i think i like will so much bc something is deeply wrong with him at his core. something isn’t right. and it’s not any other reason but him. it’s not the empathy or autism it’s not his childhood it’s not even his work or jack and hannibal something is deeply wrong with will graham at his core with no outside influence and he hasn’t done anything wrong - hell his whole job is helping people, he collects strays off the road nurses them to health and keeps em especially the ugly ones, and generally is kind if not nice whether it’s a time he’s kind by instinct or pushing himself to be kind he still is and all of this just to say something is so wrong with him in such an inescapable way that he’s always 100% conscious and self aware to

do we have any records on how lafayette reacted to the treason of benedic arnold?? I've read a while ago saying that he and bemedict arnold did not like each other very much while he was on the american army but i couldn't find anything else.

and also, how much acurate are those scenes of laf conforting georfe washington after he learns of the treason??

I know is a long ask, srry, but thank you so much <3

Hello Anon,

thank you for your question and don’t you worry about the length.

Yes, we have plenty of record about La Fayette’s reaction to Arnold’s treason … and the best thing is, La Fayette’s reaction alone even brought Arnold in a pretty awkward and embarrassing situation at one point in time.

From the get-go La Fayette was very involved in the whole Arnold-affair. He was with Washington and a group of other officers in West Point when Arnold’s treason was discovered on September 25, 1780 and he also sat on the court-martial for Major John André on September 29 and September 30, 1780. He later went on to say that he pitied André.

On September 26 (a day after Arnold’s betrayal and flight) La Fayette wrote the first lengthy account of the events from his point of view. He wrote the Chevalier de La Luzerne:

Robinson's house, across from West Point

September 26, 1780

When I left you yesterday morning, Monsieur le Chevalier, to come here to breakfast with General Arnold, we were far from imagining the event that I am going to relate to you. You will shudder at the danger we have run. You will wonder at the miraculous chain of accidents and unforeseen events that has saved us; but you will be even more astonished to know the instruments through which this conspiracy has been carried out.

West Point has been betrayed, and by Arnold. The same man who had covered himself with glory in rendering conspicuous service to his country had lately formed an appalling pact with the enemy. Were it not for the chance that brought us here at a certain hour and the chance that, through a combination of mishaps, caused the adjutant general [Major André] of the British army to fall into the hands of a few pejlsants outside all our posts, West Point and the North River would now perhaps be in the possession of the enemy. When we left Fishkill yesterday we were preceded by one of my aides-de-camp and the aide of General Knox, who found General and Mrs. Arnold at table and joined them for breakfast. While they were there, two letters were brought to General Arnold informing him of the capture of a spy. He ordered a horse to be saddled, then went upstairs to his wife to tell her he was ruined, and commanded his aide-de-camp to tell General Washington that he was going to West Point and would return within an hour. On our arrival here we crossed the river and went to inspect the defenses. You can imagine our astonishment when upon our return we learned that the arrested spy was Major Andre, adjutant general of the British army, and when, among documents found on him, we recognized a transcript of a very important council of war, a description of the garrison and fortifications, and remarks about methods of attack and defense, all of which were written in General Arnold's hand. The British adjutant general also wrote to the general disclosing his name and situation. We sent a person in pursuit of Arnold; but he had escaped by boat to board the English frigate Vulture, and since no one suspected his flight, no one from the posts could have thought to arrest him. Colonel Hamilton, who had pursued him, shortly thereafter received a flag of truce with a letter from Arnold for the general, in 180 Light Camp Commander which he gives no details to justify his treason, and a letter from the British commander Robinson, who, in an extremely insolent manner, demanded the release of the adjutant general, on the grounds that he had acted entirely under General Arnold's permission. The general's first concern has been to reassemble at West Point the troops Arnold had dispersed under various pretexts. We have remained here to look after the security of a post that the British will fear the less for being more familiar with it. We are bringing in Continental troops, and since Arnold's advice may determine Clinton to move suddenly, the army has orders to be ready to march at any moment.

He wrote several of these letters where he described what had happened. I am not going to quote any more letters because they are quite repetitive. There is however one passage in a letter to the Vicomte de Noailles that stands out. La Fayette wrote on October 3, 1780:

Arnold's baseness and villainy surpass in their details all that I have ever read about that sort of thing. The anger I felt over it did not extend to his wife, with whom formerly I had been somewhat taken. But what has truly afflicted me is the necessity of hanging the adjutant general of the British army, a charming man who conducted himself throughout, and died, like a hero. This severity was necessary; the enemy acted very stupidly on this occasion, and since they lost that unfortunate man, the soul of their army, they have not written one letter that had common sense. Andre was executed yesterday. General Clinton's anger does not frighten us, but this man's death, although inevitable in my opinion, left me with a feeling of sadness and respect for his character. I truly suffered in condemning him; but he was an officer under disguised clothing and name, passing within our posts with papers full of intelligence for the enemy, and he himself did not hesitate to recognize himself as a spy. The knave who hid him is, I hope, going to be hanged too.

We see in this excerpt very clearly what he fought about Arnold, but also what his thoughts were concerning Mrs Arnold (better known perhaps as Peggy Shippen) and Major André. The mentioned “knave” was a certain Joshua H. Smith who assisted Arnold and André in their affairs but who was ultimately acquitted and fled the country.

La Fayette furthermore wrote to the Comte de Vergennes (probably in an attempt to play the whole business down for the French court) on October 4, 1780:

This whole affair proves only the greed of Arnold and has no other consequences than the abhorrence inspired by his sordid conduct.

The tone is the same in all of La Fayette’s letters, whether they were written directly after everything went down or many months, years or even decades later. At first though, there was not much that La Fayette could do, because the army went into the winter encampment. On February 20, 1781 however, La Fayette was named commander of an expedition against Arnold in Virginia (where the latter had just received a command of his own) and left the next day for Maryland. La Fayette was hell bend on capturing Arnold and even received pretty clear instructions from Washington on what to do with Arnold. Washington wrote in his instructions for the Marquis on February 20, 1780:

You are to do no act whatever with Arnold that directly or by implication may skreen him from the punishment due to his treason and desertion, which if he should fall into your hands, you will execute in the most summary way.

Despite all of his efforts, La Fayette could not apprehend Arnold. There was a new development with the British ranks though, that afforded La Fayette a little bit of pay back. The British send reinforcement down to Virginia to aide Arnold. A Major-General William Phillips commanded these troops. I have written about Phillips before, he was the man who commanded the artillery battery that fired the shot that killed La Fayette’s father in the battle of Minden in the Seven Years’ War - and La Fayette was very well aware of the fact. Phillips was now in command and Arnold second in command. So far, so good. The war and the campaign in Virginia continued like before. It was commonplace for two opposing Generals to have rather extensive correspondence. They spoke about war crimes committed by one of the two sides, about a potential exchange of prisoner of war, about a temporary truce, surrender - all the military and civil matters that needed to be discussed. These correspondences were most of the time rather civil. The two Generals understood each other as “Officers and Gentleman” and were fully aware that each man had their orders to follow. Phillips and La Fayette started a correspondence as well. La Fayette complained about the tone in Phillips letters and the demands he made (I have read Phillips letters; they are indeed a bit odd) but their correspondece was soon cut short when Phillips contracted a fever and died within a few days. Now Arnold was again first in command and it would have been his place to pick up Phillips correspondece with La Fayette. La Fayette wrote to Washington on May 17, 1781:

Genl. Phillips being dead of a fever, an Officer was sent with a passport & letters from Genl. Arnold. I requested the Gentleman to come to my Qrs. and having asked if Genl. Phillips was dead to which He answered in the negative, I made it a pretence not to receive a letter from Gl. Arnold, which being dated Head Quarters, and directed to the Commanding Officer of the American troops, ought to come from the British General Chief in Command. I did however observe that shou'd any other officer have written to me I wou'd have been happy to receive their Letters.

La Fayette made it clear to the British flag officer that he had no problem with corresponding with the British army in general, but that he would not cooperate with Arnold, a man that he did not perceive to be a gentleman and man of honour. La Fayette later wrote in his memoirs:

After the death of General Phillips, who died that same day, Arnold wrote, by a flag of truce, to Lafayette, who refused to receive his letter. He sent for the English officer, and, with many expressions of respect for the British army, told him that he could not consent to hold any correspondence with its present general. This refusal gave great pleasure to General Washington and the public, and placed Arnold in an awkward situation with his own army.

It may not sound like much for us today, but La Fayette reaction was a massive slap for Arnold. He was now in a position where he either had to correspond with an American officer that was junior in rank or he had to order a British officer who was junior in rank to himself to continue the correspondence with La Fayette. Arnold was so angry indeed that he wanted to retaliate by sending the American prisoner of war to prisoner colonies in the West Indies if La Fayette would not correspond with him.

As to the second question - I think you are playing at this lovely (and deleted, if I am not mistaken) scene from the TV series TURN: Washington’s Spies were La Fayette comforts Washington after Arnolds betrayal. There is no direct evidence that such a scene took place. We have now written account à la “today I comforted Washington because Arnold betrayed us.” Several sources however state, that Washington indeed uttered “Whom can we trust now?”, just like in the scene and just as I stated earlier, La Fayette was with Washington when all of this took place. I think it is therefore very likely that something similar as depicted in TURN may have taken place. Washington and La Fayette were incredibly close and they trusted each other. Washington could open up toward La Fayette because La Fayette was person who, unlike some other officers and generals at the time, had no ambition to usurp his position as Commander in Chief. La Fayette, due to his French background, would not be able to do so anyway, even if he would had such ambition. This was one of the many reasons why Washington could let his guard down in front of La Fayette without having to fear that he would be seen as weak.

I hope you have/had a fantastic day!

... I’ve already made a draft of this and deleted it, but I’m going back in. 

This is an AU of what would happen if Mareven was healthy and the end game. 

I apologize in advance for any and all MareCal shippers, including myself. 

SO! What happens? 

Simple. 

Everything remains mostly the same in the story except we get more of a doubtful and uneasy Maven as the story progresses, as in he hugs Mare a little longer and is genuinely perturbed when he hears about the ‘bomb’ that went off and looks terrified of Cal when he returns and orders Farley to be tortured. He’s also more hesitant to listen to his mother. 

He still offers Cal’s legion to the Guard, but is a little sadder to say it. 

THEN WE GET TO THE PLOT TWIST OF THE STORY!!!!!!!!!

Maven plays along, but, as he stands by his mother’s side, he mouths, “sorry” to Mare and goes for a gun on Arven’s belt, shooting him in the leg and warning him not to try silencing him or he’ll aim for something more vital. 

It catches EVERYONE off guard, especially Elara, who’s about to risk having Cal or Tibe out of her whispers to get Maven back in line. 

Instead, Elara asks what he’s doing and why, as she thought this was what he’d always wanted. 

“It’s what you want, Mother. Not me. None of this is right. You’re already the Queen. What else do you want!?” 

Elara bares her teeth. “Are you saying you want to live your days with a Red rat?” 

Maven pulls Mare to her feet and pushes her behind him, keeping the gun at them, nodding. “I’m saying I'm not following your plans or listening to anything you have to say. I'll die before I let you in my head again!” 

Well, wish granted because Mare senses the cameras turning back on and Elara lets Tibe and Cal go.

Only to force Maven to shoot her and Tibe, though Maven actually misses him.

Mare breaks free and they make a run for it, Elara shouting that they are traitors and to arrest them, though she does force Tibe to play the part of concerned husband.

Cal isn't in the room because he races after Maven and Mare.

Speaking of which, Maven leads Mare through the castle and finds a hall that goes toward a servant's passage, so they can escape.

Too bad there are guards that round the corner and take aim at them, not only for staging a coup de ta, but also for attempted regicide.

Cal's there too, aiming a handgun at them and telling them to submit to arrest.

They do and are sent to the Silent Stone cells.

Mare is confused and livid and doesn't want to talk to Maven, who keeps pacing and clutching his head and telling someone to be quiet. 

Mare mentally tells him to maybe practice what he’s preaching, but wonders what the hell all that was when they were captured. 

Maven sighs and sits down, back-to-back with Mare, and asks her how good she is at picking locks. 

Her hands are for picking pockets, not locks. 

Maven lets out a semi-bitter chuckle and regards that he shouldn’t have bothered asking because of course she’s better at pockets. he then admits that he’d been so scared of the cells as a boy, his young mind tricking him into thinking that there were monsters or prisoners in the cells. 

Speaking of the cells, Mare breaks her silence and asks why it’s so hard for her to use her powers, even asking if Arven is close by listening to them. 

Maven admits it would be useful to do that, but no. The cells are made of Silent Stone, which is basically Arven being there without him really being there. 

Although she already knows what’s going to happen, Mare wonders what will happen to them, in the Bowl of Bones. 

Maven lists off a firing squad, some Silvers, maybe some animals, and the fact that no matter what, the show will not be short; the people want blood and Tibe is going to give them blood, even if it’s his own son’s. 

“Not if he can’t find you.” 

Both Mare and Maven stand as Cal walks in, dressed formally and holding a set of keys to the cells. 

Maven asks what this is and what Cal’s doing as he opens both Maven’s and Mare’s cells. 

Cal explains that he’s already had to give Julian a head start and hopes that Maven and mare can do the same, can vanish into thin air before their execution. 

Mare asks why they should accept the help, seeing as Cal’s the one who arrested them, but Cal counters by asking who’s idea it was to get them arrested, glaring daggers at Maven. 

Maven has his own question: How does Cal know they won’t be seen? 

Cal looks away and admits that he hopes there aren’t any Red servants that know how to fix the security system.

Maven and Mare exchange a glance and start walking, but Cal gets between them, shackles them, and grabs their arms, telling them to play along and make it convincing so no one questions anything. 

They both do their best reluctant prisoners act up until they pass by Sonya, who inquires as to where Cal’s taking them. 

Cal states he’s just taking them to get some cardio before their execution, seeing as how they’ll need every ounce of strength they’ll need. 

Sonya spits that they shouldn’t and should actually fight with nooses around their necks so they’re easier to grab and throw around, but drops it anyway, eying Cal before she leaves. 

Time’s almost up, so it’s a good thing Maven leads Cal to a servant passage, where they stop and get free, Maven getting his flame-maker bracelets back. 

Maven opens the passage, but Cal stops him and Mare, telling them to be careful now, because if they manage to escape, they’ll be fugitives and will get hunted like deer for treason, Maven for attempted regicide, from what narrative that now exists. 

They nod and thank him for the help. 

Before Mare can follow Maven, Cal grabs her arm again, which makes Mare turn to him. 

The two stare at each other, realizing what’s happening and what’s going to happen. 

The royals will figure out that Cal helped them escape and will probably have him killed for letting two traitors run free. 

Cal is the one who helped her in the first place by getting her the job at the Summer Palace, and now he’s saving her life again, this time also saving his brother’s and risking his own. 

Maven shouts for Mare to keep it moving and Mare pulls out of Cal’s grip, backs away, and races after Maven, Cal watching her leave before closing the passage. 

His face contorts with sorrow, regret, anger, and pain and he clenches a fist as he hears a sentinel shout that Mare and Maven are missing. 

Cal shouts, “They’re this way!” and races down the hallway and away from the bookshelf, trying to make it look like they outran him. 

In the passage, Maven leads Mare by the hand as they soon find themselves underground and under the streets, overhearing an announcement to keep an eye out for the two of them because both are armed and dangerous, Mare especially. 

Maven groans at his father’s words and muses that at least they’re out. 

Mare isn’t as relieved and asks what he was planning with his mother. 

Maven stops in his steps and states that she already knows. 

Mare does know, she just wants to hear Maven say it. 

Maven bites his tongue and clenches his fist at his side, not turning to face Mare as he asks what will happen if he doesn’t tell her. 

She’ll make him tell her, make him talk or she’ll shock him until he dies. 

Maven  tightens his fist but then drops it, admitting he and Elara planned on killing Tibe and using Mare and Cal as scapegoats, sending them to the Bowl of Bones, and having them executed to wrap up the story and solidify Maven as the new King, with no Scarlet Guard and no loose ends to ensure the story of Mare being a Red would slip out. 

Mare demands he define ‘loose ends.’ 

Lady Blonos. The servant girls who dressed Mare as a Silver. Lucas. Julian. Sara. Mare’s family. Kilorn. Cal. Mare herself. All the Reds on the list Julian gave her. 

Mare gasps at that last one, sliding down a wall as Maven explains in increasing panic and with his eyes growing teary that he was along with the ride and all for getting the throne the way his mother planned, but then he began to feel genuine feelings for Mare and her plight and no matter how much Elara tried to take those feelings away, they always came back. She did the same with Tibe, making Maven lose his love for him, and had semi-success with Cal, but didn’t fully remove his love for his brother. It also changed when they killed Blonos and the servant girls, and when Tristan died. It opened Maven’s eyes and made him realize that he was going to kill someone he didn’t want to die. he’d already lost Thomas and it was his own fault, but if he was the reason he lost Mare, too, he’d lose his mind. 

Maven stops his rambling and joins Mare against the wall, admitting that he knows he deserves whatever comes next, but whatever does happen, he just asks that mare know that he is sorry for all of this, for putting her in such danger that now they’re on the run and risk execution if they’re caught. 

Mare turns to him and asks if Elara has the list, if he told her about the Newbloods. 

Maven shakes his head; the raid was going to happen in a few hour hours, so there wouldn’t have been enough time for Elara to look through his mind, write down all the names, and the find them in the blood base, so they have a good head start there, too. 

After a minute of collecting themselves, and a glare from Mare, the two stand up and keep walking until they reach a fork in the path and wonder which is safer.

The only answer they get is a gun pushed against the back of Maven's head and a certain blaonde telling him to go right or she's painting the tunnel Silver.

Mare turns and sees Kilorn and Farley, with the addition of a certain Barrow we all still mourn, don't lie.

"Shade!"

Mare and Shade reunite, though Maven voices confusion as he thought Shade had been executed.

Shade explains that they tried and failed, making an example by teleporting in front of and behind them, saying with pride that no one's faster than him.

Mare is a mix of happy and sad at the news, but Farley brings them back and reminds them they need to keep going or they'll get arrested and killed.

Maven also gets put back in shackles, but acts as a good sport and doesn't burn them off.

They continue throught the tunnel until they reach a train, climb aboard, and get to riding, merrily on their way to nowhere in particular.

Back in White Fire, Elara slaps Cal HARD in the face and demands to know what he was thinking and where Maven and Mare are.

Tibe gets between them, but Cal admits that he didn't fully know what he was thinking, just that he couldn't let his brother be forced to fight when he's still in training. It would be a bloodbath.

Elara asks if that's the same reason why he also let Mare go, or if there's something he's not telling them.

Tibe also wants to know. He understands letting Maven go, but why a Red rat like Mare? If the people see her lightning powers and Red blood, there will be Hell to pay.

Cal's silent, but Elara solves that with a quick look into his mind, seeing all the moments of Cal and Mare being close and friendly with each other.

Elara asks Cal if he's more interested in dirt than diamonds and Tibe gets the picture instantly, upon seeing Cal's reaction.

Change of plan: Cal is getting his legion back in action, and an additional two hundred soldiers to locate and either capture or kill Mare and Maven. No more catch and releases or else it's Cal who fights in the arena and he'll have nothing but his wits to defend himself.

Cal pales at this and gasps that they can't kill him, because then Norta has no heir.

Tibe only glares at him and tells him not to fail before leaving to let Cal get his army ready.

Cal watches his father leave and is broken by the fact that he legitimately screwed up and that his father, as King, needs Maven, his own son, executed with Mare, someone who never should have had her powers to begin with.

Elara glares at Cal for a moment longer and also walks out of the room, leaving Cal on his own.

I agree with your interpretation of Will Graham as a dark character who enjoys killing (not just righteous killing), so I was a bit confused when I read this: "ECDH: Hannibal insists that Will is a killer, that it’s his base nature, while Bedelia says that Will is capable of violence because he is compassionate (the sheepdog doesn’t savage the sheep vs he always wants to). Who do you think is right?" Bryan Fuller: "[…]The compassion between Will and Hannibal is all based on the fact they

2/3 understand each other. For Hannibal that’s such a rare gift, to be understood, and to see somebody and have them see him back. So I think with Hannibal there’s a lot of wanting Will to be the killer. When you’re in a kind of relationship with somebody and you project upon them things that you want them to be because you’re seeing them as a mirror to who you are. So I feel like, yes, Will is capable of murder because he will defend…whoever. So I feel like Bedelia is closer to being right than

3/3 Hannibal. If it was Politifacts, I’d say she’s leaning towards true and Hannibal’s leaning towards a lie." (Full quote by existingcharactersdiehorribly). This quote seems to indicate that Will is a righteous killer. What do you make of this?

---------------

Hello! Thanks for the ask)) This quote actually presents Will as vigilante, not even as a righteous killer, since this is what Bedelia says in that scene and this is what is implied if you take away Will’s enjoyment of the process of murder. So, what’s up with that?

The thing you have to understand about Bryan is that he’s terribly, disastrously inconsistent in literally everything he says. He often contradicts himself between interviews, between the passages of the same interview, and even in the same sentence. I heard and read about 90% of everything he ever said about this show, and while at first this inconsistency was driving me mad, I got used to it. I don’t know if Bryan’s mind is so chaotic that he cannot produce a logical answer, if he forgets everything, if he lies compulsively for whatever reason, or if he deliberately encourages wildly different interpretations. I mean, he doesn’t even know how Hannigram started since he keeps giving different answers. So it’s important to be aware of this tendency of his.

Now, in terms of the quote itself. It was said during RDC3. You can read a great discussion of it here and here if you’re interested. But also, let me contradict it in 3 different ways, using the quote itself, the show, and Bryan’s own interviews.

1) The quote itself.

Bryan literally starts this quote by saying how Will and Hannibal’s bond is based on their mutual understanding of each other. But then he proceeds to say that actually, Hannibal sees Will as his mirror and projects his own qualities on him. How is that mutual understanding, it’s literally one person failing to understand another person and choosing to see them in the wrong way just because they prefer it. So the quote is already contradictory. 

2) The show.

I said so much about Will, especially in this meta, that I don’t really want to repeat myself. It’s a canon fact that Will revels in murder itself and that he kills/gets people killed not just for righteous reasons. But even with the context of this quote - Bedelia says it when she underestimates Will and has no idea who he really is (and what happened to "Mr. Graham may not know himself as well as Hannibal does” anyway?). She doesn’t know what he’s capable of, she assumes Hannibal projects certain qualities on Will without Will being worth it. Will seems amused by it. And what happens next? Will sets up Chilton and coldly states how he doesn’t regret it and how he did it on purpose. What Bedelia says in response is:

Bedelia: Then you may as well have struck the match. That's participation. (studies him, then) Hannibal Lecter does have agency in the world. He has you.

This is literally Bedelia changing her mind and acknowledging Will is a monster - and she’s wary of him from that point on. Because setting Chilton up had nothing to do with righteousness or compassion. So her former quote cannot exist without the latter - context is everything. 

3) Interviews.

Sorry in advance that I won’t provide the links - I think you can easily find them online to double-check if you want, though! Also, note how these are just some of the quotes I recalled right away. There are many more.

Bryan: "I would argue that Hannibal's brand of therapy for Will Graham has always been about allowing him to embrace the truest nature of his self ... That's the nature of his relationship with Will Graham. He wants to leech out those things that Will may have deemed unseemly about his character and give him permission to embrace them."

He clearly states that Will had inherent darkness, recognized it in himself, and tried to repress it, and that Hannibal helped Will accept who he is, which is supported by the show. No projection and misunderstanding involved.

Bryan: "Will accepts who Hannibal is. It’s also narcissistic, in the way that we fall in love with people who make us feel better about ourselves and who make us feel like we’re a better version of ourselves. That makes us feel more secure in our bodies, in the dysmorphia of who you are on the inside versus who you project on the outside. That disconnect narrows dramatically when somebody sees you, understands you, accepts you and loves you."

Bryan directly explains here how Will projected a different image to other people and tried to hide who he really is, with Hannibal recognizing, accepting, and loving his real inner self & Will falling for him in return, out of sense of relief from this recognition and acceptance.  

Bryan about S3: “We have this glass wall that separates the world from the prison of Hannibal Lecter. There’s a lot of shots where Will and Hannibal are talking through the glass and you see Hannibal’s reflection overlaid on Will’s face, and we just want to keep telling the story that these two are the opposite sides of the same coin and are very much destined to be together one way or another.”

Why would two people, with one of them having such a wrong idea about the other, be the same and destined to be together?

Bryan in commentary to Aperitivo, saying “how important it was to see Will in separation with Hannibal in order to realize why it was necessary for them to get back together.” Why, if Hannibal is wrong about Will and Will isn’t really a killer?

Bryan: "The relationship between Will and Hannibal in this first season is the seduction. It is Hannibal Lecter recognizing in Will Graham for the first time in anyone that he has ever encountered in his life the opportunity for a friendship, a real friendship, because he sees something in Will Graham that he also sees in himself. They are both unique in their crazy."

Bryan says how Will and Hannibal share the same madness, the same penchant for unique darkness.

As a bonus, here are some of my favorite Hugh’s quotes. 

Hugh: “Will, independently and pretty quickly, starts coming to the conclusion that it’s not sustainable for him to have that family. Like, he’s not the guy. He’s not the right person to be able to look after them, to live with them. It’s not compatible with who he really is. And you could argue that Hannibal is just driving him more quickly to come to that realization. So in that sense, it is kind of brutal, tough love. His love is saying, “Know thyself.”

A combination of two of Hugh’s interviews about Will meeting Hannibal: “The analogy I've always used is for Will, it's like for his whole life he's been not only a great chess player, but in fact the only person in the whole world who knows the rules of chess. Then another person walks in the room, who's also a genius chess player, and that sense of relief and gratitude and recognition is powerful. It’s an instant love between them, it is as if Will met not the best chess player in the world, but the only absolute, the only person he can play with, that enters in the room - or rather, in his life - with a chessboard in hand, and this provokes in him a pleasure and an incredible relief." 

Will never thought he'd meet someone who understands him, but it happened, and he was drawn to it.

So, Will has always been dark - he might prefer to kill killers, but it’s the process of murder he enjoys, and his victims aren’t limited to bad people. Hannibal understands who he is perfectly and he never tried to cross Will’s murder-boundaries - he sends him serial killers because he knows Will would appreciate it most. Will himself breaks his own rules, and Will is drawn to Hannibal exactly because Hannibal understands him better than anyone else.

Newman’s Nook: The Parable of Hatchan

Hatchan the Villain

It’s during the Arlong Park Arc of One Piece that readers are first introduced to a group of fishmen who, led by Arlong, have taken over Cocoyasi Village, the home of Straw Hat navigator Nami. It’s a distressing development, as Nami had spent years trying to raise the funds to free her hometown from the clutches of Arlong the Pirate and his band of fishmen troublemakers, including an octopus fishman by the name of Hatchan.

As one of Arlong’s cronies, Hatchan was a willing accomplice to the group’s crimes. He seems like a dimwitted fool, willing to do whatever Arlong asks of him. This leads Hatchan into direct conflict with Luffy and the Straw Hats as they come to the aid of Nami and her entire hometown.

Hatchan as a villain fights hard against our heroes, proving to be an incredibly powerful swordsman who, for a time, is able to hold his own against even Zoro.

But upon losing, Hatchan accepts defeat gracefully. He is later found leaving town as Arlong’s crew leaves. At that point, in a series so vast and featuring so many characters, the expectation might be that we’ll never hear from this octopus swordsman again.

But then, the Straw Hats reach Sabaody Archipelago.

Hatchan the Chef

At the Sabaody Archipelago, One Piece introduces readers to a mermaid who is trying to save a friend she refers to as Hachin. Ever the friend to those in need, the Straw Hats follow along to find that a foolish gag character named Duval (long story, but it’s funny) had kidnapped the mermaid’s friend and kept him in a cage. They free Hachin only to discover who he is—their erstwhile enemy and former Arlong Pirate crewman, Hatchan.

Since leaving Arlong and his men, Hatchan has tried to move on with his life and currently runs a restaurant ship named Takoyaki 8.

He’s also been trying to repent for his past sins, and so when he sees Nami, Hatchan recognizes that he deserves her scorn for life. He knows he has warrant any anger or hatred she might send his way. Hatchan even says that he entirely does not expect her to forgive him. After all, he committed terrible crimes against her family and her homeland. All he wants now is to be able to serve her and the Straw Hats.

At this point, Nami even response by saying that she doesn’t forgive him. However, she adds, they can both move on as individuals and work alongside one another going forward. And honestly, that was more than he could have hoped.

As the crew work their way through the Sabaody Archipelago, Hatchan becomes an important asset. He knows his way around, the players, and the cultural norms of the Archipelago. He is able to give advice and assistance to the entire crew all along the way so they can all keep themselves safe and be on their way. What he does not expect is to have his mermaid friend, Camie, kidnapped while they’re on the island and sold off into slavery.

Hatchan convinces most of the Straw Hats to not rock the boat and see if they can pool their resources together to buy Camie at auction. This entire section of the story is horrific. As you watch other races of beings (giants, fishmen, mermaids) treated as sub-human, you see the inherent, systemic racism these people face every single day. None of them are safe doing everyday things like going to a market or visiting an amusement park, where Camie was kidnapped. Fishmen and mermaids are not co-equal with humans in this society, but less than.

In Paul’s letters to the Colossians and Galatians, he points out that arguments over race are irrelevant (Galatians 3:27-29, Colossians 3:10-11). We are all co-equal in the Lord and our lineage has no impact as to whether the Lord loves us. We should be lucky to see each other that way.

When the Straw Hats fail to save Camie, Luffy goes ballistic and tries to rush at the vile Celestial Dragon who had purchased her as a trophy. Hatchan over and over again stands between them to stop the fight. However, this does not go well.

Hatchan the Martyr

What the Celestial Dragon sees is a sub-human fishman in his way, potentially preventing him from securing his new property. So what does he do? He doesn’t think. He doesn’t talk. He simply pulls out a gun and shoots Hatchan.

As Luffy tries to march up to the Celestial Dragon who shot down his friend, Hatchan calls to him from the ground and takes the blame for every issue they have had.

Hatchan knew he was a sinner. He knew he was a failure. He knew he did wrong. He knew that eventually his evil would catch up to him and, frankly, when it happens, he deserves it. He deserves punishment for his crimes.

In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus tells the story of two men (Luke 18:9-14). One is a Pharisee who publicly announces his prayer. He is larger than life and important above all. The other is a tax collector who recognizes his own weakness and sin. He has his head down low and is begging the Lord to have mercy upon him for all his failings.

In this scenario, Hatchan is the tax collector. He knows his own failings and that he is undeserving of mercy. Yet, unlike the tax collector, he sees the cruel world around him and does not ask for anything. He expects the world to remain evil. He is fine suffering if his friends can be saved by his sacrificial death.

The Parable of Hatchan

Before we get too far, I want to say one thing up front—Hatchan does not die here. He survives this encounter and Camie is freed from slavery by the power of her friends. I just want to make that clear before delving any further.

With that said, what can we learn from the Hatchan’s story?

All Fall Short

Various passages in the Bible point to the fact that all humans are sinners, but nowhere is it more obvious than in Romans 3:23. In this passage, Paul explains that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. When he says “all,” he means everyone. He means himself. He means the apostles. He means you. He means me. Everyone has sinned at some point and may sin again in the future.

Hatchan shows us this through his actions and his statements. He freely admits that he was a failure and a sinner who sinned against the Straw Hats, but especially against Nami and her hometown. He recognizes and acknowledges that he falls short.

Evil is Around Us

Evil is a real presence in the world. I am not talking some physical incarnation of evil we see as monsters in fairy tales. I am talking about deep rooted evil that exists in the hearts of man.

I am speaking about the racist evil that led to human beings of African descent created in God’s image to be bought and sold as chattel in the United States.

I am speaking about the evil of police officers who abuse their authority to harm those they are sworn to protect.

I am speaking to the evil of eugenicists who sought to wipe out entire races of people.

I am speaking of the everyday evil of people who lie to their friends or gossip about their enemies.

I am speaking of even the passive evil of ignoring the plight of our fellow man.

Evil is all around us and can be overwhelming. While we cannot dwell on it at all times, we also should not ignore it or pretend it does not exist. Hatchan tried to convince the Straw Hats to turn a blind eye to the evils at the Sabaody Archipelago. They refused. And we, too, have the choice to refuse to ignore the evil happening around us.

All Can Be Forgiven

Hatchan was a fallen criminal, but he was also able to move toward a better future and create a new life despite his past. While Nami does not accept any apologies at first, by the time this arc in Sabaody Archipelago concludes, Hatchan has transformed from a former enemy to an ally of the Straw Hats. All can be forgiven, and forgiveness can be offered.

Christ commands Christians to do just that. We are called to love our neighbors as ourselves. This includes those we may despise. It feels hard to want to forgive those who have wronged us, but let us not forget that the Lord does just that for us. In Romans 5:8, Paul reminds us that while we continue to sin, the Lord loves us anyway and gave His only begotten Son to free us from Sin.

As the Lord forgives us, we are to forgive.

As the Straw Hats forgive Hatchan, we are to do the same.

There is Hope

While there is evil and sin in the world, there is still hope! It becomes easy to lose sight of it, but it nonetheless remains. The Lord provides us with an eternal hope that one day He will make all things right.

In the meantime, though, we can see the world being restored bit by bit. We see it in the compassion of Mary Johnson who forgave the man who murdered her son and helped him get back on his feet after he got out of prison. We see it in the examples of public repentance of the Southern Baptist Convention, a convention which was founded by white slaveowners in support slavery in the United States, over their racist roots. We see it in the stories of the Lost Boys of Sudan who worked together to protect one another after losing their families in the Sudanese Civil Wars.

Things can get better and the Lord is here to help. Yet He requires us to be active participants in changing things for the better. He wants us to be like the Straw Hats. He desires for us to see evil, and then to do the only thing we should—to stand up for what’s right.

=====

One Piece is published by Viz Media

the men of metal, menacing with golden face, 2/?

a.k.a sequel to terrible with the brightness of gold

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o, mature rating)

(first part) (tl;dr for any of you, like me, who can’t remember what happened: Charles wakes alone, finds he’s trapped in the tent, snoops around and writes a secret letter)

(part three)

This part is dedicated to all you amazing anons and non-anons who have been checking up on me and sending encouragement. You know who you are!

Warning: this chapter contains minor descriptions of violence, graphic threats of rape and murder, and some misogynistic/feminizing slurs (none of these last from Erik)

.

..

...

As Charles is marched outside the tent and herded through the camp, guarded in front and behind, he reminds himself that Lehnsherr needs him alive. The thought is especially comforting as he hears the crinkle of the letter concealed up his sleeve. 

There’s no Azazel this time to fetch him. In the bleak silence of the passage, marred only by the everyday sounds of the camp, he almost misses the other's cheerful if subtly threatening presence. Now there's just the crunch of feet on the compacted dirt of the camp. Of course, there’s no need for such official escort, nor for formality now, he thinks grimly. Formality is for guests, which he is no longer. Now he's caught.

He hears them before he sees them, in snatches of raised voices, as they approach the edge of camp. The voices echo as though carried on the wind, rising in pitch in the distinctive pattern of an argument, but words indistinguishable. 

They round the corner and the narrow view of tents opens up onto the plains that demarcate the outskirts of the camp. Horses are tethered here, by a small copse of trees. He sees Lehnsherr attending to a horse, his figure—though by no means short—dwarfed by the hulking, agitated form of another man: the source of the argument. Despite the size difference and latent threat in the other’s posture, Lehnsherr, though tense, looks more bored than worried.

As they get closer, it becomes clear that the conversation is uneven. The large man seems to be doing most of the talking, his anger apparent. Lehnsherr’s reaction is subtler, but appears in the tight curve of his shoulders, gradually stiffening as the man goes on, like a bow drawn taught just before it’s loosed. Before Charles can begin to suss out the particulars of the dispute through tone and gesture alone, it erupts. In a flash Lehnsherr's opponent buries a dagger in the point of a nearby tree, and then tugs it out aggressively, brandishing it in threat. Lehnsherr, for the first time, looks up fully from his task. He says something, steady and so low that Charles can’t even make out the shapes of the foreign words. With a thunderous look the other man lowers the knife, and, sneering, retreats. Throwing final warning glare back over his shoulder, he stalks off into the thrum of camp heading somewhere off to Charles' left.

Curious though the scene is, Charles only half follows the man’s progress, for the sight of Lehnsherr sets off a flare in his chest that's been building, smouldering since he tried to leave the tent that morning. He forgets his apprehension at the ambiguous summons and breaks from the rank of his escorts. A breath later he’s standing before the man.

“I told you I wouldn’t be a prisoner.” The accusation spills out of him, sharp and hot.

"Charles," Lehnsherr says in dry acknowledgement. “A moment, if you would.” 

He doesn't like the familiarity of his name as it curls across the other man's tongue. 

Lehnsherr gentles the horse--who’d begun to flick its tail nervously at the commotion--and gestures off to the side. It’s only then that Charles sees the dark-haired woman beside him. She's much smaller than the man who just left, so much so that he failed to notice her. She doesn’t seem to be an alpha, but her dress is looser, freer than that he would expect of betas or omegas. Lehnsherr picks up the interrupted conversation, imparting a few more words; likely some kind of instructions. She gives a brief reply, perhaps an affirmative, and darts a curious glance at Charles before slipping off back through the camp—possibly following the path of the man who just left, but he doesn’t turn to look. 

Lehnsherr watches her go for a moment. "Now then,” he says, sparing Charles a mere glance as he turns back to the horse, a mare with a silver-studded bridle—probably not his, “what was it you wanted?"

“I won’t be confined to a tent,” he repeats. Anger still colours the words, but of a more controlled sort, his initial outburst steadying to composed censure now that his displeasure has been given breath.

When Lehnsherr looks up at him, his eyes are shaded, obscuring his expression and any hint of whether he’s surprised or displeased by Charles’ outburst. 

“For your protection, I assure you,” he says with a wry twist of his mouth. “I was concerned about you wandering around on your own in the midst of such unsatisfied men.” 

Though it's seemingly said in humour, Lehsherr’s voice carries an acerbic note to it, as if to remind Charles that it was he himself who had forestalled that satisfaction by leading the omegas and beta women out of the city.

He ignores the warning in the twist of the other man’s words. “You’ve no right to keep me.” It’s a foolish statement to make. Even had he not the conqueror’s right to do as he pleased, then the right surely falls to Lehnsherr as his husband-to-be.

Lehnsherr tugs the lead to check it’s secured to the tree and steps suddenly away from his horse—and into Charles' space. Charles feels his pulse pick up, despite himself, not sure what to expect.

Were they commoners, it might appear to be the close conference of a newly-engaged couple; young lovers tentative in their newfound intimacy or drawn together by the animal urges of youth, like the amorous shepherds sung about in the bawdier ballads. But for people of their station such marriages do not exist. Marriages are made for political reasons, not romantic ones, and whatever else may lie between them Lehnsherr’s gesture denotes not intimacy but a desire to shield their conversation from those around them—the scattered remnants of his guard and runners scurrying back and forth—and most of all, a power play. To lean back would be to cede ground, so despite Lehnsherr's uncomfortable closeness, Charles stands firm.  

“In the past day you’ve proven yourself more capable than my top generals combined." The words slip silkily from Lehnsherr's tongue in almost an accusation as he fixes Charles with a piercing stare. He notes Lehnsherr’s arm where it hangs loosely, aligned with but not quite touching his. It burns with the potential to grab his wrist and close the final distance between them--in violence or in something else. 

“Beyond that,” the other man continues, “you've all too readily shown that your loyalty lies with your people. I would be a fool to ignore the evidence I am presented with and underestimate you." 

Charles feels a burst of regret, then, at the necessity of showing his hand and drawing Lehnsherr’s scrutiny—though never at its result—while at the same time he's somewhat relieved that Lehnsherr had confined him in order to protect himself, and not in demonstration of his beliefs on the place of spouses. 

His point made Lehnsherr steps back, leaving a gap in the space where he stood, and returns to the horse. He grabs a coil of rope hanging from a nearby branch and begins to fashion a hitch, when Charles’ mind suddenly catches up to what he’s seeing.

"What are you doing?" 

With an efficient tug, Lehnsherr finishes tying the hitch, securing an oilskin bag to the saddle. 

“Leaving.”

“Leaving?” For a split second Charles imagines he means the island; withdrawing to the longships and departing, leaving the shores of England bloodied and battered behind them—before reality catches up with him. Such an undertaking would require the disassembling of the entire camp, yet the preparations around him suggest a smaller party, a group of men, only. His hopes raised deflate once again, dropping back into the reality of the present moment.

“Yes,” Lensherr continues, unaware of his brief flight of fancy. “It's what I summoned you to tell you. We’ll be married when I return.”

“Why, what’s happened?” He ignores the latter point in favour of more pressing concerns. 

Lehnsherr doesn’t respond right away. He seems to be considering whether or not to tell him. He holds out a hand in gesture, and a man, one of Charles' guards, offers over the casket from the tent. Charles very deliberately does not look at it, wondering if Lehnsherr will be able to tell that it's been disturbed, will notice the missing vellum.

“I've received report of a disturbance near Eoforwic," the other man says at last, relenting. "I’m heading off to investigate.”  

A disturbance...what could it be? What force in the land would dare to rebel? He now sees the reason for Lehnsherr’s hesitation. Regardless of the distance to Eoforwic, Charles’ actions have certainly marked him out as a suspect. But one thing Charles knows for sure...

“I’m coming with you,” he asserts confidently. “And beyond that, I’ll need my men back to accompany me.”

“I’ve just told you I can’t trust you, Xavier,--” he starts at in suprise his family name -- “what makes you think I would ever allow that?" Hardness and wariness are the dominant notes in Lehnsherr’s tone, yet they make way, in part, for exasperation and a hint of something further—humour, even admiration at his daring, and, unmissable now that he knows it’s there, the faintest undercurrent of desire. Lehnsherr has relaxed his barriers, perhaps; or else he is starting to be able to read the other man. He can use this.

“If you don’t trust me, wouldn’t you rather I was somewhere you could watch me?”

“And your men?” the other’s amusement is such that Charles can hear the implied finish...how are you going to justify them?

“You yourself have just told me that you keep a dangerous company. Who better than my own men to protect me?" His tone offers a hint of challenge. "Call it a demonstration of good faith, a show of Danish spousal respect,” he adds, recalling Lehnsherr’s words the previous night. Bold, but he thinks he can get away with it. “Furthermore, I’ll need to fetch my travelling clothes.”

Lehnsherr looks at him, now, with a calculating stare, as though he’s weighing his options carefully. His blue eyes appear quite grey in the afternoon light. 

“No,” he says at last, tone firm. “I’ll let you send someone to the city for your things. But that’s it.”

Charles opens his mouth to object.

“If it’s so important to you to be near your men,” Lehnsherr presses on before he can utter a word, “you’re welcome to stay here with them.” 

The glint in the man’s eye is the equivalent of a victorious grin on his reserved countenance, and Charles closes his mouth, accepting the temporary defeat. 

He submits once again to the escorts when Lehnsherr gestures them back over and directs them curtly in Danish. Their presence no longer chafes as much, having tested Lehnsherr’s limits and found some slack. If he’s caught now in Lehnsherr’s grasp, there’s give; and if he’s careful enough, strategic enough, he can use it in order to wriggle free.

.

…

.

Going through the camp a second time, Charles notices what he should have seen sooner: the signs of a journey in the making. The camp is buzzing with potential, like a dragonfly touching down on the water, its surface thrumming with tension. As they walk he sees a few more of those he assumes are beta women and omegas, moving with the camp’s rhythms. There’s even a child or two, ducking into tents and scampering underfoot.

The guarded tent they are approaching is a familiar sight. This particular tent is big, large enough to require the support of a central wooden pole that shoots up towards the sky. A place for meetings, likely, or even dry goods storage. 

“Be quick about it,” the group's leader says sharply when they stop outside. She's a female alpha, demonstrable, as Northern custom dictates, from the braided sash she wears across her shoulders. With the tinge of red in her hair she might remind him of his daughter, were it not for her lethally sharpened teeth. 

He wonders if her keenness to hurry him along is based on an explicit order from Lehnsherr, or if she’d just prefer not to waste time watching him. Whatever the case, he's relieved to note that her instructions don't seem to extend to surveillance, and he’s free to duck in under the canvas flap alone, stepping into the muted light of the tent. 

There's a moment of hesitation at first, as the tent’s occupants attempt to identify the intruder, and then a voice calls out, “M'Lord!” and the title spreads through the tent’s close quarters. As his eyes adjust from the brightness of the day outside, the shapes of his men, his formal escort of the day before, emerge. They snap to a semblance of attention, those seated scrambling to stand even as he waves them to rest. They look bored, restless, but other than that, fairly well. 

The tent floor is unlined, sparsely sprouted with grass that’s gradually giving way under the churn of feet, and he can see little in the way of what they might have used to pad or warm their sleep. But there are much worse ways to pass a night, and such conditions certainly shouldn’t have troubled the hardened warriors Logan had selected. The most offensive thing in the space is the strong stench coming from the bucket in a corner.

He gets this all in a quick glance, holding off on further assessment: he has a task to complete. Acknowledging their bows with a tilt of his head, he passes through the group, seeking his commander, and finds him leaned up against the tent’s central pillar. 

“Logan---what on earth?--”

The man’s left eye is a bloodied, bruised mess. A split in the skin near his temple oozes blood, most of it drying or tacky; and besides the purple bruises raging like a storm across his face, the white of the injured eye is inflamed with the red of burst blood vessels.

With evident difficulty, he attempts to stand, pushing off the pole to support himself as Charles rushes forward to stop him.

“Stay down, please!” 

He settles a bit as Logan somewhat complies, not so much lowering himself as collapsing back into the pole. Logan’s eyes, both the bruised and the normal, are active, taking Charles in as though seeking assurance that he remains unharmed. The last time the other man saw him, Charles realizes, he was dragged off by Lehnsherr’s guards to uncertain fate. He senses Logan struggling with the desire to question him about what’s occurred--prevented, Charles suspects, partly because as Charles’ subordinate it’s not his place to ask. But more, perhaps, because no matter the answer there’s not a thing he can do about it. While Logan’s not up to questioning, however, Charles certainly is.

“What happened to you? Who did this?” 

“It’s nothin’. Probably had it coming.” 

Logan’s brusque reply prompts an imperious eyebrow, which yields a few more words of explanation: "Got a little worked up is all.” 

It’s bullshit and they both know it.

The two stare stubbornly at each other, at a standoff. While Logan is fiercely loyal, and would never withhold something of strategic use or relevance, obdurate man that he is, Charles thinks with mixed emotion, he would certainly keep something back if he felt in doing so he was protecting Charles.

Charles examines Logan’s face carefully, the desire to know warring with external pressures. At first glance his injury seems to be mostly superficial, but his hunched posture and stiff movement suggest damage that extends beyond his face. And yet he may not have much time here, who knows how long the guards’ patience will last? Logan’s looking back at him like he knows it, too.

Reluctantly, he lets it go, but not without shooting Logan a warning glance to signal that they will discuss it later.

“I need someone who can take a message.” He can’t send Logan, now. Were he in shape to make the journey, his injuries would attract unnecessary attention—though the choice of his commander would have been suspicious, regardless, for such a trivial task.  

"Alex."

"Alex. Which one is he?” Charles asks, scanning the assembled group.

“Over there,” Logan offers. “Far side. Blond kid, skinny.”

Charles looks over and catches sight of the youth that Logan means. He’s younger than most of the men and seems somewhat scrawny, not strong enough to have joined the honour guard, but perhaps that's why Logan selected him: he is unlikely to be seen as a threat by any of Lehnsherr’s men guarding the gates. Then, once he’s in, he will pass through the city relatively unnoticed.

He nods and briefly claps a hand on Logan’s shoulder in thanks, communicating in the wordless language that is their shorthand both the reassurance of a commanding officer and the support and gratitude of a friend, and goes to find Alex. 

As he passes near it, the flap at the tent’s entrance flutters—doubtless a signal from one of his guards telling him to hurry up. Drawing close to the membrane, he calls out in his most regal tone, “I’m not yet finished,” and hopes it will appease them for a few more moments. 

He stops before the young man Logan had pointed out.

“Alex.” 

“Sir! Your Highness.” He ducks his head, as though slightly awed at being addressed, and only Charles’ firm hand on his shoulder keeps him from jumping to his feet. He looks a bit peaked. Charles crouches down to speak to him which will serve better to hide what passes between them, even from the rest of the tent.

“Have you all been fed?” he asks first. It’s something Logan certainly would have concealed, should the answer be negative.

“Yes, your Grace—I mean, your Highness—” 

“Good.” Charles says, cutting off any further attempts at formalities. “Now, listen to me. I’m sending you on a mission of the utmost importance. I need to know that you can follow my instructions exactly.”

Alex nods, his eyes widening at the seriousness of the task with which he is to be entrusted.

“I need you to go into town. I’m sending you under the guise of retrieving some items from the keep, which you’ll do as well, but more importantly I need you to arrange to have this message passed on. There’s a person in the village, Roz, white hair. You’ll find them in the Blacksmith’s forge. It’s vital that you deliver this to them."

He slides the paper, the letter written in Lehnsherr’s tent, free from his sleeve. “They’ll know where to send it.”

The letter is for his children. Despite the promise of their safety he'd extracted from Lehnsherr their position remains precarious; worse, if he can't find a way to let Raven know what has happened. Before she took the children to safety Charles impressed on her that should she not hear from him within two month’s time, she was to assume the worst: that the negotiations had failed and he was dead, and was to flee with the children out of the reach of the assassins would likely follow. Lehnsherr will have spies in and around Normandy, and now that they've come to an agreement would likely read Raven’s flight as a sign of Charles' treachery—that he was moving his children to safety before striking back. He's not sure that he fully trusts Lehnsherr's promise, but fleeing again now is the surest way to get them all killed. Thus: the letter. Phrased tersely, it instructs Raven to remain in place. It's not exactly treason, but taken in the wrong hands, it could easily, perhaps willfully, be misunderstood, and so demands utmost secrecy.

Charles reaches into the folds of his tunic and draws out Sebastian’s seal, which also he presses into Alex’s hands. Since he couldn’t risk signing it, the letter will require another form of authentication.

"Hold this separate and send it with the letter,” he instructs.  “If anyone sees it before then, tell them it is for the guards at my chamber, to allow passage. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”  The look in Alex’s eyes, which resolves from uncertainty into determination, affirms for Charles that Logan suggested the right man. “I will guard it with my life.” 

This most important task secured, Charles takes a moment to consider something else. 

“Alex,” he says, hesitating only slightly, “what happened to the commander?”

There’s a reluctant pause, as the other almost squirms under his gaze.

“They were provoking him....saying things about you, Your Highness, about your character.” He looks embarrassed and this, if anything, confirms Charles’ suspicion that Alex is a new recruit. Embarrassment and shyness don’t last long in the company of warriors. 

Charles looks back at him expectantly, silently prompting him to continue.

 “That is...about you and Lehnsherr...and the things you might be getting up to...together…” 

Ah. 

While Alex hadn’t managed to finish the sentence, the redness in his cheeks makes his meaning unmistakable.

Even knowing the tenor of what was most likely said, Charles is too weary to bother to muster up embarrassment or indignation. Especially not when it’s so close to the truth. 

“I see,” he says, realizing he has one important task left to fulfill. And then: “Don't forget your commission. Lives beyond mine rest in your hands.”

Once Alex gives his solemn confirmation, Charles rises and makes his way to the front of the tent; waits until he has the group’s attention. 

“I thank you all for your service and loyalty,” he begins, pitching his voice to carry, so all of his men can hear. The faces of the hardened warriors looking back at him are defeated, set with grim expectation in place of hope. The fact that he’s addressing them at all is indicative of how far they’ve fallen. When the battles were still raging their orders were conducted through Logan, a matter of practicality that also allowed those of them (of whom he’s sure there are many, even here among Logan’s chosen) who respected him only as Shaw’s consort the pretense that Charles was not in charge. 

“I’m working to secure your release, but in the meantime, I’m sure you all want to know where things stand.” He swallows, clears his throat. “An accord has been reached. Erik Lehnsherr has promised to honour the treaty and guarantee the lives of the citizens. Your families should be safe.” He hesitates on the final words, not quite wanting to speak them into being; as though this moment, insignificant though it is, marks the point of no return. “And to seal the bargain...I am to marry him.” 

The news should be comforting. The marriage will afford the Saxons another layer of protection; much more than they had before. And yet there’s much resentment towards the Danes over the violence they have wrought, the Saxon lives they’ve taken, and the air is clouded with mixed feelings. This union, advantageous though it may prove to be, forever ties the Saxons to their enemies in the final sign of their defeat. 

While Charles surveys the assembled men, there’s one area of the tent he can’t bring himself to look, to the one man who won’t find much comfort in the knowledge that any outrages done onto Charles will be overwritten, any stains on his honour restored by marriage. He doesn’t want to meet Logan’s gaze, for fear of what he’ll find there. Anger, maybe. Accusation; pity. Or perhaps, most painful of all, the loss of something that never could have been. 

The fabric near the tent opening flutters again, this time with more impatience. Somewhat relieved at the chance to duck out from under those eyes, both seen and unseen, he moves back through the flap to scold his overhasty guard.

“Yes, what is it?” he demands, falling back on imperious, “I told you--” ...I’d be a few minutes. The words die in his throat as he almost bumps into the man waiting outside the tent. 

It’s not one of his minders. For a split second he entertains the absurd notion that he’s nearly walked into a bear; until he looks up and realizes it’s a large man wearing a bear cloak, the man’s barrel chest before him covered in the cloak’s thick fur. His gaze travels further up to a heavy brow, banded by widows’ peaks. Masses of unkempt hair sprout from the man’s head, separated only by several braids, dotted throughout, which are threaded with what seem to be teeth. It takes him a moment, overwhelmed by the man’s presence, to realize he’s seen him before. This morning, talking to Lehnsherr. Angry. 

“Your Highness.”

The title on the bear-man’s lips is not sardonic like it is on Lehnsherr’s, or histrionically obsequious like Azazel’s. Nor skittish as on Alex’s. But hard, flat, and raw, as though he’s chewing the words and spitting them out. While preserving the physical distance between them, he looks Charles over in a way that feels as intimate and violating as unwanted touch.

“Lehnsherr may be willing to forgive,” the man says, “he’s long scorned our ways. But I know it was you who robbed us of our rightful spoils.” 

Spoils. The word sends a chill up Charles’ spine, knowing he’s not talking of treasured objects.

“You’re a pretty little bitch, aren’t you?” the man continues. Despite vitriol of the words, he maintains an impassive, solemn countenance, his expression fixed except for his mouth, which now twists up into a sneer. “Pretty enough that he spared you. But if I were Lehnsherr I would have stuck my cock in you and gutted you while I was still inside you. Then fucked you until your screams died away.”

The afternoon light barely reaches the shaded side of the tent, and darkens farther in the man’s gaze, seeming almost to vanish into it. His yellow eyes glitter, burning like the dense centres of coals in a brazier. And swallowing all the light.

…

..

.

----

And 5000 years later, here’s an update. Hopefully the next one will not be so long.

To anyone still hanging around, thanks so much for reading and for putting up with my shameless misappropriation of history for personal edification!  Apparently this fic now has shades of Xavierine, which is akasanata and gerec’s fault!

Paper and Fire Reread Chapter 10

Still looking for Morgan, Wolfe, and Santi. Still long-winded and easily distracted.

I feel like there should be some tension between Santi’s company and the local High Garda who are usually responsible for this Serapeum. Here are these troops from Alexandria just showing up and taking over security there, and no one’s so much as cranky about it? Eh, let’s just chalk this up to Jess being too oblivious and distracted to notice the Roman troops glaring at him.

So Jess’s reaction to finding out he’s staying behind in the basilica while the Artifex goes to the Senate is wondering if the Artifex is setting them up. And then when he gets assigned to the hall with the secret passage, he thinks that could be a trap too. I mean, broadly, sure, the Artifex’s trip to the Senate is intended to provoke a response from Santi. But has Jess forgotten who his boss currently is? Um, Jess, your assignment for the day came from Santi. You know, the guy you’re conspiring with?

Santi has assigned Jess’s squad where he needs Jess and Glain and called in a favor from Troll. Guessing the rest of the troops have been arranged to maximize Santi’s chances of getting into and out of the prison without being caught or having to fight too many of his own people.

Santi and Troll’s father were friends since training. Must remember this for young Wolfe/Santi fics.

“After my father died, he and Wolfe made sure I had a place to live, enough to eat.” So many variables here. How old was Troll when this happened? Troll is at least a few years older than Jess, and he says it was both Wolfe and Santi, so odds are this happened before Wolfe’s arrest. Wolfe doesn’t seem to know Troll very well in Smoke and Iron (granted, Wolfe is not in the best shape mentally there). So a couple likely possibilities: one, we’re talking financial assistance. Troll never actually stayed with them, but they either hooked teenage Troll up with an apartment and spending money, or gave cash to whoever ended up as child Troll’s guardian. Maybe Santi came by to check on him, but Wolfe was less directly involved. Another option: this was a fairly long time ago, and they took Troll in for a short time until he could be placed with relatives or adoptive parents. Troll would remember this, but Wolfe wouldn’t immediately recognize the kid he took care of for a few weeks ten years ago.

Another interesting Troll detail that occurs to me. If Troll is just a few years older than Jess, it is entirely possible that Troll joined Santi’s company while Wolfe was in prison.

Jess is an idiot for not immediately telling everyone about the off switches on the lions. Seriously, Jess, not a good secret to keep.

How does Santi know about the poison? Two options: one, it’s really blatant, as much a warning as an actual murder attempt. Two, Santi is that paranoid that he checks food before eating it. Especially unsolicited fruit delivered to his room.

Santi says the Artifex “deliberately left us all behind.” So presumably the orders were something along the lines of “stay here and rest with your squads who came ahead, and send some of the soldiers who just arrived along with me to the Senate?” And then Dario and Khalila are conveniently left behind. This, combined with the poison, is enough to provoke Santi into moving quickly: a credible threat combined with an opportunity. It’s probably a trap, but it’s also the best chance they’ll get.

“Santi looked grim, and never more in command.” Here’s Santi with a plan, as @wolfespuppies said. He doesn’t think their odds are good, but he’s moving, he’s acting, and he’s much more comfortable with that than uncertainty and waiting.

Another reason Santi is in a hurry? It would take time for Wolfe to get himself to a Translation Chamber. So Santi has already sent word to Wolfe, and Wolfe is already moving into position. Santi needs to be there when Wolfe arrives.

Seriously, Jess, you are an idiot for not just telling Santi about the off switches on the automata.

This may be the only time Wolfe is specifically described with his hair up: “his shoulder-length hair had been tied back in a tight knot.” Not just a ponytail to keep it out of his face, but a bun. (yes, yes, giggle about man buns if you are so inclined) I suspect there’s something to this. If his experience was anything like Thomas’s, his hair would have been loose and wild while he was in the prison (and possibly quite long, if he’d kept it long before his arrest). He’s done the exact opposite with his hair for this trip back into the prison; no chance of being triggered by the feel of it on his neck, grabbed by it in a fight, like he might have been before, etc.

Or maybe Wolfe always puts his hair up when going into a fight, and dammit, Caine, this is the kind of thing we need to know in all battle scenes in this series.

At what point was Khalila filled in on the details of the prison, and to what extent? She seems to have some awareness that it’s going to be bad, and she and Dario have both been very worried about Thomas, but just how much did Jess tell everyone?

More protective Santi! Staying close to Wolfe on the way in. Keeping everyone moving along. Putting a hand on Wolfe’s arm when he needs it. Getting Wolfe out first.

Santi seems very much in denial about his fellow soldiers’ willingness to cooperate the Library’s dark side. He expects the first guard he sees to let him pass (granted, he does outrank the sergeant), and he thinks Zara will let him go when she sees the torture equipment. Here’s that emotional response again: he’s horrified by what happened to Wolfe, and he irrationally expects others to share those feelings.

Why isn’t Sergeant Reynolds wearing armor?

Again, how the fuck do these guns work??? Stun only works on an unarmored soldier here, and it takes two lethal shots to stun the armored one. But later Jess takes Troll down with a single stun shot to his armor. His stun shot knocks Zara out, too.

Now Morgan is being as bad as Jess, smiling at him and cuddling him and Khalila while they’re in the middle of a dangerous and time-sensitive rescue.

Morgan has her collar off two days after saying she couldn’t figure out how to get it off. The Obscurist so let her find that information after she got back to the tower. Normally I’d just assume Morgan was lying, but I don’t think she could have held onto that secret under those circumstances. If she’d known how to do it when she escaped two days ago, she would have just taken the thing off and stayed out of the tower, hung out with Jess or Wolfe or whoever until it was time to go get Thomas.

More Morgan monitoring Wolfe. Did she see the actual translation happen? Or read his messages to Santi about it and figure out whatever code they were using?

Khalila and Jess are happy to see Morgan. Dario and Glain are suspicious. Santi points a gun at her when she surprises them by showing up, but lowers it quickly, and after that, he just wants to get moving. Who don’t we see react at all? Wolfe. Considering what happens when they start moving again, maybe he’s busy dealing with his own trauma. Maybe he doesn’t even know what to say to her: he knows she’s been through something traumatic, but unlike Thomas, whose trauma he can understand, he’s not sure how to deal with her.

They start moving again with Morgan, and Wolfe “seemed to falter a little, as if the memories had overwhelmed him.” A couple things here. First, this is the first time Santi has left his side. For the very important purpose of getting everyone moving along, but still, less support for Wolfe. Second, it could be a reaction to Morgan’s appearance as much as the memories. Here’s the one kid he really thought he couldn’t save, showing up just in time for the rescue. That’s going to have an emotional impact.

Morgan offers Wolfe her hand. Between her own trauma and the things she’s learned about him, she’s come to sympathize with him. She cares about him and wants to help as he goes into this traumatic experience. But Wolfe isn’t in a place where he can accept that help. Part of what keeps him going here is his need to be strong for the kids. If he shows weakness, he loses that. He’s being rude to cover how freaked out he is.

Wolfe is very likely having a well-controlled panic attack here. There’s that faltering. The anger. Speaking in short sentences and fragments again. Voice breaking. Trembling. Sweating. Trouble breathing.

Seeing Thomas in the cell has got to be hard for Wolfe. Here’s the kid he failed to save, in the exact place Wolfe was in. Jess sees signs that Thomas has been hurt. Wolfe probably sees more. He’s torn between wanting to help Thomas and being terrified of his own memories. For once, I think Jess is right: Wolfe probably really couldn’t handle going into that cell.

And this has to be hard for Santi, too. He’s got to be standing there imagining Wolfe in that cell.

But then here’s caretaker Wolfe, back to talking in more complicated sentences to comfort Thomas. Apologizing for not coming for him sooner.

I don’t know if I want to take this “I know it well” set off from the rest of the sentence by dashes as a sign that Wolfe is having a hard time speaking and stopping to catch his breath or get feelings under control before talking about his traumatic experience, or whether I want to read it as a rather elaborate sentence structure that he’s using and thus a sign that he’s a bit more stable here in this caretaker role.

Jess thinks Thomas is refusing to move when he’s taken out of his cell because he can’t believe it’s real. There’s that. But also, remember how Wolfe reacted when the Mesmer asked him about being taken out of the cell? Being taken out of a cell in this prison is not a good thing. Thomas has to fight with every instinct that says coming out of that cell means torture.

For Wolfe, also, the direction they’re heading in after freeing Thomas is going to trigger some bad memories. Just like in the Mesmer session, his symptoms get worse the deeper they go.

Jess “calling ahead” to Santi made it sound like he was fairly far ahead, but now here he is putting a hand on Wolfe’s arm. Did he come back when he heard the kids bickering and/or Wolfe snapping at them? Or was he not actually that far away?

The torture devices: “mechanical devices” with “spikes, straps, wheels, gears”, “built to cut, to tear, to pull, to cause suffering and anguish.” Including “a particularly large construction that looked like a bed, but with gears and ropes and straps stained with old blood.” So that one’s a rack. Others are vague enough to be just about anything. Sounds fairly medieval, low tech at least.

Everyone seems to be kind of frozen around the door. For Wolfe and Thomas in particular, going in there is going to be hard. Santi is probably looking at these devices and matching them up with Wolfe’s scars, picturing exactly how Wolfe was hurt. This is a fresh round of trauma for Santi. For Khalila and Dario, it’s going to be shocking: they really have not been exposed to this kind of violence. Morgan and Jess knew at least a little bit about the torture before coming here, so they’ll be a bit less shocked. Glain is pretty hard to rattle, so she may actually be taking this best of the group.

Santi and Dario help Jess move the rack. Glain is presumably covering the door to hold off pursuit. What are Thomas, Wolfe, and Morgan doing? They all make it to the middle of the room for the Codex burning somehow. But seriously, how do Wolfe and Thomas walk in there? Thomas especially. Wolfe might be numb and/or focused on the plan at this point, but Thomas isn’t even sure this is real. Totally heartbreaking headcanon? Thomas trusts his friends enough to follow them, but he’s also resigned to the possibility that he’s imagining this and he’s actually about to be tortured again, and isn’t fighting because that might make it worse.

Santi is the only one to think of how a  Codex can be used as a tracking device. Does he not think about the Library bracelets, or does he just dismiss those thoughts because he has no way to get the bracelets off?

Wolfe and Morgan are the first to drop their books. Khalila and Dario are the last.

Santi’s loyalty again: No hesitation to burn that pile of Codices. He stopped being loyal to the Library when they hurt Wolfe.

The soldiers pursuing them are the ones Santi had on guard in that area. His most loyal people. It’s both brilliant, in that they’re less likely to kill him on sight, and terrible, in that he has to fight them.

Glain has to grab and push Wolfe to get him out. Is he frozen with panic/memories here, resisting leaving Santi behind, some combination thereof?

Santi isn’t just trying to buy time here. He really seems to think that he can persuade Zara. This is pure trauma speaking here. “Christopher was here.” Santi is maintaining a calm exterior, but he’s freaking out beneath that. This emotional “look at how hurt Wolfe is/was” has never been an effective argument, but it’s especially useless with Zara. She doesn’t like Wolfe. I highly suspect it’s her own emotions, not his argument or even the sight of the torture devices, that has her near tears here: she loves Santi and doesn’t want to fight him.

A lot of Santi’s lines here echo what he will say in Ash and Quill about the Library betraying him before he betrayed it. He believed in what the Library and the High Garda were supposed to be: “The High Garda fights wars; we don’t torture the innocent or the guilty. This is what they made us into.” And look, he’s a perfect match for Wolfe with the semicolon there.

The Ninth Time - An L.A. by Night Fanfic

This was written directly in response to Season 2 Episode 2 “Eye for an Eye.” I decided the events at the Grove also happened in my "Feeds From" Alternative Universe, wherein Jasper has been feeding from Annabelle for some time now and they have developed a Blood Bond. Assume that the Grove Incident more or less how it did in the game, but with a different ending to suit my needs and the needs of my loyal readers and new readers alike.

SPOILERS for the end of Campaign 1, the one-shots, and up to an including Episode 2 of Season 2. This was written before the author saw Episode 5 of Season 2. It’s obviously worth reading the rest of the "Feeds From" series before this part. 

The Entire ‘Feeds From’ Master List Can be Found Here

I lay no claim to owning any of the characters involved.

I felt like we came teasingly close to something like the beginning of this fic series of mine happening at the end of "Eye for an Eye." Though Jasper told Annabelle "no" in the episode, in this AU, things would have gone a little differently.

Thank you to everyone who had enjoyed this series. Thank you always to @cravatfiend and @gokaiyellow for their love and support.

Also posted to the author’s Ao3.

First Posted Feb. 26, 2019.

The Ninth Time

It had been a hell of a night. Jasper was still reeling from everything. X, ghosts, Tremere, the Grove, Marcos, fire, decapitation...

He wasn't sure which was worse, the physical pain from his injuries, or his Beast gnashing and clawing at his insides in silent rage. He had over taxed his body tonight, and was going to be paying for it for several nights to come. It was worth it, he told himself. The Tremere were safe. Annabelle was safe. It was worth it. It was worth it.

Annabelle had offered to help him when he told her he was leaving the club's basement to go home to do what he could to fix himself. He had eyed the others in the room. His and Annabelle's relationship had been successfully kept secret from the rest of the coterie and the world at large so far. He knew she was worried about him. He didn't need a Blood Bond to tell him that. At the same time, however, he didn't want to risk anyone finding out, so he had told her no, there was nothing he would have her do.

And so he left without her, and made his way home via the sewers.

Jasper's phone rang. It was Baron Abrams' number. Jasper snarled to himself, preparing for an uncomfortable discussion. Abrams was very likely aware of what had happened at the Grove by now. Jasper answered it, holding the phone up to his non-burned side. “Hello?”

The connection was a little choppy. Phone signal was sometimes difficult in the sewers and tunnels. “Jasper? I can barely hear you. Where are you?” Issac Abrams asked.

“My apologies. I am underground at the moment, sir.”

“Ah. I am aware of what happened at the Grove. Victor called me. Also... I have seen the web video he posted.”

Jasper growled. Damn Victor and his stupid live stream. “Things did, unfortunately, get a little out of control.”

“... Are you alright? You sound rough.”

“I was injured in the events. I'll be fine.” He sure as hell didn't look or feel fine, but he wasn't telling the Baron about that.

“Well, I'm glad you'll live. I'm not calling to shout at you about that. I'm going to pay Victor a visit tomorrow night.”

Jasper grinned. He hoped he would be there for that.

“No, I'm calling about the individual I sent to you,” Abrams said.

Jasper had also been expecting something like this. The Ivory Tower were moving in and he had a prisoner who belonged to them in the cage in his sanctum. In particular, he had Chaz Price as his prisoner. He had only been there for a few months, but it had been a very busy few months. It had brought Jasper a lot of sadistic joy having Chaz to torment, but it had meant that Annabelle was unable to visit him at his sanctum. She didn't know about Chaz, and Nelli certainly didn't know either.

“Yes?”

“Vanovar has negotiated for a prisoner swap. He tried to go back on it, but I'm holding him to it. Mr. Price is going to be removed from your safekeeping.”

“Who of ours did they have prisoner?”

“That is not something I can divulge with you, Jasper. Can you have Mr. Price prepared for transport in the next hour?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I will send a team to pick him up in one hour. We will talk more later about what happened at the Grove tomorrow night. I'm not at all happy, Jasper.”

“Nor should you be,” Jasper agreed.

Abrams hung up. Jasper put his phone away.

Well, this did change things. Part of him was a little disappointed to lose Chaz, but a more overwhelming part of him was glad. Soon Annabelle could visit him at home again. It meant he had to get a move on through. He couldn't stop and rest yet, as badly as his body and soul was crying out for it.

Jasper was in an awful lot of pain. He had been shot, and he knew he had torn, bruised or otherwise pulled almost every muscle and tendon in his arms and shoulders. As bad as that was, however, it paled in comparison to the pain of the burn Kyoko the Tremere had accidentally given him. His skin on the left side of his face was black and scorched, from nose to ear and scalp down his neck almost to his shoulder. It had missed his eye by millimetres. Every facial expression hurt. He wasn't angry at Kyoko, but only because she had been overly apologetic about it and he had made a promise to Eva to make sure the Wyrd Sisters came to no harm. Jasper was beyond exhausted, but he had to push himself, just a little more. Then he could rest, and be ready for whatever chaos would happen due to his actions at the Grove that night.

As soon as Jasper got into his sanctum, he made a bee line for his cage. Chaz was sitting with his back against the bars. He glanced at Jasper when he came in and did a double-take. “Good Lord!”

“Hi, Chaz.” Jasper grinned and growled. “I have good news.”

Chaz got to his feet, eyeing Jasper. “Well, seeing as it appears you've come face-to-face with one of the banes, I would consider that good news already! It's only disappointing they didn't finish the job properly,” he sneered.

“Ha,” Jasper said dryly. “Yes. There was an unfortunate accident tonight, but that's not the good news.”

Chaz arched a perfect Toreador eyebrow at him. “Then what, pray tell, is the good news?”

Jasper grabbed at him. He had enough energy left to catch him, though he tore Chaz's shirt again as he struggled to escape. Jasper didn't care. He bit down hard into Chaz's arm, ignoring the hiss of pain and protest. He drained enough to weaken his prisoner and stifle his own Beast for the time being. Then he grabbed the stake he kept close by and, while Chaz was still recovering, plunged it into his chest. Chaz's face became frozen in a sneer of rage and pain. Jasper unlocked the cell and painfully dragged his body out. He secured a black pillow case over Chaz's head for good measure and tied his arms behind his back with zip ties. He was not at all delicate in dragging Chaz up the tunnels that lead out to his front door and was quite happy to turn it over to Abrams' men when they arrived. Jasper returned to his now quiet sanctum and smiled. Already, things felt more peaceful.

He texted Annabelle in their private chat. “I know what I said before, but I was just covering because of the others in the room. Can you come over?”

It took her a little while to reply. “To your place? What about your GUEST?”

Jasper smirked at her capitalisation. “The guest has been removed. Abrams has taken him away.”

“Good,” she replied. “I'd love to come over, but I can't leave. There's a massive crowd outside because of the live stream.”

Jasper snarled to himself. He didn't want to have to go all the way back to the club to get her, but she didn't know the tunnels like he did. “I'll come back and get you. We'll go the back way,” he texted.

“Through the... thing?”

“No. We'll skirt the edge of it.”

“Okay. I'll make an excuse to Victor. See you in a bit.”

Just before he put his phone away, he noticed a single heart emoji she had sent him.

Walking all the way back to Club Maharajah seemed to take forever. He tried to heal as he went. He knew that the burn would take a long time to go away, but he could at least do something about the ache in his arms. He felt incredibly weary and brain dead. He just wanted to lie down and let everything stop for a little while. Soon, soon he could, and even better, soon Annabelle would be by his side again.

He texted Annabelle when he got to the secret door that led to Victor's basement and waited for Annabelle to appear. He had a few minutes to wait, but eventually, Annabelle crept out and joined him in the tunnels. She looked at him with a mixture of sadness, relief and fear, taking in his burns once again. “Oh, Jasper...” she sighed. She put her arms around him and hugged him gently.

“I'll be alright,” he assured her softly as they pulled away from their hug. He sounded exhausted. “I want to go home though.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let's get you home,” she agreed.

He started back down the tunnels with her. Annabelle held his hand as they walked. Neither of them noticed the rat hiding in the shadows of the tunnel, watching them carefully. It followed them down the passage, making sure to keep far enough away to remain unnoticed, but close enough to see and hear them.

“So... what the hell happened in that stairwell?” Annabelle demanded after a minute.

Jasper sighed. “Well... the Wyrd Sisters were stopped half way down by police, who were shooting at them. I jumped down the stairs to protect them and I knocked out the cops. Little did I know that the Tremere were preparing a spell, and it hit me instead of the cops.”

Annabelle's eyes went very wide. “You mean they cast fireball?!”

“Yup. And it hit me right in the face.”

“Oh, my God... did you know they could do that?”

“Nope.”

“Did you kill the police?”

“I don’t know. I tried not to.”

“And what happened then?”

“I Frenzied. I ran. I panicked... I'm lucky I stopped before I ran out into the parking lot.”

Annabelle squeezed his hand. “I felt like you were in trouble. I was so afraid when I saw that Sheriff guy outside the door... I just ran at him. I tried to stake him.”

“Yeah. I saw the stake. It was a good thought Annabelle, but your aim was a little off.” He was so proud of her. “You are so strong.”

“And then you jumped out and...”

“...and I cut his head off. Yeah.”

“The look on his face was priceless! He never saw you coming.” Annabelle let out a little sigh, trying not to smell the sewage as they passed. “We're going to be in big trouble for that, aren't we?” It wasn't really a question. Annabelle knew enough about the political climate to know that there would be major consequences.

Jasper shrugged with a little wince. “I'll be in trouble. You'll be fine.”

“I won't let them hurt you,” she vowed.

“I don't know if you could stop them if they really tired, but... I appreciate it, Annabelle.”

They continued walking. He could tell that Annabelle was upset. She was also still a little hurt from being thrown into a smart car, but she was far better off than he was.

“I'm glad that your prisoner is gone,” she said softly as they got to the door to his sanctum.

“I am too,” he confessed as he pulled the door open.

The interior of his sanctum had changed little since Annabelle was last there. Jasper heaved the door closed behind her with a sigh. The rat, who had followed them all the way there unnoticed, paused to scratch itself, then it scampered off towards Griffith College.

Inside the sanctum, Annabelle was checking her phone. She groaned. “Damn it, Victor...”

“What?”

“Everyone I know is messaging me about the live stream and the Baby B thing,” Annabelle mumbled as she scrolled her phone. “Shit... people I haven't seen in forever... some people I've been trying to avoid...” She sighed and turned her phone off. “I'm not dealing with any of that right now. I'm here for you.”

“I have something to show you,” Jasper said.

“Yeah?”

He led her through to his bedroom and she smiled when she saw what he had done in there. His tiny single bed was gone. In its place was something closer to a queen size. He also had an end table in there now, near the bed. Both looked cheap and simple, but Annabelle was glad all the same. “Aww, Jasper! You got a real bed!”

“I did, yes, in the hopes you'd eventually be able to come back down here.” He went over to it and sat down with a pained, but relieved sigh.

“It's good.” Annabelle sat next to him and frowned at his burns again. “Will you let me help you now?”

“There's really not a lot you can do.”

“I want to try though.” He looked like he was going to protest and she cut him off. “You're really not in any position to say no, Jasper,” she snapped.

He snarled a little to himself. It was already harder for him to say no to her lately because of their Bond, but when she used that stern tone of voice he found it next to impossible. “Alright.”

“Okay. Thank you.” She softened her voice. “First things first... hoodie off, please.”

He growled.

“Jasper...” she scolded. “Don't make that face at me.”

Reluctantly, he lowered his hood and started to gingerly remove the hoodie. There was burn damage to it as well, and he hissed in pain when the fabric pulled away from where it had stuck to his burned flesh. Annabelle bit her lip as the extent of the damage was released. The skin around the edge of the burn was black, curled and flaking. The flesh visible inside was red and sore. It was bad enough to make Annabelle ignore the fact that Jasper was now sitting there, temporarily naked from the waist up. “Jesus...” she breathed. “That looks bad.”

“It feels worse.”

“Can you take painkillers? Would painkillers even work?”

“No. Can't take any pills, and even if they did work, I don't have any medicines here anyway.”

“So... you just have to deal with the pain?” Annabelle sounded heart broken.

“Yeah.”

Annabelle's lower lip trembled. He could feel her sadness towards him.

“C-can I at least dress the wound?” she offered. “Would that help?”

“No... I think we should leave it. I don't have to worry about infection. I will heal, Annabelle,” he tried to reassure her. He took her hand. “It might take me a few nights, but soon I'll be good as new. Well... new-ish. All I need is blood and time. Thank you though. I know you're trying to help. I'm glad you're here.”

“I can give you blood,” Annabelle said.

“What about your injuries?”

“I'm fine. Just a bruise.” She couldn't help but smile a little. “The car got it worse than me.”

“He could have killed you,” he said softly. “I was incredibly lucky to be able to stop him.”

“I know,” Annabelle said. “When I saw him walking around after you pushed him off the roof, I knew that... attacking him was stupid, but... he was going to...” Her voice broke with emotion as she fought back a few tears. The whole situation had been very intense and now that the adrenaline from it had well and truly faded, other emotions forced their way in.

“You did good, Annabelle,” he assured her. He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.

She wiped away a blood tear. “I just... I don't want to lose you.”

“I don't want to lose you either. But I'm still here, mostly. You're still here. Everyone we care about or were trying to protect are still here. We've survived to fight another night.”

Annabelle nodded. She went to hug him and suddenly remembered that he was shirtless. She hesitated, looking at his torso. He was pale as death, and in the dim light of the bedroom, his skin looked almost grey. Her eyes were drawn to the black veins that crossed his skin. They made him look like he had some kind if disease from a fantasy novel.

Jasper noticed her hesitation. “I'm going to get another hoodie. I'll be right back.” He got up with a small grimace and headed to his closet. He retrieved one from the tiny hidden room behind a bookcase he kept them in and slipped it on. He hated being exposed. He accepted that he could not change what he looked like, but that didn't mean he had to look at himself. There were very deliberately no mirrors in his sanctum. Jasper left his hood down for now, to avoid having the fabric stick to the burn again. He returned to his bedroom. Annabelle was waiting.

“It's stupid that you don't keep your clothes in your bedroom,” she told him. “If you can get a better bed, you can get a dresser.”

He smirked. “Noted.” He reclined back on his new bed, making sure to keep Annabelle on his non-burned side. He allowed himself a groan and growl of pain. Annabelle leaned against him carefully. He could feel her relaxing gradually.

“I still would like to feed you, if you'd let me,” she mumbled.

“I'm okay.”

Annabelle looked doubtful. “You don't look okay. You look like you're in pain, and if my blood will help with that, then I want to give it to you.”

Jasper was truly too exhausted to argue. He also was in a lot of pain. He wanted to itch at his face and couldn't, so he made a fist instead. He watched as Annabelle pulled one arm out of the sleeve of her jacket, wincing slightly as she did so, and offered him her wrist. He looked from her wrist to her face and back again, still reluctant.

“Please?” Annabelle said. “Just a little bit. Then I'll feel I've helped and I'll stop bothering you about it. You started a war to save my life. It's the least I can do.”

Jasper sighed and gave in. “Alright.” He sat up a little in bed and took Annabelle's hand and arm gently in his hands. He considered her smooth skin for a moment, then bit down gently on her wrist. He was mindful not to damage her tendons. Annabelle gasped and flinched, but forced herself to hold still. It had been a very long time since he had fed on her like this – from the wrist and without her activating Blush of Life first. Her Vitae lacked the potent warmth that he had tasted in her then, but it was still rich and nourishing. He heard Annabelle moan softly through closed lips as the pleasure of the Kiss kicked in. This wasn't an orgasmic bite, but it wasn't intended to be. He spent a few seconds licking gently as her skin as the blood seeped out. He could taste her affection for him as well as her anxieties. She wanted to protect him just as much as he wanted to protect her.

Before long, he licked her wound closed. He hadn't taken much from her as all this time, but she seemed satisfied with his effort all the same.

“Thank you,” he mumbled as he let her arm go.

She surprised him by placing a gentle kiss on the non-burned side of his head, just above his ear and temple. He felt her soft lips and the brush of her hair on his skin. Jasper blinked, but when he glanced at her, she had put her arm back inside her sleeve and snuggled down, hugging him gently around his ribs, as if she hadn't kissed him at all. He knew he hadn't imagined it, but decided he wouldn’t say anything about it if she didn't. She looked nearly as tired as he felt. He relaxed down next to her, resting burned-side up.

“The new bed is good.” Annabelle concluded, sounding sleepy.

“I'm glad you approve. And... until Abrams makes me babysit some other Ivory Tower asshole, you are welcome here any time. Just give me a heads up in case I'm not home.”

“Thank you.”

Annabelle snuggled herself closer, tucking herself gently under his chin. She was very mindful of his burns, careful not to touch them at all. He put a protective arm around her back.

When dawn broke over the city and the morning news reported on the Incident at the Grove, Jasper and Annabelle missed it. They were snug safely in his haven, sleeping the sleep of the dead.

Algernon - Day 8

           It didn't seem to matter what you were made of, metal, polymers, bone, flesh, if you lay on one side of your face on a hard surface long enough it would start to hurt. Really bad. Compound that pain on top of the fact Jet still had a bleeding hole in his mouth, a dislocated jaw, and now a nice bruise where his asshole of an assailant dropped him, and Jet was more than happy to keep blacking out.

           That and the man kept ranting at him, about how much Jet had cost, about while labeled as damaged he'd been advertised as a secret government robot head found in the rubble of New York. About how he wanted an AI, not just a dumb old brain in a tin can.

           My heart bleeds for you, Jet thought, oh wait, that's my fucking mouth.

           "What the hell am I supposed to do with this," the man muttered, sitting down and regarding Jet.

           Contacting my friends and letting me leave would be nice.

           Instead Jet got a rag stuffed in his mouth and was left alone for the night. He wished his emergency power reserves would quit already as he lay there, pain throbbing through him at near every point and distorting whatever natural concept of the passage of time he may have had.

           He couldn't tell if he was having nightmares or hallucinating as monsters prowled around him, scraping at his skin with metal, rusty claws and laughing. One held up Albert's head that smiled at him crookedly before it burned black, mouth and eye sockets empty and wide, before it crumbled to dust, smoking from the heat of the sun. Then the monster morphed into a savior tank and slammed its heavy arm down on Jet.

           His eyes snapped open. There was light and the man was once again pacing around the room, talking to someone, though his image and voice seemed to fade in and out. Jet couldn't stay conscious and didn't bother trying.

           "Yeah, it's a cyborg. Black Ghost model. …want to study advanced AIs not this…yeah it works…damaged…that's why I called you, you're into cybernetics……hell no I paid too much for this stupid thing…low price, how about that…lost time and money…"

           He woke up again to fingers in his mouth and regretted his broken jaw. Cyborgs had one hell of a bite. It stung and ached as the dried blood was wiped clear and cords inserted into the emergency port.

           "Might as well get something out of this," the man grumbled, "there's a background AI in there, though it's inactive, let's see if I can access that."

           Jet shut his eyes again. So much for holding down the fort until he was rescued.

           He was shunted aside and stripped open, his mind itself violated as the emergency control port was activated and the secondary AI took over, ready for commands. He couldn't even form imagery to control the cybernetics and was instead submerged under an endless stream of binary.

           Nothing more than a ghost in carefully crafted machine.

           But I'm human, he thought, almost begging.

           I'm human.

           After his AI specs had been stripped and his translator and short range scanners removed, Jet found himself plugged into a new power source and put into storage. He tried to self-destruct as he was shut away but that too had been deactivated. He had no outs.

           Fine, this was better anyway. No more fighting to keep anyone out, no more probing into his mind. No more breaking bones and drills. He just had to wait here until the team found him. He could do that.

           It was so dark and the power-pack too warm.

           He slept and it helped, his various pains beginning to fade to dull aches every time he woke up. He wondered how he could feel so exhausted when he had no body.

           He eventually couldn't sleep anymore and sat in the darkness. He tried to repair the damage to his secondary cybernetic brain, but he was disregarded. He'd have to work to regain control, if he even could.

           Come on guys, any time now.

           It had been days or maybe just hours, he couldn't tell, when he started seeing things. First the supposed walls grew scales and moved like a breathing animal, and then beetles started crawling around. Somewhere he thought he heard a symphony, but he wasn't familiar enough with any and it was just the same false notes over and over. It was eventually replaced by random bouts of screaming. Jet shut his eyes as though it would help.

           Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer…

           Negative two thousand one hundred and seventy-eight bottles of beer on the wall, negative two thousand one hundred and seventy-eight bottles of beer…

           Take one down, taunt the starving children with it because you have nothing why are you trying to give beer to kids and is this a dry state what the fuck is even up with that and toss it in the air look magic!

           Negative two thousand one hundred and seventy-nine bottles of beer on the wall!

           One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small, and the ones that mother gives you don't do anything at all…

           Why did I get into that fight anyway? What was the point? Jets versus Sharks, how stupid. I was such a stupid kid I'm sorry I'm so sorry I killed you…

           About the third time Albert showed up and yelled at him Jet finally started to cry, or would have had he the tears to spare.

           I should have gone back for you, I'm sorry, why did you have to do that? Why you? I would have done it for you, for any of you! Please don't go…

           The lazarus cyborgs opened the door and grabbed him, dragging him out into the burning dark as skyscrapers fell around them, roaring.

           I knew, I knew!

           How many people died, they shrieked at him, how many died for profit?

           What could I do?!

           They threw him back into the dark.

           Someone please answer me. Please. Open the door I'll tell you what you want…

           The darkness was split by an igniting lighter and the embers of a cigarette, glowing onto his mother's face. She took a drag and then put the cigarette in his mouth.

           Hang in there a little longer, kiddo, she said and smiled.

           "Hey there, cyborg head!"

           The light blinded Jet as the door to his prison opened. He blinked and the left eye adjusted, the right still doing its own thing and allowing too much light in.

           The man was in a good mood and was smiling as he pulled Jet out. Jet for his part was ecstatic. He was out! Here was a person! He didn't care who it was and the abuse he suffered by this man was forgotten, he was out of the dark and the heat. How long had he been in there?

           Jet was set onto the workbench while the man went to work replacing his power-pack with a smaller model and extra fluid and oxygen capsules. Jet looked around best he could. There was no computer in sight but what looked like a reinforced cardboard box.

           "Finally found a buyer. Had to sell you pretty cheap due to the damage and the fact your core systems are from the 60's, but at least I'll get some of my money back."

           What?

           A new power source attached, including fluid and oxygen, and the man began wrapping Jet in cotton batting followed by plastic wrap.

           What are you doing?! No, please don't! Wait! Hook me back up, I'll give you everything! Tell you anything just please don't!

           Don't send me away! How will the team find me…?

           Adrenaline surged and Jet tried to breathe, to pant to cry to scream, anything, but all he could do was lay there and let it fester in him. The best he could do was blink rapidly through the batting.

           He was finally placed into the box, cushioned by foam. He gave one last mental cry, begging, but the box closed and the sound of tape being applied sealed him in.

           The disturbingly shiny tool closed in on his eye, ready to pry and pull.

           Not the left not the left not the left…

           His newest owner glanced at the computer screen, noted the malfunctioning eye, and shifted the pliers to the right.

           Thank you, Jet thought, and then screamed internally as the eye was plucked out.

           Another owner, another saw to his skull. He didn't know why she was bothering all his scanners had been long ago removed. He had so many gaps in his head now he wondered that his brain wasn't rattling around.

           Or maybe it was. Like he could tell.

           "I dunno, it's been pulled apart a lot, most of the useful cybernetics have been removed already."

           It has nothing left. It tried.

           "Maybe you could give it to a student or something, it's still got the core systems and the cybernetic brain is functioning, though I think it was wiped."

           It cannot see. Where are you? You must move it cannot see you…

           "Yeah the brain itself is still okay, I think. I've been managing its power and oxygen levels…" she paused and pat her cyborg toy on the head.

           Don't hurt it, it'll be good.

           "Don't worry, I'll find you a nice home."

           It thanks you. It knows no one is coming.

           There were friends once…they are not coming.

           "Think about it, a computer can be hacked, but a human mind behind the security? A living security system!"

           "It looks like shit."

           "Well yes, this is an experiment I'm funding myself and this wasn't very expensive, relatively speaking considering the source of the tech…"

           "I think it's dead."

           "No no, the cybernetics and the casing could use some work but the brain is functioning, see? And that's all that matters."

           "Fine. Hook it up to one of the doors in the basement for storage. Just that one! And it better behave, if it starts malfunctioning or giving anybody shit…"

           "Don't worry, the previous owner gave me tips on how to keep it in line. Just a couple shocks here and there when it misbehaves."

           "We aren't going to have to like…feed it or anything are we?"

           "No, just replace the power packs and fluid now and again. Trust me, it'll work great."

I met a man.

A night in Kampot Town all to myself. Finally, minding my own business, soaking up the sun and all the emotions from just receiving my first postage from home... Happy to be alone in the city.

"You want some lunch?"

"No, no thank you!"

"Please, Please come sit!" 

I cannot say this is the first time this happened. Cambodia has a culture of "onkoi lane," literally, "sit play." I am invited quite frequently in my village or homes near by. The slow lifestyle allows for unplanned visits with no expectations other than conversation. But no, this is my day to escape the PCV obligations of speaking with strangers in my broken Khmer. I am in town and I just want to be me, no strings attached. 

"No thanks!"

"Please, please. I insist. Come sit."

I guess I can compromise and sit for a bit, give the generic, well practiced answers, "I am a volunteer...I teach English...I will live in Cambodia for two years. Yes, I miss home..." and be on my way.

"Okay.. Okay..."

"Where are you from?" 

Here we go. I gave the generic, "America... United States" 

"Where in the US?"

"Rhode Island...?"

He obviously won't know of my tiny little state all the way on the other side of the world. I usually follow this answer with, "It is near New York."

"Where abouts in Rhode Island?"

This man is inquiring much more than I feel comfortable with.

"Uhhh...northern."

"Ahh. Okay. Do you know Barrington...? Bristol...?" 

First I was just confused and skeptical, but as he continued to list off the small town names in my home state he gave me no other choice but to believe him. I've met people in the US that don't know where Rhode Island is or even that it’s a state and not just an island in the corner of New York or something. But there I sat, on the sidewalk along the river in Kampot, Cambodia  and a seemingly poor Khmer man, in close to perfect English, asks me if I they have finished building the mall near the stadium in Providence or if I ever swim at the YMCA in Cranston. 

I sat there, jaw dropped. Which, I mean, being in Cambodia and all, I wouldn’t recommend unless your looking for some extra protein in your diet. 

He went on, "Yea, I lived there for ten years. I went to Central High School in Cranston. Do you know it?" 

"Yes... Yes. I know it. I was living in Cranston just last year." Still stunned and amazed my answers are to the point. Sitting in suspense, waiting to hear more from this man. 

"Yea.. I lived in Barrington for a bit. Not to far from Newport. You know Newport? I used to go down to Narragansett Bay and go fishing. You know Narragansett?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. My little brother lives there." My confusion and amazement lingered so heavily that I struggled to form responses, never mind questions. "Wow." All I could think about was how incredible the universe is. It was iffy that I was even going to visit Kampot Town and, initially, I was planning on going with a friend. When plans changed I still felt that I needed a night away. Just a short time to do whatever I please with no obligations, wear shorts and a tank top, drink a beer, and blend in with the backpackers and expats. So, I followed my gut, I walked along the river with no obligations and the universe brought me to this man. I finally conjured up some sort of question, "So, now you’re in Cambodia?" 

"Yea. I was deported. I am an American citizen." He rattled off his social security number quickly as I'm sure he has had to do 100s of times in order to just be shuffled from desk to desk with in a broken immigration system. At the end left with nothing more than the standard disappointment, "There is nothing we can do for you."

"...I took the test. I waved the flag. I lived in the US my whole life and then they sent me back here. My family is in the US. Everything I knew was there." Stunned, I managed to inquire further. "I left Cambodia in 1979 after the Khmer Rouge. I was just a little kid. I served 23 years in prison. I got out. I had a good job. I was making good money working in Seattle. They told me they were sending me back. I went to my Deportation Officer. There was nothing they could do. She asked if I had any last requests before I got on the plane. I wanted to ask for freedom, but I knew I wouldn't get that. So, I asked for a pack of Marlboros and to go to the top of the Space Needle. She took me up and I smoked that whole pack in about an hour. She looked at me and said, "Don't even think about it." "Jumping?," I said. Yea I thought about it. Of course. I had nothing to lose."

Khom Soeun, or David, left Cambodia in 1979 as a young child refugee and in 2007, almost 30 years later, he was taken and dropped off in what might as well be called a foreign country to him. He left Cambodia as it was falling to pieces. The United States illegally bombed the country terribly during and following the Vietnam War, demolishing whole villages in attempts to halt supply routes. The Khmer Rouge held power for four years, during which 1/3 of Cambodians were murdered in an attempt to establish a communist state. In 1979, Vietnam ousted the leaders from the capital but, even then, there was not peace for decades to come; power struggles in politics and violence continued to wreck havoc across the country. This is the country he escaped from, only to be faced with further hardships, just on the other side of the world and then return.

"I moved from foster family to family. I got in trouble a lot in school. The kids would call me, "Chink," so I'd lash out and call them names or fight them. I got sent to the principal all the time. I was in sixth grade, I didn't know my ABCs. They made fun of me. I started getting in trouble at home a lot too. So I moved families. But I still remember my first family." He gave me their names. Asked me to look them up when I returned home. Tears began to form in is eyes as he told me about his family he left behind. "My parents are in a nursing home now. They sold their house. Look them up please. If you can find them...use the white pages, ya know? Can you tell them I'm sorry. I wish I could change time. If I could, I would be with them again." My heart breaking bit by bit for this man as he went on, "I have three daughters," more tears as he listed their names and where they live, "...Can you look them up? Can you tell them, Dad is sorry he was in prison and did not get a chance to take care of them or raise them" 

My feelings of amazement towards my encounter with fate were now overcast with sadness and distress. I had goosebumps; my eyes watering and hands shaking as I struggled to record Soeun's words in my pocket sized Moleskine notepad. Although tragic, Soeun's story is not unique. After the fall of the Khmer Rouge, over 100,000 Cambodian refugees fled to the United States. After being forcefully removed from their homes, working in concentration camps, living in refugee camps, and escaping a genocide, their struggle would only continue in the states. In the midst of a recession, the US government provided little aid to the new comers, most of whom ended up in large ghettos specifically in Long Beach, CA, Seattle, WA, and Lowell, MA. They had never used a flush toilet or a gas stove, had little to no education, and faced discrimination. Carrying the mental, emotional, and physical scars of the war torn country they left behind, and unsuccessful and unaccepted in school, many young Cambodian boys formed their own support systems, support systems which took the form of gangs, and adopted a life style which would eventually lead to their deportation to a land of which their only connection to was the violence and pain they and their families suffered decades before.

The immigration laws are complicated and Soeun's story doesn't line up exactly with what policy states. He repeated, sternly, a few times, "I am an American citizen," however; laws passed speak only to refugees, Legal Permanent Residents (LPRs), green card holders, and those married to American citizens. Those falling in these categories could be deported for minor offences such as, urinating in public regardless of their social, moral, or economic status. For example, a morally sound, married individual with a few kids, and a stable job could simply be deported for a minor crime. Since 2002, when Cambodia began accepted the deportees, over 600 Cambodian-Americans have been deported as a result of the following policies,

“In 1996, the United States introduced two new immigration laws,  the Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act (AEDPA) and the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act (IIRIRA) which eliminated judicial discretion from the removal process and expanded the categories of mandatory deportation. In the years since the passage of the two laws, the United States has deported more than 87,000 LPRs.... After serving time and reentering society, refugees and LPRs suddenly found themselves eligible for deportation.” *Numbers from 2010(http://leitnercenter.org/files/2010%20Cambodia%20Report_FINAL.pdf)

So, Soeun is one of hundreds in Cambodia, but thousands all over the world. When he returned to Cambodia, he hardly knew the language or the culture, having grown up in the care of American foster families. He has been here ten years, so he "gets by now." He currently lives on a house boat along the river in Kampot. He jumps from city to city trying to find work. He is honest with employers; he has no papers, no Cambodian I.D. and no passport. They shoo him away when they learn of his status; a homeless convicted felon. "They want my I.D., my reference; those things I cannot give them. When you get deported, you don't get a passport you just get a piece of paper. I have no documents. I have no papers. I go to the Embassy and they say they can't help me." He has a wife here whom he loves very much. She sat by us while I listened to his story, "She's my world. She's all I have. I want to support her."  My amazement returned as a man, funneled through and mistreated by our inadequate and inhumane systems, foster, juvenile, justice, prison, immigration and so on, concluded his story, "I am happy. I only miss two things: my children and my good job. I'm gonna write a book. I already started. Its going to have my picture on it and the title will be, Cambodian-American Returnee."

I am not sure I have ever felt as I did in that moment. I was shaking as I wished him good luck, thanked him for sharing his story, and praised him for his strength and resilience. My heart, full and heavy, dumbfounded and sorrowful, I walked away unsure how to process my thoughts or feelings. Amazed and overwhelmed that I even had this encounter with a man from my home state; the world is so small and the universe works in mysterious ways. Disheartened by his tragic story and inspired by his resiliency; refugee to deportee. Angry with inhumane policy; a man with three daughters in the US and no family in this foreign land. Helpless in my venture to help Cambodians, and struck by the irony of American actions. Here I am, a proud Peace Corps Volunteer, committed to helping the Cambodian people as they strive for progress and development, while my own country, the country I swore to represent, is unmistakably and directly creating lives of poverty and hardship.

Homecoming Chapter 20

@iontorch @prettybeefballs @darkmagicianknight

(GUESS WHO’S BAAAACK)

The whole fic is a sequel to Human Connection (can be read as a standalone, but character personalities make more sense if read together)

Tag, in chronological order

Shiny New Masterlist of the entire fic series (including AO3 link because I don’t trust tumblr to behave regarding external links anymore)

Pairing: DickTiger

Rating: Mature

Length: 5k (this chapter)

Summary: It's been a rough ride. As everyone slows down in the wake of the past week, dark feelings rise to the surface.

Notes: TRIGGER WARNINGS: Loved ones in medical danger & requiring hospital treatment, not knowing if the loved one is going to survive. 

I have included specifics on the medical danger and a summary of that scene in the endnote of my AO3 post on this chapter. You can find the AO3 link to the full fic in my masterlist. I don’t trust tumblr to NOT shove me out of the DickTiger tag if I post external links again.

The scene in question is the final one, when Tiger, Tim and Dick go to the Batcave.

Chapter 20

Helena took point for the journey to the rendezvous point with Jason watching for attacks from the rear. Tiger was sending updates to Batman, who had successfully taken over the facility. The rest of the family had dispersed throughout the building, collecting prisoners now that the immediate danger had passed. No one had come to an agreement about what to do about them yet.

Dick leaned heavily on Tiger while Gloria stuck to the wall, unsteady but moving. Walking was hell. Dick's legs didn't want to support his weight, even without the bullet wound in his right calf. But clinging to Tiger was exhausting in itself and his arms were already shaking. Symptoms were slowly trickling back now that the fight was over. His vision kept swimming and his head kept throbbing and his neck felt like the victim of a bad acupuncture session.

“This is not working,” Tiger said. “We need to stop.”

Helena paused. “Make it quick.”

“You should stop walking,” Tiger said to Dick, lifting him into his arms.

“I swear everyone I've dated has done this at least once,” Dick semi-complained. In all honesty, though, he was just glad Tiger had saved him from admitting defeat a few metres later anyway.

“How are you, Gloria?” Tiger asked.

“Sweet of you to ask, but I'll be fine. We should keep moving.”

Dick rested his head against Tiger's shoulder. Even though Tiger took great pains not to jostle him, every step was like a hammer against his brain. Now would be a great time to go to sleep and get away from this, but he had hit his head a few times today so it probably wasn't the best idea until Alfred could examine him. Damn it.

They passed into a room. The light was too bright. Dick squeezed his eyes shut.

“We have injured,” Helena said. “How close are we to extraction?”

Then came the voice Dick had been wishing he could hear for days. “We need time to clear out any remaining resistance,” Batman said. “Is immediate attention required?”

“No one is about to die,” Helena replied, “but sooner is preferable.”

“We'll need a few more minutes to secure safe passage. I'll send Red Robin and Batgirl to Gotham with the injured as soon as possible.” A gloved hand grasped Dick's, who reluctantly opened his eyes, just a touch, to take in the concerned set of Batman's mouth beneath the cowl. “How are you feeling?”

“Been better. Light hurts.”

“There is a small office in the corner. It should be darker in there.” Batman called for Red Robin to move blankets they had collected into the office. There were enough that Tim was practically invisible behind them. Seeing a pile of floating blankets did nothing to improve Dick's opinion of his own health.

But, soon enough, he was lying on a stack of them behind the desk in the office, largely shielded from the light of the next room. Gloria was set up on the other side, closer to the door, since she didn't seem quite as sensitive.

Dick rested his hand over his eyes, letting out a long breath. The worst was over, and the rest would be done in a matter of minutes. Then he could go home and deal with whatever the fuck was happening to him.

Tiger squeezed his wrist. “Do not fall asleep yet, jaanaana.”

“I know, I know.”

Tiger let him go and there was a shift in light Dick barely noticed through his closed eyelids, but Tiger was definitely moving away from him.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“I should help Batman lock down the facility.”

“Unarmed?” came Jason's voice.

Tiger sighed. “I'll need my gun back.”

Dick wanted to stop him, but had no idea how to do that without sounding needy. He hated that feeling. He wrestled with that in every relationship he'd had. He could sometimes be suffocating and too intense and just too much. No one knew how to handle him, least of all Dick himself.

Fortunately, Jason was fighting on his behalf. “We've got it handled, dude.”

“Is anyone watching the front entrance?”

“Red Robin's traps have got it covered.”

“Just give me the gun.”

Jason sighed. “If you insist.”

Then Tiger was gone.

“Maybe he just needs a few minutes,” Jason said. “It's been a long couple months.”

“I need a few minutes for my head to stop murdering me anyway,” Dick said. Then he fully intended to go after Tiger because fuck this insecurity bullshit. He had every right to be needy after everything he'd been through. He just had to figure out how to drag his wounded ass to the front of the building.

The sounds of activity in the other room were slightly muted, but Dick could pick up a few snatches of conversation. Tim and Barbara were discussing data with Helena. Jason was guarding an entrance to the room and Steph the other. Cass and Damian were sneaking up on stragglers together. Bruce was coordinating everything.

Barbara ducked in to shine a light in Gloria's eyes to make sure she didn't have something worse than a concussion. “No pupil contraction,” she said. “You should be okay, but we have a friend in Gotham who can perform a more thorough exam.”

“I can't see Batman letting her in the cave,” Dick replied.

“He's not. Leslie's on standby at her clinic.”

“Oh. Okay. Cool.” Dick couldn't wait for Alfred to clear him for sleep. His body was absolutely done with him.

“Just lie there and look pretty, okay?”

“Will do.” For now. Just being horizontal was doing wonders for his entire body, especially his head. There was still a good old-fashioned marching band wrecking the joint, but at least the drummers had calmed down a little.

Barbara left them to rest. Dick felt well enough to push himself into a sitting position. He rested against the wall while his head protested. He breathed through it.

Bruce and Jason were talking nearby, voices hushed. But Dick and Gloria were nowhere near as loud as everyone else, so the sound reached them anyway.

“What happened in there?” Bruce asked.

“That Daedalus guy,” Jason replied. “He'd taken over that agent's mind. Nightwing called her Alia. I think Helena called her Agent 8 in the briefings she sent.”

Bruce's glare was almost audible. He didn't need to ask why there was a dead Spyral agent.

“Daedalus was literally about to take over Nightwing's mind,” Jason said. “There was no time to waste, so Helena and I shot him. Alia was long gone.”

More silent glaring.

“You wanna hate me? Fine. Nightwing's alive because we chose his life over a dead woman's possessed corpse.”

Technically true, but maybe a little harsh.

“...where was Tiger in all this?”

“With me.”

“Why didn't he shoot? Since you insist it was the only option.”

“One of my guns jammed. He lent me his.”

Dick reached up and got a grip on the desk, pulling himself to his feet. Jason was good, but Bruce was a master of making people confess the truth. They'd committed to this path. If Bruce even got a hint that Jason was lying to protect Tiger, things would be much worse than they would have been if he'd admitted Tiger shot in the first place.

Dick made it to the doorframe, light hitting him in the face. Not great for the headache. He reached for the brightness setting on his mask and tinted his lenses, which helped a little.

“Where is he now?” Bruce asked.

“Watching the front entrance,” Jason replied.

“Fetch him. Red Robin and Batgirl are taking our injured to Gotham in a few minutes.”

“Let me handle that,” Dick said. Neither Bruce nor Jason seemed surprised to see him; it wasn't like he was trying to be sneaky.

“Lie back down,” Bruce replied.

“Yeah, that's not gonna work,” Jason said.

“Let's be honest here,” Dick said. “Alf's gonna have me glued to bed as soon as I get to the Batcave. He will probably drug me. I need to sort a few things out with Tiger, preferably one-on-one and before I'm high on pain meds.”

“We are morally obligated to respect the injured guy's wishes, you know.” Jason patted Bruce's shoulder and joined Dick in the doorway. “I'll help you get down there if you're sure you're up to it.”

“I have a limited window of time. So quit asking questions and help me already.”

Jason bent down and let Dick put an arm over his shoulders. “Of course, your majesty.”

Tiger had found himself a quiet spot near a window that gave him the best view of the gravel road leading away from the building. He wanted more than anything to leave this place, but the best he could do until then was find a few moments to himself. The gun felt heavy in his hand as he leaned against the wall, letting his arm hang loosely by his side, barrel pointed towards the floor. He wanted to throw it. He had to keep reminding himself that was a bad idea. He had no idea how Dick threw loaded guns without accidentally shooting himself, but he certainly wasn't about to attempt it. No matter how much he wanted it gone.

It was worrying to think that, only a few months ago, he had been so determined to find Alia and eliminate the threat she posed. The memory felt like it belonged to a different person. He was never going to enjoy her death, but the man he once had been would have shed a few tears for her and then moved on, confident in the knowledge that he had done what was necessary.

Now, it seemed he questioned everything, even the things no one else struggled with. Dick and Helena had been so doggedly determined throughout this past week, even as Tiger wavered. He had once been so confident in his actions. The man he was now couldn't have spent years infiltrating a rival spy organisation, doing everything necessary to climb the ranks and become entrusted with the kind of information he needed to keep Spyral from threatening the world.

The past few months had been difficult enough. This past week, even more so. He still hated himself for bringing Dick into this. They didn't know about that machine, or that Daedalus had taken over Alia's body, but he couldn't stop thinking he never should have even considered involving him. Helena thought Dick had provided a useful distraction for Bannon so she could search for intel, but was that really worth it?

That torture machine caused lasting medical problems. Dick could never be the same again. And it was Tiger's fault for being so weak, so desperate to have Dick close while he and Helena pulled the scraps of Spyral apart.

If this wasn't the end of Spyral now that Daedalus was gone (hopefully), then everything Dick went through would have been pointless. At least if they managed to destroy Spyral, some good would have come out of Dick's suffering. Even if he didn't think it was truly worth it.

“Hey, handsome.”

Tiger flinched more than he would have liked, jerking his head to find Dick approaching him slowly, mouth stretched in a thin smile that did not hide his pain as much as he probably hoped it did. Jason watched them from the nearest doorway before he shrank away.

Dick leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the window. Poor visibility there, but it wasn't like Dick was in any condition to do much anyway.

“You should be resting,” Tiger said, quashing a surge of annoyance that Dick was pushing himself now that his fight was over.

“Tim and Babs are taking us and Gloria back to Gotham soon,” Dick said, evidently ignoring what Tiger had said. “I wanted some one-on-one time while I'm still mostly coherent, because you bet Alfred's gonna drug me six ways from Sunday.”

“What does that even mean?”

Dick shrugged. “Idiom. Doesn't matter. The point is, I wanna take advantage of my brief burst of lucidity before either pain or drugs take my brain for a ride.”

Tired, shaking, in visible pain and Dick was still playing with the English language in ways that should have been illegal. So he really was quite coherent.

Tiger gestured vaguely to the window. “I am working.”

“Yeah, you looked so focused with the way you were glaring at the floor.”

Tiger came perilously close to snapping at him. He took a deep breath and tried to blow all his misplaced frustration out on the exhalation.

“There is a lot on my mind,” he admitted.

Dick rested his head against the wall, his face twisting for the barest of moments before he smoothed it out again. “We couldn't have anticipated things would go like this.”

Tiger had a sudden urge to deny he was thinking about that, purely out of frustration that Dick had so easily dug into his thoughts. The man was supposed to be resting, but he was on his feet with Tiger, thinking about him rather than his own health. That was infuriating. Even more infuriating was the fact he just knew Dick wouldn't listen if he tried to tell him to worry about himself.

“It is our job to anticipate as many worst-case scenarios as possible,” Tiger muttered.

“So, you're telling me we should've anticipated the existence of a mysterious torture machine that isn't supposed to exist, and that a murderous ghost dude we thought was gone was just gonna show up in the body of your ex-partner?”

The absurdity of this whole situation was beginning to give Tiger a headache of his own.

“I'm sorry about Alia,” Dick said quietly.

“I'm the one who—”

“Shh!”

Something else Tiger was not happy about. They were lying for him. He helped kill Alia and they were hiding it so Bruce wouldn't have cause to throw Tiger to the wolves, even if he deserved it.

“Look,” Dick said, “we can't talk about everything right now. But we will. This is the best thing for everyone, okay? Please trust us.”

Tiger didn't want to leave Dick again. He had to hold onto that. They had spent more than enough time apart. Thinking about it left a sick feeling in Tiger's stomach that he did not want to examine.

“I don't like it,” Tiger admitted. “But it is done. I have no choice.”

Dick sighed, and his calm mask slipped just enough to betray the utter exhaustion lying underneath. “Okay. I can work with that.” He smiled weakly. “I love you.” He reached for Tiger's hand. “Come on. We're leaving soon. I also might need help walking. I mean, despite my rugged good looks, I'm actually wiped right now.”

“Yes. I definitely had not noticed that.”

Jason stepped out from wherever he'd been hiding, holding out his hand. Tiger passed him the gun, pushing down the immense relief he felt now that he no longer had to carry it.

“Get back to rendezvous,” Jason said. “I'll take it from here.”

Barbara took Gloria to a Wayne family friend for medical treatment while Tim took Tiger and Dick to the batcave. Alfred had already prepared a bed in the med bay. Tim helped Tiger get Dick sitting on it before heading out to work on the computer.

“You can remain for a moment,” Alfred said to Tiger, reaching for a tiny flashlight. Tiger crammed himself into a corner, arms crossed, hoping that would be enough to stay out of the way when all he wanted to do was curl up around Dick and go to sleep with him.

“Light hurts,” Dick said quietly. He listed in the seat a little and Tiger expected him to fall. He caught himself, but it took him a while to straighten up properly.

“I am sorry, sir. I need to check your eyes.”

Dick sighed. “Fine.”

Alfred shone the flashlight into each of Dick's eyes while Dick dug his fingernails into the leather gurney and visibly tried not to flinch.

“Hm.” Alfred tapped a note into the computer nearby. “You have unequal pupil dilation, sir. We'll need to isolate the cause.”

“Did Tim send you any data?” Tiger asked. “Dick was subjected to a machine that causes long-term medical problems.”

Alfred clicked around. “Ah. Here we are.”

Dick was swaying a little again. Tiger gave into the urge to steady him. Dick rested his head on Tiger's supporting arm. He leaned more heavily against him with every passing moment Alfred spent reading the files Tim had sent him.

Dick mumbled something that Tiger couldn't understand. He tried again:

“Idonfeelright.”

“You don't feel right?”

Dick nodded weakly.

Alfred stepped away from the computer. “Let's get you lying down, sir. We can do a preliminary brain scan here, but we may need to commandeer a hospital's equipment for an in-depth diagnosis.”

Dick tried for a smile, but only one half of his face cooperated. Tiger's blood turned to ice.

No. No, no, no.

Did they even have the resources to treat a stroke?

Tiger and Alfred got Dick lying down. Dick was too weak to offer assistance. His right side seemed unwilling to cooperate.

Dick shut his eyes, face only half-twisting with apparent discomfort. He didn't try speaking again.

“I can take it from here, Master Tiger,” Alfred said, pulling a machine from the ceiling that hid the cave from view. The machine was a huge white arm with a box on the end that had a half-cylindrical piece cut from it. Tiger had never seen such a machine before and had a sneaking suspicion it was not a standard piece of medical equipment used in hospitals that had entire rooms for brain-scanning equipment.

“Are you sure? I can... hold things.” Tiger absolutely did not want to leave Dick in this condition. If this really was a stroke, it could be fatal. He wanted to punch himself for not insisting they get Dick medical attention sooner. He hadn't seemed in immediate danger. If that decision killed the man he loved...

“I'm sure.” Alfred pressed buttons on some kind of box machine that started a whirring in the arm-end. “There are snacks in the kitchen. Eat something. Rest if you can.”

Dick held out his good left hand, giving Tiger's a squeeze before pulling away. Tiger got the message. This was up to Dick and Alfred now.

“It may not be a stroke, sir,” Alfred said as Tiger forced himself to back away. “There are other medical conditions that cause similar symptoms. Do not panic.”

Tiger didn't have it in him to speak. He swallowed around the lump quickly forming in his throat, nodded curtly, and stepped outside. He shut the door behind him, leaning against it.

He was panicking. Definitely panicking. Dick could be having a stroke. Dick could be dying and there was nothing he could do about it.

“How is he?” Tim called from across the cave. Tiger took a few quick breaths—shallower than he wanted—and joined him at the computer. Tim shoved out a wheeled stool for him.

“We don't know yet,” Tiger said, slumping onto the seat. Talking hurt. Thinking hurt. “Fatigue. Unequal pupil dilation. Speech difficulties. Weakness on one side of the body.”

Tim had changed out of his uniform into civvies—a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants that looked older than Damian. A pair of glasses was set on his nose as he squinted at the data flitting across the computer screen.

“Okay, so, I think we both know the obvious possibilty,” Tim said, with an even tone Tiger envied. “If it's a stroke, we'll deal with it. People survive strokes all the time. It could also be something else. Some migraines do that.” Tim pushed his glasses further up his nose with a finger, offering Tiger a serious look that was somehow reassuring in the fact he wasn't trying to feign a lack of concern. Tim was as calm as possible without being in denial. Tiger appreciated that.

“I didn't take you for an optimist.”

“I'm not.” Tim refocused on the screen, tapping the keys every so often. Tiger had no idea what he was doing. “Listen. I get migraines sometimes. Not the type Dick might have, but I did plenty of research on the various types when trying to figure out what the heck was wrong with me. Bruce benched me for a bit when they got bad, but I got medication and function pretty well most of the time now. Whatever is happening with Dick, we'll handle it. We always do.”

“You still sound like an optimist.”

“In this family, it's more like stubbornness. Examine all the options, prepare for the worst, hope for the best. It's all you can do sometimes.”

There was something soothing in listening to Tim talk like this. They'd never spent as much time together as some of the others, but Tiger had always liked him. Matter-of-factness was more comforting than empty platitudes.

Of course, that didn't mean Tiger was going to stop panicking. His heart pounded something terrible and his throat hurt. He was also probably shaking but didn't want to check his hands to make sure.

Tim let Tiger sit there while he worked. Tiger wanted to pace around and probably throw things, but that would require energy he did not have. One part of him longed for sleep. The rest of him was too restless to even consider it until he knew whether Dick was going to be okay.

They'd been through so much. Dick had been through so much. He couldn't lose him now. What would he even do if Dick died tonight? Tiger had dragged out every ounce of strength he had and shoved it into getting them home safely. He had nothing left. He couldn't take one more piece of bad news. Not tonight. Possibly not ever.

Tiger didn't know how long he sat there, before a roaring sound echoed through the cave.

“That'll be the fam,” Tim said, swivelling in his chair. They watched the batmobile and a fleet of motorcycles roll in from the deeper recesses of the cave and park on a wide platform that held a few other vehicles in various states of disrepair.

Bruce and Damian hopped out of the car. Jason and the girls swung themselves off motorbikes. By the time they reached Tim and Tiger, cowls and masks had been discarded and other various accessories—mainly gloves—were in the process of doing the same.

“Snacks are upstairs,” Tim told the group, who all headed for the stairs except for Bruce.

“Report,” Bruce said. His hair was moulded to his head with sweat.

“Gloria has a concussion,” Tim replied. “Barbara's keeping an eye on her at one of our safehouses tonight. If there are no complications, Helena will get her home tomorrow.”

“And Dick?”

“We don't know yet.” Tim paused for a moment, face grim. “There have been some... complications. Alfred hasn't given any updates so far.”

“What kind of complications?”

“Fatigue, speech difficulties, weakness in one side of the body.” Tim listed the symptoms without inflection. Tiger could feel a swell of anxiety rise in the boy next to him, before he beat it back. “We don't know the cause yet.”

Tiger was grateful no one had tried speaking to him. He wasn't sure what would come out of his mouth. Sobbing, most likely.

Bruce sighed, unlatching his cape from the rest of his uniform. “He's strong. If anyone can survive this, it's him.” There was something about his voice that almost made that sound believable.

Tiger bit his own finger to stop himself from bursting into tears.

Jason came back down the stairs. “If you three want anything to eat, you better get up here now.”

Tiger's stomach felt like knives. Eating was the last thing on his mind. Maybe he could drink some water and try to take his mind off Dick for a moment. That second thing was unlikely but at least he could try.

Bruce stayed downstairs to update computer files based on intel received from Spyral, but Tim and Tiger both followed Jason into the manor.

The rest of the family was standing around the kitchen benches, munching on sandwiches and cookies and fruit and a vegetable platter. Jason shoved Tiger towards the food, so he grabbed a tiny stick of celery. Celery was close enough to water that maybe he wouldn't feel sick eating it.

Cass offered him a reassuring pat on the arm, but mercifully did not attempt to hug him. Embarrassed that she had read him so well, but relieved that she could, he gave her a nod. Smiling was beyond him in that moment.

Tim told the group about Dick's condition. Possibly because they were tired after a long night, everyone quietly absorbed the information and kept eating. Tiger was also grateful for that. He was barely holding together. He did not need sympathy. He kept his gaze on the counter so he wouldn't make eye contact with anyone.

Tiger ate his celery as slowly as possible, but there came a point where to continue gnawing on a piece the size of his thumbnail would stick out as particularly ridiculous. Jason shoved a glass of water into his hand instead.

Most of them were still wearing their earpieces. Bruce's voice crackled to life in Tiger's ear.

“I have an update from Alfred,” he said. “No blood clot in the brain. Dick is not having a stroke. He is in severe pain, so it would appear that he has a particular type of migraine.”

The room collectively exhaled. Stephanie quickly passed the information to Damian, who was the only person not still wearing his earpiece. The group gradually began to trickle out for showers and bed. Tiger stayed put, sipping his water slowly. If he made any sudden moves, he definitely would start crying.

Jason stayed with him. “You'll be pleased to know Helena blew up the place, with a few extra explosives in that torture machine for good measure once she'd extracted all the data from it. She's hanging out in Gotham until Gloria's up to travelling. Don't know what she plans after that.”

Tiger shrugged. Helena had been tight-lipped about what she wanted once Spyral was no longer a threat. St Hadrian's still existed. It was a school as well as a headquarters. Perhaps Helena could shut the school down or replace all the staff and change it into something less espionage-oriented. Tiger didn't much care at this point.

“You've totally got a right to freak out, you know.” Jason leaned against the counter, ducking his head into Tiger's line of sight. “You've been through a lot.”

“I'll consider it once I've seen Dick,” Tiger said, draining the last of his water. He wasn't sure when Dick would be well enough for visitors. Migraines could last hours. He didn't want to make it harder on him just to satisfy his own anxiety.

His earpiece crackled and Alfred's voice floated in. “Master Tiger, do you have a moment?”

Tiger's heart jittered in his chest, which was simply ridiculous. This was not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe Dick was feeling better.

“Yes?” Tiger managed to keep his voice relatively even, but Jason still gave him a look.

“Master Dick is asking for you.”

“Is he well enough?”

“No, but he insists.”

Tiger felt a surge of warmth, tempered by frustration. Happy that Dick wanted to see him, but not so happy he was going to make himself feel worse just to have a few moments with him.

“I'm on my way,” Tiger said.

“What's up?” Jason asked.

“Dick is in no condition for visitors,” Tiger replied, rinsing his glass out in the sink. “But he wants to see me anyway.”

“Classic Dick.” Jason waved him on. “Go forth, my friend.”

“Never speak like that again.”

Jason snickered, shoving Tiger towards the door. “Get outta here.”

Tiger headed back to the batcave. Bruce was still working on the computer, but a sandwich had appeared beside him. Either Alfred was, in fact, a superhero who could be in two places at once, or someone else had brought it to him.

Alfred was waiting outside the door to the med bay. He beckoned Tiger over and said, in a low voice, “He is sensitive to light and sound, sir. Be careful.”

“I'll be quiet.”

“Only a few minutes. Then he needs to rest.” Alfred opened the door, waiting in the doorway while Tiger crossed to the bed in the middle of the med bay.

Dick was laid up on his back, a dark sleeping mask over his eyes. Alfred had covered him with soft blankets with a damp towel on his forehead.

The fingers on Dick's right hand twitched a little. “Tiger?” His face pinched with pain best it could, his right side moving the tiniest amount. The paralysis didn't seem has complete as it had before, but it was still there.

Tiger gently took his hand, running his thumb over Dick's knuckles. He wasn't entirely sure how much Dick could feel, but apparently it was enough. Dick let out a breath and sank a little into the pillow. He was still holding himself tightly, tensing every so often.

Dick squeezed his hand. There was no strength in it. Tiger brushed his lips against his knuckles and Dick managed a small smile.

Alfred put his hand on Tiger's shoulder, nodding towards the door. Tiger gave Dick's hand one more kiss and gently laid it back down, stroking his knuckles as he worked up the willpower to leave.

Then he left Dick to rest, hoping the pain would be gone by the morning.

A Port in a Storm

If you are at all interested, I have posted Chapter 1 of a longer fic. The link to the AO3 piece is at the bottom. Arames stared at the canvas ceiling to his tent, trying to make sense of his life. Or the past several weeks, at least. Leaving his family and clan. Traveling across the Waking Sea. Hiding in a seemingly endless rotation of stolen mercenary gear or servant's garb. He could have passed for a Circle mage if it had not been for the vallaslin on his face, so faint one could barely see it. Though few Circle mages, if any, would have been with a clan long enough to obtain their vallaslin and then be sent to a Circle. But anything was possible. The world had changed. A Grey Warden abomination had blown up the Kirkwall Chantry. The Circles had been dissolved and Templars had abandoned the Chantry. And he was simultaneously a prisoner and the savior of Thedas. A part of him was glad he had undergone only the first markings for his vallaslin. It would be easier to blend in. Creators, he had already been mistaken for a servant several times at Haven. One unsuspecting fellow made the mistake of calling him a knife ear within earshot of Cullen. The Commander could be quite formidable when angered. Arames found him distracting. The travel and tents were nothing new. Though he did miss the familiar rumble of the Aravalls and the gentle bleats of the grazing Halla. But that was were the familiarity stopped. He knew nothing of the world of men nor their Chantry. Before the Conclave, his contact with humans had been limited. He had never met a dwarf or Qunari before encountering Varric and Iron Bull. They were at least open to Arames' endless questions. He had been less successful talking with Solas or Sera. The former viewed the Dalish as children making up stories, while the latter steered clear of anything “too elfy.” Whatever that meant. Sometimes he could pretend that he was still with his clan. That his hand did not glow or ache with a newfound magic he could barely contain. He could pretend his sister’s magic had not manifested, leaving their clan with four mages. But it was harder with his current roommate. Bull snored loudly next to him and muttered in an unfamiliar language. Qunlat, probably. The large Qunari's presence reminded Arames that it did not matter. He was here now. He would have left his clan no matter what. Better the Herald of Andraste than a mercenary or worse. He wondered if he would have resorted to selling his body, as so many Dalish had done before. Based on the offers from the more unsavory merchants their clan ran across, he'd fetch a good price. Didn't matter now. Whether or not he believed in a Maker, he was tied to this organization for the rest of his days. And now time magic and a Magister in Redcliffe. Creators, what was next? A Tevinter ally, for one. Arames played they day over and over again, trying to remember what he noticed first. Everything, it seemed. From the man's impressive display of magic, to his crooked smile, to the mischievous glint in his eyes, Dorian was occupying more than a fair amount of space in Arames' mind. Arames rubbed his eyes. He heard a soft rumble next to him. He glanced over, Bull was awake and grinning over at him. “That ‘Vint on your mind?” “How did you—?” Bull chuckled. “He seems your type.” “Is it that obvious?” Arames sighed. “No, Boss, it isn't. Ben-Hassrath, remember? But enough of the serving girls have been falling over you the last few weeks and the only more oblivious person in Haven might be Cullen. And he's got his own reasons.” “Fair enough. It doesn't bother you, does it?” “Me? Nah. None of my business. Frankly, Boss, it's no one's business. Anyone gives you a hard time let me know and I'll set ‘em straight. Sort to speak.” Arames let a few moments of silence before speaking up again. “What are your thoughts on Dorian?” Bull grunted. “He is pretty. But so are most dangerous things.” “That's what Blackwall said about Vivienne. How the poisonous snakes are always more colorful.” “There’s truth in that. I wouldn't cross Viv.” Arames sat up and looked Bull in the eyes, or eye, as it were. “I do not always make the best decisions…” He stammered. “Aww, sure you do. Look you're just a kid, Boss. You're—how old again?” “Twenty, barely.” “Yeah. When I was your age they were sending me out to Seheron. It's hard to have this kind of power or authority when you don't feel like you earned it. But you've got good instincts. The important thing is to listen to those around you. Don't just decide you know best. A good leader takes advice and suggestions and makes adjustments. Just keep doing that.” “Thanks, Bull.” “No problem, Boss.” The Qunari yawned and stretched. He took up most of the tent. Arames found it comforting. A few minutes passed when Bull startled Arames. “Don't worry, Boss. You'll see him again.” Arames bit his lip. "Creators protect me, I hope so." Bull was right. Dorian burst through the doors in the back of the Chantry with more flair and swagger than Arames could have imagined. His confidence was awe inspiring. And seductive. Cullen wanted none of it. It was not strategic to risk the one means of closing rifts in a futile attempt to get mages to close the Breach. Arames felt reckless. His life had been forfeit since he awoke with the mark on his left hand. Wasn't it only a matter of time? And while he had grown used to the quiet ache in his hand, the jaw pain was irritating. But Dorian had promised a means to get Leliana's people inside. Which meant a chance at actually getting the mages to join the Inquisition. Arames recalled his time in Redcliffe only a few days prior. Many of the free mages were elderly, infirm, or children. One small girl reminded him of his sister. And then the tranquil. Sera had picked the lock on a whim, hoping to find something worth selling when she stumbled upon a room filled with skulls, gemstones jammed into the eye sockets. Ocularum, Solas had called them. Made from the skulls of tranquil and mounted on to wooden stakes all over Thedas. Arames had run out of the room to vomit. Sera soon joined him. Bull rubbed his back. “Watch the boots, Boss.” Arames nodded and heaved. “I thought they were with the rebel mages,” Cassandra muttered as she left the cabin. She shook her head and looked over at Bull. “I should have looked harder.” Arames wiped his mouth and spat on the ground. He took a swig from Varric’s water skin to rinse out his mouth. “We cannot let Alexius keep the mages.” Cassandra nodded. He repeated it in the War Room. There were too many lives in the balance. Cassandra and Leliana agreed. Cullen acquiesced. So Arames had given the orders and now Dorian was sitting across from him at the Seagull as they went over their plans one last time. “I will accompany the assassins through the hidden entrance and disable any of Alexius’ wards or other security measures.” Arames nodded. “While Cassandra, Bull and I go through the main entrance and provide enough of a distraction to allow you safe passage. Meanwhile, Varric and Sera,” Arames pointed at the dwarf and young elven archer, “will wait at the Inn. If we don't come out after…how long was it?” “Two hours,” Sera said. “We agreed on three,” Varric corrected her. “Should be two,” she grumbled. “Creepy mages…” “After three hours, if there is no news, they send word however they can to Haven. By any means necessary.” They nodded in affirmation. “I do not like putting you at risk,” Cassandra fretted. “None of us do,” Bull countered, “but it's a necessary risk. Provided you do your job.” Bull leveled his gaze on Dorian. For just a moment Arames saw uncertainty in the handsome Tevinter man’s face. But then it was gone. “Of course I can.” His eyes traveled and lingered on Arames, as if seeing him for the first time. Arames smiled. Dorian smiled back, his eyes studying the Herald of Andraste. Arames was used to people staring. They had done so his whole life. His eyes were often the first feature people would comment on. Icy green, the color of elfroot in a frost, with flecks of blue. They seemed to simply reflect light wherever he was. Like a cat. If it was not his eyes, then it would be his hair. Arames was grateful he had cut his hair when he came to Ferelden. He had started growing it when he had been named Keeper Deshana’s apprentice. He got less attention with his hair cropped close to his scalp. He thought of it as simply brown, but thanks to a particularly persistent young server in the Haven tavern he had learned it was a rich chestnut, with streaks of auburn and gold. His skin was tanned from the sun, and soft freckles adorned his nose, which offset his full lips, high cheekbones, and square jaw. He felt heat creep up his neck as he felt the intensity of Dorian’s gaze. Bull had described Dorian as pretty. And he was. He was tall, with broad shoulders and was strong, especially for a Mage. Mostly because Dorian used his staff as a physical weapon, not just a means to concentrate his magic, chiseling the man’s upper body. Bull would likely have some competition with the pretty young girls in Haven. Bull slung an arm over Arames’ shoulder. “Boss,” he whispered gently. Arames looked up at the giant next to him and then back at Dorian. The mage was suddenly studying his hands intently. Cassandra was scowling and Varric and Sera were sharing a bemused expression. “Oh, Creators,” Arames muttered. “It wasn't that long.” Bull whispered, smiling. “But there was that thing you wanted to do.” Arames cleared his throat. “Sera.” “Yes, all-touched Herald?” She had a wicked grin. “I have something I need you to do. It's important.” Her smile faded and she scowled. “What is it?” He pulled an envelope from his tunic and handed it to her. “Should I…should I not return, I need you to make sure that this gets to my clan. To my sister.” “All right…” She said. She studied the letter suspiciously. “You have a sister?” Cassandra did not try to hide her surprise. Arames nodded. “Two, actually. Both younger. But Izzy, she's only twelve. She's…fragile. She should know what became of me. And that she should run.” “Why'd you leave then, if she's so fragile?” “Keeper Deshana will take care of her. It is better that I am not there.” It was the first time he had mentioned his clan or any family to other members of the Inquisition. For the first time since he awoke in shackles he felt like crying. “Please, Sera. It is import to me. If anything happened to her.” His voice cracked. Bull squeezed his shoulder. “Yes, fine.” She stuffed the letter somewhere. “Thank you.” They sat in silence. Finally Arames cleared his throat and stood up. “Well, shall we head up to the castle?” http://archiveofourown.org/works/8757226/chapters/20073634