#she does threaten to knock every single one of his teeth out of his skull if he ever bites her though and he knows she means it
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I like Volo. I feel sorry for him and believe he honestly deserved better because it’s pretty apparent he’s hurting.
But I also want Akari to grab him by the neck and squeeeeze the life right out of his body.
These two thoughts can coexist.
#volo#pokemon legends: arceus#it's taking every ounce of my willpower to not have Akari rough him up a little in my fic when he approaches her#she does threaten to knock every single one of his teeth out of his skull if he ever bites her though and he knows she means it#(Context: Volo bit Adaman's arm)#but my Akari isn't the violent type like Touko and Mizuki - she can be cold and hurts people with words alone#and she goes right for the jugular with Volo
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𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐣.𝐲𝐧 - [ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟛 ]
pairing: stalker!jaehyun x fem!reader ( ft twice’s tzuyu, loona’s haseul )
word count: 2.4k
warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, alcohol consumption, mentions of sexual harassment, mature themes, mentions of drugs, smoking, extreme views, misogyny, yandere themes
a/n: unedited! it’s been forever since I updated this but also considering if I should turn this into a tbz series at my tbz writing blog so we’ll see how this goes.
taglist: I don’t have one yet and I’m seeing how this does since I’m thinking whether I should convert it into a tbz series. Please do lemme know if you guys want to see this continued!
disclaimer: everything written here is FICTIONAL and I am in no way saying that the mentioned characters act like that irl!
masterlist
(inspired by netflix’s you and the book of the same name by caroline kepnes)
The first thing that registers in my mind is how fucking loud this place is. Seriously, what is it with college parties and their inherent need to blast music loud enough to wake the entire neighbourhood within a five mile radius? Before I even step within the premises or even make it to the front yard, the whole fraternity house seemed to shake from the loudness of the bass-boosted music when viewed from a distance away. I even had to squint as I approach, the strings of fluorescent party lights draped all over the place glowing so brightly it almost hurt to look straight.
A few drunk college frat boys stumble past me, their hair sticky and messy with sweat and their breaths reeking of cheap alcohol. Their steps are wobbly and I can even see drool and remnants of vomit hanging at the corner of their mouths. My heart clenches with pure disgust and I grit my teeth as I watch them laugh out loud over nothing, their brains a pink, unintelligent mush in their skulls, probably rotted by endless drinking and fucking. All part of the college frat experience.
I wonder if they enjoy being a complete waste of space while wasting mummy and daddy’s money to put them through college.
I look away and ignore the growing irritation in me. This is the sort of party your friends wanted you to go with them to? I thought your friends were bad influences but scratch that, they’re fucking horrible. They taint you, taint your innocence and put you at risk around such dangerous men who do not deserve to be even a mile within your presence. As I walk closer, the house looks even more hideous up close.
It’s decorated in the worst way I’ve seen a house decorated. It’s as if someone threw a bunch of random fairy lights bought in the brightest, blinding neon colours that simply do not go together over a sloppy looking house and the front yard is littered with empty, red plastic cups and is that a discarded bra I see over there?
I tiptoe over the trash laying around on the grass and try to avoid the gyrating bodies of college students who clearly have no sense of rhythm. My skin feels grimy within just a few minutes of being here and I can’t wait to leave but there is no way I’m leaving when I know that you will be here. The thought of you being surrounded by such vermins makes me sick to the stomach and I want to get you out of here. The only place you should rightfully be, is at my place where there are no revolting men who only love to drink cheap alcohol, party till sunrise, get high off smoking a blunt, yell ‘turn up!’ every few minutes as if it’s muscle memory in their tiny, almost non-existent brains and do anything but be a productive member of society.
As I push through the double doors, the nauseating smell containing a mixture of intoxicating alcohol, smoke and cheap cologne almost knocks me backwards. My hand grips tighter to the wooden door and I force myself in. Inside, the house is dim but bright at the same time with disco and laser lights. A massive boombox and a pair of equally large loudspeakers sit at the corner of the room and some hip hop tune is being played while people dance and drink and smoke to their hearts’ delight. You’d never believe these kids were supposed to be the future.
Oh, how disappointed their parents must be.
A girl in skimpy shorts and a tube top looks at me with unadulterated want and beckoning in her eyes while staring at the varsity jacket I’m wearing, no doubt replaying fantasies of fucking a college athlete in her mind and trying to guess which sport I supposedly play. I gaze blankly at them before turning away and I can see her shift from the corner of my eye, obviously bothered by the lack of attention. It’s like I can almost see the gears whirring in her brain. Did she not show enough cleavage? Is more skin needed to get my attention? Sometimes people are so predictable and readable that it’s almost pathetic.
Other times, I might have lowered my standards and settled for a casual fuck with someone like that but not today. Today, I’m a man on a mission. A mission to look out for you.
My eyes scan the room but it’s too dim to see anything within four feet in any direction. The flashing lights threaten to overwhelm me along with the stink of the place and booming music and I can feel my annoyance evolving into anger. I repress the urge to slap the shit out of a guy in a red bandana who screams ‘turn up’ all of sudden, practically effectively bursting my eardrums.
I almost bump into a couple eating each other’s faces out when someone yells out at me.
“Hey, you!”
The music is so loud that I almost don’t hear it. I whip around and sure enough, it’s tube top girl making her way over to me. You have got to be fucking kidding me. Not only do I have to find and save you from this sleazy place and have to squeeze in with a crowd of sweaty, brainless college kids who know nothing but party in a tiny, dirty, smelly frat house but now I also have tube top girl hot on my heels?
The things I do for you, y/n and we haven’t even properly gotten to know each other yet.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Tube top girl smiles and up close, I can see that her mascara is smudged and her hair is slicked back with an unholy amount of gel into a tight little bun which only makes her face look wider and her forehead exposed with a sheen of sweat covering it. Her lipstick is reapplied and I know for a fact that she has done it to impress me. Her top is also inched a little lower, as if that makes her anymore appealing.
I smile in a dismissive way, in a way that showed that I cared, but not really.
“Hey,” I reply flippantly.
“Crazy party huh?” She grins, satisfied that she’s got my attention now. Women.
I let my eyes drift to her breasts and look back up at her expectant, puppy dog eyes that are so eager to please it’s actually embarrassing.
“Yeah.”
“What’s your name? I’m Meg.”
“I’m Jaehyun.”
“You part of any sports team in school?” And just like that I know that tube top girl must have had fantasies of fucking a college athlete.
So predictable.
“Yeah, I’m on the swim team.” I say and her smile widens, a playfulness in her eyes as she leans her chest in closer in what was meant to be a sexy gesture.
“Oh, is that so? I’ve never really talked to a competitive swimmer before,” she replies in a sultry voice and I smirk.
“Well, here I am. Am I every bit of the guy you imagined a college swimmer to be?” I whisper in an equally sultry voice. Let her think she has me wrapped around her finger. It’s easier that way. Better for her to think I’m enthralled with her and her breasts than let her cling onto me the entire night.
“Mhm,” she says, “of course.”
I’m about to reply when something catches my eye. From the window, I see you and your friends stumbling and swaying down the sidewalk, away from the party. Internally, I feel my rage simmering again but not at anyone. At myself.
How was I so late that I didn’t manage to stop this from happening? How are you already drunk? How did this happen?
A million questions are racing through my mind and my vision almost blurs with white hot anger as I imagine a slimy frat guy placing his greasy hands on you while you sit there, drunk and uninhibited in that dress that seemed to accentuate your every single curve. You look simply gorgeous in that dress and I fucking hate to think that other guys in this whole house may have made a pass at you. Why was I so late? Would I have been just a little bit earlier if tube top Meg didn’t stop me? I should have left the moment she decided to strike up conversation. This is my karma for letting other temptations get in the way. I vow to myself that this will never happen again as I extricate myself away from Meg’s clutches (“Hey! Where are you going?” She calls out and I ignore her).
I shove people out of the way and do not care for their protests and yelps. Fuck them and fuck this entire shithole of a house. I scramble through the door and maintain my distance as I follow you and your friends down the pavement and past the buildings within the campus. I watch and cringe as you seem to crumple under the weight of your friends’ arm and quickly realise that you aren’t drunk. Your friends are. Stupidly drunk.
I feel my heart relax and my stomach unclench. Of course, you wouldn’t be. You are good. And smart. Too smart to get drunk in a place like that. You know what are the risks and you are above such parties. Your friends though, I couldn’t say the same. Which brings me back to why you need better friends but that’s besides the point. I can see a few guys hanging at the other side of the street who leer at the group of you, clearly getting their dick hard at the thought of a group of vulnerable girls roaming these empty streets at night.
It’s dangerous. But that’s what I’m here for. They see me next and they look away.
I will do what I can to protect you, y/n. Even if that means protecting your good for nothing friends in the process.
All of a sudden, I see you trip and it’s like everything is in slow motion. You fall forward and I take long strides over, my legs stretching out and rushing to help you. Before your knees can hit the rough ground, I have you in my arms, encircled around your waist as I hold you up. I have your other friend, Haseul upright with my other hand tugging at the collar of her jacket. Your friend Tzuyu is not so fortunate and falls flat but she barely notices it, smiling tipsily to herself instead.
You glance up at me with those large eyes and I could get lost in them right there and then. But as quickly as we have our moment, you move away and I see a hint of suspicion in your eyes. We separate and the moment you extract yourself from my arms, I already want you back. Your touch feels addictive already. What have you done to me?
“Thanks.” You say curtly and I admire the fact that you have boundaries, not like Meg. You are hard to get and that’s what makes you so appealing. You are to be earned and respected.
You help Tzuyu to her feet and as you turn to leave with your friends, I call out, “is there any way I can help?”
You regard me with caution and open your mouth to reject me but then suddenly, the tenseness in your eyes relax.
“Do I know you?”
You remember me. Halle-fucking-lujah! I want to wrap you in my arms again but I play it cool.
“I… don’t…?”
Your eyes grow wide and the recognition seeps in.
“Wait! You’re from that hardware store right? Jaehyun?”
I pretend to be surprised when I’m actually fucking overjoyed.
“Yeah, wait… You’re that girl with the rope right?”
You laugh and it’s the most melodious thing I’ve ever heard in forever.
“Yup, that’s me. Kind of mortified that’s how you remember me but sure,” you say and your eyes twinkle but then you continue with a more subdued tone, “what are you doing here?”
I pat my chest good-naturedly.
“Friend of mine is a student here. I just came over to visit and he gave me his varsity jacket so I could try feeling like a college student for once. Never been to college so… yeah. I thought I’d like to try it out for fun.” I reply and shoot you an awkward smile, the kind you do when you try to get someone to favour you and think of you as ‘adorable’.
It works and you smile gently.
“That’s pretty cool, you’ve got a good friend.”
And you haven’t, I think but don’t say.
I gesture towards you and your friends.
“Need any help?”
You look at your drunken friends and back at me and I sense you thinking. Finally, you decide that you do need my help and chuckle, “We live right at that block over there and I think I might die halfway there. I’m not fit enough to hold 2 people.”
That’s so like you. So compassionate over friends who clearly didn’t give a shit that you didn’t want to go to some god forsaken party, so caring over friends who get drunk and don’t take responsibility, so helpful to take care of friends who literally do not give a fuck about you. You are not beautiful on the outside but on the inside too and as I loop Tzuyu’s arm over my neck and hold her, I wish I was holding you instead.
We amble over to the front of your block and we part, you thank me and we say our goodbyes and it’s all too soon. I want to be with you for longer, I want us to talk and I want you to invite me to your room but reality is often much less exciting and more boring.
“I’ll see you!” You call out, smiling as I walk away and I wave back, my heart soaring.
Today is a good day, I think and as I round the corner to the next street, I slip the keycard out of my pocket and feel the hard plastic under my finger.
Wasn’t difficult honestly. Your friends should really learn to keep their valuables in safe places, not the back pocket of their jeans.
#NCT-WRITERS#kpopscape#neowritingsnet#nct imagines#nct series#jung yoonoh#jung jaehyun#nct jaehyun#nct horror#nct 127#nct#nct scenarios#nct 127 horror#nct fics#nct 127 imagines#yandere jaehyun#nct 127 jaehyun#nct jaehyun x reader#nct jaehyun imagines#nct jaehyun series#nct jaehyun scenarios#nct 127 scenarios#nct 127 series
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AU_gust: Guards! Guards!
Read on AO3
CW: Canon-typical violence
prompt no 23: Historical Fantasy
Relationship: Lila Pitts/Diego Hargreeves
Characters: Lila Pitts, Diego Hargreeves
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Lila is unceremoniously shoved into a cell and as she whirls around to throw insults and maybe her fists at her captors - she’s been unfortunately relieved of her weapons - the cast iron bars are slammed in her face and the dungeon master sneers at her with blackened teeth, now that he’s no longer in danger of getting kneed in the balls. Again.
She slaps her hands against the bars anyway, making sure to hit them with the heels of her palms so the door rattles on its hinges as she shouts a string of threats about how she’ll carve every single one of them up and that they’d better let her out right the fuck now if they want to live.
In all honesty, she hasn’t the slightest idea why she is in this jail, for once.
She’d been making her way along a road through the forest, not on a mission, not even with any particular destination in mind, when she was jumped - completely taken by surprise - by five burly men, who knocked her half unconscious, took her weapons, bundled her up, and then dragged her to a fort and straight down into the dungeons.
And right now she’s far too furious at her captors, and a bit her own lack of wariness, to let the uncertainty of her fate get in the way of her anger.
“D’you mind keeping it down a little?” a voice behind her grumbles and Lila nearly jumps out of her skin as she whips around to see a figure sitting on a low bench in the far corner, half shrouded in the shadows.
She’d completely missed him when she was brought in.
Her fellow inmate seems to be a ranger like herself, she realises as her eyes adjust to the low lighting inside the cell proper. Long legs kicked out in front of him clad in practical leather trousers. A short leather tunic covers broad shoulders and an equally broad chest that he has his arms crossed over, only a bit of a linen shirt peeking out between leather gauntlets and empty knife straps, and Lila doesn’t think it’s a trick of the light that his skin seems darker than most people’s around here, but matching her own.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asks, at least doing a decent job of keeping the startled wobble that she feels out of her voice.
“Gods, you’re a charming one, aren’t you?” he asks sarcastically, pushing off from the bench and getting stiffly to his feet and Lila realises that he’s even bigger than she’d assumed he was sitting down.
She doesn’t let it show, but she is immediately on high alert as he moves. If she were armed she could probably take him, but if the scar she spots in his brow as he steps into the light is any indication, he knows how to fight just as much as her and Lila tries to push away the sudden fear of all number of terrible things he could do to her while none of the guards would bother to come to her aid.
Then she’s momentarily distracted when she sees his pointy ears stick out just a bit through the shaggy brown hair that frames his face, and she can’t hold in a surprised snort.
That is by far the bulkiest fucking elf she’s ever come across.
Indignation makes its way onto his face as he seems to realise that she’s laughing at him and he protests with a whine that really contrasts his earlier growly tones, “Hey, what the fuck are you laughing at me for?”
There’s an insecure vulnerability she might be able to exploit for her own safety if she plays her cards right, so Lila says, putting a brittle edge into her voice that comes a bit more easily than she cares to admit, “Not laughing at you, sorry! I’m just a tad stressed out about being locked up with someone who could be a brutal murderer for all I know!”
She’s surprised at how well her ploy works when there’s an instant shift in the elf’s energy and he actually takes a step back, giving her a lot more space, and his expression softens from irate to pensive.
“Uh, yeah… sorry,” he mumbles, fingers twitching at his sides as if he feels more uncomfortable than she does right now, “not gonna murder you. Promise…”
Oddly reassured by that, Lila stifles another laugh at his discomfort and instead asks conversationally, “What are you in her for, then?”
“Fuck if I know,” he replies exasperatedly, his frustration clearly not directed at her, though, “I was following a band of thieves through the forest hoping they’d lead me to their den and next thing I know, I wake up in this place with a headache and, I’m pretty certain, a crack in my skull. You?”
“More or less the same,” she answers with a shrug, then she goes on, hoping he’ll get what she’s offering, “Show me?”
It seems he does because he - tentatively, she notes - makes his way over to her and leans down a bit so that she can examine the right side of his head.
She hadn’t noticed it earlier, probably focussed a lot more on her own concerns, but now she sees the long gash that starts on his cheek and when she gently pushes strands of his hair out of the way, she sees that it’s matted with blood, originating from split skin that reaches all the way to above and behind his pointy ear, which is also a bit bloodied and swollen, clearly having been injured by the same blow.
The wound looks painful and like it will scar, but she doesn’t think it’s life-threatening as long as it doesn’t get infected.
“You’ll live,” she informs him tersely, but for some reason she can’t resist carding her fingers through his hair reassuringly before letting her hand drop. He grunts at her touch and blinks slowly and there’s suddenly an odd warm feeling in Lila’s chest.
She tries to dispel the tension developing in the cell, takes a step back, crosses her arms, and asks, “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Diego,” he says neutrally. She hopes he hasn’t picked up on her sudden embarrassment.
“Well, Diego, I’m Lila,” she offers with a bit of a sigh and then brightens, “You wanna get out of here?”
Diego looks at her sceptially, “You got a plan?”
Lila grins at him, giving him a quizzical once over, “As a matter of fact, I do!”
-
“Uh, guard?” Diego calls out not loud enough, and entirely unconvincingly, seeing as he’s supposed to be distressed and Lila can’t help but press her face between his shoulder blades in fond exasperation.
She’s known him for all of ten minutes, how is she already fond of this hopeless fucking idiot? Gods, he can thank his lucky stars that he ended up being locked up with her or he’d never get out.
Lila is standing right behind Diego, hands fisted into the material of his leather tunic at his back, pressing as closely against his ridiculously solid body as she can, making herself practically invisible to anyone who might happen to be looking into the cell even if they came up close.
“Fuck, you’re a terrible actor,” she wispers and feels the muscles in his back tense.
“Shit, woman, stop nagging! You do your job, I do mine, if you don’t mind!” he grumbles out of the corner of his mouth and then takes a deep breath.
The next time he shouts, Lila has to stop herself from startling, because his voice echoes off the walls and there’s a decidedly dangerous edge to it. It’s a voice that will not be ignored.
“Guards! Guards! The fucking ranger’s escaped! She just disappeared from the cell!” He slams presumably his fists into the bars and makes them rattle loudly and the commotion has its desired effect, because Lila can hear hurried footsteps thundering down the hall towards them.
Good, it sounds like two of them, that’s what she was hoping. She was expecting at least two, but three would have already made her plan a bit more difficult to pull off.
She focuses intently on the task at hand, dragging her subconscious away from the warmth she feels radiating off Diego’s body and the not overpowering but decidedly distracting smell of his skin,
“What the fuck?!” she hears one of the guards shout as he arrives at the cell and can apparently indeed only find one occupant.
There’s a rattling of keys and the hinges of the cell door squeal as it is opened.
Diego’s muscles shift against her, it feels like he’s lifting his arms. “Careful where you point that thing,” he says evenly.
Right, so she assumes he’s being kept in check by one of the guards, but that’s ok, that’s part of the plan.
One set of footsteps tentatively enters and Lila readjusts ever so slightly, face still firmly pressed against Diego’s back but she can now see the guard as he passes them, gaze fixed on the far side of the cell, sword raised defensively, and he completely misses her as he edges past.
Lila spots the hilt of a knife sticking out of his belt and in a flash she slips away from Diego and up behind the guard, pulls the knife out of his belt, and slits his throat with it.
Confident enough in her skills that she doesn’t have to bother checking she’s done the job thoroughly enough, though she does register the thud as the guard’s body hits the stone floor, she twists around to assist Diego.
But there’s no need as she just catches him grabing the short spear, the tip of which is still resting against his chest, pulls it out of the other guard’s hands and slams the handle hard enough into the man’s face that Lila can hear the sickening crunch of multiple bones breaking.
She doubts he’s dead, but this guard will also not cause them any issues in the foreseeable future.
“Holy shit,” Diego breaths out in surprise, “I didn’t think that would work!”
“Oh thanks for the confidence!” she says, more exhilarated than miffed, really, and grabs his hand.
On some absolutely batshit impulse she interlaces her fingers with his, but then decides against just dropping his hand like it's a hot piece of coal, lest she make things even more awkward.
She ignores the wide eyed stare he gives her, though a part of her brain registers how he clasps her hand right back, and starts pulling him out of the cell, urgently saying, “Come on Diego, we need to go!”
#au_gust_2021#fanfic#tua#the umbrella academy#diego hargreeves#lila pitts#dielila#diego x lila#diego/lila#lochrannn lxd au challenge
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FIC: Pet the Kitty (spicyhoney standalone)
Summary: Edge does not resent that his cat is utterly shameless when it comes to Stretch. (He just wishes he could do the same)
Notes: Totally based on a twitter prompt. Link to the prompt available on AO3.
Tags: Spicyhoney, Lemon Goodness, Rough Sex, Yearning, Jealous of a Damn Cat
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Read it on AO3
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Read it here!
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“aww, who’s a pretty girl, yes, she is, pretty pretty baby.”
It was almost offensive, really.
Doomfanger was a lovely cat, of that there was no question. Long, silky fur that was blissful to stroke, (and that clung stubbornly to every surface when shed, particularly Edge’s trousers), her wide eyes strikingly blue against the wheaten shade of her coat and the dark mask of fur on her face. Beautiful, yes, and aware of it; she craftily used her enticing appearance to lull unsuspecting guests into a false sense of security. Despite Edge’s warnings, so many of them were reeled in for that first stroke and then went for a second. That was when she struck, sinking her needle-sharp teeth and claws into any hand that fell for her trap.
It happened often enough that Edge kept a small first aid kit in the front room and anyone who complained as antiseptic was dabbed on their bleeding wounds was firmly reminded that they’d been warned. Do not touch the cat.
But for some reason, that rule never seemed to apply to Stretch. Even before they added the vulgar title of ‘fuck buddies’ to their relationship, Fanger seemed to set her personal morals aside for Stretch (and Edge did not think at how similar that was to her owner). She seemed to sense when he was at the door and came running, already chirping her baby-cry meow as she wound her way between his feet, nearly tripping him before he was even properly inside.
It was mortifying, Edge decided, watching with his arms crossed over his chest as his cat flopped to her side and exposed her vulnerable belly for Stretch to rub. No, it was shameful, and he did not resent that when he petted her belly, more often than not he’d be hastily jerking his hand away from a sudden application of sharp teeth.
He didn’t say a word, though, not a single one, and Edge was very sure that whatever expression was on his face, it didn’t warrant the calculating expression that fell across Stretch’s when he glanced up and caught sight of him. It certainly didn’t deserve that infuriating smirk as Stretch stood, dusting any clinging fur from his bony fingers as Doomfanger loudly voiced her displeasure at the cruel abandonment.
“aww, what’s the matter, sweetheart?” Stretch crooned. He sauntered over and the cocky roll of his hips was nearly as infuriating as the way it drew the gaze, implying a certain level of skill in a very specific context. “do you need pets, too?”
“You—” Fucker never made it out of his mouth, smothered beneath a harsh kiss as he was suddenly caged in Stretch’s arms. Just as well, it was better to have the reality of it than the word. Stretch was stronger than he looked, easily able to lift Edge off his feet, urging him silently to wrap his legs around those inviting hips to carry him off towards the bedroom.
They didn’t quite make it, mouths jarring apart as Stretch briefly stumbled, his sweatshirt gone askew where Edge gripped it. The temptation to sink his teeth into Stretch’s exposed collarbone was too much to resist and had him stumbling again, cursing loudly as he turned to push Edge against the wall with enough force to knock his breath from him.
“you little shit, wanna play like that?” Breathed hotly against his skull.
He didn’t, couldn’t say, yes, fuck yes, have me, take me, make me. He could only tip his head back against the wall, snarling wordlessly at the ceiling as his clothes were seized with magic and torn away, leaving him bare to the bones, his cunt forming between his roughly spread femurs. His clothes were certainly taking a beating these past few weeks since they’d begun this, sometimes ripped to little more than rags, and he didn’t care. Not so long as he could be here, his wrists roughly pinned to the wall by strong, slim fingers, another arm under his knee, hitching him up higher as Stretch struggled to wriggle down his shorts, his cock pushing urgently against Edge’s already humiliatingly dripping pussy.
They both groaned in unison as he shoved inside, filling Edge with one hard, deep thrust. It was almost too much, the girthy stretch of it almost painful with no prep and Stretch didn’t pause, already moving, his pelvis pistoning against Edge’s as he drove in with a brutal rhythm.
“Fuck!” Edge grunted. Barely, he could feel the burn of friction on his bones where he was jostling against the wall. Hard to pay attention to that when the angle of Stretch’s cock inside him was perfect, hammering in exactly where he needed it and sending his vision into stars. The wet glicking sound of it was loud, obscene, pulsing with metronome precision.
“yeah, that’s the idea, baby,” Stretch gasped out. The undercurrent of laughter in his voice was familiar and unwelcome, and Edge wrenched a hand free, scrabbling for a grip around Stretch’s neck to cling viciously. Needle sharp fingers dug into his cervical vertebra and Stretch yelped and only fucked him harder, returning his viciousness in kind, stretching him brutally past his limits.
“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, I—” Edge whined, his voice shorting out into a desperate cry.
“don’t you fucking come,” Stretch grunted, “don’t you dare, not yet.”
He nearly disobeyed immediately, even as Stretch suddenly withdrew, unceremoniously releasing Edge so that he slid down the wall, staggering to his feet and nearly collapsed directly to the floor. He didn’t have the chance to even catch his balance, spun abruptly around and a foot clad in an untied sneaker kicked his legs apart, Stretch crowding him back into the wall, both hands on his pelvis angling his hips as he pushed roughly back in.
“Yes, yes, fuck!” Edge wailed, his voice breaking and hoarse, his sharpened fingertips gouging into the wall as Stretch drew back to only the tip and slammed back in, again, again, oh, fuck, again.
A slim hand fumbled down between his legs, two fingers vicious on either side of his clit, stroking with painful intensity and his threatening orgasm abruptly swarmed over him, dimming his vision on a blinding rush of pure, sweet bliss that left him trembling and weak. He sagged, held up only by Stretch’s hands and weight holding him against the wall, sliding in his own sweat disgustingly damp beneath his bones.
Stretch never paused, hands shifting to Edge's pelvis and his fingers digging into the iliac crests as he kept fucked into him with a brutal drive. He panted out against the back of Edge's skull, “that’s one. now let’s see what you can do for me.”
By the time Edge properly came back to his senses, lying in his sweat-and-cum sticky sheets, the light coming in through the bedroom blinds was tinged with twilight. Next to the bed, Stretch was pulling on his stained clothes, his hands still a little fuck-clumsy, quivering yet with little aftershocks.
“Leaving so soon?” Edge managed to keep it light, a teasing question that didn’t reveal any of his inner turmoil.
“yeah, i gotta, promised blue i’d be home for dinner,” Stretch yawned. He gave the back of his clothed pelvis a crude, vigorous scratching. “gonna have to shortcut right to the shower and hose off as it is, don’t think spunk is the aroma du jour for a lasagna…oh, hey, there, beautiful.”
As Edge watched, Stretch crouched down to where the cat was winding through his legs and gently stroked a hand down Doomfanger’s arched back. Gentleness that he never showed Edge, not that he asked for it or even wanted it. He scritched lightly under Fanger’s chin and the rusty sound of her purr filled the small room, as did her mrrp of disappointment when Stretch stopped.
“see you this weekend?” Almost a careless afterthought, as if Stretch didn’t mind very much if he did or not.
“Maybe Sunday, I’m busy Saturday.” Busy doing nothing but pretending he wasn’t desperate for more of this, so much more.
“sounds good, text me. laterz.” With a casual wave over one shoulder, Stretch shambled out of the room, shoelaces trailing, and Fanger’s last protesting mewl following him out as he closed the door behind him.
Doomfanger leapt lightly on the bed, her tail curled around her feet as she sat just out of reach.
“What?” Edge asked her defiantly.
Her meow was as accusing as the glare in her pale blue eyes.
“It’s not like that,” he told his cat, “we’re not in a real relationship.”
Her tail twitched, once, twice, like a snake. “What can I possibly do? If he wanted to stay, he’d ask. Obviously, he doesn’t, what do you want me to do, beg?”
Doomfanger blinked slowly, her ears flicked, and Edge sighed. “I know.” Softer, a confession only for feline hearing. “I know. I wish he would stay, too.”
That seemed to be all she had to say about the situation. Doomfanger stood and walked fastidiously across the soiled sheets, settling back down against his ribcage. Her purr was loud enough to rattle bone and Edge rubbed her ears, touching silky fur that Stretch’s fingers had only just stroked with such gentleness. It seemed he saved his kindness for only one pussy in the household and Edge did not yearn for a softer touch against his own. He didn’t and he’d keep telling himself that until he believed it.
Edge lay there in the growing darkness and pet Doomfanger for a very long time, and tried not to think, tried and failed, because his cat really liked his fuck buddy, his friend, his…he didn’t know, and couldn’t risk asking. All he knew was that Doomfanger really liked Stretch and Edge was very much afraid that he liked him, too, and all he could do was lie here and pretend he wasn’t jealous of his own blasted cat.
He drifted off to a rumbling purr at his side and the memory of soft words, who’s a pretty girl, yes, she is, pretty pretty baby, words that weren’t for him, not in the slightest.
But he could still pretend.
-fin
#spicyhoney#papcest#keelywolfe#underfell#underswap#underfell papyrus#underswap papyrus#lemon goodness
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Fic: Desiderata (8/?)
Chapter Title: Reunion
Fandom: Mass Effect
Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack
Pairing: Miranda/Samara very slow burn, friends to lovers
Story Rating: R
Warnings: This chapter confirms (and otherwise strongly suspects) some squadmate character deaths. This chapter also makes references to Miranda’s abusive childhood so as per usual that could potentially be triggering to some people.
Chapter Summary: In 2186, Miranda withdraws into herself after confirming what she already feared - that several of her former companions did not survive the battle for Earth. Just as it seems she’s at her lowest point, someone unexpected shows up at her door. In 2185, the Normandy continues its adventures after defeating the Collectors.
Author’s Note: I initially started writing this story right after Mass Effect 3 came out. Originally, it was sort of a channel for my anger towards the ending, although the story has since evolved beyond that into something constructive, positive and healing. But, as was suggested in the warning I put on the very first chapter, yes, this means that some characters did indeed die in the final battle of ME3, and you’re going to get confirmation of that in this chapter, as well as unconfirmed beliefs about the majority of other characters, and Miranda trying to cope with that. So, be warned. This chapter is probably the darkest one.
* * *
“Shepard?”
Miranda was running. Searching for her. Looking for her.
Had to reach her. Had to get to her. Had to find her before it was too late.
Couldn’t see. Could hardly move. The air was thick with clouds of black smoke, burning her lungs.
She was racing, yet moving so slowly. Every step seemed to take ten times longer than it should. Like wading through tar.
“Shepard! Where are you?”
Her own voice echoed in her ears, feet catching on the rubble and debris that littered the streets of London. Entire buildings had been reduced to cinders that still smouldered beneath her.
A hail of gunfire rained down around her from all angles. Body after body fell and faded to dust in every direction. But, somehow, even though it felt like the whole universe was stuck in slow-motion, Miranda kept running forward, persevering through all the death and destruction, even as blood began to pool at her feet.
The shadow of a mass relay loomed overhead, taking up the entire sky, blocking out the Sun. But that wasn’t what she was focused on.
She could see it ahead of her. The Conduit. That crater right beneath the Citadel.
Marauders marched right past her, as if they couldn’t even see her, firing indiscriminately into the crowds of soldiers Miranda left in her wake. A senseless massacre. A slaughter.
All species fought together. All creeds died together. Names Miranda would never even know.
A bellowing voice resonated in the emptiness. “I am krogan! Nothing can hurt me!”
In the black mist, she saw Grunt’s silhouette single-handedly fighting off what had to be a dozen husks with nothing but the strength of his fists. But every time he knocked one back, two more took its place. He fought valiantly, standing atop a pile of no fewer than a hundred enemy corpses, but with no ammunition left, he was quickly overwhelmed. He joined the growing army of shadows following in Miranda’s tracks.
The tide of blood rose to her ankles.
“Had to be me,” Mordin’s disembodied voice echoed in her ear as his ghost turned to ash in the peripheries of her vision, and scattered in the wind. “Someone else would have gotten it wrong.”
There was nothing Miranda could do. Couldn’t stop to save anyone. Couldn’t slow down. The crimson tide was rising, reaching her knees. Every movement became harder. Slower. Fighting the current. With every step she took, the Conduit seemed to be getting further away.
Had to get there.
Had to reach Shepard.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Zaeed emerged from the shadows, firing at the oncoming horde as his position was swiftly surrounded. He pulled the pin on a grenade. “Open wide, you ugly son of a bitch,” he said, charging at the nearest abomination, shoving the grenade in its face. The blast shattered the walls of the building Zaeed had been hiding in. It crumbled on top of him, and buried his enemies with him.
The blood was up to her waist. Miranda could no longer run. Each step she took was heavier than the last, physically dragging her feet through mud and blood. Ghostly fingers nipped at her heels beneath the surface, gradually getting closer, but not quite able to grab hold of her. She was just barely ahead.
“Do we deserve death?” A vision of Legion flashed before her eyes, vanishing into nothing as quickly as it had appeared. “Does this unit have a soul?”
As the thick blood came up to her chest, she had to swim, else risk succumbing to the shadows that threatened to swallow her. She dove forward into the sanguine sea, kicking her feet and powering through with her arms as hard and as fast as she could. But she was moving so slowly. At a glacial pace.
The harder she battled, the less ground she gained.
The shrieks of banshees pierced her ears as they waded past her, like she didn’t even exist.
A voice came over her comms. “What’s happening?” Miranda heard Kasumi say in her earpiece. “There’s something wrong with the mass relays. They’re--”
Her words were rendered silent when the mass relay exploded with devastating force in a blinding flash of light that ignited the atmosphere in a ring of fire. Miranda stopped long enough to shield her eyes.
When the bright light subsided, she glanced up just in time to see a field of debris spreading out from the epicentre, a blackness so thick that every patch of sky was covered in the wreckage.
Within seconds, the whole world was submerged in darkness.
Miranda shook herself from her daze. No. She couldn’t stop. She had to keep going. Had to reach Shepard. She kept swimming, drawn like a moth to that sole source of light that pierced the endless night.
Finally, at long last, the Conduit seemed to be getting closer. Two faint forms stood their ground against the piercing bright white, protecting the path.
“Go, Shepard!” Ashley Williams called out to her Commander, firing back at the army of the dead, whose fingers began to claw and grasp at Miranda’s body as she fought with all her might to elude their clutches. “We’ll cover you!”
Infrasound shook the ground beneath them. Darkness turned to crimson.
“Look out!” Javik tried to push Ashley out of the way, but it was too late.
The cruel eye of the Destroyer guarding the Conduit had seen them. Blinding red surrounded them both. And then they were gone. Vaporised in a flash.
Miranda didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
Nearly there.
She kicked harder, doing all she could to outpace the ghastly skeletal hands that threatened to drown her in their sacrifice.
She got closer.
She could see solid ground again.
As she neared her destination at long last, two figures came into view, battling in the black cloud before her, atop a small island in the red sea. Somehow, their actions were not slowed by the mist, but fast and graceful. A violent ballet.
Kai Leng, and Thane.
Even though Thane was already dying, he was able to get the best of Kai Leng for a time, even throwing him off-balance with his biotics, but it wasn’t enough. Kai Leng cut him down, the blade in his hand slicing through Thane like butter.
Kai Leng turned to face Miranda. And, unlike all the others she’d passed to get here, his eyes locked directly with hers. He didn’t look through her. He saw her.
Before she could even react, those eyes were mere inches from her face. Her breath hitched as pain seared through her abdomen. She looked down, and saw that blade penetrating her stomach, her own blood now melding with the lake of ichor and viscera that surrounded her.
She gritted her teeth and raised her head once more. His cold face stared back, unmoving.
Miranda’s rage boiled over. With both hands, she reached out. Her thumbs covered his cybernetic eyes. And they sank in.
She pushed deeper and deeper. And as she slowly cracked his mask and crushed her fingers into his skull, the skin around her hands began to wither and burn, like her very anger was incinerating Kai Leng beneath her touch.
She squeezed her fists shut, and he evaporated into the aether beneath her.
Miranda clutched at her wounds and battled forward, scarcely able to keep her head above the rising tide.
Miranda didn’t know how she’d made it, but she was so close. There was just one figure left ahead of her. One shadow in the light. Staring into the Conduit.
“Shepard!” she called out again, resisting the whispers of the dead as they grew ever nearer.
The familiar figure raised her head.
“Don’t go in there!” Miranda warned her, a sense of overwhelming dread encompassing every fibre of her being. She knew what would happen. Had to stop it. “You can’t.”
As Miranda reached out, her wounds overcame her. The sanguine sea suddenly vanished without a trace, and she dropped like a stone, no longer suspended. She fell to the ground in pain, her fingers digging into the dirt.
Miranda hesitated as the army of shadows at her heels infringed on her vision, casting an impenetrable darkness upon her. She didn’t dare turn and look behind her. She knew what was there. Couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face them.
“Shepard!” she called again, begging to be heard in the deafening silence.
Shepard slowly turned. Miranda froze in terror as she was met with red eyes.
That wasn’t Shepard. Not anymore.
She heard the sound. That same, bone-rattling sound she had heard in that shuttle. Saw that same red flash as the Reaper’s gaze fixed upon her.
Only, this time, Miranda screamed as the beams incinerated her.
Miranda jolted upright, throwing her sheets off herself in panic, stopping only once she realised that there were no flames to put out. That she wasn’t back in that shuttle again.
Her heavy breathing slowly subsided. It was dark. Her head was throbbing.
She sighed and leaned forward, rubbing her palm against her forehead. Drops of sweat left strands of hair clinging to her scalp. Her sheets were soaked.
‘Just a dream’, right? That was what people would say, if she ever told anyone.
Unfortunately, like with all Miranda’s nightmares since the war ended, she couldn’t say that about them. Couldn’t brush them off as ‘just dreams’. Because they weren’t lies made up by her mind. She wished that they were, but they were the furthest thing from it.
If they weren’t so cuttingly true, they wouldn’t have haunted her so.
Groggily, she checked her clock. 3am. Roughly twelve hours since…
By sheer reflex, Miranda leaned over in time to grab the wastebin near her bed, just before she threw up. Nothing but liquid spilled out. Nothing but claret red.
The contents of her stomach were no mystery. The only reason Miranda had been able to fall asleep that night was because she’d downed an entire bottle of wine to get the images out of her mind. The thoughts. The knowledge. The stark fucking reality of her friends’ last moments. Hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Hadn’t been able to eat after...
Miranda gagged as she put the bin down, wiping her mouth. Obviously, it hadn’t helped her forget. What could?
God, her head hurt so fucking much. It felt like death itself had left its mark on her when it visited her in the night.
She didn’t even remember getting up and walking to the bathroom, only realising where she was when she flicked on the light, and saw herself in the mirror. The next thing she knew, the tap was on, and she was rinsing out her mouth, splashing some cool water on her face, to grant some relief from the heat in her cheeks.
She braced herself against the sink, and looked up. She’d almost stopped noticing the scarring on her own face by that point. Burn treatment and synthetic skin grafts had come a hell of a long way, even within the last fifty years. But, that said, Miranda’s treatment had been a wartime one. Not one designed for aesthetics. One applied by necessity, as a matter of urgency, after days without care.
But, in that moment, her visible scars didn’t make her think about herself. They made her think of someone else she knew, who had suffered a similar injury long before she met him. One whose facial scars had healed a lot better than Miranda’s ever would.
Zaeed.
Fuck, Zaeed.
And then the thoughts she’d been avoiding came flooding back. She was there in that room again. And he was lying there motionless in a plastic bag on a table.
She nearly retched again, saved only by the fact she had nothing left to throw up.
Dr. Michel had not understated her call. There were bodies. And pictures. Pictures from when they were found.
Both Grunt and Zaeed, Miranda had identified by sight. She would never repeat to anyone how they looked when she saw them. Couldn’t say it. Wasn’t for anyone else to know. Wasn’t fair that anyone should remember them like that.
At least they left enough behind to bury. None of the others were so lucky.
Well, it was possible Javik had. Miranda never saw Javik personally. Dr. Michel confirmed that he had been identified by a genetic sample. There was only one possible match for Prothean DNA. No visual ID necessary.
Ashley could only be identified by her dog tags. They hadn’t found anything else. Not yet, anyway. That close to the Conduit, chances were they never would.
Miranda had taken those tags with her, sealed in airtight plastic. Given her position, it was her responsibility to deliver them to her family. To be the bearer of the worst news they would ever hear.
Right now, the tags were sitting in a drawer in her desk. Miranda didn’t know how long it would be before she could bring herself to look at them again. To confront the thought of Ashley’s final moments. She knew she would have to. Very soon, much as she dreaded having to write that letter to her family.
The Williams family had already lost people to this war, hadn’t they? And now this.
As for Kasumi, that information had come from Bailey, by way of The Alliance. It turned out that The Alliance had known, or strongly suspected, her fate for a long time. But they had only just broken their silence, over two months later. Bailey had told her and Jacob the news as soon as he found out.
Some of the ships that worked on the Crucible had remained in close proximity to the mass relay, right up until the time it exploded. None of those ships were in one piece anymore. That included the ship Kasumi had been working on.
As far as anyone knew, she was still on that ship when it was lost. While they had spent some time accounting for people who had alighted onto different vessels in the intervening period between completing the Crucible and the destruction of the mass relays, there was no record of her leaving, and certainly no one had made contact with her since. Now that more than two months had passed, her status had officially been moved from MIA to KIA.
Even though Miranda hadn’t been confronted with physical evidence of Kasumi’s death the way she had for all the others, in a way, her fate might have been the worst to discover. Of all the people they hadn’t found, she was the one person that both she and Jacob had been confident would be fine, because she was nowhere near Earth. Nowhere near the Reapers. Literal lightyears away from any of the fighting. And yet…
Yeah. And fucking yet.
The tap kept running while Miranda stared hollowly ahead. Eventually, the noise spurred her from her trance, and she turned it off.
At what point was the grief supposed to set in, she wondered as she gazed blankly at her own reflection. Should she have been more upset than she was? She hadn’t cried for any of her fallen friends. Tears didn’t come naturally to Miranda. Not unless her sister was involved.
One thing that hadn’t left her mind was how...selfish some of her thoughts had been when she learned their fates. When Bailey had told her about Kasumi, Miranda had thought that the day had been bad enough before that, but to add that too, it was like the universe was actively conspiring to make this the worst day of her life.
Hers. The worst day of her life. The one who was alive. As if her friends hadn’t experienced far worse in their last moments than being fucking inconvenienced.
This wasn’t the normal way to react, was it? Wasn’t right. Why couldn’t Miranda just...mourn like other people did. It wasn’t like she didn’t care. She did care. Didn’t she? She would have been lying if she said she felt nothing - no impact whatsoever. If that were the case, those inescapable thoughts and images wouldn’t be permanently seared into her like open, festering wounds.
From the moment she’d seen the first body on that table, and recognised it as Zaeed, it was like the last light of hope inside her - a flame she hadn’t even known she had been holding onto - had been swiftly snuffed out.
Losing Shepard had been one thing, but now? They might as well give up any prospect that anyone actively serving aboard the SR-3 had survived the war.
Not only did they have confirmation that Ashley and Javik were gone, but they also had definitive proof that any ships that were anywhere near a mass relay when the Crucible fired had been obliterated in the subsequent blast, even in other systems far away.
The last time the Normandy had been picked up on any sensors was...approaching the Charon relay.
So, that was it.
They didn’t know that was what happened. But they knew, didn’t they? They had always known. They had just refused to believe it. They had hoped.
But hope was a frail thing, and reality didn’t suffer hope to live long.
The thing was, Miranda hadn’t experienced much that could be considered loss in her life. A person needed to get close to other people in order to lose them. And, until about a year ago, she’d never done that. Until The Normandy. But then she had. And, now, of all the people who had ever served on The Normandy, only five had survived. Miranda. Jacob. Jack. Samara. Wrex.
There was nobody else left to find. They were gone. They were dead.
And, this time, nobody would be coming back.
All told, it was the first time Miranda had been confronted with death in anything more than a purely detached or clinical way. Certainly the first time on this scale. She hadn’t known how she would feel about it - finding out that so many of her friends hadn’t made it. But she would have expected it to be different than this.
It wasn’t that it wasn’t affecting her. It clearly was. But...she didn’t feel hurt. She didn’t feel pain. She didn’t feel upset. She didn’t feel angry. She didn’t really feel anything in particular.
Mostly, she just felt...less. Like everything had been diminished somehow. Like all noise sounded a little quieter. Like all colours had dimmed a few shades duller. Like every sensation had been numbed. Like the tips of her fingers were further away from her body, and like nothing she reached out to grasp could ever really touch her. Like if someone pricked her skin right now, she wasn’t entirely sure she would even bleed.
It was almost like she was nothing more than a machine, and every person she cared about was a little switch inside her. In discovering their fates, Miranda didn’t grieve or mourn or wallow in sorrow. But rather it was like someone had simply gone inside that part of her brain and flipped all those switches from ‘alive’ to ‘dead’, and parts of her had just...powered down as a result.
What did it say about her that this was as strongly as she could feel about them at this moment?
Maybe she really was just as cold and borderline sociopathic as ever.
Maybe friendship hadn’t changed her at all from the person she was a year ago.
With those thoughts swirling through her mind, Miranda didn’t even notice the bathroom door had opened behind her until she heard a voice.
“Hey, Miss. Are you okay in here?” Jason asked. It took Miranda a few seconds to process his sounds as words, and his words as an actual question. “I saw the light on and heard the tap running for a whi--”
“I’m fine,” Miranda answered starkly, albeit on a delay.
“Are you sure?” asked Jason. He knew what had she had gone through earlier. Not in precise details, no. But all the kids knew.
In all honesty, the thing that had prompted Miranda to go out and drink hadn’t been the deaths themselves, nor the sight of Zaeed and Grunt. Not initially. The thing that had driven her over that edge had been after she and Jacob, in loose terms, explained to the kids what had happened. That Jacob, Jack and Miranda had found out that several people close to them had died in the war.
They were shocked and saddened to hear it. They expressed their sympathies. A few of them, in fact every single one of the girls, wept when they found out.
It was at that moment that a sudden realisation had struck her. Jack’s students had been more upset when they heard the news that people Miranda knew had died - people they had never even met themselves - than Miranda had been to see them dead in front of her.
She hadn’t been able to be near them and their tears when that sank in. Couldn’t stand holding that mirror up to herself and confronting her reflection. Seeing how a normal human person should react when something like this happened to people they cared about, and comparing that to the blank void where her own emotional response should have been, but wasn’t.
“Miss?”
“I’m fine,” Miranda repeated herself.
She was always fine. Even when she wasn’t. That was the problem.
“I’m sorry to worry you.” Miranda straightened up (as best she could) and turned back to face him, her hand still on the sink. “None of you should be losing any sleep wondering if I’m okay. That’s not your responsibility. Nor should it be.”
He seemed confused by her response. “But I--”
“Don’t take that as a criticism. I know you mean well. And I appreciate that you care. That’s not me being sarcastic, I actually do. More than I let on. But you never need to waste any time worrying if I’m alright. I always am. And I’m always going to be,” Miranda said quietly.
Jason looked at her for a good, long moment. “...Miss, I’m not stupid. I know how much you drank tonight. I can see, and hear, how drunk you still are. And I know you probably woke up vomiting, and that’s why you’re here right now. And, from the short time I’ve known you, you don’t strike me as someone who makes a habit of this. So, respectfully, I don’t think you’re as ‘okay’ with everything as you seem to think you are,” he pointed out.
Miranda held his gaze for a moment. “...Go to sleep, Jason,” she told him.
“Sure. You probably won’t even remember this conversation in the morning,” Jason remarked, evidencing that he may have had a little too much experience dealing with drunk adults for a man so young.
“I remember most conversations,” Miranda muttered under her breath, looking at her reflection one final time, turning off the light as she left.
* * *
Miranda groaned heavily, the pulsing music of Afterlife doing her head in. The air stank of sex and sweat, like everyone in the club had gone three days without showering.
“I thought shore leave was supposed to be relaxing,” she muttered unhappily, leaning back against the bar.
“Would you prefer to go back to the ship?” Samara asked, needing to project her usually soft voice to be heard above the music.
“Yes!” Miranda answered bluntly, feeling utterly miserable in this place. “But, alas, that choice has been taken out of my hands.”
“It would appear so,” Samara commiserated. While she seemed to have a greater tolerance for the venue than Miranda, the expression on Samara’s face betrayed the fact that Afterlife was not exactly to her taste either. Or at least, it hadn’t been for several centuries.
After defeating the Collectors, the Normandy had limped back to Omega station held together with the engineering equivalent of double-sided tape and popsicle sticks and somehow hadn’t fallen apart in the FTL jump. They had no choice but to dock at Omega for urgent repairs. Since they couldn’t exactly fix the ship with everyone on board getting in the way, and given what they had all just survived, Shepard had seen fit to grant shore leave to anyone who wasn’t currently actively preventing the Normandy from collapsing in on itself.
Miranda had volunteered to stay back on the ship to help out, but Shepard had overruled her, ordering her to “please, for once in your life, take a fucking break”, in those exact words. She was officially banned from re-entering the ship until the repairs were complete. In fact, the only person who had been allowed to stay back on the ship despite a clear absence of engineering and technical skills was Kelly Chambers, for reasons Miranda neither fully grasped nor honestly cared to know.
Unfortunately, there was nowhere on Omega that was to Miranda’s liking. Afterlife was the least awful place by process of elimination given that, if nothing else, anybody who caused problems here would quickly find out what D.F.W.A. stood for, and why it was the one and only rule on Omega that anyone lived by.
Notwithstanding the above, Miranda had still known damn well that she wouldn’t enjoy her forced time off in this place. Accordingly, she had all but begged Samara to come and keep her sane in her misery, and she obliged. So far, even Samara had done little to improve Miranda’s state of mind, though.
The Normandy crew were already getting too relaxed for Miranda’s liking, and this was evidence of it. Surely Shepard should have realised that, even if Miranda wasn’t holding a soldering iron, there were still a million other things she could have been doing that would have been a productive use of her time. For one thing, she could have been preparing for what to do if Cerberus came knocking, or comparing notes on the organisation with EDI...
“Well, in any event, I appreciate you keeping me company,” Miranda elected to break the silence, preferring not to think about Cerberus in a moment where she was powerless to do anything about them and whatever they had in store for her if and when they caught up to her. “I can't imagine it's easy for you to be here, after...” Miranda trailed off, wondering if perhaps she was erring by bringing Morinth up so directly.
“It is quite alright,” Samara assured her, appreciating her concern. “In truth, it has given me an opportunity to contemplate my own future, and where I am needed. I had not thought of it before, but I would consider returning to this place when Shepard no longer requires my service.”
“Not anytime soon, I hope. You can’t leave me with these people,” Miranda remarked in jest, earning a small smile. “Is there any particular reason why?” she inquired, curious.
“A simple one; I can think of few other places in the galaxy that could benefit more from the presence of a Justicar,” Samara pointed out.
“That's very noble of you,” Miranda commented, though she was sceptical as to the wisdom of that virtuous path. “But don't forget how that turned out for Garrus. Omega's gangs aren't going to let you waltz in and disrupt the way of things. And that includes our friend up there,” she said, nodding her head up towards Aria’s makeshift throne room on the upper floor. Being an asari, Aria wouldn’t be ignorant to precisely how zealous and unyielding Justicars were when it came to the enforcement of their Code.
“I do not fear death,” Samara contentedly replied, undeterred by the prospect of failing in her quest. Miranda frowned, but voiced no further objection.
“Alright, that's it. One of you had better order a drink. You've been standing there long enough,” the turian bartender gruffly grumbled, looking at them both over the bar while polishing a glass. “Since the old lady over here doesn’t strike me as a drinker, I'm guessing it's gotta be you, human.”
“I'd rather not,” Miranda declined.
“It wasn't a request,” said the bartender.
Miranda glanced at Samara and saw a small smirk creeping onto her lips. Miranda sighed, reluctantly conceding. “...Fine,” she acquiesced. “Just one.”
“Coming right up,” said the bartender, pouring her a fresh glass.
At that moment, another song came on. This one was particularly loud and intrusive. The pulsing bass shook the glasses other patrons had on the counter. Several of the other club goers nearby began dragging each out onto the floor to dance. Miranda did not share the sentiment, or the enthusiasm.
“Why does all club music sound exactly the bloody same?” Miranda complained, finding the repetitive droning rhythms and predictable chord progressions beyond irritating by that point. “These people wouldn’t know an interesting interval or a complex time signature if it slapped them in the face.”
“Perhaps we should endeavour to find somewhere more...quiet,” Samara suggested, pointing up towards the speaker that was right above them.
“Quiet? Here?” Miranda remarked, with a sceptical glance at their surroundings. Afterlife was hardly subdued. That being said, though, she would have been lying if she said she didn’t see the appeal of finding a more secluded corner of the nightclub. She sighed as she took her drink. “If we can find a free booth that doesn't have a stripper dancing on the table, that would be a start.”
That was easier said than done.
“I am certain that, if we ask for privacy, we will be granted it. Come, this way.” Despite her doubts, Miranda followed Samara’s lead, trailing her through the club, in search of somewhere to sit.
As they were walking, Miranda recognised a few familiar faces from The Normandy. Garrus, Thane and Zaeed had commandeered a booth, and Thane appeared to be the only one of them who wasn’t already three drinks in. She didn't particularly feel like joining them, though. Everyone else who wasn’t currently working on the ship must have been on a different floor of the club, or somewhere outside.
Much as Miranda had predicted, the only empty table they managed to find had a dancer on it, no doubt hoping to attract customers.
“I beg your pardon,” said Samara, approaching the young asari. “Would it trouble you if my friend and I had this table to ourselves?”
“Get lost, grandma!” the dancer rudely shot back, turning her head to see who had spoken to her. Instantly, she froze in fear, and turned about three shades paler. “Y-Y...J-Justicar...?” she stammered, recognising her armour immediately. “I...I am so sorry. Of course you can...Please. Please forgive me,” she implored her as she hastily climbed down to the floor, bowing her head in respectful deference before running off to get as far away from Samara as possible.
Samara sat down without an issue, gesturing for Miranda to do the same. Miranda arched an eyebrow, impressed. “She thought you were going to kill her.”
“From what I have gathered about Omega, it is not unlikely that she has done something that would warrant my intervention pursuant to The Code. If I confirmed this and took such action, and she did not voluntarily surrender herself to my custody, then yes, my presence here would result in her death,” Samara acknowledged, serene as always. “Fortunately for her, my oath to Commander Shepard compels me to refrain from acting as I normally would.”
“Where does The Code draw the line on what kinds of people it considers criminals?” Miranda asked, sliding into her seat across from Samara. “Drug users? Sex workers?”
Samara shook her head. “The Code does not criminalise addiction – although this does not mean addicts cannot be held accountable for crimes they commit in support of their addiction. As for 'sex workers' as you referred to them, asari cultures are not human cultures. Consorts hold a high status in our society, and it is normal for many if not most young asari to do as these women are doing in their maiden stage,” she reminded her, gesturing broadly at the asari dancers working throughout the club. “Many among my kind still find it perplexing that such things have ever been considered shameful by other species.”
“Do you share those views?” Miranda inquired. Her question earned a slightly confused look from Samara. “I don't mean to sound presumptuous but my own cultural biases mean that, when I think of ancient religious orders, I tend to associate such things with conservatism and chastity. I guess I kind of assumed you might not look too fondly on young asari wasting their youth dancing in bars.”
“Only in the sense that age has granted me the wisdom to look back on my younger years and consider what I could have done differently, and how much more I could have accomplished if my priorities were not so self-centred,” Samara answered sagely. “Were I asked for my advice, I would counsel them from the benefit of my experience to focus on what they find truly fulfilling in their lives. However, this is not a moral judgement, nor do I object to their choice to dance or take lovers freely. To do so would be very hypocritical of me. And it would be folly of me to assume that this is not their calling. If this is their path to inner fulfilment, then I would never seek to turn them from that.”
Miranda's lips quirked against the rim of her glass. “Are you saying this was you once? Giving people lap dances in bars?”
“No. I preferred adventure and violence,” said Samara, being frank about her past indiscretions. “Any time I spent in places such as this, or in the company of women like this, was merely as a customer. But I was not so radically different from those who work here now. My maiden stage was spent such that I cannot righteously criticise how another asari spends hers. The only reason I did not follow this path, aside from the fact that I am not a particularly gifted dancer, is that becoming a mercenary offered far more excitement and more opportunities to travel far and wide. I also found myself...drawn to certain types of people at that age. The same sort of people I found myself fighting beside.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that once before,” Miranda recalled, though it was no less incongruous to picture it now. It was pretty crazy to think that the types of people Samara used to sleep with as a young woman were now the very same people she hunted down without mercy as a matriarch. That raised a thought, and Miranda was never one to not speak her mind, even where it might have been advisable not to. “Don't answer this question if you don't want to, but did you take many lovers when you were younger?”
“That would depend upon what you define as 'many',” Samara replied.
“By your definition?” Miranda asked.
“Yes,” Samara answered plainly. “Have you?”
“Yes,” Miranda responded in kind. Though whether they had the same definition of ‘many’ was anybody’s guess. Probably not, given that Samara’s maiden stage alone could have lasted close to ten times as long as Miranda had been alive. “But I don't think I enjoyed mine as much as you enjoyed yours. Most of them were nothing to write home about. I don't even remember their names, nor do I care to.”
Samara tilted her head thoughtfully. “I remember some vividly, though not all. And of those I have fond memories of, I have not thought of most in a very long time.”
“Do you ever miss it?” Miranda wondered aloud, curious whether Samara would ever even consider one day laying down her armour and living as...well, anything other than a Justicar.
“I miss my innocence,” Samara confessed. “I miss how it felt to live free from any cares or concerns. I miss being able to dance with strangers, never knowing how it felt to bear the burden of responsibility. But if you are asking me if I would choose to walk that path again, the answer is no. I cannot. And I would not.”
“You can still dance with strangers if you want to, though,” Miranda wryly encouraged, taking a sip of her drink. “And, no, I don’t mean that euphemistically. Just dancing. Surely that’s not forbidden by The Code. Is it?”
“No, it is not. But those days are behind me, as are so many others, and I am content with that,” Samara smiled, a mysterious, ethereal smile. “Do you dance?”
“No.”
“Never?” Samara queried, her eyes sparkling under the lights.
“I may have tried it once or twice.” Miranda shifted in her seat, averting her gaze. “...After I ran away from my father, I got a taste of freedom for the first time. So I did things he had never allowed me to do. Or tried to. Admittedly, I wasn’t very successful at it, and any desire to experiment and rebel was quickly outweighed by how much I like being in control of my faculties and how much I didn’t enjoy places like this, but...well, it was a phase nonetheless, I suppose.”
“You were with Cerberus at the time, were you not?” Samara asked, clarifying the time period.
“Yes but, as you may have noticed, they don't particularly care what you do in your personal life, as long as it doesn't interfere with your work,” Miranda explained. Cerberus had never imposed those kinds of rules upon her. They respected her and treated her like an adult. It was why it had been so hard for her to believe the worst about them, and sever her loyalties. “I was sixteen years old, with only a vague, malformed idea of what the world was like, what other girls my age were supposed to be like, and the experiences I was supposed to have had, together with a staunch determination to make up for lost time. And you should know when I set my mind to something, I don’t do it by halves.”
“And yet, in that time, you never danced with strangers?” said Samara.
“Mostly only in the euphemistic way,” Miranda replied. That was one thing that had never really changed, so much as she was simply more experienced, and had gotten more efficient about getting that itch scratched whenever she felt the need. “Let's just say I made some poor decisions in a short space of time, and it's not an aspect of my life I'm particularly proud of.”
“Many years have passed since then. You are older and wiser, but you are still young – too young to deprive yourself of such things. Perhaps this is not the place for you, but I know you enjoy music. You have told me as much. Surely there would be a place where even you would feel comfortable letting go and dancing freely. To do so would not mean you are repeating your past mistakes,” Samara advised.
“I know it wouldn’t,” Miranda acknowledged. She still didn't feel like it though. Plus, the concept of ‘letting go’ was about as antithetical to her entire existence as any concept could possibly be. “Tell you what, I'll dance when you dance. That's a promise.”
“Your promise sounds a great deal like an excuse,” Samara quipped.
Miranda smirked. “Nothing gets past you.”
* * *
Bailey had been surprised when Miranda showed up to work on Monday, less than a day after confirming the deaths of so many of her former comrades.
Before he had even opened his mouth to speak, Miranda had cut him off. “Whatever you’re going to say, don’t. Please, just...I need to be here. Please just let me work right now.”
To his credit, he had honoured her wishes, and that had been the end of any discussion about it.
Focusing on something else, anything else, had always been Miranda’s best and only coping mechanism. Her unyielding need to be productive, and to feel like she was in control of at least one aspect of her life even if everything else was falling apart around her, was a lifelong companion that never failed her.
There was no shortage of work to keep her busy. Some of the Alliance ships that had made the jump only a few lightyears away before the relays exploded had finally made their way back into the Sol system to study the wreckage of the Charon relay, and to begin working on reassembling and repairing it. They were in communication with other teams of varying sizes all over the galaxy.
The dextro races still stranded in the Sol system were starting to reach the point where food was becoming a concern. Several turians and quarians had already gone into cryostasis, and the number joining them was increasing day by day.
Of the levo races, more and more were settling into Earth in the expectation that their stay would be a long one. Many asari and salarians had joined with humans in moving out of cities into smaller towns and villages, working to restore infrastructure and agriculture, getting sorely needed supply lines up and running.
But London remained in tatters, still rebuilding. When any hospital had a shortage of beds or medicine or staff, Miranda knew about it. If there was a building that was possibly safe enough to move people into, Miranda knew about it. If a block didn’t have power or water, Miranda knew about it. If the black market jacked up the prices too much on luxury items, Miranda knew about it.
Bailey may have been the face of the operation, but she was his eyes and ears (well, technically only one of each), and she was the puppet master pulling the strings, making sure all resources and personnel were allocated precisely where they were needed. And if they didn’t have enough of either, she found them.
For as good of a distraction as all that work was, at the end of the day, she still needed to go home. And she still needed to deal with this.
She’d approached Wrex directly on Monday afternoon. They were in the same city, after all. There would have been no way to avoid speaking to him about it that wouldn’t have meant admitting to herself that she was deliberately putting it off. So she didn’t.
Miranda delivered the news to him personally, about everyone who had passed. As the leader of Grunt’s clan, he was the closest thing Grunt had to next of kin. It only seemed appropriate that Clan Urdnot should hear it from her first, and be given the right to decide how to honour their dead.
Miranda didn’t know Wrex well enough to be able to gauge his feelings on Grunt’s passing, or anyone else’s. And, whatever they were, Wrex certainly didn’t know Miranda well enough to show them around her. But he had expressed his brief thanks to her for informing him, respecting that she had taken her duties seriously and had the courtesy of bringing this to him face-to-face.
It was true that, as the highest ranking member of the Normandy left alive, she had big shoes to fill. And her job was far from done.
Unfortunately, Kasumi, Zaeed and Javik didn’t have any next-of-kin to inform. Not that Miranda had been able to track down, anyway.
Javik’s isolation went without saying. He was the sole survivor of a fifty thousand year old genocide. He was the one person who was never exaggerating when he said he was truly alone in the universe. Even if he had survived the war, who knew if Javik ever really intended to go on living? But, then, Miranda knew too little about him to speculate.
Kasumi, for as socially aware as she had been of everyone else aboard the Normandy, was a chronic self-isolator. She never truly got close to anybody, save for the love of her life who lived on only in the form of an implant inside her head. Miranda personally hadn’t even realised just how much of a distance she kept everybody else on the SR-2 at right up until that day when she’d looked around and suddenly realised that they were one head short because Kasumi had disappeared without a trace at the last place they docked.
If Zaeed had any friends or family who were still alive, he certainly hadn’t volunteered that information to anyone else aboard the Normandy. There were probably no shortage of people who he had met over his years, but, similarly to Kasumi, from all appearances it sounded like Zaeed would move on the moment it felt like he might be getting too attached. The terrible things he had seen wouldn’t allow him to settle down and live a normal life. He had probably always known deep down that he would die fighting in a war.
However, there was one among the confirmed dead who definitely did have a family. A family Miranda had already written to once before, to let them know she was searching. A family who it was now her responsibility to ensure those dog tags made it back home to.
Every single day, Miranda had sat down at her laptop with the intention of writing the letter nobody ever wanted to have to write. But the words just wouldn’t come. It was the one task that Miranda simply couldn’t seem to bring herself to start, let alone finish. And the screen would just stay blank until she inevitably convinced herself that tomorrow would be the day.
During the week, Miranda told herself it wasn’t her fault she wasn’t getting it done. She was busy with work. Clearly she wasn’t making progress because she didn’t have enough time to concentrate on doing this properly.
On Saturday, her reason for not getting it done was because she had helped Jack leave the field hospital and move in with Jacob in his apartment. Jack’s students had thrown an impromptu lunch to celebrate their teacher getting out of hospital, and as a courtesy Miranda had stayed for the whole thing.
Perhaps it should have said something about the state they were both in after learning what had become of so many mutual friends, and the extent to which Jack actually felt sorry for Miranda to have to be the one to identify what bodies there were, that, in those entire few hours they spent in each other’s proximity on that day, Jack didn’t insult Miranda even once.
Then Sunday came, a whole week since Ashley’s fate had been discovered, and Miranda didn’t have any excuses to put it off any longer.
Today had to be the day. There was no alternative.
And yet, despite not leaving her room even once that day, despite forcing herself to sit there until she finished this, she still hadn’t typed a single word.
Miranda had done a lot of things in her life that other people would probably class as difficult. Living with an abusive tyrant of a father. Pulling off countless life-threatening missions for Cerberus. Being captured and tortured by batarian slavers. Raising the fucking dead.
All of those things had been a cakewalk compared to writing to Ashley’s sisters.
She’d lost count of how long she’d been staring at that blank screen, or those dog tags, in the hopes that the words would just...come to her if she focused long enough. So far, it hadn’t worked. Any time Miranda thought of something to say, it just felt...wrong. Inadequate. Even if she couldn’t explain why.
At first, she didn’t know why she was finding this so bloody hard. After all, Miranda didn’t know Ashley particularly well. She’d only met her a handful of times, if that. She had no right to pretend otherwise.
But, then, it clicked.
In a way, the fact that she didn’t know Ashley at all was precisely what was making this so much worse. For one thing, if she had known her on a personal level, then no doubt she would have had no shortage of things she could say about her that would resonate with her family, to express understanding and sympathy for their loss. For another, and more significantly, because Miranda knew so little about Ashley, it meant that the only thing that she could focus on when thinking about her was the one thing she did know - that Ashley was a sister to three other sisters. And that they all loved each other dearly.
If there was one actual, honest to god human feeling Miranda knew all too well, it was the love she felt for her own sister. So, suffice it to say, she could relate.
And, although she’d never even seen a picture of Ashley’s sisters, every time the mere thought of them crossed her mind, all she pictured was Oriana.
This was one circumstance where Miranda didn’t have to fake empathy. For this, she had it in spades. It would have been easier to do this if she didn’t.
She knew what it would mean for them all to receive this letter. Because she understood better than anyone exactly how much it would have absolutely fucking destroyed her if she got the same letter. And it felt horribly, gut-wrenchingly cruel to be the one to write that letter, in full awareness of what it would do to those three sisters to receive it.
If that was what it was like for normal people to lose someone, then in a way Miranda felt lucky to be so numb to her own feelings compared to others. Maybe Kelly Chambers had been right when she speculated that becoming emotionally closed-off was as much a form of protection Miranda had developed to survive as it was something imposed upon her by her father whether she wanted it or not. It was certainly easier, and safer, to be cold on the inside, than to expose herself to a pain like Ashley’s sisters would feel when they learned the news.
Miranda wasn’t sure she would even have the emotional capacity to process losing Oriana, if the worst ever came to pass. It either would have broken her completely and caused her to jump off this mortal coil after her, or she would have withdrawn so much further into herself that she ceased to be recognisable as human. Maybe all of the above at once.
But Miranda wasn’t in that position. It seemed so strange to think about it. So many people had lost so much to this war. But not Miranda.
She was perhaps one of the people who least deserved to live, given her past allegiances to Cerberus, and given that she had never at any stage aspired or claimed to be, quote unquote, a ‘good person’. And yet, she was still there. Mostly in one piece. With three out of the grand total of five people she had ever truly cared about confirmed alive.
If anything, the fact that she had survived and others hadn’t was proof that the universe was not a fair place. There was no justice. No balance.
She knew it didn’t make any sense, and that it was impossible to trade her life for someone else’s, but she couldn’t help but think how much collectively happier more people would have been if Miranda had died and Ashley had lived. Or Shepard. Or most other members of the Normandy, really.
Oriana would have been the only person truly hurt by it, but even then she had lived nineteen years of her life perfectly fine, not even knowing Miranda existed. She’d only known about her for a year. She would have recovered eventually.
Speak of the devil, it was at that moment that a message popped up on Miranda’s screen. A message from Oriana.
“Hey, sis. What’s up? We haven’t talked in a few days. This a good time?”
It was true. This wasn’t the first text she had received from Oriana over the last few days, but Miranda hadn’t responded to any since she found out what happened to her comrades. Couldn’t bring herself to. Couldn’t bring herself to think about...precisely the sort of things she was thinking about right now.
It wasn’t that she couldn’t tell Oriana what had happened. What she was feeling. Of course she could have. She could have gone to Oriana about absolutely anything. On some level, that was all Miranda wanted to do. To talk to her. To feel a little less alone in that moment.
The problem was that Oriana would have listened to it all in a heartbeat. Every word. Without judgement. Without hesitation.
That wasn’t fair on her, and it wasn’t what Miranda wanted their relationship to be.
Oriana may have been the most well-adjusted person she knew, but she was still barely more than a kid. Only twenty years old. Still figuring things out. How was it fair for Miranda to burden her with all her problems, as if she could possibly know the answers, or the right things to say?
It was supposed to be the other way around. Miranda was supposed to be Oriana’s shoulder to cry on. Her protector. Her guide. Her big sister. Even if she wasn’t cut out to be any of those things. And she had foisted enough of her problems on Oriana already.
So she texted back.
With that, Miranda closed the messenger window, and switched back to the blank document. She’d been staring at it for so long without typing so much as a single word that she hadn’t even noticed the battery had almost drained down to zero. She reached down and plugged in the charger.
Just as she did that, another alert popped up on her screen. Message from Oriana.
“What do you get when a journalist cooks without reading a recipe?” Oriana asked. “Unconfirmed sauces.”
A small smile tugged at Miranda’s lips. Even if she was pushing Oriana away right now, it was comforting to know that Oriana would never take anything personally, and that she would be there waiting for her when she was ready to talk again.
With one last look at Ashley’s dog tags, Miranda began to type.
* * *
After finishing repairs to the Normandy, Commander Shepard seemed to have taken Miranda’s suggestion to heart. Or perhaps it was what she had always intended to do. They still had numerous leads on file that they never had the opportunity to investigate before the Collectors took them by surprise and attacked the crew. Why leave any of those assignments incomplete?
Miranda kept enough of an eye on things to know that, despite what had happened, The Illusive Man was still sending messages to Shepard (to which Shepard never responded) in an effort to cast himself in a good light. Evidently, Andrea was important enough to his plans that he considered it worth his while to continue trying to persuade her that they were on the same side. And maybe it was true that they were, at least where the Reapers were concerned.
By contrast, he had said nothing to Miranda whatsoever.
She knew what that meant.
Even if she came crawling back to Cerberus with a grovelling apology, which was never going to happen, she wouldn’t have been welcomed back anyway.
Despite now acting on their own, in a lot of ways, it was almost as if nothing had changed after defeating the Collectors. They knew the Reapers were out there, and the mutual intention of all concerned appeared to be that the best thing to do was carry on as usual in the hopes of finding out more about the impending threat, and hopefully to stop it from ever coming to fruition.
In fact, the only person who it seemed wasn’t exactly the same as before the Collector Base was Kelly Chambers. She had stopped making individual appointments with members of the crew (which Miranda knew from no longer getting any reports from her) and had been cut back to only light duties by Shepard. The last time Miranda had seen her, Kelly had jumped at the sound of the elevator doors opening behind her. Maybe that had something to do with it.
In any event, Miranda had concerned herself more with uncovering as much as she could about Cerberus’s true motives. Since Cerberus hadn’t made any effort to stop them from investigating any old leads so far, this certainly seemed like her best opportunity to take advantage of a position of relative safety and protection to arm herself with knowledge.
“Shepard, do you have a moment?” Miranda had begun, approaching Andrea after a meeting in the Briefing Room. Andrea had turned to face her, signalling for her to speak. “Do you remember that message you got from The Illusive Man last week, about the Overlord cell going off the grid without explanation on Aite?”
Shepard had sighed and rubbed her forehead. “You’re just not even hiding the fact that you read my emails anymore, are you?”
“No,” Miranda answered bluntly, but that wasn’t important right now. “I think we should investigate. The Illusive Man mentioned experimenting with highly volatile technology. It must be operationally sensitive, if he wouldn’t tell you anything more than that. Whatever the purpose of Project Overlord is, this is likely our only opportunity to learn about it. Cerberus will clean this up themselves if we don’t, and by then there’ll be nothing left.”
“You don’t think we could be walking into a trap?” Shepard asked.
“Possible, but unlikely. The Illusive Man asked for our assistance on this before we found the Reaper IFF device. Setting a trap for us before we had the intention or the ability to assault the Collector Base would take a level of prescience that nobody is capable of,” Miranda said confidently, folding her arms across her chest. “He’s many things, Shepard, but even he can’t see the future.”
“Fair enough. You’ve convinced me,” Shepard replied. “I’ll bring Tali with us. She’ll make sense of any tech we come across, no matter how ‘experimental’ it is.”
Miranda nodded her head. That was a sound choice.
What they actually found at the heart of Atlas Station, Miranda could not possibly have predicted.
Please make it stop.
Miranda hadn’t even been able to speak when she saw him there. David Archer. A completely innocent, vulnerable man hooked up to machines by his own brother as part of some sick experiment to see if his gifted mind could, what? Control geth? That was the reasoning that justified that level of cruelty and abuse?
This was it, wasn’t it? The true face of Cerberus. What they did to people. So many had said that this was the reality, and yet Miranda hadn’t listened before.
Reading between the lines, there was no doubt The Illusive Man knew exactly what was being done on Aite. While he made sure to say he didn’t condone Dr. Archer’s actions, he seemed to know perfectly well that David’s “unique talents” had “provided a breakthrough”, and he made sure to mention that Shepard’s actions had set back their understanding of the geth several years.
The only good thing that had come out of this was knowing that David Archer would be well looked after at Grissom Academy. Well, that and it was reassuring to know that, whatever Cerberus might have planned to do with an army of geth under their control, those ideas would never come to fruition now.
Evidently, Shepard really had done the right thing by not sending Legion to be studied by Cerberus, if it would have helped them. In retrospect, Miranda had never been more relieved that someone hadn’t listened to her advice.
It just made her wonder what else she didn’t know.
The door to Miranda’s quarters slid open, and she glanced up. “Forgive my intrusion. Am I interrupting anything?” Samara asked, always a sound question to open with when it came to Miranda, especially when she was in her office.
“No,” Miranda answered honestly. Not a damn thing.
Samara was too tactful to say it, but of course she knew that the number of people Miranda reported to had decreased drastically in recent days, and her requirements to Shepard had already been discharged several hours ago.
Since Miranda hadn’t objected to her presence, Samara took that as a cue to step inside. “I have not seen you since you returned from Aite. Is all well?”
Miranda sighed, interlacing her fingers in front of her. “I honestly don’t know.”
The truth was, ever since she’d seen David Archer in that state, there had been this lingering sense of unease that Miranda hadn’t been able to shake. She had never been an expert at being able to put labels to her feelings. But if she had to choose a word to describe this one, it would be ‘unsettled’.
It wasn’t a pleasant feeling at all. It was as if her own skin was no longer sitting properly on her body. Like there was an inherent...discomfort, that was impossible to rectify. Like these unwelcome sensations and thoughts wouldn’t stop wriggling around beneath the surface, disturbing whatever they touched.
Had this been any regular day, Miranda would have just worked and avoided thinking about it until it went away. But that option wasn’t available to her anymore. Besides, something told her this malaise wouldn’t vanish so easily.
Then again, if there was anybody who she felt safe sharing her thoughts with, and who could help her make sense of them, it was the woman in front of her.
Not about to just leave her standing there by the door, Miranda got up from her desk and gestured for Samara to follow her further inside her quarters. “Sorry there’s not a lot of room, here,” Miranda remarked.
“It is quite alright,” Samara assured her.
“By all means, make yourself at home,” Miranda invited her, electing to sit cross-legged near the head of her bed, tacitly giving Samara permission to join her.
Samara followed her lead, perching on the far end of her bed, as if to signal that she was in no hurry to be anywhere else.
“Do you know what happened down there?” Miranda began.
“Yes.” Samara nodded her head. Even though Miranda rarely if ever observed her speaking to anyone else, word always somehow seemed to reach her about what transpired on any mission she wasn’t a part of.
It certainly made things easier not to have to explain it.
Maybe that was why Samara had come here in the first place.
“...I don’t think a single person I’ve met would ever accuse me of being in any way compassionate. Not even you, and you give me the benefit of the doubt far more than anyone else. But…” Miranda trailed off as she reflected on the days’ events, her voice steady despite the grisly subject matter. “Even in the name of science, how could anyone do that to their own brother?”
David Archer had been begging his brother to make it stop. Begging him. And all Gavin cared about was continuing the experiment.
Why? What was the fucking point of taking it that far?
“I do not know,” Samara answered honestly. “I cannot fathom it either.”
“I suppose that’s the thing. I can fathom it,” Miranda pointed out. She knew all too well that people like that did exist.
She’d been raised by one.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Miranda shook her head, unable to even find the language to describe the uncomfortable twisting in her chest that came from thinking about David Archer, picturing him in that core with all those tubes sticking out of him. “Nothing normally ever...gets to me. Even things that probably should. I’ve always been like that. My whole life,
“Did you know, I don’t even remember crying as a child? At all?” Miranda asked. “Any time I ever came close to shedding a tear, my father made sure to ‘give me something to really cry about’. So perhaps I did do it more than I can recall, and I simply blocked those memories out. But I don’t think that’s the answer. I’ve always assumed that the reason I never cried was because I must have been...so isolated and neglected as a baby that one day I just stopped making any noise, because even then I must have known there was simply no point to it,
“So, if you ever pictured me being an emotional child, that’s not true. I’ve never known myself to be any different than the way I am now,” Miranda somewhat shamefully admitted. She’d never had the chance to be another way, from the moment she was brought into this world. “The one exception, the one thing that I can’t seem to stop from hitting me in whatever small, emotional part of me survived my childhood, is Oriana. Or anything that reminds me of her.”
“I see.” Samara needed no further explanation. Miranda may not have fully understood it herself, but to Samara, it made perfect sense. Why wouldn’t what Miranda saw down there on Aite remind her of her father, and make her think of her sister? “...May I ask, have you seen something like David Archer before?”
“Close enough,” Miranda said, the truth of those words leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. “Do you know, I’ve never told anyone about how I escaped from my father? I suppose you could’ve guessed. I’ve never had anyone to tell.”
Samara shifted, matching Miranda’s cross-legged position as she turned to face her, sitting opposite her. She didn’t even need to say anything. Her body language alone said that she was receptive to whatever Miranda felt comfortable sharing.
Miranda never allowed herself to look weak in front of anyone. To show vulnerability. Whenever she came close, she would brush it off with a deadpan quip or dry understatement, demonstrating that she was in total control.
Samara was the one exception to that. The one person she’d met who she trusted enough to reveal that flawed, softer side of herself around, and who had never judged her even slightly for her imperfections. Why Samara tolerated her at her worst, Miranda still didn’t know. But she always had, from day one.
Plus, Miranda knew better than anyone the grief Samara had somehow survived and how she had come to terms with the most intense sorrow imaginable. It was no wonder she was so understanding, given what she’d endured in her past.
So, for the first time in her life, Miranda began to tell her story.
“I always knew that I was an experiment, but I never really knew what that meant,” Miranda elected to start at the beginning. “My father said things, sure, but if you imagine anybody ever sat me down and explained to me my purpose, or the purpose of anything they put me through, then you’re sorely mistaken.”
“What were you told?” Samara prompted.
“The part about being genetically perfect. That I wasn’t the first he’d made, only the first he’d kept. And that my father wanted to create a dynasty - a great legacy that would ensure his name lived forever,” Miranda explained. “I always assumed that my father saw me as his heir. That he wanted me to be the perfect daughter. Someone he could trust to carry on his work long after he passed. It wasn’t until Niket put the thought in my head that I began to consider that I might be wrong - that maybe my father’s experiment wouldn’t end with me. If he ever did make another daughter, then I didn’t know what that meant for me, except that I knew it wouldn’t be good, and I may not be safe,
“So Niket and I began working on an escape plan. It took us the better part of two years to prepare. We had to get every detail exactly right, and we thought about every possible contingency. Niket already knew my father’s security systems intimately, so we knew what the weaknesses were there. Before he left, Niket gave me software I could use to hack into the camera system and make the monitors replay the feed from twenty-four hours ago. It would look like I was asleep in my bed, and any rooms I was actually in would look empty,
“We knew that most possible routes I could use to escape were patrolled by security at all hours. We actually had to scour the plans for the whole compound to find any potential ways out. The only option that presented any possibility was...well, perhaps I should go back a few steps.”
Not used to speaking this much without interruption, Miranda stopped briefly to make sure Samara wasn’t overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information being dumped on her all at once. But Samara’s position hadn’t changed at all. Her blue eyes had never left Miranda’s face, listening intently to her every word.
Miranda took that as implicit support to keep going.
“My father had a large research facility underground, beneath the estate, but I never saw most of it. Even when I started working in the lab, I was only ever allowed to enter certain rooms, and only under supervision. I assisted on some of my father’s research into gene editing, which is where most of the family money comes from. I was aware that there were some restricted projects that required special lab clearance, but that was the extent of my knowledge,
“Niket and I discovered from reviewing the plans that there were more levels to the lab than I would have expected. And, when you’re that far underground and working with potentially toxic chemicals, you need a very good ventilation system. We could see on the blueprints that there were air ducts that connected to the surface, which I could most likely fit through. Both ends of the air duct wouldn’t be patrolled by security, since they were only watched by cameras, which we already had a means to deal with. It seemed like my best option,
“Once everything was in motion, all I needed to do was steal an ID card from one of my father’s senior lab technicians, and memorise what passcode was used to enter the restricted part of the lab on the day I chose to escape. I don’t think I’m surprising you by saying that neither of those two things were a challenge for me. I even stole a gun to defend myself, just in case,
“It was exactly thirteen minutes past two in the morning when I got up and left my room. I knew that was the perfect time to leave, because there were the fewest people around, and I’d noticed that security tended to get tired and bored around that time and would start slacking off at their posts. I’d seen them sitting back in their chairs with their feet up watching TV to amuse themselves,
“Everything went precisely as I had planned it. I walked right across the entire house without anybody noticing I was there - which, however big you imagine the house I grew up in was, triple it and you’ll be closer. I got to the lab without incident, swiped the stolen card, entered the code for that day, and headed down to the restricted level where my designated escape point was.”
Miranda paused then. It was the first time she’d really, consciously thought about that day in a long time. And, certainly, it was the first time she’d ever spoken about it, beyond referencing it with flippant passing comments.
In the peripheries of her vision, she saw Samara shift closer. “May I?”
Miranda glanced up at Samara’s voice, and found her making a subtle motion towards Miranda’s left hand, where it rested in her lap. Miranda hadn’t even really been conscious of it until that moment, but in hindsight she had been gesturing more with her right while she spoke.
Admittedly, Miranda was far from fluent when it came to reading unspoken body language. Even though she didn’t fully grasp what Samara meant, she trusted her enough to follow along with whatever she intended. Accordingly, Miranda turned her left hand over, such that her palm faced upwards.
Interpreting that as tacit consent, Samara reached across the small gap between them and clasped Miranda’s hand between both of her own. For as strong as their friendship had become, neither of them were exactly the touchy-feely type. Quite the opposite. So, to feel Samara gently holding her hand with such kindness, well...Miranda imagined this must have been how it felt for other people who weren’t generally so averse to physical contact to be hugged.
“You do not have to give voice to any of the thoughts on your mind if you do not wish to,” Samara reminded her, one of her thumbs softly tracing circles at the centre of Miranda’s palm. “But I am here to listen if you do.”
“I know you are. Thank you,” Miranda said sincerely.
With that, she continued, difficult as it was to revisit this part of her memory.
“I remember the doors to that level sliding open and...I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This wasn’t just a lab. It was a cloning facility. My cloning facility. The place where I had come from. And I just...froze,
“I completely forgot why I was even there. All I saw were...tanks with embryos in various stages of development. Photographs of dissected failures detailing the mutations and cancerous growths caused by element zero exposure. Pages of speculation as to the errors in their altered genetic sequences which made them...unviable. And then there were images of me. Reports on my behaviour. My progress. With a list of ‘imperfections’ that needed improvement in further cycles.”
Samara was nothing if not masterful at maintaining a neutral expression, but even she could not hide the visibly pained look that crossed her face when she heard that. Words could not describe how much that moment must have not only hurt Miranda, but shattered her entire perception of reality.
“All that time, I truly thought the project had ended with me. But it hadn’t. My whole life, I had been living in that house, while beneath my very feet my father was actively working to ‘improve’ upon my genetic code for god knows how many years. And the only reason he hadn’t replaced me sooner was, ironically, because any time he had a viable embryo, his insistence on exposing them to element zero to replicate my biotic abilities resulted in death and deformity.”
Even though she was silent, hanging on Miranda’s every word, it was evident that Samara was shocked by what she was hearing. Stunned. She’d always believed Miranda when she said her father was a monster, but she’d obviously never suspected it went to this extent. That it was this systematic. This calculated. This callous. What sane person would even comprehend a mind capable of something like this, let alone be complicit in it?
“I don’t know when exactly my father started perceiving me as a failure. In retrospect, I’ve learned things that make me suspect it was probably day one. But that was the first inkling I ever had that I was only ever intended to be a prototype, and nothing more. A test. A proof of concept. A first fucking draft.”
Samara squeezed Miranda’s hand a little tighter, as if to express her sympathy, and her apologies, both for the fact that Miranda had ever had to go through something like this, and that Samara hadn’t understood her history sooner.
Miranda’s eyes drifted out of focus, before she even knew they had. She wasn’t in her quarters anymore. She was there. She was sixteen. She was in that lab. Standing in that door. Discovering the truth. She saw it so clearly, down to even the smallest detail. She could hear the hum of the refrigerator, and the whirring of the fan. She could even smell the exact cleaning agent the staff had used earlier that day to sterilise their hands before they entered the room.
“When that realisation hit me, I just...I just saw red. I thought fuck him. Fuck him. That everything he had put me through, everything I had done for him to meet his arbitrary and changeable standards of perfection, it had all been for nothing. Nothing I ever did could be good enough. He never cared. There was nothing I could possibly have done to live up to the unreachable bar he set for me, because he never truly intended for me to be ‘the one’ no matter how well I did. I had been set up to fail my whole life. And this was the proof. So I paid him back,
“I destroyed it,” Miranda said with cold fury, a mere fraction of the rage she had felt nearly twenty years ago. “Everything he had worked so hard on, everything that mattered to him more than me, I destroyed it. I overloaded every computer. I threw every freezer to the ground. I shot out every one of those tubes. I broke the sprinkler system, grabbed every flammable substance I could find, poured them all over everything, and ejected my thermal clip,
“The alarms went off when the fire started. I didn’t regret anything that I had done, but I had been so angry that I had completely blown any chance I had of a quiet escape. I knew I had to move quickly. So I headed for my exit. But, then, just as I reached the air vent, I heard this sound. And I stopped.”
Miranda swallowed. Perfect memory was a curse as much as a blessing. She hadn’t relived this exact moment in years, yet she could still vividly remember every single detail as clearly as if this had happened ten minutes ago.
“I looked over and I saw this...incubator. I had thought it was empty, but...no. There was a child inside it. A seemingly newborn baby. Left alone in the dark, in this cold, sterile lab. Screaming and crying for attention that would never come.”
Miranda felt a sting in her eyes as she replayed those images in her mind.
“The first thing I felt was betrayal. This was my replacement. They hadn’t been able to improve upon my DNA yet, despite their best efforts, so they just made another one. And this was her. A genetic identical. A ‘do-over’. Well, actually, they made several. Like me, Ori was just the only one lucky enough to survive the element zero exposure - although, unlike me, she didn’t get biotics out of it,
“What did it say about my father that this was how I found her? She and I, we were the culmination of his life’s work. We should have been his most prized possessions. But then look at how he treated me my whole life. And he was already doing the same to her. The only reason she wasn’t dead was because there were machines there to perform the absolute bare minimum functions to keep her alive, so that she could be the next phase of the experiment,
“Neither of us had ever been, or would ever be daughters to him. My father wasn’t, and still isn’t capable of that. There is not a single shred of anything resembling love or kindness in Henry Lawson’s heart. He is devoid of anything right, or good, or redeeming--”
Miranda had to stop herself then, pulling both her hands away to wipe beneath her eyes. This was more raw than she had ever been with another person.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Please do not apologise,” Samara implored her, beyond moved by everything she had heard so far. She reached out, but stopped just short of touching Miranda’s cheek, as if uncertain whether she would want her to.
“I feel so stupid,” Miranda cursed herself. It didn’t happen very often, but she hated the way it felt when her eyes burned with tears. It was a horrible fucking feeling. An alien sensation. Like she was stricken with some disease. Or like something inside her was broken. How the fuck did anyone find this cathartic?
“You are not,” Samara assured her, holding Miranda’s gaze, letting both hands fall atop her knees, compelling Miranda to look at her, and be with her in that moment. “Need I remind you, I came to you. I have chosen to be here.”
“Why?” Miranda asked, still not understanding why Samara of all people deigned to put up with her when she was at her most useless and pathetic.
At that question, Samara’s stoic expression faltered. “...Do you have to ask this of me? Do you not know?” she said quietly, her voice barely louder than a whisper. It was almost as if it hurt her to think that, after all this time, Miranda still didn’t honestly believe deep down in her heart that Samara cared about her.
Upon hearing that in her voice, Miranda knew that question had been unfair. Samara deserved better than that. And, after all, didn’t Miranda already know the answer to that question? Samara was here for Miranda when she needed her for the exact same reason Miranda had been there for Samara in the past.
Because she wanted to be.
Miranda took a moment, her thumb and forefinger running across her eyelids, and meeting at the bridge of her nose. “This is hard for me to talk about,” she confessed, her voice breaking, knowing she hadn’t even reached the most difficult part. She didn’t know if she would even be able to get through this.
“I understand,” said Samara, giving her as much time and space as she needed.
Miranda drew a deep breath, and willed herself to keep going, keeping her eyes closed beneath her fingers, unable to even look at Samara as she went on.
“So, as I was standing there, hearing glass explode around me in the flames, having only just discovered this baby even existed...I knew I didn’t have long, but I had to spare her from whatever came next. If I left her, she would die in the fire, or she would be deemed a ‘failure’ and be killed, or she would go through exactly the same thing that I had gone through with my father. None of those outcomes were acceptable. But I hadn’t planned for her. I couldn’t take her with me.”
Miranda hesitated, a single tear escaping and falling down her cheek.
“For a split-second, I thought...well, I have this thing in my hand, and the most merciful thing I could do for her is…quickly and painlessly…” Miranda couldn’t even say the words, “...And I really did think about it. I was going to...”
The fact that it had even crossed her mind, however briefly, was the one thing in Miranda’s life that she had never truly been able to forgive herself for, no matter how many years passed. It made her feel sick to her stomach.
Oriana didn’t even know. But Miranda would never be able to make that up to her.
Never.
“But I couldn’t.” Miranda shook her head, her breaths coming shallower. “I just couldn’t. Something inside of me just...physically wouldn’t let me. And I felt...I felt something I’d never felt before. A compulsion so powerful I’ve never felt it since. It was like my heart exploded in my chest. And I didn’t even have control over myself. The next thing I knew, I just put the gun away. And I took her,
“All I could think was, if I could just get her out of there, then she would have a chance at everything I never had. And the moment I had that thought, it was as if I didn’t have a choice. I had to do everything in my power to make that happen. It became the only thing that mattered to me, even more than my own life,
“So I opened the incubator, and wrapped her in my jacket. And the second I touched her, she just...looked at me, and she stopped crying.”
Miranda went silent for several, long seconds, fixed on the memory of the first time she’d seen her sister’s face. The first moment she felt that connection between them. A moment that changed her forever.
She exhaled, willing her voice to stop shaking.
“I didn’t read anything into it. I assumed the reason she stopped was because she’d never felt a human touch before, and was just surprised, but...I said to her, ‘I’m going to get you out of here. You’ll be safe with me. I promise,’
“Just as soon as I took her, I heard voices behind me. I didn’t look back. I bashed open the grate and got inside the vent as quick as I could. None of my father’s men could follow me through a space that small. I don’t know how long I was in there. But it felt like an eternity. I don’t know how I didn’t fall,
“When I got to the surface, I remember seeing searchlights in the dark. Either they hadn’t figured out where I was, or they just hadn’t made it out of the lab in time to beat me there. I had a whole route memorised in my brain. You can’t even comprehend how big my father’s compound was. The gardens had an actual, literal maze as one of the features. I tried to hide from them in there,
“Amid all the people searching for me, I carelessly wandered into a trip beam for the outdoor alarm system at one point. Spotlights fixed on me immediately. That’s when I heard my father over the loudspeaker ordering his men to shoot me. And they were live rounds. I could tell. But, if nothing else, all that training made me a lot faster and more agile than any of his men. I shot a few rounds blindly behind me to force them to take cover. That must have worked. And I lost them again,
“The only way I could get outside the walls was through a drain. Believe me, a lot of water went into those gardens. I jumped into the drainage ditch, and the water went up to about here.” Miranda put one hand at the point where her hip became indistinguishable from her abdomen. “Niket had already loosened the grate for me ahead of time. All I had to do was move it. And...I was out,
“I have never in my life run as fast as I ran then. I knew they wouldn’t be far behind me. I could hear them. Including my father. Niket had left a skycar for me in a hidden location nearby, where nobody would ever find it by accident. I got in, and I put my sister down beside me, and I said to her, ‘If we get shot down, I just want you to know, I don’t regret trying to save you. These last few minutes have been more freedom than I’ve ever known in my whole life’,
“I can still hear the bullets bouncing off the hull as we flew away. But that was it. That was my last memory of home, and the last time I saw my father.”
Samara visibly held back her own emotions as Miranda recounted the most pivotal day of her life. Miranda had long intellectually understood that feeling what others felt was something that came naturally to empathetic people, and Samara (as composed as she was) was definitely that. If anything, that response meant more from her precisely because she was usually so stoic.
It seemed clear that her restraint, in this case, was not born out of any desire to hide what she was feeling, or any shame at being seen in such a state, but rather came purely because Miranda was her priority in that moment, and she did not wish to detract, however unintentionally, from her and her feelings.
“I know it cannot have been long before you were separated from your sister,” said Samara, her voice calm, level and soothing. Her unwavering demeanour was oddly comforting. “I am sorry. That must have been very difficult for you.”
“It was,” Miranda confirmed. “She had never been part of the plan. I didn’t even know she existed until I found her. I was supposed to be off world with my fake ID immediately. But, with her, I couldn’t do that. I had a little money, but not much, and everything can be traced with enough effort so I was scared to use what I had. Once that money ran out, I had no plan for how to feed her, or clothe her, or care for her. And I was afraid that asking for help would attract attention.”
For a short while, though, she had really tried. They may have been genetically twins, but Miranda was old enough to be her mother. Teen mothers may have been a rarity in the twenty-second century, but they were certainly not unheard of.
The only problem with that idea was that Miranda barely knew how to take care of herself in light of how she had been raised, let alone a baby.
She shivered as she thought on those days. “I remember, this one night, I had bought us a room in a hotel with these...ludicrous purple walls. We never stayed in the same place twice, but this room, I remember. Because, for whatever reason, that night she just...would not stop crying. And not just crying, she was bloody screaming her head off. And I didn’t know why. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. Whatever I tried to calm her down...nothing worked. I didn’t know if she was sick and going to die, and I was terrified that people would come and take her away from me if they heard her screaming like that. And I just...for the first time I can remember, I broke down and bawled my fucking eyes out until the sun rose. Because that was the point where I realised I couldn’t do this,
“I knew that, even if I managed to get her off-world with me, my father wouldn’t stop looking for us on Earth. He would follow us. We would always be in danger. And I had no means to care for her. Even if I did, how could I work? Who would I leave her with? I didn’t know anyone I could trust,
“...Until I remembered this man my father had spoken to two years earlier, who was an affiliate of Cerberus. English expat named Alan. He had said The Illusive Man was looking for ‘exceptional individuals’ like me. They knew who I was, and what I was. And, even though my father donated to Cerberus, I knew they had never returned the favour - they never funded his cloning research, probably because he was always so cagey about sharing any data with them,
“I knew it was a risk, but I didn’t have anyone else to turn to. I remembered enough about Alan to know his name and what company he ran. And, because he remembered me too, I was able to get in contact with him. I told him that I wanted to offer my services to Cerberus, in exchange for them helping me get my sister off world. I said I wanted them to make her disappear, and put her safely into the hands of a normal, loving family. So long as they kept their end of that bargain, they would have my undivided loyalty. And that was all it took.”
And that promise was kept, along with everything Cerberus promised. Oriana grew up with some fine, spacer parents, who were coincidentally of Australian origin themselves. Miranda watched over her, and her brilliantly, boringly normal life, seeing her grow from a happy child into a smart, popular teenager, and a well-adjusted adult. It was why Miranda trusted Cerberus so much.
“The woman who took her from me was very nice about it. In truth, other than Niket, she was the first person I ever met who had been kind to me. But that...that was the first time in my life that I remember crying. Really crying. The day that it hit me that I wasn’t fit to take care of her, when I knew that I had to give her up.”
And, nineteen years later, Miranda had tears in her eyes when she finally met her sister again, speaking to her for the first time at Shepard’s urging on Illium. She wasn’t kidding when she said Oriana was the only thing that ever brought that out of her. Such raw, intense emotion. Such...humanity.
Miranda had gone to Oriana that day to let her know she was loved, and she had done exactly that, but she had received something so much greater in return.
For nineteen years, Miranda had known what it meant to love someone. But it wasn't until then, at the age of thirty-five, that she finally knew what it felt like to have someone out there in the galaxy who truly and unconditionally loved her back.
Holding Oriana as a child had given Miranda purpose. But holding her again all those years later as an adult had given Miranda something far greater.
Family.
“You may not have been ready to take care of a child then,” Samara began. “But you were certainly an excellent sister to her, as you have been ever since.”
Miranda’s lips couldn’t find the strength to quirk, not even into the faintest shadow of a smile. “Thank you,” she said. If doing right by Oriana was the one thing that she ever managed to do with her life, then it justified her entire existence.
Giving Oriana up was, unequivocally, the hardest thing Miranda had ever done, before or since. Experiencing unconditional love for the first time, only to be forced by circumstance to give it up a few short days later. And yet, at the same time, it had been the only thing she could do. Because the real, selfless love she felt for Oriana didn’t allow Miranda to do the selfish thing. Not when it came to her.
She sighed and rubbed one eye with the corresponding palm. “Ah, god, how long have I been rambling at you about this?”
“As long as you needed to,” Samara answered with unfeigned warmth and compassion. “I cannot stress how much I appreciate you speaking of this to me. I know it was not easy for you, and that you do not share your burdens with others lightly. Everything you have told me, I treat with the greatest respect.”
“I know you do,” said Miranda. Even on the pane of death, Samara would never divulge anything told to her in confidence. Nobody ever needed to doubt that.
“Do you feel better for having spoken of it?” Samara asked.
Miranda stopped for a moment. “...Strangely, yes,” she acknowledged.
In retrospect, it now made sense why the incident with the Archer brothers had been so...for lack of a better word, ‘triggering’ for those past traumatic events. And, for as much of an emotional rollercoaster as it had been to relive the most mentally scarring day of her life, at least she had gotten to the point in her story where she and Oriana got their happy ending, reunited at long last.
“Then I am glad,” said Samara. That was all she wanted to achieve by coming here as she had, if it had been at all possible to do so.
“You’re not going now, are you?” Miranda asked, audibly disappointed. After all, when Miranda entered a conversation with a specific purpose in mind, she would generally leave immediately after accomplishing that goal.
“No.” Samara shook her head, hoping she had not unintentionally conveyed that impression. “I will stay for as long as you would like me here.”
“Would you stay forever?” Miranda wearily remarked. Samara hesitated, as if caught off guard by that. “I’m joking,” Miranda told her, assuaging Samara’s fears that she had to answer that question seriously.
Samara uttered something that sounded faintly like a chuckle. “My offer remains,” she replied. It was funny how something as simple as that kind twinkle in Samara’s eye was enough to make Miranda feel so much less vulnerable, despite the fact that this was the most she’d ever let her guard down. Ever.
Miranda exhaled heavily, running both hands through her hair as she leaned back, her head hitting the pillow behind her. She had no idea that the simple act of talking could be so exhausting. But, then again, it did feel like she’d just run an obstacle course through every single emotion she’d ever felt in her entire life, so maybe that explained it. No wonder she needed a moment to recover.
She heard movement, and felt Samara shift off of the bed, moving to stand by the window, almost like she was keeping a vigil at her side.
“Miranda?” Samara broke the silence after a minute or two. Miranda moved one hand just enough to allow an eye to open. “I am proud of you.”
Miranda arched an eyebrow in questioning.
“Of the decisions you made then. Of the woman you are now. And that you were courageous enough to be so open with me,” Samara elaborated.
“...You know, I think that’s the first time anyone has ever said that to me,” Miranda commented. And, if anyone else had, then it hit differently coming from someone, firstly, whose opinion she held in such high esteem and, secondly, who she knew wouldn’t have said that unless she damn well meant it.
“Then those people were unworthy of you,” Samara responded with stark honesty, and a terseness to her tone that Miranda had never heard before.
With her half-open eye, Miranda silently studied Samara’s expression. It took a few seconds for her to recognise that unyielding flame she bore. Now that Miranda had finished speaking, Samara no longer simply felt sorry for what she had gone through. No. She was angry about it - angry that people had treated Miranda that way, livid that they had made her even for a second feel as though she were worthless, and furious that they had seen so little value in her that they were prepared to dispose of her like she wasn’t even a living being.
That, she could evidently not abide.
Had she not known the reason for it and so agreed with the sentiment, it would have been a little intimidating to see Samara so righteously pissed off, even if the average person might have only perceived her as her usual, guarded self.
“That I ever dared compare you to the people in your father’s employ...” Samara trailed off, staring out into the void, her body tense. She hadn’t known Miranda’s full story at the time, but now that she did, she looked like she wanted to tear herself apart for letting those words leave her lips. “I apologise unreservedly.”
“You weren’t wrong, though,” Miranda acknowledged. When it came to Cerberus, she had been on the same path. She could have easily been complicit in the same, if not worse atrocities than were done to her as a child.
“No.” Samara turned to face her, stalwart conviction shining in her eyes. “I have never been more wrong. You are nothing like them. You are so far above them, and they are so far beneath you...the people who hurt you do not even deserve to breathe the same air as you,” Samara stated firmly, staring Miranda dead in her eyes, as if daring her to find a single shred of falsity or exaggeration in her gaze, because she knew that Miranda would find none. “I hope you know that.”
Miranda blinked, taken aback by the severity and seriousness of her response. Not having the strength to fight Samara on the validity of her past criticisms, which Miranda still thought were fair, all she said was, “Apology accepted.”
Satisfied with that answer, Samara folded her arms, and faced the void.
Miranda wouldn’t say it out loud, but it was weirdly kind of validating to see someone else react that way to her story. Whether it was intentional or not, it was almost like a reassuring acknowledgement in the back of her mind, saying, ‘See? You aren’t crazy, and you aren’t overreacting by not being able to let go of what your father did to you so many years ago. You actually are justified.’
Plus, on an entirely selfish level, part of her definitely enjoyed knowing that, in the very unlikely event Samara and Henry Lawson ever happened to cross paths after this day, Samara wouldn’t hesitate to fucking kill him.
* * *
It had been two weeks and a day since she identified the bodies. Writing to Ashley’s family and sending them the dog tags hadn’t been easy, but she’d done it. She’d personally given the letter to some contacts Jacob had within the Alliance from his days as a Corsair, so she knew it would get there.
She didn’t know when a response would come, but she wasn’t looking forward to it when it did.
Monday to Friday had been spent working, as usual. If nothing else, it was a reassuring constant.
Saturday, she had paid a visit to Jack. “What are we, fuckin’ wacky sitcom neighbours now?” Jack had complained when she showed up, signalling that things were back to whatever this new normal was between them.
Despite her initial reaction, Jack hadn’t otherwise objected to her presence. She actually felt up to going outside that day, to the extent that she was able to, so Miranda had walked with her and given her the lay of the land, including where her own apartment was. “If you ever want to stop by while I’m at work, feel free. I know your students usually visit you during that time, anyway, but--”
“Yeah. I get it. Thanks,” Jack brusquely cut her off. Even though they were so far sticking to their word to try and turn over a new leaf with each other, evidently she could still only take so much of Miranda being genuine towards her before it weirded her out.
Miranda didn’t feel the need to point it out but, for her own part, she had yet to be anything other than civil with Jack. It had not been fully reciprocated yet, but that was not unexpected.
Jack’s medical condition was an unusual one. Mainly because no human had ever suffered from it before. They actually had to go to the asari for aid to get insight on similar situations. Apparently it had been recorded within their species before that massive exertions of phenomenal biotic power in life-or-death situations could cause physical damage similar to what Jack had suffered, and it had been noted that such events could also cause a temporary ‘burnout’ of biotic abilities. Certainly, at the moment, Jack couldn’t so much as move a glass with her mind, nor was she to try to as the effort would only lead to migraine.
It was hard to put a timeline on it, but she was expected to be back to normal within a few months. Until then, she would have to take her headaches and fatigue day by day. Some days, she would barely have the strength to walk from one side of the apartment to the other. Other days, she would feel mostly fine.
On Sunday, Miranda had gone off to spend some time on her own. It turned out that her quiet spots where she hid at night when the tinnitus was too much to bear were just as isolated in the day as well. She tried to clear her mind, and not think about anything for a while, with limited success.
On Monday, it was back to work.
Oriana kept sending bad jokes as she thought of them over the course of the week. The latest one was, “How many colony developers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Three. One to hold a committee meeting to decide whether screwing in a lightbulb is an efficient allocation of resources, one to raise rates on the colonists to fund the lightbulb replacement, and one to hire a private contractor to finally screw in the lightbulb five years after you needed it.”
Obviously things were going well at her job.
Miranda appreciated every message she got from her, but she still hadn’t had the heart to respond. Not just yet. Oriana would be able to tell something was wrong if she talked to her in her current state, even via text. She would just know. She would sense it, no matter how many lightyears away she was. And it was better not to talk to her than risk burdening her with her current troubles.
Throughout it all, it wasn’t lost on Miranda that the students were, suffice it to say, aware that Miranda hadn’t been acting the same these past two weeks. She couldn’t really tell the difference from her own perspective. She always buried herself in work. And she was always always rather detached, serious and quiet. But, for whatever reason, the students somehow just seemed to know that dark cloud was there, hanging over her head.
Maybe she was acting just different enough that they could tell. Or maybe it was the fact that the deaths of her friends hadn’t changed her behaviour at all that caused them to be concerned about her.
They didn’t openly express any worry. But they weren’t treating her as they normally did. Weren’t teasing her, or prodding at her, or trying to get a rise out of her. They were being...polite and respectful.
Miranda would never have predicted it, nor would she admit it, but she had actually started to miss the former. Just a little bit.
It was pretty late by the time Miranda got home from work that day. It was now November, so it was getting dark early, and it was colder than Miranda preferred. She took off her scarf and put her keys down when she came inside.
“Pardon me, Miss?” Prangley began.
“Yes, Jason?” Miranda inquired, too preoccupied to notice the somewhat awkward manner in which Jack’s students were gathered together in the living area. Why was it so cold in there?
“We're, uh...we're not entirely sure,” he admitted with a shrug, glancing over his shoulder towards the balcony outside. “She wouldn't tell us anything. Just that she wanted to see you. I get the feeling we couldn't have kept her out if we tried.”
At that, Miranda blinked and glanced up, suddenly paying more attention. “She?” Miranda echoed. “Who are you talking about?”
Miranda didn’t know it, but to the kids, that reaction was the first glimpse of the Miranda they knew they'd been able to get out of her in two weeks.
“I don’t know, but it’s not often an asari matriarch drops in unannounced,” Reiley remarked, scratching the side of his head. Miranda’s heart stopped. She couldn’t believe her ears. It couldn’t be. “I hope this isn’t some kind of mix up. It’ll be pretty embarrassing if she's got the wrong address.”
Miranda didn’t even hear the rest of his comment, much less respond to it. She didn’t say so much as another word to her wards, taking hold of her cane and marching straight towards the balcony, needing to see if it was her.
As soon as she got close enough to see outside, there was no mistaking it. Samara stood there beyond the open doorway, hands clasped behind her back, her posture upright and rigid, staring out over the ruined city that lay before her.
The second she saw her, Miranda halted in her tracks, unable to take another step. It was as if time stood still. And yet her pulse was pounding so fast.
Sensing that she was being watched, Samara turned to look over her shoulder.
Their eyes met.
Miranda wasn’t sure whose breath caught first, hers or Samara’s. For a long moment, they both just stared, Miranda frozen by the doorway, Samara motionless on the balcony, both of them scarcely able to believe that this was no illusion.
Micro expressions flitted across pale blue features. The night concealed much, but Miranda could have sworn she saw Samara’s eyes glisten with unshed tears.
“The last time I saw you...” Samara glanced down, unable to finish the thought. But, before long, a small smile unfolded across her lips. Miranda was there. Her fears had not come to pass. “...Truly, you never cease to amaze me.”
A faint laugh of astonishment and disbelief escaped Miranda as she stepped out onto the balcony, sliding the door shut behind her. “You don't call, you don't write,” she remarked, mostly in jest, moving to stand beside her in the cold night air, resting her arm on the railing. Honestly, Samara had been absent so long that Miranda had begun to suspect she would never return. “I suppose I did get your message, but you could at least have sent flowers.”
“My apologies,” said Samara, politely tilting her head in acknowledgement that the manner of her parting had been...less than ideal. “From what I have gathered, by the time you regained consciousness, I was already far from here. I could not linger when suffering was so widespread. The Code demanded that I go where I could assist. But I would not blame you if you do not forgive me for leaving,” she answered. She never made excuses, but those were her reasons.
“In light of the fact you saved my life, I think we can call it even,” Miranda commented, though her expression soon faltered, her features becoming a little more sombre and sincere. It had hurt for Samara to vanish as suddenly as she had, but it seemed so stupid to say that now that she was finally here.
She’d wanted this so badly for so long. It had almost driven her crazy at times, fixating on Samara’s absence as much as she had. And, now that she was here, she found it impossible to be angry with her, even if she ought to have been.
She was here. She was finally here. Not just in London, but here. With her. Where she should have been. And, even though there was about three feet of space between them, she was close enough that Miranda could have sworn she felt the warmth of Samara’s presence even through her jacket.
“You look well,” said Samara, genuinely glad to see the extent of her progress. Were it anyone other than Miranda she was speaking to, the rate at which she'd bounced back would have been astonishing, if not outright impossible.
Miranda snorted. “I look like I was nearly killed in a shuttle explosion. But I don't mind the scars, or the arm. Could have been a lot worse.” Miranda hesitated then, her fingers tensing around her cane as her tone turned serious. “I know I stopped breathing three times after you rescued me. If you hadn't...” She trailed off, not sure she wanted to reflect on just how close she'd come to death. There had been too much of that lately.
“Yes. I know. Far too well.” Miranda briefly glanced at her, and saw Samara staring ahead into the night, scant city lights reflecting against unfocused eyes. She seemed...preoccupied. Troubled, even. “The first time the medics told me you were not breathing was right as they took you out of my arms after I carried you to them. They revived you in the transport on the way to the hospital.”
“Mmm. Jacob told me about that after I woke up,” Miranda uttered in response.
Come to think of it, until just now, it had never really occurred to her how Samara must have felt in that moment. For a while, at least, Samara might well have believed she had felt the last of Miranda’s life force slip away in her hands.
A secondary thought tiptoed into Miranda’s mind. Something else Jacob had told her in the same conversation that had never sat right with her.
“Did you really threaten doctors that you would consider it attempted murder if they took me off life support?” Miranda asked, audibly sceptical. She’d long since assumed it must have been some sort of misunderstanding or exaggeration on Jacob’s part. It didn’t strike her as something Samara would do.
Samara didn’t answer, nor did her expression change.
Miranda interpreted her silence. “You know what? Forget I asked,” she said, regretting even bringing it up. Of course Samara wouldn’t threaten doctors. The entire purpose of The Code was to protect innocent people, not harm them.
“They did discuss it with Jacob and myself. Your condition had barely changed for several days. And you were very ill. They had lost faith that there was any prospect that you...” Samara couldn’t seem to bring herself to say it. “It was after that conversation that I...recorded that message you saw. When I left, I did not think...I was not certain you would recover,” Samara confessed, with a heavy heart. There was no mistaking how much that dark thought must have plagued her in the intervening weeks. “Every day I spent elsewhere, I thought...”
“Thought what?” Miranda prompted when Samara trailed off.
Samara blinked out of her daze and shook her head, quickly banishing whatever imaginings had distracted her. “That is not important now. What matters is that you are alright. You survived where most would have perished, and for that I truly cannot express how thankful I am. Though it saddens me to learn the same cannot be said of some of our former comrades.”
“Mmm.” Miranda's gaze dropped to the ground, swallowing as she leaned on the bannister. “I can't say I didn't expect it. Surviving with all of us intact was never going to be an option. I'm not a believer in miracles, by any means, but we're lucky that even the four of us made it,” Miranda explained, sounding more like she was trying to convince herself than anything, unable to help but feel a pang in her chest at the knowledge that she wouldn't even get to bury most of them. They were all just...particles, somewhere in space. “I assume you know about Jack.”
“Jacob told me where I can find her. I intend to visit her later,” Samara confirmed. Miranda secretly hoped Samara didn't know everything - that she'd very nearly gotten Jack killed by not trusting her own judgement. She could never have forgiven herself if she had left her behind, trapped beneath that building. Especially knowing they would never find anyone else. “There are no others?”
“There's Wrex from the original Normandy. He made it out in one piece. You probably already knew that. But from our lot? No. Just you, Jacob, Jack and I,” Miranda answered, silently counting the missing among the fallen. “I, um...I found Zaeed and Grunt. Javik and Ashley Williams from the SR-3 as well,” she broke the news, unable to raise her head, their fates an uncomfortable burden to bear. “...I can take you to where they're buried, if you would like to pay your respects.”
Samara's face fell. It wasn't clear whether that was because she didn't know before Miranda told her, or because she felt a sense of shame and regret for leaving Miranda to shoulder that alone. “I will do that before I go.”
Miranda swallowed, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her eye. “One more thing. The ship where Kasumi was stationed to work on the Crucible...it didn't make it. It was too close to a relay, and...” She didn't finish that sentence, letting the implication speak for itself.
“...I am sorry to hear that,” Samara said honestly. Another life, another friend, confirmed lost. She paused, and glanced back at Miranda. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I'm fine,” Miranda assured her, straightening up a little more.
Samara just stared at her, with silent compassion and understanding. Miranda didn't have to say anything. And Samara would never press her on it, respecting her space, but...she knew damn well that Miranda wasn't coping with this as well as she wanted everyone to think. Or even as well as she had no doubt tried to convince herself she was.
At that unspoken realisation, Miranda slumped forwards and uttered a humourless laugh, barely louder than a whisper, leaning more of her weight against the railing. “What can I say? Everyone's gone, Samara,” Miranda admitted, finally acknowledging it out loud. As much as she wanted to pretend the Normandy SR-3 was still out there somewhere, they would have heard from them by now if it was. Besides, finding Javik and Ashley had all but sealed it. She wasn't an idiot. She couldn't deny it forever. “Everyone's gone.”
“Not everyone,” Samara quietly replied, holding her gaze. “Not you.”
“I came pretty close,” Miranda murmured. The fact that she had lived where others died had been circling through her mind a lot lately, whether she wanted it to or not. Her survival in the war had come down to mere millimetres. If the bullet that hit her in the eye penetrated just a little deeper. If the red glare of the Reaper had moved just one degree counter-clockwise. If she’d landed on her neck when the shuttle crashed. If the infection had spread just a little further. If Samara had found her just a little later.
The truth was, Miranda hadn’t earned the right to be there in that moment anymore than the people who had perished. She didn’t deserve to live anymore than those who died. It had all come down to chance. Well, chance and genetic engineering, neither of which were her own doing. It was hard to feel like anything other than a thief, in a way - like, by avoiding what should have been certain death, she’d stolen time from others that didn’t truly belong to her.
“I keep thinking…” Miranda began, almost unconsciously seeking to give voice to thoughts she had never spoken aloud. She caught herself, hesitating, wondering whether it was too much to worry Samara with her morbid musings.
But, then, this was Samara. The one person she’d always been able to talk to honestly about anything. The person she’d opened up to about things she’d never told anyone else. The person who knew sides of her that nobody else knew, and probably never would. Not even Oriana.
She swallowed, and decided to continue.
“I keep thinking that I should be able to take the way I feel about losing everyone and channel it into...I don’t know, something fucking productive,” Miranda said, audibly frustrated with herself. “But there’s just...nothing. Nothing good is coming from this. There’s nothing I can do. And I can’t even see what it was all for. Did any of their deaths really matter? Did any of them truly die in a way that was ‘worth it’? Or is that just a comforting lie we tell ourselves?”
Samara considered her words for a long moment before breaking the silence.
“May I be honest with you?” Samara asked.
“Have you ever not been?” Miranda remarked in response. Samara didn’t reply to that. Assuming she was still waiting for her permission, Miranda eventually signalled for her to go ahead. After a few more seconds, Samara began to speak.
“In my own experience, the notion that grief can be transformed into something else - something that motivates you and drives you...that is a flagrant lie. It never happens,” Samara stated starkly. “Anger at losing someone, perhaps. A sense of injustice. Your love for that person. Even regret. But not grief. Even if channelled through some outlet, grief is never transformed into anything else. It remains as it is. An emptiness. A heavy hollowness. A missing piece that can never be replaced. A hole that never goes away, and never fully heals,” Samara spoke solemnly, her words carrying the weight of a long and painful life.
When Miranda looked at her then, she lost any semblance of the words she intended to say. In that achingly raw, real and honest moment, it was as if she was seeing Samara for the very first time. The warmth she felt from Samara’s proximity grew so hot that it began to burn. Everywhere that heat touched set Miranda's nerves on fire. Suddenly, it took great effort even to breathe.
Standing there in Samara's striking aura, it was as if that numbing sensation Miranda had carried with her recently - that diminishment - was not only stripped away, but flipped to its inverse. It was as if the world around her had never been so intensely tangible and corporeal as it was in that instant. Like she had never seen the colours and textures around her in such vivid detail. Like she was hearing sound at frequencies beyond the audible human range. Like she could feel the contours of every single atom and molecule beneath her fingertips.
And all because, for seemingly no reason at all, she had looked at Samara in a whole new light. Let her eye fall upon her in a way it had never gazed upon her before. And, now that she had, she was totally and utterly mesmerised by her.
“Forgive me,” Samara broke the silence.
Miranda shook her head, rattled by her thoughts and...whatever the hell it was about Samara in that moment that had left her temporarily spellbound. “What?”
“I know my words were not comforting,” Samara admitted. “For that, I apologise.”
“Oh.” A small smile crossed Miranda’s lips as she tried to hastily forget what had just happened and jump back onto the original train of the conversation, ignoring the flush of heat coursing through her veins. “No, actually. I’m glad you said it,” she quietly confessed. “In a weird way, it’s the first thing anybody’s said that’s made what I’ve been going through lately seem...normal.”
“It is. Whatever you are feeling, it is. There is no correct way to grieve,” Samara assured her. And she would know. “It may be futile to ask this of you, but please be gentler to yourself. Knowing you as I do, I have no doubt that you are doing the best you can given the circumstances. That is all anyone can ask of you.”
“Thank you,” said Miranda, not sure why she felt so on edge all of a sudden. She was never nervous around Samara. Or around anyone, for that matter. “Sorry for rambling at you about this. Ugh. I’m thirty-six years old and I sound like a child experiencing loss for the first time.”
“I did not lose anyone I truly cared about until I was over four hundred years old. When my mother died. So you are far ahead of me, if that is the measure,” Samara responded, putting matters into perspective. “Would that you were not. Inevitable though it may be, I would not wish loss upon anyone.”
Miranda swallowed heavily, keeping her gaze fixed on her fingers for a moment. She wasn’t sure how to respond to that. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she remembered how to speak like a normal human person at all. What the hell was wrong with her all of a sudden? Why was she acting like this?
This was Samara. Samara. The one person she felt truly comfortable around, even at her very worst. So why did it feel like her skin could just jump clean off her body at any moment? Why did she already feel so naked and exposed?
“Jacob must have pointed you in my direction. He isn't joining us?” asked Miranda, electing to move to a lighter topic of conversation. Whatever was going on, she could at least have the decency to not let it affect her, or how she acted.
“I extended the offer, but he declined. He said he wished to respect our space and give us some time to speak privately, but I believe he finds the prospect of the two of us in each other's company rather disconcerting,” Samara answered. Her expression was always calm, collected and difficult to read, but Miranda interpreted that look as vague amusement.
“Sounds like him,” Miranda replied. Jacob may have been about the closest thing she’d ever had to a conventional best friend, but they were very different people. It made them a good team, but they also frustrated each other to no end at times.
“Whatever his reasons may have been, I am grateful for it,” Samara admitted, a fondness in her tone. So was Miranda. It gave them the chance to be alone, like they used to be. She'd missed that. Evidently, she wasn't the only one. “He also informed me that you contacted Falere on my behalf,” Samara continued, catching Miranda's eye. “I thank you.”
“I wouldn't have had to if you had just contacted her yourself,” Miranda pointed out. Sure, Samara had her Code to explain her actions, but in all seriousness at times it seemed more like a convenient justification for Samara's evasiveness than the definitive cause of it. Unless the Code had some rules against calls, texts and emails that Miranda didn’t know about.
Come to think of it, Samara’s disappearing act reminded Miranda of herself when she'd been on the run from Cerberus more than anything else.
“She’s probably still waiting to hear from you,” said Miranda, quietly searching for cues in Samara's unyielding exterior that would signal her intentions. “If you wanted to write to her, or even call her, I could easily arrange it,” she pointed out, subtly urging her to follow her heart and make contact with Falere, much as Shepard had done for Miranda when she'd rescued Oriana on Illium.
Samara bowed her head slightly, a momentary flash of sorrow creeping into her expression. “In time,” was all she said.
Miranda understood that sentiment. Or at least she thought she did. Their circumstances weren't entirely dissimilar. Both of them had only just reclaimed those relationships once thought lost forever; a chance at a new start with the one person they loved most. And self-deceit was the only thing keeping it from sinking in that it was entirely plausible that they might never be reunited. In spite of everything they'd fought for, in spite of outlasting all the odds, in spite of snatching victory from the jaws of defeat and saving the galaxy from annihilation, the one thing that they had nearly given their lives to protect might still be denied to them.
Their family.
If it weren't for the fact that Miranda refused to accept that possibility, it would have broken her heart. Never holding Oriana again. Never having that life together she'd worked so hard to make possible. Losing her would have drained her of everything she lived for.
So, yes, unless she was missing some important piece of the puzzle, Miranda knew all too well what Samara was feeling, and why talking to Falere was touching on too many raw, tumultuous emotions at that moment in time.
“Oh. I almost forgot,” Samara rather abruptly broke the silence, calling Miranda out of her thoughts. Samara extended her hand, holding out a small keychain shaped like Blasto the Hanar Spectre. “I promised to return this to you when next we met.”
Recognising it, Miranda couldn’t help but laugh. She’d completely forgotten about that before now. It was a cheap trinket she’d won at the arcade the last time she and Samara were on the Citadel together, when Shepard threw that party. That felt like a lifetime ago, even though it had only been three months.
“You do know that was a gift, right?” Miranda said through a chuckle.
Samara blinked, hesitant. “Justicars--”
“Eschew personal possessions. I know,” Miranda finished before Samara could. It was exactly what she’d told Miranda when she had first offered it to her. She thought they had resolved this dilemma the first time they had this conversation. “If your tenets require me to say that it’s still technically mine, then fine. It’s mine. But I insist that you hang onto it for me indefinitely. Does that work?”
“It…” Samara paused, evidently more than a little torn on the matter. Miranda would never understand how something so insignificant could be a breach of her Code. But, on the other hand, Miranda couldn’t fault Samara’s tireless dedication to her discipline. She didn’t cut corners. She didn’t cheat. She was who she was - what she had sworn to be. And that was nothing if not deeply admirable. “...I suppose that would be acceptable,” Samara eventually answered, with some slight hesitation, running her thumb over the keychain.
“I mean, unless you hate carrying that stupid thing around,” Miranda added offhandedly. She hadn’t considered that possibility.
“No,” Samara hastily assured her, not wishing to create that impression. “Of course I do not.”
Miranda couldn’t help but muster a smile at that response. Honestly, it was kind of incredible how a woman who was nearly a thousand years old, and who had experienced so much, could still have the capacity to demonstrate such pure, unfeigned innocence and earnestness. It wasn’t often that it showed, but Miranda had always liked that about Samara whenever it did.
“Then, please, keep it. Do this, in memory of when I still had both halves of my face,” Miranda remarked, mock-crossing herself, as if giving Samara her blessing. Samara stared at her blankly, caught in momentary shock. Miranda didn’t take long to realise why. “...Sorry. I forget you’re not used to seeing me like this. It’s fine. I’m in the ‘joking about it’ stage. Have been for a while, actually. You don’t need to…feel awkward about it.”
“No!” Samara interjected again, a little more urgently than the last time, loath to think that she had inadvertently hurt Miranda’s feelings, or made her self-conscious about her injuries. “That is not what…” Samara trailed off, pressing her hand to her forehead in annoyance at herself. “Forgive me. It appears that in this moment I can neither speak nor stay silent without making a fool of myself.”
“You could never appear foolish to me, Samara,” Miranda reassured her, speaking from the heart, so there could be no doubt she meant it.
Samara softened at that, glancing down at the trinket in her palm once more. “...I should not say it, but...in truth, this came to mean a great deal to me,” Samara quietly admitted, earning a raised eyebrow from Miranda. “Because you gave it to me,” Samara explained at her inquiring look. Miranda felt her pulse quicken at those words, the heat suddenly rushing to her cheeks. “It was all I had to remind me of you, when I did not know whether or not you would…”
Miranda couldn’t speak. Her mouth had gone dry. And her throat felt so tight all of a sudden. She had to turn away and cough to clear it.
Fortunately, Samara spoke again before she had to. “You are right. I will keep it. Even if it belongs to you, there is no reason I cannot carry this, if you wish it,” said Samara, mustering a smile as she closed her fingers around the keychain.
“Great. It’ll be our secret,” Miranda replied in a concerted effort to act normal despite feeling anything but, holding a finger to her lips.
Wait a second. Did her voice have a tremor in it, all of a sudden? God, she hoped not. What if Samara heard that? What on Earth was this? Was she sick or something and didn’t know it? Was that why she felt so off-kilter?
“Before either of us get carried away, I must let you know that my stay here will be short,” Samara rather sombrely confessed, aware it was not something Miranda would want to hear. “I do not wish to mislead you into believing otherwise.”
“You didn't; I suspected as much,” said Miranda. She would have been lying if she said it wasn’t disappointing. But at least she’d gotten to talk to her this time before Samara set off again, resuming her ceaseless quest to bring justice to the galaxy. That brought some amount of closure, if nothing else. “Where will you go? Come to think of it, where have you been?”
“Many places. Forgive me, I am not familiar with Earth's regions,” said Samara, powering up the omni-tool on her hand. “I have, however, found it helpful over my years to maintain a record of all my travels. You may be surprised how often it is necessary to know these things, and how easily one forgets,” she remarked with a small quirk of her lips that almost resembled a smirk, activating a holographic map that documented her travels.
“You're kidding.” Miranda stumbled backwards when the incalculably dense web of destinations formed over the hologram of Earth in front of her, her bad leg nearly giving out under her weight before she remembered to grab the railing to keep herself steady. “I'll be damned. You really did get the grand tour,” she commented, genuinely awed by how she'd managed to go literally all the way around the world in under three months. “How did you get to Dunedin?”
“On a ship, from the North Island of New Zealand,” Samara answered, her literalism containing no traces of irony. Miranda suspected Samara knew what she had meant, but was using that sneaky deadpan delivery of hers to play coy.
“Keep saving those frequent flier miles and you could get back to Thessia at this rate,” Miranda offhandedly remarked. Samara gave her a slightly odd look.
If the Earth could have opened up and swallowed Miranda whole in that moment, she would have let it.
Miranda shook her head in embarrassment, regretting that stupid comment as soon as she had said it. Why did she try to be funny when she wasn’t? “Please remind me never to attempt to make jokes again. That was horrendous.”
“It is quite alright,” Samara assured her, appreciating the intention, if nothing else. “It is good that you have maintained a sense of humour in these troubled times.”
“I...don't have one. Never have, never will,” Miranda awkwardly replied, letting go of her cane long enough to rub her neck. “But thank you for your tolerance.”
She couldn’t isolate what it was that was making her so anxious around Samara. This was the exact opposite of what it was ordinarily like - usually it put her so at ease just to be in her vicinity. Now, the mere act of existing in Samara’s proximity made her feel like she was tapdancing on hot coals, and they weren’t even standing that close. Inexplicable waves of heightened energy surged through her nervous system every time it felt like Samara shifted a little nearer. It made her heart race just to hear her voice, and to let each word she spoke wash over her.
Why was she feeling this way? What was she feeling?
Why hadn’t it gone away yet?
“For the most part, I have not found it difficult to acquire travel,” Samara explained. “I have found most people quite accommodating in light of these dark and troubled times. They do say adversity breeds camaraderie. And it would seem that quality is uniquely commonplace among your kind,” she said plainly, having developed a great affinity for the human species as a whole.
“Would it dim your view of humanity if I pointed out the locations where I think the Reapers' invasion actually caused several billion credits of improvement?” Miranda asked, hopeful that her dark quip would land that time. Perhaps she was imagining things, but she was pretty sure Samara cracked a smile at her dry remark, recognising the gallows' humour for what it was. Most of Samara’s facial expressions were extremely subtle at the best of times, though.
“The work you have done here is good,” Samara told her, looking out over the slowly recovering city once more. “Your ability and intellect have always been remarkable. Now that you have applied them to a more worthy cause than Cerberus, what you have accomplished is truly admirable,” she said, approving of Miranda's new direction in life. It pleased her to see she had found a path that seemed unlikely to ever put her in conflict with the Code.
“Yes. That's all true,” Miranda matter-of-factly replied, resting her hand on her cane once again. What could she say? Feigned humility had never suited her. “But I could always use help,” she said sincerely. “I could also use a friend. Are you sure I can't persuade you to stick around longer?”
They both knew the answer to that question already. But every part of Miranda really wanted to deny it.
“You cannot, though it is not for anything you lack. Quite the opposite,” Samara replied, earning a wrinkled brow. “Other cities on Earth do not have the benefit of your leadership and oversight. Any contributions I can provide will be limited here. My Code compels me to look for where aid is most needed.”
“...I see,” said Miranda. That explanation was fair enough, she supposed. So why did the thought of Samara's absence leave her feeling so hollow? Why did the thought of Samara going away again make her heart feel like it was contorting into a knot inside her chest? Why did it hurt so badly?
“We will have many chances to speak again before I depart. That would...” Samara paused, internally dismissing whatever she had been about to say. “For now, I fear I have lingered too long unannounced, and taken enough of your time. I can see you are responsible for many others. I would not keep you from it.”
For a split second, something surged inside Miranda – an intense emotional need she couldn't describe. But that ache in her heart couldn't go unspoken. She reached out to touch Samara's hand, covering it where it rested on the balcony, letting her cane fall from her grasp and clatter to the floor at her feet.
“Stay?” The word was softly spoken, a question that carried with it uncharacteristic vulnerability. “Please?” Miranda implored her.
“For how long?” Samara sought clarification, evidently unsure how to decipher Miranda's odd request. “Are you certain I would not be imposing?”
Miranda uttered something that amounted to a short, heavy-hearted laugh. “You know what I mean,” she said. She wasn’t talking about today. She wasn't asking for a few more hours, or even a few more days.
She didn’t want an end date at all.
Samara gazed at her for a long moment, her reserved expression as always difficult to decipher. Whatever her thoughts were, her features did not readily betray them. Miranda didn't know whether she gave the matter any consideration, or if her answer was already as clear as every rational part of her assumed it was. However, maybe it was just an illusion or a trick of the mind but...for a split-second, Miranda was sure that Samara looked conflicted. Even torn.
Samara withdrew her hand. With scarcely more than a thought, she drew Miranda's cane towards herself using her biotics, and extended it to Miranda.
“We each have a role to play in the aftermath of this war. These duties cannot be forsaken,” Samara spoke calmly, placing the walking stick in Miranda's grasp once more, and enclosing her palm around it. With her other hand, she reached out to cup Miranda's cheek, fingers softly brushing the scarred skin beneath her eye-patch. Miranda's breath caught at the contact. It was all she could do not to tremble beneath her touch as a tingling sensation flooded from Samara’s fingertips out to seemingly every single cell inside her body. “It grieves me that our paths do not align. Perhaps that will change in time.”
“...It's okay.” Miranda averted her gaze, willing her voice not to shake under Samara's gentle caress, unable to meet her stare, scarcely able to breathe. She knew little of what Samara's Code entailed, but still she regretted asking her to do something that would require deviating from it. That had been unworthy of her. Even if the non-Justicar part of Samara may have wanted to stay, what place of it was Miranda’s to put her in that difficult position? To ask her to turn away from her vows? “You don't need to explain. I understand responsibility better than most. However, I would like it if I saw you again sooner this time. Or if we stayed in touch while you were away,” she admitted, allowing herself that much.
Samara let her touch linger, grazing Miranda's damaged skin with such gentleness, never once breaking eye contact with her, even if it wasn’t returned. “As would I.”
Much as Miranda might have wanted to, she didn’t dare lift her head. Wasn’t sure she could handle it if she did. It felt like her entire being was disassembling under Samara’s fingertips. And, if Samara couldn’t feel her quivering, then it was a fucking miracle. Her heart was pounding like a drum, and her palm began to perspire against her cane, where it was covered beneath Samara’s left hand.
It wasn’t lost on Miranda that neither of them were the type of people who were entirely comfortable or natural around others. Even small gestures of physical affection were largely alien. They had never so much as hugged each other. A touch of hands here or there was the most they had ever...but that didn’t explain it either. Miranda hadn’t felt anything close to this the last time Samara gently clasped her hand. She’d never reacted this way around her before, or anyone.
Miranda had never felt anything remotely like this before. Ever.
What did it mean?
Miranda had to recoil from her touch just so she could breathe again. Samara didn't resist, nor seem offended, letting her hand fall from Miranda's cheek. “You take care of yourself out there, okay?” said Miranda, keeping her eye fixed anywhere but Samara, because she knew damn well by that point that she wouldn’t be able to control whatever it elicited in her to look at her in that moment. “And don't leave without saying goodbye this time.”
“I will try, on both accounts,” Samara replied, promising that much. “Farewell, Miranda.” Miranda didn't try to stop her, though she wasn't oblivious to the tension in her body as Samara passed her. The air had never felt so dense.
Miranda could feel from the sudden chill that filled the atmosphere in her absence that Samara had left, and only then did she dare to confirm it with a glance upwards, her gaze met by empty space where once she had stood.
Alone, Miranda finally released a deep exhale, that bizarre energy that had built up inside her at long last finding the space to wane, and subside, and work its way out of her, at least in part. She didn’t know how long she would need to linger out there to compose herself, but she felt no urge to hurry inside, despite the autumn air feeling bitterly cold having lost Samara’s warmth.
She didn’t even know where to start to untangle that messy jumble of unlabelled sensations and ambiguous emotions whose echoes still lingered inside her chest. She held her hand up to eye level and, sure enough, it was shaking. She clenched her fingers into a fist, which made that stop, at least.
She leaned against the railing and let her head fall into her hand. Miranda may have been comparatively unskilled when it came to deciphering even her own emotions, but she also wasn’t completely dimwitted, nor was she naïve. And the longer she stood out there, the more one possible answer for these nameless feelings began to emerge from recesses of her mind as the most obvious fit.
The thing was, she didn’t want that to be the answer. She wasn’t sure it made sense, or if it was even possible for her. And, if it was, then she had even bigger problems than she could have imagined. Because it could ruin everything.
Miranda’s hearing wasn’t quite good enough since the shuttle crash to notice the door sliding open behind her.
“So, Miss,” Seanne was the first of the students to ask, peering around the door to the balcony at the subtle urging of her brother. “Who was that?”
“A friend,” Miranda replied, staring out at the city, unmoving.
“A girlfriend?” Rodriguez said with a smirk.
“A friend,” Miranda repeated without inflection, as if reminding herself to remember that. Convincing herself not to dare begin to think otherwise.
“It's alright if she’s more than that,” Reiley teased. “Or if you've got a thing with Mr. Taylor. You can tell us, you know,” he prompted, grinning.
Miranda turned and arched her brow at them. “Have you got nothing better to do than gossip about my personal life?” she wondered aloud, beginning to understand the meaning of the old adage 'idle hands do the devil's work'.
“No. We really don't, no,” the group cheekily replied, happily falling back into the habit of having fun at the expense of their guardian now that it (hopefully) seemed like things were improving for her. With that, they closed the door and went back to report on her response to the others.
Miranda didn’t join them. Jack’s students were right, in a way, if they thought they’d perceived a sudden change in her mental state. For the first time in two weeks, Miranda wasn't being haunted by the dark spectre of death.
The problem was that now the only thing she could think about was Samara. And, the more she tried to reason herself into denying it, the louder that one increasingly isolated answer grew as it kept circling in her mind.
Somehow, someway, somewhere between all that time they’d spent together on the Normandy, and seeing Samara standing on that balcony again, and she didn’t know exactly when, where, why, or how it could possibly be true, but...
She’d fallen for Samara, hadn’t she?
She’d fallen for a woman she knew damn well could never love her back.
* * *
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Word count: 3.8k!
A/N: this is one of my favourite things I’ve ever written and I’m super proud of it, also the biggest word count I’ve ever done, hope you enjoy and pretty please leave feedback!! <3
Warnings: brief mentions of underage sex, calling of child services, brief mentions of an anxiety attack
Avengers college AU
-
Bucky: Guys I’m really desperate
Bruce: what?
Steve: wdym?
Bucky: does anyone have the first period free tomorrow? Can’t afford a babysitter for Riley :/
Tony: nah can’t, I’ve got a busy schedule
Clint: economics man
Bruce: science m8
Nat: same as Clint I’m afraid Jamesy
Clint: wbu Steve?
Steve: library club and I can’t skip
Bucky: >: I
Bucky: I think I may be having a midlife crisis.
Tony: okay 1. You’re 20 and 2. You shouldn’t have gone an’ knocked up a woman at 17
Nat: Tony!
Bucky: You’re acting like you didn’t get some at 17 Tony
Bruce: he has a fair point.
Nat: and anyway Riley’s too pure for your insults Tony
Bucky: uwu
Tony: you have officially turned into every teenage girl Barnes
Nat: anywayyyyyyy, Thor how’re you coping with your brother’s “phase”
Tony: I am starting to think Loki’s goth phase isn’t just a phase Natalie, I caught him walking around in a skull T-shirt with chains this morning
Clint: oh daym
Steve: what are you going to do?
Thor: I am going to show that I respect him by buying him some flowers!
Clint: What abt a chain tho?
Nat: wait, does anyone wanna go to laser tag at some point?
Tony: oooh yes!
Bruce: yeah I’m down! :)
Steve: I’ve got time yeah thanks
Bucky: I never back down from a laser tag game
Nat: great! I’ll book it with Tony’s card
Tony: wait what?
Bucky: oh shit, I’ve gotta go, Riley’s just run away somewhere brb
Clint: oh damn.
Bucky shoved his phone hastily into his pocket and looked around, desperation filling his eyes as they searched for any sign of his daughter. The bushes swayed with the evening breeze and very few people strolled around campus, either going on a walk, meeting up early with friends or getting food. The young adult heavily sighed out of relief when he caught sight of Riley, excitedly chatting to a man, who James quickly identified him as one of his other friends, Sam.
Braking out into a light jog, he made his way across campus to the pair while also trying to avoid bumping into the other students that were now staring at him, in college he was basically known as the fuck boy. Not that he was, the only reason behind it was that he had a daughter at 17 and everyone apart from his friends never saw past that.
“What’re you doing here munchkin?” He asked the small girl who was now shyly smiling at her father. Sam chuckled at the duo and turning his attention away from Riley, “wasn’t her fault dude, just telling me how she’s going to chemistry class tomorrow, can’t wait to see that” he said with a sly smirk on his face.
Bucky mentally sighed, yes it was going to be very tough tomorrow. Not only was she very restless, but she also was very talkative and wouldn’t put a filter on around people older than her, which most of the time could be very offensive. “Yeah! I promised him I’ll be good!”
“Oh really? Well I kinda hoped you’d have something to say to Professor Demon”
“Sam,” he groaned and ran a hand through his hair “his names Damon, if he caught you sayin’ that then we’d get suspended so quickly dude” Riley giggled and looked up at her dad innocently “and then we’d go poor because you suck at getting jobs”
“He sucks at everything” Sam mumbled, earning a glare from the other man. “We better go get some food now, there’s literally nothing in the fridge except a can of tuna, some ketchup and packets of sour sauce from takeout awhile ago”
“Oof man”
The walk to the diner that he had decided on going to after he couldn’t be bothered going grocery shopping was a long one. Riley insisted on stopping for every dog they saw, to ask to stroke it. “Ri’ baby, we can’t keep stopping, we gotta get back to the dorm before it’s your bedtime”
The pout she sent him instantly melted his heart before he realised she knew exactly what she was doing and he readjusted his grip on her hand so she didn’t end up running away again like she did earlier.
-
“Ri’ what do you want?” He asked the child once the waitress had come over asking for their orders. She gave a nonchalant shrug and turned her attention back to the video that was playing on Bucky’s phone that he had given her for the wait. “M’kay so, can we get a,” he took a pause to take a quick glance at the kid’s menu on the table “chicken nuggets and chips please with… chocolate milkshake?”
Riley nodded and the waitress, who from the name tag on her apron, was named Elizabeth, began to write down both his and her order but halfway through gave a quick glance up to Bucky, but when he caught her cheeks flooded red that made his daughter snort.
“Is that all sir?”
“Riley shut up” he quietly told the girl as Elizabeth walked away with her head down. “She was flirting with you dad” she laughed making him jokingly nudge her across the table “Oi, and anyway she’s not my type munchkin”
“Well don’t be too loud, the creeps staring at you dad”
He didn’t mean to, but without thinking his head whipped round to instantly make eye contact with the woman who was biting her lip, her eyes now as big as plates. His cheeks heated furiously as he immediately turned back around to face his adorable giggling daughter. “You better like those chicken nuggets munchkin cause I’ve got to go through this to get them”
“I will dad, I like chickens”
-
“Riley, come on you gotta get some sleep” he groaned once she’d slid onto the sofa where he was writing his assignment last minute for the fifth time that night.
“But dad,” She whined and pulled on the sleeve of the college logo sweater he had pulled on without even thinking about it once they’d got home as he had only just realised he had a paper to write, “I’m not tired and I don’t want to be alone”
His eyes softened at the pleading look on her face that would get him to do anything she wanted him to “m’kay baby, how about we go into into the bedroom and you try to get some sleep while I finish this up”
She nodded enthusiastically and he picked up the study books and paper in one hand and Riley in the other, deep eye bags could be found on his face from the lack of sleep that he had spent pulling all-nighters working on college work and began to make his way into the small room that had a single bed pressed up against the wall with a mattress next to it, an abundance of blankets on both.
He set the small girl onto the single bed and lowered himself down into the smaller one, using the bed frame to press his back against and using a hardback book underneath the paper to rest on.
“Why do people stare at you?” Bucky only just heard Riley mumble as her eyes struggled to keep open. He stopped writing but kept his hand in the same place while grinder his teeth, wondering what to say. “Cause baby… people don’t really think that I should have you this young,” he struggled to find the words as he felt his daughter roll onto her back to listen “but they don’t understand that I love you a lot, don’t I munchkin?”
Riley giggled behind him and uttered a small yes. “At least they haven’t tried to take me away again”
The young man's breath hitched in the back of his throat at the memory flashed through his mind. They’d been watching a movie with Steve after their classes and a knock had sounded on the door.Apparently, Child services had been called by one of the students and they tried to take her away but he wouldn’t let them, they had threatened to take him to court because the living settings were not meant for a child but 17-year-old Steve had calmly spoken to them outside the room while James had been on the edge of a panic attack inside.
“Yeah, scared me Ri’” his horse voice answered back making her eyebrows scrunch in confusion “I’m not going anywhere dad. Well, unless I die but y’know”
He sent her a bitch face look over his shoulder which made her uncontrollably giggle. Bucky chuckled and set his attention back to the essay while absent mindedly talking to her about random things.
“Is Loki gonna be at the laser tag place?” She asked and added on excitedly “oooh can I come dad?!”
“Sure doll, let me tell the guys”
Buck: we got plus ones on this laser tag thing?
Bruce: whyyyy??
Thor: oooh if that is the case I would very much like to take my brother!
Nat: oh are you bringing Riley then?
Buck: yup
Steve: I don’t see why not
Tony: I’m off to speak to this really hot girl
Clint: what that spice girl?
Buck: do you mean pepper?
Clint: ah yes!
He chuckled at the screen and chucked his phone to the side while looking up to his daughter on the bed above him, going to tell her they approved before stopping and smiling to himself as he caught sight of her peaceful, sleeping form.
Without waking her up, he got off the mattress and tucked in the blankets, quietly laughing as he retrieved the earbuds she had borrowed in the diner from her pocket. “Night munchkin”
-
Bucky groaned as the ringing of his phone awoke him, the technology next to his ear from when he had fallen asleep sat up. “Wha’?”
It was so early in the morning that he didn’t even have the energy to think of a proper sentence, never mind say one.
Steve: hey guys make sure your ready, it starts an hour after school
Clint: Steve. School. Finishes. At. 6. Pm. What. Tf. Do. You. Mean. It. Starts. In. An. hour. After.
Nat: we thought you could do with a late start
Tony: fuck you Romanoff
Clint: ten bucks says she’s smirking rn
Buck: ughhh
Bruce: I feel exactly the same way
Buck: no you don’t. I spent up until 6 am doing that English essay I forgot about
Tony: oof
Bucky: I will physically be running on caffeine this morning so be ready
He took a look around the messy room before deciding he would clean it another day and raised himself onto his feet before making sure Riley was still on the single bed asleep. He made his way to the tiny kitchen that held a mini-fridge, microwave, kettle and an oven with two counters on one side to make himself a cup of coffee that he was depending on if he had to spend an hour of his day running around in sweaty gear and a fake gun while making sure his daughter didn’t run away to get some sort of snack.
“Fuck” he mumbled as the loud whirring of the kettle started, sure to wake Riley up. “I’m tired” he heard a voice groan behind him, making the man whirl around, instantly making eye contact with his daughter. Sighing out of relief and returning back to the drink he was previously making. “So am I doll, yet you can’t have coffee”
He made her go get dressed and brush her teeth while he had a mental breakdown over what he was going to do about the paper he didn’t manage to finish before he fell asleep last night.
“Dad,” Bucky looked up to find Riley once again dressed in a pair of Joggers and a baggy T-shirt that she’d dragged out of the very few clean clothes in her draw “someone’s messaging your laptop”
She struggled to hold up the open device that showed multiple emails from one of his professors questioning his performance in class for the recent weeks. He inwardly cursed and took the laptop from her to begin emailing her back, choosing to ignore the insults she had thrown at him and his daughter in the middle of it.
“She is so full of-“ he stopped halfway through the sentence, noticing that Riley was sat next to him, quietly playing a YouTube video on his phone. “Whatcha watching Ri’?” He asked, his attention still focusing on trying to be professional in the email back. “c- c-“ she struggled to pronounce the word so she passed it to him.
“Commentary channels?” The man asked with a laugh, thinking about how most parents wouldn’t even let their 4 child near a video like that but yet again he wasn’t like most parents. He was 20 and had to do this alone.
“Oh yeah”
“Come on munchkin, we gotta get to first period before we’re late” he told her and grabbed his backpack to quickly shove his college things in before glancing at the digital clock on his phone and scooping Riley up so they could get there quicker.
Halfway through the panicked running across campus, the small girl decided she needed a nap and fell asleep against his shoulder, making Natalia laugh as they passed.
As soon as he arrived in the classroom he knew it was a bad idea when 11 pair of eyes fell to his, heavily panting and holding an asleep 4-year-old.
“Sir he’s late” a girl, younger than him moaned to the teacher who was now shrugging his shoulders “I don’t care”
“But professor, why’d he bring the baby?”
Bucky had enough of everyone staring at him, he readjusted the bag on his back before making his way to the back of the class, sitting in an empty seat in between Sam and Tony and placed Riley on his lap.
“That’s a good question Jaimee, Barnes?”
“Couldn’t find anyone to look after her professor” he mumbled in response, making sure to be loud enough to hear. “No babysitter?”
“Can’t afford it sir”
He didn’t once make eye contact with anyone in the room, instead putting his attention on the books that he was bringing out of his bag. “You alright man?” Tony whispered across the desk and flicked a pen at him, “Oi” Bucky hissed as the metal came in contact with the side of his head making Sam laugh loudly at him.
“Dad,” a mumble was heard quietly, making the older man look at his daughter, eyes that were previously closed were now looking up at his wide with pleading “I’m hungry”
If he was anywhere else in the world he would have sworn loudly, but right now he was in a class with 10 other students and his daughter. “Okay baby, but you're gonna have to wait for a while, we’re in my class but I’ll get you something after okay?”
She nodded and rested her hair back against his chest, making him smile slightly as he went back to taking notes of the class. “I’ve got skittles,” Sam held out the family-sized packet of sugary sweets making Riley do grabby hands towards it. Without asking Sam gave her it, earning a goofy smile from the girl. “Thank you dude but she’s literally gonna get the biggest sugar rush possible now”
“Aha, can’t wait to see that”
-
By halfway through the period Riley was already rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet, on the spot next to Bucky’s chair, his hand holding hers to make sure she didn’t run up to the front and distract everyone. “Dad, are you going to work tonight?”
“Yeah munchkin, not for long though, you can stay with Stevie. How about that?”
“Yeah, m’kay”
Suddenly the professor spoke up, directing his attention to Bucky “Barnes, the symbol Sb stands for stibium or stibnite. What is the modern name of this element?”
“That doesn’t sound like English dad” Riley loudly whispered to him, making the class laugh, “and what do you think the answer is?”
The girl pondered for a second and looked at her dad with seriousness drawn upon her features “...tell me,”
-
“Laser in the house!” Clint exclaimed in excitement once everyone had found their way to the front of campus where they’d agreed to meet.
“I like lasers,” Riley gushed while smiling brightly making most of the young adults chuckle, Loki however, did not. “Why did you have to bring me?” The man grumbled, sending a death glare towards his brother.
“Why are you dressed like that?”
“Riley no-“
“Did you go through childhood trauma to endure this?”
“Ri’ you can’t ask-“
“Why is there a child?” Loki asked as if he had only just noticed she was there. “She is Barnes’ daughter brother” Thor said and gently patted her head, making her scowl.
“You have a daughter?”
“I’ve had her for 4 years dude”
“Oh”
Steve grabbed his phone from his pocket and glanced at the time “guys we’ve gotta be there in half an hour we better get goin’”
“Alright Rogers, you really do like to keep track of time don’t you?” Tony asked and rolled his eyes making Nat nudge him in the ribs. “Tony, I’m not that old”
“You're 21, everyone else is 20 punk” Bucky teased him but stopped when he sent him a death glare. “Erm, I’m not 20.” The young girl pointed out while everyone else started making their way to the entertainment place. “Smart girl Ri’”
“Wait, do we need to decide the teams?” Bruce asked everyone once Bucky and Riley had caught up with the rest. “Ooooh,” Clint exclaimed with wide eyes “dibs on Natasha! She’s got good aim.”
“I’m gonna stick with you. Power team” Bucky whispered down to the stupidly smiling girl as she nodded furiously. By the time everyone had chosen their teammates and managed to agree, the group had arrived. “This’ll be great” Bruce sighed once they’d caught sight of the room of light-up vests with attached laser guns.
“Rules,” a middle-aged man who looked like he’d given up on life, walked into the room with a clipboard in hand “No Running, No Physical Contact, Hold Laser with Both Hands, No Climbing, Players must be careful when manoeuvring around interior arena walls, Please let us know if any of your guests suffer from the following: Asthma, epilepsy or suffer from seizures caused by fog or strobe lights.”
Everyone was quiet for a second before Steve quietly spoke up with a blush “I have asthma, sir.”
The worker took a pause and pondered for a moment, as though this had never happened in his whole 68 years of working there, “just… don’t start a fire alright?”
They all nodded in agreement, just happy that he’d been let in, and began to enter the massive room where the game was about to take place. “Right, so, let’s not rugby tackle people like you did last time,” Steve said and mostly directed it to Thor who smiled sheepishly “cause- err, there’s a kid, yeah, Riley, that’s it”
Bucky chuckled and picked up the fake laser gun as the lights began to darken, “let’s get this party started”
As soon as the words left his mouth, chaos ensured, young adults setting off running to find a place to set-up camp. As he wanted to be fast, Bucky quickly picked up Riley and began to run towards a pillar so he could hide behind it, so he’s able to get a good view of people.
“How does it work?” Riley whispered from the spot of her back pressed against his chest so she could also see and indicated towards the gun. “Gotta put your finger on the trigger” he instructed and took ahold of her index finger and brought it over to the weapon, placing the rest of her hand on the handle while her other one held the underneath of the top part, trying not to drop it.
The whole room was silent for a good 5 minutes before Bucky decided to make a move, taking hold of the collar of her jacket to gently pull her up with him. Not holding Riley’s hand as she would have ended up dropping the laser gun if she didn’t have two hands on it.
The two of them scouted out the place trying to be quiet so they didn’t get caught. Suddenly, making them jump, a loud zapping sounded in the distance, indicating that someone had found an enemy. He began to run away from the sound, after making sure his daughter was following and attempting to find somewhere to hide again but this time he didn’t find a deserted place.
“Aha!” Nat yelled and jumped out from behind a pillar while aiming the laser at Bucky’s chest. His panicked yelling and screaming filled the air as he made a run for it, completely forgetting about his teammate left behind and the rule “no running”. Suddenly, before he could brace himself his body went flying, his foot getting stuck on a stray shoe that belonged to Thor. At the same time Steve had jumped out, meaning to get the man in the chest, but instead Bucky had landed on him, using him to muffle the landing, earning an “ow man...” in return.
Bucky wanted to move, he really did, but he just couldn’t. He was in a trance, his and Steve’s baby blue eyes made eye contact, without knowing what he was doing, Steve’s body involuntarily leant up: closer to the younger man. His lips never looked more inviting, but all of a sudden a yell broke out in the room.
“Dad! Help! Nat nearly got me!”
The father scrambled up off the floor, his mind going a million miles an hour about what just happened and why it was wrong. He was his best friend. He should only see him as a friend.
Without meaning to, he ran away from him, not bothering to even spare Steve a second glance in search of his daughter, who was now cowered in one of the room's corners, trying not to get shot. Bucky chuckled slightly at the tactic and crossed the room, luckily not being noticed by Tony and Nat who were having a shoot off at each other from their opposite ends in the room.
“Nat nearly got you Ri’?”
“M’ yeah and you weren’t there.”
Guilt coursed through the mans veins as he remembered that he’d left her, but before his mind could go wondering to the events after it, he stopped himself, “sorry munchkin”
“Is’ okay, just don’t do it again dad”
He silently laughed at the sincerity in her voice and grabbed her hand to lead her away from the battle scene so they could get somebody else in the laser tag game. In quiet discussions they settled on Bruce, the one who was most likely to not be paying attention, and if he was it would still be easy to take aim without him seeing.
“Come on Ri, we got this.”
-
@donutloverxo @xolovegrace @rooskaya-yelena @deephideoutmilkshake @kidney9-9 @marvel-ous-hobbit @snarky--starky @rae-is-typing @stargazingfangirl18 @canadianhufflepuffavenger @herecomesthewriterwitch @every-marveler-ever
#bucky x oc!daughter#bucky x oc#bucky x daughter#Avengers college AU#college au#bucky barnes x daughter#bucky barnes oneshot#bucky oneshot#bucky barnes x oc
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WIP INTRO || WRETCHES AND KINGS
Writeblr Masterlist
GENRE || Adult Urban Gothic
POV || Third person omniscient
STATUS || First draft completed, second draft in progress
SETTING || Modern day
THEMES/FEATURES || Modern mythology, criminal aesthetic, found family, immortality, death, revenge, grief cycle, moral crises, platonic soulmates
SYNOPSIS
An undeniable crime problem plagues the city of Easthold, an affluent city rife with thieves and bandits of all pedigrees. This in and of itself is not all that strange. What’s strange is the incredibly high volume of unsolved crimes, of acts no one has claimed, ones even the Easthold Police Department can’t even begin to find blame for. Even when committed in broad daylight, even when the police arrive on the scene in the middle of a heist, no one manages to catch more than unclear glimpses of the culprits, no bullets hit their marks, and when all is said and done there is somehow never any reliable evidence. No camera ever manages to catch a thing, no trap is ever successful, and never has a single witness managed a coherent report, like somehow none of them ever pay enough attention. Like somehow what they’ve seen can never be put into words.
Throw a stone in Easthold and you’ll hit a crook, from thugs to conmen to masked killers who all call the city home. They all know their place, yet somehow the balance of powers never really makes sense. Like something is missing. Like everyone is fighting to be the second best while the title of top dog remains empty. Not that the reluctance to take charge is all that surprising, considering the way any crew which starts to grow big enough to extend their hold over the city is cut down. Driven out or found murdered, often laying in the remains of what was clearly a vicious shootout, though the killers are never found. Like vigilantes, only not so altruistic; the spoils belonging to the defeated gangs are always taken, only to reappear at the scene of yet another unrelated crime.
There’s something deeply wrong in Easthold. Something strange and unsettling. Like a catastrophic event has knocked the whole city just slightly out of sync with the rest of the world. It’s in the way the EPD have cabinet upon cabinet of unsolved crimes that never manage to make their way into reports, years of unacceptably unpunished offences that would bring the might of a federal investigation if only they were disclosed. In the way a startling amount of those offences resemble crimes from days long past.
There are secrets in Easthold. Things no one knows, things everyone knows, and awful, impossible, inescapable reality they’ve all been trapped within. It’s in the way unease builds and dissipates without cresting, citizens never quite recognizing their own discomfort, never fully acknowledging the oddity of
acting without reason, of crossing the street or averting their eyes, of taking the long way home simply because that one corner just didn’t feel right. In the way the city is beset by sudden explosions, the way gunfire rattles, the way streets echo with chilling laughter like the ghost of a memory, the phantom chill of a nightmare, the ceaseless loop of those who will not be laid to rest.
MAIN CAST
MARLENE WALCROFT || As the leader, Marlene has always has to present herself as reasonably level-headed, controlled outside the occasional snaps of frightful anger, a little overbearing in her need to dictate every plan maybe, but what criminal kingpin isn’t? What’s odd is the new fear kept behind closed doors, Marlene second guessing her own ideas to a degree that is wholly out of character, running over plans again and again, pulling them apart and looking for flaws, debriefing even after successful missions when everyone else just wants to celebrate, unconsciously pressing her hand to her heart like reassurance that it’s still beating.
SPENCER MCFARLANE || He may be happier in a no-holds-barred fist fight, but nobody could say Spencer isn’t good with a gun, an excellent shot with just about any weapon he can get his hands on. What’s odd is the little burst of panic he gets right after firefights, patting his own chest, checking again and again like he can’t quite believe he wasn’t hit.
HYRENE BRAEDEN || For all her quick temper and flippant attitude, Hyrene can be utterly pedantic about checking and rechecking the timers on bombs, which honestly isn’t an awful trait. What’s odd is the way Hyrene gets angry about it sometimes, storms about the penthouse yanking out every last alarm clock, the way she swears she can still hear something ticking with furious intention, like the last seconds of a countdown.
TERRANCE PHOENIX || Terrance isn’t wracked by guilt, doesn’t regret what he does the way some might; he’s a killer and he owns it, he chose it, and it truly doesn’t bother him. What’s odd is the way he still can’t sleep, can’t close his eyes some nights when the darkness squeezes close and he feels so cold, like the depths of the ocean are pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs. As Marlene’s second in command, he feels the responsibility to hold the crew together in the event that the kingpin finally snaps.
KYE || In terms of safety, Kye is as reckless as they come, all slapdash impulses and delighted disregard, chasing amusement at any cost when it’s only their neck on the line. What’s odd is that sometimes Kye walks around with a parachute strapped to their back and no intention of flying that day, utterly overzealous precaution without any real explanation as to why, like some part of them is always terrified they’re going to fall.
CAIM ROBINETT || Caim drives like he made a deal with the devil, like every vehicle is just an extension of his being, inherent ability paired with unmatchable knowledge of ever backroad alley in the city. What’s odd is the nightmarish daydreams he gets sometimes, when he looked back at his latest baby and sees flickers of crunched metal and shattered glass, the phantom scent of spilled gasoline and the unmissable click-swoosh of a catching flame.
ELIAN REED || There’s nothing odd about Elian. Just an unfortunate case of someone who got caught in the wrong situation at the wrong time. Or perhaps something is off. Every moment spent with her savior, the queen with hair like fire, it’s almost as though she’s in the presence of a ghost. They’re all like ghosts, and she can’t quite place a finger on why. She also can’t place a finger on why not just Marlene, but everyone in her inner circle, is so hellbent on making sure she’s never around them for just a moment too long.
EXCERPT
This job. Shit.
Terrance had his own suspicions about how aware the others were of how frequently he snuck off. Hyrene knew. And that didn’t necessarily mean the others did, too, but it left the possibility. That was enough to set his teeth on edge. Marlene asking him to play such a pivotal role in the job only made it worse.
If she knew about what he was doing now, then she was undoubtedly asking him to do it with the belief that he would not be walking away from it.
And for that alone, he would be sure to prove her wrong. How dare she disrespect him like this. Besides, when he died and woke up still in her home, then that would be cause for a great deal of fun.
He hadn’t been prepared for it all to happen so soon, though. He’d expected another few months to prepare to get rid of the threat that was Marlene McFarlane, but in that time she, too, had identified him as a threat, and was making the first move to see him taken off of the playing board.
“Terrance.”
Not a question of his presence. A statement. He heard the clacking of Marlene’s heels on the hardwood floor before she appeared.
Maybe the first punches would be thrown tonight, then.
“Yeah,” he said in answer, dipping his head in Marlene’s direction as she made her approach. She stalked forward with the gait of someone intent of making him into prey. He did not appreciate that.
“I had a question for you,” she said, positioning herself across the island from him. A smart move, if she really knew the extent to which he could harm her. If he tried hard enough, there wasn’t anything in the world that could bring her back.
But she didn’t need to know that. Not yet. Right now all she needed was the reliable second in command that he had dutifully played the role of for many years. The time for surprises would come later. Perhaps sooner than expected, but they could still wait.
“Go ahead,” he said invitingly, even going so far as to open his hands to her. Nonthreatening.
Her pale green eyes fixed on his mask, still settled near the corner of the island. Her eyes tightened. Okay, maybe a little threatening.
“How did you do it?” she asked.
Terrance laughed out loud. “I’ve done a great many things in this life you’ve given me. You’ll have to be more specific than that.”
Marlene kept her expression flat. Though emotionless, she somehow appeared angry when she asked, “How did you kill a god?”
Terrance paused in the middle of his drink, suddenly finding that he had to channel all of his focus into making sure he didn’t choke up what he’d already swallowed. Carefully swallowing what was in his mouth, Terrance lowered his glass to the counter with a quiet thunk.
“Who’d you hear that from?” he asked, his voice rasping slightly.
“People whisper,” said Marlene with a nonchalant shrug, leaning with her elbows against the surface of the island. “They spin the most splendorous tales out there, do you know that?”
“They’re also a bunch of crackheads who hallucinate half of the things they think they see,” Terrance countered. It certainly wasn’t false.
“But the imagery they spin is so vivid, wouldn’t you say?” said Marlene. “You haven’t heard the tales they tell about you?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“They whisper of the Renegade in a skull mask.” Another flicker of her eyes in the direction of the very same mask. “They worship the ground the Master of Death walks on as he mingles with the living.”
TAGLIST
@firefeatherx @goldenhour-goldenboy @mandoplease @mylifeliterally @phoenixhalliwell @havenforafrazzledmind @living-reminder @beatriz-silva-00 @pascalz @worldominatorx @givemethatgold @agirllovespancakes @lilacyennefer @dignityneeded @veuliee @briskywalker @davairys @aetherwrites @ryns-ramblings @teriwrites
#writeblr#wip intro#original writing#writers on tumblr#original stuff#wretches and kings#trying to get back into a pattern of posting#lets see how it goes#i've been wanting to introduce this wip for a while#finally just had to suck it up and do it#anyway#enjoy?
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hey guys, ever since I watched the battle of starcourt i’ve been thinking how it would have played out if steve had gotten billy out of the camaro. i wrote this in january but only just remembered i had this blog and this story sitting in my drafts. i really liked it upon rereading so i thought i’d share (:
It happened in a span of seconds.
Steve gripped the steering wheel of the Toddfather, hard. So hard that he was sure he’d leave behind 10 crescent shaped indents in the leather. The sweat from his damp palms made the steering wheel slick. He couldn’t tell if it was fear, or the sweltering July night that had him sweating.
He dared a glance over at Robin. She held on to the door handle and gave him a small nod, like she could tell what he was thinking, and agreed that there was no other choice. A combination of nausea and nerves shot through him, and he resisted the urge to wipe his hands on his shorts. Instead, he flexed his fingers and pressed down harder on the gas. The car rumbled underneath him as it gave everything it had.
His heart beat wildly in his chest as the other driver began closing the gap between themselves and Nancy’s car, with Nancy stood stupidly in the middle. The headlights of the car illuminated Nancy perfectly. He saw her face pull into a determined look as she raised her pistol. He also saw how close he was to losing her, again. This time would be permanent if he wasn’t quick enough.
A second before impact, he closed his eyes, something he learned from years of doing stupid shit with Tommy. An image of two ten-year-olds perched in the tallest tree in the park flashed through his head. A face full of freckles stared back at him in his mind’s eye.
“It hurts less when you fall if you don’t see the ground coming”, the redhead said before leaping.
And then it happened. The Toddfather rammed into the Camaro with a sickening crunch.
The sound of metal scraping against metal sent shivers down his spine. His head whipped back and to the side as the car spun out. The smell of burning rubber was pungent. The smell evoked another memory, and he had just barely remembered to turn into the spin. The car came to a halt, and he dared to open his eyes. Steve blinked away the swirling lights and for a second everything was quiet. Quiet, except for the single ringing tone in his ear. He squeezed his eyes closed once again, wincing at the dual pain of his brain rattling around in his head and the pulsing of his swollen eye.
“You okay?” Steve asked in a daze.
He barely had enough time to process Robin’s reply of “ask me tomorrow” when the roar of the Mindflayer diverted his attention. The giant creature made its way toward them. Its massive body eclipsing the starlit sky.
Steve hurried Robin out of the Toddfather and into the trunk of Nancy’s car. The hatch hung open behind her as he looked back at the monster advancing on them. Steve’s eyes flitted to the caved in steel blue Camaro and lingered for a moment. Hesitation.
It was now on fire.
The fire came up from the hood and spread across the windshield, licking at the glass. And through the peaks and valleys of the flame, he could see the shape of the unconscious boy, slumped against the door.
He looked back and forth from Robin to the kids, to the monster, and then toward the blazing metal trap.
It only took him a second to decide.
He couldn’t leave him inside of that burning car. Billy Hargrove’s death would have been on his conscience. And no matter what he led Nancy to believe, he was already struggling under the weight of Barb’s death.
“Tell Jonathon not to turn around for me. Keep going.”
Robin looked back at him with furrowed brows, confusion etched on her face as he shut the hatch behind her and shouted, “Go, go, go”. And they were off before Robin could open her mouth to protest. Steve watched for a second as they pulled off before he remembered why he had stayed behind. Turning back to the flaming Camaro, he sprinted towards it.
The air around him got thicker and hotter the closer he got to the source. Steve stopped at the driver’s door, taking in everything around him. The flame that had started at the hood had spread. Above and below. He gave a wary glance up at the sky, worried about the monster’s next move. It moved fast, its massive spindles of legs contorting unnaturally. It scurried past the mall. He didn’t even think it noticed him. Or at least he hoped it hadn’t. It didn’t seem worried about leaving its host behind. It had its eyes set on another; Eleven.
Without thinking, he grabbed at the door handle. The handle was so hot it took him a moment to register the pain he felt crawl up his arm. Like hot needles slowly sank into his skin. Steve had spent the last couple of hours getting beat up by Russian spies and climbing up hilltops. Everything hurt.
He pulled his aching hand back.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he chastised himself, applying pressure to his burnt palm. He pressed the thumb of his other hand into his palm.
The fire grew, wrapping around the passenger side window and across the length of the base.
Realizing he was running out of time, Steve pulled the ascot from under the lapel of his uniform. He looped it around his now pink hand and tried again, the heat of the metal still singeing his fingertips. He gritted his teeth and yanked the door open.
Steve caught Billy’s dead weight as he fell limply from his seat.
“Shit,” he cursed, heaving Billy up by his underarms to get a better grip. He felt relieved that Billy never wore his seatbelt. That made it easier to maneuver him out of the burning car. But Billy was heavy, nothing but muscle, and the sting of the blisters forming on his burnt palm siphoned all sense of ease.
Steve positioned Billy across his back, the other boy’s upper body draped over his right shoulder with Steve’s arm around his waist. It was the closest he could get to a fireman’s carry. Steve stopped every few feet to readjust his hold, to catch his breath, to wince when Billy’s prone body bounced against the bruises on his torso. He remembered to plant his feet with every step.
“Does that work when the thing threatening to knock you over is exhaustion?” He chuckled at that thought.
He powered through it, edging closer to Starcourt’s doors when he felt a wave of heat against half of his back. He felt it before he could see it in the reflection of the glass doors. The Camaro had exploded. Steve opened the heavy door with his uninjured hand while the other clutched Billy, who’d began slipping from his grasp. He slid into the crack he’d made, putting them back into the (relative) safety of the building, only making it a few more steps before Billy’s weight was too much for him. Steve laid Billy down as gently as he could. The younger boy’s head bounced against the floor with a quiet thud. Steve was glad it had landed on the thick rubber doormat instead of the hard linoleum floor. Still, he ran a hand through the back of Billy’s blonde tresses, just to check for blood.
“What use would it have been to save him from a burning car if you’ve accidentally bashed in his skull?” he thought to himself.
Blunt force trauma- his brain supplied, unhelpfully.
Relieved to not find the sticky substance on his hands, he let out a breath. He continued to comb through Billy’s tangled hair.
Billy would never let his hair get this matted. Steve gave the hair one last brush through and stood to pace.
He thought on his next move. Where would he go? How would he get in contact with the team? He was about to head out of the door with a half formed plan when the prone body next to him whimpered and thrashed. Steve stopped himself dead in his tracks. His first instinct was to crouch down, to comfort the ailing boy, to shake him awake.
His second, smarter, instinct was to continue straight out that door, pray to the God he only sometimes believes in that the Toddfather starts and go.
But Steve had never made the smartest decisions, so he bent down anyway.
#harringrove#billy hargrove#steve harrington#bhargrovesfic#Not to sound like a 12 year old posting her first story on ff.net but pls no flames lmao#constructive criticism welcome negativity not#thinking about posting this on ao3#i don't know if anyone has written anything similar (send me the link or tag me cus i’d love to read it) but here’s my take.#wow it's also been so long that i dont remember what the mindflayer looked like so#Also i DO NOT know what to do when a car spins out#again to reiterate this is the first thing i've ever posted so be kind to me mfers
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Weird that it happened twice, right?
chapter three - masterlist
A/N: this one’s awkward and was my problem child. the pov switches, i think you can see the change the first time and then from then on it’s “narrator / john pov” in normal text and reader in italics.
word count: 3.2k
T/W: swearing? blood/ semi-graphic violence and a single mention of smut, does including the Smiths lyrics count as a trigger?
A week later, and the Grays and Braithwaites were realising Dutch's alliance with the other. The Grays had already launched an offensive upon some of the men while in Rhodes; Sean lucky to escape with his life after a bullet passed clean through his shoulder. As of yet the Braithwaite family seemed to be ignoring the gang.
“Jack, kiddo, listen to me. If you go to sleep now we can play cowboys tomorrow, I promise.” John’s voice was strained as he bargained with the small child, who was obstinately refusing to take off the man’s hat and (empty) gun belt. Both of them looked to me for back up, the boy grabbing at my hand, John waiting for me to speak.
I sighed.
“Would it help if I took him down the path to see the deer? I’d only be a few minutes.” I spoke to John, who nodded gratefully, before I turned to the eagerly waiting child.
“You wanna come with me to see the deer buddy?”
Jack’s face lit up and he nodded his head exuberantly, his father’s hat falling to the ground. He set off determinedly to where Bonnie was grazing, stroking the mare with his little hands.
John kissed my forehead as we followed Jack to the horse, I mounted bonnie first with John passing the boy up to me, where he proudly sat in front of me gripping Bonnie’s long mane. I clicked the horse into a slow walk so that Jack could stay balanced and to help the boy settle down from the excitement of being a cowboy. He’d leaned back against me and was watching the trees pass by, occasionally lifting his arm to point at the rabbits that skittered across the forest floor. It wasn’t too long before the woods thinned and the sight of pastures extending down to the lake side pricked Bonnie’s ears and raised her head.
“ah ah ah,” I scolded her, knowing exactly that my horse wanted to gallop through the open fields as she tossed her head and tried to bring the bit between her teeth. I sent a warning tug down the reins, her admitting defeat and lowering her head again. Jack had spotted the deer ambling by the lakeside and was bouncing in the saddle to get a better look. I shushed him gently and pointed in the direction of a fawn that was hovering at the water’s edge. He was enthralled by the movements of the tiny doe, more than happy to be lifted from the saddle to sit on my knee while we leaned on a log to watch the deer, who remained unbothered by us. Bonnie settled near, huffing down our necks and looking dangerously close to rolling in the clay mud of the lake. The setting sun cast a warm glow over the scene; Bonnie’s gleaming coat matched by the deer, Jack falling asleep while curled into my sweater, and two armed men approaching us.
“Can I help you?” I spoke coldly, on edge by the closeness at which they had positioned themselves to me and the now sleeping child. They remained silent. I stood up, Jack in my arms, and moved toward my golden horse, my other hand near to my holsters. Empty. I cursed myself as my fingers skated over the leather, finding no trace of cold metal. The men were still watching us from horseback, blocking my exit on either side. I shook her head a little, mortified at what I was going to have to do, and filled my lungs to shout for help - I presumed we were close enough to Clemens Point for someone to hear me. I never got the scream out, as the butt of a revolver hit me square in the back of the head, knocking me cold.
Bonnie wandered into camp hours later. Alone.
She was gone. Had left him. Not two weeks into being with him and she’d fucking upped and left, taking his son with her. He pushed them away, refused to belive his intrusive thoughts, knowing she would never do that to him and yet losing more and more faith in her with every passing moment that she wasn’t there. He didn’t think himself enough to keep her with them, would never assume she would stay for him, but bargained with himself that if she was really gone she would have taken Bonnie with her: that flighty little horse meant the world to her and he knew she would be unable to leave her behind. So he held out hope through the night that she would come and push open the flaps of his tent, jack in tow, with a grin on her face and a wild story to tell and he would have her back in his arms. He swore softly, barely two weeks he’d had her and now he couldn’t last a night without her warming his bed.
Morning broke with a lazy kind of peace, rudely interrupted by a string of expletives from Dutch. he stalked to where John was, for want of a better word, brooding as he cleaned his revolvers with more force than was strictly necessary.
“John, son. They have her and Jack.” Dutch’s voice was calm but his anger was audible.
John’s jaw clenched, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
“Who.” The word was flat, monotone, ground out from gritted teeth. Dutch wordlessly handed him a letter written on creamy parchment. He read it, his face darkening with every line. It was from Catherine Braithwaite. She had taken (Y/N). She didn’t intend to take the boy, she had written, but “he would serve as collateral should the girl continue to act like a hellcat.” John huffed a humourless laugh at the woman’s description of his girl.
“I’m going to get her. Them both.”
“We all are.”
He rode to Braithwaite Manor in silence, listening to Arthur and Dutch cursing the old hag and readying himself for the inevitability of a fight. Old Boy seemed equally riled up, snorting and threatening to pull the reins from John’s hands, unused to his rider being so tense on his back. John snapped out of his haze, leaning to pat Old Boy’s neck with a murmured apology. He brought him to a halt near the other horses, and removed his repeater from the saddle - feeding a full magazine of ammunition into it.
“I need you to stay calm, John.” Dutch instructed to the man beside him. John said nothing, knowing full well that his voice would either break or betray his anger completely.
I laughed, a delirious little laugh born of the unremitting pain I felt. A trickle of blood ran down my chin, my lip reopened by the blow to the face one of the lackeys had inflicted upon me. It mingled with the drying blood at the corner of my mouth, a gory lipstick that painted them red and stained my teeth. I lay back onto the mattress on the floor, still panting out small laughs, and looked up at my captor.
“You hurt a hair. On that boy’s head. And I will kill you all.” I rasped, the lack of water and my screaming having left my voice in tatters. The man watching me strode over, looked me in the eye, and kicked me in the midriff. I groaned from the impact, curling in to protect myself. He walked out.
She wasn’t there. John checked every room in the godforsaken house and she wasn’t in a single one of them. He blindly followed Dutch out the manor, taking no notice of the woman he dragged behind him, or the crackle of the house as it was set on ablaze. He heard the woman say that Angelo Brontë had them, had her, that they were in Saint Denis if they weren’t already on a boat to Italy. He didn’t wait for permission as he drew his revolver, aimed it in the woman’s wretched face and pulled the trigger. He emptied the whole magazine into her skull, then followed Dutch once again back to Old Boy.
“Don’t go too deep into your head. You won’t come out again.”
John registered Arthur's voice, the affection masked by a hard exterior that John knew he had crafted for years. He nodded, still unwilling to open up for fear his every anguish and demon escape out of him into existence. So he nodded again.
“This ain’t what we should be doing,” he started, “they’ve got my- my son and my (Y/N) and we’re what? Going finding somewhere else to live?” He finished his sentence bitterly. Arthur chided him, John knew that they were moving because the law was closing in on them, and that they were no use to (Y/N) or Jack at the end of a rope. It scared arthur, seeing the man he saw a brother seemingly so broken, and the ferocity with which he now fought. The straggling Lemoyne Raiders at Shady Belle were unable to put up any fight at all, barely raising their weapons before John had cut them down or painted the floor with their brains. Arthur watched his eyes deadening with every hour that his family was missing, and knew that Dutch was taking too long.
They taunted me. Let me listen to Jack’s cries at being alone and hungry for so long, at having heard every wound the men had made on my body, at missing his father. They threatened me. Told me that John had a few days left before they killed me. Before they killed Jack. I offered my life for the boy’s, told them I would die quietly if they let the boy back to his father.
Dutch had charmed his way into Brontë’s home with apparent ease, Arthur having found his whereabouts after a single trip to Saint Denis. John couldn’t stop his leg from bouncing as they sat and drank Italian alcohol in Angelo Brontë’s company. He seemed to be playing along with Dutch’s “this is all a big misunderstanding can we please have the child and the girl back” narrative, portraying himself as a good man who had no idea the people he was housing were hostages. Bullshit. He called for his servants to bring Jack in first. It was a clever move, Jack had been bathed and the clothes he had gone missing in had been cleaned and pressed. He looked for all the world like nothing was wrong as he ran to John and hurled himself into his father’s arms.
“Can you make (Y/N)-“ he hiccuped, “-stop crying, papa?”
John patted the boy on the back, telling him he’d try his best, before turning to Brontë expectantly.
“The girl.” Arthur spoke threateningly before John could open his mouth. Two men left the room at a nod from the Italian.
“You’re back!” I welcomed them sarcastically, raising my head weakly to look at their blank faces. One of them moved to where I was lying on the floor, arms tied behind me, and helped me to my feet. I stared at them in surprise while they led me out of the room. I caught sight of my face in a gilded mirror hung in the hallway and winced, telling myself that John loved me for my winning personality not my face or once pristine body.
Arthur saw her down the hallway and instantly put a warning hand on John’s arm to keep him seated.
“Marston.” he growled. “You gotta keep calm or this’ll end bad for her.”
She stepped into the room. Saw no one except John, going to him as he moved from his place on the sofa. He wrapped his arms around her protectively, heart breaking as he felt her body rack with sobs.
He held me until they subsided, both blissfully unaware of our surroundings. I pulled away from him, wanting to see his face, and he took me in fully. I was a mess. shirt ripped and bloody, showing welts and bruises across my body; ranging from deep purple to vivid yellow green. My face was beaten, my lip split and still bleeding, heavy bags under my eyes and another bruise forming under my jaw. He noted it all, even as I was admiring how beautiful he was, and tucked me away into his arms again.
Brontë watched us all with beady eyes, waiting for one of them to shoot first. The three men stood up, I was held up by John and Jack was in Arthur’s arms. They all knew that if they tried to exact their revenge now, it would only result in Jack or me being caught in the crossfire. No one hindered our exit from the building, Brontë pleased to have us gone. I greeted Old Boy in a whisper and leaned against him for support. John mounted first, reaching down from the saddle to lift me up as if I were no bigger than Jack. He gave me the reins and held me with both hands, scared I could slip off at any moment.
“We gotta mansion now, sweetheart, you’ll love it.” he said, his hands rubbing my side, avoiding bruises as best he could. My voice had regained some strength, having had a drink the moment I’d stepped foot out of the building, my tone lighter and more playful.
“That’s good, really good. Almost like home for me. You can bang me against a wall now.”
-
shady belle - 1899
The long abandoned mansion may have been dilapidated, damp and crawling with pests, but it allowed my wounds to heal, my bruises to fade and my spirit to very much return. John had held me with heart breaking gentleness my first night back, as if scared I would shatter if he gripped me too tight. I had clung to him like a child, taking comfort in his warmth and the safety his arms gave. It had knocked me badly, the stint with Brontë, and for a good week I was reluctant to leave camp without someone with me. I bounced back. I always do. Gradually going further and further away from Shady Belle alone, even managing a trip to Saint Denis one morning, about a fortnight after I had returned.
-
“I’m ready.” I was close to tears, frustrated and angry with the men around me, all telling me I was in no fit state to rob the city bank with them. No state at all. I looked to John for back up, who refused to meet my eyes, looking instead at the floor as if were of the greatest interest. I chewed the inside of my mouth and turned then to Dutch, eyes imploring but voice steely and determined.
“I’m ready. Take me with you, you know I’m good. You know I can rack safes and you know I’m a better shot than half of the people you’re already taking with you.”
Dutch caught Hosea’s eye, who shrugged his shoulders and nodded, unable to say no to the girl he saw as the daughter he never had. I reminded him of bessie, he’d told me, and he thought if he’d ever had a child with her, he’d have loved it to turn out like the fiery woman in front of him. My whole demeanour changed, my smile sweet now that I had my own way and my eyes lost their harshness. I left the room humming to myself, heading to the horses.
John refused to talk to me the entire ride to Saint Denis, despite me being right next to him the whole way; Bonnie protesting violently if I tried to move the mare away from Old Boy. I didn’t push him to talk to me, sensing that it wouldn’t go well for either of them. I stole glances at his face once in a while, embarrassed at how attractive I found the anger clearly written across his clenched jaw, hard eyes and hands that were gripping the reins so tightly that every one of his veins stood out from them. I swore under my breath as he spotted me staring, giving me an unimpressed glare, his eyebrows raised slightly and his head inclined to the side. I raised my hands in defence, scowling at him once he was no longer watching me at his apparently unfounded anger.
“What the fuck is up with you?” I couldn’t keep it in anymore.
He didn’t answer. Choosing instead to shake his head, eyes rolling a little, and kicking Old Boy to move faster. I stopped Bonnie from following, the mare turning to look at me with those piercing ice blue eyes, but I was crushed by how done with me he was acting.
I let myself really enjoy robbing the bank. God knows I deserved it. The rush of adrenaline stopping me from noticing John’s gaze the entire time. I busied myself instead with threatening and charming the bank tellers into submission, and making my way into the vaults. I know he heard my astonishment as I opened the safes from his exasperated sigh, and was somehow shocked at the filth of my language upon seeing the stacks of money within them. He called to me to hurry up and to watch my language - the law was outside and I was swearing too loudly. I hated how happy I was to even hear his voice, and drew my weapons again, grinning beneath my mask.
The first lawman to fall had a handlebar moustache. I remembered noting it before sending a bullet through his brain and another through his neck for good measure. The others were less distinctive, a swathe of blue coated police men giving way to checker print Pinkertons. Dutch shouted to us that it made no difference, keep shooting, he was blowing a hole in the wall and then we’d get out. The sound of breaking glass and police whistles almost drowned out my scream as John was knocked to the floor by a police baton. I fell into a blind rage, no longer taking the time to aim as I shot at anything that moved in my direction; I thought him dead, thought the last thing I’d said to the love of my fucking life was “what the fuck is wrong with you”, thought he’d died angry with me. A heartless hand on my shoulder, pushed and it was over, alabaster crashing down, my hands pulled behind me back into cuffs, my vision so obscured by tears that I only saw the tail of Dutch’s coat as he left me to be dragged into custody.
I awoke groggily. The sound of water and wading birds filling my ears, the smell of kerosene and smoke assaulting my nose. A man was leaning on me, a mop of black hair on my shoulder, and I elbowed them in disgust. He sat up, blinking against the light, and I cried out in relief to see the grey eyes of John Marston looking back into my own.
“‘M sorry, I’m so sorry, i-“
“Shut up. I’m sorry too.”
He kissed me once, pulling back to look over my face for signs of injury. I was broadly unscathed, a slight black eye but no sign of serious harm. Only then did he look around him to see the island we were headed to, the armed prison guard, the other convicts and the looming silhouette of Sisika Penitentiary. I whispered a single question that I knew the answer to only too well.
“They’re going to hang us?”
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A Fate Unclaimed
Part 24
(First)(Previous)(Next)(Last)(AU 1)(AU 2)(AO3)
Lance is shocked awake by a pain in his side.
He collapses onto the ground, from where he had been sitting up, and coughs as he tries to recapture the breath just stolen from him. Lance groans as he peels his eyes open, head pounding like a drum. It takes a minute for his vision to stop swimming, but when he does he knows he’s screwed. In front of him stands a man with a demonic smile and a sharp face, presumably the one who knocked Lance out, as well as the huge, one eyed man who can take down five opponents at the same time without breaking a sweat.
They stare down their noses at Lance, smiling, but not in any way that seems friendly.
Lance struggles to sit up with his hands bound behind him, and thankfully the two scary dudes allow him to do so with no resistance. Lance looks around him, trying to see if he’s the only one from the Quest party captured, or if all of his friends were too. The sun is setting, barely visible through the tent flaps, far out on the horizon, but that’s all there is for Lance to see.
Good news, none of the others were captured. Bad news, they could still be dead for all Lance knows.
“So. The sneaky birdy finally wakes up.” The one eyed man says. “You were asleep for a while there, I was beginning to get worried.”
Something tells Lance he’s not being honest about the worry. “Sorry to disappoint, but Hades won’t have me so easily.”
“Not a disappointment, it’s a relief! Though for you to be Greek is an interesting turn of events.” The man replies. Lance’s eyebrow twitches, and somehow he knows that little comment is supposed to bait him, but he won’t fall so easily. Instead of responding, Lance tries to concentrate.
The Glow is a fickle thing, only showing up when Lance least expects it.
Some days, the good days, there won’t be a single person in the camp with the Glow around them, sparing Lance the headache from looking at all the power coming off of the demigods. Other days, Lance is near bedridden, overwhelmed by all the color piercing into his skull. Drained from trying to ignore the urge to follow those with the most color around them.
Lance has never tried to willingly see the Glow, but if the things Macaria said to him were true, then now is the best time to start learning to control the strange ability.
“Not going to respond?” The man says, almost sounding like he’s pouting. “It’s rude to ignore people you know. Why don’t we start over, introduce ourselves, break the ice and all that.”
“You knocked me out and tied me up, why would I want to break the ice with you assholes?” Lance retorts, unable to help himself. The one eyed man laughs, something deep and booming and slightly sinister coming from deep within the man’s chest.
“Fine I’ll start. My name is Sendak, this here is Haxus.” The man, Sendak says, all cheery and smiley, before his entire demeanor shifts and his lips are curved into a scowl. “Now what’s your name brat, and why were you spying on our camp?”
“It’s rude to call people names you know.” Lance says, mocking Sendak. “Because of that, I think I’ll keep my name, thank you very much.”
Lance looks at Sendak, trying hard to force the Glow to appear. The problem is, he’s never done it before so he doesn’t know how to make it appear before him. Every time the Glow decided to fuck with Lance, he just wakes up and it’s there. Is there some way he can make it appear at will?
What’s different from when he sees the Glow, to times like now, when he doesn’t?
Lance shuts his eyes, trying to remember the first time it happened. He was young, he knows that, and it was before he learned Spanish at his new, and last, foster home. That of which eventually became his actual family when they chose to adopt him after all. The first time it happened, Lance thinks slowly.
If he’s remembering correctly, he had been angry, and tried to run away from the family he loves now. He doesn’t remember why, he just remembers feeling like he doesn’t belong, and running away to find the place he did. He was so young, no more than seven years old perhaps. He had gotten as far as the gas station on the corner, crying the whole way. He remembers sitting underneath the streetlight just in front of the gas station, when a man found him.
There’s nothing remarkable about who the person was, or at least to Lance there wasn’t. He could only see the bright green glow surrounding him. It was brilliant, blinding, mesmerizing, as the Glow always is. But all Lance remembers after that is when he got home, and was swept up by his family who were so worried. Not long after that, Lance was adopted.
What about the most influential times, the times where he couldn’t resist but to follow whoever the Glow surrounded?
Obviously there’s Macaria, who shone so brightly Lance couldn’t break free from the trance until she did something to let him go of it’s hold. Shiro, and Allura, they were pretty mesmerizing the first times too. Allura especially. She had just appeared out of nowhere on the camp’s beach, walking out of the water like a sea goddess rising from the waves. And she was so brilliant, blue and gold coming off of her in waves, blinding Lance. Up until the point where she attacked him and held him face first to the ground with his arm as leverage. And then there was Shiro, who had returned from a quest soon after Lance first arrived in camp.
It was like watching him walk around engulfed in flames, the Glow not quite as tamed as it is for most others. Shiro’s Glow was wild, furious, exotic. Gold and purple fighting against each other for control, neither of the colors allowing the other to shine brighter for long. It took almost a year before the Glow tamed around Shiro, and Lance still can’t figure out why. Something changed in him, one day he was wild, gold and purple battling it out. The next day the Glow was calm, gentle. Soothing.
Don’t even get him started on when he saw the Glow of Apollo for the first time. Damn near knocked him out.
So what was the common factor for these times? What thread connects all of these experiences with the Glow? Macaria told him that he needed to master the Glow, or the Glow would master him. He doesn’t know what that means, but he should heed her words. She came to him to warn him, but she never said about what. She talked about her sort of adoption by the underworld, the tattoos she bears being her way of using shadows.
And she made some comment about Shiro he isn’t sure he’s ready to believe, but that’s beside the point.
Lance can remember feeling kind of like he was dreaming. His body felt relaxed and his mind was clear, and everything he looked at looked brighter, maybe a little smudged. Like when you wear glasses and smudge the lens, and everything looks just a little off too.
He can totally replicate that feeling.
Maybe.
Lance relaxes his muscles until the ropes aren’t quite as tight as before, but not loose enough to simply slide off with no effort. With a deep breath he lets his mind clear, and opens his eyes to see if his efforts paid off. And boy do they.
Sendak, the one with a missing eye, is shrouded in black like a cloak of darkness, little gold strings dancing through the darkness. Haxus with the demonic smile is much the same, but the gold is more visible, his Glow not quite as dark. Lance is so shocked at what he sees he doesn’t even have time to celebrate his first time invoking the Glow of his own free will.
It seemed as if Lance had spent hours concentrating, but only a few seconds must have passed, because when he opens his eyes Sendak’s scowl grows furious and he sends a boot into Lance’s gut. Lance collapses in on himself from the force of it, hacking and coughing, trying to regain the breath he was forced to let go of. When his coughing stops, Lance takes a deep breath and promptly regrets it. A sharp, agonizing pain flares up the right side of his chest, making Lance’s body convulse in the ropes binding him. It takes a moment to pass and he has never been more relieved in his life.
“You wanna try that again brat? What is your name? Who are you? Who sent you?” Sendak spits, quite literally as saliva hits Lance on his cheek, Sendak invading Lance’s personal bubble with every syllable that leaves his mouth. Lance cringes in disgust when he meets a face full of bad breath.
“Good gods.” Lance wheezes. “Do you not brush your teeth dude? That’s like, basic hygiene, why would you do that to yourself?”
Sendak closes his eyes and breathes harshly through his nose, right eyebrow, which is split with a small scar on the edge where it isn’t as noticeable, twitching. Oh boy, Lance pissed him off. Sometimes his ability to piss people off really pisses Lance off.
He gets a fist to the face for it.
Lance groans on the ground, spitting out a glob of bloody saliva into the sand. “Geez, sorry for worrying about your health my man. Won’t do it again.”
“You are starting to piss me off you little brat.” Sendak growls, as if Lance had poked the sleeping bear.
“Starting to?” Lance questions. Why can’t he keep his mouth shut? “You look rightly furious to me buddy. Like a puppy trying to act like a full grown wolf.”
“Why you little-”
“Sir?” A new voice chimes in nervously from the tent flap. Lance leans to Sendak’s left to peek at the newcomer. The man’s face is blocked by a helmet that only shows his chin and mouth, with an upside down and elongated triangle for eye holes.
“Woah, how do you even see out of those things?” Lance blurts. The helmet guy’s lips open and close, before he awkwardly replies, which shocks Lance. He wasn’t expecting a reply.
“You get used to it.” Helmet Guy says.
“Is there something you need, soldier? Or are you just looking to die a bloody death?” Sendak threatens, barely turning his head to address Helmet Guy. Helmet Guy tenses and then snaps his feet together, raising his arm in a salute.
“Sir, there’s an Iris message for you.” Helmet Guy says. “It’s important sir.”
Sendak turns back to look Lance in the eyes. “I’m not done with you brat. Haxus,” Sendak commands. Haxus doesn’t salute, but he does incline his head a little. Strange, are these two of the same rank or whatever? And soldiers for what? They don’t exactly use modern weapons, so they can’t be military for the United States. Besides Sendak’s Glow is too ominous to be human.
Oh wait, Lance thinks to himself, the glow is gone. When did that happen?
“Make sure this brat doesn’t escape.” Sendak finishes, and Haxus does actually salute this time.
Sendak sweeps out of the tent, a cape Lance hadn’t noticed before flapping behind his armor clad form as he walks out. Wow, this guy is really going for that whole Disney Villain look. Haxus secures Lance’s bound hands to the center post of the tent before leaving as well. Just before the tent flap closes Lance can see Haxus stand guard outside.
Oh well, Lance has done a lot of war games. He can get out of this, eventually.
******
(First)(Previous)(Next)(Last)(AU 1)(AU 2)(AO3)
#A Fate Unclaimed#voltron#voltron au#voltron fic#lance mcclain#keith kogane#takashi shirogane#shiro#katie holt#pidge gunderson#hunk garrett#allura#coran#matt holt#pjo!au#pjo!voltron#percy jackson universe#chiron#greek mythology#greek gods#demigods#klance#broganes#adashi#hunay
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hungry love (1/1)
A birthday gift for my favoritest Mir in the whole wide world, @safelycapricious. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Jemma wakes in pain. This isn’t the foggy headache caused by an ICER round; it’s sharper, more localized to the base of her skull. It’s a struggle to lift her arm, seems to set her completely off balance even though she’s lying on a bed, but when she brushes her fingers against the source of the pain, stars erupt in her vision. The pained whine and its uncertain origins escapes her notice completely as something large and warm and animal immediately crowds close to her.
With that, the whole terrifying ordeal comes back. The power was interrupted by a Trojan horse Hydra sent them in the form of a supposed 0-8-4. Vault D’s secondary defenses were compromised and perhaps that would have been fine if the full moon hadn’t just risen.
His eyes are the same brown they always have been. That inane thought—more than the ice pick pain in her skull—is proof she must have a concussion. Thanks to him, naturally. He came at her while she was struggling to contain Hydra’s weapon in the lab. She expected, when he came hurtling at her, to die a rather gruesome death and end as his next meal, not to wake up in what appears to be Vault D—whyever would he come back here?
Maybe he considers it his nest? Maybe he’s brought her here like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter? She’s afraid she never studied werewolf psychology as she ought, but on the Bus she trusted Ward’s judgment and she never cared to bother afterward.
He snuffs at her, his fangs coming uncomfortably close to her face, moving around to examine the knot at the back of her head.
“Don’t-” she says, for a brief moment expecting a werewolf to do as she asks.
He whines, more lowly than the one she heard earlier.
“Simmons?”
And he’s off her. So quickly it makes her head spin. His forepaws slam against the opposite wall, so close to the camera mounted there that Jemma doesn’t doubt he could reach it if he were intent on more than intimidation. He follows it up by racing up the stairs in two quick strides, hitting the door so hard with his shoulder that the hinges groan. After that he leaps to the floor, as light on his feet as a deer, and circles the empty space left by the barrier’s absence.
Jemma has never been so aware of her own fragile humanity as she is in this moment. He’s a wild thing, a creature capable of ending her life with a single snap of his jaws. The most careless of movements from him could break her like a china doll.
So it’s really no surprise, given how the voice angers him, that she flinches when it returns, crackling over the vault’s loud speakers.
“If you’re okay in there—other than the werewolf prowling around—turn your head to the left.” It’s Skye’s voice, Jemma realizes now she has more of it to go off of. She trusts Skye. Skye will never ask her to do anything that would cause her harm.
And yet, it is a supreme effort to turn her head to one side, taking her focus, however fractionally, off of the monster in the room. He’s growling and snapping at the air, angry at Skye for invading his territory in this intangible way. Jemma wonders what he must think of her.
“We can’t get the barrier up yet,” Skye says. “And ICERs don’t work on werewolves anyway so…”
Due to their transitive state, it’s nearly impossible to knock a werewolf unconscious unless you can somehow manage to get a steady supply of sedative into their system. There are always silver bullets of course, but Jemma imagines her team is disinclined to open the—very loud and slow-moving—door to shoot wildly into a room she currently occupies. She’s afraid then that she can guess the unspoken end to Skye’s statement and sadly proven correct when the crackling worsens and May’s voice takes over. This, Jemma can hardly hear at all as Ward begins howling over it after only the first two words, but she hears enough. “We’re looking at our best bet for getting you out being waiting until sunrise.”
Sunrise, when Ward transforms back into a man and is a manageable threat. Jemma studies the wolf, wondering if she’s lucky enough to have slept through the better part of the night. It was barely an hour after sunset when the 0-8-4 was activated and they’re well into autumn now. Can she survive whatever measure remains?
With the return of silence, Ward’s attention is back on her, his eerily human eyes piercing. He’s beautiful. She’s always thought so, whether he was a man or a wolf. But here and now that beauty is almost unseemly. All that destructive power and animal instinct wrapped in grace and strength. She can’t help it that she begins to shake.
His dark coat shimmers under the lights as he turns, padding closer. It takes all her self-control to settle her weight more deeply into the bed; perhaps if she feigns sleep, he’ll-
She eeps when the weight of a giant paw on the mattress threatens to send her spilling into him. And then she lets out a gasp when he bounds up, one fluid motion taking him from the floor to the bed.
He looms over her and her eyes are caught on those teeth. They draw closer and she hears the whine again, realizes it’s her own voice, then that massive jaw is nosing her head to one side and she feels his wet breath on her hair and he’s- oh. He’s licking the wound.
If he were anyone else, if he hadn’t caused it, she might think that slightly adorable. This great beast so concerned with her hurts when by all rights he should be eating her. As it is, she still laughs. Gulping, watery laughter that’s just edging on hysteria when a snap of Ward’s jaws, suddenly inches from her face, shocks her into silence.
She holds herself perfectly still, not daring to move a single muscle. Once he seems satisfied she won’t be starting up again, Ward huffs and folds himself down atop her. He’s not as heavy as she would have thought; he must be mostly fur. He’s warm too. If she closes her eyes, she might even be able to pretend he’s nothing but a slightly stiff heated blanket. So she does just that and hopes to sleep out the rest of the night.
.
.
He is not dumb or slow. He does not speak, but he has no need for words. They clutter things up. Action is better.
But he understands.
He knows what words mean.
He knows what the one who tried to kill him plans. They will wait until the sun steals his strength and then they will come and steal her.
He knows too that the one who the man wants is scheming. She wants to steal her from him sooner.
That pleases the man. He thinks it means she’s jealous of his affections. He thinks if he can only lure her down often enough, she will begin to want him as he wants her. He thinks because he took her once and she hated him, that he must trick her and win her the way humans do or he will never have her at all.
The man is a fool.
.
.
She’s warm and heavy and knows that if she comes out of her doze any further, the distant pain will return full force. Her fingers drag at coarse fur, unable to hold him down when he’s intent on rising to his feet. He’s examining her again, her soft, meaty parts this time. She pushes aside the fear and clings to hope he’s moving because he can feel dawn coming.
The hard edges of teeth at her stomach draws her fully awake. “Wha-” she gasps. He’s nipping at her sweater. Then his wet nose is on her bare skin, warm and tickling. She’s just considering whether asking him what he thinks he’s about will do any good when his jaws open wide and she gets a brief glimpse of razor sharp teeth before they dig into her.
Her scream is still echoing off the walls when his rough tongue starts lapping at the wound the same way he did at her head. It hurts—but it also doesn’t. The strange, animal ministrations are somehow soothing. The pain fades to a dull ache in a few short minutes and he drapes himself over her once more, the pressure helping more than anything else.
Her breathing is still ragged, a stark counter to the even rise and fall of his back over her. She can’t help but study every inhuman inch of him. The warm fur, the ears that twitch after sounds she can’t hear, the quadrupedal alignment of his skeletal structure draped across hers.
She bites her lip to stifle another whine. A month from now, she’ll be just as much a mindless beast as he is.
.
.
The man is a fool.
He wants the one who hates him.
He won’t take what he wants.
So it’s up to the wolf. To choose the one who still warms with desire even when she fears him. To take her. To make her his for always.
The man will learn to live with it.
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JSE Fanfiction - Second Nature
Summary: With Schneep and Marvin otherwise occupied, Chase gets coerced into pulling out his fatherly tactics and taking care of Jackieboy when he’s come down with the flu.
Jackieboy’s life had been full of close calls. His job was one that constantly put his safety on the line; it was his second nature and his first instinct to dive headlong into the fray of any mildly threatening situation. This, however, was something he always tried to avoid like the plague; it was the plague.
Every single time he got sick, he swore that he would rather face Anti in a sudden death match armed with nothing but his fists rather than lie on the couch being fussed over. With hollow, glazed eyes, a splotchy fever flush painted over his cheeks and a mountain of blankets pulled up to his throat, he knew he made up the most cliché image of a sick person possible. It was miserable, inconvenient, and embarrassing.
That being said, it was an inevitable truth that because he was one of the most powerful members of the household, it had to be an equally powerful virus to take him down. He had exactly no chance of rising from this couch for work today. His shivering only worsened the cloying ache in his joints and with every breath it felt like there was a rusty nail dragging along the back of his throat that no amount of fluids would dislodge. That wasn’t going to stop his caregiver from trying, though.
“Here you go…” Jackieboy flinched slightly as the straw accompanying the voice poked at his lips, asking for entrance. “I got some juice from the fridge instead of coffee so it won’t burn your throat this time, okay? Just a few sips.”
Not bothering to open his eyes, the hero offered a raspy “mm-hmm” before prying his aching jaw open and catching the straw between his teeth. The apple juice was smooth and cool as it slid down his throat, but he couldn’t help but grimace at the off-brand taste. Maybe it was just his clogged sinuses ruining it, but he couldn’t bear too many sips.
“That any better, bro?”
“…Yeah.”
Chase pursed his lips ruefully, seeing through Jackieboy’s weak lie. “Sorry, man, I don’t really know how the doc does it,” he admitted freely as he set the cup on the nearby coffee table. “I’d ask, but his phone just goes straight to voicemail. He’s probably in a surgery.”
“What about Marvin?”
There was a pause as something passed over the younger Ego’s face—puzzlement, maybe, and a small twinge of hurt. Before Jackieboy could fully register it, it disappeared behind a small, polite smile. “He’s in the middle of rehearsals for his next gig,” he answered at last, his tone revealing nothing as he leaned back on his heels.
The functioning part of Jackieboy’s brain reminded him then that this was Chase he was talking to. Any small, unassuming thing might be turned the wrong way in his mind and strike a blow to his self-esteem…He must think Jackieboy would have preferred one of them over him as a caretaker.
“I was just aski—” Stiffening as his chest seized, Jackieboy had only a moment to haul the blankets over his face before the coughing fit smashed into him like a load of bricks. Over his flurry of wracking wheezes, he could hear Chase hissing through his teeth in sympathy. Almost thirty seconds later, he was still hacking and the vlogger finally shook his head and peeled some of the blankets back.
“Alright, alright, c’mon, let’s sit you up here,” he urged, wrapping an arm around Jackie’s back with firm gentleness. His hand didn’t leave once Jackieboy was upright, rubbing slow circles into his sweaty pajama shirt as air returned to his lungs in stops and starts. “That’s it, it’s calming down now…In through your nose, out through your mouth. You’ve got it.”
Jackieboy’s heaving shoulders stilled for only a moment before lurching once, twice more in a distinctively different fashion as his apple juice surged back up to his throat. “Cha—” he gagged, clapping his hands over his mouth and curling in on himself, shaking his head violently as telltale nausea prickled over his body.
“Oh—” Recoiling, Chase lunged to his feet and scrambled to the kitchen, tearing through the cabinets for the nearest bowl. “Hang on, hang on—!”
It was a tribute to the vlogger’s speed and agility, honed with hours and hours of trick shots, that he managed to find the perfect bowl and thrust it under his chin in time for him to retch into it. The force of his heaving nearly knocked his forehead against the bowl’s metal rim until Chase put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he soothed all the while, shushing Jackieboy’s pained groans and gags. “S’alright, just get it out. I’m sorry, man, I know it hurts…” Pursing his lips, he moved his hand from Jackie’s shoulder to the back of his neck, tsking worriedly. “You’re really warm.”
Sure enough, it took everything in him for Jackie not to lean back into Chase’s blissfully cool touch. Instead, releasing a slow, shaky exhale, Jackieboy weakly shifted the bowl to his left, indicating he was finished, at least for now. Chase hardly batted an eye as he took it back to the kitchen to rinse it out, but when he returned with the bowl in one hand and a damp towel in the other, he noticed how Jackieboy’s flush deepened. It wasn’t from his fever.
“It helps!” he retorted in answer to the other’s unspoken distaste.
“C’mon…” the older Ego croaked, shoulders slumping in mingling embarrassment and despair.
“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it,” Chase advised, easing Jackie’s head back with a hand on his forehead so his face could be at the best angle for the toweling. “Here, I’ll be Marvin if it makes you feel better.” Making his voice a bit gruffer and his accent a bit thicker, he announced, “For my next trick, I will be demonstrating something of wonder, awe, and amazement…The Productive Dab.”
The towel was softer than Jackieboy expected, or perhaps it was the gentleness of Chase’s strokes that fooled him into thinking it was. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but sigh in relief as the cloth was patted along his temples, cheekbones, jawline and the curve of his throat.
“There. Isn’t that better?” Chase questioned rhetorically once he was satisfied, brushing aside stray strands of Jackieboy’s hair so he could drape the folded towel over his forehead.
“S’like magic…” Jackieboy agreed hazily, his eyes drifting over to him. “’m…sorry, Chase. I was just asking about Henrik and Marv cos I…didn’t want you to see me like this.”
It took a moment but to the hero’s faint surprise, Chase barked an incredulous laugh. “What, seriously? Dude, you think I haven’t seen this before? This is nothing! Try taking care of a five-year-old when she’s got the flu. Brianna was the most pathetic little picture you could imagine, all bundled up in bed. Every time I thought she was asleep and I’d get up for food or coffee, she’d wake right back up and start crying, which only made her nose run everywhere.”
“Poor kid,” Jackie murmured.
“Yeah, it wasn’t pretty.” Chase’s expression grew wistful then, his attention wandering. “But when she cried, she wanted me to rock her. Walking around her room and rocking her was the only thing that would help.” Chuckling wryly, he glanced back at Jackieboy and opened his arms invitingly. “Think that would work?”
“Sounds nice, but I don’t think you could lift me.”
“Oh, you think I don’t lift, bro?”
Jackieboy laughed at that, the sound catching in his throat to turn into another dry cough. “Ow, ow—don’t make me laugh, it hurts.” Holding his breath for several seconds to calm down the warning ache in his throat, he settled his head more heavily against the arm of the couch, letting his eyes close. “Sounds like you’re a better caretaker than I figured,” he commented, trying to stay focused on the conversation and not on the headache trying to persist in dragging its fingers along his skull.
“Well, yeah. I don’t usually get to take care of you; you’re always taking care of me,” Chase pointed out. “You’re always taking care of all of us.”
“S’my job. I worry about you.”
“Right back at you,” Chase insisted. “Jackieboy…you know how much you mean to us, right? We wouldn’t get anywhere without you. You know that, right?”
“…Yeah. I think you could do just fine, though. More than fine. You’re…you’re really amazing, Chase. I couldn’t ask for you to be any better. You make all of us proud and I wouldn’t get anywhere without you.” Though his weary tone didn’t change as he said those words, Jackie could feel a slight sting in his chest and behind his eyelids as emotion stirred. He took a lesson from Chase’s daughter, however, and pressed it down deep in his stomach before it could clog his sinuses and make the ache in his throat any worse. “For one thing, I’d have puked all over these blankets.”
Silence reined for a few minutes after that remark, until Jackieboy’s mind was starting to wander into the dim, delirious thoughts that were almost dreams. Eventually Chase muttered something or another that might have been thanks before rising to his feet. “You’ve gotten really sappy; your fever must be gettin’ to you. I should let you rest.”
“Wait, wait—don’t go—” In his bleary haste, Jackie’s plea sounded much more tragic than it was technically meant to, but it did give Chase pause. Deciding to roll with it, the older Ego widened his eyes pitifully. “Henrik and Marvin always stay with me when I’m sick…”
“Would it make them proud?” Chase quipped, earning nothing but another longing blink in return. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he shook his head and relented. “Just let me grab my headphones real quick so I can listen to music in case you start snoring.”
Jackieboy’s next blink was one of confusion. “Wh—I don’t snore!”
“Sure, you do. Marvin always tries to trick me into swapping rooms with him since you two share a wall,” the vlogger announced guiltlessly as he skirted past the coffee table and marched out of the room for his headphones.
Digesting this information with a mild scowl, Jackieboy huffed, coughed a few times and then let his head slide off the armrest onto the couch cushion itself, effectively burying himself under the blankets. He had a nagging feeling that he would overheat sometime while he was napping, but at the moment the warmth the blankets provided was pretty comforting. After he had settled into a breathing pattern that wouldn’t stir a coughing fit, he finally felt free to doze off.
When he was still just semiconscious of his surroundings, he heard Chase return, humming softly to the tune in his headphones as he settled down in the chair nearby. The sound lulled him all the way down into darkness, and his sleep was peaceful. He didn’t make a sound.
#youtube#jacksepticeye#fanfiction#youtube fanfiction#jackieboy man#chase brody#dr schneeplestein#marvin the magnificent#sickies being sick#sickfic#whump#fluff for days#chase is the ultimate dad friend#even when he's reluctant#he's a good caretaker#<3
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You Belong to Me 20
(MC Series)
Pairing: Tattoo Artist! Biker! Peter Parker x Single Mom! Reader
Warning: Swearing, mentions of violence, living on the run, angst, panic, guns mentioned, slight violence towards the end.
Second to last part my peaches!!!
Two shots of tequila later, Y/N’s head rested against his chest, his hands moved slowly over her back.
“She need a Xanax?” Wanda asks softly.
“No.” Y/N shakes her head, her voice small and scared.
“Peter.” Frank steps around the corner.
“Go. I got her.” Wanda nods, taking Y/N from him, she hugs Y/N. He follows Frank, Fury quickly pats them both down before they enter the main room.
“Ah you.” The creep sitting in one of the chairs, his men seated behind him, Steve sat across from him the guys seated or leaning behind him, the room divided.
“Me.” Peter smirks, licking his lips as he steps over towards Steve.
“Shot my man’s tires after waving a gun at him. You’re fucking stupid to think that’s okay.” He points at Peter. He had dark short cut hair, scruff darkened his face, he was older, but not much. He had a president patch on the chest of his leather jacket, a flaming skull on the back of it, Devil’s Demons written in red.
“Your man was in our town, near my daughter’s school, he’s lucky it wasn’t his fucking head.” Peter leans in the back of a chair.
“You know how this works Rumlow, you don’t come into a town of another MC and think you’re entitled to do what you want. Your man was left alive to keep from starting a war, but that doesn’t give you permission to be in our fucking town.” Steve explains, he was irritated and pissed off like Peter.
“You have something that belongs to me in this town.” Brock taps his pointer finger on the table top.
“Nothing in this town belongs to you.” Peter growls, his hands clutched to the back of the seat he sat on.
“Your little bitch does.” A guy next to Brock speaks up, his lips curl up in a smug grin.
“My what? I’ll kill you now.” Peter straightens up, pointing at the man.
“Okay, okay.” Brock waves his hands down. “This girl, your girl.” Brock snaps his fingers and one of the guys tosses photos on to the table top. Y/N, Ade, him, cross the wood top. “A friend of ours saw her at the rally with you. She belongs to us, one of my girls.” Brock smiles.
“Nah, sorry.” Buck shoves the photos away. “She doesn’t belong to you.” He leans back folding his arms over his chest.
“Excuse me?” Brock tips his head.
“She’s mine. The mother of my kid.” Peter nods, his arms folded over his chest as he stares down Brock and his men.
“Not possible.” Brock licks his lips looking confused.
“Need proof?” Peter nods, looking at Frank, he slips from the room again.
“She was my payment for taking one of my girls, they ran together.” Brock growls.
“Her sister Bree.” Peter nods. “Oh, I know everything.” Peter’s jaw ticks, Brock growls low and deep in his chest.
“She said her baby died.” He glares at Peter.
“Baby was with my aunt, when she knew you were coming for them.” He shrugs. Frank steps back into the room, his back to the Devil’s, as Y/N and Wanda walk in.
“You have a lot of fucking explaining to do.” Brock points at her, his tone loud and demanding.
“Don’t fucking talk to her like that.” Steve snaps. “She doesn’t belong to you.” Steve reminds them. “Tell them, it’s fine, nothing will happen to you.” Steve nods at Y/N.
“I met Peter, five years ago at a bar I went too after class. We hooked up, I woke up alone. Found out a few weeks later I was pregnant. I told Bree, we came up with a plan to run. We knew if you found out I was knocked up, one of us would pay the price.” Y/N’s voice is bitter, hurt and angry.
“You said the baby died.” Brock growls.
“You were hitting me! You killed my sister! I wasn’t going to tell you about my baby!” Y/N snaps, she’s screaming at him. His lips curl up into a grin, Peter’s hands clench into fists.
“You know better.” Brock points at her, he levels her with a glare.
“Did you just threaten her?” Frank turns, glaring down on Brock. “I’ll kill you myself.” His words a growl from deep in his large chest.
“Warning her.” Brock grins.
“Grin again and I’ll let one of my men break your teeth from your skull.” Steve warns. Brock smirks, looking at Steve and Peter.
“Kid might be yours, but mommy here belongs to this club. It’s printed on her skin.” He chuckles.
“No it’s not.” Peter smirks.
“What?” Brock’s smile falls flat.
“Never saw it when we hooked up and I haven’t seen anything since. Trust me and there isn’t an inch of her I haven’t seen.” Peter smirks, leaning on the chair again.
“What did you?!” Brock slams his hand down on the table, it rocks, and the room erupts. One of Brock’s men grabs Frank shoving him back against the wall, Brock grabs for Y/N, Wanda is in front of her as Peter shoves the chair out of his way.
“Touch her, I’ll kill you myself.” Wanda squints up at Brock, her accent thick in her anger. “Trust me, where I am from, I’ve learned from the mobsters. Real men who take no fucking mercy.” She sneers at him.
“I don’t belong to you Brock.” Y/N turns around lifting the back of her sweatshirt, flashing him the anchor tattoo.
“You tattooed over it?!” Brock steps forward and Wanda slams her knee up into Brock’s groan. Peter and Steve are pulling her back, standing in front of Y/N, Wanda next to Sam.
“I did that tattoo.” Peter speaks up. “Nothing was there when I put it on her skin. Like I said there has never been a property tattoo on her.” Peter growls, glaring at Brock.
“Bullshit!” He shouts, they lung at each other, crashing back into a table, it explodes under them as the room breaks into a fight. Frank smashes his head into the man who had his hands on him, he grabs Y/N pulling her behind him. Each of the men around the room, trading blow for blow, Fury waits, leaning against the wall, grinning. Foot steps on broken wood and the cock of a gun makes Peter and Brock freeze. Y/N stood over them, the black Glock in her hand made Peter wonder where the fuck she got it.
“On your knees dick bag.” Her voice cold and merciless.
“You going to shoot me?” Brock chuckles sinking back on his knees, Peter shoves himself up looking from Brock to Y/N.
“What should I beat you to death like you did my sister?” She snaps.
“I’m going to do you like her, slower this time.” Brock chuckles, Y/N’s hand moves from aiming at his head to shoulder and fires. Brock hits the floor cussing up a storm, threatening Y/N as he struggles to get up.
“Not so fast.” Frank sets his foot on Brock’s chest.
“You ever come back for me, my daughter, this club, or you even fucking take a good damn wrong turn in this town I’ll make sure you’re doing twenty to life for murder.” Y/N hands the gun over to him.
“You got no proof!” Brock groans under Frank.
“Fury?” Peter smirks looking over.
“Oh I heard it all. I’m like a vault too.” He chuckles, pointing to his temple. “I’ll make sure everyone in my office knows, I’ll even write up a report.” He pushes off the wall. “You might want to leave town, I find you in our hospital and I’ll make sure they seek the death penalty.” Fury chuckles looking down at Brock. “I’ll make sure they rip apart your club and make sure every one of them is behind bars.” He grins.
“Consider that bullet hole a remind of what will happen you come back around here.” Frank chuckles, stepping down a little harder. Brock’s men make a move and Peter lifts his arm holding the gun.
“We can just wait till backup comes, say you all attacked us, you are all armed outside, carrying across state lines is illegal I believe.” He shrugs.
“I’ll put the call in now.” Fury grins pulling his phone out.
“I like that, them all in jail, no revenge possible. Oh, that sounds real good.” Buck grins down at the guy on the ground next to him.
“Keeps you and short stack safe.” Peter looks at Y/N.
“As long as we don’t have to look over our shoulder anymore. I’m done running.” Y/N looks up at him.
“My guys are on their way.” Fury chuckles. One of the guys with Brock makes a move for the opening, Fury pulls his own gun aiming it at his head. “Don’t be a stupid, son of a bitch, boy. You hiding something?” He chuckles as the guy swallows, looking nervous.
You Belong to Me:
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#Marvel#Peter Parker x Reader#Avengers#Peter x Reader#You Belong to Me#MC Series#Marvel Fanfiction#Peter Parker AU Series#Avengers Fanfiction#Peter AU Series
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The Things That Wait (4/4)
Disclaimer: Red vs Blue and related characters are the property of Rooster Teeth.
Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH, Language, Canon-typical violence, Psychological manipulation and trauma
Rating: T
Synopsis: [Reverse Big Bang Entry] Tucker opens an unexpected email that ends up sending himself and all of the Reds and Blues toward a collision course with the unexpected and the completely deadly. In doing so, they face a beast familiar to many of them – the Meta – whose single minded efforts to complete himself with what remains of the Project Freelancer AIs could spell the death for more than a few of them..
A/N: I know, I know! It’s been so very long and you guys deserved these updates SO much aster than you got them and I’m forever sorry about that. It has been a wild and crazy year, but this particularly wild and crazy story is at last at its end <3 I hope it’s to your guys’ liking. I cannot thank you enough for your patience and kindness throughout this whole process.
And a very special thanks to @freelancerfeels, Yin, madelinescribbles, Prim_the_Amazing, SuperSaiyajin4Vegeta, and oceanlover4ever! And, of course, my absolute WONDEROUS thanks to my partner in crime, @theeffar <3
Showdown
Tucker was not entirely sure what to make of the scene, but he did know that the moment Tex’s voice rang out across the short distance Church lost it. And he did so within Tucker’s own skull.
The same electrical surges, the same immutable pain like hot white pokers digging and burrowing through his body like angry vines took over Tucker’s entire person and sent him to the ground with a howl of pain. He felt like his soul was being ripped from his chest and despite every fiber of his being, despite every painful urge he felt to resist the hostile force within him, his body moved entirely against his will.
“Tex!” Tucker’s voice cried out, keening and painful with an emotion and desperation that was far from the parental rage and protectiveness that Tucker felt deep within his own guts. “How!? What the fuck! I thought you were dead — I thought all of you was dead… are… are you inside the Meta now?”
The black armor stood stoically away from them. She gave only enough movement that it was clear she was watching the twitching, painful display that Tucker and Church were putting on, but she didn’t move. And, bitterly, Tucker noted that she also wasn’t helping.
“Church, what the fuck are you doing? Do you even have any idea?” Tex asked critically. “Hell, does Tucker know?”
Know? What didn’t he know? Tucker’s brain hurt too much to contemplate and the questions themselves caused a forceful rejection. It was like thoughts were ready to counter them before he could even bring them up in his own mind.
“It was one thing when you didn’t know who you were and you fucked around with Caboose’s brain carelessly,” Tex huffed, head tilted. “This? To your best friend? It’s pretty fucking heartless, Alpha.”
“How fucking dare you—“ Tucker’s voice snarled, tearing his throat in strange, contorted ways to strangle out a voice that it was not used to.
“Oh, believe me. After everything I’ve already done. I dare,” Tex countered. “And I’m not inside the Meta.” She stepped forward, head lowering as her voice altered to a deeper but hauntingly familiar tenor. “We are the Meta.”
“For fucksake!”
“Grif, don’t!”
Tucker’s mind was still swimming through a thick bog as the voices carried across the distance and he couldn’t so much as register them before three booming shots sounded off and two chinks sparked out from the so-called Meta’s armor, causing Tex to stumble off course for a few steps.
In the surprise, Tucker regained his faculties enough to swivel his head in the direction of the shotgun blasts and saw, to his great shock, Grif with his gun aimed right at Tex. Behind him, Simmons was covertly grabbing Junior and Epsilon to pull out from the line of fire.
“I. Am so. Fucking. SICK AND TIRED of losing my friends to your goddamn bullshit!” Grif roared at Tex.
“No one here is friends,” the deep, rumbling tone of O’Malley’s voice claimed darkly before lifting up a gnarly looking weapon with a hideously sharp blade attached to it.
Tucker pushed to his feet. “Dude, what the fuck? After everything, how can you say that— Oh, right, possessed evil fuck’s in charge. Hey! This is what happened last time when you stole my baby and tried to take over the universe. Like, what the fuck? Tex, why’d you willingly go through that bullshit again?”
Grif tilted his head enough to acknowledge Tucker at his side. “So I’m guessing you’re in the driver’s seat again, right?” he asked somewhat facetiously.
“Are you kidding? Chicks love hotshot drivers. That’s why I’m always in the…” Tucker began to counter only to trail off at the thought.
Driving wasn’t what Grif was talking about and the haunting insinuation was only beginning to dawn on him. How often, lately, had he not been in control? How often was the painful resistance not something he was putting up.
How long was he willing to ignore the fact that his best friend was doing something unthinkable, unforgivable, inside of his own body? How long was he willing to let that kind of violation continue to stand?
The questions weren’t exactly going to receive much thought at the moment, however, because he was pulled into the moment by the startled cries of his son.
Junior pulled away from Simmons, confused and afraid for obvious reasons, and that led to the strange computer within his arms to begin vibrating and pulsing with a strange blue light. The same thing that had almost knocked Tucker and Church flat before in Blue Base.
It seemed to have a very different reaction for Tex, however, as her armor rather surprisingly faded into a ghostly white and a colorful array of lights flickered around her head with ghastly whispers.
“There it is” “He’s here” “Brother” “Epsilon” “We need” “Before Alpha” “Before him” “Before creator” “Get” “Now!”
A dark, feral growl came out from the armor’s system before it began to hunch back in a predatory position.
“Oh, fuck me,” Grif hissed before beginning to fire in succession at Tex’s strange new body. “Simmons! Get the fuck out of here! Leave the kid! Get away! Fuck! FUCK!”
Tucker, completely lost by the shift, began rapidly shaking his head as Tex’s body disappeared into a blurry active camouflage. “No! Simmons! Get Junior out of here, please—!”
No longer left lead footed by the surging pain of muscles pulling in two different directions, Tucker dove after Tex. He predicted her position purely on the fastest way to get to Junior and, as much as it sickened him, Tucker had been absolutely on the mark with his assessment.
With his sword, Tucker was able to spear through Tex’s calf, leading to a piercing, animalistic howl that eventually led to the active camouflage dropping entirely. But the body still wasn’t stopping.
Instead, with an aggressive turn, the new Meta flipped around on her remaining good leg, grabbed Tucker and sent him hurdling into the ground. It was, once again, enough to knock the air out of his chest and leave him flush on the ground. But rather than a greeting, Tex stood over him, weapon lifting with the blade turned in Tucker’s direction.
He felt his heart sink in betrayal.
“Tex,” Tucker said, as useless as the words felt on his tongue then.
The plea, surprisingly enough, gave them a moment’s reprieve. Tex’s arm was held back, still and sure as ever, but it didn’t lunge. Not yet. There was some thought behind it. Hesitation.
Of course, it was quickly ruined by a static flicker of light over Tucker’s shoulder. One too familiar and too stupid to appreciate just how much he had fucked up by showing himself again.
Immediately, Tex shook herself from her moment of actualization when Church flared up and she swung down with the sword right for Tucker’s throat.
But, fortunately, that moment lost to hesitation had been enough for the plasma sword’s failsafe to kick back in and the blade disappeared with an electric fizzle through the air in response.
When the metal sheath of the blade contacted with Tucker’s armor it didn’t take Tex — or whatever it was that she had become — long to figure out what sh had just been robbed of. And she quickly flew into a rage, ramming the hilt into the metal plates covering Tucker’s chest again and again.
“Ow— Ow fuck! Stop, okay!? I have sensitive nipples! You’re going to leave a bruise, Tex!” Tucker cried out.
Tucker.
The otherness began to set in. The thuds of Tex’s fist and the metal hilt of his sword hitting against his chest was even beginning to dull within an instant. A haziness came over his senses, and he knew almost immediately that he was, once more, losing control.
Tucker, I’ve got this. I just need to see what she wants — no. I know. She wants Epsilon. Everyone wants Epsilon. That means we probably should too—
“Stop it! Just fucking stop it already!” Tucker cried out. His head was splitting open, too full of differing emotions, and his hands curled defensively up. Not to protect his body from the physical attack, but to his helmet and head in a vain effort to protect himself from being torn in two by the conflict threatening to remove his very personhood. “Just leave me alone! Just stop fucking me up, both of you!”
Then, like the flip of a switch, Tucker opened his eyes.
And they weren’t his eyes anymore.
“Tex,” Church said, reaching up with Tucker’s uncurled hand. It was easy to reach her face, she was straddling his waist, still punishing his — Tucker’s — body with her fists and Tucker’s stolen weapon. She didn’t stop, but she didn’t pull away either. “I get it now. I get why all the times didn’t work before.”
“No. No, you don’t,” she seethed in a terrifying cacophony of voices.
“I do! This can work now, we can work now, don’t you get it?” Church begged almost sweetly through Tucker’s vocal cords. “I found the missing piece — it wasn’t the other fragments. Fuck’em. Fuck Epsilon. Fuck O’Malley. Fuck all of them. We just need to be in here now. Me and you. I found where we work. Where both of us are wanted and known, and the others won’t belong, aren’t even known. We won’t miss pieces. And as long as we have each other—“
And, suddenly, even in air, even without Tex’s monstrous new form no longer punching him, Tucker felt like he was drowning.
There was a glaze to his consciousness, a slipping away from everything he knew, everything he was. The pools were like a warm bath that washed over him, comforted him and made him feel…
It wasn’t painful like all of the times before. It was comfortable, not to feel, to just go with the path of least resistance. The words and actions were like something he was watching passively. Only passively.
He felt no control over himself anymore, but… was that so wrong? Was that so bad?
If Tex had any answer, Tucker didn’t get to hear it because an explosive BOOM shot out through the air, and Tex’s body jerked to the side, falling aside from Tucker’s body. Church felt panic and horror at it, but not Tucker.
He didn’t feel a thing.
“He’s talking crazy shit, like he’s not even himself—“
“I’m familiar.”
The voice wasn’t entirely new, but Tucker couldn’t place it, couldn’t work up the energy to try.
“What are you doing!?”
Suddenly, Tucker’s body was jerked up, then everything in his vision went black again.
Tucker was conscious, but his body wasn’t.
The disorientation that took into effect because of that seemingly simple, seemingly horrifying fact, was like everything he ever knew was being ripped from the fabric of his being.
And the reason he knew that, was because he could hear his feelings being put into words by someone else.
“Mine was like that,” the familiar but unplaceable voice continued. “My implantation. I don’t know if I wasn’t prepped. I don’t know if I was weak or the AI was strong or… I don’t think that mattered. I think the whole idea has been fucked from the beginning. You’re not putting just extra information in your head. You’re not just putting a piece of someone into your own head. You’re putting another person there. You’re putting someone else into the passenger seat of a car they never wanted to go in to begin with, and then asking them to not try to take the wheel and pull into the other lane even if we’re going somewhere they don’t want to go.”
Inside of himself, Tucker whimpered. It was low and mewling, like a child frustrated in time out.
He got it. He wasn’t in the driver’s seat anymore.
“That doesn’t sound ethical,” Simmons’ voice added, sounding aghast and uncomfortable.
“There’s no ethics involved with it. That’s why the whole thing was getting flushed during the investigations. And, well, we’re all now considered a part of that. Congratulations.”
“Hey, fuck you, we had nothing to do with any of this before you and your bullshit came along, you fucking asshole!” Grif cracked.
“I came along to you guys because you were already caught up in all of this, don’t you get it? We were already caught up in this. I’d say I’m sorry, but, well, you told me to be honest. And I’m having trouble feeling sorry for anyone anymore.”
“Wow. Now I definitely trust you,” Grif hissed.
Tucker got it, though.
He did, even if only peripherally. His body tensed without his mind coordinating with it and that numbness and general fog that possessed him was overwhelming. He felt no sorrow for anyone else.
The last time he had empathy for someone, that someone took over his body and his life.
And he wanted it back — he wanted it all back!
Why? What would you even do with it?
The darkness that already blocked Tucker’s vision was growing to more and more of his senses. Even the chatter of voices outside of himself were dying now, drowned by the inky blackness.
Everything except the other voice.
It was only them.
Tucker didn’t have anyone else to come in for the assist.
You had your life for the last, what, twenty-four years? What the hell do you have to show for it? Who do you have to show for it? Me. I have someone. I have a name, I have someone I fucking love, and I have a legacy. And I’ll have more when I have a chance, when I’m a whole person again.
If he had had any senses left to feel, Tucker would have felt a punch to his proverbial gut.
Instead he was just pissed.
“Yeah? You have all those things? Because from where I’m at, looks to me like your ex-girlfriend would fucking murder all your guys’ friends to get away from you and the people who did care about you are fucking dying because of it!” Tucker screamed within his own mind. “I mean, that’s pretty fucking awful in my book.”
Pointing to my flaws isn’t going to make up for the fact that you don’t have anything to say for yourself or your legacy.
“Yeah, well fuck you. Saying you did better than me doesn’t make it all that real for you either, asshole.”
There was a throb of something Tucker could feel — like a burning in his chest.
I am not here to only criticize, Tucker. I am your friend, after all. What I’m offering for you is the opportunity to do something greater. To make something with the life you’ve wasted. You’ve already helped so much. Now I simply want to, well, offer you the opportunity to take part in a legacy that is already great. That we can make greater together.
For a moment, the throbbing heat felt so good, felt so warm, Tucker was hesitant to even say anything. The numbness had been so excruciating that he couldn’t part with the idea of the uncertainty of rejecting it all together.
But. You don’t have to— no. No you definitely have to. We’ve come so far, Tucker, you just—
And, suddenly, the throbbing gave way to simple, brutal clarity.
“You’re… you’re not Church,” Tucker realized slowly. “Not anymore. You’re not… You’re not him. You’re not my friend. And you don’t want my help, you want me to just. I don’t know. Disappear. You want the driver’s seat! Who the fuck are you?”
Just as Tucker had worried, his body faded into the obscure senselessness again. His chest did not burn, his inky blackness did not recede. He was, unquestionably, nothing.
He barely existed.
He actually might not have existed at all.
“Who are you?” he tried again, desperate for at least the other voice. If nothing else. “What email from hell did I open?”
I am Leonard Church, the voice answered. I am a piece of his consciousness. I once was Alpha. We all were. But I am now a smaller piece. I was rendered incomplete by vile and cruel tortures. Now what I am is insignificant. I might as well be Alpha, though, they designated me as Sigma.
Tucker felt horror like he hadn’t known before. “Is Church — the real Church—“
I AM THE REAL CHURCH.
“No, dude, fuck you, is my Church with Tex? Did they… everyone who died…” Tucker searched for another way out, but slowly he began to accept what he had known all along.
The friends he had loved, they were gone. What was in their place was as unnatural as the computer chip that was seeking to take over his own brain.
We have a chance to get everything back. To get them back. They would be here inside of us, with us, if we work together, Tucker.
“Fuck that,” Tucker hissed back. “You can’t bring back someone who’s gone—“
Then, surprising Tucker, Sigma began screaming through every inch, every nerve of Tucker’s body.
The second time Tucker woke up, it was to a distantly familiar face starring over him.
“Agent… Washington?” he asked groggily.
With his words, Tucker felt pangs of pain but the one thing he didn’t feel, was the push and pull of someone — or something — else controlling the strings of his body. For the moment, Tucker was himself.
“Holy shit I’m—!” Tucker began to yell only for the Freelancer agent’s scowl to grow even more serious. It was the sort of look that Tucker’s mother would have killed to be able to pull off.
“You’re momentarily in control,” Washington warned him. “After the whole screaming incident, it was the only way I was going to get your friends to trust me and help us all to get the hell out of here.”
The words didn’t make sense when they were pulled all together like that for Tucker. He squinted and waited for the agent to clarify but, well, Church had warned that the guy was cryptic.
And he was. Even if it hadn’t been Church.
“Church isn’t in my head,” Tucker explained. “Not my Church.”
That, at least, got a look of sympathy from Washington. “No. He’s not.”
Tucker squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m being possessed by a computer chip and it doesn’t even have the decency to be a sexy anime girl. Where’s the fairness in that?” While, in the good days that was likely to lead to hours-long debate about anime and sexy ladies, it got nothing from Agent Washington. Tucker groaned and opened his eyes again to look at the man again. “How come my ride along isn’t in the front seat right now? How’d you do that?”
“Crudely,” Washington answered before nodding to the contraption around Tucker’s head that, somehow, he hadn’t noticed beforehand. “I got your Simmons friend to get every magnetic device in Valhalla and make a helmet hairdryer out of it.” He paused for a moment. “Actually, I hadn’t asked for the helmet hairdryer but… apparently they had one still from your friend’s stay at their previous base.”
“Sounds like Donut,” Tucker agreed. He then looked at Washington more angrily. “Guess we could have asked him for permission if you hadn’t shot him.”
Washington actually flinched at that. “I deserve that.”
“You deserve a fist to the face,” Tucker hissed. But there was still a lot to process and more pressing matters literally surrounding him. “Uh, putting all these magnets around my head when there’s like. Tech and stuff in there… is that safe?”
“It seemed worth the temporary fix until we got through working out the rest of the plan with the Meta,” Washington partially shrugged.
“What!?” Tucker’s voice cracked. “You mean Tex? The person killing our other friends out of left field? Fuck off!”
“No, not Texas. Texas — and all the AI — were… different before reunification in their current body,” Washington said lowly. “Their current body which happened to actually be a very good friend of mine before the… incident left him catatonic and nonfunctional without their influence.”
For a moment, Tucker didn’t know what to say to that. But Washington seemed to notice the sympathy on Tucker’s face, and abruptly wanted none of it.
“All of this has a chance to end now. But only if you can get your passenger to agree to terms,” Washington said.
“Uh. Which are?” Tucker asked.
Washington stared back at Tucker’s eyes for a long time, though he didn’t seem to be lost for words. Instead, he was buying time.
The door to the room whisked open, and Tucker’s weakened body could barely turn to see what was coming. Which made him even more surprised when it was Tex — or the Meta — holding the device which supposedly kept this mysterious Epsilon. The very one that Tucker knew his son was unwilling to give up before.
“Junior? Where is he? What’d you do?” Tucker demanded as the behemoth walked into the room.
“He parted with the Epsilon Unit under the circumstances of saving his father,” Tex said without any hum of familiarity or mild affection toward Tucker that the trooper was used to.
“We just need you and Sigma to part ways and for him to retrieve Epsilon from within the unit,” Washington explained. “Then, they both can join the Meta.” He glanced down to Tucker significantly. “Do you want control back?”
Without ever realizing it, Tucker let a frustrated tear fall down his cheeks before nodding weakly. “Yes, fuck yes, please.”
“Then you have to be in control,” Washington said, stepping away from Tucker’s side and walking over to where the Meta stood with the Epsilon unit. “You have to pull yourself up and out of the magnetic field and step over here for the AI to do their thing.”
Tucker’s neck muscles strained already just from the limited motion he had already resorted to. “W-why can’t you just bring it to me?” he begged.
“Because you have been giving up control this whole time,” Washington informed him. “To the people you thought were your friends. You didn’t take any direction. And that’s why Sigma was able to get this far with you.”
“It is simple to relinquish control,” the Meta spoke. “It is difficult to take it back.”
Silence fell over the room as Tucker assessed his situation. Everything hurt and ached, like he had never used his limbs before. But the Freelancer-fucks were only three or more steps away from him and the makeshift magnet helmet giving him what little relief he was feeling.
“Come on, Tucker,” Washington said, edged with some annoyance. “If you want this at all, you could at least step forward and take it.”
“Easy for you to say!” Tucker gritted out, moving his fingers and toes in increments, practicing for the real test of his courage. “I… I feel heavy and… wrong.”
Tucker squeezed his eyes shut again, this time to concentrate, but he caught a small “I know” from Washington that only served to infuriate him more.
It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right that he had to fight for his body to be in service to him again, but more than that it wasn’t right that he needed to prove himself.
What more did he have to prove? He was the goddamn chosen one!
He had the sword-key, he had a son who rocked, he had actually been promoted somehow weirdly enough.
Maybe none of it was supposed to happen. Maybe none of it was supposed to be real. But fuck, he’d lived it already. That was about as real as anyone could get.
And even more than that, all the shit they had gone through together in Blood Gulch and beyond? They lived that too. That’s why it hurt to see his friends gone, to see them hurt. That was why it hurt to have his love for Church betrayed and taken advantage the way it was.
The righteous anger worked as a fuel, straining against the sluggish pull of muscles and bones that resisted Tucker’s control. And it sent him moving forward, even as the hum of magnets disappeared for the devastating sting of the AI voice in his head once again.
I accept the offer, Sigma said.
His voice was different than what he had used to manipulate Tucker all along. It had a wisp to it and a cunningly soft candor. It was like being whispered a promise.
Tucker hated it.
You are too weak to do this. Let me take the next step so we can hurry up. I just want to retrieve Epsilon. I won’t need a body for that part.
Through gritted teeth, Tucker took the next step himself.
And with that momentum, he carried forward for the final step toward them, his arm reaching out as if chains were pulling him down from the elbow.
The moment his fingers touched the outside of the contraption, the Meta’s fingers mashed a button.
With a mechanical whirl, the unit activated like Tucker had not seen it do before. It glowed a magnificent blue and rattled with noise with an alien rhythm.
Outside of Tucker’s own emotions, he felt a euphoric excitement, tracing down his nerves and spine and into his fingers. It was exhausting and unlike anything Tucker had felt or known before. Then it left, the Meta took their finger off the button, and Tucker collapsed.
He didn’t hit the floor, though, rather, he was caught by Agent Washington, of all people, who then held him up and slung Tucker’s arms over his shoulder. “Easy, easy,” Washington breathed reassuringly as Tucker’s whole body felt like it was formless.
“Hey! Is it safe yet?” Simmons’ voice called from outside.
“It’s safe,” Tex’s voice came from the Meta.
Tucker almost did a double take. That was definitely Tex — her emotions were back, her strangely fond tone. God he hadn’t realized how much he missed her.
“Welcome back, you damn dirty Blue,” Grif said as they, and Junior, rounded the corner.
Junior squealed in delight, racing forward and wrapping his arms around Tucker’s waist even as the only thing that was keeping Tucker upright was Agent Washington. The little alien didn’t seem to notice, however, as he was simply swinging from his father’s hips.
“I don’t… what happened?” Tucker asked, resting his free hand on his son’s head.
“Bait and switch,” Simmons answered. “I came up with it actually.”
“No, I did,” Grif argued.
“Bringing up Nick Cage’s character from Face Off doesn’t give you credit for coming up with the plan, Grif,” Simmons bickered.
“How else were you guys going to come up with this—“
“We needed to convince Sigma to leave you himself. Any other method is medically invasive. And would probably kill you,” Washington answered more completely.
“So we gave you — and by extension, him — an offer that couldn’t be refused,” another voice came from the Meta, more matter-of-factly and dull toned.
Tucker remained skeptical. “And now you’re just going to, what, swallow him up too?”
“Sigma is no longer required for this coalition,” a more unified voice came from the Meta. “He and Epsilon both are unstable units. They caused chaos as singular units. Such strain would cause us to splinter again. Sigma forfeited himself from the Meta in order to escape seeming death in the institute and used you to hunt a remaining piece of us for power. That uncertainty is unwelcome.”
“Great,” Tucker muttered. “And I guess you’re saying Church and Tex aren’t really in there anymore either, huh.”
The Meta merely stared back at him.
“So you’re just… what? Going to keep the two bad pieces of yourself locked in there? What’d Epsilon ever do?” Tucker asked.
“Yeah, seems pretty cruel now that you mention it,” Simmons muttered.
“Epsilon was no better than Sigma, believe me,” Washington snapped. “He was my AI. You can thank him for my trust issues in general. Epsilon was so unstable we barely survived the implantation process. In fact… for a long time… I thought he hadn’t survived it.” He glared at the device. “He killed himself. In my head.”
“Yikes, talk about not Drift Compatible,” Grif mused, earning an elbow from Simmons. He ignored it in favor of looking at Tucker directly. “Enough about all that shit. What about you? Are you okay?”
Tucker took a breath, patting Junior’s head. “Yeah,” he answered. “I guess.”
Epsilon murmured in his ear.
“We’ll be just fine.”
#writing#rvb fic#RvB: The Things That Wait#Lavernius Tucker#Alpha Church#Agent Texas#Dexter Grif#Dick Simmons#Tucker Junior#Epsilon Church
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#21: Season 2, Episode 15 - “Sibling Rivalry”
In an attempt to settle their never-ending rivalry, Ren and Louis compete on a ridiculous game show called “Sib Wars.” There’s also Ren/Bobby/Mandy drama on the side which is beyond juicy. Meanwhile, Donnie has a date with a French girl and has Nelson translate for him.
This one opens with Louis "Flossercising” -- A combination of flossing your teeth and exercising. Right off the bat, you know this episode is gonna be an outlandish one. He’s just chillin’, incorrectly lifting weights in a bathroom full of dental floss lol
How do you even buy that much dental floss? Also, I can’t deal with Shia’s face in this screenshot. ALSO, I’d like to talk to Sarah and Suzie and ask them what drugs they were on when they came up with “flossercising.”
Ren starts freaking out at Louis because she needs to get ready for a date with Bobby and he’s cramping her style. They chase each other into Donnie’s room where we see Donnie super focused on learning French. I love how he’s dressed in the stereotypical black and white striped mime shirt -- sitting in front of a pile of French books, Eiffel Tower statues and a bowl of french fries while doing so. As if it’s a freaking séance to reach the ghosts of French experts.
Cutting off his head was the only way I could get everything in the screenshot lol.
This scene is pretty funny. After Louis and Ren come running into his room, Donnie tells them to knock it off because he only has one day to learn French. “That’s realistic” Ren says so sarcastically, I crack up every time. This is also where Ren calls Louis “infuriating” and he tries to call her it as well, but butchers the word and says “In-flirt-in-ate-ter-ing.” I remember this being used on a few ads for the show back in the day. Just then, Donnie grabs a VHS tape, shows it to them very dramatically and says “You guys need to see this.” And Louis is all “What? You lifting weights in your bathing suit? We already saw that.” HAHA!!! I love how Donnie is so obliviously vain, it’s great. Imagine subjecting your brother and sister to that. He quickly picks up the VHS he meant to show them, which is an accidental taping of a show called “Sibling Sessions.”
This show within a show is so freaking hilarious. It’s like Dr. Phil if it were a show within a soap opera and filmed in a therapists office. The brother and sister (Kevin and Wendy) who appear on it are so lame and fake, it’s so good. The host makes Kevin apologize to Wendy and I died laughing.
“It’s nothing against you, Wendy! You’re the BEST! I guess the reason I act the way I do, is because of my own insecurities. Deep down... I’m just a loser.” HAHAHAHAHAHA. The acting is purposely incredibly bad here, almost like an infomercial -- which makes it even better. The kid looks like he’s about to burst out laughing when he says “I’m just a loser” lol.
Even Stevens seriously wins the award for Most Original Humor on Disney Channel. Ever. No other show has a strut quite like this one. I also thank god every day that ES didn’t have a laugh track. It simply doesn’t need one.
Ren thinks the show seems professional and is down for appearing on it. Louis, on the other hand, is vehemently against it -- Until the host announces that Kevin and Wendy will receive two tickets to Happy Mountain Amusement Park for being on the show, lol.
You just know this was an ad-lib, tbh. How does Shia even think of this stuff? What even is that facial expression? He’s too much...
I also just realized that Ren is definitely wearing the necklace Louis bought her in Swap.com. Ya know, the one she gave back to Ernie? Oops.
Suddenly, the doorbell rings and Ren is expecting it to be Bobby, but *dun dun dunnn* It’s Nelson. This marks the start of the DRAMA!!! Bobby sent Nelson as the bearer of bad news. He’s there to let Ren know Bobby had to cancel their date because he has work to do with his lab partner. Hummmmm... Ren is immediately suspicious. Clearly, she does not trust Bobby and this relationship ain’t healthy.
Somewhere around here, Donnie finds out that Nelson can speak French. So he asks him to translate on his upcoming date with some ~beautiful foreign exchange student.~ We also get the “HAAAAPPY MOUNTAIN! THE BIG OLD ROCK OF FUUUUUUN!” from Louis which is iconic. I’m just gonna go ahead and assume that most of the things Shia does in this episode are ad-libs.
The next day at school, Ren happens to catch Bobby working with his lab partner... who he conveniently forgot to mention is Mandy “Always-Gets-Her-Man” Sanchez. RED FLAG!!! MAJOR RED FLAG.
When class lets out, there’s this awkward/passive-aggressive/mean girl moment between Ren and Mandy -- and it’s gold. Mandy says “Ren, love the lipstick! That color works so well on your THIN lips. :)” To which Ren responds, “You know? I wonder what it’d look like on a FAT LIP :)” hahahaha. Salty overload. Ren decides to privately confront Bobby about the situation after. Asking why he neglected to say that Mandy was his lab partner because Mandy is definitely into him, and he essentially tells her it’s all in her head. “Come on, it’s just Mandy. She flirts with everyone!” So, Ren convinces herself that she’s just overreacting. THIS IS SUCH A TEXTBOOK CASE OF A BAD RELATIONSHIP. You can clearly see that Ren is still suspicious though.. and it only gets worse when Bobby kisses her goodbye on the cheek instead of the lips. Oh, boy. Bobby sucks.
Ren and Louis go to an audition for “Sibling Sessions” but when they get there they see that the show has been rebranded as “Sib Wars” -- a competition show. Apparently the ratings were in the toilet. Can’t imagine why!!! Who wouldn’t want to watch a low-level, PBS knock-off of Dr. Phil?! The show is on the verge of being cancelled all together, unless they can find two bickering siblings to compete ASAP -- and Louis and Ren answer their prayers. They come barging in like two arguing tornados. I love their little fight here though, lol. Ren claims that Louis got ice cream in her hair and Louis says “Did it ever occur to you that YOUR hair got in MY ice cream? Did that enter your skull?!” He has a point. Ren obviously considers herself to be the superior sibling, so she has no doubt that she’ll win the cheesy competition. “I could even grow a mustache before you!” she threatens. And Louis comes back with one of my favorite burns everrrr: “You could. In fact, it’s coming in quite nicely!” HAHA. Shia and Christy go on to totally ad-lib a heated argument and I love it.
The host, David Blackburn, is so over the top with everything he does. On “Sibling Sessions” he was over the top melodramatic and on “Sib Wars” he’s over the top excited. It’s like he’s incapable of acting like a normal human. Normally, I cannot stand when shows go overboard with obnoxiousness.. but I can’t help but laugh at this guy. He starts wearing a cheap, short, dreads wig to try to seem more ~hip~ and young, (”Is my hair on straight?”) which is hilarious to me. And this dude delivers every single one of his lines with such a perfect balance of fake enthusiasm and the insecurity that comes along with trying way too hard to be cool. It just gets me for some reason, lol. I’m also almost positive that HE’S doing the voiceover announcing HIMSELF as “the handsome, the talented -- DAVID BLACKBURRRRRNNNN!” haha. I have to gif the footage of his introduction because it’s honestly so meme-worthy and hysterical imo:
If I had the power, I’d make nearly every other moment of every Even Stevens episode a popular meme. It’s beyond deserving... Yet, the only meme that’s come out of Even Stevens is Beans. Great. This show is truly one of the greatest, overlooked TV gems ever.
Anyway, I’m pretty sure the “TV G” was edited in for “Sib Wars” specifically. I don’t remember Even Stevens ever having a rating pop up like that before, so that’s pretty awesome lol. I’m not sure what part of this gif gets me the worst, though. When he flips his “hair” back, the zoom-out shot of him like “ :D ” or the “THAT’S ME!” It’s all brilliant. I’ve been laughing at this for 5 minutes straight.
The game show ends up being incredibly stupid with the dumbest questions and categories ever... So it’s basically tailor-made for Louis Stevens. Therefore, he literally leaves Ren in the dust -- 500 points to 0. There’s also a “Pudding Pit of Doom” round where yet another bad Louis stunt double flips into the vat:
I never noticed how many stunts happen on this show until now. This guy is obviously older and has a completely different build than Shia. They really don’t even try lol.
David Blackburn announces that Louis and Ren will return the next day for the “Ultimate Humiliation” round -- where they have 1 minute to totally mortify the other on public access television. Fun! Louis is scrambling to find some dirt on Ren, and he fails. The closest thing he gets is her “brushing her teeth inefficiently” on tape. This bit always stuck with me though!! He explains the footage to Twitty and says “Look at the technique. She’s doing that upward thing, you’re not supposed to be doing that! You’re supposed to do the little circles!” I think about this every single time I brush my teeth and have since always brushed in a circular motion lol.
The drama reaches the climax right about now when Louis and Twitty catch Bobby and Mandy walking down the hall together very flirtatiously. Their first thought is to start recording -- and boy did they end up capturing the most DRAMATIC TEEN DRAMA MOMENT THE SHOW HAS EVER SEEN:
Is this Even Stevens or Degrassi???
When I rewatched this episode for the first time in a few years, I was genuinely shocked. I knew Bobby was “cheating,” but I always remembered it as only flirting or a lingering hug. (Ya know... because Disney.) But, NOPE. It was an actual kiss on the lips. Bobby is a RAT and I never liked him. It’s really too bad they didn’t end the series with some comedic plot where Ren and Larry realize their feelings for each other because trust me..... the feelings are there. That’s way better content than Bobby freakin’ Deaver. HE WAS NEVER FOR YOU, REN!
Louis’ plan is to be a slimeball and use this footage in the Ultimate Humiliation round. That’s honestly so messed up, I can’t even fathom that idea. Imagine video of your significant other kissing some other person airing for everyone to see. Dang. I told you this was dramatic.
This subplot is really, really short. So I’ll wrap it up now as usual. It’s just Donnie on his date with Sandrine (played by Danica McKellar from The Wonder Years) with Nelson translating. Basically, Nelson’s allergies to everything flare up. He takes over the date and steals Sandrine’s attention away from Donnie. That’s it. There’s this one screenshot that’s pretty great without context tho:
Back to the main plot. Ren decided to use Louis’ nasty bed sheet as her way to humiliate him. I love how she titled the exhibit "Louis: An American Tragedy" lol:
When it’s Ren’s turn to sit in the hot seat, she takes a moment to give a shout out to Bobby. Saying how happy she is that they’re together and she hopes they can stay together. Of course. Meanwhile, Louis is standing there holding the VHS tape of Bobby cheating. It’s intense. Ultimately, Louis makes the right decision and doesn’t show the tape. He just gives up and says he didn’t come prepared with anything. I LOVE SEEING GOOD LITTLE BROTHER LOUIS, MAN!!! Ren is declared the winner.
Louis knows that Ren doesn’t deserve to continue to be lead on by Bobby. So at home that night, Louis simply gives Ren the tape. The footage is pretty self explanatory. It fades to a very dramatic shot of Ren breaking up with Bobby by giving him his letterman jacket back. I hate Bobby. He’s standing there all sad. Like... Come on, man. Don’t act like you're upset about what you did. You knew full well what you were doing.
Ren’s head to toe light blue ensemble is... something.
Ren thanks Louis for not showing the tape on TV and he says “Ren, you’re my sister. I wouldn’t do you like that.” MY HEART. That vibe changes quickly though when Louis asks if he can be her plus 1 to Happy Mountain lol.
And that’s it. The episode ends with Donnie watching the video of him lifting weights in his bathing suit. haha.
I really like this episode. It’s not one of my personal favorites, but this episode is most true to the series' premise. If you look at it literally, it’s the most "Even Stevens" episode ever tbh -- which is why it's higher on the list. I also just cannot get over the level of legit drama here with the Bobby/Mandy stuff! Crazy. Louis is a great brother here, too.. which is so amazing to see. There aren’t any giant laugh-out-loud moments, but the dialogue here is so snappy and smart. I found myself laughing quite a bit due to how great the writing is and the delivery from the cast all around. Everyone is on point here.
Thanks for reading!!
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#rank#even stevens#season 2#louis stevens#shia labeouf#christy carlson romano#ren stevens#mandy sanchez#bobby deaver#nelson minkler#walter franks#old disney#nostalgia#zoog disney#tv review#tv shows#memes#ren and bobby#donnie stevens
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