally managed to slip in when she eventually needed to take a breath. “Why don’t we read it tonight before bed? How’s that sound? But, c’mon, let’s get going. Owl’s waiting. You can tell me more about it on the way home.”

The girls nodded and handed Aeduan their backpacks to store in the trunk while they piled inside the car. Once Aeduan shut his car door and buckled up, he twisted his head over his shoulder to look at all three of his girls.

Owl sat in between Cora and Lisbet in the middle strapped into her car seat and looked utterly miserable. Her arms and legs sat limp in total defeat. Oh yes, an extra long nap was in order the second they got home.

His sisters liked Owl. There hadn’t been any misgivings on their end when he sat them down and explained to them what his hopeful plans for Owl were. He hadn’t expected anything different. He knew their hearts and knew they would accept her as a part of their family just as he had done with them 10 years ago.

Owl, on the other hand, had been less than thrilled about the two unexpected additions to her new family, and little had changed since then. It had become blatantly clear that it was not Owl who had to prove herself worthy of Cora and Lisbet’s love, but the other way around.

The girls never complained though, for which, Aeduan was grateful. Cora was sure to read to Owl her story the moment they got home (whether she was interested in hearing it or not) and Lisebt would no doubt help Aeduan make dinner and take care to do little things like chop up Owl’s food into smaller pieces and refill her sippy cup even if it wasn’t entirely empty yet.

“Everyone buckled up?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at Cora, who had a tendency to put her belt strap behind her back.

“Yes,” they answered in unison. Owl’s scowl deepened. His angry puffy marshmallow.

“Alright then,” Aeduan said, turning to the steering wheel and starting the car. “Let’s hear more about this story, Cora.”

* . * . * . * .

“Thanks again for doing this. You have my unending gratitude.”

Ryber Fortiza stood at Iseult’s desk on Monday afternoon, a stack of books towering between them. A week had gone by since she started working in the Children’s Room and Ryber’s books had finally arrived.

“It was no trouble at all,” Iseult told her. “I’m just glad you were able to get enough copies in time. Eridysi Goechenka is still in high demand, if you can believe it.”

“Oh I believe it,” said Ryber. “She’s one of my favorite authors. I’ve read all her works. This,” she gestured proudly to the tower of books, “is my way of plaguing my obsession onto everyone else.”

Iseult eyed the top of the stack and the silver foiled words carved into the book’s worn cover. Sisters of Sight. She picked it up fondly.

“You picked a good one. They’re all good, but this is a classic.”

Ryber’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve read it then?”

Iseult nodded. “Only a dozen times.” Ryber smiled at that, and the sight of it, all teeth and no reservation, made Iseult feel more intrepid. “I’m actually in the process of trying to collect all of her published works. It’s kind of a mini project of mine. It’s hard though. Some of her more obscure books are out of print. Things written earlier in her career before she became well-known.”

Ryber heaved a sigh of dismay. “Why do they do that?”

Iseult knew who ‘they’ were. Publishers. She shook her head solemnly. “I don’t know. It breaks my heart… Words that will never see the light of day all because publishers don’t think there’s a market for it.”

“You would think that with her death they’d want to capitalize on that. Also, awful,” Ryber added with a disgusted grimace to Iseult. Iseult nodded in agreement.

“It’s a shame. I bet she has so much more to say, even though she’s not here...” Iseult trailed off. She sighed and returned Sisters of Sight on top of the stack of books. “The director of this library told me that she has a first edition of The Raider King buried somewhere in her attic. She said she’d bring it in when she found it.”

Ryber’s eyes, more grey than blue, widened. “Seriously? That’s insane!”

“I can text you if she ever finds it.”

“Yes, please! Jeez, why on earth would she keep it packed away in an attic?” Ryber looked positively baffled by Evrane’s life decisions. “I bet it’s worth a lot of money. Not that I would ever sell it if it were mine,” she added hastily, as though reading Iseult’s mind. Even now, with her funds dwindling by the day, she’d never be able to part with such a treasure.

“I’ll let you know,” Iseult assured her as Ryber pulled the mountain of books across the desk and strategically lifted them into her arms. The tower wobbled precariously against her chest. “You’re not walking home with that, are you?” she asked cautiously as Ryber braced the top of the stack with her chin.

“Nope,” she replied with a shaky laugh and she tried to take a step without causing the books to come tumbling down. “My boyfriend is picking me up.”

“Good.” Even though Ryber looked ridiculous, Iseult’s cool expression never wavered. Safi would be rolling around on the floor by now. When Ryber was halfway to the door, she tried looking over her shoulder back at Iseult, but with a glance at the books in her arms, thought better of it.

“You’re going to come to book club, right?” she called softly so as to not disturb anyone else in the Children’s Room. “You and Safi?”

Iseult’s nose twitched and she pressed her lips together. She was glad Ryber wasn’t able to see her. “I don’t know. Safi isn’t much of a reader.”

“Oh don’t worry about that! Kullen always drags his roommate into our meetings since he lives there, and he almost always never reads the book. It’ll still be fun.”

“I- I’ll have to check my work schedule. Safi’s too.”

“Great,” Ryber said, sounding so genuinely pleased, Iseult felt terrible about the story already materializing in her head that she could use to get out it. “It’s on a Friday night, so at least there’s no classes to worry about. Unless you’re one of those weird people who elected to take a night class.”

“I’m not.” Guilt twisted into regret. Even without her made up story, she was already a liar. She’d have to tell Ryber eventually that she’d dropped out of school. If not now, then definitely before the book club. Better to come clean to one person about being a failure than to a whole room of strangers.

“Perfect.” By now Ryber had made it to the door. This time when she spoke, she managed to turn and face Iseult. The stack of books was still propped under her chin. “I forgot to ask, how’s everything going here?”

Iseult opened her mouth to answer, but just then, a figure appeared in the doorway, looming behind Ryber. Cropped dark hair, leather jacket, sparkling blue eyes.

Aeduan.

He marched around Ryber, barely giving her or the stack of books in her straining arms a second’s glance.

“Good,” Iseult somehow managed to respond after finding her breath. “Everything’s good here.”

That was about to change, judging by the dark gaze fixed on her as Aeduan stalked towards her, which was a shame because things really were going better than they had when she first started over a week ago. Her lungs contracted uncomfortably. He didn’t look happy.

Ryber seemed to understand that their conversation was over. Unable to wave or move her head, she shot Iseult a parting glance and strained smile, possibly hoping to convey something along the lines of, Good luck! Hope he doesn’t eat you for lunch!

When Aeduan reached the desk, he slapped an envelope down between them like he was throwing down a gauntlet.

“I’d like to get a library card.”

The words were as cold as his eyes. Not daring to risk stuttering in front of him, Iseult swallowed and reached for the envelope. She peeled open the slip of paper and pulled out its contents. There, in official typed writing, was an apartment lease for one Aeduan Amalej.

“Good enough?”

Iseult’s eyes slowly rolled up to meet his penetrating stare. Challenging her.

She nodded, still not trusting herself with words, folding the document with care and tucking it back into the envelope. When she held it out for him, she finally felt brave enough to speak.

“Perfect.”

Aeduan nodded sharply, though there was no sign of satisfaction in his face. A small dent still worried itself between his brow - possibly a permanent fixture on his otherwise smooth face.

Iseult gathered the necessary materials and laid them out in front of him, overly aware of him watching her, scrutinizing her every move. But her motions were fluid, poised, lending no indication to how she felt on the inside.

“I’ll need you to fill out this form with all of your up-to-date information,” Iseult explained. She was pleased, albeit surprised, with how commanding her voice sounded. “When you’re finished I’ll enter you into our database and have a card for you to sign. That’s all.”

Again, Aeduan nodded, his hard expression a slate of ice as he picked up the pen Iseult had laid out for him and got to work on filling out the form.

Iseult thought it unlikely that he’d appreciate her hovering, so she sat down at her computer and busied herself with starting his entry, all the while sneaking glances at him out of the corner of her eye. When he finished, he returned it to her without saying a word. In the minutes that followed, all that spoke between them was the clicking Iseult’s keyboard.

“Almost done,” Iseult hummed, more for her own reassurance than Aeduan’s. He still watched her like a hawk. She could feel the tremble in her hands. It was a miracle she wasn’t mis-typing everything.

With his last bit of information saved, she opened a drawer next to her and grabbed a stack of library cards. She slipped one out and scanned it into the computer. “I just need you to sign here,” she pointed to the line underneath the card’s barcode “and then you’ll be all set.”

Aeduan’s eyes rested a moment too long on the spot where Iseult’s finger pointed, and with a flicker of horror, she realized her nail was still covered in the ridiculous sparkly purple nail polish Safi had insisted on trying out on her a couple nights ago when they were both bored. Well - Iseult was bored. Safi was merely bored with studying and claimed it was stifling other more imaginative and wholly worthwhile endeavors. Safi’d even tried painting on a heart, which turned out to look more like a blob than anything.

“Just like yours!” she’d joked.

The clipped way he took the card from her sparkle encrusted fingers told Iseult exactly how he felt about her “blob”. She watched him scribble his signature, and she imagined how he’d react if she offered him the congratulatory glitter pencil and chunky animal eraser that was customary with all new patrons that signed up for a library card in the Children’s Room. Better skip the bubble party too.

Aeduan straightened, extending the pen to Iseult. She took it and with a weak sort of smile said as they did to all their new patrons: “Congratulations. You are an official owner of a library card.”

Aeduan frowned at the card, his expression unreadable. Oh yeah. Definitely skip the bubble party.

Still staring at the card, he began to walk away. Iseult was about to release a breath of relief when she remembered something.

“Sir, I almost forgot.” She held up a finger asking him to wait when he turned around. She didn’t miss the flash of annoyance in his eyes as she hurried into the back office, but it really would only take a second. When she reappeared, she was holding a book with a little black cat on the cover.

“I held onto this. In case you came back,” Iseult explained, holding the picture book out to him. “I remembered your little girl wanted it and thought I’d hold onto it so no one else would check it out. I wouldn’t have wanted her to be disappointed if you came back and it wasn’t here anymore. I know it’s a Halloween book and the chances of someone checking it out in January are slim, but you’d be surprised with how often holiday books get checked out throughout the year. They-”

Stop talking stop talking STOP TALKING. Iseult clamped her mouth shut. Where was her stutter when she needed it?

Aeduan was staring down at the book, frowning just as he had with the library card. He made no move to take it. Iseult swallowed.

“I-it’s yours if you want to take it,” she tried, pressing the book forward bravely.

Slowly, Aeduan reached a hand and took it.

“Thank you…” The words trailed off, and though he had already talked to Iseult before, he sounded as though he had not spoken in years. Or perhaps it was just the words. Rough and unused. He cleared his throat, then spoke again. “That’s… that’s very kind of you.”

Iseult only watched him studying the front cover of the book. She didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t angry, that much was clear. The only thing that was clear, really.

Aeduan turned away, still considering the book. Brow furrowed like he’d never seen anything like it.

“Sir,” Iseult called after him. He twisted around and though his face was as it always was, all of its hardness was gone. He looked almost in a daze as he blinked at her. Younger, somehow. She pointed apologetically to the book in his hands. “I need to check you out. Check the book out.”

Heat rushed to Iseult’s face faster than she could correct herself. Fuck, did she really just say that?

“Oh.” Aeduan looked down at the book, then back to her again. For a third time, he walked back to the desk and handed her the book.

“Thanks.” She scanned the book, his account already open from when she set up his card, and printed a due date receipt. “You’re all set,” she said, handing the book back to him, along with the slip. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No,” Aeduan said immediately. A little bit of the usual hard edge in his voice had returned. He tucked the book under his arm and turned away, and so Iseult did the same, thinking she should probably check on the the returns bin before it overflowed. It was afternoon and the place would soon be swarming with the after school kids. However, Iseult was only halfway to it when Aeduan’s voice pinned her to the spot.

“Actually-” Iseult turned halfway and looked over her shoulder only to find Aeduan marching back to her desk with all the conviction of a soldier about to head into battle, possibly to his impending death. Her spine straightened as though she were about to do the same. It certainly felt that way.

“I could use some help. I need...” Iseult watched the muscles in Aeduan’s face tighten as he fought for the right word. “A recommendation,” he finally said, then added, “If you have the time.”

It almost sounded like he was hoping she wouldn’t have the time. His pale eyes searched her face, and once again she was drawn into their frozen depths. She licked her lips and gave a little shake of her head. “I’m not too busy to help. That’s… that’s why I’m here.”

Aeduan nodded, that perfunctory little jerk of his head that he seemed to favor over words. Iseult walked around the desk to meet him, and for some reason this was very different from where she had just been.

He towered over her about a head and a half. This close she could smell the worn leather of his jacket and… something else. Something familiar. Whatever it was made her nose wiggle and her insides squirm.

Aeduan looked at her questioningly. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and looked out over the children’s room, pretending not to notice.

“What kind of book do you think you’re looking for?” she asked, then pointing to different shelving areas explained, “We have toddler board books and picture books by the play area. Nonfiction is by the computers and study tables. Then,” she indicated the shelves lined up in the middle of the room and hugging the walls, “we have early readers, middle grade, and young adult fiction. Anything older than that and you’ll have to go upstairs.”

Aeduan said nothing, surveying the room absently like he knew all this. Iseult watched him, thinking that he would eventually say something. But he didn’t.

“What reader age are you looking for?” she prompted patiently, tucking her hands behind her back.

Aeduan opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The pulse in his jaw ticked. If a simple question such as that had irritated the man, then he was truly beyond Iseult. His eyes narrowed along the shelves of books.

Finally, he turned to look at her. “She’s young. Doesn’t read much.” He cast out the words like a challenge. As always, Iseult, dutifully, didn’t let the coldness stir an ounce of emotion on her face.

“Then perhaps another picture book,” she said, and feeling a sense of foreboding in burdening him with another question, she asked, “What does she like?”

Aeduan’s frown returned. Thinking. “Cats.”

“Cats,” repeated Iseult slowly. Well, it was a start at least.

“And animals,” Aeduan said with sudden conviction. “More than people.”

A burgeoning smile trembled along the seam of Iseult’s lips. It sounded like she and Aeduan’s mysterious little friend had something in common.

“I think I know exactly what she might like.”

With that, Iseult led Aeduan through the low-standing maze of shelves, weaving in and out of the way of any children they crossed paths with in the aisles, all the while Aeduan followed unquestioningly behind her, nodding and listening to her suggestions as she pulled book after book from the shelves and handed each one to him. By the time they’d walked away from the last row of the Z’s, he had a generous pile stacked in his arms.

“That should keep her occupied for awhile,” Iseult commented, making conversation as Aeduan inspected the selection. She wasn’t quite sure when, but somewhere along their little excursion, his demeanor had softened. He even looked through the books with something that might have been genuine satisfaction. Incredible.

“Would you like to check out?”

“I was thinking,” Aeduan grunted, then stopped - Iseult assumed from his slightly conflicted expression - for more thinking. He began again. “She might like it if I read her a book before bed. Like a chapter book.”

“With animals?”

Aeduan shrugged. “Maybe something with magic? I don’t think she’d object to dragons.”

“Oh.” The word floated out of Iseult like a feather on the wind. She swept past Aeduan, carried by her own timid excitement to the shelves along the wall. Vaguely, she felt him following her, but as always, he didn’t ask any questions. The tips of her fingers dusted over the rows of books as she traced the letters of the alphabet to where she needed to be, and when she pulled out a thin volume, she didn’t even realize - or care - that she was smiling.

“My Father’s Dragon,” she said, feeling strangely breathless, handing it to Aeduan. He remained impassive, but, inside, Iseult bubbled with the exhilaration that only comes from wielding the power of recommending an undeniably remarkable book. “It’s about a boy who runs away to rescue a baby dragon. And,” she tapped the lion on the cover, “there are plenty of animals.”

Aeduan studied it curiously, as usual, not saying anything. Iseult ducked down to the shelf below where she found the book.

“And since we’re in the G’s,” she murmured to herself, tracing a finger along the book spines, searching for Goechenka.

“Aeduan.”

Iseult straightened and peered around the side of Aeduan. Evrane was walking towards them, adorned in ocean blue and her silver bangles jingling on her wrists. Her eyes brightened when she spotted Iseult behind Aeduan. The little girl at her feet trailing behind her, however, eyed her warily.

“Ah, good! You two have met,” said Evrane, joining them. When she spotted the books in Aeduan’s arms, she tilted her head to the side and arched an eyebrow in intrigue. “That’s quite an ambitious collection you have there.”

Aeduan responded with something that could have been a grunt or a cough - whichever it was, it wasn’t words. Not sure why she felt the need to smooth it over, Iseult swooped in.

“Aeduan asked for help picking out some titles.” She glanced over at him as confirmation only to find herself pinned under an ice-blue glare.

“Did he really?” Evrane remarked with mild astonishment. She was looking at Aeduan bemusedly, arms folded across her chest. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Aeduan, looking considerably less happy than he had before Evrane showed up, ignored her and knelt down on one knee to the child’s level, placing the books on the ground next to him. His broad shoulders were all tension, but when he reached out to her, Iseult couldn’t believe it was the same person who had all but grunted at Evrane like a neanderthal.

“Owl,” he said, the word feather light on his lips. He didn’t quite smile, but his eyes, the same eyes that had frozen Iseult to the core only seconds ago, were awash with warmth. The girl, Owl, shuffled over to him and wedged herself on the inside of his bent leg and against his chest.

She did not look at the books.

Evrane turned to Iseult and with delicate politeness said, “Would you mind checking those out? I need a moment with Aeduan.”

“Of course.” Iseult hesitated, then bent down to collect the books next to Aeduan. Their eyes met for a flicker of a heartbeat, and in that moment, Iseult was hit with that kindle of warmth meant for Owl. With sparkling clarity, she wondered what it would be like to have someone look at her that way. To not only be the source of one’s warmth, but the flame as well.

Iseult quickly pulled away, as though burned, and made her escape with the books. At the desk she began scanning them and she stacked them neatly on top of each other, one after another until there were no more left. Fixing the corner of one of the books so it was perfectly aligned with the rest of the stack, Iseult kept her head bowed low and glanced over at the pair from under her bangs.

Even while Evrane spoke, Aeduan’s attention was entirely focused on Owl. She had to be his daughter, Iseult thought. Only a parent looks at a child that way. With that innate protectiveness. Like no one else existed.

Not that she’d know. She wouldn’t exactly describe Gretchya as maternal.

Iseult considered the pile in front of her and worried about whether or not she should rejoin the pair, only to have her internal debate interrupted by Hilga’s stern but not unkind voice.

“Iseult, what are you still doing here? Your shift ended 10 minutes ago.”

Iseult glanced at the clock. 2:10. Shit. When did that happen? She’d be late for her shift at Jitters if she didn’t leave soon, which would potentially make Safi late for class. Not that she’d care. She’d probably use it as an excuse to skip class altogether.

“I was busy helping a patron.”

“Well, I can take over from here,” Hilga said, bustling around the desk. “Are these books for them?”

“Yes. I already checked them out. He’s-”

But Hilga was already shoo-ing her away and Iseult knew better than to argue. She slipped into the back office and gathered her belongings, changed into her boots for the wet walk home, and pulled on her coat, scarf, and gloves. When she came back out, she stopped short in the doorway.

Aeduan was back at the desk and Hilga was nowhere to be found.

Aeduan’s entire body froze at her appearance.

“I thought you left,” he stated after an uncomfortable moment’s pause.

“I am,” Iseult replied, then quickly amended, “Leaving. Now.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Did you get your books?”

“We’re leaving too,” he said, not answering her question.

“Oh,” she said dumbly. “Well…” And with nothing left to say or do, she walked around from behind the desk, and with a hesitant pause at Aeduan and Owl by his side, she made her way to the exit. She could feel Aeduan at her heels, following her through the shelves, until they were out of the room and were able to walk side by side, Owl toddling between them, her hand firmly grasped in Aeduan’s.

It was a mistake. That much was clear the second they stepped out of the Children’s Room. From there they were able to walk side by side, but with Owl between them, both Iseult and Aeduan had no choice but to walk at her pace, making the journey through the library a longer and more torturous experience.

The building was already quiet, but next to Aeduan, the silence was deafening. No sooner had they left the Children’s Room, Iseult found herself wishing she had made up some excuse to hang back. A forgotten book, a phone left behind, anything to avoid this uncomfortable processional. Iseult didn’t trust herself to make something up now. For all her control over her emotions, she was a terrible liar, and Aeduan didn’t seem like the type to be convinced by a clumsy attempt at bullshitting.

Or maybe he was. He seemed pretty damn oblivious to the awkwardness of the situation at hand or the fact that he could speed this trip along and spare them both of this unnecessary pain by picking Owl up and carrying her the rest of the way.

In the end, Iseult had been a fool. For she did not know the true meaning of awkward until they were outside at the bottom of the library’s stone steps. They both came to a stop when they stepped down onto the sidewalk and for a moment they eyed each other through the falling snow.

“Well, I’m this way,” Iseult initiated, motioning her head over her shoulder.

Aeduan looked over her and nodded. “Alright.”

Iseult waited for him to say something similar, to tell her they were going the other way or - Moon Mother, save her - they were headed in the same direction as her. But that assertion never came. Instead, Aeduan simply stood there staring at her as though waiting for her to leave.

So she did. Without so much as a goodbye or a wave, she jerkily pivoted away and plodded through the slush, leaving Aeduan and Owl on the steps of the library. Ice seeped into her boots, but she was already numb with her own mortification. Each bone-cold step taking her further and further away from them and the library seemed to strengthen the tangle of confusion in her head, leaving only one lone thread of thought for her to pull at.

What in Noden’s saggy left trident was that?

#the witchlands #witchlands #baeseult #iseult det midenzi #aeudan #safiya fon hasstrel #owl #ryber fortiza #aeduan x iseult #truthwitch #bookends #my fics #mine

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aquamarineicecream · 4 years

Text

Rewind Sanders Sides Superhero AU - Chapter 4

Ao3 Link

>Chapter 1

>Chapter 5

Logan regretted it.

He regretted everything that had led to that unimaginable moment. The shock was slowly subsiding and giving way to a much deeper emotion. Anger flooded through him, mingling with the grief to form a near deadly combination. The pain crept in, not unlike tomorrow creeping in this petty pace from day to day. Logan loathed his ability to effortlessly recall the iconic line from Macbeth’s Act V, Scene 5 soliloquy much like he currently loathed the man responsible for talking passionately about Shakespeare's dramas so frequently that the knowledge in its entirety had long ago become instilled in his head. The same man who was also at fault for the destruction of one of his most prized possessions. The man who was now looking at him with the innocence of a puppy, yet with the notorious mischief of a raccoon lying just underneath the surface. Roman.

It all started the day after Deceit’s suggestion to train Virgil. The team decided it was best not to waste any time and instead to begin the training after a small, slightly rushed breakfast cooked by none other than Logan himself, who'd been taking cooking lessons for the past month and was more than happy to put his new skill to use.

“Okay kiddo, so I talked it over with Logan before you got up and we figured it would be best to start the training on the roof. Is that okay with you?”

“Sure. But I really don't think this'll work. I've been trying for the last five years to control this thing but I've found it's pretty pointless.”

“Oh cheer up and don't be such a Negative Nancy! We'll have your powers shipshape and Bristol fashion in no time.”

“I'll take your word for that,” Virgil mumbled into his pancakes, avoiding Roman's overly optimistic gaze as though worried it was contagious. Logan had observed much about Virgil Messana in the past day alone. As one of the top intelligence workers in the Superiors’ organization and the soon-to-be head chairman of the entire intelligence sector of the association if he played his cards right, Logan had already created a mental list detailing Messana’s habits and ticks, down to the way he tugged his worn hoodie sleeves further over his hands every time he got particularly anxious.

Quite frankly, Virgil Messana fascinated him. He knew every detail about the man’s file, yet the man himself was slowly proving to be quite the enigma. He was rather quiet at times but he always was able to come up with a snarky response if needed which appeared to be having some effect on Roman. They'd begun to have quite the rapport and even Logan, despite all his oblivious glory, was able to sense underlying tension every time Virgil was near Roman.

“Lo, everything a-okay?” A gentle voice interrupted Logan's thoughts and he abruptly realized that for the past minute, his unfocused gaze had been fixated on the chair where Patton had previously been seated.

“Hm? Oh, yes. I'm alright. I merely became momentarily lost in thought, that's all,” Logan was quick to reply as the world shifted back into focus and he became vividly aware of the fact that he and Patton were the only two left at the table.

“Okey dokey. If you're sure you're okay, then we can head out.” Patton's voice was warm and grounding, as Logan had discovered it so often was. It was comforting, and refreshing even, when put into context with the cold reality they all called normalcy.

“We should join the others,” Logan agreed with a nod. He stood and picked up his mug to bring it with him, ignorant, as always, to Patton's gaze lingering on his retreating figure as the young hero began to lead the way up the stairs.

“What a beautiful day to blow stuff up!”

Roman’s enthusiastic remark was met with a disapproving look from Logan.

“What? I’m just trying to lighten the mood a little. It’s too early to look so serious,” the larger man protested. Logan merely crossed his arms and turned away to look at Virgil, electing not to dignify Roman with a response.

“Alright, Virgil. It’s time to begin. Please hold this and stand a small ways back.” Logan handed Virgil a small beanbag and waited for the other man to take a few steps back before picking up a notebook and pen he’d left on a small table he’d set up earlier that morning. Patton had arrived by now and was standing alongside Deceit and Roman, all three a safe distance away from their new recruit. Logan and Deceit had spoken last night and decided on how they were going to conduct the experiments. He nodded at Deceit to ready the stopwatch before speaking again. “On my count, I would like you to attempt to explode the item you’re currently in possession of. Ready?” It was evident to all of them that the young soon-to-be-hero was far from ‘ready’ based on his trembling hands alone, but Virgil gave a small nod, allowing Logan to proceed with his plan. “Three… two… one… now.”

The team watched with bated breath as Virgil closed his eyes. Logan had a tight grip on his pen which was poised over the paper, ready to scribble down notes and observations at a moment's notice. They watched on as…nothing happened.

It was the epitome of underwhelming. Logan made sure to write a note of how Virgil’s entire body, not just his hands, was trembling now as the young man opened his eyes, the disappointment in himself evident.

“Maybe you just need to hold it a little longer?” Patton suggested hesitantly. Virgil set down the beanbag without meeting the other man’s gaze.

“That won’t make any difference. I told you all this was pointless,” Virgil replied darkly, haunted by his many failed attempts from the last five years.

“Aw, kiddo, you can’t give up already! It took me a while with my powers too, but I’m sure you’ll get it sooner or later.”

“I guess…” Virgil picked up the beanbag with a sigh and studied it for a moment before closing his eyes to concentrate again.

“Alright.” Logan readied his pen once more. “Begin your second attempt.”

~~~~~

The sun was beating down, making the day uncomfortably warm. Uncomfortable also happened to be the optimal word to describe the tension the group shared at the moment. It had been hours of trial after trial yet no matter how many times Logan instructed Virgil to attempt to corrode and subsequently explode the item in his hands, failure appeared to be inevitable.

By now, their efforts had become both more tired and desperate. Logan had suggested Virgil try holding different objects since the beanbag remained unaffected by Virgil’s powers. These objects included but were not limited to: Virgil’s old pair of gloves, a sponge, an umbrella, an engraved gold pocket watch (given to Virgil by Roman after the latter stole it from Deceit), a handful of playbills (given to Virgil by Deceit as his revenge on Roman), a Rubix Cube (as Roman’s attempt to pull Logan into Deceit’s and his mini war), and lastly, a package of Oreos. No one was quite sure why Roman chose the last one, yet none had time to question it since Virgil refused to even attempt to corrode and explode it, saying he was insulted by the very notion of being told to destroy his favorite cookie.

However, the process of experimenting with different objects had ended almost an hour ago and their spirits were once again low. Logan’s notebook now contained multiple pages detailing the distinct ways in which Virgil held each object, hands still shaking each time he concentrated regardless of how many times they had already gone through this process.

“I believe that we should all take a respite. It would appear that one is far overdue.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea, Lo. A small break sounds like just the ticket.” Patton turned to Virgil. “How about we go get you something to eat for lunch, kiddo?”

Logan closed his notebook as Virgil set down the beanbag in the pile of other unsuccessful, now-neglected objects before following Patton to the kitchen.

“Maybe we should try another remote. That could be his specialty,” Roman joked while walking over to Deceit and Logan.

“Don’t be foolish, Roman. We already know his powers have worked on other materials in the past. There must be some minute element to this that we’re missing.” Logan handed his notebook to Deceit for the other man to look through.

“In all seriousness, what do you two make of Virgil?” Deceit asked without looking up from the page he was reading.

“He’s a good guy deep down. I know it. But our stupid Superiors are keeping stuff from us, I’m sure of that. And it wouldn’t be the first time either. They’re always up to something.”

“Relax, Roman. You know better than to speak ill of our employers. You’re beginning to sound like Deceit with his constant suspicions.”

“I’m only saying that we shouldn’t keep trusting them so much when we never know if the next legislation they pass will stop us from even seeing each other.” Roman crossed his arms. “And you’re only happy with them because you’re their golden boy who’s one successful mission away from becoming their new Head of Intelligence and leaving the rest of us to try and deal with whoever they choose as your replacement.”

“There is no cause for you to be upset over this. My replacement will most likely be Virgil at this rate, which is fortunate for you considering the fact that ever since he was kept alive, you’ve appeared to be happier than you have acted in quite some time. But either way, nothing is for certain yet, especially because they might not even choose for me to retire from being ‘Logic’ and take the mantle and responsibilities of the new position instead.”

“Logan, we all know that you’ll get the promotion. All I ask is that you consider looking closely into the reason the position is vacant in the first place.” Deceit spoke calmly as he looked up from the notes before closing the notebook and handing it back to Logan.

“It’s shady,” Roman added to break the silence that had begun to fill the space. “And you should also keep in mind that not all of us started here by choice, so you never know what you’re gonna have to deal with in a spot that high up.”

Logan had no response as both his and Roman’s thoughts drifted to what Patton had confided in the others precisely two years and 314 days ago. Their momentary distraction allowed Deceit a chance to force the pained expression from his face without either of the other men noticing it was ever even there at all. It seemed that his return to a neutral expression had come just in time too, as at that moment, Patton and Virgil walked back onto the roof, each carrying plates of snacks to share with the others. They set them down on the table and Virgil grabbed a couple chips before retreating to a deserted corner. Roman ate a pretzel before immediately going after him.

“Hey, Messana.”

“Hey, yourself.”

“So, you liking your second day so far?”

“You mean, am I enjoying disappointing you guys and making a complete fool of myself? Meh, it’s just another day for me.” Virgil shrugged as Roman rolled his eyes in response.

“You’re hardly disappointing, my Chemically Imbalanced Romance. You just need to keep practicing and I’m sure you’ll get it.”

“I guess,” Virgil replied doubtfully.

“C’mon, I’ll prove it to you. All you need is to try a little thing called trial-by-fire. Though I guess in your case, it’s trial-by-matchstick since it’s not exactly a life and death thing.” Roman led the way over to the table and Virgil hesitantly followed, curious to see what Roman had in mind. Roman’s back was facing Virgil so the smaller man didn’t notice as Roman grabbed the first object on the table, without stopping to check what it was, and flung it at Virgil while shouting “catch!”

“Roman!”

Virgil fumbled to catch the object but it slipped through his hands and Logan looked on in horror as his prized TARDIS-shaped mug smashed on the concrete.

“Roman!!”

It was Logan, not Virgil, who shouted this time. The educated man had a look of murder on his usually inexpressive face as he stormed over to Roman and Virgil.

“What were you thinking?! You can’t simply surprise someone by flinging easily breakable mugs at them! Especially when the mug isn’t even your own,” Logan fumed.

“I’m sorry, Specs. I didn’t realize it was that. But it’s just a mug and I can get you a new one online,” Roman offered apologetically.

“You should have stopped to consider your actions before proceeding with them. And I would not like to receive a new mug from you, I can purchase a new one myself. But it is the principle of the matter! You always do actions such as these, including on our missions when you hurl yourself into combat and potentially dangerous situations with a complete lack of forethought and without having paused to either listen or contribute to the plan. You’re impossible! And another thing -” Logan paused momentarily from his tirade to adjust his glasses and take a breath but Deceit shushed him before the other man had the chance to finish his sentence. Logan, in turn, turned his deadly glare on Deceit, silently imploring him to have a justified explanation for the interruption.

“Everyone be quiet and listen,” was the only response Deceit gave. They all held their breath while listening attentively. Patton was the first of the others to notice the faint pounding coming from downstairs.

“Someone’s here.”

The alarm in his tone was evident and in mere seconds he was racing down the stairs with his coworkers on his heels and Virgil, slightly unsure of what to do, bringing up the rear. Once the group reached the living room, it became evident that the noise was due to someone banging on their front door. Patton, being the nicest of them, walked over to answer it, leaving the rest in suspense. Logan shared an uneasy look with Deceit, both men hoping the person at the door was a civilian who’d gotten lost instead of who both men had a sneaking suspicion the unidentified visitor truly was.

“Of course you can come in, sir.” Patton’s cheerful voice carried into the room and Logan’s heart sunk with the knowledge that his guess at the mystery person’s identity was all but confirmed to be who he worried it was.

“Wait in here for a sec, please,” Patton said, leaving the person by the door before rushing back into the room where the others were.

“A representative is here. He’s come for Virgil,” Patton explained in a hushed tone.

“We can’t let them take him!” Roman whispered in reply.

“We won’t. I’ll talk with them to try and come to a reasonable resolution. Logan, Patton, it would be best if you join me.”

“I’m coming too. If we’re gonna give a case for Messana to stay here then I want to help.”

“No. You’re not diplomatic enough so it’s better if you stay here and keep him out of sight.”

“But that’s not fair. I should be able to help just as much as the rest of you do, Snakey McSnakerson,” Roman argued while crossing his arms defensively.

“You know, Ro, your never-ending nicknames don’t exactly help your case.”

“Fine.” Roman gave a slightly exasperated sigh before motioning for Virgil to start walking down the hall that led to their bedrooms.

“Wait, Roman,” Logan went after him as the others left to go speak with the representative. “I apologize for allowing my temper to get the best of me earlier. It was childish and unprofessional and I quite hope that you’re willing to forgive me.”

“Don’t worry about it, Calculator Watch. You’re already forgiven. But are you sure you don’t want me to get you a new Doctor Who mug?”

“I am certain of it, Roman. However, thank you anyways for the offer.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“About the conversation I’m about to partake in, I am sorry that you can’t join us but it’s for the best. Deceit has proven in the past that he often has an overarching plan, so it’s better that we trust his decisions to be logical.”

“I guess…”

“You shouldn’t concern yourself about the matter. Currently, your main priority is to assure that Virgil does not dwell too much on the setbacks of today nor that he worries an excessive amount about the meeting at hand. I have a working theory that I’ll explain to you later regarding his powers in relation to his emotions but for now, attempt to keep him calm so that we may ensure no inopportune mishaps occur whilst our visitor is present.”

“Okay, you got it. I know exactly how to deal with our resident emo.” Roman gave the other man a reassuring grin and turned to go the same way as before, hearing Logan muttering a doubtful “I’m sure” under his breath as Roman made his way to Virgil’s temporary room.

Roman walked into the practically bare guest room, unsurprised to see Virgil awkwardly perched on the edge of one of the only pieces of furniture in the small room. Roman sat next to him, midnight blue eyes a striking contrast to the drab gray sheets of the twin-sized bed. In fact, everything about Roman looked out of place compared to his surroundings, from his auburn hair to his bright red and white bomber jacket covering both his fitted black shirt and toned muscles, which Virgil was now realizing he was having a weirdly strong urge to keep admiring. He despised that urge much like he hated how seeing Roman this close and in a casual outfit instead of his uniform. It felt so commonplace when it should be feeling foreign considering this man was still a stranger to him.

“There’s nothing to do in here so do you wanna go to my room instead?” Roman offered, interrupting the other man’s thoughts. Virgil stared at him without responding. “It has a TV,” he added with a disarming grin.

“Alright, I’m sold. Let’s go.”

With that, Roman stood up and led Virgil down the hall to the furthest room from the one they’d just left. Roman flopped back on his bed while Virgil entered. The room was accentuated with as much red and gold as possible, falling just short of appearing cluttered. Roman’s room had an assortment of both poster sized and polaroid photographs showcasing deserted beaches and sunsets peeking through from behind snowy mountain landscapes, which covered the starch white walls. There was a distinct vintage feel to the decor, yet it lacked the element that made it feel lived-in. Instead, it was closer to one of those display rooms one sees in department stores; perfect at a glance, but disguising an empty feeling underneath.

The only indications of life there were a red and black acoustic guitar propped up in the corner furthest from the door and the man currently sitting up in order to start flipping through channels. Roman watched out of the corner of his eye as Virgil took in the new surroundings.

“Do you like the photos?”

“Yeah. Surprisingly, they’re pretty cool.”

“Thanks. I took them myself.” Roman continued looking through channels for a minute longer before giving up.

“Nothing good is on so I’m gonna look for something on Netflix.” Virgil sat down next to him as Roman opened the streaming service only to have it crash moments later, causing Roman to groan in frustration.

“Oh, come on! You’d think being a world-renowned superhero would at least warrant having fast enough internet to let us watch a movie!” Roman tried opening it again in hopes that it would load but his attempt was in vain. “This stupid thing won’t work.” He tossed down the remote and crossed his arms, appearing bothered by the device yet in truth, it was for another reason. “First, I’m not even considered to have another chance to help and defend you and now this thing refuses to work!”

“Well none of you should be talking for me. I don’t need some kind of knight in shining armor. I can take care of myself.” Virgil paused to narrow his eyes suspiciously. “And what do you mean ‘another chance’?” Virgil’s distrusting gaze landed on Roman who looked like a deer in the headlights for a moment before quickly racking his brain for an answer.

“That’s classified.”

“Seriously?”

“…yeah.”

“Alright then.” Virgil examined Roman for a moment before adding, “If everything’s gonna be classified and we can’t watch anything, then I’m going back to the guest room.”

“Fine, I’ll tell you. But for the record, I know what you’re doing, Count Woe-laf, and it totally didn’t work. I’m just nice and enjoy breaking rules. But anyways, what I was talking about was that I wasn’t exactly on board with the whole ‘Let’s Kill Messana’ party but following orders is part of my job so I couldn’t really protest.” Roman looked down to study his crimson comforter which he decided had just become the most interesting object in the whole universe. He was sure Virgil suspected there was more behind Roman’s original comment that he was holding back but he didn’t press for details. Virgil stayed quiet while watching Roman for a moment before speaking again.

“Can I ask you a question? How did you start working like this? And why do you guys sometimes act like you know each other and other times act like total strangers?”

“That’s more than one question,” Roman joked in an attempt to lighten the mood to which Virgil rolled his eyes. “I started when I was recruited when I was 19. I was working with a partner at the time and doing jobs for hire when some people saw me use my powers, I guess. I got an anonymous message giving me a time, date, and location so I went to see what it was all about. I met a guy there who told me he wanted to recruit me for a program they were setting up for people who were ‘special’.” Roman paused at the memory, guilt plaguing his features for a brief moment before he hastened to finish the story.

“I took him up on the offer, they trained me, and now, here I am,” he said, giving Virgil a forced smile.

“Oh…what about your partner? Are you still close?”

“He was like a brother to me. But no, we don’t talk too much ever since I left three years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Virgil offered after a short, unbearable silence.

“Don’t be.” Roman gave Virgil a smile in reassurance that he hoped appeared more sincere than his last one.

“So...you were recruited like one of the Avengers?”

“Think more like the Justice League, though all those comic book heroes don’t have anything on the real thing. But pretty much how it works is that we’ve all got our own places to protect, like how Batman has Gotham, but we team up for certain high profile missions. This place is where we stay when we're doing those missions so it's pretty much our version of the Watchtower. And, to answer your question from earlier too, we only know bits and pieces about each other and our pasts. Our Superiors give us information on a need-to-know basis, so all we’ve got to go on when it comes to each other is whatever they decide to tell us or we want to share with the rest of the team. For example, none of us knew each other’s secret identities for almost a year. And we still don’t know Deceit’s name. Or pretty much anything about him.” Roman turned so he was directly facing Virgil before speaking again. “Now it’s my turn to ask you a question.”

“Alright fine. Ask away.”

“Is your favorite song ‘The Black Parade?’” His eyes had a mischievous glint that perfectly complemented his teasing grin. Virgil only glared at him in reply. “What? You look emo enough,” Roman added, feigning innocence.

“You know what? I’m not even gonna answer that. I’m pretty sure if I did, it would only encourage you, which is literally the last thing I want.”

“You’re no fun, Marilyn Morose.”

“Wow, another nickname. So original,” Virgil retorted sarcastically. “Besides, you can’t judge me when your favorite song is probably something from a cheesy, overrated musical.”

“Excuse you, my favorite song is not even close to that, actually. It’s ‘La Canción’ by J Balvin and Bad Bunny.”

“I’m sorry- Bad what?”

“Bad Bunny. You know I gotta support my fellow Puerto Rican.”

“What kind of name is Bad Bunny?”

“Shhh. Don’t question it.”

“Alright fine Princey, I’ll admit it. I wasn’t expecting that at all.”

“Well, I’ve got a good memory associated with that song,” Roman explained with a shrug. “It’s a pretty good song too.”

“In that case, you’ve gotta play it for me sometime.”

“Okay, I will,” Roman agreed with a smile. Before either could say anything else, they heard shouting coming from the kitchen, interrupting any chance they could have had to continue their conversation.

“We should go see what’s wrong.”

“Wait, but I’m supposed to keep you here and away from the representative.”

“Technically yeah, you are supposed to do that. But don’t you wanna go with me to see what’s happening?” Virgil asked while standing up.

“You know I do. We gotta make sure no one catches us over there. I’m sure we’ll be fine though, so let’s go.” Roman stood and walked into the hallway, being as quiet as possible as he and Virgil made their way to the source of the ruckus.

“-we will not hesitate to remove him from your custody by force if necessary.”

“If you want him you’ll have to go through me!”

“That can be arranged,” the stranger’s voice snapped coldly.

“If you insult Patton one more time, I can personally assure you that you will be leaving this building both without a job and possibly with a stronger understanding of the importance of self-preservation considering that I will make you regret ever setting foot in here,” Logan threatened, immediately jumping to the sweeter man’s defense.

Roman noticed Virgil's visible surprise at hearing Logan speak in such an emotional manner twice in one day, especially considering that this time was much more passionate than the first.

“They have a kind of thing going on between them. It's complicated,” Roman whispered to Virgil to serve as an explanation before staying quiet so they could eavesdrop once more.

“Calm down boys,” Deceit, ever the negotiator, said in a placating tone. “I swear to you that we’ll uphold our end of the bargain as long as you stand by yours.”

“I still say this whole deal is ridiculous.”

“Maybe it is, but keep in mind that you were the one who set the terms for our compromise. Terms that we’re going out of our way to agree to.”

“Fine. I’ll be sending someone in a month to verify that you’ve made the progress you assured me you will. I hope we won’t have the misfortune of seeing each other again.”

“The sentiment is mutual,” Logan fired back.

Roman and Virgil moved from their hiding place in time to see the scathing glare the representative gave the three other men in the room before he turned on his heel and stormed out the front door. They, in turn, rushed into the kitchen the moment they heard Deceit close the door after him.

“What happened? Are they coming back for Virgil?”

“Calm down, Roman,” Deceit said in a soothing tone. “We have until December 2nd to train our new friend. That’s when another representative will come back to check up on us. If we fail, they’ll take him to train him using their own methods.” Seeing the clear worry on Roman’s face, he quickly added, “But that’s a month away. Everything will be fine by then.” Deceit’s reassuring smile was just as false as his reassurances, but Roman didn’t want to question it. The two continued talking about ways to speed up the training, with Virgil giving occasional commentary, while Logan and Patton walked back into the living room.

“Are you alright? In regards to your emotions, I mean.”

“Yeah, I’m okay, Lo.” Patton sighed heavily as he sat on the couch. “You didn’t have to defend me back there.”

“It was only right of me to do so.” Logan sat next to him, stiff posture relaxing slightly, the way it only ever did when he was alone with Patton. “You make a conscientious decision to act as kind as you possibly can to every individual you meet in spite of your upbringing and the events you have lived through which have all figuratively shaped you to become the amiable and considerate person you are now. I possess a profound respect for you for that and you should not have to tolerate sitting by and listening to your good-natured personality be slandered in such an unjust fashion.”

“Thanks, Logan. That’s nice of you to say. I should be asking if you are okay, though. We never got a chance to talk after the whole thing that happened on the roof.”

“Oh, that. I must implore you to consider moving past my immature actions from earlier. I shouldn’t have reacted in such a rash manner to the situation and quite frankly, am ashamed and embarrassed by the part I played in the ordeal.”

“Logan, it’s alright to show your emotions more than just once in a blue moon. It’s not healthy to bottle all these tricky feelings up all the time and only let them out in bursts when you can’t help it. You don’t have to try and deal with it on your own so no one will think any less of you if you need help sometimes.”

“I appreciate your concern, Patton, but please do not take offense to the fact that I am going to continue managing things the way I always have.”

“Okay, if you’re sure. But just remember I’m always here for you.”

“Thank you.”

“I was wondering though, why did you get so upset about the mug? I get that it’s your favorite one, but you can replace it, right?” Despite Patton’s expression remaining as gentle as ever, Logan lowered his head to avoid the other man’s gaze, his own expression quickly becoming clouded with a look resembling shame.

“I am very much aware of how juvenile it is for me to have attachments to inanimate objects, yet, despite my best efforts, it would appear that I unintentionally allowed myself to mentally form an emotional connection to that particular mug.” Logan quickly adjusted his glasses to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts just as Patton’s gloved hand gently cupped to Logan’s face and tilted it up so they could look each other in the eyes. Patton looked silently into Logan’s eyes for a second before speaking quietly, unaware that Logan’s mind had completely blanked of all thought the second Patton had touched him.

“You don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to.” He lowered his hand. “I don’t want you to be pressured, Lo.”

“No - I mean, that’s alright. I want to tell you, Patton. If only based on the fact that at the very least I owe an explanation for my unconventional behavior.” He glanced down in an effort to hide any residual hesitance in his emerald green eyes, before meeting Patton’s gaze once more.

“I cared so deeply about it because that mug was the first thing I was ever able to purchase with my own money that was not an absolute necessity. I purchased it when I was only eighteen years old, a few months after I had been forcefully instructed to leave my aunt’s house for being too much of a burden ever since I had no choice but to move in with her. The mug was symbolic of a milestone for me, I suppose. It was physical proof that I truly was free and no longer had to rely on her for anything thanks to my new job working in intelligence for our Superiors, even before I discovered my powers. Furthermore, that mug was the first thing of mine, ever since I moved in with her, that I could own without being worried what repercussions might occur due to it being an object designed to represent one of my favorite television programs.”

“Wow, I had no idea it meant so much to you.”

“I’m sure you think I’m rather foolish now, though.”

“What? No way! Tons of people have stuff they associate with a memory or feeling. That doesn’t mean you should think you’re silly for having those feelings, Lo.”

“Well, thank you for listening. However, I regret taking so much of your time.”

“Don’t worry about that. I like spending time with you.” Patton’s smile was infectious, causing a hint of a smile to grace Logan’s features before he schooled his expression back to the emotionless one he usually had.

“We should go discuss Virgil’s training with the others. Who knows what eccentric ideas they may have come up with while we were gone?”

“Good point.”

The two stood and made their way back into the kitchen, rejoining the rest of the group, anxious for a solution to controlling Virgil’s powers.

~~~~~

In what felt like no time at all, December 2nd arrived and they had yet to find a solution. Virgil had been training for hours every day, but so far the only times he’d successfully managed to blow something up had been unintentional. Now, as they sat around the kitchen table in palpable tension, they restlessly awaited the foreboding knocks that were bound to mark the arrival of the representative.

“Kiddos, I know today’s a big day, but you should eat up as much as you can. We’d hate to host a guest on an empty stomach.” Patton attempted a calming smile, yet it fell short of reaching his eyes.

“I don’t think any of us can eat anything today, padre,” Roman replied, noting how Patton too had been pushing his food around on his plate for the past five minutes.

“Yeah, I know.” He sighed, worry leaking into his expression for a moment before he quickly smiled again to save face. Patton turned to Logan. “Lo, can you come with me to the kitchen to help me get a serving dish I left there?”

“Of course.”

“Great!” Patton said cheerfully and led the other man to the kitchen.

“I wasn’t aware that there was still a dish remaining. I was under the impression we had already brought all of them to the table but it appears I must have been mistaken,” Logan said as they arrived.

“Actually, you’re right. We already took all the food for the others over there. But the thing is, I needed an excuse to get you to come here so we could be alone,” Patton admitted sheepishly as he took off his gloves which had previously had syrup spilled on them. He quickly began to wash his hands as both as excuse to get the remaining syrup off his wrist and to avoid Logan’s perplexed stare,

“Patton, if you needed to talk to me about a private matter, you are aware that you could have simply said that from the start and I would have come, right?” Logan leaned back against the counter as he spoke, a touch of amusement and curiosity in his tone.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just that I know you don’t like showing any feelings in front of the others.” Patton dried his hands and kept his back to Logan as he opened the cabinet in front of himself, making sure Logan couldn’t see what he was now holding with the utmost care. “Plus I didn’t want to spoil the surprise,” he added, barely able to contain his excitement.

“What? Patton I’m afraid that you have - metaphorically - lost me.”

“Well, you told me how much your TARDIS mug meant to you, and I know it’s been a month but I can tell it’s still bothering you a bit and on top of that there’s all the nerves of today, so…” Patton trailed off as he turned around with a small smile, a Baymax mug cradled in his hands. “I made this for you. I remembered when you were telling me all about how much you like the message and symbolism in Big Hero Six, so I really hope you like this.”

“Patton - “ Logan cut himself off before his voice betrayed how overcome with emotion he truly was. “I can’t believe you actually listened and remember what I told you months ago. And,” he paused to quickly adjust his glasses in an attempt to distract himself from his slightly watering eyes, “thank you so much for taking the time to make this. It’s one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me.”

“It was no trouble at all, Lo,” Patton replied, beaming. He turned the round, white mug in his hands so the front decorated with the two black dots and line between them representing Baymax’s eyes along with the small gray circle located close to the mug’s base and hand painted to mirror where Baymax’s ID chips could be inserted was facing away from Logan. Instead, Patton showed the other man where he had painted the feeling chart Baymax used in the movie.

“Now with this you can ‘rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10’ without having to try and find the right words to talk about all those icky emotions. And if you’re ever feeling down and wanna talk about it without interrupting the others, you can just look at me and point to however you’re feeling so we can go get a quiet space to figure everything out. Just know you can always come to me.” Patton smiled, the same way that always made Logan feel a strange warm and tingling sensation in his chest.

“This means a great deal to me.” Logan felt a small smile tugging at his lips and for once, he allowed himself to experience the fleeting blissful feeling. Logan didn’t hesitate to reach out to take his new mug from Patton so that he could admire it further, taking Patton by surprise and rendering him unable to set down the mug fast enough. Logan, still distracted, had yet to realize his mistake. The moment their skin touched, it was too late.

Logan’s body hit the floor with a thud.

Next Chapter>>

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michelles-garden-of-evil · 4 years

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Episode 35 Review: In Which Matt Calls Out Jean Paul

{ Not available on YouTube }

{ Synopses: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

{ Screencaps }

Welcome back to Maljardin, the beautiful tropical “paradise” that is, in reality, a deadly prison for the guests of Jean Paul Desmond and his demonic lookalike ancestor Jacques Eloi des Mondes. Tensions mount as more and more characters realize that the island’s multimillionaire owner god refuses to let them escape and pushes for a séance in order to contact his late wife. One, Reverend Matthew Dawson, ex-minister and current stalker of one Holly Marshall, has reached the breaking point and now dares challenge Jean Paul.

Now, I know that I briefly compared and contrasted Matt with Reverend Trask (specifically, the second Reverend Trask) from Dark Shadows in my Episode 10 review last year. There are a handful of similarities--including both running boarding schools of questionable ethics (which I forgot to list in that review)--but they remain characters with fundamentally different personalities at their cores. In spite of this, Matt does share one of the favorite hobbies of the men of the Trask family: YELLING in an exaggerated Mid-Atlantic accent in long and emotional speeches! That’s what happens for a good portion of the episode, and I can’t deny that I find this sort of soap opera shouting match highly entertaining.

We open with Jean Paul descending the Great Hall’s staircase while wearing the Blue Suit of Sexiness, which he will continue to wear for the next few episodes. He sees Matt staring at the portrait of THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES and asks him if he’s “mesmerized by” him. (How could anyone not be, I wonder, before reminding myself that Matt is straight.)

“It seems everyone is, or at least the evil Raxl fears he’s spreading,” is the Reverend’s response.

“And you?”

“There is evil here, Mr. Desmond, but I don't believe in devils. I attribute it more realistically to a live, active human being.”

And then they exchange pissy faces to dramatic music.

I’ve noted before that I didn’t expect a minister like Matt (especially one who believes in other supernatural phenomena) to admit that he doesn’t believe in devils. Still, even if he did, that’s no guarantee that he would make a distinction between Jean Paul and Jacques or think anything of his sudden switches of personality beyond grief and/or mental illness.

The first shot of the glass-top table set up for the séance. Kind of odd that Jean Paul just happens to have a table with astrological symbols on it just lying around.

Just then, Raxl and Quito enter, and the former announces to Jean Paul, “It is foretold that the Conjure Woman one day will find death on Maljardin!” Jean Paul ignores this and tells Vangie (who also conveniently just entered) that she must hold the séance and he must speak to Erica.

Some Jean Paul crazy eyes. Shades of Gérard “Crazy Eyes” Berner, discussed in this entry.

“Master! In the Temple of the Serpent, the Conjure Woman was told that this séance must not take place! The spirits have spoken!” Raxl protests, but he ignores her. Remember, this is a man who announced three episodes ago that he is willing even to perform blood sacrifices to get his Erica back. He is crazy in love--literally. His obsession with Erica makes Matt’s decision to quit his ministry to stalk Holly seem sane.

“On Maljardin, only I speak!” Jean Paul declares, eyes wide and burning like the blue flames on a gas stove. He uses his “on this island, I am God” tone of voice, but sadly Jacques isn’t cheering him on this time. Speaking of Jacques, he immediately storms over to the portrait and shouts, “I must have contact with my darling!” as though he thinks that Jacques will willingly provide that. Oh, Jean Paul, my sweet summer child, if only you knew that he has no intention of resurrecting your dear, sweet Erica.

Alison arrives just in time to overhear him tell Matt that, as an “undesirable element that would ensure its failure,” he shouldn’t take part in the séance. He starts to ask Alison to join him, but then decides he would rather make a passive-aggressive comment about how Matt probably doesn’t believe in souls (WTF?), which triggers the following argument:

Jean Paul: "And the theologian, not because he believes in the soul, but because..." Matt: "Because he is tolerant, Mr. Desmond!" Jean Paul: "Tolerant of what? My madness, perhaps?" Matt: "I did not say that!" Jean Paul: "Are you prepared to face the dead?"

He tries to get Vangie to let him choose who will participate in the séance, but she refuses because she understands spiritualist matters better than he does. (Also, she can teleport to and from Maljardin, so it’s not like she’s trapped on the island like the other guests. This means that she can stand up to Jean Paul without the risk of him imprisoning her.)

Raxl brings up the missing notes about Erica. Alison demands to know how she knows about them, and she claims that she knows because of how often she and Dan discussed them. Raxl accuses Alison of trying to hide the notes in the cove (but why would she store them so far from the lab?). Matt has a point when he says the following line:

I am accused of pushing Holly Marshall down the stairs, Dan Forrest is accused of tampering with the cryonics capsule, Mrs. Marshall is accused of trying to kill her own daughter, and you are accused of concealing Dr. Menkin’s notes that might bring Erica Desmond to life again!...Now, a séance. Who knows what new accusations we will hear and against whom, and I wonder who will make them?

Raxl, Vangie, and Quito visit the temple to pray for the protection of everyone during the séance. This is probably the point where Tarasca would have appeared and vanished for the first time in the original draft, but we may never know for sure. Meanwhile, Jean Paul brags both to Jacques’ portrait and to my hysterical laughter that he is now in full control of himself. Sure, Jan Jean.

I really like this shot of Jean Paul with his arms outstretched in front of Jacques' portrait. Taken out of context, it looks like he’s trying to hug Jacques. "Caressing" evil, indeed.

Matt approaches the stairway to the crypt, but Jean Paul stops him. Matt then remembers that he threatened to kill anyone who trespassed into the crypt, which shocks Alison. “Does it upset you that I want to protect your sister’s return?” he asks her, and this triggers a second, much longer argument between Jean Paul and Matt. As usual with long conversations on this show, I will only include the highlights and summarize the rest.

It starts out with Matt repeating that everyone on Maljardin is Jean Paul’s prisoner. He accuses him of making them all suspect each other as a deliberate act of divide-and-conquer. I think that, in order for that to be true, it would require Jean Paul to be both omniscient and omnipotent, neither of which he is. (Even his hidden camera system only covers certain rooms.) Matt also accuses Raxl and Vangie of “seeking guidance for further accusations,” whatever the hell that means.

“Do you fear to face your judgment day?” Jean Paul asks him, which momentarily shuts him up. He stares at Jean Paul, stunned at the thinly-veiled threat.

Meanwhile in the temple, Raxl and Vangie decide who should and shouldn’t attend the séance. In short, neither Holly nor Dan should attend, but Quito should.

When Raxl asks if Jean Paul should attend, Vangie faints onto the temple floor!

When Matt recovers, he makes a whole list of over-the-top accusations against Jean Paul: "Hear me! Be a little god on your insane Island, manipulate our lives, play games with our reason! Be both judge and jailer! Yes, raise the dead, walk on water! That will be next. Crucify yourself, but remember, you, too, will be judged!"

Matt trying to look intimidating.

Jean Paul (thinking): “Please. When I said I was God on this island, I didn’t mean it in that way.”

You know, Jean Paul’s behavior this week reminds me of someone--and no, I’m not referring to whom you probably think I’m going to. I’m thinking instead of Jerry Layton, the show’s co-creator, producer, and “so-called production expert” who apparently shared some notable personality traits with early Jean Paul. According to the show’s floor director, Bob Wilson:

To be honest with you I always thought, and I’m not the only one who thought this, that the Jean Paul Desmond character was really Jerry Layton. Oh yes. He was mad. He was crazy. He would rant and rave about the simplest thing. And we would all stand around and wait until he did his little thing. And it was almost like an actor taking his lines and just running amok with them. I recall that--it was very easy to be intimidated by this character. I remember [technical producer André “Andy” Moujean] and I coming away from that dinner and saying to each other--What are we getting ourselves into?[1]

According to StrangeParadise.net, Layton insisted on running the show on next to no budget, which earned him the nickname “Mickey Mouse” among the production team. There’s a hilarious photo on there of Colin Fox with a Mickey Mouse pin pinned on one of Jean Paul’s dressing gowns and a mischievous smile on his face. There’s also this one in the website’s archive of the wall where John Pashley, one of the cameramen, wrote the comment “While my prose will not compare with Proust, thank f.....g Christ for Mickey Mouse.”[2] Notable examples of Layton’s mismanagement of the show include the lack of air conditioning in the studio while filming in August (as noted in this quote on Fox’s IMDb page) and the grueling schedule for the cast and crew, which Wilson also mentioned in his interview:

We all put in horrendous hours, not only in the production, but in getting the thing together. ... There were an awful lot of people who stayed [in Chelsea, at Crawley studios] overnight. I was not one of them, but I can remember the sound guys staying overnight, trying to meet deadlines, with their effects. I can remember the lighting guys staying overnight, trying to get the right look on a particular scene. [...] The bus would deliver, say, 25 people, and at night, maybe 17 would go back, because the other people were staying overnight to try to make deadlines.[3]

Despite these similarities, however, I doubt that Jean Paul is based on Jerry Layton. First, there is no evidence that Ian Martin actually ever visited the set, despite his position as headwriter. In fact, according to Wilson, he never did:

SRS: I was curious whether you ever met Ian Martin--he was the guy who wrote the first seven or eight weeks.

BW: I did not. To the best of my knowledge, I don’t believe--which is an unbelievable statement to make, but I’m pretty sure I’m right in saying this--I do not believe that any of the writers ever attended a production meeting, when we were at the studio. Now if Ian Martin was there, it would have been fleetingly, and he was the initial writer. The reason I’m even bringing this up is it was the bane of the actors’ existence that this didn’t happen. Many times they would say, “How can this guy continue writing [the show]--he hasn’t even been here to see, to get the feel of the set, of the ambience...”

SRS: He was writing it, but you were taping at that point well in advance of the broadcast--I see on this plan [of the set, which BW had] here, there’s a date--”August 11, ’69, programs number 2 and 3”--I’m taking from this that the original production of the actual show began in August of ’69. I don’t believe it began running on Canadian television until October of ’69.

BW: That would be correct.

SRS: So Mr. Martin is happily writing his scripts, but he’s not viewing any of the episodes... So he’s just spinning it off in his little room.

BW: Which was a sin, because we could feel the way it should have gone, we could feel where it could go--we weren’t writers, and when I say “we” I include cast and crew, because we were a family, we were very much a family. ... Had any one of the writers, Ian Martin or any one of the writers after that come out and even just spent some time, it would have paid so many dividends. As I say, I stand to be corrected, but to the best of my knowledge, that never took place.[4]

Second, such megalomaniacal types tend not to have a sense of humor regarding their own shortcomings. If Layton had even suspected that Jean Paul was supposed to represent him (assuming that he behaved as Wilson claims he did), I think that he would have insisted on changing his characterization earlier on. Most likely, Jean Paul’s characterization derives from the archetype of the Byronic lord of the manor, an extremely popular character trope in Gothic literature. Examples include Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre, Nicholas van Ryn from Dragonwyck, and (eventually) Richard Morgan from Martin’s 1979 novel Shadow Over Seventh Heaven. Despite this, I have to wonder if, when the actors were rehearsing this script, they were thinking of Mickey Mouse and his own so-called production expertise and putting their feelings about him into it.

Some delicious Raxl scenery-chewing in the Not-So-Hidden Temple after Vangie faints. “It is the prophecy,” she recalls in reference to Vangie’s prediction that she will die on Maljardin. “MUST IT BE NOW?”

Returning to our recap, Alison tries to shut Matt up because “Jean Paul is under a strain,” but he won’t have it. He proceeds to criticize Jean Paul to his face, and one has to wonder if some of these lines reminded Dan MacDonald of Mickey Mouse:

Why is it that no one’s feelings are to be considered, only his? There is no one, it seems, in all the world that has ever suffered except Jean Paul Desmond! No one has ever lost a loved one, only Jean Paul Desmond and his unique sorrow for his beloved Erica!

Colin Fox doing some literal backacting.

Jean Paul getting pissy.

We wondered whether we had seen him change into another man, one man one moment, another man the next! Now we are seeing the real man…A man who ignores the suffering of others, who is indifferent to the pain he inflicts upon them, who is willing to imprison them for all their lives for the sake of an impossible experiment in bringing back the dead, in getting what he wants because he suffers, because he is willing to punish the whole world in order to get what he wants out of blind selfishness masquerading as strength, this selfish thing! So great is his love of himself, which he calls love for his dear Erica!

For the most part, he’s right about Jean Paul, save for the part about him being indifferent to others’ suffering. He’s indifferent to the detained guests’ wishes to escape the island, yes, but not to Alison’s mourning of her sister or Holly’s of her father. He just doesn’t want the tabloid press to find out about the cryonics situation and spread scandalous rumors (or, perhaps, a scandalous truth) about him and Erica. Matt thinks that the whole cryonics experiment is just as blasphemous and ridiculous as Jean Paul’s insistence that he is God on his island.

Jean Paul’s anger is so intense that it’s starting to mess up his shellacked hairdo.

Now it’s Jean Paul’s turn to fling accusations at him: "I did not pursue a young girl in the name of God and good works. I did not beset and harass a mere child out of a sick desire. And I did not strike the girl unseen and secretly fling her down the stairs because she knew, knew what you were!" A reminder: Holly is almost twenty-one, and yet Jean Paul refers to her as not just a child, but a young one. The way the characters keep talking about Holly like she’s seventeen is just baffling. Like I’ve said before, Matt’s attraction to Holly is already creepy enough without those kinds of implications, simply because of the former captor/former captive power dynamics involved.

Just after Jean Paul says that he is responsible for everyone on the island, Quito arrives, carrying Vangie. “Your responsibilities grow,” Matt tells him. “Now you have the soul [line flub for “blood?”] of Evangeline Abbott on your hands.” However, it turns out he spoke too soon, for Vangie soon recovers, albeit with a vision of death!

“Jean Paul, I saw death!” she says upon recovering. “The death I saw was not my own ending. A figure--it wasn’t clear.” And then she points to Jacques’ portrait and shouts, “That man! The Devil!”

This leads Alison to beg Jean Paul to cancel the séance. Jean Paul is surprised that "now the scientist believes in the devil." Jean Paul, being extremely stubborn, insists again on going through with the séance. But what unholy death and destruction will this séance wreak on Maljardin?

Jean Paul sitting down at the séance table during the credits.

Coming up next: The séance and a return to the YouTube episodes. (Am I the only one who’s been missing the ridiculous automatic captions? I hope not.) Shortly after that, the next part of my review of Shadow Over Seventh Heaven, which I would have posted before this one, but I was so much farther along with this one that I decided to post it first.

{<- Previous: Episode 34 || Next: Episode 36 ->}

Notes

[1] Bob Wilson, interview with S. R. Shutt, Ottawa, October 15, 2002. Wilson is also the one who called Layton the “so-called production expert,” which reminds me of David Benioff, the “so-called production expert” behind Game of Thrones whose mismanagement of that series is well-documented on the YouTube channel The Dragon Demands. In a sense, Benioff and Weiss wrote it like a soap opera, changing characterizations and “subverting expectations” at will with random plot twists--which is fine until you remember that they were running a high-budget adaptation of an unfinished book series.

[2] Another funny photo of the wall can be found here, On this one, someone dubbed the show “Canada’s own all-American T.V. series!” and used the Mark of Death (from a future storyline--not saying any more about it until later) as an unofficial logo.

[3] Wilson.

[4] Ibid.

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heythatpenguinhere · 5 years

Text

Marry Me

*Hello again friends! Here’s another Eleteo fanfic to make you sob. This is by far my most emotional and personal story to date, with good chunks of it being inspired from my very own life. Enjoy! Give it a like and let me know if you cried too.

Off in the distance, bells chimed in cheer. The whole kingdom was celebrating the momentous day that awaited them and especially the royal family. The Crown Princess, recently Queen, had chosen a suitor and husband-to-be. The union would cement two kingdoms together and bring even more peace and prosperity throughout the realm. The citizens were smiling and dancing around as music filled the streets. Merchants were selling flowers and visitors from far and wide had come to join the festivities that were sure to last the weekend through. The joy was infectious to all it would seem...but the very bride to be…

The sun shone through the balcony doors into the royal suite of the Queen of Avalor herself. Handmaidens bustled to and fro bringing different items to pamper the Queen with in preparation for her big day. The Queen sat on a chair in front of her vanity as two ladies busied themselves with taming her thick curls into a gorgeous up-do, woven with orange Avaloran flowers. Another maiden sprinkled the Queen with scented perfumes that smelled of the very same flowers she adored so much. She sat poised and composed, staring into the mirror at the work being down around her.

“Oh mija, they brought your dress!” Abuela squealed as another lady came into the suite with a large bag. This caught the Queen’s attention and she turned around as the same woman began to open the bag and unveil a dress. Multiple gasps filled the room as they took in the sheer beauty before them. The dress was delicate; ivory colored lace was placed throughout the top bodice and flowed into the corset design. The sleeves were off-the-shoulder and they too were covered in a lace pattern. The skirt was a full ball gown that glowed with lace and beading at the trim, attaching to a magnificent train that cascaded in length. Securing the waist, a bright red ribbon with beading to match; the Queen’s signature color.

Elena felt herself gasp too and yet she could not bring a smile to fully reach her eyes like everyone else in the room. She didn’t know when it started exactly, but the illusions revolving her wedding day had begun to turn more bitter as the days passed.

Prince Eliseo was a wonderful young man. The two had met in passing at several balls and been formally introduced doing a key trade agreement between their two kingdoms. The Prince had taken the plunge and approached the princess after admiring her from a distance for some time; they had clicked and formed a lovely friendship over Avaloran chocolate and several mutual interests. To anyone watching, it seemed like the stars had aligned.

Elena, for her part, thought he was a very sweet man. Prince Eliseo was a caring man, respectful and noble in his intents. He was charming with his words and with his looks as well. No one could deny his attractive features and yet he was not cocky; or at least until you really knew him. He was very intelligent and that was where he could become a bit conceited at times; though it was quite easy for Elena to knock his ego down if she had to. At the beginning their small adventures were fun… and then she had begun to bore, though she would disclose that with no one.

He had taken great care into planning the proposal to include her family and friends, even the things she enjoyed the most. She had known of the plan when she wasn’t supposed to however and had to act surprised. Her tears had been real, as she faced an overwhelming amount of emotion in the moment at the fact that someone would go through such effort to share their affection and desire to spend their life with her. Those emotions soon fell mildly flat when she realized that everyone she loved was in attendance, except a certain pair of hazel green eyes.

He would later claim his mother had been ill and he could not leave her alone, but the fact remained; he wasn’t there. On one of the most important days of her life, her dearest friend hadn’t been there and perhaps the impact that had on her had begun to turn the wheels that would lead her here today.

He was part of her court, one of those who would stand by her side as she spoke her vows and celebrated her new life, and yet...something was terribly off. As she gazed at her dress, she couldn’t help but think back to a conversation she had with her royal wizard months before.

“Are you sure you are ready Elena?” He had asked her as they sat together in the garden. It was during another royal celebration where the two friends had snuck off to get some air when she had mentioned to him of how she had caught wind of the proposal plans.

Beaming she had looked at him and said, “Of course I am! Eliseo is a wonderful partner. He cares for me and my family loves him as well. He would take care of me and the kingdom; I know he would.”

If she had looked more closely, she would have noticed Mateo’s face fall, echoes of pain flash through his usually playful eyes, but she didn’t notice; she was lost in a daydream.

“Then if you say you are ready, you know I’ll be right by your side. I’ll be there always.” He had said with deep emotion behind his words. Emotions she would seemingly never know.

She smiled as she hugged him, “Thank you so much Mateo. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

And months later, another conversation was spoken.

“You’re...you’re leaving?” She said nearly speechless.

Mateo nodded, “I have been offered a chance to deepen my magic skills along some seasoned wizards in Enchancia. I-I’ll be leaving right after your wedding actually.” He said, not meeting her eyes.

If you could have heard it, you’d have heard the sound of the princess’ heart tearing in two.

“I-I don’t know what to say Mateo… That, well that would be a wonderful opportunity for you. You’d learn and grow so much. I, I just wish it wasn’t so far away from here honestly…” She struggled through the words to convey a sense of happiness for him. It was incredibly painful however and it would dash her emotions for the rest of the evening.

Gazing at the gorgeous dress in front of her, she saw her absolute dream come true. Everything she could have asked for and wanted was coming to place, so why wasn’t she... happy? She was truly perplexed and today was NOT the day to be dealing with deep confusion over her emotions and plans. She was getting married.

If her emotions had been confusing before, they multiplied when the dress was actually on her. She could now see herself fully, ready to give herself to someone and spend her life with them. She felt sick. She feigned smiles with those around her and began to move into the separate suite to meet with her court before beginning her journey to the chapel. She could have honestly bolted right then and there as she recalled that she would have to face those hazel eyes she had been thinking about in mere seconds.

As she walked through the doors to be greeted by her bridal court, she instantly locked eyes on the pair she was dreading to do so with. Mateo’s mouth dropped. As the ladies around them gushed about how beautiful Elena looked, she could only see him. He looked handsome clad in new vestments that still stated he was a royal wizard and yet were still so him; a maroon vest with gold lining, dark pants, and polished boots. His hair had been combed from it’s usual messy waves and he wore a golden bow tie to match.

He found he could not speak. He could feel the tears pool in his eyes at the sight of the person he felt to be his soulmate. She was beyond words; she was radiant. Truly no more beautiful a picture of grace and splendor existed but her.

“Beautiful.” He mouthed to her, with that being the only word he could say, as his eyes shined with tears and his hand was placed over his heart.

She could feel her eyes began to water and she smiled before mouthing back, “Gracias mi amigo.”

As she walked down the aisle, arm-in-arm with her abuelo, she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Prince Eliseo stood handsomely at the altar waiting for her with a smile, conveying his utmost love. Her family wept happily from their seats as she passed and her bridal party as well could not contain their emotions at the sight of her. And then, there was him. For as hard as she tried to lock eyes with Eliseo only, she could not. Her eyes fell to her closest friend.

He looked like he could crumble at any moment and yet, a bright smile remained on his face. But she knew him better than that. She had known him for years. They had laughed together, cried together, grown together. He knew her heart and soul like no one else that existed. Flashes of memories played across her mind from years before of all their adventures. Every hug. Every smile. Every laugh. Every moment that felt like home. And it was in that moment of not being able to breathe, that she suddenly took a deep breath… and everything made sense.

She stopped walking.

The crowds began to murmur in confusion and her Abuelo nudged her carefully, “Mi reina, are you alright?” He asked her.

Eyes shining with confidence and newfound fervor, she looked at her grandfather before laughing, “Abuelo. I’ve never felt better.” She said and unhooked her arm from his before walking quickly to Prince Eliseo herself.

The prince looked incredibly confused as she approached him; a sad smile on her face.

“Eliseo… I am not marrying you today.”

Loud gasps rang in the chapel and outrage was heard between the whispers.

“Elena...Elena...why?” He said; his voice conveyed all of his heartbreak.

Elena knew that she would never be able to erase his face and voice from her mind for as long as she lived. She had meant what she said, but she would forever regret causing the pain and suffering of the innocent man in front of her. For it was her own inability to recognize her true emotions earlier, that had lead to his pain now. She knew that there was nothing she could say or do to ever soften the blow that she had dealt him.

"Eliseo. My friend. You have been nothing but kind to me. You have shown me great care. I will forever be thankful for that truly… But you do not have my heart. I'm afraid it's belonged to another long before I even realized it myself! For that, I am truly sorry. I hope you can forgive me and find true happiness." She said holding his hands gently.

A stray tear fell from his eye as he closed them tightly. She tenderly wiped it away.

"Elena. My dear. As much as it pains me like nothing else, I-I understand. I want you to be happy. I hope you both have everlasting happiness. I mean that." He said and squeezed his hands once more, before letting them go… forever.

The prince departed in agony, but with his head held high. He knew that he would be happy one day.

Elena took a huge sigh, feeling an elated weight off her shoulders. She was free.

Before the crowds could fully begin to protest or her family scramble to her, she took the moment of shock to speak again.

"My fellow friends and family, I apologize. From the deepest parts of me, I apologize for my indecisive heart. I have wounded many today. I have probably made some doubt my decision making and who I am. But I believe a greater injustice would have been to marry someone I did not truly want to commit my life and heart to. What kind of a queen and person would I be if I did that? Please, learn from my example dear friends. Listen to your heart's callings and do not wait." She spoke with the demeanor of the queen she was: strong and valiant, yet emotional and vulnerable.

Silence turned into clapping and soon people began to join in support for their queen for being so candid with them. She was not perfect, but one could never say that she wasn't honest with her people. Elena's heart soared. But now, she had something long awaited to do.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion as the Queen then turned to her bridal court and all eyes followed her movements. Her footsteps took her to her dearly beloved best friend before anyone knew it.

Mateo, who had been lost in an array of emotions mixed with pride for his friend, soon was gazing into her amber eyes up closely in surprise. "Elena?" he asked.

The Queen's smile shined brighter than ever, her eyes tender and blissfully gazing into his emerald orbs. Her face shone of understanding, of peace, and of so much more.

"My dearest friend and faithful companion. You'll have to forgive me as well, for I think I have wronged you most of all. Mateo, you have been by my side for years and years now. We started off as friends and soon became so much more. You were the person I would confide in without a second thought. Through all of the up’s and down’s that came my way, you were the one that pulled me through. You gave all of yourself so openly and never asked for anything in return. You were content being by my side however I needed you. You were never afraid to speak up and tell me the truth when it needed to be said. You were always willing to encourage me and remind me of who I am if I ever struggled or forgot. I mean my goodness, just by looking at each other we could know what the other was thinking! Your hugs are absolutely legendary and your smile so great. We’ve been through so many adventures that I’ve loved so much and I could never imagine adventuring without you. Thank you my friend for being so wonderfully, amazingly, and magically you.” Elena spilled without filter and not caring who heard.

Mateo gazed into his friend’s eyes with deep care as his heart soared at her words, but confusion. “Elena, you don’t ever have to thank me for that. But how did you wrong me though?” he said.

She nearly laughed and drew closer, making him go still. “I’ve wronged you because while we promised to keep no secrets from each other, I’m afraid I lied about one thing. I don’t think I can hold it in any longer either. Mateo de Alva, my dearest friend, I am irrevocably in love with you.”

As the words that had been waiting to be said finally fell, no one in the room could dare react. Mateo thought he was dreaming. He had to be dreaming. This was never meant to be more than a fantasy to entertain his mind with. It was never meant to be and yet, here it was… happening.

Elena watched him carefully, trying to read his expression and for all the familiarity between them, she could not know what he was thinking in that moment.

His lips parted slightly before the words spilled out with years worth of adoration and hidden love driving them, “Elena Castillo-Flores. Marry me.”

#Elena of Avalor #elena castillo flores #mateo de alva #eleteo #fanfic #romance #eoa #elena #mateo

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anonthenullifier · 5 years

Text

Alone for the Holidays

Summary: Vision discovers the holidays are very different when half the team is on the run.

Word count: 4k

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17069387

Wishing everyone a peaceful holiday season.

Vision always finds hovering above the stairs is preferable to physically stepping, a preference that is amplified in this moment as it allows him to focus on balancing the stack of boxes in his arms. If he were to step down it is possible that the weight distribution would shift ever so slightly as to unbalance his carefully arranged load leading to an unpleasant outcome. Hovering efficiently removes such nuisances.

“You know you can take more than two trips, right?”

Sage advice that Vision typically follows, but each descent into the storage room tonight has led to an increased weight in his chest, one he desired to stymie by reducing the number of trips. Which is why he is unable to see his companion from behind the wall of boxes in his arms. “I did not wish to unnecessarily draw out the process.”

Though he cannot see him, the tone of Rhodes’ “Fair enough,” conveys an image of the man’s characteristic nod and shrug he utilizes whenever readily accepting someone’s reasoning. “Come on over and learn the system.”

“Of course.” Vision slowly squats as he places the last of the boxes on the ground next to Rhodes’ wheelchair and then stands to attention as he awaits further instructions.

“Alright, so this one,” Rhodes points towards a pile on the coffee table of opened and partially sorted boxes, several stray pieces of tinsel clinging to the tape residue on the flaps, “is for the tree. This one,” a new pile that looks almost identical to the other one minus the tinsel is on the chair Vision uses when playing chess, “is for the halls and common area.”

There is a third stack, located on the couch, where all of the tape has been cut and the flaps delicately folded shut again. “And these?”

“Those need to go back in storage.”

Vision feels foolish after asking as the answer would have been apparent had he simply stopped and applied logic before speaking. “Oh yes, I recall now.” Given their former teammates are still internationally wanted fugitives, it was determined that any object or decoration traced to the rogue Avengers should be kept in storage. Invoking the old adage of out of sight, out of mind. Yet Vision is not certain hiding it will truly remove all thoughts of their friends. Or at least, it has not done so for him, the compound’s silent rooms an ever present reminder of the schism.

“We should probably just get this over with.” He suspects Rhodes feels similarly, though they have not spoken about it. It is a hunch predicated on the knowledge that both of them have put off decorating the compound until it was unavoidable. “Want to take the tree or the boxes?”

Neither is particularly enticing or meaningful since this is only his second holiday season and he still lacks the traditions so deeply embedded in his teammates, so Vision chooses what he believes Rhodes would prefer. “I can sort the rest of the boxes and then aid you.”

“Sounds good.” A pang of guilt stabs Vision’s chest as he watches Rhodes’ onerous ascent from his wheelchair, the exoskeleton Stark crafted for him still in beta testing and prone to giving out unexpectedly. It is amazing to Vision how unperturbed Rhodes is most of the time and how, besides their first conversation post Leipzig, he has never lashed out at Vision for what happened (unlike Tony, who has done so on a handful of occasions). It doesn’t mean Vision allows himself leeway in accepting responsibility for what occurred, but it does help him breathe easier knowing there is no ill will between himself and Rhodes. “I’ll need your help towards the top, I’m not climbing that ladder.”

“Understood.” The year before, when everyone was present, including Tony in an askew Santa hat and a drink in his hand as he directed everyone’s decorating, there was music streaming from the surround sound and a fake fire crackling on the television. Wanda stayed with Vision in the kitchen, stirring the hot chocolate and spiked cider, commiserating with him about how odd all of the traditions were to outsiders such as themselves. Now it is silent minus the clink of ornaments and rustle of tinsel as Rhodes works on the tree.

Vision isn’t sure if this paradoxically weighty hollowness overtaking his limbs is normal, a topic he will need to investigate more tonight once Rhodes has retired, the past several nights introducing him to the possibility of seasonal affective disorder, though he has yet to have Helen test his melatonin levels. Vision tries to shrug the feeling away, or at least ignore it for the time being. So he begins his task, slowly forming a rhythm of running the box cutter through the tape, opening the box, and then sorting it to the appropriate pile. The process is fairly quick, his impeccable memory about where all the decorations went the year before means he doesn’t need to investigate beyond the top item in the box. That is until he glances at the contents of the second to last box. The glittery and cheerful golds, reds, and greens of the other decorations have been replaced by shiny whites and blues. Something in his chest seizes and he can’t stop his fingers tracing the dreidels printed on the crinkly paper of the string lights. The year before, long after all the holiday parties were thrown and gifts given, Wanda had confided in him that she didn’t actually celebrate Christmas. Vision, for a reason he had not been able to fully understand back then, felt a deep desire to honor her heritage and had gone to a local store to buy an assortment of, what he hoped, were acceptable decorations for Wanda. She had hugged him tightly and made him promise he’d help her hang them the next year. Only now it is a year later and he is folding the box shut and stacking it with the other off-limit decorations, somewhat concerned at the faint tremor of his hands as does so .

“Can you help me out?”

The request draws his mind back to the present, hands smoothing out his sweater as he turns towards Rhodes, “Gladly.” Vision studies the pattern and placement of the string lights on the bottom of the tree as he takes the dangling, sparkling bulbs from Rhodes and flies carefully around the tree to finish. Rhodes passes the rest of the decorations, occasionally directing Vision (in a much more subdued fashion than Stark did the year before) on the placement of the garland and ornaments.

Vision lands next to Rhodes once the star is affixed to the top of the tree. “It’s um,” the man next to him studies the large evergreen, one that could easily be placed on the cover of a magazine and will soon be on the covers of all newspapers and news sites, “a bit impersonal.”

“It is.”

Amongst the boxes in the pile going back to the basement is the vast array of personalized, garish ornaments the team traditionally gifts each other. Tony had insisted they put up the ones for the three of them, but Rhodes and Vision agreed it would only draw more attention to the missing members. What is left is a gorgeous albeit meaningless tree. “You doing okay, with all of this?”

The question is quiet, almost remorseful - whether because it is out of obligation or because he is worried about stepping on Vision’s toes is difficult to discern. “I believe so,” which is not entirely true, but is what Vision believes is socially the most acceptable answer.

“You’re still welcome to come to my sister’s, she won’t mind.”

It’s an offer Vision truly appreciates despite having no interest in accepting. “I believe it is mandated in the Accords that at least one Avenger must always be on the premises.”

This line of reasoning has not stopped Rhodes from pestering him, and it likely still won’t, but Vision can’t muster a better acceptable explanation for his refusal. “I doubt anyone would know if it was empty for a few days.” The truth is that no one realizes when the compound is empty because Vision is the only one who is consistently there to notice. “I just,” Rhodes sighs, hands waving in an attempt to convince Vision to change his mind, “I hate to think of you alone for the holidays.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Vision offers a brief, friendly smile that hopefully conveys his genuineness, “but I will be fine.”

Rhodes inhales deeply, seemingly contemplating if he continues to push on the matter, but then his chest deflates soundlessly as he accepts Vision’s decision. “Okay.” A shrug sends away the last of the concern from his voice, replacing it expertly with a more lighthearted topic, “Please tell me you remembered to order the backup sweaters for tomorrow.”

The sweaters Tony ordered for the annual Avenger Christmas card are...questionable at best, caricatures of their faces with Santa hats on with The Accordions embroidered underneath. “Yes, I have them in my quarters.”

“Thank God.” There are still half a dozen boxes of decorations left for the hallways and windows, yet Rhodes rubs his hands together the way he usually does when a task is complete. “I think we can finish the rest tomorrow, I’m kind of tired.”

Vision wonders if it is the same tiredness he has been feeling since the fallout of the Avengers. “I believe we only need the tree for the picture.”

Rhodes nods, eyes glistening from the glow of the trees, “Alright.” This is how each evening ends between them, at least when Rhodes is at the compound, very little interaction, awkward silence, and then one of them (typically Rhodes) extricates himself from the situation. “Goodnight, Vision.”

“Goodnight, Rhodes.”

Alone, standing in front of the tree, Vision searches for anything similar to his first Christmas: the awe that filled him each night when he would hover in front of the tree while the others slept, the confusion he experienced at each new tradition he was introduced to, and the warmth that bloomed from the sheer joy of the people around him. Unfortunately, he comes up empty handed.

Deciding that brooding is not the most productive use of his time, Vision glides to the couch, rearranging the closed boxes based on size and weight into a well-balanced, easily movable stack. Once it meets his specifications, Vision transfers the boxes back into the storage room, strategically placing each one on the shelves to take up the least amount of space, a real-life game of Tetris minus the disappearing lines. He would have lost the game, however, as the last box should have been placed third, its size and shape more parsimonious for the position than the one he put in its place, yet he failed to do so. Instead he slowly re-opens the box, sifting through the decorations as a gloom seeps deep into his vibranium cells. Had so many things been done differently, words been exchanged, or perhaps words been kept silent; some emotions kept in check while other, more useful, emotions were followed; actions withheld or even actions completed (he still cannot bear to think of the multitudinous options he failed to consider at Leipzig to stop the fight earlier), then this box might not be shoved into the darkness of the basement.

Vision closes the box, careful not to tear any of the delicate papers inside, and slides it onto the shelf. At this point he should retire to his quarters, or at least move to a more suitable location in the compound. He doesn’t move, however, eyes remaining on the brown wall of the boxes as his mind works.

There is a knock at the door. Wanda ignores it, certain it’s the guy from two doors down coming back drunk, yet again. Another knock and she rolls over, tugging the sheet up higher, body strongly disliking the stark temperature difference between day and night in the desert. A third knock and a painfully polite “Wanda?” jolts her out of bed, her powers flickering in the darkness as she pulls her sweatshirt towards her with one hand and closes the curtains over the window with the other. She steps in front of the door, hand poised over the knob as she sends a tendril of scarlet to confirm she wasn’t dreaming. She wasn’t. Wanda yanks the door open with a, “Vizh, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I-” this is not her normal response to seeing him, but this is also not a planned rendezvous, something they both agreed should be avoided in case other factors, like their teammates being around, would create a perilous situation. Vision seems shocked at her ire, his human disguise faltering around the eyes as she watches his irises spin. “I um wanted to bring you this,” he holds out a box to her, as if that should be answer enough.

The hallway is empty, thankfully, but there is no guarantee it will remain that way. “Just, come in.” Wanda steps aside to allow him to enter the tiny space, which is about half the size of her room at the compound, if she wants to be generous in her estimation. With the door shut and the lights on, she is torn between her desire to hug him, always elated to see his face, or scold him for misusing her coordinates given his demeanor doesn’t suggest there is any real emergency. “Vision, what’s going on?”

A quick assessment of potential sight-lines to the outside precedes the disguise dissolving into his crimson and silver visage, a sight she misses daily. Vision turns towards her, lips pursed and eyes incapable of settling on any one object. “Rhodes and I were decorating the tree for the Christmas photo tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

She is waiting for him to tell her the compound burned down or the tree somehow crushed Tony (she can hope). “It was,” a long, timid pause breaks up his sentence, a realization dawning on his face that is soon followed by a frown and flick of his eyes to her, “I feel quite foolish now.” Which confirms there is no emergency.

“Vizh,” a squeeze of his forearm draws his eyes to her, his embarrassment bursting in the air around them, “I won’t judge you, you know that.”

He sends her a sheepish, appreciative smile, “I know.” Another long pause and three breaths is what he needs to continue. “It was very disheartening to partake of such an activity without you and the rest of the team.”

A hairline fracture forms in her heart at the sorrow swirling in his eyes. “It’s always hard to celebrate without everyone you care about.” The hollowness and confusion she senses in Vision’s mind is one she knows intimately. The holiday season has long been something she tries to avoid, as best she can, wrought with reminders of all that’s been lost, of times when she didn’t have to stare at the empty seats at the table or feel the absence of the pressure of arms wrapped around her or hands gripping her own as they prayed. After their parents died, she and Pietro found one way to cope was to adopt their own traditions, taking only small pieces of their parents with them. It worked, for a time, until they just stopped celebrating other than occasionally eating Hanukkah gelt and lighting a candle in remembrance on particularly difficult nights. Last year, her first without her brother, almost destroyed her, even with her vain attempts at sidestepping it by simply not acknowledging her roots, because if the holiday doesn’t exist then it can’t haunt her. Unfortunately that’s not how it works, all the parties and the shows, the cheesy movies on television and the songs on the radio, the cards plastered to the fridge of happy, smiling families, all serve as reminders of how very much alone she is. It all leaves a bitter taste in her mouth - one she hopes doesn’t develop for Vision, his own experiences still so new to be sullied already.

“It’s not foolish Vizh,” she grips his arms and waits until his gaze meets her own, her voice developing a firmness that he won't dare to counter with any of his logic, “at all.” She wants to reassure him more, explain how she can’t make it through the season without at least three breakdowns in the privacy of her room, but the tears are already building in her eyes and she knows she won’t make it through the explanation, especially with the way he is looking at her, head cocked in empathetic concern. Wanda directs the conversation down another avenue. “So what’s that?”

“Oh, right,” they both stare at the box in his hands, “I did not want to renege on my promise.”

Wanda’s eyebrows lift as she grabs the box, inviting him to sit on the bed with her as she pries open the container, the sight of the overly commercialized, slightly tacky decorations he bought the year before shattering the dam of her tears which fall in time with her shallow, disbelieving laughter, “Vizh, you’re ridiculous-”

“I apologize for-”

“No, no no,” she puts the box on the ground and grabs his hands, hoping to convince him she’s not upset, “I mean it in the best way possible.” More laughter comes unbidden from her mouth, her reaction confusing to herself but she imagines it is even more confounding to the man next to her, how she can be crying and laughing all at once. “You flew all the way to Marrakech to give me this at three in the morning.”

Vision’s mouth quirks up into an uneasy smile as his eyes search for more information from her face, “I admit it was not the most well-thought out plan but it felt enormously important to do so.”

“What are you hoping to do with this stuff?”

He contemplates her question, his flimsy plan falling apart at the seams the longer he studies it, and she knows if he could blush that his cheeks would be turning beet red right now. His explanation comes out in a quiet, stuttery mess. “I, um, thought we could possibly, if you are amenable and interested, um, decorate your room.”

“Natasha is going to be here in four hours.”

This seems to confuse him even more, his brow knitting around the Mindstone as if her comment is in a foreign language that he is unable to translate using the internet. “Yes and I have to be back to the compound in the morning for pictures. I do not think it will take more than that.”

One the the main rules of being a fugitive is to travel light and keep only the smallest of personal mementos to reduce the risk of someone inadvertently learning too much about you. It means that Wanda knows she can’t keep the decorations, if they were to be discovered, there’d likely be questions which could lead down a dangerous road. There is no reason to tempt fate and risk losing her contact with Vision. At the same time, however, she’s unexpectedly excited at the prospect of decorating. “I suppose we could put it up and enjoy it for just a little bit.” The smile on his face is mesmerizing, his cerulean irises twisting joyously at her decision. “But you have to take it all back with you, understood?”

“Understood.”

Eagerly Wanda stands from the bed, holding her hand out to help Vision up, knowing full well he doesn’t need the aid, but he obliges, gripping her hand as he stands. “Okay, let’s see what we have.” It’s a small box and it takes them longer to decide where to put the Star of David garland and dreidel lanterns than it does to actually hang them. As Wanda fixes the angle of the lights, Vision places a cardboard cut-out menorah on the coffee table before stepping back to admire their work.

“It is not as much as I remember buying.”

Wanda rolls her eyes at the regret lacing his words, curling her fingers around his wrist and pulling him backwards until he sits with her on the bed. “Good thing this place is so small then.” They’ve grown closer in the months of clandestine contact, but not close enough to still the flutter in her stomach as she lifts his arm so she can snuggle into his side, a rush of victory to her chest when he hugs her to him. “Thank you for this.”

“You are most welcome.”

A snap of her wrist turns the overhead lights off, allowing her to more thoroughly enjoy the soft and pleasant glow emitted from the lanterns and the way it reflects off the vibranium on Vision’s face. “Are you feeling better?”

He nods, “I am, though it is always lonely whenever I leave you.”

An irrefutable statement. “I miss you too.”

Wanda smiles as he draws her closer, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, an action that encourages him to lay his cheek on her head. Several minutes pass in companionable silence, only the synchronization of their easy breathing disturbing the quiet. She contemplates staying like this, cozy in his embrace, but she also, given his motivation for breaking protocol, feels a need to probe just a bit more. “Vizh?” His hmm? buzzes happily against her head. “Is anyone going to be around the compound for Christmas?”

“No,” which is what she suspected. “Rhodes has invited me to join him at his sister’s house.”

The way he says it brings to mind a shrug, the intonation of the words dismissing the concept before it is even fully formed. “Why don’t you want to go?” Wanda knows the answer, has turned down multiple offers in her lifetime to join random (or not so random sometimes) families in their celebrations.

Vision inhales deeply, her own body rising and falling with his steadied breath. “I worry that I would merely be intruding. Given their ages and closeness, I imagine there are numerous deeply ingrained, unspoken traditions and normative expectations."

”You don’t want to feel like a stranger or risk unintentionally ruining anything.”

”Precisely.”

What social etiquette dictates is she argue against this reasoning, because she knows Rhodes and his sister would likely understand, have already accepted this possibility with the invitation. But Wanda has been that stranger, has seen Vision be that stranger for a large part of his existence. “Then don’t go. Or,” she does have one good memory of crashing someone’s holiday, last year the Bartons invited her out a couple days earlier than the rest of the team. It had the same strangeness, but it faded quickly due to how welcoming and understanding they all were of her situation, “maybe just go for a couple hours and see if you enjoy it?”

Vision’s nod shakes her head, his fingers cinching into the fabric of her sweatshirt as he considers the amended proposition. When he speaks it is quiet, a bit nervous, but filled with a renewed hopefulness. “That is a fair suggestion but I was actually wondering, even though we have a planned excursion in early February, if you might possibly be available to meet before the New Year -," the more flustered he gets the higher her smile climbs, "I, um, given that Rhodes and Tony will be gone from Christmas until the New Years Eve party, no one will notice my absence.”

The plan for Wanda is to travel with Natasha to Belarus where they are being joined by Steve and Sam for a rare week together. Technically it should be deemed too risky to even consider his offer, but technicalities are never her main concern. Wanda wraps her arm around his waist and squeezes him closer, an eager smile gracing her lips, one she isn’t sure he can see in the dim lights. “I’m sure I can sneak away for a day or two.”

“Fantastic.”

Life has taken a lot from Wanda, sometimes through her own decisions, sometimes due to outside forces she can’t control. After Pietro she had accepted that, even surrounded by teammates, she would always feel alone for the holidays. Somehow, however, the thought of spending time with Vision partially fills the hollowness of that fate, and maybe, if they can manage to keep going in this direction for years to come, neither of them will have to be alone again. “It is.”

#scarlet vision #wanda maximoff #vision #mcu #james rhodes #fanfic #mine #ao3

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xxfanfiction-emo-trinityxx · 6 years

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Smiling Depression - Gerard Way

Request: Smiling depression with Gerard? Reader is really good at hiding it, but Gerard still notices because he knows the signs too well

Warnings: Description of depression (very subjective bc I can write best about what I experience(d))

Word count: 2 531

It started out with one bad day. You were incredibly down and Gerard was mad at Frank for always being late. You had always been very empathic and therefore it was no real surprise to you that you felt bad because of Gerard’s bad mood.

But the next day it did not get better. You continued sleeping more, you were always crying, you noticed how the world passed you by while you seemed to walk in slow motion. When you did not spent time with the band, you were in bed.

You had no appetite, and enjoyed none of the dishes you usually loved to cook. In the mornings it felt like the world came crushing down on you and you could not move, not even to pick up the phone when Ray called you, probably wondering where you were. Sometimes even breathing seemed impossible. It felt like you were suffocating, barely able to breathe in, because it felt like a weight was pressing down on your chest.

Meeting with the others was the only thing that got you out of the house, apart from the occasional trip to the supermarket to buy a frozen pizza. But you stopped enjoying their company and every time you left to meet with them was a battle whether you really should go. Your apartment slowly sunk into chaos, but you were too busy fighting thoughts to notice.

Those thoughts were always the same. ‘I am a burden on the band’, ‘I contribute nothing to the music’, ‘I only make the music worse’, ‘they just accept me, not like me’, ‘I am a disappointment’. And with all these thoughts came a paralyzing guilt that made it almost impossible for you to look at one of them.

The drum set in your living room slowly dusted over and sometimes you realized that you had eaten nothing for the past twenty-four hours. Those were the moments you made one of the pizzas, and munched on the hot dish halfheartedly.

And all this time you smiled when you met with your friends. They did not notice what was going on with you. At least not at first. You were always freshly showered when they saw you, not knowing that you had not showered at all the previous four days because you just could not do it. You were wearing fresh clothes, and smelled nice of deodorant or perfume. You smiled and listened to them talking.

The only thing you were lacking at was the contribution. At the moment the band was preparing for a new album and spent most of the time at Gerard’s living room or the studio to write texts and melodies. Usually you only had to drum a simple rhythm under the melody they were trying out, and when they asked you to do something more extravagant, and your mind blanked and you barely remembered where the base drum was. You told them you had a bit of a creative hole at the moment. They accepted that excuse with a smile, telling you not to worry. You nodded and they left you alone.

You tried to spend as much time with the boys as possible. Sure it was a war to get out of bed in the morning, or even get out of the door, but once you had managed that, you felt better. You were smiling and laughing, even though your insides were frozen and cast over with a shadow of indescribable sadness. When you were with the boys, you were also eating and drinking enough. They made regular water breaks in which you were reminded to drink, and you always cooked together, or ordered food. You still did not enjoy any of that, but at least you were eating. You had already enough on your mind, the last thing you needed right now was an eating disorder. When you came home you went straight to bed. You were drained of all energy and if you did not fall asleep immediately, you cried because you felt like you had let down your friends.

Of course it had not taken you long to figure out what was going on. You had seen it with your friends before, more than once. You had seen Gerard stay in bed for days or trying to drown out the screaming thoughts with alcohol. You had seen Mikey crying because he felt so dead, and nothing was worth anything anymore. And even Frank sometimes had a few weeks in which he was bad. You knew he was never really good, but those were the weeks it showed the most. Still you were hesitant to tell them.

You had started to search for therapists as soon as you knew what was going on, but the waiting lists were long, several weeks at least. That fueled a hot anger in you, anger on the system, that there were not enough therapists when they were so desperately needed. And what about people who were worse off than you? Were they supposed to wait two months until they got one single appointment? What if they hurt themselves in that time, maybe worse? You were angry and apart from the breathtaking sadness and inexplicable guilt, this was the only real emotion you were experiencing anymore. Everything else seemed dimmed, like sunlight through a thick, dark grey curtain, and the curtain got thicker and thicker with every day.

You considered talking to the guys about it, asking for help, for advice. But something stopped you. You were not sure if it was your pride, or maybe that you did not want to admit to yourself how bad you really were doing. Maybe it was the fear of being judged, or the nagging voice, that was not your own, but the one of people who had no idea about medical science, that mental illnesses were no real illnesses. Maybe you just had to work harder on yourself. But then again you knew that depression was a real illness. It was caused by chemicals in your brain; that was what meds were for. But since you still had not seen a doctor about it, you still did not get meds, even though you were not sure if you wanted to. But then again you started to grow really desperate.

You still had not talked to anyone about the state you were in for weeks, almost months now. And you were really good at hiding it. At some point you had thought Mikey had noticed, but if he really did, he did not mention it to you.

~*~

It was another day which you spent with the band. The morning had been terrible; you felt like suffocating from a weight on your chest that you could not get rid of. When you had finally rolled out of bed and landed on an empty cookie box, you had managed to drag yourself to the bathroom where you had taken a long, hot shower. Hot water seemed to be the only thing that made you warm up, it felt like it was able to melt the ice inside you a little bit, but soon after you got out of the shower, you felt cold again. You dried your hair and styled it listless before dressing in some comfortable sweater and some sweat pants. You would spend the day at Gerard’s, so there was no need for dressing up. Breakfast consisted of some old, dry toast with the remains of your favorite jam. Mentally you added jam to the list of things you wanted to get from the supermarket, then you threw on a jacket and headed to Gerard’s home.

Everything seemed to be as always. Gerard randomly threw lines or words into the room and waited for the rest of you to find lines that matched. Ray had his guitar in hand and was playing around with chords, searching for a melody that fit the lines you had already puzzled together. You sat on the sofa between Mikey and Frank, absentmindedly drumming patterns on your knees, barely able to listen to what the others were saying. You were so tired and exhausted even though it was only noon. You blinked a few times trying to focus back on Gerard who was waving around while talking before falling quiet again.

“Dude, I think it’s time for lunch,” Frank suddenly spoke up. “I’m fucking starving.”

“Yeah, me too,” Mikey piped up from your other side.

“You’re always hungry, Frank,” Ray giggled. “But lunch sounds awesome. Chinese?”

“I bought these really good noodles that you only have to mix with water and heat up. How about that?” Gerard sat up.

“Uh, yeah, I know those, they’re really delicious,” Frank cheered.

“Sounds good,” Ray agreed.

“(Y/n)?” Gerard turned to you, pulling you back into reality.

“Hm?” You had not paid attention to what the guys had been talking about and instead stared into the air, wondering if this feeling of emptiness would ever go away.

“Instant noodles?” Mikey helped you out.

“Oh, sure,” you answered smiling.

“Great,” Gerard jumped up from his spot on an armchair and led the others into the kitchen. You stayed seated, wondering if you could nap a little until lunch was ready. There was not enough space in the kitchen for all of you anyway, you told yourself.

Just when you had decided that a little nap would hurt nobody, Gerard came back out of the kitchen. He gave you a long, sad look before flopping down on the sofa next to you. He waited as if he expected you to talk to him and when you did not, he spoke up.

“Spill it,” he demanded.

“What?” Confused and with a slightly amused smile you looked at him. A smile that did not reach your heart.

“You’ve been weird lately, what’s going on,” he asked, his voice demanding, yet soft.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, knowing that you were not.

“Don’t lie to me.”

It was a simple sentence, but he had spoken the words with so much bitterness and vulnerability, that you felt something inside you crack, yet you tried to hide it.

“I’m really tired, do you think I can take a quick nap until lunch?” You tried to avoid him, avoid the confrontation he had planned, avoid breaking into tears right here and there. But he did not leave you alone.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, fine. But you know that nobody can help you if you don’t tell anyone what’s going on,” he told you. His voice was soft, full of concern and it made you want to hug him so tightly, just transfer all your thoughts into his head so he knew what was going on without you saying anything.

You kept quiet, trying your hardest to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over.

“You know what’s going on,” Gerard told you. Yes, you did. “And so do I.”

Again silence, only interrupted by the voices in the kitchen.

“You’ve got depression.”

He said it like stating that you wore trousers. Coming from his mouth it sounded neutral, something that would come and go like a common cold.

“I know the signs, I’ve seen them often enough with myself. And with Mikey, and Frank. Of course it’s always different, but in the end… I already suspected something and then a while back Mikes asked if you were alright, and from there on I watched you closer. You can’t keep going like this.”

Silent tears rolled down your cheeks as you listened to him. Of course he had figured it out. And of course he was right.

“Have you thought about consulting a therapist?”

You nodded. “My first appointment is in two weeks,” you told him.

“Now that’s a first step,” he cheered. His voice was soft and you could hear how proud he was of you. “Ray knows too, by the way. He might not always show it, but he pays a lot of attention to everyone in the room all the time.”

For a while he was quiet. You listened to the talking in the kitchen. Somewhere in between Mikey screeched because apparently Frank had poured cold water down Mikey’s shirt.

“How about we have lunch, I tell the guys that we continue tomorrow and I come over to your place, help you out a bit?”

“I really don’t think you should come over, my flat is a mess,” you told him honestly, but he just shrugged.

“You know how I lived for a few years, it can hardly be worse,” Gerard told you with a half-smile.

You tried to smile back, but it felt weirdly broken.

“Okay,” you agreed, knowing that you were really past the point of being able to deal with anything yourself.

“And if you feel like you can’t handle living by yourself at the moment, you can move in with me anytime.”

You smiled sadly at his offer and nodded again.

A few minutes later the others were done preparing lunch and you all sat down on the table discussing new movies. You smiled sometimes, feeling slightly relieved that finally someone knew about the darkness you had been carrying around with you for so long.

After everyone had finished eating, Gerard announced that you would continue work tomorrow and drove you home. He seemed pretty unimpressed by the chaos that was dominating your home. He helped you pick up clothes from the floor and put the first load into the washing machine. He cleaned the empty packages of cookies and chocolate off your floor and did your dishes. You watched him, ashamed, after he had told you to just sit down. It took him less than an hour and the apartment was tidy and vacuumed.

By that point you were crying already, feeling like you only used him, but he calmed you down, told you that that was what friends were for, helping each other. After you had calmed down, he helped you write a shopping list, adding the jam after noticing that you had run out. He also added toilet paper and many different canned dishes, food you only had to warm up.

As if that would not have been enough, he helped you shopping, made sure that you got all the things you had noted down. He made you smile with many tiny jokes he dropped every other minute, and you could see how much it meant to him that you let him help you. Back home he put the groceries away while you had curled into a tiny ball on the couch watching him. When he was finished, he took a blanket, covered you in it and lay down next to you. For a while you stared at each other until you started crying again. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close to his warm body, making the ice in your insides melt away. Exhaustion took its tribute and your eyes fluttered shut. Gerard made sure you were safely wrapped in his arms, before he also closed his eyes, making already plans on how to help you in the future.

Part Two

#fanfiction #fanfic #depression #gerard way #gerard way x reader #gerard way fluff #depressed!reader #fluff

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reactivebangtan · 6 years

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REQUEST: Are your requests open? I didn’t see anything saying that they weren’t so I’m sorry if they’re not. But if they are could you possibly do a BTS reaction to when their S/O comes home after a really stressful day at work and something really little and trivial sets them off and makes them cry? I work in a memory care facility and today was literally the worst. REQUESTED BY: anonymous WARNINGS: nothing! NOTES: this is so late but i hope your day got a little better! ♡

he could see it as soon as you walked in the door — your usual smile upon hearing his ‘ welcome home, sweetheart! ’ was dim, your eyes seemed distant ( he’d bet anything that your head wasn’t where your body was ), and even your feet seemed out of place as you moved from the front door. there was no telling what caused it or how bad the damage was, but he didn’t bother second-guessing himself when he asked: ❝ are you okay, babe? ❞ from his place in the kitchen — he’d gotten so used to cooking meals late to accommodate your work schedule that he simply found himself there around this time everyday — he could see the way your whole body tensed, the way you paused, the way his question rolled over you and he could see exactly when it hit you. it seems that was all it took, as even though your mouth never opened, the tears that immediately welled in your eyes and shook your shoulders answered his question all on their own. instantly, you had two strong arms wrapping themselves around your body and supporting your weight, allowing you to lean into him completely as the shell you’d precariously built around yourself came crumbling down. sobs shook your body, your limbs trembled with every inhale and your chest squeezed with every exhale, and even though seokjin held you up it felt as if the floor was coming out from under you. after consistently holding it in all day it felt almost therapeutic to let it go, though, and once he sat you down and your cries calmed into little hiccups and gasps you could feel the weight of the day sliding off you in languid, heavy waves. every once in a while his thumb would pass over your cheek to catch a stray tear, or you’d feel his mouth press to the side of your head, as if he wanted to make sure you knew he was still there, sitting with you — he never asked another question, never bothered to shush you, simply allowing you to get it all out until you couldn’t cry anymore. and, by the time you did finally stop, he smiled at you like your eyes weren’t puffy and your nose wasn’t running and your make-up wasn’t streaked all over the place — he smiled like it was his first time seeing you walk through the door, like he’d been missing you all day, like he didn’t mind all the mess. there’s no ‘ do you feel better, now? ’, no ‘ get it all out? ’, no trying to cheer you up and simply move past this, just the serene calm that washes over you when he brushes your hair back and kisses your forehead one more time. ❝ how does a bath sound? you can soak the day off, and dinner should be finished by the time you get out. come on — i’ll start it for you. ❞

yoongi tried not to take it too personally when your response to him showing up at your place was dismissive and almost tired, brushing it off as you simply being exhausted from working so much lately. he even chalks up the way you grumble to yourself while in the kitchen to mere fatigue, opting to hover in the doorway rather than get in your way as you seemingly argue with the vegetables and scowl at the seasonings. it isn’t until a certain scent hits his nose that he actually makes his way into the warzone, sniffing all the way up to the undeniable source before noting it as blatantly as possible: ❝ you burnt the rice. ❞ when his gaze moves from the mess inside the pot to your face he expects to see that glare fixated on him, but instead is met with you covering your mouth and turning away as soon as you notice he’s looking at you. a strange reaction to say the least, but then you were never exactly normal by any means, and it’s another thing he’s willing to excuse away until he sees the way your shoulder trembles and your breath shudders out of you, choking halfway out. it takes all of five seconds to realize what’s happening, before he’s rushing towards you with all the intent to make it stop and no real idea how. the first words that clumsily tumble out of his mouth are: ❝ it’s not that bad, ❞ but when your immediate response is a choked ❝ it’s not that, ❞ his shoulders are slumping a little further and his brows furrowing even tighter. he doesn’t try to assume what’s got you upset, aware of the fact that you’ll tell him sooner or later and that it takes more than an educated guess to understand. instead, he opts for taking you into his arms and shushing you, holding you as close as he can without completely suffocating you. yoongi has never been the best with affection, but he’s certainly not the worst, either — this shows, now, with the way his hand cradles the back of your head and leans it on his shoulder, and how he says nothing when he feels your tears soaking into the material of his shirt and hitting his skin. it isn’t the first time you’ve cried in front of yoongi, and yet you still feel ashamed through the tears and the sobs and the whimpers — clutching onto the material of his shirt, you try to stand up straight, to get yourself together, but your knees are weak and you’re so tired and all you can do is lean against him and apologize, because what else is there to do? ❝ i’m sorry — ❞ you start, but he doesn’t let you finish, quieting your weak, trembling voice with a strong: ❝ don’t be. just let it out. ❞ and, you swear he holds you a little tighter, pulls you a little closer, before you’re wrapped entirely in him.

❝ hey, babe! ❞ hoseok’s cheery voice on the other side of the phone line is almost enough to lift your spirits right away, and you almost feel as if he knew you weren’t feeling like yourself — he always seems to call when things start to look gloomy, especially when he couldn’t be there — the thought bringing a little smile to your face. ❝ hey, hobi, ❞ comes your exhausted greeting, spoken on a heavy sigh ( he’s always done that to you, dragged the air right out of you somehow, like a simple breath could knock away the weight of the world, like he has the right to steal your breath away ). ❝ what’s up? ❞ you exchange your usual conversation collectively recounting all the little steps of your day, odd chatter in the background of his end filling the silence between words and your solemn breathing, all as you prepare your dinner and buzz about your kitchen. another thing you loved about him; he listened to anything you had to say, soaking it all in like a sponge and relishing in it, all because he couldn’t be there with you to experience it all firsthand — it’s second best to the real thing, but it’s enough. it isn’t until you accidentally swipe your hand over the counter in a grand display to what you were explaining that conversation stops mid-sentence and he’s left questioning you as to why you’ve gone quiet — you say nothing, already feeling your throat closing up at the sight before you begins swimming in a blend of color and shapes as tears fill your eyes. food — the last of the food you have in your house — is now all over the floor and painting the sides of your counters, and you swear you see a crack in the side of the bowl you had put it all in. all hoseok gets is a quiet chanting of ‘ no, no, no, no, ’ and more questions than answers. sure, it was cheap food and the bowl was plastic, but you were looking forward to finally sitting down and enjoying something today, and yet it seems the divines have other plans. ❝ what happened? are you okay? ❞ ❝ no, ❞ you whine, voice now clouded and thick with the frustration and despair that had built a home in your chest and decided to, apparently, live there. his chest aches, too, when he hears the way you whimper helplessly into the phone. ❝ my dinner is all over the floor and i have nothing else to eat and the bowl is broken and it’s everywhere and — ❞ ❝ okay! okay, hey, breathe, ❞ it’s all he can do to cut you off, evening out his own breathing and listening for yours to do the same. ❝ it’s okay. it’s just food, right? you didn’t get hurt? ❞ waiting again to hear your affirmation, the smallest of smiles worms its way onto his face — god, you could be wailing at the top of your lungs, and he’d still think you’re cute. ❝ i’ve got an idea — can you wait to clean it up? ❞ ❝ yeah, i guess... ❞ you sniffle, wiping away the few stray tears that escaped your eyes in the midst of your despair. ❝ why? ❞ ❝ 'cause i’m coming over to help! ❞ he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and you can just hear the door close behind him as he saunters out into the world, on his way to find you. ❝ and, i’m bringing pizza. unlock your door for me, okay? ❞

a sudden gasp and a yelped ‘ no, please don’t — ! ’ from the other room is enough to get namjoon up and out of the professional stupor he’d been in for the last three hours, finally leaving his pen and paper behind for the sake of whatever you’d gotten yourself into this time. he’s prepared for something spilled or something ripped or perhaps something broken, but what he isn’t prepared for is to see you standing over something spilled, ripped and broken with tears in your eyes. your latest book, one you’d been particularly excited about reading, lay at your feet with the pages soaked through with juice you’d left sitting on the side, words bleeding out into the paper and smearing, one page even half-torn and dangling just past the rest. in an effort to save it, you’d grabbed the closest thing available — which ended up being one of your shirts from the day before — and began desperately pressing it to the pages in order to soak some of the mess up. it did very little, and only caused you to get more frustrated, which ended up in another influx of tears. ❝ hey, babe, it’s okay, ❞ namjoon’s soothing voice washes over you as he steps farther into the room, causing you to finally look up from the disaster before you. ❝ i can buy you a new one, alright? please don’t cry over it. ❞ his words drip with honey, sugared in sympathy and a level of care that only he can produce, just as his hands reach out to wipe away the freshest of your tears as they trail hotly down your cheeks. ❝ it’s not just the book, ❞ you start, lip quivering — his heart breaks a little at the sight of it. ❝ everything’s been going wrong today. everything. ❞

it’s impossible to imagine how frustrated you must be just by your words alone, but he’s got a pretty good idea — he’s well acquainted with the sentiment, knowing far too well how it feels to have everything seemingly out of your control, crashing down around you and swallowing you up in the aftermath. watching as you spare another glance at the mess that is your destroyed book and seeing the way your shoulders sag in defeat, he spares one last glance himself at the door he’d walked through only moments before and sets his mouth in a hard-line; work can wait, he decides. ❝ well, we can’t go wrong with takeout, right? ❞ a smile alights his face when you shrug in response, nodding shortly after. ❝ how about we call some food in and just chill out for the night? we can... watch some movies or something. something with a happy ending. how does that sound? ❞ his smile only grows when you notices your own slowly bringing itself to life on the deadened features you’d taken to, just as you reach up to swipe away the last of the evidence of your minor breakdown. you glow, again ( at least, in his eyes ). ❝ yeah... that sounds perfect. ❞

you’ve held it in all day, expertly avoided questions like ‘ hey, are you okay? ’ and smiled every time someone got a little too close to seeing through your facade. it took all the willpower you had to not either leave or breakdown in the bathroom, already beyond frustrated with most everything going on — it didn’t help that nothing seemed to go your way, everything that could go wrong was and absolutely no one seemed to care but you. because of all this, you can’t help the relief that washes over you when you’re standing in front of your front door, knowing that beyond lay not only a bottle of wine and a cozy bed, but also your loving boyfriend. ❝ jimin? ❞ you call out as you shut it behind you, unable to help yourself from seeking him out almost immediately. getting a soft ‘ back here! ’ in return, you begin trailing to the back of your shared apartment, a little smile beginning to bloom on your lips as the comfortable silence in the house lapses over everything else and peace surrounded you. you’re no longer paying attention to what room you enter or how your body swerves around different corners, only aware of the fact that he’d be waiting there with open arms and that dazzling smile of his at the end. it isn’t until your feet hit the cold tile floor of your bathroom that you stop to notice the walls that encase you and, in turn, the divine scene set before you. candles were precariously placed on all the places they’d fit ( one balanced on the sink, on the back of the toilet, two on the thin rims of the bathtub, even one on the floor ), water was filled to the brim of the tiny tub with petals delicately scattered over the surface and a pleasant aroma filled the air — cinnamon and sugar and sweet almond, a soft blend that hits you just as your eyes settle on the man you’d been waiting hours to see. ❝ what is all of this? ❞ you ask, and he doesn’t seem to notice the tremble in your voice right away, instead smiling sheepishly in return and averting his gaze nervously. ❝ well, you texted me that you weren’t feeling well, and you always do this sort of thing for me when i’m not feeling my best, so... ❞ when all he gets in silence in return he finally forces himself to look at you and gauge your reaction, as, for some reason beyond him, he was utterly terrified to see what it was. did he do too much? too little? did he mess something up? the horror only doubled when he saw you covering your mouth and tears springing to your eyes, threatening to flow freely any moment — the candles flickered against them, alighted them and gived them a glow, and suddenly all he wanted to do was snuff them out. despite the fear and anxiety, he rushes to you within an instant and hovers just outside of touching you for fear of provoking you further: ❝ ah! did i do something wrong? i didn’t mean to make you cry! ❞ ❝ no, ❞ you manage to choke out, one hand shooting out to balance yourself on his bicep, squeezing and trying to ground yourself; eventually, you have no choice but to shut your eyes and let the tears fall from your lashes. ❝ it’s nothing you did. this is — this is wonderful, jimin, thank you. ❞ the fear dissolves as your words spill as clumsily from your lips as your tears from your eyes, but the anxiety remains nuzzled into his chest, just as you do a moment later. this time, without hesitation, he wraps his arms around you and supports your weight as you try to calm yourself down, reign yourself in, and when you fail to do even that. ❝ did something happen at work today? ❞ ❝ something like that, ❞ comes your weak response. ❝ i’m sorry, jimin. you must’ve worked really hard to do all of this, and yet i’m... ❞ ❝ it’s okay, ❞ his voice is so sweet, so soft, whispered right into your ear, warming your skin. ❝ you know i don’t mind. besides, you can still enjoy it, right? ❞ sinking into his arms and filling your lungs with air ( and, in turn, the scent he’d chosen ), you allow your heart to settle in your chest and the tears to slow, the ache in your head subsiding — how did you ever get to be so lucky? ❝ can... we enjoy it? ❞ a chuckle is your immediate response, before he’s kissing the top of your head and smoothing his hands down your sides — he takes his time sliding his fingertips beneath the hem of your shirt and lifting it just as slowly, caressing the dip of your hip and the curve of your waist as he does so, and the rest of your clothes are slipped off all in the same way: ❝ i’d like that. ❞

water thoroughly soaks through the material of your clothing and the chill that comes with it sinks into your skin and aches in your bones, all of which cause you to tremble and shake. you can see no sign of the rain stopping anytime soon, and all you can think is how this is the perfect ending to the worst sort of day — it can’t get any worse, you mock yourself in your head. now all i can do is look up! right. you couldn’t look up if you wanted to at the moment, unless you wanted to drown, both physically ( which you know isn’t exactly possible, but after considering your luck for the day you decide not to take the risk ) and metaphorically. the noise of water hitting concrete drowned out your groans and little whimpers, the cold coaxing them out of you over and over, until you weren’t sure you knew how to make any other sound. thankfully, you managed to find an overhanging roof that you could tuck yourself under, but every so often the wind would blow the rain onto you anyway, and it dripped incessantly from above, soaking into your hair. without truly realizing it, you begin to tear up, salt mingling with the fresh water clinging to your form — it isn’t until you feel the warmth racing down your cheek and cooling by the time it drips off your chin that you truly realize. it made sense, after a day like this — it seemed no matter how hard you worked things wouldn’t go right, and you could see the annoyance in your co-workers eyes every single time you messed up even slightly, until you couldn’t bare to look them in the eye anymore. those you were helping never seemed to be satisfied, and your help seemed to just add to their problems, until you tried to hang back and interact as little as possible. eventually, this all added up to you getting yelled at and reprimanded for things you couldn’t really help, which, although it wasn’t your breaking point, it was pretty damn close. and, if that weren’t enough, you were looking forward to finally going home and being able to relax, maybe grab a glass of that good wine you’ve been waiting to serve and take a hot bath, until even that was taken from you as soon as you stepped up to the exit. you could feel the cold from the other side of the glass, and you tried to prepare yourself, you really did, but the walk back home was far too long for weather like this. still, you had no other choice. it is, afterall, how you got here. the world around you seems bleak, without life and color, and the sheer loneliness of it has you clutching at yourself in order to ground yourself — the feeling brings you back to the real world just enough for you to shove your hand into your bag and rummage around in order to find your phone, finally resorting to your last option. when the line clicks and you hear him shuffling around, you don’t even give him a chance to say ‘ hello? ’: ❝ tae? ❞ ❝ y/n? is everything okay? ❞ ❝ if ‘ okay ’ is being drenched and freezing, then yes, ❞ you try to reply smoothly, but you’re certain he can hear the tremble in your voice. ❝ are you, by any chance, busy? ❞ ❝ too busy to come pick you up? no, ❞ his reply is smooth, though, and it eases you just a little. ❝ send me your location. ❞ waiting there for him seems to take forever, and the lonely streets only get lonelier and lonelier the longer you’re left standing there, by yourself, anticipating everything and nothing all at once. you find yourself thinking things like ‘ what if he doesn’t come? ’ and ‘ what if he forgets? ’ despite knowing he’d never do such a thing. and, you thought you were crying before, but the relief that washes over you when you finally spot taehyung’s car is enough to bring it all back, your lip trembling and your eyes stinging. it’s damn near overwhelming, how it forces the air out of your lungs and has you clutching ever tighter to yourself. it doesn't get bad, though, until you actually see him stepping out of the car, your eyes immediately meeting through the thick curtain of water dividing you. with an umbrella in hand and his destination seemingly nothing but you, you get all choked up and practically run to him when he’s close enough. the umbrella just barely shields you both from the onslaught of rain, but it’s enough to get you both in the car, his clothes, for the most part, unscathed. and, in the immense relief comes even more as you feel the hot air coming out of the car, momentarily blinding you to the fact that you’re still crying. it was impossible to stop yourself, to shut it all down, and by the time you’re trying to simply it and the evidence of the torrential downpour off your cheeks, he notices. ❝ bad day? ❞ he asks, reaching out far enough to lay a hand over your thigh, squeezing. ❝ yeah, ❞ you breathe. ❝ the worst. i’m sorry for taking you away from whatever you were doing, though. ❞ ❝ don’t be — i didn’t even know it was raining until you called, otherwise i would’ve come to pick you up at work. ❞ not once today has someone said ‘ don’t be ’ to you today when you apologized, not once have they showed you sympathy, and not once have they shown you care. that is the final straw. ❝ thank you, ❞ you start, eyes watering and mouth turned up into the softest, shakiest smile. he only looks at you briefly, trying to keep his attention fixated on the road, but whatever he manages to see is enough to make him frown. ❝ thank you, taehyung. ❞ ❝ thank me when we get back to the dorms, ❞ comes his curt reply, another swift squeeze on your thigh stopping you from saying otherwise or arguing with his decision. ❝ they’re closer, and i don’t want you getting sick from staying in those clothes. this project shouldn't’ take much longer, anyway, so i should be able to spend some time with you tonight. we can... order take-out, and just sit around or watch a movie or something. how does that sound? ❞ ❝ sounds like the best thing i’ve heard all day. ❞

among the top of the list of things you love about jungkook is his spirited, competitive mentality that always seemed to push him to do his best in anything and everything — it was one of the things that attracted you to him in the first place, one of those things you find endearing ( most people look at you weird for that, but you don’t mind ), and something you deal well with. sure, you might get a little competitive yourself, but it didn’t seem to matter who really won to you when you were with him. whether you won or lost you got something out of it, whether it be his cute pout or his beautiful smile. this is why, after you got home and he could practically see the stress rolling off you in tangible waves, then proceeded to offer to play you on your favorite video game you couldn’t see it going wrong. a perfect way to unwind after a long day and vent your frustrations, right? wrong. every time you got your score beat and your ass virtually kicked it just seemed like a repeat of the whole day — you couldn’t do anything right, the buttons weren’t working the way they were supposed to and you just kept failing. you couldn’t even win one time! not once! just as quickly as the frustration had melted away when you stepped through the front door, it seemed to return just as fast the longer you stared at that damn screen, the bright colors and lively music taunting you. where his usual little whoops of triumph and victory dance might’ve warmed you on a normal day, today they only set the feeling in stone and weighed down on your shoulders like absolutely everything else. it isn’t until he wins for the tenth time that you really start to feel it, though, that overwhelming and suffocating sort of frustration that makes your chest ache and your head hurt and everything in you tense at the sensation of it. the controller protested with a subtle crackling noise as your hands tightened around it, and it was all you could do to simply look away and clench your jaw. i will not cry over this, you chant in your head. i will not cry over this. no matter of trying to convince yourself would work, though, as even though your eyes are closed you can feel the tears building up behind your lids. the heat of them is overwhelming, burning their way past your lashes and trailing down your cheeks before you can even try to stop them. ❝ babe? ❞ jungkook breaks you from your inner turmoil, just as he’s leaning close to you to get a glimpse of your expression, but can’t quite reach that far. ❝ you’re not really that mad about losing, are you? ❞ it’s all you can offer, a shake of your head instead of words that come out on a shaky breath and crack halfway up your throat, so weak in tone that you just feel that much more worthless. you know he can hear it anyway, that he knows, that you’re not hiding it as well as you would’ve liked to. ❝ babe? ❞ he asks once again, his question now soft and tender and so, so aware. ❝ are you... are you crying? ❞ there’s no need to look at him to know his mouth is turned down and his brows are pinched together, and there’s no need for him to see your face when he already knows tears are marring it all the way down your cheeks. suddenly, though, he’s moving from his seat to stand in front of you, his controller tumbling from his lap and clattering to the floor — the noise has your eyes popping open, only to see him standing there, looking at you with those big, worry-filled eyes. the sympathy is damn near tangible, rolling off of him in thick, languid waves that wash over you until you’re crying all over again. ❝ i’m sorry. ❞ ❝ it’s not you, ❞ you start, assuring him of your words with a squeeze to his bicep. ❝ today has just been — ❞ the words get caught in your throat just from remembering it all, leading to you momentarily choking on them. ❝ nothing’s been going right, i kept messing up at work, i can’t even do this right, and it’s making me feel so — so worthless. ❞ he never knows what to do in these situations, can never think of the right thing to say, too caught up in the fact that you’re hurting to think of anything else. the best thing he can do is run his hand down the length of your arm until he can lace his fingers together with yours, holding on to you as tight as he can in hopes of grounding you here, with him. ❝ you know i’m not... good at this sort of thing, but is there anything i can do? ❞ it takes you moment to think about it, but the idea comes quickly enough: ❝ could we maybe just... lay down for a bit? ❞ the idea of being all wrapped up in him is almost as therapeutic as the real thing, and you can feel your heart slowing down at just the thought — even if it’s just being close to him, or the smell of him, or his heat radiating against your side you feel calm instantaneously. ❝ yeah, of course, but are you sure you want me there? i just made you cry. ❞ ❝ it wasn’t you, ❞ you remind him, squeezing his hand right back. ❝ i couldn’t think of anything else today, other than coming home to you. being near you, it... it helps me. you help me. ❞ a sheepish smile works its way onto his lips, and he’s finally looking like himself again — worry is still evident on his features, but it’s become dim and overwhelmed by the joy now twinkling in his eyes from your words. ❝ let’s go, then, ❞ he replies, taking to picking you up straight out of your seat and depositing you into his arms, holding you close to him even when your squirming and exclamation of ‘ kookie! ’ says you can walk perfectly fine on your own. ❝ what? we’ll get there faster like this! ❞ ( and, despite your pushing at his chest and adamant wiggling, a smile has bloomed upon your face and your tears have begun to dry, that renewed twinkle reflecting in your eyes as well. )

#reactions.#requests.#bts reactions #bts scenarios #bts reacts to #bts reader insert #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #kim namjoon #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #they all came out so cute :(

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