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#you've truly dug your own grave
ddarker-dreams · 9 months
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The Good Ol' Days.
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Yan Alhaitham x F Reader x Yan Kaveh.
Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships and implied kidnapping. Word count: 2.1k.
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The sweeter the past, the more bitter the present.
“Seriously, this isn’t fair! Let her roll again!”
“I’m not sure what you expected from a game that revolves around chance.”
You've heard this before, you think. Not the exact verbiage, no, but the sentiment strikes a chord. Plucks at your heartstrings in a familiar melody. 
“Well, fine, let me lend her some of my money then.” 
“First, we both know that’s against the rules; and second, even if you sold your single Mondstadt property, you wouldn’t have enough to cover the charge. Your strategy of holding out in case you land on a Waypoint is as brilliant as ever.” 
The hot passion met by cool indifference that leaves you forces you into the mediator role. This position was specially formed for you, shaped in such a way that no one else could ever fit. Consequently, it adheres to your person too well, you can’t go forward or backward. You’re stuck. The more you struggle, the tighter your restraints become. 
“You…! I won once, when I got all four Waypoints. It’s a viable tactic. Right, [First]? Don’t you remember how huffy he was the night he came in last? … [First]?”
When opposing temperatures meet, condensation forms. 
“... You’re crying,” Kaveh sounds as if he’s seen a ghost, but it’s only you. “Is something wrong?” 
The better question would be what isn’t wrong. He won’t ask that, though, so you’ll never get to properly answer. You sit as still as a statue on the couch. From your display stand, you sense you’re being stared at by two sets of eyes, one distraught, the other scrutinizing. The former comes from your left and the latter from across the table. 
Kaveh’s hands cup both sides of your face. He wipes away the few wayward tears with the pad of this thumb, his eyebrows pinching together. Wordlessly, Alhaitham gets up from his cushion on the floor and takes his place by your right side. Their towering forms seal you in place. 
“You made her cry,” Kaveh accuses, his eyes narrowing. “You should’ve just let me go bankrupt for her.” 
“For someone who claims I have the emotional intelligence of a rock, you can be rather dense yourself. I sincerely doubt that has anything to do with this.” 
“Then why is she—” 
“I remember,” you somehow manage to squeeze the words out of your tight throat. Their attention returns to you. Your next words come out quietly. “That game, I mean. When you won. You had another glass of wine to celebrate, and… kept drunkenly throwing your victory in Alhaitham’s face. You slept through your alarm the next morning and missed a meeting with a high-profile client.” 
“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” Kaveh nods along slowly. He’s using that gentle, soothing tone from when this nightmare began and he didn’t want to upset you further. You can tell he’s trying desperately to follow along despite not having the directions necessary.
“After that, you started a campaign to not speak to Alhaitham until he apologized, but he didn’t even realize you were ignoring him,” the sound you let out is in between a choked sob and laugh. Kaveh’s arms fall limp as if they’ve lost all strength. “He told me… ‘Lately, Kaveh is more tolerable to be around’, or something like that.” 
You hug your knees to your chest. “Since you weren’t willing to talk to Alhaitham, you’d have me relay messages. It was silly. Eventually, I got you guys to make amends. It was like pulling teeth though. Heh. Thinking about it now, I can’t help wondering how many times I dug my own grave.” 
Kaveh softly speaks your name, but Alhaitham finds words before he can.
“So that’s what this is about,” Alhaitham notes. When you first met the brilliant Scribe, you mistakenly interpreted his rationality for apathy. You know better now. If he were truly disinterested, he wouldn’t bother stringing words together, curt as they may be. “Dwelling on the past only leads to unnecessary grief.” 
Kaveh sends a halfhearted glare in Alhaitham’s direction. “What he means to say is that you shouldn’t blame yourself.” 
“Because it wouldn’t have changed anything?” You question, staring deep into Kaveh’s eyes, their color reminiscent of the burning sun setting over the desert. 
He averts his gaze and swallows thickly. “Well…” 
“What he wants to say is that yes, it wouldn’t have mattered,” Alhaitham chimes in where Kaveh is hesitant to. Such is the nature of their dynamic when you’re involved — barbed truths or coddling lies. “The future we were envisioning had already been decided.” 
“The condemned can’t condemn themselves, huh?” You chuckle mirthlessly. 
They both frown. 
“You aren’t condemned, you’re— you’re free from having to worry about those things you used to stress over. Rent, bills, deadlines, you know. The worst parts of life. You can focus on your passions without any restraints now,” Kaveh reasons. Or so he tries. 
You gnaw on your lower lip. It’s been a while since you’ve bothered arguing with either of them on the subjects that truly matter, those topics have been deemed taboo. You can complain about Kaveh’s clinginess when he’s drunk or how tight Alhaitham holds you at night, but should you try to steer the conversation toward your captivity, it’s shut down. Kaveh makes you wish you never brought it up whereas Alhaitham instills regret that you dared to try. 
They’re both bracing themselves, you can feel it in the air. Sitting and awaiting a tempest of emotions that one will try to soothe and the other wave away. 
You think about fighting then remember why you stopped, falling into this limbo of existing without living. 
You could challenge Kaveh’s weak point. Demand to know why he doesn’t do the same then, never leaving the four walls of Alhaitham’s house, committing himself wholly to drawing up blueprints. Alhaitham might make some dry comment that he wouldn’t allow Kaveh to leech off him, or maybe Kaveh would apologize, and say that he didn’t intend to upset you. He would mean it too. You’d cry, beg, scream until your throat was raw and your voice scratchy, but in Alhaitham’s own words, it wouldn’t have mattered. 
Their minds are made up. Their resolve is an unshakable foundation upon which your gaol is built. In the same way they soundproofed the house, so too are their hearts insulated from any argument that’d champion your cause. You tried and failed and tried and failed again. 
At least if you don’t try, you won’t experience failure. 
“... Alright.” 
They exchange brief looks. 
“Alright?” Kaveh parrots the word, but without matching your listless tone. “That’s— oh. Huh. Okay.” 
He mumbles the last few words to himself, as if trying to process them aloud. You can’t fault him for his confusion. 
It’s silent then, the kind that holds weight. You uncurl yourself from your protective shell. You feel like a specimen being subjected to naturalistic observation, neither researcher willing to interfere, lest it negatively influence their data’s results. There’s a lot you can get used to — you had no other choice, really — yet that never fails to make you uncomfortable in your own skin. Unwilling to endure it any longer, you quickly form an escape plan. 
“Well,” you start, earning their rapt attention, “I think I’m going to, uh, call it a night.” 
You stand up as you say this. There’s a light pressure on your wrist, chaining you in place. 
“Stay,” Alhaitham’s voice urges. Your muscles go taut, then you hear a subdued sigh. “If you don't mind.” 
Kaveh must’ve given him quite the nasty look for Alhaitham to get that close to saying please. You sit back down, almost in a trance, as if the Scribe had cast a spell. Glancing down, you realize it’s Alhaitham who grabbed your wrist. He doesn't let go when you situate yourself back into place. 
Kaveh takes his chance to tether you as well. Lithe arms encircle you, gently pulling you into him. The side of your face presses against his chest, his bare skin exuding copious amounts of heat. He smells familiar, for this scene is familiar. Desperation with a hint of citrus and spice. He cradled you a lot in the beginning, shushing your sobs and drying your tears. At first, you’d resist, flailing your limbs wildly like you were a feral cat. Inevitably, his strength and stamina outlasted yours. 
His nose brushes against the crown of your head. “I care about you more than I could ever properly convey. Whatever you’re thinking, I can take it. Er, we can take it. I’d prefer that over you blaming yourself for anything.” 
Dazedly, you nod. He goes quiet, then, preparing himself for an onslaught you can bring yourself to unleash. Seconds bleed into one after another. You hear the furious pounding of Kaveh’s heartbeat. How if you twist your body, his breath hitches in his throat. It’s nice to know that at least his body will always be honest with you where his well-meaning words fall short. 
“You’re trying to regain a semblance of control by thinking ‘had I done this, or had I not done that, it wouldn’t have ended up this way.’” 
Kaveh exhales sharply through his nose. “Alhaitham, that’s enough.” 
“Let me finish,” he continues. His fingers creep onto your chin and take your face captive. He peels you away from your position against Kaveh, who stubbornly refuses to relinquish his grasp on your torso. Alhaitham’s countenance is close to yours so as not to leave any room for you to cower away. Those analytical eyes that can pick apart the world have you in their sights. “Do you know why you’re here, [First]?” 
In the past, when you struggled with an assignment or class, the infamously disinterested Alhaitham would take it upon himself to tutor you. He was a fair yet strict teacher. On those long nights spent hunched over a messy desk, he’d have a different air about him. He stretched you. In the moment, it felt like he was demanding more than what you could provide, but upon further reflection, he just knew what limits you could be pushed to better. 
“I’d like an answer.” 
You take a deep, shaky breath. “Because you both claim to hold some sort of affection for me.” 
Kaveh would look like a kicked puppy if you said this to him. It’s Alhaitham, though, and his composure is infallible. 
“Word it however spitefully you want, you get the gist of things,” he drawls. The intensity behind his gaze is enough to make you shiver. “If nothing you’ve been able to say or do has changed our mind now, why would it have back then? It might feel good to sulk, but your logic is erroneous. You’re making yourself miserable only to see if this wallowing is more palatable than the kind you’re used to.” 
You hate when Alhaitham’s right. It’s a shame he so frequently is. 
“Can you blame me?” 
“... No,” he admits. “But this proto-nihilism is worse for your mental well-being than anything else you’ve tried so far. I’d like to nip it in the bud.” 
Your smile is thin and far from kind. “Because it makes you uncomfortable?” 
“I’ll leave that to your overactive imagination to decide.” 
He relinquishes his grip on you, leans back into the couch, and crosses his legs. That posture positively irks you. Sparks from kindling flitter throughout your being like confetti. 
“Seriously, you have no tact,” Kaveh rests his chin atop your head. “They should study you in a lab somewhere.” 
“Says the one who’s taking advantage of [First]'s emotional vulnerability to cling to her like a parasite.” 
“Hey! Don’t listen to him, [First]. He’s just being a grump. You don’t think that’s what I’m doing, right?”
“I’d like to roll again,” you adopt a sickeningly sweet tone while addressing Alhaitham. “Please.” 
“... Right? [First]?” Kaveh tries again.
Alhaitham speaks up before you can even consider entertaining the whining male behind you. “And why should I bend the rules for you?” 
You lean forward with enough momentum that you’re able to break free from Kaveh’s grasp. Newfound vigor burns inside you. Perhaps a day will come when it extinguishes, but as for now, the flame ignites anew. Hot and ready to burn. 
Your lips brush against Alhaitham’s ear. “Are you afraid of losing?” 
He looks at you from the corner of his eyes, bemusement evident. The start of a smirk dances on his lips. 
“Not at all. Roll as many times as you please.” 
And so you cast the die again. 
Come what may — an unlikely win, tense truce, or total loss — you refuse to capitulate without trying.
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whore-for-chris-evans · 2 months
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I don't know what you expected but I am still not done talking about the infamous fifth episode of the What If...? show.
Spoiler warnings ahead.
Throughout the episode, while trying to pull Steve out of the mind control, Peggy keeps repeating "Steve, this isn't you, wake up" an abnormal amount of times. It's actually sickening how lacking the scriptwriting is, at least for her character.
Bucky interacts with Steve for barely a minute and even then, his efforts to get Steve back display a wider vocabulary than Peggy's throughout the whole episode.
Furthermore, I'd like to break down and compare Steve's words to Bucky and CATWS, and Peggy's words to Steve in What If...?
Steve: "I'm not gonna fight you," and here he drops the shield into the river below, "you're my friend."
Moments later, as Bucky nearly punches him to death, saying "YOU'RE! MY! MISSION!", Steve's calm, collected response is "then finish it, cause I'm with you till the end of the line."
Yes, tear-jerking, we know. Let's move on.
Peggy, having gone up against Steve in a huge (around the same size as the armour Tony built in the cave) metal suit, made of plutonium or something, and still standing straight up, says:
"I don't want to fight you, I can't fight you anymore. I'm done fighting, I've been fighting for so long, to end the war, to forget what I lost...I'm tired. Steve, I want to be with you. I want you, even if this is the end."
Keeping aside the frustrating repetition of the word "fight" in just a few lines of Peggy's speech, let's look at the motivation behind both the dialogues.
Peggy talks about herself. About how she is tired of the war and of losing people, how she tries to forget how Steve isn't in her life anymore, about how she wants to be with him. Her entire purpose is not to save him, but to save him for herself. Her actions come from a selfish point of view, and by the time she says this, she is far from being as battered and bruised as MCU Steve. In fact, she gets away with just a couple of bruises at the most.
On the other hand, Steve's intention was to free Bucky from Hydra's torture, to protect his childhood best friend and lover. He had been shot multiple times, stabbed at least once, had his skin split open in several areas when he dropped the final bombshell. Steve was nearly dying while he was saying all that; yes he would've loved a second chance at life with Bucky by his side, but it was never his primary focus.
His primary focus was making sure Bucky had a second chance at life, even if he himself died trying. It was as if to say "I may die right here right now, but I love you too much to hurt you any further than I already have. You've always been more dear to me than life itself, so if your mission is truly to kill me, you know I'll support you in it even as you're taking my last breath out of me. All I ask for is your safety and well-being."
And it shows in the consequences too - in CATWS, Bucky not only regains just enough of his memories to stop, but also pulls Steve out of the Potomac before he can drown to death and places him somewhere he knows Sam and Nat and the others will easily spot him.
On the contrary, Hydra Stomper Steve barely shows any affection, shock or remorse towards the woman in front of him, but instead, he flies up to the Red Room and destroys it. It is unclear whether he survives the crash himself.
Like I said before, despite Marvel trying their absolute hardest to push StevePeggy as the superior pairing, they still end up portraying Steve and Bucky's (I say romantic, because Steggy mirroring Stucky proves the latter to be a romance) bond to be far stronger than that of Steve with a woman he only knew for a couple of years at most during a world war.
They dug their own grave and cannot crawl their way out of it. Stucky prevails.
@buckymilf @mainly-marvel @oneofstarkskids @jjmaybanksgun @averageambivert
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callofdudes · 5 months
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Don't put me in the trust of your heart. Don't make me think of you when the gun is in my hand. Let not for you to leave me when I hurt you, because I know I will. Let not us part separate but be buried side by side. So I don't have to feel the pain of knowing that you've died...
The cold rain. Drip, drip, drip. Cold droplets splattered across black rooftops. Sinking into the soil beneath feet and rolling off the black shoes that sink into the moist dirt.
The rain disguises the tears that run his face a mess, that line his scars like ugly marrs and make him look weary.
He feels weary.
His suit is soaked and his umbrella in the car.
The rain clouds roll thick across the heavens, the roar of the thunder all he can hear amongst the scarce silence that the pelting rain offers.
But yet he can't move. He won't.
He's stuck and he knows it. The rain sinks the freshly dug up soil back into the ground as if it were never lifted. Fresh seeds of soft green glass will spring from the ashes and spring new life.
What a twisted fate...
Everyone has left by now. Even his friends who tried to get him to leave. But still, he remains stood there where a friend does. He won't leave without them. Knowing they cannot move either.
War has taken them home, where peace and prosperity waits.
Why can't he have that too? Why can't he be with you?
More tears flood from his cheeks, salt mixing with rain down his chin, down his suit, into his skin.
"Why would he do this?" He whispers, his eyelids fluttering in the thick rain.
He's never believed in God. He's never cursed his name for he's never thought much of him. And yet, now he wishes to curse him. For he's taken all he has.
He thinks back not too long ago when he stood in this same place. A freezing cold winter morning, the bleak sky rolling above, three Graves laying without sound.
Names of family. One not yet to his third winter...
And now, after gaining something, he's lost it again. Lost you. All he had.
He can't leave. He left his own grave, he left the grave of his family. And each one took a piece of him with them. Each time he left from those dormant, silent coffins buried in the ground they stole a part of him to keep.
And he knows..
Looking down at your dog tags kept in his curled fist, that this time if he leaves... He'll never truly come back.
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elysiumarchieve · 1 year
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i have no idea where this came from but have some angst i came up with while going through my spotify playlist
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warnings: angst, you die like EVERY TIME and he's partially to blame, i don't even have a title for this, this doesn't even make sense, reincarnation?? atleast you return like 3 times in his life to bother him😭😭😭, corny ass shit, no proofread, gn! reader
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"i love you so-" "please let me go.."
✧ the eccentric wanderer, who'd cry after your death and hold onto your cold hand for days before he's finally able to move away. by now, your body had even become to stiff to move and you no longer possessed the same kind look in your eyes, only eyes devoid of any joy you once felt
✧ the eccentric wanderer, despite believing you betrayed him just like everyone else, is unable to forget you and your presence, his tears falling and his sobs filling the empty void in his heart as he holds you, unable to understand why you'd also leave him like this
✧ the eccentric wanderer who, despite trying to scrub off all human emotion would still try to replicate the warmth when you hugged him so tenderly, the gentleness of your touch still lingering on his skin, painfully reminding of every day since you left him behind
✧ the eccentric wanderer who'd stand next to your grave (one he dug himself) and look down on it with a conflicted look on his face, eyes devoid of the joy he once experienced by your side, the straw hat pulled deeply into his face to obscure his own face and shut his eyes from reality
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"i love you so, please let me-" "go."
✧ kunikuzushi, who had no room in his heart to love anymore and pushed you away from him, afraid of being hurt again by the very mortals he now learnt to despise
✧ kunikuzushi, who learnt that human emotions were fatal and lead to nothing but pain, thus casting you aside and threatening to hurt you if you dared approach him even more
✧ kunikuzushi, who wants to laugh at your pathetic attempts to try and heal him, claiming that he had never met anyone as naive as you before, but still allowed you to stand just meters away from him, but only disregards you with a huff
✧ kunikuzushi who doesn't even feel content with himself once you finally stopped breathing and writhing as he snuffed out the light in your eyes. he thought that ending you before he could attached would keep him from feeling this pain, but why does his chest ache even more now?
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"i love you." "so?" "please let me-" "go."
✧ the balladeer who treats you like garbage, uncaring of your personal feelings and orders you around brutally, mocking you along the way and looking down on you
✧ the balladeer who, despite your resemblance to someone in his memories, doesn't allow you any closer to him than necessary, regardless of rank and status - he doesn't need allies nor people who tend to him
✧ the balladeer, who'd laugh at your attempts to understand him and call you worthless - unknownst to the fact that he's trying to keep his own 'heart' safe from the agony of losing you again
✧ the balladeer, who eventually lost sight of you after he scared you off for long enough, but happens to be in an even worse mood now that you're gone. none of these people around him were competent enough, unlike you
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"i love you so."
✧ the wanderer who returns to you with a heavy heart, standing beside your grave and finally tending to it the way he should've done centuries ago (all while complaining about how laborious you are even years after your passing)
✧ the wanderer who, despite his shitty attitude towards the people around him, wants to believe that you're proud of him, that you've been watching him and giving him subtle signs that you were still there with him even through all the atrocities he has committed
✧ the wanderer who can't find the proper words to talk to you for the final time and instead just shakes his head, claiming that he doesn't understand you - seeing you again in his each step in life truly showed him at how much you sucked to let him go, either
✧ the wanderer who is not the curious and gentle eccentric he had been once, but stays with you for the night, silently offering you his utmost gratitude that he is unable to voice out and instead tells you about the vision he received - the first thing to actually belong to him
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taglist!
@scara-lovebot @irethepotato @aqoalawera @otterlyinluv @maaarshieee @yournightmare-1987 @achlysyo @vincanzu @emocka @techynical @greensheepishnerd @yahoomika @glazemeda @0rah-s @jasmyluv @endlessmari @primojade @sayooooo @herdrops
if you want to get added to my tag list, feel free to interact with this post!
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patiencetakestyme · 1 year
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What She Deserves: Locklyle Fic
A/N:  After watching Lockwood & Co. on repeat for over a month, I dug into the books, and I just finished them.  The ending left something to be desired, in my opinion.  Don’t get me wrong:  I love the books, I love the characters, I love how the plot wrapped up.  But that last scene between Lockwood and Lucy…something was missing, and it wasn’t just a kiss.  This is my attempt to contribute to that scene; it picks up basically right where the last page ends.  Oh, and it’s in Lockwood’s POV!  
What’s to follow is nothing extraordinary, I’m sure; I’m sure this has all been done before and has probably been done better.  I’m new to the fandom, so I have not perused a lot of fics, so I’m sure something like this exists out there.  But there was just something nagging at me when I finished that last page, and I felt like I just had to get it out and get it on the page.  This is my attempt at doing that.  I hope you enjoy it! 
Warning: There are spoilers for the entire book series throughout this one-shot but especially The Empty Grave. You've been warned!
As he waited on the curb where it met 35 Portland Row, Lockwood found himself fidgeting.  He was usually the image of charm, poise:  a cool collective in a crisis.  
But today was different, for a number of reasons.  For starters, he couldn’t stop tugging at the collar of his new coat.  Sure, unlike his old one, it was not plagued by the claw marks from the opening of Mrs. Barrett’s tomb, but what it made up in novelty it lacked in character; he found himself missing the old, familiar, comfortable coat he had owned for many years.  
Still, the coat had been sacrificed in an effort to save Kipps, and as that effort had ultimately proven successful, he did his best not to mourn the coat too much.  It had died serving a good cause.  With a return of his smile, he found that that brought him quite a bit of comfort and joy.  
But it was not only the coat that caused him discomfort on this particular day.  He was waiting for Lucy, and there was a certain measured weight to this waiting period.  
Would she be wearing the necklace?  Every second that ticked by—he counted them.  The longer it took her to join him, the longer she had spent considering the gift.  Did she approve of it?  Did it offend her?  Did she understand—truly understand—the full complexities of the message he was attempting to send with such a gift?  Did she even see it, carefully concealed, wrapped around the legal paperwork he had delivered?  
With a sigh and another counted second, he came to a realization that he suspected he had always known deep down:  he owed her more than that.  A vague—yet weighted—gesture that may or may not be misinterpreted—or, hell, even seen—was not proportionate to what she meant to him.  
He knew what that meant—what he had to do.  He would need to be more direct; Lucy appreciated straightforward, raw, and honest communication.  
He knew that, of course—had known it for many years.  But just as he knew that was what she might need from this conversation, he was equally as aware of his struggle to provide that for her.  
He was great at fooling people.  He was always so good at talking to the others.  Need a motivating speech to breathe new life into your bedraggled army?  Lockwood was your man.  Need a condescending comment thrown casually—yet oh-so pointedly and painfully—that will simultaneously help you become a better person and make you feel like the worst human being alive?  Lockwood was your man.  Need someone to put George in his place when he was on his soapbox?  Lockwood was your man.  This skill—it had many applications. 
Expressing his private feelings was not one of those applications.  Opinions, observations, critiques, compliments—all of these things, he expressed quite easily.  
But anything personal?  His stories, his experiences, his traumas—his actual human feelings and emotions—all of these things came rarely if at all.  
It had frustrated Lucy for quite some time after they had first met; he knew that with confidence.  While he had always appreciated and respected what she chose to share with himself and George, she had struggled to understand why he had, in turn, failed to reciprocate.  
In her eyes, this felt like a lack of confidence:  an undermining of their relationship, worse, an impediment upon their relationship; he was sure of it.  If he wasn’t willing to share with her, did that mean that he, much like she had experienced with her own family, only kept her around for what she had to offer—for what she had to bring to the Thinking Cloth, so to speak?  
Lockwood keeping Lucy at arm’s length resulted in her doing much the same, which was, in a sense, ironic, as, while he kept her emotionally at a distance, physically, he called out to her at every turn.  Lockwood remembered all the times he had reached out to her—the caress of his hand on her arm, the way he would run that hand down her arm to interlink their fingers.  
He remembered, specifically, the first time they had really seen each other after George had been attacked.  His posture had been wrecked, his back aching with the burden he had carried.  He was responsible for what had happened to George; he had been the one to insist on George pursuing his research; he had been the one to keep pushing George towards that boundary.  
He could barely even bring himself to look at her—the stuttering, the stumbling, it was all there, just as he feared it would be again now, in this upcoming conversation.  
He remembered looking at his hands—his fingers.  He didn’t even recognize them as his own.  Then, just as suddenly, he—and those very hands—had led a revolt.  He threw pretense away; he swooped in, pulling her into a hug.  
That was how he communicated.  He suspected the situation with George had been enough to at least hint at this preference he coveted.  
In the time that had passed since the attack on George, he felt fairly confident she had now cracked that code:  that she now realized what he was doing, and how he was doing it.  That was merely how he chose to express his feelings.  He had always been one to reach for her, almost since the start of her time at the agency.  It had only increased with time, and since their first trip to the Other Side several months ago, he had grown increasingly reliant upon it.  
It was, to him, a simple truth:  he simply didn’t open up to people often.  But once he did, he knew it meant something.  He wondered if she saw it now—the weight that it carried; to him, their bond and their relationship had been cemented when he had opened up to her, when he had opened the door to Jessica’s room.  
Lockwood knew she was aware of this, to some extent at the very least.  Their dynamic had changed once he had started opening up.  She appreciated his words, and he could admit that he appreciated the challenge that came along with that:  the push to better himself in the task of sharing things—with her, at least, if no one else.  
Still, he could acknowledge that that was her preferred method of communication; she preferred words and gifts of sharing:  a sharing of information.  That was what she needed in this conversation, here and now:  for him to meet her in the middle and make sure her needs were met, as well as his.  
Another second had ticked by, but he was no longer worried; he could hear her running down the stairs.  Hearing her approach, he became even more resolved to his task.  It didn’t matter if she was wearing the necklace, he decided; he would make sure she heard what she needed to hear, necklace or no necklace.  
He turned to face her just as she reached the curb of Portland Row, his new coat billowing around him as he did so.  It wasn’t quite up to snuff with his old one yet, but he had hopes that it would be broadcasting his energy, sweeping anyone in the vicinity in and along for the ride, in no time.  Even still, the coat may not have been consistent, but his smile was; he could already feel it pulling at his lips before he even met Lucy’s eyes.  
Lockwood knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself; his eyes wandered down, looking for the distinct sparkle of the necklace.  He spotted it at her neck, and his eyes couldn’t help lingering, taking in the sight of it.  To be honest, he stared at it.  He resumed counting the seconds again; at three, he forced himself to meet her eyes once more.  
Words weren’t exchanged, but an understanding passed.  He faltered in his goals; was putting words to his feelings strictly necessary, now that she had elected to wear the necklace?  
He thought about Lucy—about all that he knew about her, about all that he loved about her.  
Yes, it was necessary.  She deserved more, and she would get it.  
Silently, they fell into stride next to each other.  Dusk was setting; houses would be closing up very shortly.  With any hope, these days would be numbered.  
As always, he had a goal in mind:  a goal for their destination and the path they would take to get there, both in terms of the physical route as well as the trajectory of their conversation.  
Lockwood, true to form, started talking; he always had topics ready to avoid any form of apprehension:  he wanted to make everyone as comfortable as physically possible, and that meant avoiding uncomfortable silences at all costs.  
He started with familiar and comfortable topics, a fact Lucy seemed surprised by, if the widening of her eyes was meant to indicate anything.  They discussed any updates afforded by his most recent conversations with Barnes—things he had hesitated to tell the others just yet, for fear of a lack of permanence.  
Barnes had solicited their help in the matter of cleaning up the Fittes foils, and Lockwood had turned him down, but Barnes had remained quite adamant—far more adamant than Lockwood had let on to the others; he was still pressing the matter with Lockwood fairly regularly.  
Lucy was his partner.  He had gone to Hell and back with her—twice.  If there was anyone who should know the full extent of Barnes’s pressing, it was her.  He did not hesitate to share this with her, just as he knew he would not hesitate to hold the line with Barnes—just as he knew Lucy would not fear his ability to hold the line with Barnes.  He did not tell her this in an attempt to seek support on holding the line or to bolster his resolve; he was more than equipped on his own in that matter.  
No, he shared this with her so that she could hopefully feel appreciated:  so that she could feel consulted. He wanted her to feel validated.  Hopefully—selfishly, he amended, that voice in his head sounding:  the one that always appeared when he had something to blame himself for—sharing this with her and her alone would reaffirm the underlying initiative he sought in this conversation.  
As the topic of Barnes came to a natural close, he cleared his throat.  Perhaps he was imagining it, but he could nearly feel Lucy’s suspicions rolling off of her in waves; she had managed to feel the change in his tone, and it was reflected in her own mood.  
He could not say he was surprised; he was not one to hesitate, so it was unsurprising that this would raise a red flag for her.  He had done it moments before, in the attic, but that, too, was an uncommon experience for him.  Still, it didn’t overly concern him.  If she drew the connection, she would not be wrong; he was hesitating now, just as he had hesitated then, because of the sensitive matter of the content he wished to discuss.  
“Luce,” he started, once he thought he had found his footing; still, his eyes evaded hers—yet another uncommon sign that he knew she was likely to pick up on.  He hesitated yet again, only to laugh at his own embarrassment.  
With a shake of his head, he started again, settling into simply being honest and relying upon the realizations he, himself, had only managed to come to earlier.  “It’s so funny.  Words typically come so easily to me.  Manipulating Barnes into investigating Fittes?  Easy,” he released a humorless laugh.  “Persuading Kipps into the most dangerous action imaginable?  I didn’t even break a sweat.  But here, right now,” he released a deep sigh.  “I’m struggling to find my words.”  
He took another break, allowing himself to feel the full burden of the task he had undertaken.  He needed to do this—he owed her this.  Still, he felt his fingers flex reflexively; even subconsciously, his hand ached to reach out for her.  
Abruptly, Lucy’s hand was in his, her fingers weaving through to link with his own.  Warmth radiated from the meeting point, and he could feel that very warmth spreading through him from head to toe.  In no time whatsoever, it had reached his face, daring to escape from his smile, his eyes, as he moved his to meet hers.  
“This doesn’t mean you get the free pass,” she started, and he could hear the irony dripping from her voice; somehow, the challenge her words issued made the message he wished to convey even clearer, easier.  “Go on,” she waited, pausing on an encouraging nudge of her head.  
“The necklace—” he started, with another shaky breath.  “It was, as I told you before, gifted from—”
“Your father to your mother—” she continued for him, seemingly deciding to help him out.
“Yes, a very special gift—” he confirmed.
“Given once they had gotten together?” she questioned, her confidence in the facts growing frail.  
“As a symbol,” he continued, releasing a final deep breath, even as he nodded to confirm her understanding.  “Of his…undying devotion.” 
With a subtle turn of his trajectory, he brought them to their arrival point:  his family’s cemetery plots, including the infamous empty grave.  This had been his plan all along:  to bring her here.  But even he could admit that a chill ran down his spine at the sight of the still-empty grave.  
If it hadn’t been for her, he probably would’ve occupied it long ago.  She gave him a reason to go on living.  He knew that.  He hoped that she knew that, but, with any hope, and if things went according to plan, she would certainly walk away from this conversation knowing it.  But that wasn’t the only reason he owed her—the only reason he had her to thank for the fact that the grave remained empty to this day; she had saved his life on numerous occasions, just as he had saved hers.  
It was a partnership.  He saved her; she saved him.  He adapted to meet her needs; she adapted to meet his needs.  That was why, despite the struggle he felt at putting these things to words, he would do it, because she deserved nothing less.  
When Lucy followed his eyeline and spotted the focal point of their destination, he didn’t miss her barely repressed gasp in reaction.  She released a shaky breath, her eyes locked on the gravesites.  
Through their still-connected hands, he guided her towards the fallen headstone—the one they had occupied on their last visit here—and eased them into a seated position.  He nestled in quite close to her; given what they were here to discuss, there was no reason to be coy about it, and, to be frank, the brushing of their knees brought him comfort in an uncomfortable setting.  He needed it, just like he knew she needed to hear what he had to say.  
“I know you’ve worried about me a bit in the past, Luce,” he started, his eyes glued to the empty grave—for now, anyway; he was determined to force himself to look at her, and soon.  “The last time we were here, I told you…” he trailed off, slowly finding the courage to force his eyes to run from the empty grave to meet hers.  “I mentioned that I—I sometimes feel like I don’t want to be left out:  like I’m missing something by not being here.
“In the time that has passed,” he continued, with another humorless laugh.  “I have come to realize how those words could be interpreted.  I want to make one thing abundantly clear,” he continued, his eyes locking onto hers with renewed intensity.  “Yes, I miss my family.  Do I wish they were here?  Of course.  Do I wish I was on the Other Side with them?”  He shook his head.  “As if two trips there wasn’t enough to inform my decision of just how much I do not wish to inhabit the Other Side just yet, there are, still, other factors.
“Maybe I did at one time,” he mused, his eyes wandering back to the empty grave, but only briefly.  “Before I met George, before I met you—and Holly, and even Kipps.”  He stopped, but only to scrunch his nose at his own sense of surprise at his words.  
“I miss my family,” he started again, his eyes coming back to hers, with nothing but resolve in them.  “But I have a family here, too:  you and me and George and Holly and Kipps, and even Flo, come to think of it.  You are all factors that make it impossible for me to wish for death.  
“I wish they could see us, in truth,” he paused, smiling.  “If they knew the things George did with that skull inside their house…” He paused, contemplating the exact reaction his parents would have to such news.  “It would be quite interesting, I’m sure.
“But above all else,” he continued, his tone becoming serious once more.  “I wish they could meet you.  You are my partner, Lucy—my family.  That’s why I gave you the necklace.”  He leaned in, his tone full of passion, his hand reaching for the object in question.  For the smallest of moments, he allowed his fingertips to play with the gem found at the end of the gold chain.  He thought he might’ve heard her react—just the smallest inhalation of breath—but it was gone before he could definitively prove that it had happened at all.  
“I want to reassure you, once and for all,” he continued, pulling back slightly, but his passion was still in his eyes—even he could feel it.  “I do not have a death wish.  The Fittes thing—it had to be done.  It had to be done,” he repeated, his eyes still locked on hers.  “Morally, it was the right thing to do.  Even if Marissa hadn’t killed my parents, she needed to be brought down.”
Lucy nodded but kept silent.  He barely withheld a broadening of his smile; it was the physical reassurance that he needed in that moment—it drove him on, pushing him forward with his confession.  
“But at no time was I looking to die pointlessly.  I would’ve died for you—I still would die for you,” he continued, only to pause; her horror was abundantly clear upon her face, and it needed to be addressed.  “I know that’s what worries you,” he smiled, unable to avoid acknowledging their common understanding.  
“But don’t you think that’s just part of it?” he asked.  “Part of what we’re doing here?  You say you worry about it:  about me being willing to die if it means I can save you.  But did you not go up the elevator to Marissa’s office all by yourself, specifically so you could try to save me?”
It was Lucy’s turn to smile; she looked away from him for the first time since he had started talking, but her sudden bashfulness only made him stare at her with a broadening sense of intensity.  He did not wish to corner her, but he needed to know.  
“That’s fair, I guess,” she conceded, if only partially.  He smiled at her tenacity, but he was not yet done.  
“If you had died up there,” he started—hesitated.  It hurt—it physically hurt to put words to this, but it needed to be done.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “If you had died up there, and I was left with nothing but a body to bury—here, next to my mother, my father, my sister…” he trailed off, but only for a moment; he needed to push through, or he wouldn’t have the stamina to see this through to the end.  
Next to him, even Lucy was visibly struggling with this; he could feel it, as she broke off eye contact and ran her hands repeatedly over the material of her leggings, almost as if she were desperate for something proactive to do.  “If I was left with nothing to do but to put your body in the empty grave, how do you think I would feel about that?”  
She nodded, and he knew she had seen the logic in his reasoning.  “I did have that thought,” she confessed, her eyes still avoiding his.  “When the pillars fell, and I had nowhere to go, and all I could do was run, and I found myself suddenly dumped back by the elevators, I thought…” she trailed off, her eyes now coming to the empty grave.  “I could do it:  I could go up the elevator and finish her off while you attended to Kipps.  If I was quick about it, you wouldn’t have to play any part in it,” she added, her eyes finally coming back to meet his.  
He smiled, but there was a flicker of frustration in his eyes; he could feel it.  “No more doing that, okay?  I think what I’ve learned, at least, from this whole ordeal is that we’re better when we fight together.  When I cleared the debris in the Hall of Pillars, and you weren’t there—”
She sighed, nodding again in understanding.  It seemed, to him, that she had perhaps not thought of that:  of the paralyzing fear he had experienced at not being able to find her, knowing there were ghosts littering the room, knowing that Marissa was just an elevator ride upstairs.  
“What can I say, Lockwood?” she started, turning back to him again.  He could see it there:  she knew he was right, but her tenacity was not thrilled at the prospect.  “Meeting that Fetch in the basement of Aickmere’s…” she trailed off, but only for a moment.  “It got in my head.  That ghost told me this was our future:  that you would sacrifice yourself to save me.”  
“I may still yet,” he interjected, armed with his charming smile.  
“Don’t kid—”
“I’m not,” he interrupted again, his tone now completely serious.  “Wouldn’t you do it for me?” he asked, abandoning his usual go-to smile for a plea for honesty.  
She seemed to consider this, but only for the smallest of seconds.  “Obviously.”
“Then, it’s settled,” he pulled back, his air of charm returning.  “Moving forward, we’re going to categorize this as a perfectly logical reaction to loving someone, not as an expression of a death wish.”  
It was the closest he had ever gotten to directly telling her he loved her.  He knew it, and judging by the expression on Lucy’s face, she knew it too.  He knew it needed to be said—he knew it, just like he knew it was a mountain he had yet to climb.  He felt it—felt it so strongly it physically hurt sometimes.  But saying it…that matter still remained challenging to him.  
He didn’t get the sense that Lucy had experienced an overly loving and affectionate childhood.  One of several sisters and born under a woman that seemed only interested in what her children could do for her, Lockwood had the feeling that, perhaps, Lucy had never actually been told that she was loved.  
This made his task—his purpose—here all the more important.  She deserved to hear it.    
“Because you know that, right, Lucy?” he asked, looking at her expectantly.  She didn’t appear to know, from what he could see written upon her face; it spurred him on.  “Our family is worth living for:  Holly, Kipps, George—and you.  You are worth living for.”  
This, at the very least, seemed to be a somewhat familiar concept to her.  She startled at it, assuredly, but she seemed to adapt to the idea with an ease that had not been present thus far in the conversation.  Still, the fact that she had been startled by this comment at all meant his job was not yet done.  
He had taken a gasp—prepared to push on—when she beat him to the punch.  “You are too, of course—even if you’re occasionally taken under the spell of some extremely promiscuous spirit, causing me to have to use a trapeze wire to fly through a theater and save you.”
This change in topic shocked him, to the point where all he could do verbally was release a humorless laugh.  He would’ve considered this topic done and dusted:  an old issue that was no longer a problem.  Her bringing it back up in this conversation, when no reference had been made to it thus far, told him otherwise.  She still needed some follow-up communication on this topic, and while he could see this now, he could admit privately that this oversight indicated that he still had a long way to go towards learning the best way to communicate with Lucy Carlyle.  
He knew what she was trying to do, of course—what was to be implied by the informality of her tone:  she wanted to imply that this was merely a joke.  But that was not truly the case, and he knew it; inadvertently or purposefully, she had exposed an insecurity here, and it needed to be addressed.  
Settling into the resolve of finding the best possible way of responding, he looked away from her, but only for a mere moment.  “I’ve apologized for this,” he shook his head, his smile beaming, but then he paused, and he screwed up his courage.  “You do know what happened there, don’t you?”
“Lockwood…” she trailed off, with a shake of her head.  
Immediately, he could see from the dread upon her face that she didn’t—no matter what she had perceived within that situation, and how she had perceived it, she did not have the accurate information at hand; this, too, needed to be rectified, and quickly.  
“I don’t know if I necessarily need to hear about your attraction to the creepy ghost girl that slept with everyone’s husbands,” she finished; she had beaten him to the punch again.  
No, this would not do.  Knowing there was no other option, he decided to call on both of their preferred methods of communication; the situation warranted it.  He swooped in, clenching both of her hands in his once more.  
“You didn’t see it?” he asked, shaking his head in disbelief; his eyes were glued to hers once again.  “It looked like you.  It had your hair and your eyes.  It was still in a dress—she couldn’t let go of her dresses, apparently,” he paused, shaking his head, as if to shake off this entirely insignificant detail.  “But it was the color of blue you always wear,” he commented.  His eyes lowered to her arm, even as one hand moved to run a thumb over the sleeve of her blue jacket, before moving back to reclaim its assigned hand.  
“It even had that same stubborn look you always give me,” he continued, his eyes coming back to meet hers, as he felt his smile come back to pack a punch of its own.  “The one you always send my way when I tell you to stay back and let me run into the dangerous situation.” 
Lucy seemed to contemplate on this for a while.  She looked away, almost as if she were attempting to recall the specific details of that day.  He kept his eyes locked on hers; he knew she preferred logic and things she could see with her eyes—which was, unfortunately, impossible, given that they were discussing a tricky situation with an equally tricky ghost—but he just had to hope that she could find something in her memory that prompted her to believe him.  
Before long, she had turned back to him, her confidence back in her eyes.  “I didn’t know that,” she confessed, and even though relief was washing over him at her belief in his statement, he could admit that he was surprised to hear direct confirmation that she had not known.  “And…” she paused.  It was clear to Lockwood that she wanted to ask something, but she was in the process of mustering up some courage of her own.  He waited her out, nodding encouragingly to her in the process.  
Finally, with a sigh and a roll of her eyes, she seemed to resolve herself to posing her conundrum.  “So, you didn’t have a death wish at the time of that case.  So, then, I guess she didn’t go after you because you had a weak connection to life.” 
Her statement:  it was a statement, but it also wasn’t; there was a clear question implied in the way she asked in, in the anxiety he spotted in her eyes.  She was nervous—he could see it, clear as day, on her face.  He wasn’t certain what exactly could be making her nervous, but Lockwood had a feeling that if he just answered her question, maybe she’d answer his as well.  
“No—well, I don’t think so, anyway.  I don’t recall having a head cold at the time,” he carried on, his smile back in place.  “No, I believe Le Belle Dame sought me out because I fulfilled her other category,” he paused, his smile falling away once more, as he allowed the full severity of his confession to show upon his face.  “There’s a reason she looked like you to me, Luce.”  
He hadn’t stated it—not yet, but he was determined; he would get there, if it took all the courage he had at his disposal.  
With a sudden, sharp sigh, Lucy drew in his attention acutely.  She shifted, removing her hands from his grasp.  “If we’re getting confessional about the case of Le Belle Dame…” she trailed off, hesitating.  He could see her struggling, but he had no suspicions as to what precisely she could be struggling with; whatever was coming was quite important, but he had no preexisting knowledge to hint at what exactly was about to come.  “It’s my fault she went after you.  
“She got ahold of me…” she trailed off, her eyes losing focus.  “If George hadn’t been there, I would’ve been done for.  She got in my head; she rooted around for secrets, for ways to get to me.  And she found…” she trailed off again, and he found himself nearly hanging on the edge of the tombstone he had claimed as a seat; he needed to hear what came next.  “Well, you,” she finished, with a shrug, her eyes suddenly meeting his once more.  
Seeking a physical way to convey the severity of what he had to say, he reached in again; this time, his hands divided—one reached to reclaim one of her hands, while the other made its way up to cup one of her cheeks, drawing her in ever-so-slightly.  “You think it’s your fault.  I think it’s my fault.  You know who’s actually at fault?” he paused, his warm smile returning.  “The damn ghost.”  
“Well, with any hope, that’ll all be done soon.”  Lucy smiled, but it was different; her voice was hollow, breathless.  “But for now…” she trailed off, and, although she didn’t look away from his eyes, he knew she was referencing the change in the environment surrounding them.  
The sun had set; ghost fog had started to settle in amongst the tombstones.  They would need to return to Portland Row very soon, but that didn’t stop him from hesitating for just one more moment.  His eyes left his command, roaming her face at free will.  Still, he found them gravitating towards her lips.  
An intervening curl of ghost fog broke his trance.  “You’re right, of course,” he stated, his voice sounding more business-like than it had since they had settled in at the cemetery; he had a secondary goal within this conversation, and the journey back to Portland Row would serve as an extremely appropriate venue.  Keeping their hands connected, he eased her to her feet, and they started the trek back to Portland Row.  
“I do think you should reconsider my offer, Luce,” he started, admittedly—privately, at least—serving his ulterior motive.
“What offer?  You make several of them a day,” Lucy responded, with a sideway glance and a laugh.  “It can be hard to keep up, you know.”
“To move into the guest room, of course.  It would be nice to have you a little closer.”  
“What’s the matter?  Don’t like the idea of me living in your old bedroom?” Lucy asked, with another pointed laugh.  
“On the contrary, I’ve found that to be quite a comfort over the years,” he responded, his eyes sliding to meet hers.  “I merely mean to suggest that, if you should wish for it, I would not object to having you a little closer.”  
“Yeah, but Lockwood,” she started, with a sigh.  “Me?  In your sister’s room?  Wouldn’t that feel a little…” she trailed off, her nose scrunching in evidence of her discomfort.  “Morbid?  Inappropriate?”
“Oh, yes,” he started, his tone calm, cool, collected:  detached.  But his heart was hammering in his chest; this was the very precipice he had been hoping to navigate them to.  “You’re quite right.  That would be strange, wouldn’t it?  No, why don’t you just move into the big room?  With me?”  
She came to a stop, as he had anticipated she might.  Her grip on his hand slackened but maintained.  She stared at him, mouth agape, eyes wide; no effort was made to check her surprise.  
He, alternatively, painted a picture of calm intellect, as he always did.  His heart was still pounding in his chest, yes, but it was excitement that drove him on, not nerves.  
Lockwood couldn’t be entirely certain when this idea had occurred to him.  Perhaps it had been earlier, when he had been visiting her attic bedroom.  It was perfectly adequate, and he had not been lying; he had often found that he quite loved the idea that he was able to share his childhood bedroom with her.  It had created a sort of unspoken bond that had existed from the moment of their meeting, in a sense.  
The truth was, Lucy, much like Lockwood, had outgrown that room.  In his opinion, that room was a room of necessity—of acquaintance.  Kipps was worthy of that room, and Holly had long been worthy of at least that room, but Lucy…she deserved more, and as he had sworn to give her what she deserves, he intended to see that through, even on this particular point.  
“You—you want me to move in with you?” she stuttered.
“Oh, no, of course not,” Lockwood started, with a scoff and a dismissive wave of the hand she wasn’t holding.  “That would be silly, as you already live with me, and have for several years.  Come on, Luce.  I thought you’d at least know that.”
“Lockwood,” she started, taking a step to approach him; her voice was admonishing now, in that way it could be when George did something to really peeve her off.  “Now is not the time for jokes.  Tell me what you want.”  
He nodded, understanding.  It was as he suspected:  words were the method she sought as comfort, and it was his job now to seek to meet her needs in that area.  His grip on her hand tightened, as he noted she had never released it; she was working to meet his needs, and he owed her the same courtesy.  
“I want you to move into the master bedroom with me because I love you.  I have loved you since…” he trailed off, genuinely thinking through the progression of events they had experienced together.  “At least our first trip to the Other Side, if not earlier.  I do not know what I would do without you, and I have no interest in finding out.  Move in with me, please.”  
He let that last word hit and hit hard.  It wasn’t begging, per say; it was a deep, raw drive to be honest:  to honestly express just how much he wanted—no, needed—her companionship.  She was his partner, in every definition of the word, and he would have it no other way.  
He expected a fight.  He loved her because she was stubborn, not in spite of it.  He was not disappointed.  
“Don’t you think it’s too soon?”
“We’ve known each other for two years.”
“But that’s hardly long, given our age—”
“Lucy, we’ve been to Hell together.  Twice.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t change our age—gray hairs, maybe, but not age.”
“I know it doesn’t.”  She gasped to interrupt him—to continue the bantering match—but he cut her off again.  “What it does impact is our relationship, which, I think you can agree, has been fundamentally changed by our time spent on the Other Side.  
“I could never be with anyone other than you,” he stated, his eyes refusing to stir from hers.  “That is an incontrovertible fact for me, because, while George and Kipps and Holly can understand that second trip, they can never grasp the consequences of the first:  the pure fear we felt at realizing where we were, the fight to survive, the closeness—physically and mentally and emotionally—prompted by the loss of your cape.”
He shook his head, recalling the pressing fear he had experienced on the Other Side with her, as if it had happened merely yesterday.  “That is an experience that I will only ever share with you—that only you will ever be able to understand.  I want someone sleeping next to me at night that can understand the horror—the misery—of that:  that might just understand when I wake up in a cold tremor in the middle of the night fearing a little girl—barely more than a child—in a blue dress.”  
She nodded, clearly recognizing the reference to the child they had seen on the Other Side, but said nothing else, as she paused for the smallest of moments.  Lucy seemed to be processing, and Lockwood did his best to simply follow the pounding of his heart.  The nearest ghost lamp flickered on; ironically, the light of it would be casting a shadow on the floor of the attic bedroom they were in the process of discussing.  It shed light on the room, unseen, but, for him, it also shed light on the missing part of this conversation. 
He released her hand, choosing, instead, to run both of his up to cup her chin.  Lockwood paused, as he more felt than saw her draw in a hissing breath.  Her eyes finally made their way up to meet his, and yet, still, he waited.  “Am I pressing too close?” he asked. 
It echoed.  It echoed around the empty street.  It echoed off the iron strips leading to the front door of 35 Portland Row.  It echoed off the window panes of the exact room in question.  
But more importantly, it echoed through his mind—to a time standing on the Other Side, to a time spent sharing a singular cape that was literally the only thing keeping them alive, to a time when he had asked if he was pressing too close, to a time when, internally, he begged that she wouldn’t say no, for he feared that he could not withstand the loss of her closeness, her warmth, her love.  
And, just as she had said then, she settled for a simple, but resolved, “no.”  
Audibly, the ghost lamp turned off, entering its dormant phase.  
Barely able to contain the pounding of his heart in his chest, he closed the distance between them.  His lips met hers.  
Lockwood did not often prioritize taking care of himself.  He took care of all others.  He sought to check in with others regularly, and if they needed anything, it was his job to get it for them.  
He had taken care of Lucy in this conversation.  He had finally—finally—told her he loved her.  He had seen to her needs—her preferences for communication.  
This, alternatively, was his preferred method of communication:  touch.  He craved contact with Lucy; it was why he always reached out for her, especially in the darkest of times.  
Lucy, for what it was worth, seemed to have perceived this.  Whether consciously or subconsciously, she seemed to have an appreciation for the fact that he had been the one to predominantly take the risks in this conversation; at every turn, it had been him initiating the broadening and deepening of their relationship.  Now, Lucy seemed to understand that it was her turn.  
Lockwood initiated the kiss, but she didn’t let it stagnate.  She pressed in closer, her arms moving to snake through the opening in his jacket and encircle his waist.  To his surprise, he heard his own verbal reaction to the move.  His fingers moved, weaving through the line of her hair at the base of her neck and pulling her in even closer.  
He had often daydreamed about sharing this very moment with Lucy, and he didn’t let a second pass unnoted.  He tilted his head, pulling on his height to deepen the kiss.  Lucy’s arms around his waist tightened their grip, pulling him in even tighter.  
This was how she told him she loved him.  Her resolve, her tenacity, her confidence—all those wonderful things she brought to a conversation with him:  it was all clear in this moment, with the ghost fog swirling around them, with the moonlight reflecting on the pavement, for once shining brighter than the dreaded nearby ghost lamp, which still lay dormant.  
Their lips parted, as they tried to catch their breath, but their foreheads sought to connect; he brought his to rest upon hers, and hers met his in the middle.  
“Okay,” she started, her voice sardonic—but he could hear it:  the irony.  “I’ll move in with you, I suppose.”  
“Good,” he responded, his smile returning.  “That was the correct answer.”  At her gasp to bicker, he sought to move quicker.  He reached down, interlinking their hands once more, before moving swiftly to approach the door to 35 Portland Row.  “Now, we can make all the necessary preparations tomorrow, of course.  Moving will be far easier by daylight, obviously.”  He spoke quickly, throwing his words over his shoulder at her.  “But for now, I think we’ll have enough to get by, don’t you?  Just go get changed, whatever you need to be comfortable for the evening, and I’ll wait up for you.”  
“Is that a request or an order?” she asked as they made their way through Portland Row’s front door and started to ascend the stairs, their hands still connected.  
“It’s neither, of course!”  He had the decency to sound indignant.  “It’s a suggestion, naturally.”  
Quick as a flash, he had gotten her up the stairs to reach the door to the attic.  “I’ll see you in a few?” he asked. 
Yes, he asked.  For all his confidence, for all his charm, for all his presumptions, for all his persuasion, he knew how to show his insecurities.  It was rare, and it was difficult to discern; this was intentionally done.  But when he needed to ask, he asked.  
And he was asking here, now.  Sure, he had presented the idea with nothing but confidence—and he was confident, to a certain degree.  But he didn’t want to take a step backward; he wanted to show her his vulnerability, in his own way, with his words—when he could and when he felt comfortable.  
This was that moment.  And, true to form, Lucy didn’t let him down.  
“I’ll be there in five minutes, assuming I don’t get lost on the harrowing journey down the stairs,” she answered, with a small smirk.  
###
He waited up for her, as he had promised.  And, just as she had promised, she was there within five minutes.  Still, he used each of those five minutes to the best of his ability.  He tidied his already extremely tidy room.  He made sure he was satisfied with the furnishings, fluffing any pillows, refolding already folded blankets, turning down the bed so that she knew she was well and truly welcomed here.  
He slipped into his pajamas:  a simple white shirt and pair of black fitted joggers.  He tucked his clothing from the day away in its assigned spots:  dirty clothes chucked in the hamper residing in the closet, new coat hanging from the bedpost, just as the previous one always had.  
He had found just enough time to complete three laps of pacing when she opened the door.  She didn’t knock; he liked that—it indicated this was now just as much her room as it was his.  
Suddenly, she was in the room, in the pajamas he had seen her wear on several occasions.  He released a deep sigh:  a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding in as a result of his anxious awaiting of her arrival.  
“We should get to bed,” he stated, seeking a sense of normality.  He approached her, reaching for her hand yet again, and guided her toward the bed.  “You never know what tomorrow will bring.”
“Maybe the Problem will be over, suddenly and sharply.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” he scoffed.  “Far more likely, yet another meeting with Barnes, during which he’ll beg us for more assistance,” he continued, slipping into bed.  Their connected hands led her to slip in behind him.  
When he turned to face her, she was settling in, shifting comfortably on her pillow.  “You’ll hold him off,” she said, with a scrunch of her nose indicating her confidence in his defiance.  “He can deal for a few days.  We’ve carried more than our fair share of weight for a while—earned a leave of absence, we have.”  
He smiled; he couldn’t help it.  Seeing her here, hearing her validate any and all of his feelings:  his heart was pounding painfully with the weight of the happiness of it all.  “Quite right.  Do you mind hitting the light behind you?” he asked, with a nod in the direction of the lamp on the nightstand behind her.  
Silently, she rolled over and did so.  Hoping he wasn’t pressing too close in an unwanted way, he slipped in before she could roll back over to face him.  Settling his arm around her waist and placing his head to share the same pillow that hers occupied, he waited, attempting to read her body language for any signs of displeasure at this move.  On the contrary, she settled in, easing back further into his chest.  The affirmation had impeccable impacts upon him; he breathed a sigh of relief and allowed his eyes to ease close.  
In the dark, she whispered, “I love you, Lockwood.”  
His eyes opened sharply, but his body did nothing to indicate his surprise; he made no movements:  he did not startle.  “I love you too, Lucy.”  
He allowed his eyes to ease close once more, the relief at having her here consuming him, and helping him drift off to the most peaceful sleep he had experienced since the death of his sister.  
His last thought, if he could even call it that, as it was not fully formed, was that she deserved this, but he deserved this too.  
A/N:  Thank you for taking the time to read this!  It means a lot to me!  If you liked my writing style, and if you’re looking for something to read in the fantasy/YA genre, please consider checking out my book! 
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willowedwisteria · 2 years
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⁂~I've dug two graves for us, my dear~⁂
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Summary -> If you're gone, they can leave the world behind with you as well.
Note -> Haha, wake up y'all.
Featuring -> Scaramouche, Childe
Warnings -> Minor Cursing
Genre -> Angst
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Childe
Childe's life has always been full of battles. Every strike exhilarated him, every blow on his target made him grin, and every trickle of blood pushed him to even further lengths.
Frankly, he enjoyed it. It wasn't anything new, but it would never get boring over time for him.
It was something he had to do, something for his family and the people who felt like family to him. He really just wanted the best for his siblings, parents, and you.
When was the last time he got to see your smile?
When was the last moment he got the luxury of hearing your laughter and voice soothe his nerves?
Where were you?
Maybe if he knew that you would be spending your last hour with him, he would have held you in his arms and did whatever you wanted him to do for that last moment.
He would try to get it for you, whatever trinkets, stupid items, food, drinks, palaces, mansions, a whole country. It's not as if he has much to offer with all the archons by your side.
Staying in this world without you wasn't living, it was merely surviving.
It was like a cycle that he was trapped in, the only time he would ever brighten up was with his family.
He really, really did love returning to your side with the items that he had got from bosses. It was one of his favorite things to do. It was like proving to you that he was capable, that he could protect you, yet you aren't even walking on this earth anymore.
"Childe, you know there's no need to pile up all the treasures you've gotten from battle here." Zhongli firmly states, a hand on his shoulder, staring at the mountain of boss drops Childe has left for you. "Their grace... isn't with us anymore."
Childe lightly shoves Zhongli's hand aside, "Yeah. I know."
He doesn't like battles as much anymore.
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Scaramouche
Scara never felt human in his own body. It feels as if he was programmed to feel every emotion from anger to sadness, to blind hope.
Every burst of rage felt like someone was pulling the strings behind the scenes, every insult behind his back stung, yet he had no idea how to cope.
The Raiden Shogun who created him deemed him as a failure, a test subject, someone who could have been something special but never made it past the last obstacle.
Scara was like a capable but lost child.
He pushed others away and acted petty for the sake of not being left in the dust once more.
Yet, the only beam of light, the guide in his life, the sunlight that truly made him feel warm and fuzzy inside left. You were the key to understanding himself, you had the key to his heart.
That key that you held in your hands had drifted away with you.
If he had just 5 more minutes with you, it would be the best 5 minutes of his life. He'll be able to ask you why he has butterflies in his stomach when you're around sometimes, why he feels disappointed when you leave, and why he feels such admiration for you.
He still didn't finish spending time with you. Why did you leave?
Fuck moving on because he knows that he'll never find someone like you ever again.
Wasn't it just a moment ago when you were here? When you were teasing him? When you were off daydreaming and ranting? In the end, he doesn't feel like understanding himself is worth anything anymore, just spending time with you was enough for him.
"Don't fucking tell me that 'they're in a better place.' when they belong here with me." As possessive as it might sound, he really felt like this world was the better place that the both of you shared together.
No, the 'better place' in this world was when both you and Scara were together. You were like home.
Now, he has no place to call home.
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Tag list -> @under-a-starry-night, @yourfaveisblack, @bardisipatos, @callmemeelah, @kithewanderingme, @my-white-canvas/@pale-value, @bamboowrites/@bamboowritess, @uchihaeirin, @karmawonders, @lunavixia, @anfre109, @ly-archives
Special tags -> @is-very-sad, @chocogi, @nicebonescomrade, @saigomo, @gunterdon, @mari-san-cant, @xiaophilia, @euthym1as
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k-c-7 · 4 months
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Ashlyn's statement came off as someone that doesn't want to take accountability and it shows. Playing the victim card and using your kids as shield when you're the one that originally took them out of your bio, just to add them back after the backlash. No ones buying your story that you didn't cheat because bffr your supposed timeline just doesn't add up your not fooling anyone. Whether physical cheating took part or not, you cant convince me that emotional cheating wasn't involved to some capacity, that whole Cannes trip looks sketchy as hell.
Also the fact you have people like Alex throwing shade in the comments of Ali's post, I feel is very telling when you've been friends with this person for years. You can't tell me that Alex wouldn't fact check before commenting something like that. Just Saying.
Though I feel for the kids in the end, I hope they haven't been effected by this(Even if they're young).
Yeah I saw the statement and have seen some other people’s reactions and opinions. If I’m truly being honest this whole divorce drama has me confused and now with Ashlyn’s statement I’m even more confused. Like the statement kind of contradicts itself in a few areas. Not gonna lie I wish Ali would just come out and clear the air, but then again she doesn’t owe us anything. I do agree that Alex throwing a bit of shade does say a lot. Her & Ashlyn were teammates not only on the national team, but also on the Pride for years. You can’t tell me that the two didn’t develop a friendship over the years so yes it’s telling for her to do that. Though I don’t agree with the death threats, but I do see it a bit as she’s dug her own grave. I just feel bad for their two kids in this messy situation.
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californiagoddess · 9 months
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hello heidi! i wanted to ask you about your witchcraft practice in relation to the strikes situation. you say you've manifested things before, like rain and an apartment that you like. are you still practising right now? in a situation so out of your control, have you had results? I'm asking because i have trouble believing in manifesting because of things like this. that's why i'm curious to know your opinion, as someone who has experience with this. I haven't even tried because i simply don't believe it would make a difference in my life. how do you keep going?
For me manifesting is more about personal things and the strike is a lot, LOT bigger than myself. I think it's moving in the right direction now that sag has joined the strike and the producers are making openly evil comments for everyone to see. They think they're invincible but they just dug their own grave. The fact that strikes are springing up all over the country is also very encouraging
I think I keep going because I have (and always have had) a complete lack of inability to give up and "accept the things I cannot change" like I always hated the serenity prayer lol. I refuse to believe there's anything that's truly unchangeable. The truth is that change is the ONLY constant. I find a lot of inspiration in that. Nothing will be as it is forever. From that point you just have to believe that the change can be in a positive direction, that good change is possible.
Ultimately you have to believe in yourself and your potential MORE than you believe in your circumstances, and that holds true whether you believe in manifesting or not. You can't place your happiness or self worth in anything external to you because you'll always be chasing something if you don't have internal validation. Maybe that sounds like a roundabout answer but things come to you a lot easier when you're not chasing them. You have to take the high value you're projecting on the thing you want and place the high value on yourself instead, then you won't have resistance against believing what you want is possible
As for the visualizing method that has worked for me, I can't explain exactly why it worked but it worked so clearly and easily for me that I can't help believing in it now. I didn't believe in it until it worked though. I think it's natural not to believe in something until you've experienced it for yourself
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lightningbig · 2 years
Text
been thinking a lot about the dream smp and death; about where the bodies go, about what the graves mean.
(cw for death, lore typical violence, discussion of death/resurrection)
thinking about how tommy has a grave that has always been empty. about how jack had a grave that he dug himself out of, that he kicked and smashed and tore apart with his own hands. about how wilbur has a grave, still - about how no one wants to dig it up, to see what's left inside of it.
thinking about how they had a funeral for a man they hated, about how they gave schlatt a grave just to dig his body up, about how he was consumed after everything - pieces of a body that had lived and died and lived and died and lived and died.
the smp has a graveyard that some will visit and most will leave but will they really? do you truly come back whole after death? can you ever really piece yourself together again?
-
when you die with lives to spare, the respawn mechanics will kick in relatively fast. the body, where it falls, will spark and pop and dissolve, particles that lift away in the air. everything that you had on you - all the items you held, the things in your pockets, anything that isn't flesh and bone stays behind, but the body will wake, reformed and newly whole - either at the place you've last slept, or at world spawn.
it's a process every player knows.
but when you die on your last life, when you're at the end of your rope, when the universe has run out of favors to grant? the body will lie where it falls.
-
phil wasn't sure, when he first met wilbur in the cave. he didn't remember, with any certainty, how many lives his son had lost - if this was an act of vengeance or one of suicide.
he didn't know but he lept forward regardless - wrapped desperate arms around wilbur, pulled him back back back curled his wings around his body, prayed to Prime it would be enough -
when his son begged to die, phil knew he wouldn't be coming back. when he watched - hands numbs, limbs locked, wings aching - as wilbur walked forward forward forward he knew there would be no quick restart. just the pressing weight of the universe, of death.
his son's body slid, lifeless and heavy, down the blade. phil cradled him again - in shaking hands, in injured wings, in a sea of blood sticky and thick. and the universe watched, and the universe kept turning.
(phil takes wilbur’s body, after everything. he carries him, his son, and he walks him all the way back home - wing still too tender, too hurt, to consider flying.
there is a weeping willow, on the outskirts of their garden. far enough away that it does not haunt every step they take, but close enough that the blooms will always carry through the wind, it's silhouette always in view. phil lays his son down, gentle, and he starts to dig.)
-
jack’s body was buried, once. and when he crawled out of hell, yelling and cursing, he dug his way out of the ground, too, fingernails broken and bloody and black with dirt. and the universe looked at him and he spit in its face and he lives, will live, has lived -
-
tommy’s body lays on the floor of the cell - slumped, small. bloody. dream has been this close to dead bodies before, to players at the end of their line, but he will never get used to the chill that creeps through the air with death.
when he laughs, hands smeared with life blood, it echoes back at him from the three obsidian walls. 
and the universe yells and yells and yells -
-
technoblade watches the water surrounding the prison with his heart in his throat, searching for the tell-tale signs of respawn, desperately hoping to see something - particles, items in the water, anything. surely the kid had lives left, surely this wasn't his last -
he meets sam, blow for blow, but his body is moving on autopilot. his eyes are locked on the water, instead, on the inky black tendrils that spill through, swirling with every disruption they cause on the surface. there is no pop, there are no items, there is no respawn. ranboo’s body sinks, bobbing through the little waves they make. a drop in the ocean, a blink in the sky - a star burnt out that the universe doesn’t even know to mourn for.
(technoblade cradles the boy’s body in the crook of one arm, holds him close to his chest, sword still gripped tight in his other hand. he refuses to look down, to see the blood that still drips, sluggish, over them both, to see how small ranboo is in death.
instead, he runs and runs and runs - )
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retvenkos · 2 years
Text
we truly dig our own graves.
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anotherhawk · 2 years
Text
Drop - angsty The Mechanisms fic featuring Jonny D'Ville and The Aurora
CW for offscreen violence, murder and unsafe kink
There is a door in front of him. Metal. Ancient. Familiar. He blinks at it, not sure how he got here, not sure what he was looking for. Everything is...fuzzy.
His fingers press down on his flank, but the bruises are long gone. The not-pain is distressing.
The door. He should get inside. It will be warm inside, and maybe one of his crew is home. He would like that.
He holds a hand up to the palm reader but nothing happens. He tries the other one. And then the other one. Nothing, and for a moment he remembers being so very young and so very mortal and standing outside of Billy Vangelis' door, realising the locks had been changed.
No. His hands are lined with blood and gravedirt, too much for the machine to read. Nothing to do with being unwanted, just to do with needing a shower. And didn't all truly great dates end with being locked out, fucked up, filthy and newly resurrected?
He hopes one of the others is home.
He is First Mate. There are plenty of ways for him to gain authorised access, but he is so very tired, and it's not like patience - or thinking - have ever been his strong suit, and so he draws the gun he is somehow carrying and shoots the control panel a few times.
The door opens quicker than expected and he stares at it blankly for a few moments before stumbling into the airlock.
It had been a great date. He doesn't know why he feels like this, except that all he's left with is phantom pain; the rope burns on his wrists and ankles, gone; the lash marks, vanished; the thousand cuts, erased. It's like none of it was real, and if that wasn't real, then maybe nothing else is either? Is he even real?
Maybe Ivy will be home. When she murders him as part of a scene she always makes sure to give him new marks when he revives.
Or maybe Brian will be there and can hold him tight so he can't get away, no matter how he struggles.
Or Ashes, their hand twisted in his hair, pulling it tight, enough to hurt...enough to be safe.
He is alone.
And then, he is not. There is a screen in front of him, hanging down from the ceiling by trailing wires and cobweb. The writing on it is blurred and he reaches out and wipes at the screen with his sleeve. The text obligingly grows larger. Perhaps it is his mind that's blurred.
Jonny, are you alright? You've been standing in the airlock for ten minutes. And you're shaking.
Oh. Oh. He swallows hard and it's like razor blades going down. "Yeah. Yeah, 'm fine, Aurora. It's good to see your voice again." There's something wrong with his own voice. It's distant. Shaky. And that's no good; he's nothing without his voice. But that doesn't matter now because Aurora is talking to him again, for the first time since...well. It's been a long time.
"Sorry," he croaks, and it's not the first time he's said it, but maybe this time she can hear him. "I'm sorry. I should have stopped her. Sorry." He reaches out clumsily and pats the wall.
The screen goes black.
He's fucked it up again. He should have kept his mouth shut. Should have known better.
Writing flickers onto the screen. That was a long time ago.
"No." He shakes his head furiously. "No, it wasn't. Not for us."
No. Not for us.
He walks away. He can't bear to stand still another second. It's so cold, and his mind is blank as he wanders.
The corridors are empty.
He's the only one on board.
Why had he bothered coming back here? He should have gone out, found a pub, got drunk and killed some folk. Or maybe he should have just stayed in his grave, where he'd been put. It hadn't been a very nice grave mind you. Deep, sure, but it was just on a piece of wasteland. When he'd dug his way out he'd seen a sign that said 'No Dumping'. The last time he'd been buried by a serial killer it had been on a cliffside overlooking a waterfall. That had been good. He'd felt cared for then, like buried treasure, not just inconvenient trash.
An alarm blares.
He's lying facedown on the rec room floor, and he wonders whether Aurora has shut off the life support - that would explain why it was so cold.
When he raises his head, full of numb curiosity, there is a screen inches from his face. "What's going on?"
You weren't listening, so I turned off the artificial gravity.
"Oh. I'm not falling."
We're still within Whitechapel Station's gravity well. I just needed the alarm.
Jonny, you seem to be dropping very hard.
I would like to take care of you.
Do I have your consent y/n
Oh. Yeah, that makes sense now he came to think of it, and at once he feels ashamed, and he doesn't know if it's for needing or for not immediately recognising it. He considers just going to bed and staying there for the duration, but the screen is flashing in front of him, and he wavers. He owes her. He doesn't want to be alone.
"Yeah. Yeah, alright. I consent, or whatever."
Well done.
A flash of pleasurepride burns through him.
Stand up. Take my screen and follow where the lights lead you.
He picks up her screen and his arm and follows the trail of blinking overhead lights deeper into the crew quarters. They stop outside Raphaella's rooms. The door hangs invitingly open.
Still, he hesitates. "Thought we were going to my room."
Your room is classed as a level 8 hazard on this station.
He flinches.
The walls hum.
Go inside, Jonny. Raphaella will be pleased we are taking care of you.
He obeys. It's warm in Raphaella's room, and the lights lead him into her bathroom. She has the largest tub, both to accommodate her wings and her partners, and right now it is full almost to the brim with steaming hot water. It smells like orange blossom on an evening's breeze. It smells like Raphaella.
The razor blades are in his throat again.
Strip.
He obeys, again, and stands naked, shivering despite the warmth of the room.
Very good, Jonny. You're doing very well. Now. Get in the bath and get clean and warm.
He does as she tells him. The walls hum approvingly. The bath is warm, and the scent clings to him in a way that makes him feel like he belongs.
He drifts.
Everything still feels fuzzy, but it's a better sort of fuzzy. Nihilistic depression is shifting closer to nihilistic rage and that is a far more comfortable and familiar place to be. For the moment though, he is hovering somewhere around numb contentment. This too is probably nihilistic, but he is too exhausted to care right now.
Since none of the others have tried to shoot down my door, I assume that your recent activities were not with another member of the crew?
"Mmm? No. A man I met in a dark alley. He's been ripping a bloody swathe through the station. I've been following his work for a while, but this was our first date." He smiles a little. "He really knew what he was doing. Took me apart completely."
If he knew what he was doing he would not have left you alone.
He shrugs, and winces, despite knowing that the ache he feels in his bones is nothing more than phantom pain. "Be reasonable 'Rora. Outside of us, who gives aftercare to a corpse?"
You deserve more.
Wait. He huffs incredulously. "Are you actually offended on my behalf right now?" There is a pause and he falters, suddenly afraid he has misstepped. Perhaps she is only annoyed because he'd come home out of it, and now she feels obligated to clean up his mess. "You don't need to stay, you know. Or keep talking to me. I know you don't much like words since...since Nastya went Out." He might have said 'I know you don't much like me since Nastya went Out.' But he doesn't. He bites his tongue and tastes blood, and spirals.
JONNY
The text on the screen is massive.
Take a breath.
In and out. That's it.
Good. Now another one.
And another.
You're doing fine.
After a while breathing becomes easier again.
I am sorry. My systems automatically monitor heart rate in order to detect distress.
And his heart rate never changed. "I don't get distressed."
Of course. I am with you because I want to be, Jonny. I have been sad for a very long time. That does not mean I stopped caring for you.
"I'm sorry she left," he says again. "I'm sorry I didn't stop her."
Ripples run across the surface of the water as the room shudders. You couldn't force her to stay. We were not enough for her anymore. She left us both.
"I just...it doesn't make sense. None of us are the same as we were when we started." He feels around under the bubbles, finds his disembodied arm and gestures with it towards the screen. "Am I less me because my arm isn't the same as it was yesterday?" The words are clumsy. He knows what he wants to say, but his brain isn't cooperating, and he throws his arm at the wall in a fit of frustration.
She left when every part of me had been upgraded. It seems she only loved me for my body.
"That's not true," he says instantly, a hot burst of pain and anger rushing through him. "I saw the way she smiled when she spoke about you. She loved you. All of you."
She just didn't think I was me anymore. She knows me better than anyone else. Maybe she was right. But if I'm not me, I don't know who I am.
Despite the warmth around him, he shivers. "You still seem like you to me. And if you still feel the same, and you're still doing what you want to do, is there really a difference?" He shouldn't have said that; Nastya had obviously seen a difference, but he still couldn't understand. "Maybe she's the one who changed too much. I mean, she's the one who left. We're the ones left behind."
He sinks down under the water and closes his eyes. He misses Nastya. He has missed Nastya for so long.
He wonders where she is, if she has drifted out of the black and back to life. He wonders if she ever thinks of him.
Thinking about Nastya hurts, as always. That awful, emotional hurt that leaves deep scars and gives him nothing in return. He's always
done his best to run from that feeling, burying it beneath whisky or violence or stories. A hand around his throat, a knife in his spine, a blowtorch across his face- all of that can bring a spring to his step and a twinkle to his eye, and it's so much better than emotions. Fuck emotions.
His lungs are burning.
The alarm blares.
His head breaks the surface before he has a chance to think. The words on the screen loom in front of him.
PLEASE DO NOT DIE RIGHT NOW.
And so fast that he almost doesn't see it
I don't think I could cope.
He takes a long and shaky breath. "Yeah. Okay."
Thank you, Jonny.
Now wash your hair, please, it's a state.
The laughter huffs through his teeth. But he obeys, his movements growing less mechanical with time.
Even aboard the Aurora the laws of physics still apply to some extent, and eventually the water cools, and reluctantly he climbs out.
There is a pile of clothes lying waiting for him in the doorway. Tim's clothes, by the looks of things. He glances at the screen. "How did you do that?"
Tim has been training the octokittens to do small errands.
"About time the bastards started earning their keep."
Do you mean the kittens? Or Tim?
His laugh startles him.
(^̮^)
Get dressed Jonny. Then come with me through to the kitchen. I have a few more things I need you to do before you can rest.
Rest sounds good right now. His body is heavy and his mind slow. He dresses carefully, puzzling over the clothes. They look like Tim's, but there is a woolly jumper that's surely far too large.
You originally knitted it for Brian, but it has been stolen by every member of the crew since then. I have noted that whoever currently holds it tends to wear it when they are feeling sad, and it brings them comfort.
Oh. He doesn't remember, but it sounds possible. On those occasions when he grows bored of being a destructive force he normally takes up sewing, but he has knitted in the past. Vaguely, he remembers times sitting in Doc's lab, knitting while she worked on his open chest, and much later, sitting drinking tea with the Toy Soldier, with it holding his yarn.
The jumper is soft and warm. If it is his work he has done a good job.
He follows the lights back through to the kitchen, concentrating on putting one foot after the other and finally collapses at the counter, dropping his head on his arms. He shifts around until his forehead is pressed against his cold hand. The screen rumbles at his elbow.
Why do you have your old arm, Jonny?
"Mmmm?" He blinks and focuses, briefly, on the greying flesh below him. "Got cut off post mortem, in order to fit me in the car boot. Or at least he thought I was dead? I guess I wasn't, cos I kind of remember. I grabbed it after I revived, hoping it would reattach, but I'd already started to regenerate. Don't know why I dragged it back here. Maybe I should just stick it in the fridge, what do you think?"
The freezer would be better. Then Marius would be the one most likely to first encounter it. Don't forget to stick the middle finger up.
"As if I would." He smiles and tries to keep his eyes open.
We are going to make you a hot drink and something to eat. The Toy Soldier left some of its tea blends in the cupboard above the kettle. The blue tin contains a lemon and ginger infusion that has a seventy four percent success rate at making you smile.
He scowls but his heart isn't in it. "Yeah. Doc used to make one that tasted a bit like that for me, sometimes. If I'd been screaming."
The kettle clicks on. A good memory?
He considers. Is it? Everything from those days is tied up in feelings and hurt, even worse than with Nastya, but he remembers the way she would sit with him while he drank the tea, remembers the look in her eyes…"Memories aren't good or bad," he decides at last. "They're just shit that happened. Some of them are stories worth telling. Some of them aren't."
The kettle finishes boiling and he makes his tea, squeezing about half a bottle of honey into the mug.
Perhaps we should consider abducting a dentist.
A shudder runs through him at the disapproval he reads in her tone. He can't take the honey back out. "No need, these are all new teeth. I bit him while we were playing and he went to town with a pair of pliers. So all good here."
I'm sorry, Jonny, I did not mean to upset you.
"Not upset." He isn't. He isn't. The pliers had been rusty and one of them had been laughing and one of them had been screaming and he can't remember which was which. He doesn't need a dentist because none of his parts are the same as they were when he started, and odds are none of them are the same as they will be next year, except for his fucking heart, and maybe Nastya should have taken that with her when she left.
Maybe she hadn't cared to.
She hadn't tried to say goodbye. Not to him. Not to anyone. If he hadn't happened to catch her she would have slipped out the airlock and they'd never know why.
When Nastya went out, she'd been facing the void. She hadn't looked back. Not for him. Not for Aurora.
When Doctor Carmilla went out the airlock she'd been facing inwards, and her hand had been pressed up to the window, fingers outstretched towards his, the airlock the only thing that stood between them.
"Jonny. Jonny, look at - me. You - need to - breathe." It's Ivy's voice, but it's not Ivy talking. The sentences are disjointed patched together. "You - need to - tell me - five - things you can - see."
The airlock fades from his vision. Aurora's screen is in front of his face, but he can't focus enough to read her words. "Uh...my arm, the stove, Brian's stupid apron, tea leaves...um...Marius' mug."
"Good - Jonny. Tell me - four - things you can - feel."
"Marius' mug," he says again. It's the one he's holding, Marius' favourite, the one Raphaella bought him, with 'Trust me, I'm (not) a doctor' written on it. It's warm in his hands, there's still steam rising off the tea. "The floor. Tim's jumper."
"Good," Ivy's voice says again, and it's the way she says it at rehearsal, when something really works, or when someone brings her some new book she hasn't read before. "Good - Jonny. Three - things you can - smell."
"Raphaella," he says, because the scent still clings to him after his bath. "Lemon and ginger. The Toy Soldier's tea."
"Two- things you can- hear."
There are only two things he can hear. He sits on the floor, slumped against the counter, the mug still held like something precious cradled against his chest. "Ivy's voice. My heart." He breathes. In. And out. And in. And out. "I'm okay. I'm with you."
Good.
And now there is only his heart.
A long moment passes. The exhaustion is bone deep. "Why Ivy?"
You were not seeing my words and you did not respond to the alarms. Yourself and Ivy are the only two of my crew who make extensive vocal recordings. I thought that you would respond better to her voice than your own.
"Yeah." He gives a little huff of exhaustion. "Good call. My voice is the last thing anyone wants to hear when they're upset."
That is not true. When Nastya left I played Swan Song in engineering constantly.
He laughs, caught off guard. "A little on the nose, don't you think?"
You wrote it for us. They loved till the end. It helped.
Blindly, he reaches out and pats the edge of her screen. "A captain and their ship go down together."
We will have to; I no longer possess any escape pods, working fine or otherwise. Ashes replaced them with extra storage space.
He groans. Shakes his head. "What the fuck are they even storing?"
Many things. For example, in the cupboard immediately behind you they are storing chocolate covered honeycomb. Eat some.
"You want me to eat Ashes' chocolate?" He laughs again. "Thought you wanted me to stay alive?"
For both our sakes I contacted them to ask if I could take it. They were very surprised to hear from me, but they immediately agreed. Do not worry, I did not tell them why, or who was on board. Drink your tea and eat your chocolate, Jonny. It will make you feel better.
He obeys, taking a swig of tea and a bite of chocolate. The sweetness warms him up from the inside out and he feels more settled, more at home, and when Aurora directs him to stand and move to the sofa and pull Brian's favourite heavy blanket around himself, he does that too.
He is warm. His mind is still.
"Thanks, Aurora."
I'm afraid I didn't do a very good job of taking care of you.
He wriggles deeper into the blanket, surrounded by reminders of his crew. "I feel pretty fucking taken care of."
The screen flickers for a long moment, moving between shades of black. I'm sorry for reminding you.
"Of Nastya?" He shrugs. "It's not like either of us ever forgets. She always hated when I'd go put and do something like this."
Yes. She understood why you wanted to do violence, but not why you wanted it done to you. She cried the first time Carmilla scraped you out of a shallow grave and carried you home.
He hadn't known that. He'd never want to make Nastya cry. There is a bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach. Oh. Shame. Now there's an unfamiliar feeling. "You don't approve either."
I… The screen goes black for a long moment and then the words come slowly. I do not disapprove. You live inside me, Jonny. I have witnessed all members of my crew partake in all sorts of activities, and I am aware of your proclivities and what makes you happy. But yes, I would prefer that you indulge yourself with people who want to make you happy...or at least avoid serial killers.
He doubts she will appreciate it, but he manages a tired smile anyway. "No one else scratches the itch quite right. Besides, you're missing the best part." The smile sharpens into a grin. "The best part is when I turn up for the second date. I've got a breakfast appointment with my erstwhile murderer tomorrow morning, and I'm expecting the look on his face to be fantastic."
The room seems to shake around him for a second. I admit I would like to see that.
"Yeah." Laughter shakes through him. "Tends to be pretty special. And, like I said, he did a beautiful job taking me apart. It would be rude for me not to return the favour, wouldn't it?"
Feel free to bring him home if you need space to work.
He gasps and places his hands on his chest in mock shock. "You want me to bring him home on the second date? How forward do you think I am!?"
I am always happy to meet those who hurt my crew. Once, anyway.
Ugh. He grimaces at her screen. "Don't go getting sentimental on me. You know that nothing can hurt me in any way that matters. Today was an aberration. I die a lot. Its not like I need aftercare everytime."
Yes, but you did this time. I listened to what you said, but maybe you could consider letting me or one of the crew know when you want to 'scratch the itch so someone can be there if you need it.
He pulls the blanket a little tighter around himself, making sure his arms and legs are properly wrapped up. Cocooned. Breathes in lemon and ginger and orange blossom. "I never need it," he says, and the lie tastes like chocolate honeycomb and stings his eyes like saltwater. "I don't need anyone to take care of me."
The screen goes black again and when the words appear they are slow and small.
Sometimes I do. Sometimes I am sad and I am lonely. It isn't until I'm talking to you like this that I realise how much I miss you. All of you. I am happy to be here for you, Jonny.
His vision is blurry again. He shakes his head again to clear it. "I didn't write Swan Song for you. The songs are just the stories we find. There's nothing of me in there."
She doesn't call him a liar. But the crackle of a recording sounds again. His voice this time. Singing. No music beneath it. "Marius, you're my stars, Soldier you're my night."
He bites his tongue until blood covers up the taste of chocolate. "I don't recall asking you to record that."
I have always enjoyed listening to you.
No apology. He isn't surprised. "You know if anyone else ever hears that, I'm going to find
the largest pair of truck nuts in this or any other universe and I'm going to weld them beneath your lower engine."
Fair. I have never and will never. A voyeur I may be, but a tattle tale I am not.
"Good." He sinks back beneath the blanket. "I'm sorry we leave you alone so often. I know it was different when she was here."
Yes. And I don't expect you to stay. Even Nastya didn't stay on board all the time, though she generally took something of me with her so I could experience whatever world you were exploring. These days I wire myself into whatever news and communication systems I can find. I tend to be able to track you all fairly well by reading up on the police blotter.
"Heh. Glad we manage to be entertaining at least. How about maintenance and stuff? It's never going to be the same, but I don't mind picking up a socket wrench, if you'll tell me what to do with it."
I could tell you exactly what to do with it. (^̮^)
He blinks. Shudders. "Ew," he says with feeling.
I fear our tastes are incompatible.
He nods. His eyes are heavy. "I might sleep," he confesses.
That would be good. I will be here, keeping watch. And I will wake you if anyone should come on board.
He nods again, slipping sideways. "Thanks 'Rora."
Jonny?
It is hesitant, and he is on the very edge of consciousness.
"Mmm?"
Will you sing for me? Before you sleep?
Instead of answering he simply closes his eyes and opens his mouth.
"Rose, rose, rose Red
Will I ever see thee wed?
I will marry at thy will sir
At thy will."
And softly - ever so softly - the recording crackles and for the first time in mortal memory the sound of Nastya's violin rises up and joins Jonny's voice.
"Ding dong, ding dong
Wedding bells on an April morn'
Carve your name on a moss covered stone
On a moss covered stone."
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razorblade180 · 4 years
Note
This is for the kiddos, was there a time you've seen your parents mad enough that it scared you? For the Schnee kids, feel free to include your mother's alter ego.
Jael:I never get yelled at. Bad heart means I get calm but very disappointed lectures. I beat myself up more about my shortcomings than they do.
Sienna:One time I was half asleep outside and Jael put a flower crown on me. It startled me and I hit her on instinct; she was three. Dad didn’t mean to snap on me but he totally did and then I remembered something. My dad used to murder as easy as breathing and it scared to the point of crying.
Jacquelyn:Then ge freaked because now he had two crying kids and no way to calm them. It was a long day.
Tenzen:So this didn’t happen with my parents but one time I subconsciously closed the door to Yujin’s room and half a second later it comes flying open and Jaune is just staring at. I felt like a mouse looking at a snake. I never made that mistake again.
Yujin: One time my dad took me to Argus and someone was defacing the Pyrrha statue. The amount of base I heard in his voice when he screamed at the kids after he caught them made me realize not to be a good kid and not do anything stupid. I did run away into the forest when I was little though a boy was he furious when he found out.
Nicholas:Mom wasn’t happy that I broke into Atlas’s military base but I think auntie was ay more furious. If I had to pick something that truly felt like I dug my own grave it was maxing out my credit card on buying Disney World for a day.
Yujin:Don’t rich people do that all the time?
Nicholas:Oh I’m not finished. I did it on the day girl I know was supposed to have her birthday bash at some spectacular hotel and mall. I tweeted about it and got everyone who was supposed to go to her thing to come to Disney World. The whole thing trended, Summer performed at Disney Castle with Casey Lee Williams, celebrities showed up, and that girl was denied access in.
Jael:Damn....
Carmine:Okay, you make me feel slightly better about what I’ll talk about because what you did was stone cold.
Nicholas:Yeah mom is not a big fan of people using money to ruin someone else’s life so you can imagine how completely ashamed she was when she found out why I bought Disney World. I ended up having to work off and reimburse all the preparations for Eliza Marigolds party. Summer didn’t get in trouble.
Summer:I thought we were having fun; not doing something petty. *clears throat* So as a singer and a person with a lot of recognition in Atlas, it’s very important you stay humble. It’s unbecoming to abuse such pow-
Nicholas:When Summer first became famous she went there a brief diva phase and used fans to get anything she wanted. I’m talking a total power trip.
Summer :Food, clothes, skipped lines, became a bit of a.......you know. Mom tried to tell me to tone it down but I didn’t listen. *red* I told her to “mind her own business and her time in the limelight was done.”
Everyone:.....
Summer:She walked right into her room and came back in black for the first time in a very long time. Bleiss straightend me up in a few hours and I learned my lesson. A very....very scary lesson.
Lucas:I tried to leave Menagerie in the dead of night before. If mom could do it then I wanted to see if I could too.
Jael:(Why are all rich people this extra?)
Lucas:So what I didn’t really process all the way through is how much this would scare my mom to death and she sent every guard to look for me because she thought I had been kidnapped. 45 minutes later and I’m standing at my front door with a crying mother and a dad, grandpa, and grandma that made me wish that I had actually escaped.
Valerie:I was a very rowdy and temperamental kid so I got into a lot of fights. I can’t tell you how many times I got scolded for beating up a kid on the playground. I think I mellowed out nicely though. Right you two?
Summer and Nicholas:.......
Valerie:Yeah that’s fair.
Carmine:*inhales* I would just like everyone to know I was ten in this story I’m about to tell. We good? Good, so I have a cousin that’s roughly a year older than me and he’s a pretty upstanding person. Raised well and has hopes and dreams. One of those dreams is to be a really good huntsman; exceptional even. Around this time, I was already doing awesome things. Kinda looked up to me.
Yujin:I don’t like where this is going.
Carmine:When he told me his dream I may or may not have laughed right at his face.
Tenzen:Damn....
Carmine:Hold on it gets worse. I told him this because things can get rough for huntsman in my world and it’s not like he’s bad at anything; he’s average. So for him saying he’ll be exceptional was a bit ridiculous. I told him that he should lower his aspirations considering a ten year old is showing up; it didn’t help he was taller than me at this point.
Summer:It gets worse again doesn’t it?
Carmine:At this point he was getting pretty upset. Telling me how not really that much of a hotshot and he can be just as good as me. I laughed at him again then raise my fists. Our parents and some other’s are catching up in the kitchen and completely unaware that I’m about to fight my older cousin to prove my point.
Jacquelyn:You were bullying him.
Carmine:I know this now! Actually....yeah I guess I knew it then to. Back to the story, he swung a right hook and missed. He kept throwing punches and I kept dodging. Right jabs, left jabs, kicks, everything. I was determined to embarrass him in front of me. He’s crying at this point......
Everyone:Carmine!
Carmine:I’m almost done. I’m satisfied with what I’ve done at this point. The moment he throws another punch I run up on him and side kick hin right in his chest. He flies towards the door and slams against pretty hard. Parents come running in, he’s crying on the floor, I’m shaking my head disappointedlly at his skills, and Ruby is looking at him like I’m a alpha beowulf that ate someone. I was grounded for awhile and put in my place. Also I had to do whatever my cousin wanted to do the rest of time we were together. Moral of the story, don’t try crush your family member’s dreams.
Yujin:Does he still wanna be a huntsman?
Carmine:Surprisingly yes.
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