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the-art-of-styles · 3 years

Text

Ping-Pong

✧ Aylin and Harry go out to sell some jams and come back to a disaster in one of their homes.

Word count: 1783

Warnings: short mention of eating disorder/disordered eating/calories

Part I

Part II (you’re here!)

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Part VII

Part VIII

Mrs. Mendes is an old woman, she has lines of love around her eyes and lips that show how happy she was throughout her life, also on her forehead, showing how she was amazed by even the tiniest things that were introduced to her.

She has lived her entire life in the village, and everyone knows her for her exquisite blackberry jams. Aylin's mom used to buy her 2 mason jars every month for her daughter to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, until Aylin was 10 years old and she stopped.

"No more, Aylin, you've been gaining a lot of weight. A lot of calories, few wasted."

Those words had consequences, at the tough and young age of 11, Aylin entered a diet low in carbs and fats, where she lost a lot of weight, but from so much restriction, she began a cycle of sometimes bingeing where she couldn't stop to eat for all that she could not taste.

For all that she could not live.

At just eleven.

Eleven years old.

Already at twelve she had somewhat overcome her eating disorder, according to her mother, she was still a bit chubby, but Aylin was always a strong woman, and when she looked in the mirror she wondered, what was so bad about not being thin?

She loved food, and didn't think about going back to that hell she went through for months. Fuck the diet.

Mrs. Mendes walked through the only green park in town until she sat down on a yellow bench and took out of her bag some bread crumbs to give to the pigeons that were listening to human affairs. Aylin was walking her dog, Luna, she has no breed and she rescued her from the street when she was about to be run over. Well, she didn't rescue her, a man who had the necklace of a moon saved her and gave her to Aylin as she witnessed all of it (crying). He did not live there and didn't have the time or the space to have a pet, so there she is, walking her new best friend until she sees the old woman and her heart warms and a smile emanates from her lips.

"Mrs. Mendes!" She screamed and began to jog with Luna until she reached the old woman, she looked at her and her eyes narrowed at her smile.

"Oh Aylin dear, you look so big!"

"Yep, I'm 5'1 now, almost 5'2! Isn't that incredible? I'm going to be so big."

"I'm sure you will honey. Who's that?"

After Aylin told her the whole story, the two talked about different things while feeding crumbs to the pigeons who listened attentively to their conversation.

"Hey darling, you know I sell jams right?" Mrs. Mendes suddenly said, making Aylin look at her smiling.

"Of course! The most exquisite in the whole town!"

The woman smiled flattered, "Oh cut it. . . Anyways, in my house I have many done, raspberry, blackberry—"

"I love the blackberry one!" The little interrupted without thinking, instantly embarrassed to do so. "Sorry. . . continue."

Mrs. Mendes just laughed, "It doesn't matter. Well, uh, what was I saying? Ah! Yes! So, I don't have a way to sell them, you know, I'm an old lady and I can't go from house to house delivering so I was wondering if you—"

"Oh god! Can I go deliver the jams? It would be amazing! I would wear white and I would go with a brown basket that I have on my bike and– Ah!" Aylin squealed with excitement, "I could go with Harry! He's my friend, even though he lied to me. . . but I already forgave him, the Smiths adopted him, the house across from mine. Oh yeah, can I, please?"

Mrs. Mendes got confused every time she spoke to Aylin, she always talked a lot and very fast and changed the subject all the time, but she liked her, she liked that she was fast and not slow, it made her feel young.

If only that speed so characteristic of hers had remained.

"Yes, darling, you can. And I'd like to meet this Harry boy."

"Oh, you'll love him! I love him, he's my best friend."

"No."

"Pleaseeeeeeeee!"

"I really don't feel like selling jams."

"But it's so nice! People will be so happy! And you'd meet so many people from this town. Harryyyyyy!"

Harry sometimes feels very exasperated when he’s with Aylin. She always tries to involve him in things of the town; recreational activities, meetings, whatever, but even though the Smiths have kept him and a part of him begins to really believe that this family will be forever, he can't help but not want to get too fond of living there because at this point he doesn't think his heart could bear to bleed in pain once more.

But anyway, he likes that Aylin is like that, so persistent with him since it's not something that he has lived in his life, they always get bored of him and never look for him, he is the one doing it, but now he is different and the feeling that brings him makes him fall asleep at night.

Puppy eyes. "Please, Harry?"

He just rolled his eyes, irritated with himself because he knew exactly what the next word would be that would slide off his tongue in a harsh way, but she would eat it anyway. "Fine."

She squealed, he groaned.

"Thank you so much, kids. I missed this jams, and say thank you for my part to Mrs. Mendes, ya?" A woman in her forties with black hair waved them off at the door of her house, exchanging the money for the jams.

"We sure will! See you!"

They have been selling since twelve in the morning, now the sky was burning and the clouds too, the cold was beginning to descend and there were fewer and fewer people in the streets and more in their homes. The treetops danced to the sweet whispers of the wind, Aylin joining them on the empty streets.

"Wasn't that so fun?! We selled everything, we should get into business when we grow up, don't you think, H?"

"Yeah sure," he replied sarcastically. Aylin always notices the comments that Harry makes and when some are real and when they are not, she is not stupid, she just ignores them because she knows that deep down he must like part of the things they do, because otherwise, he would have left her long ago. Besides, that makes her feel better, she doesn't like to think that she bores people, especially when she knows that it is something real, something that has been said to her face.

Honestly, Harry must admit that it wasn't a total torture. Hearing Aylin talk so much is fun to him, she always has an opinion on something, and she is always in awe of things that she sees every day.

Actually, Harry likes Aylin. Not in a romantic way, he knows about feelings and everything, he even knows about porn, but he has never seen her that way and he doesn't think he will ever see her like that. It's not that she's not pretty, he finds her quite cute, but it's just a friendship for him.

His first friendship.

As they turned to get to the street where their houses are, the two noticed the great fight in one of them.

Harry stopped walking, and Aylin kept doing it.

Her mother was throwing an open suitcase on the head of her father, who fell to the ground and began to pick up his things at full speed while she insulted him.

At that point, Aylin started running.

"Mum! Dad! What – what is going on?!" She squealed in concern, walking over to her dad and squatting next to him to make sure he's okay. "Why do you have a suitcase? Where are you going?"

"He'll go fuck his assistant, that's for sure!" The mother screamed with hatred, regardless of the language she spoke in front of two children or whoever was listening (and there were several people).

"His assistant? But, what? Mr. Gomez?" Aylin asked extremely confused with her eyebrows furrowing.

"Exactly." She spit out to her husband and turned around on her own heels, dragging her feet into the house and slamming the door that almost made the whole town rumble.

"D-dad?" Aylin asked with her eyes swimming in a sea of tears, but she didn't allow her cheeks to turn into rivers.

"I'm so sorry, baby. I really am." The father composed himself and stood up, giving his daughter a long kiss on the forehead and then walking with suitcase in hand and head down, like the end of a movie where there is a climax where you think everything will be fine but in the outcome it all goes to shit and they lose everything.

"Wha– Where are you–" She sighed, her father far enough away not to hear her, "...going." She whispered, feeling a crack form in her heart that hurt like a hundred stabs dipped in the hottest lava of the worst hell.

Harry was at a safe distance, but he heard everything and saw everything as did some neighbors looking out in their windows to feed the curious cat without risking death. He understood everything and had a knot in his stomach from seeing his friend without life in her eyes, and being so painfully slow.

What a plot twist. He was gay. The dad, of course.

Aylin sat dejectedly on the edge of the sidewalk, staring at the grayish of the street without knowing what she was thinking about. She is always thinking, she is always saying something, but now there is nothing in her mind, white paint fell on the canvas and there are no more available brushes to paint on top of it.

The curly boy did not know what to do, he is not a person of a lot of words, and besides, what do you say to someone in a situation like this? "I'm sorry your dad is gay." Sounds a bit homophobic. So he chose to approach slowly as he usually does, he has always been slow, and although sometimes Aylin is exasperated that he sees everything and does everything in slow motion, deep down he conveyed a certain tranquility that she could not create by herself. Harry sat next to her and rubbed her back.

He didn't knew if she was crying or not, but he wasn't going to ask anything either, so he just sat with her while she hurt.

And he wished that swiftness of hers had never gone away.

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles writing #harry styles blurbs #fanfiction #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles x oc

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gatherthesuspectspod · 3 years

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Our London Podcast Festival Script

Two weeks ago, Gather The Suspects were invited to perform a short live piece as part of the Audio Drama Debuts Hour. We had such a blast and while we don’t have a recording of the brand new material we performed, here is the script we performed in full:

GATHER THE SUSPECTS: LONDON PODCAST FESTIVAL

SCENE 1: INT: JACK AND KARA’S FLAT

JACK and GERAINT are sat in JACK’S flat. They are playing a game on the PlayStation…

JACK: Get him! Get him! Aaaaah, balls. G, why didn’t you cover me!

GERAINT: I told you I’m rubbish at this game

JACK: Are you still stuck in the doorway at the spawn point… hah - you are! What a noob! Coo-ey…Geraint...

GERAINT: Hey! No friendly fire!

JACK: Ger, you know the rules, if it’s part of the game then it’s all fair…

GERAINT: You shot my guy blank in the face… I really don’t see how that’s part of the ga- oooh, I have another life left!

JACK: You don’t get lives anymore in games, G… this isn’t the 80s

GERAINT: What about Super Mario?

JACK: Nope… you run out of lives, you just lose coins now…

GERAINT: I dunno, society really is beyond repair! Talking of which…what about this ‘big case’ you’ve been working on... (reacting to the game) Ha-hah! I’m out of the door! Finally! (back to Jack) I’m guessing, as you’re sat here with me getting your arse kicked at video games... likely by some random twelve-year-olds… that it’s going swimmingly!

JACK: Hey, I’m not getting my arse kicked… I’m just… never mind that. I have a day off...Who’d have thought going undercover would be so exhausting!

GERAINT: Yeah, to be honest, the thought of you having a job is still quite amusing, even if it is just for appearance’s sake.

JACK: Hey, what’s so funny about me having a job?

GERAINT: (laughing) Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s the… (Jack shoots him a look)

GERAINT: (composing himself) Oh, you were serious... Oh, nothing…just didn’t really see it as your...um… ‘scene,’ that’s all... So, you reckon you can solve it?

JACK: Uh-huh…

GERAINT: Aaand?

JACK: Just uh-huh… nothing much to write home about yet, really.

GERAINT: Jack, it’s a murder, surely there must be something exciting! Like what happened?

JACK: Angry boss…disgruntled employees... shot, by the looks of it… (reacting to the game) YES! Take that… right in the…(remembers what they were talking about)... oh, uuh… that’s about it really…

GERAINT: “That’s about it?” Sounds like quite a big deal to me… so, you got any suspects?

JACK: That’s the problem right now… there is literally an entire office full of ‘em! But, it’s my day off and I am not thinking about it… just going to chill here and play some…

SOUND: PHONEVIBE.WAV

JACK: (Sighs)... hello…

KARA (on phone): Hey…

JACK: Hey Kara

KARA (on phone): Guess what?

JACK: The office has burned down and I don’t have to go back to work tomorrow?

KARA (on phone): Hah, you wish… no… Harrison just announced in the morning meeting that the police are coming in today to search everyone’s lockers… The whole sales team is freaking out!

JACK: (excitedly) What!? The police are actually doing something? I can just imagine their panicked little faces!

KARA (on phone): Dai blew up at Harrison in the meeting and called it ‘an affront to his human rights...” Like, since when has douchebag Dai cared about anyone’s human rights when he’s been sleazing his way around the office.

JACK: Ooooh, I’m coming in!

KARA (on phone): You won’t be allowed… your card won’t let you into the building if you’re booked off on holiday…

JACK: What about if I ask Harrison about coming in? Surely he’ll -

KARA (on phone): You’ll be lucky, he’s gone golfing. You’ll just have to wait for me to get home and fill you in on all the fun and games, I’m afraid.

JACK: Gaah! Just give me a call if they find anything, alright?

KARA (on phone): Jack, it’s the police... they couldn’t find anything if it was surrounded by a big shiny arrow and neon writing declaring ‘I’m a clue’. Think you are safe on that one… It will be interesting to see how people react though. Like I said, they all seem pretty worried at the mo... Me and V are going to watch - I’ll let you know if any fireworks happen.

JACK: Thanks, K. Bye.

KARA (on phone): Tarra, bye.

Phone beeps as JACK hangs up.

JACK: Ger, get your coat… we are going to work……..

GERAINT: What?! Now? I was just getting the hang of this bloody thing too!

JACK: I’ll explain on the way. We are going on a stakeout!

SCENE 2: EXT: WELTEL CAR PARK

We open on JACK and GERAINT stood in the carpark of the Weltel call centre.

JACK: Oooh, how exciting, our first stakeout!

GERAINT: While I’d like to share your enthusiastic outlook on the situation, couldn’t you at least have hired a car or something… just standing here in the open staring at the building doesn’t feel very… well, ‘discrete’, quite frankly.

JACK: (mocking) Oh, I’m sorry ‘chief inspector’, I would have gone for the usual unmarked car with tinted windows, but the carpool budget has been rather reduced since, you know, the world fell apart.

GERAINT: Alright, alright. I was just saying... We aren’t exactly inconspicuous stood here though, are we? Particularly when you keep looking through those opera glasses!

JACK: I was rushing and couldn’t find my binoculars…

GERAINT: Why do you even have opera glasses anyway… have you ever even been to the opera -

JACK: (interrupting) Shush! Look… (whispering) act natural… (they act very unnatural, suspiciously looking around staring at the sky and their shoes.

GERAINT starts to whistle and turns away from the mic) what’s she doing?

GERAINT: Who is it? I can’t see because of all the acting natural….

JACK: (gives up whispering) Oh, just turn around, mun. Look, it’s Amy…

GERAINT: Jack, you seem to forget, I don’t work here… I have literally no idea who that is!

JACK: OK, so… Amy is married to Dai, who is possibly having an affair with the other Amy, who is definitely selling coke in the toilets to Hikari, who got in a fight with Harrison, who is having an affair with Julie, which was discovered by Cathy...

GERAINT: Who swallowed the fly… but, we are yet to discover why she swallowed said fly… perhaps…

JACK: Don’t be facetious… It’s Cathy who has been murdered, mun…

GERAINT: Aah

JACK: Get it now…

GERAINT: (unsure) Uuuh, not entirely… no… it sounds like being in school again!

JACK: Very much is, G. Just exchange flashing your rare pokemon cards around the playground for flashing your five-figure Rolex around the weekly stats meeting... and it’s basically the same.

GERAINT: What’s she doing, can you see?

JACK: She’s stuffing something into the wheelie bins…

SOUND: DOOR.WAV

JACK: Good she’s gone… let’s go see what it was…

SOUND: DOOR.WAV

GERAINT: Wait… who’s that…

JACK: That’s douchebag Dai… let’s just hang back here a bit…

GERAINT: Douchebag Dai?

JACK: Yup… his name is David and he is a douchebag… easy enough…

GERAINT: And he is the one selling coke in the toilets?

JACK: No, keep up, G… That’s Amy… the other Amy… the one that Dai is sleeping with and not the Amy he’s married to and just saw shove stuff furtively into a wheelie bin.

GERAINT: She’s isn’t the only one either… look where your Douchebag Dai’s headed…

JACK: The bins! Quick, what’s he holding, G… can you see?

GERAINT: (sarcastically) Why don’t you take a look with your opera glasses?

JACK: Aaah too late, he’s stuffed it in there…

SOUND: DOOR.WAV

JACK: Right, quick let’s go see what…

SOUND: DOOR.WAV

JACK: (annoyed and too loud) Aah, Jesus Christ! What now...

GERAINT: Sssshhhhh!

JACK: Uh-oh, she’s looking around… duck.

GERAINT: Back to my earlier point… I’m not sure ‘absolutely nothing’ provides us with the best form of cover for quickly ducking out of sight...

JACK: Look, It’s not like I’m particularly experienced in hiding around spying on unsuspecting people, is it…just get over here by these flower beds… Oooh, It’s Julie!

GERAINT: Another one heading to the wheelie bins! (innocently) Clean office, is it?

JACK: Like the Tour de France, G

SOUND: DOOR.WAV

JACK: Let’s just hang back and check no-one else wants to empty the content of their guilty conscience in the bin before we go… (wait and look around)

GERAINT: I think we’re good

JACK: Right, let’s have a look at what we’ve got… (lifting the lid) Eeeeugh it stinks… (they both peer into the bin)...look there’s some stuff right down there at the bottom… G climb in and get it - I’ll hold the lid…

GERAINT: I’m not climbing in there! This is your case, you climb in there...

JACK: Well I can’t go in, it’ll set off my asthma…

GERAINT: Since when have you had asthma?

JACK: (coughing for effect) I don’t tell you everything about my life, you know, Ger...and, if you must know, it comes and goes…

GERAINT: What? like, comes when you don’t want to do the dirty work yourself and goes all the rest of the time…

JACK: My doctor said I’m not to go near anything that could set it off, like dust.. Or uum…

GERAINT: Hard work? Oh, for goodness sake, just give me a boost in, OK? But you owe me! (JACK helps GERAINT into the bin) So… what have we got here… (rustles around in the small amount of rubbish covering the floor of the bin.) Some receipts for a restaurant called ‘Chez Henri’ and what looks like a stack of love letters badly wrapped up in cellotape… here you go…

JACK: (reading) “To my Darling, H. Each moment I stare at you through the glass is pure torture…” Well, that’s creepy! Anything else…

GERAINT: A lot of empty tinfoil packets… you sure you had the right Amy?

JACK: Well I didn’t say who else she was selling the stuff to...

GERAINT: There’s a folder in here too… It’s got pictures in here of Harrison and Julie… wait, there’s something else in the back part… oh my god… Jack - It’s a gun!

JACK: What?! Let’s have a - Jeeeeesus, that’s a bloody gun!

GERAINT: I see why you have developed such a good reputation for your detective skills… What are we going to do with it?

JACK: Look don’t touch it - I’ll…

POLICEMAN: Hey!

JACK: Oh bloody hell, it’s the fuzz… hide (Jack slams the lid shut and runs)

GERAINT: (whispering angrily) Jack! What? Let me out of here! I swear to god I’m going to…

The POLICEMAN walks over and lifts the lid

GERAINT: (flustered) Uh, hi?

POLICEMAN: Hello, sir… may I enquire as to why you are sat inside a wheelie bin holding a gun?

GERAINT: I...Uh… oh bloody hell

---End---

#Gather The Suspects #audio drama #audio fiction #podcast #podcasts #comedy #audio comedy #cozy mystery

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talltales · 5 years

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a person between / jb·yn·jy

au: small-town childhood sweethearts, big new world rated: 15+ genre: angst warnings: cheating

« view the scene masterlist »

scene 1

—IF YOUR MIND SHOULD SWAY, IT'S NOT A SECRET YOU SHOULD KEEP.

“so you didn’t do anything, all those late nights studying in the library? spending all that time with your fantastically helpful t.a.?”

the tell-tale hiss of the words betray him even if the clenching of his jaw doesn’t, a splotch of red has taken residence across his cheeks—a spattered display that draws the eye even if it hurts to watch him dissect her words. jaebeom is livid. his anger burns white, and she feels it scorching her from the other end of their small living room.

immediately, she regrets saying it aloud—the little mantra she’d been repeating under her breath on the long, cold walk home. her teeth had chattered the entire way; arms wrapped tightly around the thick bundle of cloth she’d dared to wear while kissing another man.

god, help her.

when she’d taken jaebeom’s jacket from his side of the closet their freshman year, she’d reasoned that she had a right to it—to his things. now it stings to touch and even now, it hangs at her side, sleeve twisted between her fingers. she wrings it when he steps closer; tries to quell the wild, painful pounding in her chest.

she knows he’d never hurt her, but something in his eyes tells her not to look away.

he’s almost a stranger, she thinks, showing so much emotion.

and he’s expecting her to say something. for the first time in a long time, she finds herself at a loss. the excuses that come so clearly to mind fall silent on her tongue. instead she fumbles around clumsy apologies and clenches his jacket ever-tighter, “no, nothing else. nothing else happened. i stopped it there.”

the words ring false to her own ears, as guilt-laden as they are. how had she let it get so far? hadn’t she been wishing for park jinyoung to act on the looks he gave her? the attention that she consumed like a starved child?

ruefully, she wonders if he’ll ever forgive her for being so fucking hungry.

“you stopped it there?” he reads her as well as he always has, she finds, closing the distance between them with sure steps. unconsciously, she steps back, bunching the cloth in her hands in front of her hips—he’s a stranger tonight. “why did he think it was okay to kiss you?”

because i let him, she thinks, and sinks her teeth into her lower lip until the pain overpowers the bitterness lingering at the back of her throat, “i’m sorry.” she whispers, tearing her eyes away from him to count the divots in their ceiling; the pressure in her chest only increases with each ascending number. his footsteps gradually become louder, more pressing.

she takes another step back.

“why did he think it was okay to kiss you?” his fingertips, always so gentle, press into the inside of her wrist and pull her forward, “stop running. look at me.” the order comes out strained; so quiet that it takes a moment to register over the sound of her pulse thrumming in her ears.

it only makes the knot tangled up in her throat grow. she shakes her head, burying her fingertips into the warmth of his jacket, “i’m not running.” even as she murmurs the denial, she hears him exhale;

a weary sound.

as if he’d gone to sleep and woken with the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders. jaebeom, who has—for as long as she’s known him—stood with a straight back, head tilted to the sky, is slumping. he tries to meet her gaze from beneath the haze of her fringe, and even from the edge of her vision, she catches the odd glassiness of his eyes in the light.

the tell-tale glisten of tears clinging to his lashes.

“god—” the utterance comes without her permission, a prayer whispered against the feeling of her heart splitting clear in two. maybe to ease the pain he was so clearly feeling; maybe to ease the guilt and shame rushing forth to suffocate her. she had done this to him. “jaebeom, i am so sorry.”

she had done this to them.

“stop apologizing and look at me.” he’s frustrated again, this man in jaebeom’s body, showing her things that she feels she has no business seeing. he grits his teeth and she struggles against the burning behind her eyes; fights it because she doesn’t deserve something as self-pitying as tears. his fingers slide into her hair, warm against her temples and firm when they guide her head upward.

god, help her.

one glance, and she feels as if she’s intruding on him—seeing more of him than she’s ever known; this quiet, composed man that spends more time with his head in the clouds than contained inside of his own body; with his eyes on his books more than on her. all logic and no feeling, im jaebeom.

but he’s gone. in his shoes stands an imposter; an angry, wounded man that suddenly resembles the boy next door she knew with too many dreams to hold within the confines of his mind—so many they spilled out anytime he opened his mouth. though those habits had faded with time, and she had noticed the difference too late.

she hates herself for wondering, could he forgive her for being so hungry?

“look at me,” he says, and she finally locks eyes with him. it hurts as badly as she had imagined, walking the ten blocks back to their small apartment. her breath comes out in a shaky sigh, chased by something far too close to a whimper to be anything but.

he’s as beautiful as he’s always been. soft lips and sharp sharp eyes—twin moles perched beneath one of his brows. she remembers thinking they were piercings as a little girl, before she really understood what piercings were. he’s soft angles and bright, clear skin—the angry red splotch on his cheeks is still there, though faded.

her heart still breaks for him.

“what did i do?” he finally asks, so so quietly after a minute spent watching her, watching him. she can’t help the sob that slips out, unbidden, at the confusion displayed so clearly in the furrowing of his brow, the downward tilt of those perfect lips, and the veiled request for mercy she can read in his gaze.

god, help me, she pleads. i’ve broken this man.

“i’m sorry. i should go,” stepping back, she gathers her bag between rattling fingers and runs for the door without daring to look behind her. the jacket lies in a heap at his feet. it wasn’t hers to take anymore, “i’m so sorry. please forgive me.”

don’t cry. you don’t deserve to cry.

she runs.

#label: i #got7 fanfic #got7 au #jaebeom au #jinyoung au

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the-foxes-fangs · 5 years

Text

I Wish I Was the Moon Part IX

As always, tagging the wonderful @louveau and @you-mass-effect-my-dragon-age <3 extra tag for @otomediary who has been so patient <3

Part I//Part II//Part III/Part IV//Part V//Part VI//Part VII//Part VIII

Warnings: Angst, otherwise sfw

***

He had left her regretfully, slipping away in the dead stillness of the winter night, the cold stealing her warmth from him and leaving nothing but a dull tired ache behind. He wished that he could taste her, could know her scent, could burn it into his memory the way that the texture of her skin and the feeling of her hair slipping through his fingers stayed with him, and would for far longer than he wanted to admit to himself.

Changing back into his usual clothing in the icy light of dawn made their time together feel even more like a fading dream, already receding into an unfathomable distance. There were moments, few, but vivid, that divided his life cleanly into what had been before, and what came after. He could feel the demarcation like a prison door slamming closed. He had only himself to blame for making it a ragged tear and not a clean cut.

He found Kyubei waiting for him as agreed, and greeted him with a nod.

“As you predicted, my lord, the former nun is one of Kennyo’s, but she was paid by someone else.” He said as they rode astride.

“Those monks have just as much reason to hate me as Nobunaga, but I don’t see him having the patience for fighting by eliminating the Oda vassals one by one.” Mitsuhide answered, too tired to be indirect.

It had been unlikely that the attempt on Nobunaga’s life had come from peasants plotting a rebellion but part of him had hoped that there was an outside chance that he could clean up the mess without blowing the embers of war into a conflagration. There were simple, straightforward reasons for a peasant rebellion-- concessions could be made, needs could be met.

But the tangled warp and weft of personal pride, loyalty, spite, ambition and vengefulness that drove those higher in the hierarchy was impossible to satisfy by its very nature. The ghosts of Mt. Hiei and Tanba castle wouldn’t be laid to rest so easily.

The day was still and gloomy, the town barely stirring as he rode toward the castle to make his official return. A crust had frozen over the snow that creaked under the hooves of his horse, and made every pace sound more reluctant than the last. He caught a glimpse of someone in green beside the castle wall, before they vanished with a speed and skill that marked them as a spy.

Guards greeted him ceremoniously, as did his retainers, lined up as neatly as archers on the battlefield, and like archers, it was impossible to tell just which one had an arrow nocked for him.

He arranged for a council to be called by mid-day, and spent the rest of the morning examining intercepted correspondence and interrogating them in the guise of casual conversations. He relied on instinct as much as experience to keep from overplaying his hand, to keep his true loyalties a question that became a trap. The field narrowed itself as the day dragged on and he began to assemble the various bits of information into a cohate pattern.

Staff filed in and out to answer the same handful of questions during the council-- questions whose answers were less relevant than the reaction they elicited from from those being asked and those watching.

She finally filed in dutifully behind the other seamstresses, attempting with moderate success to stem her habit or boldly studying people. She was an object of curiosity in her own right by now, drawing gazes that ranged from lecherous to calculating as she approached the dais.

“Since you’ve only recently joined us, I have no questions for you.” He said, feigning as much disinterest as was possible.

She kept her face down, but he caught the most fleeting glimpse of amusement in her expression before she composed herself, bowing lower than she ever normally would’ve and addressing him with more formality than she had used since the night they had met. “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

Perfectly polite to everyone watching them and outrageously mocking just for him. He kept his usual smile fixed on his face, but he was fighting laughter. It was hard to believe that she was the same wide-eyed, terrified woman that had emerged from the fire acting as if she had only just fallen to earth that same night. Whatever her unfamiliarity with the mores and customs of the upper class, only a fool would deny that she had more than enough grit to make up for it.

By the time he made his way to her in the night he had a reasonable outline of the conspiracy and its participants, and had formulated a loose plan. She was asleep, and he sat down beside her, her face illuminated in a circle of winter moonlight, as soft and cold as the hand he laid upon her head. She stirred and blinked sleepily at him before she sat up with a yawn.

“I had given up on seeing you tonight,” she said, her voice thick with sleep, yawning again and adding “my lord,” sardonically.

“My but you’ve grown bold. Wherever has the little mouse who was afraid to look me in the eye gone?” He answered, as he felt along the floor for the hiding place he knew was there.

“I wasn’t afraid of you, as much as I was afraid of your mind-reading abilities.” She said offhandedly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

He loosened the floorboard and left the letter detailing the names of the conspirators in the hole below.

“Now I wonder why you’d be afraid of me reading your mind?” He asked, returning to sit next to her and smooth out her bedhead.

“Not everyone wants their barely restrained lust to be an open book a few days into meeting someone, naturally.” She answered, leaning against his shoulder comfortably as he draped an arm over her.

“Oh is that all? You did a wretched job of hiding it.” He replied, pulling her closer.

“I have no regrets.” She said with a soft laugh. “Did you know that you always, always smell like gunpowder?” She asked as she leaned into his chest.

“I suppose I do.” He answered, flatly. “You’re taking too many pages from my book, my dear. A normal person would’ve asked me what I just hid away.”

“I’ve never once claimed to be normal. But I do have enough pattern recognition to realize that you’ll tell me what you want, when you want, if you want. I’m not here to change you.” She answered, looking out the small window into the clear frozen sky.

“How fortunate for us both, since I lack both the capacity and desire.”

He looked down at her face, and tried to pick out the shadows there from the night. “If something should happen to me, find Kyubei and tell him that I left a letter for the Oda forces there. He’ll get you back to Azuchi.”

“I guess we’re both a little unusual tonight. You’re being very direct.”

“I’m just telling you what I want to, little mouse.”

“I’m guessing that means that you’ve got an idea of who sent the haori?”

“Your commitment to not asking questions faded fast.” He answered, looking into her searching eyes.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” she said, quirking a brow up at him, and adding “but satisfaction brought it back to life.”

He stretched languidly and slid down into the warmth of her bedding, head on her lap as if it belonged there. There was no calculation in her expression, only honest concern. “I have a good idea. Although I think I saw an Uesugi spy rather far from home this morning, so the ravens may truly be circling.” He said, as she ran her fingers rhythmically through his hair.

“I had the impression that Kenshin Uesugi was too direct for an assassination attempt from sitting in on war councils.” She said, tracing the line of his jaw with a feather light touch, as if memorizing his face.

“He keeps rather shifty company, I’m afraid.” He said, and reached up to fold her hand in his.

“I don’t expect any details, Mitsuhide. But I hope that you aren’t planning anything reckless.” She said, concern on her face and in her tone.

“Have you confused me with Masamune?” He asked with a low laugh at her expense, a cheap cover for the way his heart lurched at the care on her face. Unearned, undeserved.

“You’re too good at being yourself for me to confuse you with anyone else. But for all your planning, you don’t seem to care much about yourself. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep. That’s a kind of recklessness too.”

“And here I thought you weren’t trying to change me.” He said, reaching up to twine a strand of her hair around his finger idly.

“I’m not. Just making an observation. Even your plans can fail, good as they might be, and it frightens me to think that you come in last in all that calculation.”

He dropped his hand and sighed. “What was it you said? Something to the effect that one person’s life can’t outweigh a hundred or a thousand others.”

“I said it and I believe it, but you can’t live by that idea alone. It’s not always clear what the greater good is. Thinking that any one person can decide that on their own is what leads to massacres.”

He froze in place for a moment, stiffening under her hands, mind flooded with memories of smoke and gunfire and blood in the air. She was too far under his skin. Too close to the unforgivable truth.

“No retort? Did you fall asleep in the middle of a conversation with me?” She asked, softly, nearly to herself.

“Your childish philosophy is far too amusing to put me to sleep, little mouse. What if I said that I had a massacre on my head? Would I not be serving the greater good to die for that?” He asked, fighting to keep his voice level.

“Alright, I’ll play along.” She said, and brushed his hair out of his face. “I think I can safely presume that you had a plan that didn’t involve killing innocents.”

“I’m not sure why the presumption matters-- what someone intends is far less important than the outcome they create.” He countered, bitterly.

“Even if that’s true, it doesn’t follow that your death is a good outcome.”

“Why it almost sounds as if you, earnest lover of peace and freedom, don’t believe in justice.”

She looked down at him with sadness in her eyes that drove the knife he’d put between his own ribs deeper.

“Of course I believe in justice. I just think...” she paused thoughtfully, and continued, “no matter what you’ve done, the only way to atone for it is to live and try to save as many people as you can. All of us will die some time, so why not live while you can and try to do what good you can?”

“And if my idea of good just results in more bloodshed?”

She cupped his cheek gently and laid her other hand over his heart, and he hoped she couldn’t feel it pitching in protest at the sensation of being wounded by her kindness.

“You have an uncanny mind, Mitsuhide, but you’re not a god. Your best is good enough.”

The moonlight was moving away from the window, leaving them in deeper darkness and a heavy silence that hung between them like a chasm.

“We’re never going to agree, little seamstress.” He said, at last.

“Even so--” she began, with a sigh, cut off as he sat up to kiss her tenderly. He pulled her into his lap, arms wrapped around her, his cheek pressed against her hair.

“It will be over soon enough.” He murmured, and felt her shudder, reached up to feel the heat of a tear as it ran down her face.

Her voice was raw and low as she recited-

“Winter has frozen its double-edged breath and blows it down from the icy heavens, like a dry fire coming apart in threads, like a huge ruin that topples on soldiers. Snow where horses have left their hoof-marks is a solitude of grief that gallops on. Snow like split fingernails, or claws badly worn, like a malice out of heaven or a final contempt... This violence that splits off from the core of winter, raw hunger tired of being hungry and cold, hangs over the naked with an eternal grudge that is white, speechless, dark, starving, and fatal... Soldiers are so much like rock crystals that only fire, only flame shapes them, and they fight with icy cheekbones, with their mouths, and turn whatever they attack into memories of ash.”

He felt the sting of every word as if she had slapped him. Felt her grieving for the things she wanted from him that he did not have.

“You were bound to hate me.” He whispered at last.

“That’s the hell of it, Mitsuhide,” she answered, voice hoarse and heavy, “I don’t hate you. I never could. I love you so much it hurts. I know that it’s one sided, I know that I’m nothing but an amusement to you, and I don’t care about that.”

He closed his eyes against the razor edge of her words and felt her draw a ragged breath.

“You treat yourself with such cold indifference. As if it doesn’t matter whether you live or die, whether you’re in pain, whether you’re lonely or sad. But until the day we part, and even after that, for the rest of my life-- I won’t think of you like that.”

Her tears fell on to his sleeve and it would’ve been so much less painful if she were weeping for herself, if she didn’t see him through such clear bright eyes.

***

Oof sorry this took 20 years to update! I hope to get back to updating regularly <3 Thanks to all of you who are still reading this.

This chapter’s poem is “The Soldier and the Snow” by Spanish poet Miguel Hernandez

#ikemen sengoku #cybird otome #cybird ikemen #ikemen sengoku mitsuhide #ikesen mitsuhide #Akechi Mitsuhide #mitsuhide x mc #mitsuhide's pov #the foxesfic #sfw

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megabadbunny · 6 years

Text

Minuet, Part VIII

“You help so many people,” she says. “Why won’t you let anyone help you?”

***

(ten/rose angsty post-gitf au/fixit; this chapter sfw except for language)

(full-size image)

Minuet, Part VIII

Pulling his robe close around him, Mickey shuffles down the corridor, stifling a yawn as he waves at other guests amidst the sounds of his grumbling stomach and his slippers slip-slide-slapping over the floor. His empty stomach has compelled him to embark on a valiant (if a bit drowsy) quest to the dining hall, to discover whatever delightful assortment of extravagant ceremonial dishes the Temple has provided for breakfast—but first there’s the matter of proper clothing, left behind in his haste to escape the Doctor’s nonstop chattering.

God, he hopes the Doctor has already stepped out for the day. If he hears one more hint of conspiracy theories or hydrologic events or ridiculously-prolonged event durations, Mickey, it’s just not meteorologically feasible!, he’s going to scream so loudly the neighboring solar systems will hear him.

But probably Rose and the Doctor have both already eaten, or they’re eating now, Mickey thinks. He imagines them quibbling over alien toast, or pointedly-not-talking-to-each-other while sipping their alien tea, or hurling snide quips at each other between mouthfuls of jiggly-faced alien eggs. Mickey rolls his eyes. Maybe he’s lucky and they’ve already departed the hall, and he can avoid the teeth-gritting awkwardness and tension that keeps blossoming between them. Or maybe he’ll just nab a plate of something and hide in his room until the storm passes. Both the literal and metaphorical storm, that is; the lightning and its violent cracks and splits in the dark sky overhead have got nothing on Rose and the Doctor’s pointlessly stressful nonsense. Why don’t they just kill the tension and shag already? Mickey scoffs to himself as he pushes open his bedroom door.

Then his eyes widen as he takes in the scene in front of him and the irony of his last thought hits Mickey with all the subtlety of a slap to the face.

Like a hunter stalking wild game in the forest, Mickey’s gaze follows a path of tracks, starting at the door in a cluster of shoes dropped pell-mell on the floor, his and hers mixed, leading up in a tangle of flung-off tuxedo jacket and jewelry and oxford and necktie and discarded bedclothes and women’s underthings to the bed itself, canopy-curtains tossed aside to reveal two occupants lounging about within. The Doctor looks as rumpled as Mickey has ever seen him—more than, actually, Mickey’s fairly certain he looked more composed in his post-regeneration coma—clad only in a tee shirt (hopelessly wrinkled) and his tuxedo trousers (even more wrinkled) and a pair of mismatched socks (has Mickey ever even seen his socks?). His hair is a right mess, sticking up even more than usual, as if it’s alarmed to find itself in such a state; it’s an odd counterbalance to the Doctor’s relaxed posture, leaning back against the headboard as he reads some book he procured from goodness-knows-where. And Rose—

Well, Rose is just naked and asleep. Not much else to be noted about that.

At least that answers the question of whether she and the Doctor have gone to breakfast yet.

Mickey’s eyes flicker briefly over Rose’s body, more out of confusion than anything. She’s lying on her stomach, a duvet hastily half-tossed over her—did the Doctor hear Mickey coming and cover her up, he wonders? Because the Rose Mickey knows always kicks off her blankets halfway through the night whether she’s clothed or not—so all her crucial bits are covered. (Not that Rose would particularly care if Mickey saw her in such a state anyway. Nothing you haven’t seen before, she’s often said, with a shrug, while she changes right in front of him. Mickey, of course, will say nothing, but blushes furiously.)

Frowning, Mickey glances at the Doctor, a question forming on his lips. The Doctor shoots him an imperious look over his glasses. It’s a challenge, Mickey thinks. Go on. Say something. I dare you. Mickey bristles at the thought.

But then he notices the way the Doctor’s hands fidget with the book, fingers drumming quietly on the cover and sliding along the pages in a manner that Mickey would almost describe as nervous, if he didn’t know any better, and oh—this isn’t some bullshit macho display after all. The Doctor doesn’t plan to lock antlers. No, instead he’s wary. Waiting. Like he’s nervous about Mickey will react. Like he might even actually care about Mickey reacts.

Wordlessly, Mickey scoops up his clothes, offering the Doctor a curt nod. The Doctor dips his head in reply, his shoulders visibly loosening, and Mickey turns to go. But upon reaching the door, Mickey has a second thought.

“You break her heart, I break your skull,” he says to the door. He turns back round to hit the Doctor with his very best threatening glare. “Got it?”

“Fair enough,” the Doctor replies evenly.

Mickey nods. “Damn right it is.”

He eases the door shut behind him, quietly, in an effort not to disrupt Rose’s sleep. Out in the hallway once again, Mickey expels a deep breath, leaning against the wall. A twinge of jealousy flares up somewhere in his chest, a tiny burning gnawing thing burrowing between his ribs. He closes his eyes and tries to will the hurt away.

Rose loves the Doctor. God help her, but for whatever reason, she loves him. And in his own strange way, maybe he loves her too. (Probably he loves her too, Mickey thinks with a grimace.) But as much as it stings, Mickey’s not going to be the one to stand between them and their happiness.

Besides—it’s high time he pursued some happiness of his own.

Eyes open, he pushes off the wall and heads back to the other room. Today’s pursuit, he thinks, should begin with a little investigation into this whole missing-priest-conspiracy business. Might as well get in a little snooping while Rose and the Doctor are otherwise unoccupied, right? He’s more than capable of doing things on his own, after all. Who knows, maybe he’ll even solve a little mystery or two without them.

But first: breakfast.

***

Rose is not surprised to wake up and find the bed empty beside her.

She only allows herself a little disappointment. It isn’t as if she expected anything different. The Doctor doesn’t do domestic; he’s made that quite clear. And this—waking up in a bloke’s room, lying naked in his bed, the morning after—it doesn’t get any more domestic than this. Honestly, she’d have been more surprised if she’d awoken and he was still there. A few minutes of affection and attention and he’s totally overwhelmed; he’s sort of like a cat, that way. The humor of that comparison does not escape Rose.

Drinking in a deep yawn, Rose sits up and stretches, muscles straining satisfyingly against each other a thick early-morning haze, only to indulge in a great flop back on the mattress after, limbs cast out like a starfish or a child making a snow angel. A sleepy, contented sigh escapes her lips. She can’t remember the last time she felt so well-rested, or the last time she was this pleasantly sore between the legs, for that matter.

But soon the itch to move (and perhaps more importantly, to scrub off an evening’s-worth of body glitter and sweat and various other things) becomes overwhelming, so move she does, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress so she can snatch the Doctor’s abandoned tuxedo-shirt off the floor and pad over to the en suite for a shower. The water is deliciously hot, rolling over her hair and skin in soothing sheets, and Rose silently thanks her lucky stars that this planet has the gift of indoor plumbing. Good grief, but she’d missed her hot water in eighteenth-century France.

Lost in that odd timeless quality of a good shower, an unmarked bout of moments passes, Rose’s thoughts suspending in sluggish liquid laziness. She curiously inspects the range of available soaps and cleansers, each likely intended for a different species, some of them sweet and fruity-smelling, some of them harsh and astringent, others earthy, the smell of dirt fresh and clean. Ultimately Rose settles for the bottle that smells most familiar and scrubs away makeup and sweat and sex and something uncomfortable that’s haunted her skin ever since that jump through the mirror five and a half months ago, watching it all wash away down the drain in a swirl of suds and glitter. She dries herself off with a luxuriously fluffy towel, reveling in the glide of soft cotton fibers that brush over her like a kiss.

Just as Rose finds herself wishing for a toothbrush, she notices one lying on the bathroom counter, one that looks suspiciously like the stock the Doctor keeps in those bottomless pockets of his. Upon unwrapping it, the scent of Venusian spearmint floods her senses and she brushes her teeth with a grin that won’t quite go away. It was an oddly considerate gesture on the Doctor’s part—if a bit domestic, she thinks, her grin widening. After, she pulls on the Doctor’s tuxedo-shirt and doesn’t even bother with half the buttons before stepping back into the bedroom, humming at the surprise of crisp cool air against her still-damp skin.

“Blimey, took you long enough,” mutters the Doctor, and Rose startles to find him in the room, back in his old suit, lounging on the bed and splayed over backward as if he flopped there out of sheer impatience. A plate of goodies sits next to him, its contents already picked-over and jostled by the Doctor’s movement. “You just took a shower yesterday, how could you possibly already require such an extensive—”

His eyes find her and his words falter. His eyebrows knit together. He swallows.

“That’s my shirt,” the Doctor says flatly.

“Technically, it’s the Temple’s shirt, isn’t it?” Rose replies, laughing as she plunks down next to him on the bed and plucks something warm off the breakfast plate. She’s got no clue what it is, but it’s salty and starchy and good. “And good morning to you, too, by the way.”

“It’s evening.”

“The hell?” Rose peers out past the bed-canopy at the sky flashing overhead. Lightning cuts a bright white arc through the stormclouds, interrupting the inky darkness with patches of watery pink and red. It looks exactly the same as it did the night before, and the evening and the afternoon, for that matter. “How long was I asleep for?” Rose wonders.

“Fourteen hours and sixteen seconds,” the Doctor replies. “Give or take a few seconds.”

Rose laughs, raking a hand through the wet strands of her hair. The motion causes her shirt to ride up, exposing several inches of thigh that weren’t exposed before, and if she hadn’t been paying attention, Rose almost could have missed the way the Doctor’s eyes flickered down to her legs before resuming their blank stare into nothingness.

Hiding a smile, Rose shifts, lying down on her side next to the Doctor. “So—” she starts to say, but immediately the Doctor springs up so quickly the mattress ripples in his wake.

“So anyway, just thought I’d check in after your endlessly long sleep session and even longer bath, see if you were up for a bit of nosing around—overheard a bit of gossip whilst I was pilfering nibbles, something about the cleaning room and the High Chauncery’s personal chambers and strict orders to avoid each other at all costs, all very promising, nothing says conspiracy like refusing to let the staff do their job,” the Doctor babbles, hands shoved firmly in his pockets as he slowly backpedals away. “Figured it merited a good checking-out if you were up for it, so I’ll just leave you to eat and get dressed, shall I…?”

“Oh, god,” Rose sighs. “Doctor, please don’t tell me you’re gonna be all weird about this.”

“Weird?” the Doctor scoffs, mouth opening and closing ineffectually several times before any other noise decides to come out. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I’m being perfectly normal, thank you very much, and I rather resent the notion that I might be anything otherwise. I’m the picture of normal. The very portrait. The very realistic, well-lit, well-painted, brushed-by-Vermeer-himself portrait, thanks.”

“Did Vermeer ever get all flustered about a woman wearing his shirt and nothing else?”

“I’m sure he did.”

Then, after a pause, “…nothing else at all?”

“Let’s find out,” Rose says brightly, fingers flying down to her shirt-buttons.

Stammering, the Doctor darts over, stilling her hands with his. “Ah,” he stutters, “as delightful as whatever you have in mind undoubtedly is—”

“And it is,” Rose says with a grin.

“—with everyone else away at this evening’s ceremonials, I was thinking this might be a good time to do a bit of investigating—”

“Mm-hmm.”

“—or rather, you know. Poking around a bit.”

Rose’s eyes widen with mischief but the Doctor’s hand claps over her mouth before anything salacious can escape it. “Good grief, is that all humans think about?” the Doctor laughs. “At the shops, down the pub, on the bus, when’s the next time I’ll get to squish bits?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“It’s a wonder the human race manages to get anything else accomplished.”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Rose agrees, voice muffled as she smiles against the Doctor’s palm.

“Indeed. However, if we’re going to get in any snooping this evening, we’d best hop to it, distraction-free. So, if I remove my hand,” the Doctor says, fighting the smile that threatens to quirk the corners of his mouth, “will you promise to behave?”

Rose shakes her head no.

Sighing, the Doctor shifts back. “I suspected as much.”

***

A few moments and nibbles and a fresh pair of trousers later (but still clad in the Doctor’s borrowed shirt, because she’ll be damned before she passes up any available opportunity to fluster him), Rose follows the Doctor through a series of chambers in the Temple, each one smaller and more round-walled than the last. But even amidst the air of conspiracy and subterfuge that lies heavy on them like a thick woolen cloak, pressing more and more urgently as they creep ever-closer to the Temple’s heart, prompting them both to regularly swivel round on a sharp lookout for stray guards or Votaries, Rose feels lighter than she has in months.

“So tell me about this conspiracy,” she says, idly glancing about the place as the Doctor scans orb after orb with the sonic. It isn’t the library they visited the day before, but rather, a sort of private records-room, as the Doctor described it, but Rose will have to take his word for it; all she knows is that the orbs are white, they glow, and every time the Doctor takes a reading, he scowls afterward in impatience. “What do we know so far?” Rose continues, tabbing one of the globes.

The Doctor rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide a grin. “Weren’t you paying any attention yesterday?”

“Nope,” Rose says brightly. “So gimme the scoop.”

“Well, unfortunately there’s not a whole lot to scoop so far, I’m afraid,” the Doctor explains, setting down one orb with a huff only to pluck up another. “Just a few frustrating questions, none of which have any apparent answer.”

“Being?”

“Why is the Allstorm suddenly so long, why are there so many foreign guests in attendance for what should be a cozy local religious ritual, and why has our Most Grant and Generous Host up and disappeared into the ether?”

“And you suspect that something big and bad’s to blame, and we’ve got to stop it.”

“Well.” The Doctor shoots her a glance over his spectacles. “Don’t we?”

Shrugging, Rose picks up one of the orbs to judge for herself. “Sure. Yeah. Maybe.”

The Doctor piques an eyebrow in question.

“You’re probably right,” Rose says. “I’m sure your Spidey-senses are tingling for a reason.”

“Yours aren’t?”

“Eh, I dunno. The missing host is fishy for sure, and I don’t know much about storms, but as far as the international guest list goes…” Rose hands her orb to the Doctor with another shrug. “I’m probably still just stuck a bit in the 1700’s is all. They’d celebrate anything, they would. And I mean anything. One time Reinette threw a party cos she got some new porcelain. She threw a party for a bloody set of dinner plates.”

“Aw, come on, Rose. The birth of the infamous celestial blue underglaze is worth at least a little bit of a hootenanny, isn’t it?”

“No,” replies Rose stubbornly. “And if I never hear the phrase bleu céleste again, it’ll be too soon.”

Chuckling, the Doctor turns back to his orb, his spectacles alternately flashing blue with the light of the sonic and electric-white from the lightning arcing overhead. “So your theory is that the guests are here just because they’re poncy and rich, and poncy rich folk will leap at any chance to party?”

“More or less.”

“Not a bad thought. Got any ideas about the other two-thirds of our problem?”

“If you’re forced to stay here for a whole month without a mystery to solve, you’ll go mad?”

“Cheeky,” says the Doctor, the corner of his mouth quirked in amusement as he scans a new globe. “Was that terribly fashionable in the French court? The cheekiness?”

“Oh, Louis absolutely adored it,” Rose says with a wink.

“I’ll bet he did,” mutters the Doctor.

Rose smiles. Something about this—the investigating, the banter, the still-familiarity of it all even after half a year away, the Doctor’s intense concentration written in the crease of his brow over those stupidly sexy specs of his—something about it all just makes Rose want to hug him, throw her arms around him and squeeze tight. Maybe kiss him, and see where that takes them. But before she has the chance to enact any part of her plan, the Doctor looks up at her over his specs again, eyebrow arched sharply as he says, “Can I help you?”

Rose shakes herself. “Sorry?”

“You’re staring.”

Rose begs herself not to blush. “Yeah? So?”

“Why are you staring?”

“I dunno. Just thinking about…things.”

“What things?”

“Just…things.”

“Because we haven’t got the time for canoodling right now, you know.”

Laughing, Rose shakes her head, willing the redness in her cheeks to die down. “Canoodling? God, you really are old.”

“How’s that?”

“Cos only old fogies say stuff like that anymore. And for your information, I wasn’t thinking about anything like that at all.”

“Really?”

“Really,” says Rose stubbornly. “Cos y’know, that was just a joke earlier, humans thinking about sex all the time. Despite what you may think, not everything revolves around you and, you know, canoodling or whatever—”

But her words are cut off by a tap behind the far wall, resounding through the room, and the Doctor stiffens in response, his head snapping to at the noise. It takes Rose approximately half a second to realize that’s one of those invisible-door-opening taps. They’re about to be discovered, and despite Uruud and the other Votaries’ claims of hospitality, Rose knows that this is one of the few places they won’t be welcome in.

“Oi!” shouts the guard as they step through the magic doorway, shining a light on Rose and the Doctor, freezing them both like a pair of deer in headlights. “Oi, you two! Guests aren’t permitted in here!”

“Right,” says the Doctor, stepping in front of Rose and the table full of scattered globes, shielding them all from view. “Of course. We’re so sorry, complete misunderstanding—”

“What are you doing in here?” the guard asks suspiciously.

“Canoodling?” Rose offers.

“We got lost,” the Doctor says quickly, stepping to the side to block the guard’s view as he tries to peer around him at Rose and the orbs. “We got lost looking for a place to—erm—”

“Canoodle,” Rose supplies, kicking herself.

“—and, well, nothing gets a human girl all hot and bothered like a roomful of private records, does it?” the Doctor laughs weakly.

The guard looks from the Doctor, around to Rose behind him, down at the misplaced globes surrounding Rose, back to the Doctor again. He does not look convinced.

“Sorry, but I think I’m going to have to take you in,” says the guard, reaching for something behind his back. A weapon, Rose thinks, and she freezes.

“And that’s our cue,” says the Doctor, grabbing Rose by the hand. “Time to run!”

Fingers cinched tightly round hers, the Doctor sprints through the records-room past rows and rows of glowing orbs, pulling Rose along for the ride as the guard chases after. Rose runs as fast as her legs can take her, neglected muscles tensing and complaining after months of sedentary stillness, but even amidst that, Rose is grinning like a madwoman, because she’s missed all of this, god has she ever missed it. She stifles a laugh as they run from one chamber to another to another, past columns and pools and guests, the guard close on their heels, adrenaline pumping like hypercharged jet fuel through Rose’s veins.

“Really, Doctor,” she laughs breathlessly as they run. “Nothing gets a girl all hot and bothered like a room full of records?”

“What’s that you said about canoodling?” the Doctor shoots back.

“I panicked!”

“Yes, that much is evident!”

The Doctor pulls Rose through chamber after chamber and the guard doesn’t lose sight of them once, his footfalls dogging them every step of the way. Fear and excitement braiding themselves together in Rose’s gut, she clings to the Doctor’s hand all that much harder, secretly relishing the mad rush of it all.

“Here,” announces the Doctor as they arrive at a huge curved wall, and a rap of his knuckles opens a doorway into one of the great halls, full to the rafters with guests and celebrants swirling about the place in some sort of ceremonial dance. Ducking beneath the wings of a large feathered guest, the Doctor draws Rose into the teeming crowd, away from the prying eyes of their pursuer. Once inside, Rose marvels at the sight all around them, celebrants moving and swaying to the ritualistic and rhythmic beating of drums pulsing beneath the soft flutter of winds and strings. The music swells and expands to fill the room, suffocating even the thought of space, cleaving to the dancers and adherents with an almost intoxicating closeness, leaving Rose dizzy as the drumbeat marches to the beat of her own hammering pulse. The celebrants surrounding her pull her in like an undercurrent, dancing to the beat in an elegant amoebic mass spinning and swirling beneath the lightning-split sky.

“Shall we dance?” Rose teases, half-expecting the Doctor to roll his eyes and snark at her again, but to her surprise, he nods. “Camouflage. Good thinking,” he says, pocketing his specs before stepping directly into the stream of guests, pulling Rose close.

Funny—Rose had sort of thought, when she’d ever allowed herself to think of such things, that if she and the Doctor ever transcended their unspoken boundary of clasped hands and too-tight hugs, then all that ever-present chemistry burning between them might fizzle out, doused like a candle at evening’s end. Not a bad thing, that; candles can’t burn forever, and when their spark has reduced to a gentle smolder, one can safely go to bed with a sense of ease and contentment, curling up for a comfortable and well-earned sleep. But with one of his hands guiding her round, the other clasping her close by the waist, pulling her chest against his, packing them both together so tightly she can feel each and every breath as it enters and leaves his body, it becomes apparent that no, that flame was not extinguished, it’s burning bright as ever, and probably has no chance of doing otherwise anytime soon. At least that would explain why Rose feels so warm all of a sudden, why her cheeks can’t seem to stop burning.

The Doctor spins her in time with dozens of other celebrants, elegantly following the steps of the dance as he scans the room for their pursuer, his glance aloof and oh-so-carefully casual. Distantly, Rose wonders whether he already knows this ritual dance or if he’s just stupidly good at improvising; presently, she’s too busy being distracted by the proximity of their bodies and the feel of his hands on her again to register much of anything else. She faces him again, pressed close once again, and he offers a grin. “Hello,” he says, and Rose remembers a similar sequence from before, a galaxy and a year ago. Almost feels like a lifetime, now.

“Hello,” she replies, a smile blossoming slow and sweet across her lips. She’s got no clue what steps she should be following right now but at least her time at court taught her how to fake it ‘til she makes it, if nothing else; she follows the Doctor’s lead with relative ease, laughing when she falters and her feet skip a beat along with her pulse. “Seem to be doing a lot of this lately, don’t we?”

“What, watching for guards while we stumble over our own feet?”

“Dancing, you great prat,” Rose laughs. A change in tempo means time to change partners and Rose switches off with a flourish, grinning disarmingly at the large rhinoceros-creature that glowers at her before taking her hand. (Though to be fair, Rose actually hasn’t got a clue whether it’s specifically shooting daggers at her, as glower seems to be the creature’s default state.) She twirls back into the Doctor’s arms afterward and there it is again, that heat, that electricity; the lightning flashing overhead has got nothing on the connection burning and buzzing between the two of them, Rose thinks.

“It’s nice,” she admits, her fingers nervously edging upward to fiddle with the lapels of his suit-jacket. “The dancing, I mean. We should do it more.”

The Doctor hums noncommittally.

“You don’t think so?”

“I don’t particularly think one way or the other, at the moment. I’m more preoccupied with our guard friend and wherever he might happen to be. I’ve sort of lost sight of him.”

“Right,” says Rose, nodding. There are other things at hand. Big things. Important things. Much bigger, more important things than the press of their bodies together, warm and close, soft and tense all at once, their clothes whispering against each other as they move, leaving Rose practically vibrating with anticipation, reminding her in full technicolor detail of everything they got up to the night before, his hands slipping beneath her dress, his lips on her skin, her mouth wrapped around his—

“It can’t happen again, you know.”

Shaking herself, Rose frowns. “Sorry?”

“Last night. What we did, what we said. It can’t happen again.”

“How did you know—you didn’t read my mind or something, did you?” Rose asks, startled.

The Doctor shakes his head. “Didn’t have to.”

“All right, I get it,” Rose sighs. “I know you like to tease about that sort of thing, humans and their silly animal instincts and all, but it only makes sense that it’s on my mind, Doctor. It only just happened last night. It’s not like I’m some crazed addict—not like it’s really the only thing I ever think about.”

“It’s on my mind too, Rose.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks reddening, Rose considers the implications of that, wonders what he’s thinking, if his recollections are anything as vivid as hers, what else is going through his mind right now. “Then…why?”

“As lovely as it might have been, it was ill-advised at best, dangerous at worst,” the Doctor explains, still scanning the room, and now Rose suspects he’s just using their pursuer as a convenient excuse to avoid looking at her. “And it’s dangerous precisely because it’s on my mind. It’s a distraction, and we can’t afford distractions. That’s how we end up in the predicament we’re in right now—it’s how things get overlooked, mistakes get made, people get hurt.”

Rose stops in her tracks, staring at him as the crowd bustles and sways around them; the Doctor stops as well, hands moving back to the safety of his own body, depositing themselves firmly in his pockets. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I know it’s not what you want to hear. I don’t particularly like saying it. If I had my way, we’d just pretend it never happened. I’m only saying anything now because, well, it seems prudent, and only fair in light of everything, to make certain my stance on the subject is clear.”

“And what about my stance on the subject?” Rose asks with a disbelieving laugh.

“It’s just a bad idea, Rose. You know it is.”

“No, I don’t,” Rose insists, crossing her arms protectively. “I don’t know that. Last night—”

“I just said last night was ill-advised.”

“You’re wrong,” says Rose. “You’re wrong about this whole thing. Cos you’re not worried about hurting other people. You’re worried about yourself.”

Frowning, the Doctor opens his mouth to protest, but Rose cuts him off with a hand wrapped round his arm, pulling him off to the side so they’re no longer buffeted by dancers and music and other things pounding mercilessly on their senses. Once they’re safely ensconced in a semi-private alcove, Rose sighs.

“Look, I know you’re lonely,” she says, and it hurts for the words to leave her mouth, almost as much, she thinks, as it hurts for him to hear them. “And I know that’s the biggest reason you keep any of us around. To fill the quiet. To make the universe seem new and bright again. To not feel so lonely anymore.”

The Doctor’s mouth twists unhappily and Rose has to force herself to continue. “And I’m happy to do that for you, I really am,” she says. “And if this is truly as far as you want things to go between the two of us, then that’s fine. If that’s what you really want and need, that’s fine. I won’t push you. But the thing is, it doesn’t seem like that’s true. It’s more like, you want things, but you think you shouldn’t have them. Like you don’t deserve them.”

The Doctor fidgets uncomfortably and Rose bites her lip in worry. Things were going so well just moments before—how did they end up back here, how are things already so tense and strained again? Not that she expected sex to really resolve anything, but last night, it had seemed like things were at least edging toward improvement. Why do they keep talking and working only to circle back round to the same bleak conclusion?

Well, while she’s pushing things, she might as well push all the way. No point in holding back, now.

“It isn’t just about the sex,” Rose says, and goodness, but she’s really blushing now. “But you do all these things—you make us feel special, like we’re exceptional, like we’re these bright spots you were so, so happy to find, and then on a dime, you turn right back around and make us feel like the lowest, smallest beings in the universe. You take us with you on these amazing adventures, and then when you’re done with us, you leave us behind. You pull us near only to run away when you realize just how close we’re getting. And we don’t get any say in the matter—when you’re done, you’re just done. And it hurts, Doctor, and it pushes people away. It’s only going to make you lonelier in the end.”

“You haven’t got a clue what it’s like to be truly alone,” the Doctor replies quietly.

“No, I don’t,” Rose agrees. “And I wish you didn’t either. Because you don’t have to.”

Wordlessly, the Doctor looks up and away, at anything in the room but her; Rose steps closer, reaching up to place a gentle hand on his cheek, a soft and undemanding plea for him to face her again.

“You help so many people,” she says. “Why won’t you let anyone help you?”

“I don’t need it,” the Doctor replies.

Rose arches an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind,” says the Doctor, pulling away so he can rock back on his heels. “I’ve got a definitive opinion on dancing after all. You’re right, it’s lovely, we should do it more. Starting right now. Right resolutely now, in case our little guard friend comes back to look for us again. Shall we?”

“How do you really feel about Reinette?” Rose asks, before she has a chance to talk herself out of it.

Now the Doctor stares at her. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why are you asking about her again?”

“I want to know.”

“Does it matter?” he asks incredulously.

“It does to me.”

“Why on earth should it?”

“It just does.”

Casting about in disbelief, the Doctor scowls. “Fine. What do you want me to say—that I’m drawn to clever, accomplished people? I’m fascinated with them? That I admire talent and beauty and generally impressive people and places and things whenever and wherever I might find them? It’s all true, I won’t deny it, never have. And I don’t think I have to apologize for it, either.”

“Do you love her?”

The Doctor scoffs. “Really, of all the reductive and oversimplified things—and a ridiculous notion to boot,” he says, looking at Rose with that horrible you’ve just dribbled on your shirt look, the one that suggests he’s very displeased with her for exposing him to her silly brain and its silly limited capabilities. “It’s an impossible question to answer by your standards, because love means too many things for humans. You love your parents and your family and your friends, certainly, but you also love your dog and your favorite ice cream flavor and the latest big thing on telly. You love fashion and science and sleeping in to ungodly hours and apparently pestering me with idiotic questions. The word love means everything, therefore it means nothing. It’s a useless platitude, a saccharine sentimentalism invented purely for the sake of films and fairy tales and song lyrics sugary enough to give you a dozen cavities.”

“Cool,” says Rose drily, because when the defensive cynicism comes out in full force, that’s how she knows she’s really getting somewhere. “So are you gonna answer my question, or haven’t you got all of the usual insults out of your system yet?”

“No,” he says, throwing up his hands in defeat. “That’s your answer, all right? No. Fascination and admiration and even infatuation don’t automatically add up to love, and if you think they do, then you should reexamine your maths. And you’ll just have to forgive me if I don’t conform to your very human standards of what fondness and caring and romance should look like—I’m sorry I’m not in the habit of vomiting out my feelings at every available opportunity, or opening myself up to things that will only amount to a horrendous amount of pain in the end, or carving off chunks of myself to give to people left and right until there’s nothing left of me, nothing, nothing at all. I’m sorry. All right? And that’s it, that’s all I’m going to say on the matter, I’m done, Rose, I’m officially done.”

“Okay,” replies Rose.

Wide-eyed and staring, the Doctor blinks in surprise. “Okay? So that’s it? We can drop this now, move on?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?” he asks suspiciously.

“Really. I learned everything I need to know.”

“And what’s that?”

“You’re a coward.”

The Doctor doesn’t reply, just watches her sharply, brow furrowed in frustration and hurt.

“You can deny yourself all you want, hiding behind the whole curse of the Time Lords business or your self-righteous self-martyrdom or your magnificent higher calling or whatever other noble-sounding excuse you want to come up with,” Rose continues, offering a sad little smile. “But at the end of the day, really, I think you’re just afraid to be happy.”

“Oh, come on now, that’s just—”

“It’s like you think you don’t deserve it cos you had to make some impossible decisions, like joy is some kind of zero-sum game and anything good you might have is taking joy away from someone else somehow, or like you think the universe will punish you or something, and—and honestly, how self-centered is all that, anyway?—but, just, look. Is this something you want, or not?” asks Rose, exasperated. “Just tell me honestly. If you don’t want us to be anything more, if you’re happiest with us just being mates, that’s all right. I’ll respect your wishes. If that’s what you really want.”

“It doesn’t really matter what I want,” the Doctor mutters.

“Of course it does,” insists Rose. “Doctor—do you think that way about anyone else? Would you ever tell someone else that how they feel doesn’t matter?”

Again he doesn’t reply.

“What about me?” Rose tries again. “Do my feelings matter? Do you want me to be happy?”

“Of course. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, I want you to be happy,” Rose replies stubbornly. “It would make me happy to see you get what you want. Even if it’s not exactly the same thing I want. You deserve happiness as much as anyone else. It would make me very happy for you to know that. Yeah?”

Staring at her in dumbstruck silence, the Doctor swallows hard. His gaze shifts uncomfortably elsewhere, a hand carding through his hair as he considers—what he’s considering, Rose doesn’t know, but she worries about his next words, whether he’s weighing them, perhaps measuring the potential damage of them.

Rose hides a sigh of disappointment. It’s all too much for him, probably. She’s pushing him too much. She’s being unfair. This is too much to expect of him.

She can’t ask him to feel the same way she does.

“Look, Doctor. I just—” Rose starts to say, but he cuts her off with a hug, enveloping her in an embrace so tight it squeezes the breath right out of her. Her arms return the gesture on instinct, instantly wrapping round his waist and drawing the rest of her near so her face can burrow against his chest, her arms resting snugly against the small of his back. His double heartsbeat taps a reassuring rhythm beneath her cheek, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, and Rose relaxes a little, sighing in relief. Probably this is among the Doctor’s many hidden talents and gifts, this magical ability to hug and squeeze everything bad out of her until she’s left with nothing but quiet contentment. Or maybe that’s just how it feels anytime someone really needs an embrace and receives it. Either way, it’s a really fucking good hug.

“It’s not that simple,” the Doctor says softly. “But…thank you for saying it, anyway. It means a lot.”

“Yeah. I love you, you know.”

Her pulse racing in her ears, Rose’s voice is so small she thinks the Doctor might not even hear it—and maybe that would be just as well, anyway—but he stiffens, nodding. “I know,” he says quietly.

Stepping back, the Doctor casts his gaze downward, struggling to meet her eyes. “Rose, I—”

“Rose!”

On reflex, Rose’s head jerks at the sound of Mickey calling her name; she still watches the Doctor, waiting for whatever he was going to say, but his attention has already shifted, his focus switching in a millisecond.

Rose curses Mickey’s terrible timing. What was the Doctor going to say?

With a frustrated sigh, Rose turns to see Mickey swimming toward them through the crowd, Naami following close behind.

“Rose, we’ve done it!” Mickey says excitedly. “We’ve figured it out!”

“Figured what out?” asks Rose, lost.

“The conspiracy!” replies Mickey in hushed tones, glancing all about the chamber to ensure no one overhears. “The Doctor was right, something’s going on, but it’s not what you think—Naami, tell them!”

Naami nods, her face lit up in an eager grin. “So the High Chauncery hasn’t been seen in years, it’s true, but that actually isn’t too uncommon in his line of work, right?” she says, glancing from Rose to the Doctor and back. “As you know, Therran High Priests are renowned galaxywide for their scholarship and piety—”

“Of course we all knew that!” Mickey laughs nervously.

“—so of course, none of us ever questioned it. Priests might retreat into study at any time, for any reason, and they could be gone for any number of weeks or months or even, as in this case, years. But after the Doctor’s remarks on the High Chauncery’s absence, I thought I might ask round with some of my connections, just out of curiosity. We’re involved in imports, you see, so if the High Chauncery was bringing in new materials for study, then we’d be the first to know. But that’s just the thing—he hasn’t ordered any sort of religious texts for years now.”

“Because it turns out someone murdered him unceremoniously?” asks the Doctor.

“What? Of course not!” laughs Naami, daintily shielding her mouth with her hand. “Murder? Don’t be absurd!”

“Well, all right, then,” says the Doctor, nonplussed. “That’s unexpected. But certainly not unwelcome.”

“A nice change from the usual,” Rose adds.

“True, a very nice change.”

“That’s not the interesting thing, though! Tell them about the interesting thing, tell them what the High Chauncypants keeps bringing in,” urges Mickey.

Leaning in close, and whispering in a hushed tone, conspiratorial, like anyone around them might hear and gasp in shock, Naami tells them, “Giant mirrors, boatloads of argon, and silver iodide.”

Rose and the Doctor both blink in confusion. That’s not at all what Rose had expected to hear. She was thinking something more along the lines of illicit beasts or exotic drugs or, heck, at least some kind of rare spice. But this…this just sounds like a silly school science experiment, and honestly, after everything, that’s a little bit of a letdown.

“Oh, no,” says Rose awkwardly, glancing at Mickey with a shrug. “Not that stuff!”

She leans close to the Doctor to whisper, “What is that stuff?”

“Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say someone was building a big laser,” says the Doctor, frowning. “But I’m not certain how the silver iodide factors in, unless—”

“That’s them, over there!” a voice shouts over the din, and Rose turns at the noise to see their pursuer hovering at the edge of the crowd, pointing at her and the Doctor. Their single guard has been joined by several others, now, all of them staring in their direction. Staring, and grimacing, and brandishing a host of dangerous-looking, pointy weapons.

So much for that famous hospitality, Rose thinks with a gulp.

“Get them!” commands the guard.

“Split up!” Rose shouts as she pushes Mickey away with one hand, grabs the Doctor with another. Pulling the Doctor along, she bolts through the teeming crowd, ducking beneath arms and tentacles and wings; a glance back tells her that Mickey and Naami, though startled, have taken off running in the opposite direction. A half-dozen guards bridge the gap between them, shouting at the dancing celebrants to disperse as they break off to chase each pair.

“Here!” says Rose, pulling the Doctor between two huge elephantine aliens that sway to and fro over the floor, distracted both by the music and the guards’ continuous shouting. The guards struggle to catch up, stopped at every turn by errant celebrants and guests milling about the place in confusion, but after a lifetime of navigating London’s busy and tourist-filled streets, Rose has no problem weaving in and out of the throng, spotting a good-sized gap here, a narrow-but-tenable squeeze there. Before too long she’s drawn the Doctor out of the main hall and into a side corridor, their feet slapping hard against the marble floor as they sprint away from their pursuers.

“Not that way!” shouts the Doctor as they round a corner only to find more guards, and he yanks Rose off in another direction, guiding them both by the grace of his eidetic memory. They weave in and out of chamber after chamber, back through the dining hall and the menagerie and the pools and the garden, past shocked celebrants and shrieking animals and churning waters, lightning violently splitting the sky overhead as they run and their pursuers close in.

“What’ll happen if they catch us?” Rose gasps, throwing a look over her shoulder at the guards and their many, many weapons. And right at that second, as if someone was only waiting for her to ask, a shrill squeal fills the air and suddenly the Doctor is yanking Rose to the side just in time to avoid a barrage of blaster-fire, smacking the wall right beside her and leaving a smoldering crater behind in its wake. Rose lets out a cry as blaster fire rings out all around them, exploding the walls all around and the floor at their feet, filling the air with smoke and shrapnel. Another barrage of fire and Rose feels a beam graze her shirt, its scalding heat missing her skin by mere millimeters.

Heart hammering, air burning in her lungs, Rose wills her legs to run faster.

They sprint round another curve only to reach a dead end. The Doctor halts in his tracks, his grip tightening round Rose’s hand as they both skid over the floor. Rose watches as the Doctor whips back round to face the guards, glances back at the dead end in front of them, brow furrowing as he frantically tries to calculate.

Oh, god. That face. It’s been six months but Rose still recognizes that face. It’s the Doctor’s we’re gonna have to do something supremely stupid and hope for the best face. His we might die, but then again, we might not face.

“Doctor—” Rose starts to say, but, jaw set in determination, he doesn’t say anything, just takes off again for the far wall, yanking Rose along with him.

“No!” shout the guards behind them, their voices high and shrill over their clattering boots and firing blasters. “Halt!”

They reach the wall and Doctor raps a desperate beat against it until it springs open, a doorway parting to reveal a tempest of howling winds and punishing rains roaring loud enough to drown even the sounds of blaster fire all around them. Water and hail scream down in sheets, buffeted by the winds and hammering against the ground like shards of glass on pavement. Thunder pounding relentlessly overhead, the pitch black of the sky and the air are illuminated only by the beams of light piercing the sky, flooding the world in a flash of blinding-white and blood-red.

The Allstorm, Rose realizes, and she shrinks back in fear. She opens her mouth to plead with the Doctor, but terror has crept up her throat and stolen her words.

Pausing only long enough to steel himself with a steadying breath, the Doctor steps through the door, and Rose follows him into the storm.

***

Next Part (forthcoming)

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pissybritchess · 6 years

Text

Moon

**Here, @yukiwrites, I finally finished it! I’m not sure how good it is, but hopefully this can be of reference for you in future prompts! (;v;)b**

Breaching the Hoshidan capital had been an incredibly difficult feat. The Hoshidan army, which had been led by Sonja’s sister, Hinoka, put up an intense fight, it was almost a miracle that none of her comrades had sustained any serious injuries—she had the healers, especially Elise, to thank for that. It was a hard-earned victory, and the hardest battles were yet to come. Despite this, it felt appropriate to hold a celebration to boost morale. Only if for a night, the mead and ale would allow them to selfishly indulge in the rare opportunity to feel human before having to wear the mask of a soldier once again.

Sonja glanced around the mess hall and took a swig of mead from her mug, enjoying the sweet flavor of honey that accompanied the raw burn of alcohol as it went down her throat. It was the most lively she’d seen anyone for what felt like months. She looked over to where Camilla was standing and was not surprised to see Odin standing right with her. He was very animated, most likely telling her fantastic tales of grandeur in his own signature way, while Camilla listened to him with a loving smile, occasionally sipping alcohol from her own mug.

On the other side of the room, Elise was sleeping comfortably against Effie who blushed softly, their fingers intertwined even with the young princess was out for the count, and the more Sonja looked around, the more people she saw together. Leo (unsurprisingly) was gazing at Azura with what could be described as an uncharacteristically gentle look in his eyes, which Xander had of course caught onto, evident by the humored smile of an older brother. Charlotte, who had chugged about four pints of ale over the course of 30 minutes, took the matter into her own hands and essentially carried her less than pleased brother-in-law over to the blue haired songstress while her husband watched the scene, almost surprised.

It seemed the only person who wasn’t celebrating with everyone was the former thief with a sharp tongue, which didn’t surprise her. He was most likely somewhere outside, gazing at the moon with a bit of booze in his system. Sonja smiled fondly, her heart filling up with warmth, and quietly left the mess hall. Perhaps it was time that she retired for the night, but not before going to the bath house. It did not occur to Sonja that there would be someone waiting to speak with her, or that this encounter would open doors that she had kept locked for so long.

..*@*..

Though appreciative of the free alcohol and time to “celebrate,” Niles himself was not necessarily a fan of interacting with others. He went to the mess hall as soon as possible to snag some alcohol, and quickly left before the rest of the army overran the establishment. He was quite fine with staring up at the sky—for the longest time the moon had been his constant companion. But then she waltzed her way into his life. It was completely absurd that he could develop such a close friendship with another person, but Sonja wasn’t necessarily “another person.” She was peculiar, which fascinated him to no end. She was witty, and able to dish it right back at him (which was, to him, incredibly refreshing). There was an unspoken form of mutual respect with Sonja, something he thought would only be unique to his liege. There was something more to it all, but Niles wasn’t willing to explore the possibility. The thought of damaging such an important relationship, tacky as it may sound, was truly the only thing he feared in this life.

So why was he here?

..*@*..

Under the light of the moon, Sonja snuck to the bath house. No one was ever here at that time of night; she would be safe from peering eyes. Though absurd, Sonja refused to bathe with others, she could not risk it. No one had ever questioned her, even if they had some suspicions. She was confident, however, that no one was actively looking for her—they never did at this time of night—which is why she just about screamed when Niles casually hopped out of a tree with a stupid smirk on his face.

“Watch your step milady, I’m quite confident Keaton threw up right where you’re about to step.”

“Niles!” Sonja clutched her hand to her chest. “Gods, you scared the shit out of me!”

He took a step closer to her and shrugged. “My apologies, but you know,” he gestured to the patch of grass in front of her, “I wasn’t kidding about Keaton.”

Sonja looked down and gagged, before composing herself. “Ah . . . well, uh, thank you.” Sonja shuffled nervously looking for a way out of the current situation. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the fact that was obstructed from using one of the baths, or if it was just his presence. His curious gaze from his one eye made her shiver—it had become increasingly difficult to be alone with the archer. She valued his friendship more than anything else, but she could no longer deny her strong feelings towards him. It frightened her.

Niles cleared his throat—he had no idea what he was doing until he glanced over to the bath house.

“Say, Princess, let’s talk.” He meandered over to an area with long grass, directly under the night sky. He looked back at her and spoke teasingly. “There’s alcohol, and it’s absolutely average! A connoisseur’s dream if you ask me.” Sonja snorted in response and followed him; it was music to Niles’ ears.

The two talked for what felt like hours, drinking as they laughed about trivial things. It felt natural, an almost foreign concept to the both of them.

“And Charlotte carried Lord Leo to Lady Azura?” Niles chuckled and closed his one eye. “You jest, milady—that’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard!”

Sonja laughed and pushed him teasingly. “I’m telling the truth! He looked as red as a tomato—it was hilarious!”

Niles shook his head and smiled. “Alright, alright . . . I trust you.”

That sat quietly, staring up at the sky. The heavens were stunning, the stars gleamed brilliantly like diamonds, and the moon was truly serene. It was a scene out of a dream, and neither Niles or Sonja wished for it to end.

They had been silent for several minutes, before Sonja took a deep breath and sat up. She looked into the distance and sighed. “You . . . want to know why I go to the bath house when no one else is around.” Sonja smiled bitterly and ran a hand through her soft hair. “I never actually thought I would share this with anyone. I had planned on taking it with me to my grave.”

Niles sat up and looked at her. “You are in no way obligated to share anything, Sonja. If I’ve pressured you or anything—”

“No, it’s okay. I trust you, and . . . I think it’s time to not be silent.” Sonja plucked a blade of grass and began to fiddle with it. “I don’t remember much about my childhood in the Northern Fortress, other than my education. When I learned I was a Hoshidan princess, I was finally able to understand why my instructors were so cruel.”

Niles listened carefully and watched her face in silence.

“When I was abducted by Garon, it was imperative that I quickly fit into the role of a Nohrian princess. He had hired tutors to help in my cultural assimilation. Any mistake on my part led to punishment—it was not limited to beatings, lashes, or even knifes . . .” As she continued, her voice became shaky. “They would torture me—they left scars on my back from everything they did! I refused to let anyone tend to my back; I refused to let my sisters bathe with me. I lied and told them being in the bath with them made me uncomfortable . . . I lied b-because—!”

Sobs wracked Sonja’s body; her hands shook violently, reaching for anything to grip to provide a sense of security. Niles had never seen her in such a vulnerable, and his heart was in pain. He too had suffered an abusive childhood filled with physical torture—his eye was a testament to this. Both he and Sonja were haunted by the appalling trauma of the past, and Niles felt he could no longer deny the feelings that resided within him.

He hesitantly reached out to Sonja, not knowing how else to comfort her, or if he should even try. Without hesitation, Sonja gripped his hand tightly, and he instinctively pulled her into his arms.

They sat like this for a while, Niles stroking her soft hair tenderly, and Sonja with her face nestled against his chest, until her tears had ceased.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffled, “I’ve ruined your shirt.”

“I’m not against stripping,” he teased lightly, wiping away her tears with his thumb in a tender fashion.

Sonja chuckled at his comment and leaned closer to him. She could no longer contain what was in her heart.

“I don’t want to leave your arms,” she said softly.

Niles paused, and looked at the woman in his arms thoughtfully, before speaking.

“I’m going to start calling you Little Bird.” Sonja gave him an incredulous look and opened her mouth, most likely to call him something incredibly vulgar for ‘teasing’ her, but he cut her off. “When I see you, my heart . . . flies. It’s quite cliché, I know. I don’t pride myself on being a romantic.” He ran a hand through his hair and chuckled nervously. “I’ve never felt this way about someone, and quite frankly, I’m not sure I could let you go from my arms even if I tried. What I’m trying to say is—”

He was silenced by her lips on his. They were soft and tasted like the sweet honey from the alcohol they had indulged in earlier. She was absolutely divine, and he couldn’t help but to give in and return the kiss. Time itself had stopped, yet the moment felt like it was over too quickly. The two away from each other slowly, entirely breathless and just a bit flushed. Niles squeezed her hand gently, a stupid grin plastered on his face as he did so.

“What’s so funny?” the princess breathed.

“Oh nothing,” he began nonchalantly, “other than the fact that we both seem to reek of alcohol.”

Sonja’s eyes widened. Her bath! She hastily stood up, only to fumble into Niles. It was then that the poor woman realized she was absolutely wasted, causing the white-haired man to cackle.

“I tell you what,” he began, “I’ll make it up to you—the next bath is on me.”

Sonja said something about him being a smartass before kissing him once more, Niles happily obliging. This man loved her; her broken past and the marred flesh that adorned her back wouldn’t change that. There was nothing more she could ask for, and when Niles pulled away and cupped her face in his hands, she knew in her heart that she felt the exact same way. Under the light of the moon, both swore that they would be there for each other, no matter what the future held.

((THIS IS ALSO INCREDIBLY SHORT AND MOST LIKELY POORLY PACED BECAUSE I AM A LAZY PERSON))

#fe fates #niles (fire emblem)#sonja (mu)#niles x sonja #bob writes #i took a shot at this #i wrote it in a day and finished it at 3 am last night #there are probably grammatical errors #i will do my best to edit it but honestly i'm pooped rn

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multiverseofmiracleshq · 4 years

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AVENGERS V X-MEN STAGE II : ROUND I : QUICK STATS

MATCH-UP → marvel girl v magneto LOCATION → genosha WINNER → avengers CASUALTIES → magneto switches sides

JEAN: Erik Lehnsherr had officially reached the end of Jean Grey’s patience. In all honesty the last straw had been pulled weeks before but she had tried to hold it in. He had broken her goddamn nose and put the younger Jean in jeopardy but she had remained somewhat composed. Jean wanted to help stop the Phoenix Five, not engage in fights unless she had no choice. But this? This had pushed her over the edge and she had hit her breaking point. The second she had heard the news she was airborne. Her feet had last touched Genosha when she was barely older than her younger self was now. She had been young and scared because the Phoenix was eating her mind away. Erik had turned her away. He hadn’t been able to help her. Once again she was coming to his island because the Phoenix was jeopardizing the world, but this time she wasn’t a scared girl. She was a woman and she was enraged. If anger could be tangible then Jean’s would have been composed of flames. White hot in intensity and burning in her veins. She wanted to lash out. She wanted to set him on fire. With luck she could find a way to swallow the explosion. Still, red hair snapped around her head as she touched down on the island. Walls shook as her feet hit the ground. Erik Lehnsherr may have believed he was a god but he was very much a man and men bled. Her path didn’t falter as Jean stormed towards where the man was sitting. Maybe not waiting, but he was breathing and alive and terrible in his arrogance. It was more than he deserved. “You’ve crossed a line.” Her words were amplified even in the open aired space. “My child? You killed my child?There’s a rule on Krakoa, Erik. Harm no human or mutant. You killed my son.” Jean’s heart beat so fast it felt as if it had stopped beating at all. “I don’t care how righteous you believe yourself to be. You killed Nathan and you’re lucky I’m not going to kill you in return.” Because that wasn’t what Jean Grey did. She was the heart of the team, the golden girl. It didn’t matter that time had forced her to grow up. She wasn’t Emma or Erik. Jean would never enter the dark place no matter how much her heart was breaking. “You, Erik Lehnsherr, are a disgrace to mutant kind.”

ERIK: Erik wasn’t quick to react. When Jean landed he turned his attention over to her, but waited where he sat until she was close. After what he had done, he had expected her to do something like this. It didn’t phase him. There was a pause after Jean finished speaking as Erik stood up and took one step closer to her to close the gap even more. “Well, we aren’t Krakoa, are we?” He motioned around them, voice steady. “Your son chose to come here and attack me with his little friends. Perhaps you should have thought of that, hm? Battles are full of risk. And I do what is necessary to stay alive.”

JEAN: “It doesn’t matter. That rule is a lifestyle, and no matter how much I hate your guts I won’t stoop to your level.” Jean braced herself as he came closer, chin held high and gaze unwavering. “My son came here to see what was going on and you attacked him. It doesn’t matter if he came onto your land. He was a child, Erik. You have children too. You know what it means to protect them. Regardless of if he sided with the Avengers, Nate was a mutant. He was our kind.” It was then that her eyes began to glow as Jean took a step back. “Emma had her fun and you had yours but this is ending tonight. You should have been stopped the minute you walked into her office.”

ERIK: Erik’s eyes narrowed. He was happy to move on from their current topic of conversation, but he was hoping he could get her to leave. But Jean, yet again, was bringing up the idea that somehow Emma had done something with his mind. She wouldn’t let it go. And while he knew that such an event hadn’t actually happened, there was the smallest drop of doubt forming. “What are you talking about?” He hissed, taking a few steps back as Jean drew on her power. If there was to be another fight, then he would fight. He readied himself, feeling his surroundings for anything he could use against her. “You know nothing!”

JEAN: What a fool. Jean had never been a fan of Erik. The man she knew had been like this one, militant and fearful. He had watched her die and in the time since everyone said he had grown. Changed. Overall, Jean was not impressed with his progress. “I know more than you. Whoever you are now is not the man you can be. I’d be more than content to let you remain miserable and alone for the rest of your life, but that’s not right. Some people need you so that means you get another chance that you don’t deserve.” Rubble began to rise around them, looming in the air. “This is happening, Erik, whether you like it or not. How difficult are you going to make this?”

ERIK: As Jean’s power built, Erik was as stubborn as ever. “Since when has anything ever been easy between us, Jean?” He replied with a scoff as he opened his hands and moved them up to raise himself into the air. “It seems that what happened with your son taught you nothing.”

JEAN: “Oh, Erik.” Jean followed him up into the sky. “I’m not my son and I’m not the girl you let die either. I’ve been the Phoenix and I’ve come back from the dead. You don’t know who you’re messing with now.” And then, every rock on the ground shot up into the sky towards one metal target.

ERIK: Erik didn’t have much time to react. As he saw the objects being hurled up at him, he threw his arms up in front of himself to form an X– the metal pieces around him followed. The largest ones he could find surround him as a shield, and Jean’s assault him them square on with loud clangs. The metal dented and cracked, staying together well enough, but a few smaller rocks managed to get through. Erik clenched his teeth as they hit him. One small rock brushed his face, right underneath one of his eyes, and he felt it sting and begin to bleed. After the assault was over, Erik motioned with one hand and formed a dozen sharp shards from a cracked piece of metal– then let out a yell and shot them at Jean. He was out of breath, feeling the bruises start to form where he was hit.

JEAN: Of course they had to do it the hard way. Maybe when this was over and Erik had been recalibrated Jean would kill him. Wishful thinking, wishful thinking. She cursed under her breath as the metal went flying towards her. A piece connected with her gut and sent her back onto the ground. For a moment Jean tried to catch her breath before shooting back upwards. Holding her hands out in front her, she did her best to block any of the metal from coming towards her again. It took a lot of effort and black dotted her vision but with a push all the metal went flying back towards him in one telekinetic wave.

ERIK: It was stupid, but Erik hadn’t been expecting Jean to throw his own shots back at hime. Once he sensed them coming he was forced to throw up both his hands and repel the metal shards away from him, and they flew past him on either side. For a moment he held that pose, panting, and then he lowered himself to the ground. “This is pointless, Jean.”

JEAN: “You’re right.” She slowly fell to the ground as well. Standing there with a heaving chest and a few small cuts, Jean found herself staring at Erik face to face with nothing between them. There was a part of her that wanted to unleash everything inside of her but it wouldn’t get them anywhere. She wanted to get back to Jean. And, a part of her was ashamed to admit, she wanted to talk to Scott to see if there was anything to pull him back from the brink of losing himself entirely. Her words were calm even though her eyes glowed. Her power clamped itself down on either side of the metal helmet, tugging until it broke about. Metal clattered to the floor as the two pieces rattled into silence. “So let’s end this.”

ERIK: What Erik felt at first was intense pressure against his skull. Jean’s eyes began to glow and then he realized what was happening– she was going after his helmet. Erik reached up with both of his hands in a useless attempt to stop her from ripping it to pieces. “No!” She was going to get in his head. She was going to do something to him, and there was now nothing he could do to stop her. The pressure stopped, and then two metal clangs sounded in his ears as the helmet fell to the ground on either side of him, broken. Erik glanced down at one of them, breathing heavily, and then looked to Jean. ”Don’t you dare.”

JEAN: Overwhelming. Minds were, to simply put it, overwhelming. The sheer magnitude of thoughts could drown you before you even realized that you were submerged. Telepaths had fallen prey to madness before, but Jean Elaine Grey was no ordinary telepath. Her tenure as the Phoenix had showed her more minds than most knew existed. She had kissed the stars and seen the universe and and there were still things that she did not understand. One of which was the human heart and mind. It didn’t matter if she had known Erik intimately or not. His mind was a complicated maze. Jean could see the strands that Emma had woven. She had to admit that the craftsmanship was impressive. She had spun a new story so elaborate that it would be almost impossible for anyone else to see. While Emma had clearly spent time rewiring things Jean moved towards Erik and pressed her palms to his temples and let a flood of memories slam their way back into his mind. It wasn’t going to kill him but it wasn’t gentle either. He didn’t deserve white glove services. Whatever twisted perceptions Emma had put in place died out one by one as the icy residue melted under Jean’s flame. Throughout his entire life they had to trace a path up until the day he had stepped foot in Frost’s office and she had put her mouth on his. It had only been minutes when Jean stepped way as the glow died from both their eyes. She didn’t have to tell him that she hoped he’d be ashamed. She knew that he was.

ERIK: It had been a while since Erik had felt a jolt of fear like the one he felt when Jean took hold of his mind. As she placed her hands on his temples, he tried to lift his own and scrape off her grip, but he was far too occupied to do something like that. Jean burned her way through his mind, ripping away barriers and crashing through walls that he had never guessed were there. He saw orange and white hot energy and the best he could do was clench his jaw and wait for it to be over. It was painful but it was freeing. It was weighing him down but also opening himself up to everything he had lost. He wasn’t even sure if he was breathing the entire time Jean had control. But when she eventually let go, he collapsed forward and barely managed to catch himself on his hands and knees. He was left gasping for air, but his lungs were working just fine. His chest felt heavy. His mind was cloudy but clearing up more and more every second, and with shaking arms he pushing himself up just enough so he sat on the ground with his legs tucked underneath him. This was painful, heavy self-realization and Erik found himself and the versions of himself colliding and clashing together as he pieced his world back into place. He lifted his hands, still shaking, and looked at them, and then glanced up to Jean. His face was contorted in horror and confusion and his mouth hung open, but words escaped him. What had he done? How did he end up here? And why had he done it all? Now it was panic that was squeezing at his lungs, and as he searched Jean for more answers, tears welled up in his eyes and spilled over, streaking his cheeks. “Jean, I..” What? What could he say after everything he had done? Nothing that mattered. Nothing that would fix it, or change the decision he had made back in Emma’s office. Erik betrayed the people he cared about. He killed two young mutants. He had been cold and harsh to everyone around him. That was someone he remembered being, back when he was younger. He was ashamed of it then, and he was ashamed of it now. But what could be done? Erik dropped his hands back down to the ground and took in another raspy breath. “I’m a monster.” It was stated as fact, and he believed it. “But you spared me. Even after everything I did. Why?”

JEAN: Where was the satisfaction? Jean had done what she had come to but there was no feeling of joy or sense of pride to gloat over him. His hands had struggled against her own but she hadn’t let go. No matter how much it had hurt she hadn’t let go. Jean knew that the weight of the pain he was feeling was his own, but she wasn’t foreign to it. You couldn’t go through someones mind so intensely and not find it biting at you too. Years of practice and honing her skills had taught Jean to differentiate what she was experiencing and what she actually felt. A taste of his pain made her empathetic to his plight but she knew that his guilt and grief were not her own. Hers still ached dully under her rib cage. Every time she thought of Nate and his body that they would not let her see the burn flared up in intensity but she kept choking it down again and again. Her chest rose and fell. Sobs were shoved back, breaths were taken. You learned to live with the pain. Some underestimated the importance of memories and just how integral they were to a person. Memories composed beings and feelings sealed it all together. Having them lost or taken meant having an intrinsic part of yourself shifted. Erik was caught in the thrall of that moment and as a result he was vulnerable. Broken. Jean could have torn him apart. She could have made him feel the hurt and anger and fear that had been building inside of her because of his actions. But she didn’t. Instead Jean reached out and telekinetically brought the two pieces of his helmet into her mind. A broken helmet for a broken mind, a crown fit for a King. For a long moment Jean just stared at her reflection in the dented metal that showed how the dust and tears that marked her cheeks. Her body ached with weighted limbs but she still came to crouch down and gently put the helmet pieces by his side. “Maybe,” her voice was quiet. “But I am too. And Scott as well. We’re monsters but we aren’t beyond being saved. We get chances to try again that others do not so when we are able to be better we have to. You have done terrible things, Erik, but that does not give me permission to be your executioner. You can deal with the consequences over time in your own way. But me?” She finally sank down on the ground next to him so that they were face to face. “I forgive you. I forgive you, Erik.” She had to. Jean couldn’t let that anger suffocate her. She remembered what it had been like to be the Phoenix with a searing intensity unlike any other. Jean Grey had always burned bright and fast. Now she was learning to live in moderation. One hand reached out to fall over his own. He had killed her child. Nate was gone because of him, but she held on all the same because Jean wanted to be more than her hate. “No matter how angry I am, I forgive you and I let you live because I don’t think you deserved to die. Now, you have to make things right. That’s on you.”

ERIK: When feeling such shame and guilt, it was hard to look someone in the eye. Erik wasn’t sure if he had ever felt this much guilt in his life. It was overwhelming, a constant feeling made stronger in waves that engulfed him. Jean brought everything back at once and the clashing sides of himself were not meshing well. Magneto was supposed to be a fortress– strong, unbreakable, a force to be reckoned with. It was a mask he had chosen to wear, proudly, and for the longest time he was unwilling to let it go. It was his only important quality. But time wore him down. He grew old, he saw more of the world and realized it wasn’t as black and white as he one thought. Erik was someone who cared for people– deep down, that was a part of him. All that locked away softness began to seep through the cracks as time went on. He was different. And even while he denied it left and right, he liked being different. The change was nice. His world was warmer and he was happier. And now, that version of himself was being reminded of all the cold and broken and rage filled things he was capable of feeling and doing. He was a murderer. He cut his heart off and let it get turned to ice. He was worse of a monster than he had ever been. And yet– here was Jean. She had every right to take him down and cause him all the pain she wished, but instead she had chosen to give his identity back. Erik had a life that he was working hard for. It had been difficult and at times he wondered if it was all worth it– and that doubt had won him over when he was with Emma. That was the biggest mistake he made. Letting the doubt win. But Jean gave him another chance. He couldn’t understand why she was forgiving him. He could still feel the weight and strain as he clenched his fist and drained the life from her son. The memory forced him to close his eyes for a moment, but when they opened again he managed to speak. “I’m not sure that I deserve any of this. But I am grateful for it.” His body was feeling less weak than it was a minute ago, and the air in his lungs flowed more freely. But Erik was far from alright. “Thank you, Jean.” The glint of light off of his helmet fragments caught his eye, and he grabbed hold of them. In the reflection he saw how worn down and weary he was, and saw the new cut underneath his eye given to him just minutes ago. This was not Magneto. This was someone else completely. And he was going to have to figure out what to do next. “You should go. This island has become a place of bad memories for the both of us, and you don’t need to stay.”

JEAN: He didn’t. Plain and simple: Erik didn’t really deserve a second chance. But he wasn’t the only one. Jean knew that she didn’t either but the world had given her one. What was life if you weren’t getting knocked down and then finding a way to stagger to your feet once more? Erik’s fall had been hard. Tragedy always sought out a figure who had it all and lost it all the same. Whatever Erik had before looked different now. Jean had once found herself in the rubble too. She had found her back on the ground with the impossibility of ever standing upright again more daunting than ever seemed possible. You just had to do it then. Even if it was hard. Jean had pushed herself through and Erik would learn to do the same despite tears and pain and guilt. God, the guilt. They had told her what the Phoenix had done. It’s not your fault, Jean. That wasn’t you. But she knew that it was. Even if the Phoenix was there Jean had not been blameless. Every day since her resurrection she had been determined to make both herself and the world a better place. Some mornings it was harder than others but Jean Grey had never been one to quit. Even if it meant sitting in front of the man who had killed the child she hadn’t gotten to really know, Jean was determined. Her hand fell off of his as he moved to grab his helmet. Taking that time, Jean wiped her own swollen face. More dirt ended up in her eyes but she did it all the same, desperate for a brief shift in attention. “And you should come with me.” Her voice was firm. “Jean may hate you, but with what’s coming… She’ll need you. I’m not going to be enough. Trying to keep her and Wanda safe while they train and prepare isn’t easy. This is more than just me or her. So, please. Come with me. We’ll call that the beginning of your amends.”

ERIK: If he had his way, Erik would have chosen to stay here– to wallow, to think, to be alone. That’s what he was good at, and it seemed like the better choice for everyone else right now. He also knew that the next time he showed his face, he would have a lot to answer for. He couldn’t and wouldn’t hide the fact that he was no longer the version that Emma made him to be. But living his truth came with a lot of pain and anger– so when Jean asked him to come with her, he hesitated. The younger Jean will hate him. That was one of the worst parts of all this. He was supposed to help her, and he abandoned her and treated her like dirt. He wasn’t ready to face that. But she was right. They were practically at war, and this wasn’t the time to sit and wallow on an island full of regrets and bad choices. Now was the time to get up, and fight for everything he vowed to fight for before this mess happened. Erik took in a sharp breath before answering and gave her a reluctant nod. “I’ll come.” Erik stood up, steadying himself and then offering Jean a hand while holding the fractured pieces of his helmet in the other. “The next step starts now. I’ll do my best.”

JEAN: First steps were hard to take but they were most important ones. Taking Erik’s hand, Jean used the extra help to pull herself to her feet. “Between my nose and stomach,” she shook her head ruefully. “You’re really doing your best to bang me up.” That was only the tip of the iceberg but there were things she couldn’t say out loud again. Not without breaking. So Jean just swallowed Nate’s name and turned to the horizon. “I wasn’t supposed to leave. No one knows where they are. It’s all meant to be classified for their protection. You know that me bringing you means that I trust you, right? If you betray that trust you get not only your daughter killed but Jean as well. They aren’t ready.”

ERIK: Erik winced as he remembered punching Jean. Violence was easy for him but it wastoo easy when his mind had been altered. It made him sick to his stomach. “Thankfully I didn’t do any more damage.” He replied as he pulled her to her feet, then took a few steps back. “I understand.” Erik’s voice was sturdy but he was feeling anything but. There weren’t many that trusted him before he made the choice to let Emma into his mind, let alone now. For the first time, Erik was shaken deep down into his core and felt the need to be guided. That level of dependency and vulnerability made him extremely unsettled, but he was doing his best (per usual) to not let that show. Even if he was a disappointment and a traitor, he was needed. And that terrified him. “That is what I should have been doing all along. So it’s the least I can do now. Please–” He motioned forward. “Lead the way.”

JEAN: “They think it’ll heal normally, if it’s any consolation.” Jean tried to ignore the residual discomfort in trying to breathe through it. She was lucky that he hadn’t done any more damage to her. His damage had been huge in other places. If anything, she was just collateral. “At least you’re here now. Just remember, they may not be as forgiving as me.” Without saying anything else took a few steps towards the shore of the island before rising in the air to fly back towards the real fight.

#event: avx #avx: versus #versus: round b #chatlog: versus #momevents

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