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docfuture · 4 years

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Princess, part 11

[This story is a prequel, set several years before The Fall of Doc Future, when Flicker is 16. Links to some of my other work are here. Updates are theoretically biweekly. Next chapter is mostly done so I’m going to try to get it out later in August.]

Previous: Part 10

Five days after Speedtest. Three days after the isotope exchanger had worked enough for Flicker to restart her body chemistry. Then a scramble of pain, healing, and memory triage before, finally, sleep. She'd awakened, mentally fogged, to start a messy program of biological recovery and physical therapy, complicated by the need to spend more time in the isotope exchanger to reduce her not-immediately-lethal-but-still-a-problem radioactivity. For her minds, a fuzzy time of finding and patching connections, habits, and memories that were temporarily broken, misplaced, distorted, or newly intrusive. For respite, ghosting to Antarctica, gliding in the low sun over ice and cold air, never near anything living. Sleep remained fitful. Evening. The last really needed isotope exchanger session done. Body and mind were now holding together, even if neither were yet anywhere Flicker was particularly happy with. Talking to Doc in his lab. He frowned at a brain scan, some graphs, and a schematic of a cybernetic inductor. "I checked in on your medibots, because you mentioned your start routine this morning was still rough. Looks like your mind work was okay despite that, though?" "Caffeine helped," said Flicker. "And you can drink it again, and eat. Progress. I'm concerned at this scan though. It still shows signs of cybernetic interface withdrawal. I don't know how long that will last, given everything else. How bad is the ennui and poor appetite?" "Caffeine helped. A little." "Hm. Not much we can do other than wait. I had the Database forward the medibot scans and other information to Dr. Reinhart's partition." "Thanks. But I have a question." "Yes?" "You agreed to all of Dr. Reinhart's terms, including Database access, even though she's got a really questionable background, and doesn't want to meet or talk to you. Her last message mentioned it wasn't an encouraging sign, because it meant I needed help pretty bad." "Well, you do. Frankly, I'd be more worried if she was cheerily optimistic. And the Database picked her as the best choice. Fortunately Jumping Spider knew a bit about her, and was willing to do that interview. So I'm satisfied for now." "I guess I don't get how you're okay with the uncertainty about a mind control expert." "I did verify that she wasn't gaming the Database threat index. The correlations are suggestive of a mission-oriented vigilante targeting actively harmful individuals with power that have little or no likelihood of being stopped or removed by other means. Plus a few covert operations agents trying to kill her. The threat index understates her effect, because she operates in realms where data is sparse and of poor quality. As for the alleged mind control, it may just be a combination of psychological manipulation and some kind of hidden influence. But there is no question she uses her reputation as an effective tool." Doc waved a hand. "And I have a reputation for being paranoid about mind control, which isn't going to make her more eager to meet me, is it? Our security protocols may not be compatible, and I can think of several other potential good reasons for her to stay away. But ultimately it doesn't matter. She doesn't want to talk, so that's that. She owes me nothing. I wouldn't mind discussing mind control defense with her, and I don't like uncertainty any more than you do. But I've had a couple more decades to get used to it. I know I can't solve all the world's problems myself. Priorities." A crooked smile. "Now, none of this means that you should accept everything she says uncritically, or that you should strive to emulate her, morally or otherwise. And I'm sure she'll drop some unpleasant surprises on you. But she agreed to help, and she certainly understands the stakes. Are you having trouble with social boundaries again?" "When did this become about me?" Doc just looked at her. "Okay, yeah." "Boundaries are a difficult problem for you. So I hope your work with Dr. Reinhart is productive, and that you eventually have an opportunity to discuss them with her." ***** The next morning had certainly started off productive. And difficult. Flicker had been very much looking forward to finally recovering enough to talk--physically talk, with real air, vocal cords, sound, and hearing--to Dr. Stella Reinhart. Flicker faced Dr. Reinhart in her office. Stella. She said to call her Stella. She was in her late twenties, about 170 centimeters tall, with dark hair and green eyes, and wore jeans, boots, a leather jacket, and a work shirt. She looked dangerous because she was dangerous, and had the sort of intent, purposeful expression Flicker had learned to watch for when evaluating an emergency site at high speed--if someone like that was running, it was a very good idea to find out why. The office was bland, more often used by the assistant who handled paperwork for Stella's consulting business. But there were comfortable chairs. Stella sat in one, not behind the desk, after saying a few words about subconscious framing and symbolic barriers. A cable ran from her laptop to the now thoroughly guarded office net connection and from there to the Database. DASI was on duty, capital S for Security duty, with subtle and wide-ranging countermeasures. Excessive? DASI didn't think so, nor did Stella. One less thing for Flicker to worry about, which helped. The office was in a half empty building in a not particularly prosperous location, but it did have sliding doors opening onto a patio. Dr. Reinhart had left them open to accommodate Flicker's claustrophobia. Flicker had set up a portable force screen to keep out weather and complete the veil of security. Flicker's speed mind idled, handling just alerts and safety. She was talking with her physical body and brain only, entirely at human speed, about something stressful, with no help from speed mind. Holding back was hard. More so in the aftermath of Speedtest--her old problems with self-interrupting and awkward blurting had returned. She chased thoughts and sentences faster than her mouth could complete them, as clumsily as when she was thirteen. Embarrassment intruded as she veered and rambled, but Stella had suggested this starting test, after initial introductions. Every verbal issue, every bit of awkwardness that she normally compensated for, everything she smoothed over, eliminated, or hid with speed, visor and Database--all that was data, that told Stella how the human half of Flicker's mind worked. And Stella could use that as a baseline to probe how the high speed half of Flicker's mind worked, and how she coordinated. So she endured. Flicker stumbled to a stopping point. She'd managed a partial, excessively wordy, and not entirely coherent description of her problems and goals. She had digressed from and mangled her text summary, but talking out loud, in her own words, from her own mind, without notes, had been the point. She took a calming breath and tried to untense. This was the only part where talking was essential. I can switch to text now if I really have to. Stella smiled and thanked her, then turned to type at her computer. Her exact words escaped as Flicker's speed mind started a flurry of mental replays and second-guessing, but the Database flashed 'Break time' on her visor. Relief. Out through the doors, speeding past land and human complication to the Pacific. Slow coasting, well under 0.01c, while the two parts of her mind reintegrated. A wordless reckoning that normally went one way--slow mind to fast on waking up, and back before sleep. Tides flowing predictably over the sands of short term memory. Now the flow went both ways, boats loading and unloading as both minds took turns at 'Let me put that in a better place...' Still less stressful than the talking had been. Even deciding when to breathe had been awkward--speed mind had smoothed that for so long she'd almost forgotten. Fifteen minutes of waves and sunlight and motion. Coasting along crests and troughs. Manta rays breaching, sudden unexpected joy, a reminder that the world held marvels still happening. It helped. When she got the message to return, she was much calmer. Back at the office, a quick smile from Stella. "I have good data, and some preliminary assessments. I'm afraid we're unlikely to complete your priority list any time soon. One thing is clear; mind isolation during treatment is not a viable option. Your 'speed mind' is essential to your functioning and current identity, even at normal speed. So we'll work towards better coordination. But I have some serious concerns." A glance at her screen. "I should emphasize my disclaimer: This is a compassionate personal intervention in the absence of a qualified specialist. I am not a clinician, my research methods would give an IRB heart attacks, et cetera. And I have some reservations about the process by which I was selected. I sent the full text to your Database earlier. Did you read it?" "Yes," said Flicker. "I understand why you might need it for legal protection. Also if you're, like, a serial killer who eats souls, I have Officially Been Warned." "That works. I still go to conferences, and I create enough controversy on my own. It would be inconvenient to be widely banned from international travel. But I imagine you still have some questions." Flicker shrugged. "I'm curious about a few things. But if you weren't already doing weird superhero-adjacent and spyworld stuff, I don't think you'd have the experience to help without researching me for a year first. Anyway, go ahead." Speed mind shifted and reversed, back in her normal mental dance, speeding up and slowing down to aid stability and coherence. The desire to clarify and add to her awkward presentation to reduce social embarrassment was strong. But it was time to listen. "For your difficulty speaking," said Stella, "I agree with your Database AI that most of your returned problems should fade with social practice. You appear to have optimized your verbal coordination in order to present as a neurotypical human, so any change would cause temporary issues." "Because squishy brain is autistic. And yeah I did. It's a real pain to get strangers to listen if you don't talk 'normal human'." "Your distress is understandable. You do have traits in common with individuals with Asperger's and ADHD, but given your unique mind, it's probably best to view them as suggestive analogies--you have similar problems with similar coping mechanisms. 'Non-neurotypical' is as far as I'd go, and much of the cause may be consequences of the connection to your speed mind. Other issues are clearer." Stella leaned back in her chair. "Such as PTSD. You have layered coping mechanisms, but your Database stress history indicates that you tend to overwork or otherwise push yourself back to a ragged edge whenever you manage to achieve progress in reducing its effects." Stella clasped her hands in front of her face. "I doubt that dealing with the underlying issues will be an easy or quick task, but this is something you need to mitigate. I'll try to help you set realistic expectations when I understand more. One particular note. I can't speak to Doc's own mental health. But the elements of his work and life habits available for study indicate someone rather unhealthy for a PTSD sufferer to emulate. And whatever he might say, you took early cues from what he did." Stella frowned. "Your memory problems... I'm going to defer judgement on some of them until you've had more time to recover from your recent incident. And there are a number of other potentially serious long-term conditions that I now consider less likely, but can't yet rule out. But I am concerned that your Database AI already warned you about everything I've brought up so far, and some other issues that are more recent. I'd recommend revisiting your heuristics." Flicker spread her hands. "I didn't ignore the Database. I just couldn't do anything useful. I patched what I could and kept going." "That invites trouble when a new problem disturbs your patches." "Well, yeah. I get angry at things I can't fix. So I put them out of my mind to stay sane." Flicker looked away. "At least out of my conscious, human mind. Part of me remembers. And stays angry." She looked back and tried to smile. "I sometimes joke that I haven't lost my mind; I keep backups. Doc always retorted with how arduous it could be to try to restore from one. And that a mental backup doesn't bring things back the same, because the world has moved on. He was right. I had to try to restore a few things I misplaced during Speedtest and it was a pain. It stirs everything up, and I kept running across crap I'd stashed away because I couldn't deal, and I still couldn't deal because it was hitting all at once during a restore." The smile probably looked more like a fixed grimace. "So don't tell me about trouble and patches right now. I know." "Good," said Stella. "I will be going over things that seem obvious. People make tradeoffs, and mistakes, and I'd rather annoy you than miss any. But I also understand that this session has been stressful for you, and you aren't fully recovered. I can give you some initial recommendations and we can be done for the day, if you would like." Flicker took a deep breath, then let it out. "I'd like to keep going, now that I have my minds working together again. It's just... I should have reworked my priority list after you told me how you wanted to start, and put my anger issues higher on it. And there's this book I read, called Practical Power Dynamics..." An alert flashed on Flicker's visor and she sped up. The Database needed her override approval to resolve a convoluted permissions problem, which she granted. Stella's base permission level was only equivalent to a trusted outside academic researcher, so approval requests were going to be common for a while. Flicker slowed back down again to listen. "Where did you get the edition you read?" asked Stella. "It doesn't look like it was from the Database." "No. There was a version, but the Database didn't let me read that one. There were a bunch of hazards and warnings. The version I read is there now, I scanned it then locked it down. Doc doesn't know about it. I got it from Journeyman. He said he traded a bibliomancer to reconstruct an original text copy. Then let me read it, because he was worried and thought it might help me." Stella put a hand to her forehead and studied her computer display. "I see. What that alleged bibliomancer did should not be possible. But never mind that now. Was your visor recording when you discussed it, and if so, would you be willing to share a transcript?" "Sure." Another bit of access granted. Stella spoke slowly while scanning her screen. "I'd like to ask a favor of you. Please do not reread Practical Power Dynamics, or try to use any of the techniques, before I've had a chance to make some annotations for you. And assume it's more dangerous to you than the author intended. You read what appears to be an early draft that was never distributed." Flicker frowned. "How do you know that?" "I wrote it." "Oh, that's great! I had a lot of questions, but I couldn't--I mean it was still dangerous. But you can tell me what to watch out for. I loved the humor, the way you made pieces fit that everyone just seems to assume or ignore. And the parts about anger were..." Flicker trailed off. "You don't look happy. What's wrong?" "Well, at least you weren't completely blind to the danger," said Stella. "I started writing what became Practical Power Dynamics when I was about your age, at a time when I was not managing anger well. I would not write that way today. I need to see what I can do to defuse some hazards to you. I wrote it as a vector for social engineering, and I didn't devote enough attention to second-order side effects in atypical individuals. Even after I toned it down." Flicker thought about that at speed for a while. It made sense that Stella was worried. Doc spent a lot of time worrying about extending methods to new domains, and the false sense of security you could feel because you were doing familiar things you'd done many times before. The methods might only be safe because most of the unexpected failure modes had already been found--but a new domain could bring new ways to make horrible mistakes. You just couldn't be sure. That had been one of the main points of Speedtest. There were a lot of things going on in Practical Power Dynamics, and Flicker's mind was a new domain for many of them. "It didn't feel like it caused damage," she said. "I didn't try any of the active techniques because I was warned about traps, but the insights helped." "I can certainly understand why you liked it. I wrote it to resonate, but that doesn't mean it helped." Stella smiled wryly. "The text you read has the potential to magnify a number of problems. And even the distributed version was never intended for someone like you--I did not consider the psychological impact of absorbing the whole thing in under a minute. Not to pry into restricted details, but have you by any chance experienced an episode of unjustified arrogance or megalomania recently?" A sudden chill. "...I know that feeling, it's Now I Am Invincible, it's incredibly dangerous for a superhero..." "...maybe." No, be clear. This is safety information. "Yes." "The book definitely didn't help with that." "My partner thought it would help with something. He wouldn't just..." Stella frowned. "It might have seemed appropriate as a form of disaster aversion. A 'break glass in case of emergency' psychological reset to forestall something worse. But not as a long term solution, and he'd know that." Flicker closed her eyes. "It wasn't and he did. He's gone. We aren't patrolling together anymore." Flicker had been managing to compartmentalize up to that point. Journeyman hadn't returned to Doc's HQ while she'd been recovering, or sent any message other than a brief note wishing her well. She'd set aside awareness of that, and their last conversation, pretending he was just temporarily away again. But their load-bearing social fiction had collapsed, leaving nothing but rubble. Speed up. Shift focus in speed mind. Ignore her human emulation, it was working all too well. Try a different perspective. Consider the positive. She'd learned too much during her time with him for reflexive avoidance of memory to be appropriate. She had her own strength, her own self, her own plans, where he was but memory and data. That could be a placeholder, a way to consider him as Flicker adjusted. It was definitely less disruptive than an emotional shutdown. Now slow down and return. Emotion and context flooded back, but she had a reference point. Her visor was beeping at her. She opened her eyes, and saw the alerts--the reason for the beeping. Warning: Situational awareness lost, Alert: Emotional crisis reaction signs, Alert: Potential dissociation trigger, Alert: Database permission upgrade request for Dr. Stella Reinhart--crisis context information. She virtual typed to grant the permission. Then straightened, her face under control. This was her problem, not his. The book dedication had been perfectly clear. For Doc Future. It's a trap. She'd read it anyway. So had Journeyman, but at least he hadn't ignored three blocks, eleven warnings, and 47 advisories, like she had. Tap. Tap. Tap. Stella was glaring intently at her laptop display and speedreading--a page for each tap. Flicker took the opportunity to do breathing exercises and calm herself. "What a mess," muttered Stella, as she continued to read. "Flicker?" "Yes?" Tap. Tap. "I'm sorry, clinical detachment and academic objectivity aren't going to be sufficient for everything. How do you feel about 'Angry woman on your side'?" "That sounds nice, actually." Tap. Tap. Tap. "Good to know. Also, do not ever underestimate your Database security AI. She was on the phone with me for all but five seconds of the time between when you started to read Practical Power Dynamics and when she interrupted your fight with Journeyman to announce my tentative willingness to help. And she called Jumping Spider to secure an emergency override in there, too. I have a theory about that, but it's probably not something she's allowed to admit. I'll see if I can sort through it. Along with everything else. This is going to take a while. But..." She paused in her paging. "I'm curious about the last few months before you became partners with Journeyman. The Database records are somewhat opaque. You were patrolling sporadically, and it's clear you weren't very happy, but I'm wondering to what extent that was due to PTSD." "I don't think about those months very much anymore," said Flicker. "Doc tried a couple of things to try to get me to cheer up, like asking if I wanted to partner with Jetgirl. I said no. I mean, she's a good friend, and we have an arrangement where she can call me for support when she needs it, but she usually doesn't, so it would have been more like being a sidekick. And I didn't want that. Journeyman actually needed my help, so I could accept his as an equal." She looked down. "I wasn't feeling very connected during that time--not continuously, anyway. I remember specific events, but I'd have to check the Database for a lot of the dates and chronology. Everything after the Japan quake. That was just before I turned fifteen, and... I didn't do too well." Stella raised an eyebrow. "The Database evaluates your actions as saving more lives than anyone else. And it's not close." "Well, but you should really account for speed. I mean, if you scored a flower-picking contest just by numbers, I could win with speed, but that doesn't mean I'm good at it. And... I don't like to talk about the quake. There were some media bits trying to turn me into a hero of the response and... No. Just no. Not respectful. They're still rebuilding and recovering and it's not my story to tell. I usually keep it compartmentalized. Mostly what I remember is to be wary of arrogance." "Mm. Would you be willing to tell me your viewpoint? Your personal experience is most definitely yours to share." "I suppose." Flicker took a deep breath and looked back up. "It wasn't bad for me personally. I didn't get hurt. It was just... There'd been some warnings, but it was confusing because of foreshocks, so no one could really tell how bad it was going to be. I got the alert from Breakpoint before the main quake hit--his Danger Sense went off and he wasn't even in Japan, so I knew it was going to be bad. I didn't know where the epicenter was going to be exactly, so I just went off the Database's best estimate, and went up and down the coast writing giant kanji for 'Earthquake' in the air so people would know. My plasma flash and shockwave boom actually helped there, because it got people to look out windows and see. "Then the quake hit, and went on and on, and the estimates kept going up: it's 8.4; no, it's 8.6; no, it's 8.7; no, it's 8.8; no, it's fucking 9; it eventually turned out to be 9.1. And then my Database com started dropping signal because my visor couldn't synchronize my position for tight beams any more. I was used to really accurate position data, and everything had moved. Everything was still moving. Ground level wasn't ground level, and everything had literally gone sideways. GPS was messed up, and the Database kept trying to correct for shit and it wasn't enough. There was one error that caused trouble for a while that was from the Earth not rotating on the same axis any more. "So, I'm running around with intermittent comms, stopping external debris and ripping the roofs off of buildings that were collapsing on people, then making the choices for intermediate floors for the big ones--do I rip it out? Will that hurt the people who might ride it down more than having it fall will hurt the people below? And can I get the debris out of the way fast enough without blinding and deafening everyone? What kind of building is it? I knew very little Japanese, and my visor translator was shit without Database support. The hospitals were solid enough that I let them take their chances, because there just wasn't much I could usefully do, but a few of the nursing homes and big apartments with lots of old people were pretty bad. I'd pulled collapsing buildings apart before, and it was like that, except... two thousand buildings at once. And seeing all those scared people. "And finally Doc got a message through, telling me I needed to punch a hole through to the ionosphere with rocks, because the Volunteer was on suborbital coming in as fast as he ever had and needed me to get the air out of way so he didn't kill anyone with his shockwave on arrival. So I went up to a place called Fukushima and made a pathway for him, so he could keep a bunch of nuclear reactors from melting down, then went back to ripping apart buildings. Until I got another message from Doc telling me I needed to let them go and start taking the edge off the tsunami." Flicker looked out the doors. "I thought, fuck that, I'll stop the tsunami. It's just a wave, right? Moving water, way offshore, no humans near, I could use all my speed and power. Energy and momentum. None greater than mine." She shook her head. "It wasn't just a wave. A whole huge section of seabed had been stuck bent over like a big flat sheet of wood, then released. One end went up like seven meters. All the water above it went up too, and the surface was now above sea level. And all that water had to go somewhere. "It wasn't just a wave. Water flows downhill. Doc knew. "I started with the lateral plasma sweeps and the shockwave hammer loops and the entrainment runs while I had the Database figure out just how much damage I'd do if I vaporized enough of the excess water to stop the tsunami. Database took a long time." She looked back at Stella. "I could vaporize enough to stop it. But--best case--it would kill five million people with a shockwave of plasma and superheated steam. More likely fifty. And fuck up the weather over the whole Northern hemisphere for months. The floods from the rain alone would... anyway. Stopping it was way worse. So I just had to take the edge off as best I could. "It was enough to let the Volunteer stabilize the reactors. And I thought it would be enough for almost all the people, I really did. And then the Database had enough data finally to tell me it wasn't." "Why not?" asked Stella. "The other end of the board. A big stretch of the coast of Honshu dropped when the seabed rose. What had been sea level--was now a meter below sea level. And the ground above it, and the people on that ground, were now a meter lower. So what looked safe--wasn't." "I went back one last time to write more Kanji. 'Run.' But not everyone could run. And not everybody who could would leave behind the ones who couldn't." "I did as much as I could," she said. "Maybe too much, some places--reflections and a change in the shape of the seabed meant I likely made things worse in one spot. But 'only' about two thousand people died in the tsunami. Plus maybe fifty or so I killed trying to stop it. Most of them in boats in really bad places, but they might have lived, except my shockwaves meant they didn't. I couldn't... it was just 'Sorry, it's not your day, ever again'. "Even after it started hitting I kept running around, clearing debris, trying to give people a little more time. And then, finally, it was over, ebbing back, and Hideki and the Japanese superheroes were arriving, and Golden Valkyrie's Choosers, and all the emergency responders. And all the ordinary people who helped. If anyone was heroes it was them. "I went on autopilot for a while, just followed Database instructions after my com was back, not trying to process, because I couldn't. There was a weird voice yelling on my com whenever I saw bodies for a bit until I figured out it was me and stopped. And... Well, I don't really remember much after that. You can read about it in the Database if you want." She waved a hand. "You know what? You want a hero? K'Krowl the Younger. Kaiju from the Deep Kingdoms. Big lizard. Lived up near the Aleutians. He was headed south along the coast, on his way to attack Tokyo, when the quake hit. He was underwater, I didn't know he was there. And there was this boat. Just... in the wrong place. K'Krowl felt the quake and knew what it meant. He headed inshore and surfaced, and just before the biggest wave hit he picked up the boat. And held it in his arms. Except I was coming down on a lateral plasma run, chopping away at the wave. I'd seen the boat, and they were just... I mean, they weren't gonna live. I had a massive entrained stream of plasma, steam, and seawater behind me. "K'Krowl crouched over, and tucked that boat under his chin, and took the wave on his chest and my plasma on his back--I burned him bad, his upper back was just cooked. But he kept his footing, and protected the people on the boat. From the tsunami, and from me. And when it was all over, he put the boat down at the shore, and waved to them, and went back into the water. He decided he didn't want to attack Tokyo that day after all, and went home to heal. Hardly anyone saw him except me and the people on the boat. And with everything going on, no one else knew until the people he saved contacted the Deep Kingdoms embassy, and they ended up with a ceremony, and gave him a medal, and if anyone ever finally resolves the Tokyo Compromise, and turns the attacks into, like, ceremonial visits or something, it'll probably be him." Flicker shook her head. "K'Krowl the Younger. That's a hero. Not me. I didn't get hurt, and mostly ran around a lot. Nothing bad happened to me. Not bad bad. Just memories." ***** Eventually, Flicker realized she'd been staring at the 'Low Situational Awareness' advisory on her visor for a long time, and came back to the present. There was a text from Stella: Let me know if and when you're ready to speak aloud. Flicker focused on the room again. Stella was frowning thoughtfully, tapping at her computer. "I'm ready," said Flicker. "Did you have questions?" Stella looked up. "I was a little curious where you got those death numbers. They don't match the Database, and that's very unusual for you. The death toll from the tsunami appears to be closer to 1,500, and you can only get close to 2,000 if you also include everyone in the area who was killed by the quake, went missing, or died for any other reason for the next week. Or use one early, inaccurate media estimate." She tapped her chin with a finger, still frowning. "And I don't see any clear evidence to indicate that you were responsible for any excess deaths while mitigating the tsunami. There were people you didn't save, but that's not remotely the same. The only way I can get to your estimate of 50 is to take everyone dead or missing who started on a boat in the tsunami region, and everyone missing in the region who started on shore, but who had a boat that also went missing, and assume they were all alive before your intervention, all dead afterwards, and all would have survived if you'd done nothing." She locked eyes with Flicker. "There was exactly one boat that definitely had live people on it, was in your path, and could have been destroyed by you while they still had a possibility of surviving. That was the boat K'Krowl picked up." "Does it really matter?" said Flicker. "Yes. You're guilt-maximizing, and you need to stop. It's not healthy. Don't want to be a hero for this? Fine. But you helped." Stella waved a hand. "I'm not a hero. I've done far worse things than you. But I still try to help. You really didn't want to talk about this and you want to stop, so we'll stop. Perhaps sometime we can come back and get you a little better perspective. But not now. You're in worse shape than I thought." "Well, I was technically dead for two days last week, so I suppose--" "Not short term. Long term. You're better at compartmentalization, coping, and masking than I expected. That means you've been better at hiding worse problems. But it just means more work, for a longer time. One thing I strongly recommend--no patrols for a while. No going 'on duty'. You can intervene in events classified by the Database as 'major disaster' or higher, or a serious threat to someone you know personally. Otherwise find something else to do. You need to recover, and not just from being dead." "But--" Softly: "No. Patrols." Stella sighed. "Are you familiar with boiling liquid expanding vapor explosions?" Flicker blinked at the change of subject, then got the analogy. "Yeah. Can't always stop them so sometimes I just rip the tank to control the direction and shape of the explosion. But I'm not close to blowing up. I know how to reduce the pressure." "I understand. But we need to do some work the slow way--reduce the temperature first. There are other things that might increase the pressure." "You want more of a safety margin?" "Yes. I am reasonably good at giving advice, but bad at providing comfort," said Stella dryly. "I'm not neurotypical either, and certain choices and events in my personal development shape my approach. I have no desire for it to increase your difficulties." "You seem pretty functional to me. And--" Stella shook her head. "If I weren't able to convincingly project normalcy, I'd already be dead. But I do have a talent for constructive distractions. So, why don't we leave off diagnostics and recommendations for a little while and have something to eat instead--I took the precaution of preordering takeout. Perhaps we can discuss a few things you might find interesting and less stressful." "I'm not..." Think, don't just react. "Okay, that does sound good." They ate, and talked, and it helped a little. It was a start.

Next: Part 12

#FallofDocFuture #FallMisc

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empty-as-the-sky · 4 years

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Edward and Bella romantic comedy in Twilight is GOLD

Okay HOT TAKE.

TL;DR - The banter/comedy between Edward and Bella in Twilight is SO GOOD and it deserved to be kept in the movies and it’s a crime that it wasn’t.

As we all know, Twilight is mostly really problematic BUT re-reading the first book and the Midnight Sun draft I am DYING reading about all of the times Edward laughs at Bella or any time she says something sassy to him and they banter back and forth. It’s genuinely SO CUTE. When I was a young teen reading the books I loved their banter, and tbh I really didn’t think it would hold up years later, given how much of the books really DON’T hold up, but the banter absolutely does.

I think one of the reasons that the movies didn’t quite work for me - besides Chuckesme, the nightmarish CGI, terrible accents in BD pt 2, and the bad wigs - was that we didn’t get the humour of Bella and Edward’s relationship, and we didn’t really get to see the process of them falling in love. It just kind of . . . happened?

I’ve heard about that famous story in which Rob almost got fired from the first movie because he refused to be more light-hearted and smiley, and listen. I love Rob Pattinson because he is a chaotic boy and I love every interview he has ever done, but he really hated the books SO MUCH (fair) that he refused to play Edward as anything other than a depressed, ultra-serious boy. And sorry, but that sucks. Just do your job. Like yes, Edward is dramatic AF but he also thinks Bella is so funny that he’s ALWAYS laughing at her. In Midnight Sun, other kids in his class frequently give him weird looks because he is laughing OUT LOUD or smiling to himself at the shit that Bella does and says. The director/producers were TOTALLY RIGHT in highlighting all of Edward’s light-hearted moments in the book for Rob because there are so many of them, more than a lot of people seem to remember. And yeah, I think that maybe Rob should have been fired so that someone else who would have taken that direction could have played the part. In Romeo & Juliet, the rule with doing that show is that the angst and tragedy is only compelling if the first half is fully played as a rom-com and if it’s actually funny. You can’t play the end at the beginning. Same goes for Twilight, and most things tbh. Otherwise, you don’t really root for the central couple if it’s all melodrama and angst all the time. No one wants to see characters predicting the tragedy. I think that’s part of why, on top of all the actual legit criticism, a lot of people criticized Twilight for being too teenage angsty or mumbly when that wasn’t really the book at all, and the comedy allows for a lot more self-awareness to come through.

I’m not even going to quote all of the times that Edward suppresses, or tries to suppress a laugh or a smile at Bella’s expense in Twilight. There are way too many, but they are constantly roasting each other.

Maybe I’m projecting my own feelings onto the books that aren’t really there, but hear me out:

- In the early days, Bella keeps parking so far away from Edward in the parking lot and in Midnight Sun, Edward is upset and confused by it EVERY SINGLE TIME. And they’re both frowning about it but for different reasons. Bella’s frowning because she’s trying to stay away from his dramatic, beautiful, mood-swinging, abrupt ass and he’s frowning because he doesn’t understand why she is avoiding him and he’s sad about it. He’s like, “Why?? Did she park so far away from me?? Do you think she’ll come talk to me? Hopefully she will. Hopefully she won’t?? DO YOU THINK SHE’LL WALK PAST ME? SHOULD I TAKE A DEEP GULP OF AIR JUST IN CASE??

- In Midnight Sun, Edward is so amused at Bella getting emotional over the snow chains that Charlie put on her tires. Seconds before he sees Alice’s vision about the van, he’s just like, “This girl?? Is getting emotional?? Over her truck?? Why is this human?? So weird??”

- Bella FUMING about Edward just getting to waltz right through the hospital doors like a normal person and not having to receive medical attention after the accident. Edward even betrayed her by telling them that she hit her head and maybe had a concussion, because she DID hit her head, but she is SO GRUMPY that he showed concern for her physical health, cause we all know this depressed bitch wouldn’t have. And she is SO EMBARRASSED about having to wear a neck brace and loaded into an ambulance, that she has the balls to take off the neck brace and chuck it under the bed when no one is looking. We stan an iconic queen. Like babe, they put that on you for a reason but you just like throwing your own safety out the window I guess.

- Edward realizing that he never noticed how clumsy Bella is as he watches her through the eyes of her classmates? Also iconic. “Goddamn, this clumsy ass human, how does she?? Survive??”

- EDWARD CUTTING BELLA OFF IN THE PARKING LOT AFTER SCHOOL SO THAT TYLER ASKS HER OUT IN FRONT OF HIM IS ALSO SO FREAKING FUNNY. And Bella being tempted to scratch the paint on his car when she sees him shaking with laughter? So good.

- Edward trying to irritate Bella by making her think he’s going to be the fourth person to ask her to the dance, only to ask her to go to Seattle instead at the last minute

- “THE WASTING OF FINITE RESOURCES IS EVERYONE’S BUSINESS”

- Bella being too embarrassed to tell Edward her comic book-inspired theories but Edward dazzling her into telling him anyway, and then he just proceeds to roast her about her lack of originality

- Edward almost RIPPING THE DOOR OFF HIS CAR when he sees Mike lowering Bella to the ground after she faints in Biology because EDWARD THINKS SHE’S DEAD? And then Bella sees him approaching and IS SO EMBARRASSED and just tells him to go away? Chapters 3-5 of Twilight in terms of ComedyTM are *chef’s kiss*

- Edward just scooping up Bella and being super entertained at the irony that the sight of blood makes her ill.

- “He absolutely loathes me” - Edward about Mike, CHEERFULLY

- Bella calling Edward pushy when he insists on driving her home, which is just really accurate, because he absolutely is

- Edward making Bella lean in and then asking her not to fall into the ocean in La Push and Bella. Is. SO offended.

- Bella grabbing her own throat and pretending to be terrified when Edward says “Breakfast time” IS SO FUNNY and then her making a bad joke about “watching her hunt” and all she gets is CEREAL, while Edward looks on in confusion, like this girl has a sense of humour

People, the first half of Twilight in terms of rom-com material is fantastic. Yes there are still problematic elements and there’s a surprising (and worrying) amount of ableist language in the text, and there are obviously other issues with Edward and consent for sure. BUT the the banter is comedy gold and the problematic bits can be so easily edited out for adaptation. The banter makes Edward and Bella way more compelling as a couple because it makes them more human (no pun intended) and real, and it definitely gives them more personality.

In the movie, I just feel like we missed how gradual them falling in love really was and how reluctant they both were about it, and their belligerent banter was a big part of the sexual tension between them. Otherwise, I’m not really sure where it came from other than the fact that Kristen and Rob are really beautiful humans. Even though they were a couple at the time, I really missed that part of their chemistry onscreen.

I’m aware that for the movie, a lot of it came down to having to cut stuff in the script for time’s sake. But I still think they could have kept the spirit of the banter while cutting what they needed to.

Look, there’s a lot in the Twilight canon that’s not compelling at all, so it makes me really sad that one of the genuinely compelling things didn’t make it into the movies at all.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

#twilight #twilight saga #stephenie meyer #midnight sun #twilight renaissance #comedy #romantic comedy #edward x bella #edward cullen #bella swan #books to movies

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ncfan-1 · 4 years

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“I think I may be falling in love with you.” Can we talk about what a conspicuously weird thing that was to say?

I mean, it’s obviously an attempt at manipulation, but to what end, exactly? Narek’s stated goal is to try and coax information about other androids out of Soji, and she presented him with a golden opportunity to present himself as a confidant, and he just didn’t capitalize on it. Like, dude. She asks you if you believe her, and you say yes. Obviously, you say yes, even if you don’t mean it, because you’re playing the part of the caring boyfriend who, of course, has no idea what’s going on here, but if Soji ever wants to talk about anything that is going on, ever wants to talk about anything else that happens to her that she doesn’t understand, of course you will listen. I feel like the game plan here should be for Narek to try to position himself as Soji’s trusted confidant, but again, he had a golden opportunity, and he used it to say something conspicuously weird and inappropriate for the conversation instead.

But then, Narek hasn’t really been behaving in ways that would encourage Soji to regard him as confidant, in general. And once she’s had more time to think about it, maybe she’s gonna be wondering if there isn’t something a bit off about her new boyfriend.

[More of my highly disorganized thoughts under the cut]

I predicted earlier my hope that Narek would join the good guys, and then immediately experienced the regret that comes when you make such a prediction when you’re not even halfway through the first season yet. Nowadays, I’m still hopeful, but more uncertain. I think that, for now, what keeps him at least somewhat sympathetic is his interactions with his sister.

(As a note, I had to look up her name, and got the name of her cover identity on earth—Narissa Rizzo. I’d be shocked if ‘Narissa’ is her actual name, but then again, who knows if Narek is his real name, so these are the names I’m going to use when talking about them, since I’ve got nothing better to go with.)

First, let me just say: it took Romulan makeup and dim lighting for me to recognize Peyton List, aka Poison Ivy Mark 3 from Gotham, and I’m not sure what that says about me. I hope she gives as engaging a performance as she did when playing Ivy.

Okay, when Narek tells Narissa that he’s not sure if Soji knows exactly what she is, and, if ignorant, should probably stay that way as long as possible, I was just like “….why?” Isn’t your stated goal to get information out of her about other androids, and won’t your very scary boss get mad at the both of you if you can’t get that information? How are you supposed to do that if she doesn’t even know she’s an android? Is it because the moment she finds out you’ve been playing her the whole time is the same moment she finds out she’s got enough raw strength to oh, say, snap your neck like a twig? Is it because of the implications from this episode that Soji might be some kind of apocalypse maiden and you’d like to avoid doing anything that could trigger the apocalypse? Or is there another reason you’d like to share with the class?

On another note, I wonder if either Soji or Narek have thought to use any kind of birth control. Because literally the only way this situation could get even more fucked up would be if it turns out Soji can get pregnant and then does. Just imagine the first brother-sister back alley rendezvous after the pregnancy test. God, what a conversation that would be.

Anyways, from a writing standpoint, I can’t help but think that it means something, the way Narek and Narissa play off of each other. Because he opens with making nasty digs regarding her ears which, considering that probably involved cosmetic surgery which could have been quite painful to recover from, is, yeah, pretty nasty. But then she escalates it so much. First, in Episode 2, she makes it very clear that while she is interested in preserving his safety, if it comes down to saving his life or her own, she’ll throw him under the bus in a heartbeat. And then, in Episode 3, when discussing the state of affairs between Narek and Soji, she behaves a lot less like an impatient sibling than she does a jealous lover, and proceeds to get really creepy. (Someone please tell me I’m not the only one who got incestuous vibes from their back alley conversation. Please tell me I’m not the only one who got those vibes; I don’t rightly know how else I’m supposed to interpret the sniffing.) Seriously, I don’t think you’re winning any contests if you guess who comes off more sympathetically after their conversations, but at present, I’m not sure what it means that Narek has been portrayed more sympathetically than Narissa in both of their talks. We’re definitely meant to think that Narissa is the bigger fish in the pond, but beyond that, I’m really not certain.

(Another thing that interests me about them is how they’ve both thus far been rather ineffectual. The goal was to get information, and neither of them have succeeded yet. I thought about the contrast at first as being light touch vs. sledgehammer, and I think that still holds, but there’s another one I can think of: the fairly soft-spoken manipulator who doesn’t seem to know how to parlay manipulation into actual results vs. the violent loose cannon whose impatience got her target killed before she could get any useful information out of her. It’s too early to tell what it means that they’ve been ineffectual thus far, whether it means that they’re going to step up their game later on, or if they’re just not very good at their jobs, and are going to go on being not very good at their jobs. Both are equally possible.)

Similarly, from a writing standpoint, I can’t help but think that it means something that Narek was present and watching as Soji comforted the newly ex-Borg drone in Episode 2. But at present, it’s too early to say just what it means, if it means anything at all. What I think is that it would be very difficult for Narek not to develop some sort of empathy for Soji, whether he means to or not, but I’m not sure how much that would mean, either. When the time comes, I’m not certain whether or not it will be enough to change anything.

And with all of this is the elephant in the room, that the last live-action fiction show I watched while it was airing was Gotham. As anyone who has followed my blog for a while knows, I was largely… quite disappointed with Gotham as a show. Good cast, but everything else was a flaming train wreck. Gotham was a show where the most fucked up thing that could happen had a decent chance of actually happening. Gotham was also a show where many other things I thought had to mean something later turned out to be sound and fury, signifying nothing. That casts a shadow over my perceptions of Picard, and given how many other disappointments I’ve had with TV shows and movies and manga and comics, my operating method these days is to just not get my hopes up too much. If I prepare myself for disappointment, I can be pleasantly surprised if I’m not disappointed, but if I am disappointed, at least I won’t be gutted again.

Now to talk about something I am more optimistic about, even if I know no more about it than I do what I just talked about: what role Soji has to play in this story.

I’m actually most interested in Soji of anyone in this show, though I will likely talk less about her since I’ve found less to be anxious about. I’m very curious to see how she’ll cope with the revelation that she’s an android, since she’s all but certain to discover it in circumstances just as unhappy as Dahj’s discovery. I’d also like to see how she reacts to news of Dahj’s death, and get information on what their relationship was like.

I’m also eager to learn what the hell is up with the Zhat Vash’s fear and loathing of androids in general, and Soji and Dahj in particular. The agent interrogated in Picard’s house calls one of the two sisters ‘destroyer’, Rhonda (the ex-Borg drone and expert on Romulan mythology Soji interviewed; at least, I think that’s her name) associates Soji and/or Dahj with some sort of malevolent figure from mythology—I mean, if Soji’s presence is enough to trigger a suicide attempt, it’s likely Rhonda doesn’t regard her as a particularly benevolent figure. (Though this comes with the caveat that seeing as the mythological figures came in a sister pair, one who lived and one who died, it’s possible that there’s some sort of benevolent/malevolent dichotomy going on.) Are they just projecting their own fears onto Soji and Dahj, or is there something else to this?

Furthermore, I’d love to know what has drawn Soji to the Borg in the first place, because biologically, she’s only roughly three years old and wouldn’t have had a lot of time to develop this interest naturally, and, well, I don’t think it’s a coincidence, story-wise, that she is where she is, doing what she’s doing for work.

And then there’s Bruce Maddox. Considering there was an episode later down the line in TNG where Data exchanges letters with him, I had assumed he’d experienced character development since his appearance in ‘The Measure of a Man,’ and it would seem I was right. (Oh, and fun fact? In ‘Data’s Day’, the episode I referenced in the beginning of the preceding sentence, there was featured a Romulan who had been posing as a Federation ambassador for years.) But I do wonder for what purpose he created Soji and Dahj. It’s possible that he simply created them to be his children, that he created them for the sake of creating them. But I wonder about that, honestly.

Episode 3 raises the serious possibility that Soji and Dahj’s ‘mother’ is a hologram, or some other kind of artificial intelligence. While it’s possible for their ‘mother’ to be a hologram without there being anything more to their creation than just being created for their own sake, the fact that the purported ‘mother’ responds to Soji’s questions about whether she’s heard from Dahj with blatant lies doesn’t really gel with that. If there is anything at all to the Zhat Vash’s fears regarding Soji and Dahj besides projection and paranoia, then how does Maddox play into that?

Anyways, it’s only been three episodes and I probably shouldn’t try to form any concrete opinions on how things are going to go yet, but I’m very interested in seeing how things go.

#Star Trek: Picard #Meta #(Basically me talking about how I have no idea what's happening)#Soji Asha #Narek #Narissa #(or whatever her actual name is)#Bruce Maddox

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wolfpawn · 4 years

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I Hate You, I Love you, Chapter 75

Chapter Summary - Danielle gets ready to leave for the reshoots, meaning that since their moving in together, it is the first time Tom is left behind, an odd sensation for him.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long. This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @jessibelle-nerdy-mum @nonsensicalobsessions @damalseer @hiddlesbitch1 @winterisakiller @fairlightswiftly @salempoe @wolfsmom1

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

The break was everything Tom needed to get himself back in a good frame of mind, his body needed the massage to get out the knots he seemed to have given himself after the stress of everything, the break away got him out of the eye of the public, and finally being able to be intimate with Danielle again made him feel as though he was not falling apart completely. If her masseuse was to be believed, she too was carrying a large burden on her shoulders, but she had not shown it in his presence. After more than a little prodding, he had gotten her to admit that study was getting on top of her as well as trying to get back to work, with at least another fortnight before her brace could come off, she was worried she would miss the opportunity to interview for the US job she had been eyeing for the summer. He sensed she was also worried about him but did not say anything on the subject.

Their return to the city was fairly quiet, getting immediately back into a routine, though with less studying from Danielle's perspective. Instead, she readied to go back on location for Game of Thrones for the reshoots, packing large hoodies and jackets to take attention off her injured arm, which she was hoping to keep hidden. Tom worried that it was not a good idea to go if she was injured, but part of him knew it was not a concern, but selfishness that was causing him to think that way. He knew she would be fine, she was more level-headed than most, bar the incident that led to said injury; she would make sure to be careful so that it would be off sooner rather than later.

"I am after clearing the downstairs area of all things 'me' related," Danielle informed him as she entered the bedroom. Tom turned to look at her, conveying his confusion as he did so. "You said you were inviting the writer here for the interview?" "Yes." "Well, we don't want to go parading it all, so I have all my stuff tidied away."

"You erased all trace of yourself?"

"No, simply tidied my things downstairs until I come back." She corrected. "Our room is the same, as you can see," She pointed around. "About Mac, do you want me to put him in somewhere or will he be okay with you?" "Are you saying you think I cannot mind our dog?" Tom asked putting his arms around her.

"I am saying you might not have the time or the wish to mind him if you are busy." "I am not too busy for him, he will stay here with me." "Okay, and what are you planning to cook for…what is her name again?" "Taffy." Tom smiled. "I was thinking of cooking something simple." "Make it something reheatable, do it earlier in the day to allow you to no seem ignorant and ignore her while cooking," Danielle suggested.

"You are so considerate." Tom kissed her. "You don't mind her coming here?" Danielle frowned, "Why would I even care?"

"Well, another woman…" "Tom, she is a magazine writer, this is not some seedy rendezvous behind my back, if I was not working I would be here or close by, you are making it sound as though you plan on the two of you having some heated saucy affair." Danielle scoffed.

Tom looked at her for a moment. "Thank you." Danielle cocked her head slightly. "So many partners get jealous." "Tom if I get jealous at you meeting women you need to work with, this is not going to last particularly long." She laughed. "I mean, safety control means I work with the set crew, which to date, has had zero women on the construction side of things, zero, nada, zilch. If the same logic was to be applied to me, you would be bald, grey and going crazy."

Tom's brow furrowed. "Not one other woman in the whole area?" "Well there are set designers and other such women, but the construction guys, the ones that put the sets together, that's pretty male-orientated; not to mention I am the first woman a lot of them have worked within my role." She shrugged.

"Really?" "Yep." Tom pulled her into him. "That's my girl, breaking down barriers."

"Just wait til I am finished my study and get back my paperwork," She smiled. "Now, since I mentioned saucy already, there is Bolognese in the freezer, your one, you should just defrost some and give it to her."

"Why the Bolognese?" "Because you make a damn good one." Danielle smiled, leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss him.

"What am I going to do without you?" Tom stated, looking at his smiling girlfriend. "Get on with it, it's about three days, a week at most." "Hey, there's a big difference between three and seven days," Tom pointed out.

"There is, but they won't say until we get there what is being reshot, so we can only hamper guesses and that's the best I can give. When I get there, I will be told what it is and can give you are a better idea of when I am back," she stated with a smile. "Sure, you are meeting Taffy and have the Graham Norton show so that's half the week gone alone," she explained.

"Then a small recess until hectic schedules again."

"Yes, being proper adults with responsibilities isn't always fun." Danielle agreed, "But I mean, the Kong premiere run is what, two weeks? We can handle that, right?" "Three, but yes, phone calls, texts, skype." "I am not skype sexing, I am saying that right here and now, people can hack that and the last thing I want is my hoo-hoo on the internet!"

Tom chuckled. "Agreed, that would not be advisable. So phone calls and texts then?" "Phone calls, texting while trying to have a bit of fun is not easy I would imagine." "No, it's not." Tom agreed, leading to a raised brow from Danielle, "I was far younger, and it was back before predictive text." Danielle erupted in laughter. "God I was tragic." Tom groaned as he joined in. "'Was'?" she jested. "Was that far younger, curly-haired Hiddles?"

"With obligatory oversized jeans and thinking I was cool." Danielle erupted in fresh peels of laughter. "God I have come so far."

"Thank fuck." She forced out between laughter. Insulted, Tom grabbed her and began to tickle her leading to Danielle falling onto the bed in laughter. "Stop!" "Are you saying you would not have had time for younger me?" Tom asked.

"God no, younger Danielle would probably have been in this same position, though probably with a bit more drinking and going out." Danielle smiled.

"Wait you used to drink more, what happened?" "Myself and a friend, we drank a whole bottle of vodka between us one night," Tom winced. "It was the last time I did that." She nodded.

"How old were you?" "Nineteen, maybe twenty. Before that, I went out to nightclubs, drank my weight in alcohol and eating dodgy takeaway like every other youth." "Young, irresponsible Danielle, I would love to have seen that."

"And you?" "I don't think people realise how much alcohol a bunch of lads on a rugby team can drink." "Weren't you on the rugby team when you were in Eton, underage?" Tom shrugged. "Bold boy." "Then the Drama society in college, it wasn't a day if we weren't drinking it was a day wasted in some of their opinions." "But you ran the London Marathon back then, didn't you?" "Jesus, that was the hardest day of my life." Tom groaned. "Wait, didn't you say before you were going to do an IronMan?"

"Was." "What happened?"

"Work, I can't dedicate as much time to it now." "So you have given it up?" "What, no. I just have to wait for this to heal so I can cycle and swim, not to mention the weather is crappy, but I have found a pool to train in. The cycling is harder, there are a few places, but the city is far harder to navigate with all the traffic." She stated, holding up her hand.

Tom smiled in relief. "I thought you had given up something you love."

"Nah, not going to happen. I mean, I won't get to an IronMan for a while, but I am not after giving up. I am just a bit busier now, but it is short term, I want to get this all under my belt first." turning slightly, she gave the bed sheet a small smell. "I may need to give these a wash before I go, it stinks of my deodorant." "Don't, leave them as they are," she looked at Tom. "This is odd for me, being the one left at home." "It's only for a few days, you'll be abandoning me for longer." She smiled, toying with his hair.

Tom moved around so he was over her, smiling down at her. "I know, I am sorry, I wish I had a regular job." "I don't, you are incredible at what you do and you love it. I am so happy you get to do what you love so much, and if it means that for a few weeks here and there, I have to wait at home, or even skype or call you from wherever I am, I am okay with that." Tom leant down and kissed her. "My flight is in a few hours." she reminded him.

"Are you packed?" "Mmhmm." "Well then, I am going to ensure you go well satisfied," Tom swore as he leant to kiss her again.

Tom - Well, that went well.

Danielle - Done and dusted?

Tom - Yes, I went to speak to her at the hotel today, clear up some of the points that may not have been as clear as I wanted them to be.

Danielle - Good stuff.

Tom - How is work?

Danielle - Fine, cold, wet, dirty, but hey, that's why I signed up for, right?

Tom - Sadly there is good and bad. BTW good call on the Bolognese.

Danielle - Called it! No, seriously, it is lovely.

Tom - Minus the celery? :)

Danielle - what can I say, I'm not a fan.

Tom - duly noted.

Danielle - where did you eat the first night?

Tom - Can't say, you'll be mad.

Danielle - …..you went…..without me…..That's it, we're over, goodbye! Tom - Darling...

Danielle - You think you can grovel at my feet? Don't darling me!

Tom - We can go when you come back.

Danielle - I cannot believe you brought another woman there, I am heartbroken!

Tom - I'm sorry.

Danielle - Bite me!

Tom - If you keep acting like this, I might have to!

Danielle - …..really? You kinky fecker!

Tom - And I'm off the hook!

Danielle - so what else did you do?

Tom - Well, after she left last night, I watched Moonlight, as good as expected, but we did the interview yesterday, partly in Regents park, partly at the house.

Danielle - I haven't been there since New Years.

Tom - God it was gorgeous that day, the fog was so thick.

Danielle - We lost Mac about fourteen times in it! Tom - that only made it more fun.

Danielle - I suppose :)

Tom - So, now that you know what they are filming, do you know how long before you are home?

Danielle - My flight is booked for Friday, should be in about half seven to Gatwick.

Tom - Three more days? :(

Danielle - I know, it is almost done putting it together, I have to sign off on it in the morning, then film all tomorrow and Thursday, back Friday.

Tom - I'm collecting you from the airport.

Danielle - Well you have then time :) I'll make a deal with you, we will spend all of Saturday doing what you want?

Tom - So not leaving bed then?

Danielle - If that's what you want.

Tom - Bed is horrible without you.

Danielle - only three more nights. Xx

Tom - Mac misses you too, by the way, he is barking at the stairs every morning for you.

Danielle - Please stop, I can't know that! Tom - It's just him and me, all alone, without you here, all alone.

Danielle - Feck you anyway!

Tom - You want to come home?

Danielle - I wasn't overly happy to leave in the first place.

Tom - you'll just have to rush back so.

Danielle - Aren't you supposed to be at the BBC?

Tom - I am there now.

Danielle - Good.

Danielle - I am being called to set now, enjoy and talk to you this evening, tell me everything then. Bye xxx

Tom - Let me know what time to ring you, have a lovely day. Xxx

Tom put his phone in his pocket and smiled at Danielle's pretend anger at him going out for food without her as well as her enthusiasm to return home soon before getting to his feet and readying to go on stage for the Graham Norton show again.

#I Hate You I Love You #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fic #chapter 75 #wolfpawn

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jediryssabean · 5 years

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i am free whenever you’re in front of me

hi everyone!

it’s been two years! yikies! and i want you to know that i am so sorry that it has been so long. i graduated with my master’s degree, moved from florida, usa to the west coast, usa, and got a new job that has been taking a lot of my time. i moved from an apartment, to crashing at my parents, to another apartment, and into a house (yay!) so it’s been a busy, busy set of time.i appreciate you all you have left comments, even if i haven’t replied. i appreciate the fact that anyone still reads this.if you’re reading this right now, i appreciate you. thank you so much for waiting it out.

anyway, here’s wonderwall (old meme?).

Pairing: Eren/Levi Verse: Dead on Arrival (an urban fantasy au) Rating: T Summary: Levi’s gone in and out of superstition at different periods in his life, but generally, he likes to think of himself as entirely pragmatic. The wind through the bushes behind him is just the wind, just like the ravens cawing in the cemetery are just ravens, just like the shadows flickering against the sidewalk are only moths attracted to the funeral home’s floodlights, positioned along its facade at even intervals to keep the neighborhood from falling into complete darkness. The graveyard itself had closed at sunset, as is tradition in every cemetery he’s ever heard of. Even for those who aren’t particularly superstitious, it’s probably best not to tempt fate after dark.

Maybe it’s that atmosphere that makes Levi’s skin crawl, or maybe it’s the fact that pragmatism doesn’t hold up in the face of what he knows now, or maybe it’s the passersby who look just this side of preternatural, whose pupils have eaten the whites of their eyes, whose teeth are just a bit too sharp when they smile at one another. Though not a single person or creature or whatever is sparing him a single glance, it still doesn’t feel quite right.

Either way, something is shaking Levi’s stomach, gripping it in a tight fist, and it makes him feel jumpy.

Or you can [Read on AO3]!

(The bus station had smelled like all of them do—like diesel fuel and chili-cheese dogs, like bleach trying to smother the reek of urine, like alcohol and days-old laundry detergent. Beneath all of that, wriggling against the floor, had been the meeting and meshing of countless kinds of magic, identifiable only in the way it had made the hairs rise on Eren’s arms as he’d sat there, the hard plastic of the station’s bench vibrating at the coming-and-going of any number of buses.

Hannah Diamant’s seat, across the lobby, had been empty for almost two hours. She’d been heading to a destination that Ymir and Historia knew of, had picked out themselves, had guaranteed for safety ten times over. Eren hadn’t asked after the location. They hadn’t offered it.

Between his hands, his screen had been lit with an unsent text message, his thumb hovering noncommittally above the glass.

To: Doctor Levi what do u want to do for ur birthday?

The empty space beside him had creaked as his surprise made the decision for him, the pad of his thumb tapping his phone just hard enough to send the message as a cloud of cigarette smoke scattered in the air in front of him, filtering the fluorescent light into something absolutely no less painful to look at. One of the patrons of the station, dozing against one of the cracked tile walls, had rubbed their nose against the smell.

NO SMOKING a sign had read, pinned to the tile between the restrooms.

Eren didn’t need to glance beside him to know he knew this woman from years ago, but he’d done it anyway. He’d met the eyes of the Bean Nighe and it had been impossible to know which of them had been the one of handmade glass. Smoke had been sighed from her nose, coming out only one nostril, and when she spoke, she flashed a mouth of golden teeth—except for one in the front of her mouth, the white of long-bleached bone.

“small world,” the Bean Nighe had said in pulled-taffy Welsh, the wrinkles by her mouth endlessly familiar. This time around, he’d known exactly what she was, even without her having to reach for the fabric laundry bag almost-hidden behind the bench’s legs. “of all the troublemakers to run into.”

Eren hadn’t been sure of the statistics regarding Bean Nighe in the world—how likely it was to meet the same one twice, how likely it was to run into one at all, how many were alive after the faerie-purges and witch-burnings that were scattered through history. But a weird feeling had still settled in his chest, had made the universe seem out of place, and had made the city seem louder at the back of his skull.

“i’ve always wondered,” Eren had said to her in Welsh that ran closer together, tickling the roof of his mouth with the weight of her cigarette smoke drying out his tongue, “what happens if someone throws out a shirt that you wash before they die. seems kind of impractical, don’t you think?” It hadn’t been anything close to an acknowledgement that they knew each other. The conversation was proof enough.

The Bean Nighe had laughed, dropping it to the floor in the guise of desert sand, hissing against her tonsils, her golden molars, the roof of her mouth. “are you calling my laundry fraudulent?”

“no,” Eren had replied. “i’m just wondering.”

The expression on her face had been complicated, her eyebrows white against the dark skin of her face bending beneath the weight of... something. That had always been the best term for whatever-these-things were: something. And somewhere mixed within the bowing of her brows, a sadness had tucked itself in the frown-lines in her cheeks.

“who picked up the shirt?” The Bean Nighe had said after another bus had loaded and gone. “who ended up with the shirt in their possession? who says it was even that shirt that one of us washed in the first place? there are a lot of questions in your questions, little one.” She’d breathed in another inhale from her cigarette, almost burned to the filter. “but either way, if it isn’t one person, it’s somebody else.”

Her eyes had glittered, almost in tandem. Eren had been watching her pupils, trying to figure out which one wasn’t watching him quite as much as the other.

And then she’d continued with a voice like tree branches, leafless and dry. “somebody is always dying.”

Eren’s phone had buzzed softly against his palms, pushing against the ache in his knuckles, now gone white.

“so,” he’d said, turning his phone just enough to keep the screen out of sight, keeping his eyes on the double-doors leading to the terminal itself, “what brings you to seattle?”

He’d been able to feel her gaze against his face, the way her cigarette smoke warmed the air around them, the way the whole bench leaned back just slightly as she’d shifted in her seat. The rhythm of the city had worked its way into the roots of his teeth, the hollows of his cheeks, the space behind his eyes. The terminal doors lit up as another bus pulled into view, backing slowly into the space left behind by one that had left thirty minutes before.

“what do you think?” she’d told him. “people are dying here.”)

Eren’s life has been lived in a series of fits and starts, and he guesses he shouldn’t really expect things to be any different just because he found something to spice the routine up a little.

He lives, he dies, he comes back again. He changes cities, then countries, then occupations. He dies again, comes back, keeps working. Dies again, comes back, meets Levi. Dies again, comes back, meets Levi for real. Keeps working, something happens, something changes, Levi looks at him with the Welsh sunrise catching against the stormwall of his irises—and then Eren makes a housecall. Sure, there are things that happen between all of that, but it’s all fluff, all waiting, because nothing can stay stable forever.

At this point, Eren’s pretty sure that he’d benefit from remembering that.

The streets still stink of wet dog and congealing revelry, leftovers from the winter solstice that had been celebrated two nights before. Everything had gone off without a hitch, really—outside the one-or-two disappearances that happen every year, when someone gets swept up in the Wild Hunt, their missing persons posters destined to fade out long before their bodies turn up, if ever. While always tragic, it’s normal. The whole solstice had been normal, had lifted the veil just long enough to remind mankind that they sure as shit weren’t as safe as they’d thought they’d been from the other side of things, or to remind the fae of the days when making merry in the middle of a mortal bar was worth the risk.

It’d given Eren a headache, just like it did every year—twisted his stomach, just like it did every year. Of all the fucking holidays, it would’ve been the perfect one for mayhem. He’d expected mayhem, like—like a body, or two bodies, or too many to count, thrown in alleyways or in parks or whatever. He’d expected the other shoe to drop.

Sure, by nature it’s impossible to predict unpredictable murders, but at this point it feels like the universe should give him something. An inch, maybe. Half-an-inch would be preferable to nothing.

But here he is on a fucking Friday night, two days after the night when the fae run wild, jogging up the waterfront after a panicked call from a selkie. A pureblood selkie. A pureblood selkie who’d been too scared to speak above a whisper.

A feeling had started churning in his gut that had nothing to do with the time of year and he’d barely passed a goodbye onto Connie before he’d made it out the door.

The waterfront is quiet at this time of night. All the restaurants and tourist shops have been closed for hours—even the ferry has gone silent after its 12:50 a.m. run, leaving behind the sigh of seawater against broken pavement and the barely-audible whicker of a kelpie haunting the walk. If he breathed deep enough, Eren could probably taste seaweed on the back of his tongue.

There’s a ringing in his ears.

The city’s Ferris wheel has gone dark by now, but its shadow is cast in some sort of amorphous shape thanks to the evenly-spaced streetlights and the half-obscured, crescent moon. It makes the atmosphere some kind of ominous, or maybe the silence does, or maybe it’s all just in Eren’s head—the draft coming off the water in an almost-moan, the pop-skitter-cough of thrown-away coffee cups.

Sleet has started to gather on every surface, holding reflected light in half-frozen puddles, and Eren’s sneakers scrape through them in a way that’s far too loud for the ambience crawling up his legs, gathering around his shoulders, pressing tight against the back of his neck. The hairs rise along Eren’s arms as he picks up his pace, running the pad of his thumb along the zip of his jacket, feeling the electric thrum of a ghostwalk enchantment stitched into the seams there. It’s a gesture meant entirely for comfort, the sensation of his own magic connecting with the tips of his fingers. As he rounds the curve of a cement sign advertising the Seattle Aquarium, it feels a lot like walking into a barfight, armed to the teeth.

What he finds isn’t entirely unsurprising, but it still makes his stomach twist. The aquarium stretches from the edge of the street to the end of the pier, and the southward side has seen the sharp end of something unpleasant, though it’s impossible to say what. Shattered glass and pieces of navy blue siding litter the sidewalk, and deep furrows in the concrete wall reach from the lowest windowpane toward the roof in wide branches.

Eren lifts his hand from his jacket to press his index finger to his nose, and half-hums under his breath, the taste of his magic rising up from the back of his throat, “fe-fie-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman.”

The smell of heather, rainwater, and freshly-turned earth bursts to life in his sinuses, the pressure making his skull feel just a little too tight for two deep breaths—and then everything is writhing against his nose in a rancid mess. The wastebins that won’t be emptied until just before the sun comes up, the trash that didn’t quite make it into the bins sitting in stagnant water from this afternoon’s rain, the dead fish caught in the rocky foundation beneath the line of piers placed at irregular intervals along the waterfront—all of it is piling into his mouth and threatening to make him gag.

But beneath all of that, almost swallowed by the shitstorm that is everything else, is an odor that’s like an afterthought: seaweed and a rainsquall over open saltwater. It tastes like selkie magic, smeared along the aquarium’s façade, tucked in the fissures of the almost-busted wall.

When Eren presses his hand to the siding, he can almost feel the magic there, the perception dragging itself against the underside of his fingernails. It’s practically negligible, some leftover ward that hadn’t been reset since before the solstice, swallowed up by all the magic that had risen around it, and muffled further by the constant mist-rain-sleet.

He breathes in again and the city sits on his tongue, presses hard—and he swallows it, rolling it around in his mouth. Spoiled food and seawater, car exhaust and wet paper, seagull shit and wet dog, too-much magic and the metallic sting of blood—but not sharp enough to be human.

There’s no shock of frozen wilderness hiding anywhere in this place. No dying things, buried beneath untouchable earth, no ice-chips needling at his skin. It’s like there hadn’t been anyone here at all, except the selkies and the fish and the steady murmur of the city.

A moan crawls its way out of one of the busted windows, encouraged by the coughs of wind coming from the water, and it almost smothers the sound of his phone vibrating in his pocket, sending a jolt down his thigh. He pretends a scream didn’t smack against his tonsils as he fishes it out of his pocket, and it’s not like anybody can document a flinch that no one was around to see in the first place.

From: Ymiracle Selkie made it to the safehouse Relocating asap Any boogeymen?

When he snorts, it’s on a cloud of white and tastes like garbage, and he shoves his phone back in his pocket before snapping the charm away with his thumb and forefinger. It washes out his sinuses, pushes the nighttime out from between his teeth, clears his head just enough that his stomach doesn’t feel like it’s going to meet his throat just yet. Of course, the night is still young, and Eren reminds himself of that as he steps over the splintered wood of what had been a recently-painted windowpane. He can still feel the tang of it flaking against his molars.

Glass crunches beneath his feet.

“Ahoy there!” The streetlights catch in the puddles on the floor as he makes his way through the aquarium, his hands held just far enough from his hips that he could swing them, if he’d needed to. “I heard someone had some concerns about a leak?”

God, he hates it when he gets fucking quippy with himself. If he’s going to get low with his humor, he might as well have an audience for it. It doesn’t do any good to taunt monsters who aren’t even here. It’s just him, and the nighttime, and the fish, and the increasingly heavy odor of blood-and-saltwater. The fish tanks babble around him, gossiping with one another about all the shit they’d seen. Eren sighs out an incantation into the mumble of the aquarium, bouncing it along on a familiar rhythm, and the low light widens, turning the darkness into a softer gray, into a brighter blue, into color.

With eyes like this, it’d be impossible not to notice the body, sprawled behind one of the man-made tide pools. The selkie’s skin is still tied around its waist, as if it hadn’t even reached for it, as if escape hadn’t been an option. Instead, the air around it is peppered with the afterglow of its magic and the lingering film of its blood. The residue of whatever this fight had been tastes entirely of offensive magic, crafted of serrated edges and tucked away in the dying scent of a rusted-out ship.

Eren doesn’t look at his sneakers, knowing that their soles are turning concrete-gray under the attention of watered down faerie blood. Levi had said it was manganese. It stings like oil against the underside of his nose.

When he crouches beside the corpse, he can feel someone’s eyes on him, right at the place where his neck sits on his shoulders. Everything about this feels like a trap, just like the rest of his job has been for the last set of months. There’s a body and darkness, and eventually there will be hands and shoulders and bodies crawling out of the shadows, flashing their pointed teeth and coming for his throat. So maybe it’s better to say that it’s a trap within a trap, or something.

Eren supposes that he’s come to terms with the fact that he makes pretty good bait.

The pads of Eren’s fingers find torn skin at the base of the dead faerie’s throat, the edges curled inward just enough to have a cauterized texture that Eren would recognize anywhere, half-blind and just by the feel of it against his hands. Whatever had made a wound like this had been made of iron or silver, and either way it had to’ve hurt. It’s nothing at all like the bodies he’d seen before this. Everything else had been brutal, had been savage, had been executed with bare hands or ice-hemmed magic. This selkie had tangled with something else, something different, but still firmly in the same genre. Hopefully the same genre. But maybe not, right? After all, this is a pureblood fae, and everyone else had been changelings.

And yet—

He pulls his phone from his pocket, swiping his thumb to the left across the screen before he brings it to the side of his face, the call-waiting tone trilling against the shell of his ear. He tilts his head to get a look at the selkie’s condition, trying to find something more identifying than the basic descriptions of ‘dead’ and ‘sitting in about two inches of water.’

The sensation of eyes against his neck moves to the space between his shoulder blades, right between his vertebrae.

There’s still no magic here but his own and that of the dead.

“You almost never call,” Ymir picks up on the third ring, her voice the practiced-calm of having a client in the same room. “Is everything clear?”

“What’d the selkie tell you?” Eren tilts the head of the body to look at him, watching the metal-burnt tear stretch across the perimeter of its throat. Rigor mortis has never touched faerie corpses, so it’s almost impossible to tell how long its been sitting here, except for the blood congealing against its lips, its throat, its clothes. “The one that made it there.”

Ymir pauses, and there’s a murmur in the background—Historia and the client, maybe. He thinks he can hear crying. “Hard to decipher,” she says, her voice going low. A door opens and shuts and there’s a breeze dusting itself against the speaker, filling the space until Ymir continues, “he said something about hearing a knock against the doors after they’d closed, but no one was there. Then knocking at the windows, or something. And then there were ‘monsters.’” A swear, taken away by another knock of the breeze against her phone. “Should’ve guessed someone’d been left behind.”

“You said something about monsters.” Eren plucks at the clothes the selkie had been wearing, finding tears in the fabric that are barely-hiding the burns underneath them. Whatever had killed them had been using a knife. “Any idea what they’d looked like?”

Broken glass hisses against the floor, carried by a breeze or by something else, it’s hard to tell. “Not a whole lot of information that way either.” The tide pool above Eren’s head sloshes with another wave, covering the urchins and starfish and probably the sound of footsteps. “Might’ve had sharp teeth. Might’ve had weird eyes. Looked like a person. There wasn’t any magic, I think. Or at least the client didn’t know of any.”

Wood creaks somewhere behind him, as if something had moved aside a broken windowpane. The sound brings Eren back to standing with a half-sung incantation that leaves the feeling of guitar strings vibrating against his tongue and the haze of smoke rising into the aquarium around him. Ash starts catching against his shoelaces, and the smell of burning flesh reaches up to press itself against the tanks, the ceiling, the walls. “Thank you kindly. You’ve been a great help. Keep me updated.”

“What?” It’s not a shriek, but it is heavy, sharp enough to remind him of a metal pipe against concrete. “Isn’t that my line? What did you find?”

“A dead body.” He takes a step back, the ash-water-blood pulling at his feet like mud. “I’ll talk to you soon.” He ends the call with the same movement that shoves his phone as far into his pocket as it’ll go, pressed against his thigh and layered over in security wards. He can feel his magic humming through his jeans.

His hands run an inventory over his own clothes, feeling out the checklist like they always do for situations like this, dangerous situations like this: back pockets—empty; front-left—empty; jacket pockets—empty. His palm hovers over his stomach as he takes a breath—empty. It’s a checklist he’s been running a lot more lately, during what should be routine check-ins, coffee-stops, work.

No identifying information. No waste hanging out in his system. It’s practically the dream set-up for a dead kid, just as much as it’s a set-up for the morgue that could get him. A surprise. A John Doe, approximately twenty-one years old, one hundred and forty-one pounds, and six feet tall. An enigma.

Levi would hate that he’d thought about that. For a second, Eren hates that he thought about it too.

(“people are dying here.”)

But if it has to be somebody on the Bean Nighe’s laundry list with this ensemble, well—it might as well be him.

The smoke curls toward any exit it can find as Eren turns away from the burning body, and it’s blurring the edges of every fish tank and tide pool in the main display hall, making the incantation for low-light vision useless enough that he cuts it with a click of his tongue against the backs of his front teeth. The lighting goes back to grayscale, mixing with the orange-yellow-orange flicker of a dying fire and the incandescent glow of the streetlights outside. But for all that he can’t see much of anything, it means that much of anything can’t see him either.

Besides, the smoke gives the shadows pressed against the wall a more distinct shape, despite the stinging of his eyes, and it’s drawing out the lines of shoulders and hips as it gathers onto every surface, leaving flakes of cinder as it climbs out broken windows and fractured doorways. So now he knows that he was definitely being watched, and he knows that the things watching him are bipedal—

And as the smoke is split open by the cut of an elbow and the jut of a knee coming toward him, Eren knows that it’d been Sluagh watching him, though it’s hard to tell how many with the smoke shifting around them and the sudden burst of noise associated with moving bodies in a space this close. It’s enough, that’s for sure. Enough of them to be somewhere on the spectrum of an issue and a problem.

When he catches the Sluagh by the wrist and presses his palm against its sternum, throwing its weight behind him, he thinks he’s relieved—at least it’s just the Sluagh that are unpredictable, and not something else entirely. At least only some things in the shadows want him dead. At least he knows how to handle this, more or less.

Eren side-steps a low kick aimed at his knees, the ash-and-saltwater mixture sucking at the soles of his shoes, the sound almost drowning out the low noise of frustration coughed against the floor. He slides around the closest tide pool, putting it between his body and the room around him, his fingertips trailing the surface of the water—and he breathes in, tasting smoke and the sting of a burning corpse, saltwater and concrete, waterfront garbage and wintertime. But underneath everything, there’s just a twinge of brine and blubber, and the weight of heather and rainwater.

Regardless of whether he can smell their magic or not, the shadows solidify into Sluagh bodies with the smoke more-or-less gone, caught by the Sound-made breeze and pulled into the city to mix with the smell of alleyway garbage and asphalt.

There are four Sluagh here, if he’s got nothing else to go by except a headcount, and all of them are watching him.

Eren can feel the heartbeat of the city at the back of his throat, can feel the tread of countless tires moving across his bones. He taps the rhythm against the surface of the water, his fingertips itching with electricity. His magic curls against his tongue as he says, “how often are we going to have to meet like this before it becomes boring and we all just go our separate ways?”

Street-lighting dances over the Sluaghs’ skin, shifting across arms and chests and legs, blurring their shapes almost-enough to take them back out of sight. One of them tilts its head slightly, blood leaking from its nose. When it speaks, there’s something off—but it’s hard to identify, and harder to explain.

“Funny question.” It’s voice is soft, as though it’s entirely ignoring the blood curling over its lips, and it’s like—it’s like—an echo in a cave, smothered by stiff, winter air. It’s less breakable, less pointed, but has more direction. Eren’s skin crawls underneath it. “You’ve got a lot of funny questions, right? That’s your schtick.” Or—it’s too nuanced. This conversation carries itself far more delicately than any of the other ones Eren has been blessed to be a part of.

And that’s when the feeling comes to mind. The sensation of a knife being dragged along the slope of his shoulders and up the back of his neck. The tide-water is cold against the pads of his fingers. “That’s my one-note routine, yeah.” Eren curls his toes in his sneakers against the seeping cold of the water at his feet. His socks squish under his weight. “Do you have a funny answer for me?”

The lighting changes inside the aquarium as clouds move across the moon outside. Two of the Sluagh flicker out of sight and back again, their positions slightly different than before. One of them has their hands behind their back.

“That depends.” The Sluagh who’s elected to speak for all of them rests both its hands against the edge of the pool. Its fingers are placed just outside the reach of the seawater, even as it leans forward. “How often are you going to have to die before you come back like us?”

When Eren breathes in, it feels like his throat has frozen over.

But there’s still no taste of their magic in the air.

(It’s a question that could’ve been thrown away months ago, weeks ago, days ago—but it’s pretty alarming to think about, considering the situation and everything.

Sluagh aren’t born in the way that most beings are—carried through a painful labor that often ends in what many people call a miracle. Sluagh are born of darker things, of angrier things, of violent things that’ve crawled their way in and out of the hearts of mankind. Of course, it doesn’t become dangerous until those things are allowed to stick around and grow.

And dangerous situations become Sluagh even less often.

A person is born and raised, and the dangerous situation grows and festers, and then something terrible happens, and then it dies, like everything does. A Sluagh is what comes after the everything. The body dies and comes back, revived by whatever magic latches onto those who have been cursed by something too old and too unknowable to name. They die human, or changeling, or something, and are born again as something pureblooded fae, doomed to roam the earth cloaked in bloodlust that’s impossible to satisfy, with no memories of the life they’d lived and lost before.

Rumor’s always had it that it served some sort of purpose, that a faerie like that would be useful during another kind of birth—the birth of the Wild Hunt.

If things weren’t the way they are, if Eren wasn’t where he was, he’d probably find it pretty funny how things like this always manage to bite somebody in the ass eventually. It just seems to be that the one that’s always getting bitten is him.)

The moment fractures when the Sluagh who’d spoken vaults over the tide pool, feet first.

Eren rotates on his heel, grabbing the Sluagh by its knee and calf, swinging its body toward the wall with more force than finesse. It catches itself only barely, its palms bracing against the wall to keep its face safe. It twists, trying to jam its heel toward Eren’s jaw and kick his teeth in—but he ducks, leaving the Sluagh to flail for a heartbeat as its foot catches one of its companions in the throat. It’s nothing that’ll do any lasting damage, but it gives Eren just enough time to slip across the floor and out one of the broken windows, glass crunching beneath the soles of his sneakers.

Among the outdoor enclosures, Eren can see the way the nighttime is playing over the skin of other Sluagh, revealing the flash of teeth and the curl of fingers, somewhere between the harbor seal tanks and the railing perched above the seawater. The conflict, then, is that if he stops running, he’s got four Sluagh behind him—but if he doesn’t, there’s no way to tell how many are in front of him, not with the way the clouds keep moving against one another and changing things around.

It doesn’t really matter what decision his brain would’ve made, since he’s always let his reflexes do the thinking for him in moments like this, and he lets his momentum carry him forward, his feet almost-slipping against the bleachers, the eyes of the harbor seals following him from the shadows at the bottom of the tank.

The nighttime opens and shuts around him, revealing another Sluagh poised at the end of Eren’s bench. It moves forward quickly, carefully, and with movements so precise that Eren almost misses the way something flips into its right hand, glinting underneath the stiff, white light of the streetlights to either side of them. Eren lets his body go loose, angling his shoulders perpendicular to the Sluagh’s body, the knife in its hand getting close enough to his face that he can feel the sting of silver against the inside of his nose when he breathes.

The sensation is all in his head, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less alarming as he feels things clicking together behind the scenes. Something tightens in his chest as he uses the Sluagh’s inertia against it, slamming his forehead against its face hard enough that he feels its nose break against his skull.

The silver knife clatters against the bleachers, skidding against the wet surface, as the Sluagh uses its left hand to claw at Eren’s shirt, pulling him forward to jam its knee into his gut, doubling him over around the pain. The second blow is given by the Sluagh’s left fist, knuckles catching him hard across his cheek.

(Despite everything, Eren makes a note to himself, scribbles it in the front-most corner of his mind—the Sluagh are fighting like humans do.

If he’d been holding a pencil, it’d be shaking.)

There’s a hand placed at the back of his neck, attached to thin fingers, calloused from however long this Sluagh had been walking the earth. Its skin is cold enough to raise goosebumps under the collar of Eren’s shirt.

“Did you know,” the speaker-Sluagh says, tightening its grip around Eren’s neck as it drags him toward the glass of the harbor seals observation tank, “that it’s possible to drown in only two inches of water?”

The Sluagh kicks the glass once, kicks it twice, kicks a third time to release a flood of treated saltwater out onto the pavilion. It’s fucking freezing, just as freezing as the Sound underneath them, and it’s soaking into the fabric of his jeans, into his skin—or maybe it’s just the implication that’s making him feel this clammy. Either way, this is hardly the ideal place for him to be, with a hand around his neck like a misbehaved cat, poised above an open tank of water.

“I thought that was more common with kiddos,” Eren replies, letting the taste of his own magic fill his mouth as he rubs his thumb and forefinger together, trying to find the right words to get him out of this, anything to get him out of this. “I think I’ve aged out of that.”

“That’s why we’re going to be extra cautious with you,” the Sluagh tells him, rattling like icicles that had grown too close together. “One of these days we’re going to figure you out, little monster. And when we do, we’re going to get back what you stole from us. By then, I doubt we’ll have to worry about you anymore.”

Eren watches his reflection in the water left behind in the depths of the harbor seal tank just long enough to catch his breath—and then he shuts his eyes. “‘Cause I’m Mr. Brightside!”

A flash bursts from his palm, sharp enough to turn the backs of his eyelids orange, and he can hear the spitting of the light against the skin of the Sluagh, can once more smell the thin edges of burning flesh. But the grip on Eren’s neck only tightens, digging too-sharp nails into the muscles in the hollows underneath his jaw.

“I don’t think so,” the Sluagh tells him, its voice tight with pain as it shoves Eren’s head underwater. It’s voice is distorted when it continues, “none of that this time.”

Eren’s hands find purchase only where they’re not supposed to—against glass, against the edge of the water, against sea-slick concrete. He can think his way out of this, he should think his way out of this, he has to think his way out of this—

His heart is in his throat and the Sluagh’s grip only gets worse as Eren tries to bring his legs to his chest for leverage. There’s no—there’s no fucking room to struggle, here. He’s stuck. He’s stuck, and the city is white noise at the back of his head. He’s stuck, and the city is white noise, and it’s beating against his lungs. He’s stuck, and the city is white noise, and its pressing against his lungs, and he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

His body tries anyway.

There’s the never-distant memory of river-mud oozing between his fingers, caught underneath his nails, collecting against his tonsils as he inhales water that’s entirely different, tasting of brine and mechanised treatment, like copper, or iron, or—

God, he’s going to die here. He’s going to die here in a harbor seal tank, choking on water, drowning, and he knows he’s going to die here because he can feel his thoughts getting cloudy, becoming shapeless, turning into nothing. He’s going to die here, and he’s going to wake up gasping, like he always does, left among the broken glass to end up in another morgue.

Eren inhales again, bubbles rising from behind his teeth. His limbs feel heavy and useless.

(“people are dying here.”)

One of his hands curls around a shard of glass, its edges drawing blood from his fingers. Warmth is curling in his stomach, beneath the curve of his spine, in the soles of his feet, in the roots of his teeth. He can feel the bus routes tracing patterns on the underside of his skin. And he reaches for his magic out of comfort, even if he can’t turn it into anything, even if there’s nothing he can say that’ll make it useful.

Eren can feel the life of the city rising up, pushing against his teeth—more than 652,405 pinpricks, itching from within the marrow of his bones.

(if anyone’s got to die here, it might as well be me.)

And then his body catches fire while the rest of him is swept away, wrapped up in a feeling that’s just this side of too warm. He’s being rocked, side-to-side, as he goes around the curve of—the light rail system. He’s on a train, coasting along the railway between the airport and the university. Usually, his ears pop when he takes the train anywhere. He isn’t sure why that isn’t happening now.

There are only a few people on the train this late at night, and Eren has no idea how he knows that. But the train is way louder than it should be for this volume at this time on a weeknight. He can hear the oxygen machine whir, click, and exhale in the centermost train car. He can hear the way someone’s thumbs are tapping against the screen of their phone. He can hear the murmured conversation between the conductor and the rail system management as if it’s being spoken right into his ear.

This sure as shit isn’t normal, and Eren sure as shit isn’t dead.

The light rail eases into the stop at Rainier Beach, the squeal of the wheels against the track tightening the muscles of his stomach—

When Eren comes back to himself, he’s disoriented, and nauseous, and his body is definitely moving without him telling it to do that.

He’s in the street, somehow, a Sluagh coming toward him with a silver knife exactly like the one he’d thrown aside earlier. Eren can feel it humming, from this distance, which is a new feature, or something. Or maybe that’s just—just the thing that’s pulling at his limbs, the thing that’s driving him forward, the thing that’s burning underneath his lungs.

Whatever’s moving Eren forward is taking deliberate steps, one after the other, as if it’s trying to figure out how the whole thing works—the delicate attention that’s required to move each finger, the way his legs have to move so his knees don’t lock. It’d probably be pretty interesting if Eren wasn’t a passenger in his own vehicle, but right now it’s just unsettling, and he can feel his magic scalding the back of his throat.

The Sluagh adjusts its grip on its knife with practiced ease, and as it tosses its hair, Eren recognizes it as the Sluagh who’d done all the talking, with the soft voice and the cryptic-answer bullshit. This close, Eren can almost see the misting rain beading on its cheek, too thin to be the sleet that had settled around the aquarium.

He can feel his muscles twitching with the energy tucked away in the center of his body, and his hands come up to brace against the Sluagh, stopping it in its tracks. One of his hands is placed at its throat, just above the hollows of its collarbones. The other is pressed against the center of its chest. Whatever learning curve had kept his steps calculated before is over and done with now, having evaporated somewhere between his next step forward and the Sluagh’s strike toward his throat.

Eren’s face doesn’t feel like his when the Sluagh meets his eyes—it’s as though all the effort his pilot is putting in is going toward the rest of his body: his hands, his legs, his feet. His face is too stiff, like it’s caught in the grip of rigor mortis. But that’s a stupid thought to have, and Eren knows that as soon as it curls at the back of his brain. Rigor mortis doesn’t settle in those with faerie blood. It’s more like—it’s more like his face just isn’t giving anything away. It might be that there’s nothing to give in the first place.

His magic tastes like somebody else’s when it pulses from his palms, and the Sluagh turns to ashes between his fingers.

He feels like he’s going to gag against the taste of car exhaust and wastepaper, the smell of ozone between phone lines and sea-spray collecting against the piers. This magic is foreign and familiar, all at once everything and nothing like his own.

He swallows, trying to taste his home there, the home he carries in his blood, reaching out only to find more of the same—

This intersection is like all of the other ones in the city, just like this bus route, just like those pedestrians crossing between the closest bus stop and the gas station—an exact copy of all the other ones on all the other routes, with limited differences. Eren can feel it burning against his chest. Diesel exhaust is thick against his tongue, the bus’s engine rattling in his sinuses. Old bubblegum is stuck on the underside of almost every seat, dark splotches stuck to faded blue-white plastic.

Eren wonders if the mint gum the bus driver is chewing will end up stuck to the center if the aisle like all the other indeterminate flavors. If it wouldn’t reek of gas fumes, maybe he’d laugh—but then again, maybe he wouldn’t.

The bus rumbles to a start again, its passengers shifting in their seats to compensate for the turn its making. A private security guard yawns, leaning their face against the back-most window, arms crossed loosely over their chest. Layers of grime sit on the outside of the window, smearing streetlights against their cheek, drawing the bags under their eyes into sharper relief. Two seats forward, a nurse sits, his badge pinned to the collar of his university sweatshirt. His eyes aren’t yet bleary, and the smell of coffee rises from the thermos between his hands. He’s heading toward a long shift, probably. The last passenger, just behind the bus driver, has earbuds tucked inside her ears, the murmur of the music bouncing around the inside of his skull.

It’s a song he barely recognizes, all strings and piano. It sticks to the ceiling, the floor, the center aisle—exactly like the bubblegum, trampled by so many feet.

Rain spits against the bus as it rolls by North Seattle Community College, and Eren can feel it against his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his lips. It stings, a little, as it breathes against the windows. The tires hiss against the asphalt, scattering mist in short arcs behind them. A wet newspaper is caught in the undercarriage, somewhere. Eren can feel its soggy weight pressed against his stomach.

Eren’s body is somewhere, but he can’t place it. It’s like his brain is split between varying perceptions, split right down the middle. His limbs are like rubber, his abdomen barely anything more than a crushed soda can, leaking from all its sides—

When he inhales, his lungs bubble with seawater and the taste of something else’s magic.

Lightning arcs from his fingertips when the thing inside his body snaps them, no musical help required, no spell of any kind at all. His skin tingles with the feeling as another Sluagh vanishes, leaving nothing but smoke and the smell of burnt meat behind. The lampost beside the closest bus stop flickers once before holding steady. Eren wonders if he’d blinked—wonders further if the thing inside his body needs to blink. He can’t tell if his eyes feel dry or not.

More Sluagh flow through the shadows around him like they’re made of fabric, and most of these still have echoes of beasts tucked at the corners of their mouths. Their teeth are bared in not-really-smiles that Eren’s familiar with. One of them has a silver knife, catching streetlight and throwing it out into the street. Another has a bat, smooth and wooden, carved haphazardly with misshapen runes for battle. Its grip is lined with electrical tape, which means it might be rubbed down with iron shavings. From here, he can’t tell. Not with this magic still congealing in his mouth.

Metal screams from somewhere. The sound of it hits every surface like solid glass—the water, the street, the concrete of the buildings, the grass—

The grass?

The thing inside his body turns, the collar of his shirt rubbing roughly against his throat, rough with drying saltwater. He can see the shapes of the Sculpture Park from here, one of the pieces listing sharply enough to the left, a broken piece pointed skyward, as though it’s positioned to cut the clouds. The rain hasn’t made it to this part of town yet, but he can smell it, buried underneath everything else.

Eren has no idea how he got here.

The wind tries to shove its way through his hair, catching its fingers against the knots left there by the saltwater that’s turning his clothes into sandpaper.

His body snaps its fingers again and magic ripples up his arm, toward his shoulder, up the back of his neck. Flakes of skin peel away from his knuckles, his elbows, the tips of his ears, before smoothing over, soft and newly healed. The wounds don’t even have time to weep before they’re gone.

Eren’s face is exactly the same as it moves toward the newer Sluagh, and his fingers snap a third time. The pads of his index finger and thumb feel callused, this time, roughened from whatever power he’s using, or this thing is using, or—or something. The magic cracks outward, the air around him popping with it, and even the skin around his eyes isn’t any tighter with the strain.

There’s no brake fluid in this car. There’s no brake fluid in this car and the gas pedal is stuck to the floorboard. It’s careening on a path that he can only guess at, the map having been thrown out the window a long time ago.

His left hand snaps out lightning this time, a claw spreading wide enough to knock a stop sign flat. Pigeons scatter in the darkness, unseen, disturbed from their nighttime roosts. If Eren were in his body like he ought to be, he’d gag against this feeling, this taste, this smell. It’s too harsh, too strong, too fucking different—and yet it’s familiar, maybe. He knows it from somewhere. It reminds him, a little bit, of the way his own magic had dragged itself against his bones years ago, reaching out and over his body as he’d pulled up muck from the riverbed—

Eren splits apart.

He’d be breathless if he had the time, standing in the middle of another intersection that’s much closer to the chaos this time around, watching his body move toward him, each and every step more fluid than the last. Skin continues to flake from the line of his cheekbones, the jut of his chin. From here, Eren can see that his pupils are blown wide open, big enough to almost swallow his irises whole.

It’s a little bit haunting, looking at himself like this.

The traffic lights flash red above him, over and over and over again. He thinks that his heartbeat sounds like that, drumming between his ears—over and over and over again.

Streetlamps cast light through Eren’s torso, hitting the crosswalk in front of him with no filter. There’s no shadow there to give him away, to tell anyone that he’s watching all of this from the outside. His body grabs a Sluagh by the throat, its fingers twitching against the hollows underneath the Sluagh’s jaw. Lightning-burns crawl up toward his elbows as the Sluagh dissolves into ashes, just like the one by the aquarium had.

When Eren swallows, his throat feels raw.

Voices come from somewhere distant, incongruent with the scene in front of his face, made entirely of joyful screams cut off too early and the crack of magic too powerful for the hands snapping them off. Eren turns his head, keeping his body in the periphery of his vision, but looking for something else. The whispers feel like they’re getting closer.

Eren swallows again and tastes seawater.

The murmurs are louder but still not distinct as Eren turns his body, the flash of spells glancing off the windows of the buildings around them. The asphalt cracks under his feet, but doesn’t turn into a sinkhole. He wonders if he would’ve fallen in, as incorporeal as he is right now. But that thought is a distraction, redirected by a voice that rises in volume, the words blending together into something soupy and indiscernible, but he’d recognize it anywhere.

It’s his mother’s voice.

Her shape flickers underneath one streetlamp—and then another. Beside her, there’s a hooded figure, looking like a cross between a grim reaper and a carriage-hand. That shape, too, isn’t solid, but it’s lifting its head between one scene and the next, like the way rolled film stutters when it’s aged too much. Eren thinks that, if this had been real and not some bullshit figment of the whole mess of this whole night, the figure would be looking right at him.

The figure breathes out a dark cloud with flecks of starlight in it, and Eren knows exactly what it is.

An Ankou—an Ankow—an Angau. A classic death omen, but not one of the first. Old, sure, but Eren’s seen older. But there’s something different about this one, something ancient. It reminds him of his mother that way. It seen things that Eren doesn’t know of, that Eren couldn’t possibly know of, and the longer its inconsistent shape looks at him, the fuzzier his head feels.

The shape of its shoulders looks sad from here, just like his mother’s have for years and years and years. Maybe it’s his imagination. Maybe it’s not. But grief tightens his stomach anyway.

His mother’s voice says something else that’s unintelligible, and this time something viscous rises up from his stomach, to his lungs, to the back of his throat. It’s nauseating, a thick mix between a muddy river and Puget Sound at the beginning of winter. It’s suffocating him, threatening to make him vomit, threatening to come out his nose.

The flashing traffic lights are impossible to look at, but his heart is still beating with that steady rhythm, even if he can’t breathe all over again, just like always, just like every bad dream he’s ever had—

“Eren?” Far away, but right next to his ear. The sound of his name shakes. It warms the shell of his ear. “Eren?” Distressed. Higher pitched. Eren can almost feel the warmth of its breath against his cheek, can feel its timbre against the line of his jaw.

He slams back into his body hard enough to see stars, the street clear of Sluagh, silent and eerie and empty except for him, these fucking traffic lights, and—

“Levi.” Jesus Christ, even his voice isn’t his anymore. It’s too loud and there are too many other voices underneath it, like hundreds of thousands of people, saying the exact same shit, and it splits his skull open like a cantaloupe, narrowing his sight into a pinprick. And so he tries again, and when he does, he doesn’t spit up blood, doesn’t speak like he’s too many people all at once, and the taste of gasoline and soggy newspaper sits on his tongue as only an afterthought. “Levi?” What comes out of his mouth this time around is raspy and almost-broken, wet denim against a gravel road, but it’s better than that other nonsense and easier to understand. It keeps his brains from leaking out his ears—but he can taste blood on his upper lip, oozing from his nose. “What are you doing here? It’s—you’re supposed to be with Farlan and Isabel. It’s—” Eren squints against the feeling behind his eyes, tries to grab for the relevant thoughts underneath all the sounds, and the smells, and the feeling of the flashing fucking lights in the intersection behind him. “Happy almost-birthday.”

“What?” Levi’s hand is cold against his cheek and his fingers are calloused. Eren thinks that there might be sweat behind his own ears. “Are you serious right now? You’re burning up. Your nose—your fucking face—what was that? Are you okay?” He pauses in the middle of it all, touching the other side of Eren’s face with his other hand, before moving it toward his forehead, underneath his hair. “What I mean is thanks. But what about you?”

Eren takes a breath and it’s cold. Colder than it’s felt all night. “Farlan and Isabel?”

Levi sighs, dropping his hands away from Eren’s face, and there’s exasperation moving across his face like clouds, touching his eyes, forehead, his mouth. There’s something tense in his jaw.

“Farlan got called away for work and Isabel went with him,” Levi tells him, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He’s not looking at Eren’s face anymore. “Sounds like local police have been getting a shitload of calls about something happening on this side of town. Farlan wonders if it has something to do with his walking corpses.” Levi does glance at his face then, a quick thing, before looking away. But Eren can feel that glance long after, like there are thumbtacks pinning it to his face. “Does it?”

(“people are dying here.”)

Eren’s guts are losing it, rolling around under his skin. It feels as though there’s gelatin in his body, shifting under his weight when he tries to move. There’s a response that he wants to give him—something helpful, intelligible, and quick. At the corners of his vision, he thinks he can see the shadows start to melt, thinks that they’re preparing for something. Police sirens sound like they’re coming from s elsewhere deeper in the city, but for all he knows, they could be coming right towards them. All of these pieces of information belong in sentences that Eren wants to string together in the most effective way possible.

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, “I’m going to puke.”

When he does, it’s nothing but seawater, blending in with the puddles at his feet.

(There’d still been the lingering smell of cigarette smoke sticking to the insides of Eren’s cheeks long after he’d left the bus station. His body had felt stiff after sitting for so long, and it had seemed like the soles of his sneakers would be sticking to any type of floor for a long, long time. His skin had felt greasy, or slimy, or itchy. No—more like, it was hard to say, how, exactly, he was feeling. At some moments, it had felt like he’s been trying to live too many lives at one time, and keeps losing all of them.

He’d been rotating his phone between his hands the whole way home, reading and rereading the response that Levi had given him.

From: Doctor Levi i’m spending time with farlan and isabel on the 23rd, but after that, i’ve got nothing specific. why, you wanna make plans?

Everything with Levi had always been, naturally, a mixture of that sweet, sweet ‘yes and no’—of the fear of wanting and not having, of the fear of safety versus danger. It had always been far more complicated than it needed to be, and all of that complication had, obviously, been Eren’s responsibility.

of course, he’d wanted to say. of course i wanna make plans with you.

He’d typed something else instead—something closer to “if you’re free, we should throw a party and celebrate with a fucking baking show.” It had been dismissive of all the other things he could have said. Fuck, he could’ve called. He probably should’ve called. The Bean Nighe had left him shaken, or maybe he’d left himself shaken, or maybe he really just needed a solid day’s sleep, from sunrise to sunset.

Maybe he’d needed a vacation.

But like most things, Eren had placed these feelings on a backburner, and this backburner was on a different stove in a different kitchen in a completely different house than the one he’d been painstakingly trying to build since he’d died-and-come-back the first time around. There’d always be time to fret about his feelings later, about the way his sleeplessness was texturing the inside of his eyelids like the surface of a corkboard.

The bell had chimed above his head as he’d entered his stupid store. His phone had vibrated against the skin of his left hand. He’d left the store to Connie for the second time that night, before he’d climbed the stairs, doing everything in his power to avoid all of the concerns written in the frown on Connie’s face.

And in that space of time where it was just him and the aftertaste of cigarettes, it had felt like the exact right time to do a load of laundry.)

(He’d hated the way Eren had decided to look at him like that, with his eyebrows bent low and his lips pressed tight enough to go pale, just like the rest of his face had been. Well, just like the rest of his face had been—except for the hollows of his cheeks, flushed deep and dark and splotchy.

“levi,” he’d hated it in the same way that he’d hated how Eren had decided to say his name like that, his voice rasping from whatever-the-fuck had been going on before Levi’d gotten before, during when he’d gotten there. It’d sounded like he’d drowned—either underwater or under the weight of all those voices that’d come out of his mouth, Levi couldn’t be sure. “i need you to run.”

“excuse me?’ Indignation had hit him hard, like it always does. But this time around, it had left him winded, had risen up from the soles of his feet to pound against the underside of his sternum. He’d still been able to feel the sear of Eren’s skin against his palms. “eren, you look like shit, you sound like shit, and you want me to leave you here? are you fucking serious?”

“that’s the second time you’ve asked.” Something like a smile had tried to rise up and sit on Eren’s lips, but it had faltered before it had the chance to connect, falling to the ground between them. “i can absolutely promise you that i’m so serious right now. i need you to run and i need you to meet me at—uh—” Eren had glanced around them, trying to focus on the street names on either side, pushing his hair back from his face in a way that didn’t help clean up his look at all. Blood had still been oozing from his nose. “the hills of eternity cemetery.”

“a cemetery.” Levi’s mouth had gone dry. The saltwater smell from the Sound had scraped the inside of his throat. “we’re going to meet at a cemetery. in queen anne?”

Eren’s head had turned, the color on his cheeks shifting as though it was twisted through the lens of a kaleidoscope. He’d looked as though he were listening for something.

“in this case, i don’t even need to you trust me,” he’d said, and when he’d turned back to face Levi, his eyes had been almost-glowing, despite everything. Even with blood crawling toward his chin. “i just need you to listen.”

Eren had shrugged his jacket from his shoulders, looping it around Levi’s own. His touch had been impossibly gentle, and it’d made Levi want to return Eren’s favor and throw up in the middle of the street.

“what’s this for?” Levi had asked, even though he’d already known the answer. Beneath all that other shit—the smell of saltwater and blood, bus exhaust and wet magazines—there’d been the touch of heather and rain-soaked soil.

“it��s enchanted.” A sigh had moved through Eren’s body. Levi had almost been sure he’d heard his bones rattle with it. “keep it on, okay?”

A pause. The wind was catching a glass bottle, somewhere out of sight, and pushing it along the sidewalk. “okay.”

In that moment, the smile Eren had been trying so hard to manage rose to the surface, though it presented itself more as wrinkles against the bridge of his nose than a shift in the position of his mouth. But however it manifested, it had been a relief.

“be careful,” Levi had said in the exact same tone that Eren had told him his jacket was enchanted. “i’ll come after you if you don’t.”

The color within the irises of Eren’s eyes had swirled like something liquid when he’d replied, “well now i have to be on my best behavior.” Another smile, all in the nose and the corners of his eyes, while nothing stuck to the edges of his mouth—and then he’d stepped away, slapping his own cheeks with open palms, and sang quietly under his breath, “you’ve got blood on your face, you big disgrace, waving your banner all over the place.”

Eren’s body had begun to glow, his hair shifting with a breeze that Levi couldn’t feel, and his afterimage lingered in the air between them. He’d looked like a time-lapse photo as he’d moved, leaving trails of light behind him, solid enough that the light from the streetlamps had split around them.

Eren hadn’t glanced over his shoulder before he’d broken out into a run, stumbling only once, recovering quickly enough that if Levi had blinked, he’d’ve missed it.

But he hadn’t, and so he didn’t.

Levi then pushed his arms through the sleeves of Eren’s jacket. It was warm to the touch. He’d taken one step back, two steps, three steps—

And he’d launched himself into a run, just the same as Eren had.

If he’d been just a little farther away, he would’ve missed the sounds of bare feet pounding against the roadway, would’ve missed the smell of ice and frozen skin, would’ve missed the sensation of both these things rolling forward into the direction that Eren had gone.

But he wasn’t. And so he didn’t.)

It’s pretty fucking eerie, standing beside a cemetery all by himself.

Of course, it’s even more eerie with gargoyles preening themselves on the lip of the funeral home’s roof, their stone bodies rattling as they shake themselves, their clawed feet clinging to the stonework there. Their style is just incongruent enough with the architecture around here that they had to have come from somewhere else—someone’s garden, maybe. Or a church, potentially. There are enough of them in the city for at least one to lean into gothic décor.

Levi’s gone in and out of superstition at different periods in his life, but generally, he likes to think of himself as entirely pragmatic. The wind through the bushes behind him is just the wind, just like the ravens cawing in the cemetery are just ravens, just like the shadows flickering against the sidewalk are only moths attracted to the funeral home’s floodlights, positioned along its facade at even intervals to keep the neighborhood from falling into complete darkness. The graveyard itself had closed at sunset, as is tradition in every cemetery he’s ever heard of. Even for those who aren’t particularly superstitious, it’s probably best not to tempt fate after dark.

Either way, something is shaking Levi’s stomach, gripping it in a tight fist, and it makes him feel jumpy.

The sleet from earlier in the night has started up again, rolling against the street, the brickwork of the funeral home, the vegetation around him. The dirt around his feet is too cold to turn into mud, but Levi can almost feel the soles of his shoes sticking to the earth anyway. It’s like—it’s like he’s fixed in place, still watching the chaos of the intersection on a loop. He thinks of the way Eren had snapped his fingers, the way his skin had peeled away from his body, of the way his hair had been caught in the aftershocks of whatever magic he’d thrown forward, all without the use of wordplay that he’d said was paramount for changelings.

When Eren had spoken, it hadn’t sounded like him at all. Instead, it’d been as though there were countless people talking out of his mouth at once, a swell of noise that’d tear against whatever throat it’d come from. Something else had been speaking with Eren’s tongue—except he’d said Levi’s name, had said it twice, and an expression that had looked a lot like solace had taken shape on his face just for a second—

Levi had felt as though he was walking across a frozen lake, and nowhere had been safe to step.

The driver’s side door or a car bursts open across the street, shattering the almost-silence around him with a shrill alarm, scattering the gargoyles from their perch with the crunch of brick and mortar, still gripped in their claws, and discontented howls. Lights come on in the windows of the houses up and down the road, revealing figures in pajamas peering out from behind the glass.

Levi takes one step forward, loosening his fingers from the fists they’d rolled into, and shifts his weight between his knees.

A shape swings outside the car door, feet first. Sneakers hit the pavement, then knees, then palms—and Eren really does look like shit. He lifts his head and there’s blood smeared across his cheek from where he’d probably wiped his nose. There are new bruises under one eye, a split in his bottom lip. When he gasps, it’s like dried branches scraping against one another, as though it’s a struggle to breathe right, and no matter how many breaths he takes, it doesn’t take away the gray-blue pallor of his skin.

These things become more apparent the closer Levi gets, and there’s dread pooling at the bottom of his gut like ice-water, chilling him to the marrow of his bones.

“Eren?” A question, covering the pop of his knees as he crouches to eye level. It might not be loud enough to be heard over the car alarm.

Eren lifts a hand to slam the door shut behind him, swallowing once before saying, “hush little baby, don’t you cry.” Levi’s relatively certain that the tune is hiding underneath all of that, but Eren’s voice is too broken to make it distinct. Then he looks up at Levi, and something relaxes in his jaw. Or, alternatively, Levi could’ve just been seeing things. “Hi, there. Best behavior. See?”

Even when Levi rolls his eyes as he rights himself, palms pressed to his knees, it’s hard not to notice the way the sleet catches in Eren’s hair before it starts to melt there. He doesn’t mention it when he says, “I thought you didn’t drive.” He holds out his hand, palm out, in an offer.

Eren’s bones creak when he stands, using Levi’s hand for leverage. “I don’t. That car’s not mine. It’s a birthday trick.” Eren’s smile this time has a little more teeth, a little more mouth, and it cracks the dried blood on his cheek, revealing the fevered color there. “I’ll tell you all about it when we’ve got the time. But we need to keep moving.”

Levi’s gaze follows the direction of Eren’s eyes, ignoring the shape of his eyelashes and the droop of his shoulders when he does. He’ll have time for questions later, when they’re not in the middle of all this shit. “You want us to go into the cemetery.” It’s a question and it isn’t, because while Eren talks a lot, there isn’t a lot he says that’s frivolous. Used for misdirection? Sure. Disingenuous? Yeah. But not empty.

“I want us to go into the cemetery,” Eren confirms, the works cracking under their own weight. The movement he makes forward barely shakes at all, and if Levi had been standing further away, he probably wouldn’t have noticed the way that Eren’s legs are trembling if he stands still too long. “They’re not that far behind me. I’m not—” From behind him, Levi can hear the grimace on Eren’s face more than he can see it, but it sits between them all the same. “I’m not doing so good on juice right now.”

“No shit,” Levi says. “Is that supposed to surprise me? What surprises me is that you’re still standing.”

Eren laughs with a sound that’s more like a wheeze, almost too soft to be heard over the rustle of the bushes as he pushes his way into the cemetery. “You could at least be like ‘wow, Eren, you know, you could look worse.’ That’d be nice. A little boost for the ego.”

“Wow,” Levi delivers, stepping around the headstones of people he doesn’t know, stretching his words out like half-chewed gum, “Eren, you know, you could look worse.” A roost of ravens fluff their feathers in the branches of a tree, one or two of them shaking their heads and scattering water from their bodies. Like this, it almost feels as though they’re going for a walk, as though Eren’s about to break into one of his stories about the sociopolitics of a world Levi doesn’t understand. “How’s that? An improvement?”

“You could use a little more sincerity,” Eren says, and the impression that absolutely nothing is going wrong at this very second splits down the middle. He glances over his shoulder with his cheeks still flushed but the edges of his face less unsettlingly gaunt. “So, I’ll give it a four-point-five out of ten.”

Levi’s about to say something clever, about to take this rhythm that they have and run with it—but the wind pulls at the edges of wet leaves, pressed tightly to the graveyard soil, and it carries with it the sound of laughter that cracks across the nighttime, exactly like the sound of ice, splitting over the surface of a lake. Levi thinks that he can feel thin, frozen fingers crawling up from the base of his spine, inching upward as they attempt to loop around his throat.

By the cut of Eren’s shoulders against the glare of lamp-posts strewn throughout the cemetery, Levi can tell that he’d heard it too. It becomes obvious when Eren turns around, and his jaw is set like stone.

There’s fury on his face.

“Fuck,” Eren’s voice is tight and thin. The sentiment is apparent. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I thought I’d bought more time. Fuck.”

The loosely kept bushes at the edge of the cemetery tremble on all sides, liquid shadows peeling out from underneath trees and headstones, forming out of nothing like noxious gas. Eyes glitter in the loose shapes of faces, and the smiles there are all teeth, mirthless and sharp enough to split glass like butter. Levi doesn’t bother to count them all. It’s not like that would do anything to ease the dread that’s building behind his eyes.

“What did you bring us here for?” Levi asks, keeping his voice low. It curls around their feet, rigid.

Eren’s hand is warm against the inside of Levi’s elbow, and he doesn’t bother to lower his voice at all. It’s not like it carries very far with the state it’s in. “I was going to try and make a call, but that takes a second, and I’m not sure we’ve got that. So we’re going to have to play this hard and fast.” With his other hand, he pulls a knife from a leather sheath, tucked between his hip and the waistband of his jeans. He presents it to Levi, hilt first, held between the pads of his thumb and index finger. “Take this.”

The hilt is made of wood and etched with runes, leaving behind the sensation of sparks against his palm. “Enchanted?”

Eren’s lips twitch, his eyes following the movement of the closest Sluagh. It carries a crude spear in one hand, holding it in a loose grip over its shoulder. The blade shines a little too-brightly, all despite the cobbled nature of its make. “Absolutely. If things go too far south, pull the hilt from the blade and it’ll send you to the store.”

Anger rises up Levi’s throat fast enough to scald, with every brand of possible protest piling up against his teeth and digging into his gums. But before he can say anything at all, Eren cuts him off and keeps talking.

“I’ll need you to tell Connie so that you can bring people back here.” His lips twitch for the second time, and another almost-smile catches fire against the furious glare still clinging to the edges of his eyes. “I’d really rather not end up in a morgue that isn’t yours.”

“I’d really rather you not end up in a morgue at all.” Levi flips the knife it his grip, shifting at Eren’s side to press his own spine against Eren’s. The Sluagh are inching in toward the center of the graveyard, murmuring to one another. Some of them move their hips to reposition their weight in a way that’s patently human, where others are almost hunched entirely over, whatever energy they’re moved by barely contained underneath their skin.

However many of them there are, none of them seem to be looking at Levi just yet.

The Sluagh who’d laughed speaks, its voice scraping against itself like a glacier against rock. “I see that you’ve found yourself cornered again, little monster.”

Eren stiffens, the soles of his sneakers disturbing the grass beneath them. “Last time I got cornered, your lot got fucked up.” Even when he tries to raise his voice, it doesn’t get very far—but it had reached far enough to make the Sluagh bark out laughter for the second time.

“Last time you got cornered,” the Sluagh replies, “you’d almost ended up dead.” It sounds like it’s getting closer, its counterparts at the edges of the cemetery moving forward at a slightly more lethargic pace. Step by step by step. “Before that, I think you did end up dead, if what I heard was right.”

“Seems like I just can’t stay dead.” Eren throws his rasping words outward, polishing their sharp edges enough to still manage some kind of intimidation. “You must be pretty shit at your job.”

Levi can hear the Sluagh’s bare feet against the ground, the sigh of its skin against the dead grass. The sound of its grip shifting against the body of its spear hisses somewhere inside its footsteps. The Sluagh’s shadow twists against the headstones, split into different pieces of varied shades by the lamp-posts.

“Maybe,” the Sluagh’s words feel deliberate, the slow pop and moan of a tree close to splitting open in the dead of winter, “that’s the fun part of chasing you.” A laugh, this one softer, sharper, closer. “You can’t keep coming back forever.”

For a moment, it seems like Eren’s about to cast something. The edges of the jacket around Levi’s shoulders rustle, and he can feel something warm breathe down the back of his neck. The stillness is broken by the smell of Eren’s magic, fresh and heavy, rising up from the ground—

But as soon as Levi can taste it, it’s gone, dropped away like wet clothes, fading out with an almost-audible cough.

“Fuck,” Eren says again, and Levi feels him move again, taking one step forward. “Goddamn it. Fuck.” Where his voice had been tight before, now it’s brittle, held together by paperclips and rubber bands. Levi can hear his knuckles crack as one of his elbows brushes against Levi’s bicep.

The shadow of the Sluagh shifts position, its spear flipping upward, its grip entirely different, and the wheeze Levi catches is gleeful. The blade is whistling, piercing against the fall of sleet, cutting against the caw of a raven from its roost and Eren’s spreading his arms in a miserable excuse for a defensive posture—but then again, the position hadn’t been for him anyway, because it’d been for Levi, who’s already twisting around him, ducking underneath Eren’s left arm, the knife held in his hand positioned perfectly for an upward thrust, right into the Sluagh’s solar plexus.

The last word from Eren’s mouth had been a serrated croak of “mom!”

From there, it’s as though the world is moving frame-by-frame.

Whisper-click. Eren’s face is ghostly in Levi’s peripheral vision, and an expression that reminds Levi of despair settles against his eyelashes to mix with the melting sleet. Whisper-click. For the first time, the Sluagh seems to notice him, and hatred is burning across its face. Whisper-click. Eren is reaching for the hood of Levi’s borrowed jacket, but his limbs are heavy with the way his night has gone.

all the time, Levi thinks to himself. eren does shit like this all the time.

Whisper-click.

The Sluagh stops moving entirely, as though suspended underwater.

Whisper-click.

The Sluagh have scattered in the graveyard, and are just as still.

Whisper-click.

A raven caws for the third time, and the earth begins to roll beside them, rising into a hill of gravedirt, taking the form of a person—a woman—that stands at at least a full foot taller than Eren does. The soil falls from her shoulders, revealing a cloak of bright colors, from which come wrists adorned in a number of golden bracelets, clinking together in the way that wind chimes do. Her hair is loose about her shoulders, a golden earring shaped like a serpent wrapped around the shell of her ear. A sheathed saber is belted at her waist, simple in its decoration. Ash is smeared across her eyelids, rubbed against the edges of her cheekbones, and her lips are painted a deep red.

So close, it’s impossible to mistake this person for anything less than Eren’s mother. Levi can see him in the shape of her eyebrows, the bridge of her nose, the color of her skin, the curve of her mouth. He can see where Eren got the set of his jaw and the squaring of his shoulders, can see where Eren’s penchant for aggressive intensity has come from by the way her eyes glitter in the split dim-bright distance of a city in the nighttime.

When Levi breathes in, he catches the smell of burnt incense and charred bamboo—like a funeral pyre.

With a flick of the woman’s fingers, the Sluagh suspended in half-movement burst, scattering ashes throughout the cemetery. It falls like snow and smells like nothing. The movement doesn’t even disturb the silence much, outside of the glimmering murmur of her bracelets tapping against one another.

Very few Sluagh remain standing—remain existing?—and the ones that do are outside the boundaries of the graveyard. None of them take another step forward, choosing instead to melt back into the shadows. Even from this far away, Levi can see the way their eyes have widened into something that looks a lot like terror, can see how bloodless their lips get before they’re swallowed by the darkness against the side of the funeral home.

Nothing else seems necessary for the woman to do, except to bend the length of her body to meet Eren’s eyes, her hands pressed gently to the sides of Eren’s face as she turns his head toward her for further inspection, her unbound hair falling over one shoulder. Christ, even her eyelashes look like Eren’s do, almost endless.

Levi doesn’t say anything about any of that, because Eren’s mother licks her thumb and begins to wipe away the blood still caked on the side of Eren’s face, on the tip of his nose, on the Cupid’s bow of his lips. It’s a slow process and inherently parental in its tenderness. The intimacy of it makes Levi almost wish that he were somewhere else. It’s like watching a child have their tears wiped away in a department store, or something like that. Or—really, it’s not really anything like that at all.

“Mom,” Eren draws out the word, bordering on a tone of petulance, “stop. You’re embarrassing me.”

A car rushes by in one of the side streets, catching Levi’s attention just long enough that he doesn’t know the precise moment that Eren’s mother focused her eyes on him, but when it happens, it’s as though her blunted nails are digging into his own cheeks, though she hasn’t so much as stood upright to move. The whites of her eyes are tinged with red, either in some restricted sense of anger or the presence of tears, Levi doesn’t know.

It’s uncomfortable regardless.

Eren’s mother does stand upright then, and her height is only reinforced without the threat of being impaled by a fucking spear. The wind catches its fingers in the ends of her hair, playing with them.

She asks a question in a language Levi doesn’t know or recognize—can’t even begin to guess at. Her tone is sharp, but even though her face is composed to the point of being almost too polite, it carries with it a sneer.

Eren replies in kind—same language, same sharpness—except his lips twist in his mother’s direction, and it feels like that response wasn’t meant for him.

Her eyes move over Eren’s face with practiced efficiency. When she speaks this time, Levi understands her clearly, though her words are carried on an accent that bounces gently, giving the impression of fruit, rolling against the ground.

“What sort of trouble was that just now?” Eren’s mother asks, her gaze shifting slowly between Eren and Levi both. “It seems to be a bit above your vigilante paygrade, doesn’t it?”

Eren returns her questions with nonchalance, which is made incredibly ineffective by the fact that it sounds like he’s forcing his voice through a paper straw. “The Sluagh have been stirring shit up for a little while. I didn’t expect to end up in, uh, such dire straits. I expected that during the solstice.”

Eren’s mother tilts her head, a gesture that Levi’s seen Eren mimic once or twice. This is bizarre. What features is he supposed to have gotten from his father? “Nothing happened during the solstice?”

Eren shrugs. Levi can practically hear the way his shoulders grind in his sockets, but it’s evidenced only by the way his mouth tightens. “Nothing out of the ordinary. A little too much party, a little too much Hunt, a little too many humans took a sip here, a bite there. The problems were very, very normal.”

“And this?” Her voice thins out, stretches, like a wire pulled taut. “Is this normal?”

“Kind of.” Eren wipes at his nose, catching a remaining bit of not-quite-dry blood on his knuckles. “It’s been semi-normal since, like, August. Up until tonight, they’d been just killing changelings.”

There’s a heartbeat where Eren blinks and something flickers across his mother’s face. It’s a pained look, filled with speculation about something, but’s gone before Eren opens his eyes again.

“Up until tonight,” she repeats.

Eren glances at him then, brows furrowed. His pupils are enormous, and he looks exactly as he had when he’d lost a client of his and had tucked himself beside the morgue’s doors, fatigued and wan and distant.

“They killed a pureblood selkie. They let another one go.”

The cloak shifts over his mother’s shoulders, her eyes hardening into solid amber. “I really must insist that you come home. It doesn’t seem like calling on you is working anymore.”

The roosting ravens chirp at one another. Eren’s mother doesn’t even cast attention to their direction. At this second, she’s focused entirely on Eren and the way he’s looking at her. It’s a face that leans into rebellion, and his jaw is set exactly like hers had been when the gravedirt had fallen from the fabric of her cloak.

“You’re not calling,” Eren tells her. Levi thinks that he really shouldn’t be here for this. “You’re sending birds. If you wanted to call, that’d be a little different, don’t you think?” Eren’s shirt is becoming almost soaked through with the sleet. His body doesn’t seem to notice—not with the fevered flush still on his face.

“Eren,” it’s so soft, the way she says his name like that, even though her expression doesn’t change. “Please come home. This? This situation doesn’t feel normal. You call me when you need this, and this isn’t right.”

“Mom,” just as soft, but different. The hiss of rain against saturated earth. A force of nature sitting on the horizon, waiting, waiting, waiting. “Home where? The one that’s gone? With you? In some place that’s neither-here-nor-there with dead people all the time?”

Ah, there it is. The set of his mother’s jaw. “You’d be safer if you listened to me.”

“You’d be happier if you listened to me.” The response is quick, absolutely no hesitation behind it. “One of us needs to do some packing, Mom, and I really don’t think it’s me.” A pause, but not long enough to give her a chance to respond. “Maybe you should think about coming home instead.”

There’s a lot less fanfare when Eren’s mother disappears compared to when she’d arrived. Her form dissolves into a mixture of cemetery soil and crematory ash, leaving behind the smell of her magic—burning incense and scorched bamboo. The ground doesn’t even tremble at her absence.

Eren watches the space where his mother had been standing, breathing in and out slowly. One set. Two sets. Three sets. Four sets. Five—

And Eren covers his face with both hands, sighing so deeply into his palms that it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall over, with how unstable his body looks. His knuckles are absolutely fucked, his hands all kinds of different shades of blue and purple and red. It’s difficult to tell if the blood on them is from his nose, the Sluagh, or the split skin.

He stands there like that for moments on end, his hands pressed to his face. What little of his jaw Levi can see is tight, which means he’s probably grinding his teeth.

Levi thinks about reaching for him—about touching the side of his face, carding his fingers through his hair, running his thumb along the edge of his cheekbone. He thinks about holding him, about pressing his fingertips against the jut of his spine, about holding their foreheads so close that Levi could probably smell nothing but his magic and dried blood.

He thinks of the way Eren had looked—even though this moment is nothing like that one, at all—haloed by a Welsh sunrise, unparalleled joy making his skin shine like there’d been countless stars underneath it.

Levi had wanted to kiss him so badly that he’d almost bit his tongue.

Yeah—this moment isn’t anything like that moment had been, but Levi wishes it was, so that the liquid softness of his heart had somewhere else to go, so that it didn’t weigh as much as it does in this second, this heartbeat, this breath, and all the ones after.

(For the first time in a long time, Farlan hadn’t brought up the murders at all.

“so,” he’d said, watching Levi from where he was perched on the arm of the loveseat, where Isabel stretched out along the cushions, her head propped against Farlan’s thigh, “are you going to tell us about the person you’re seeing, or are you going to keep all this information to yourself forever?”

They’d been sitting around Levi’s coffee table earlier in the evening, plucking at leftover pizza and drinking canned lemonade, with a garish birthday candle placed just a hair off center, out of the way of the pizza box. It’d reminded Levi of being in college again, years before he’d ever entered medical school, staying up too late and drinking just a hair too much. He’d wondered, in passing, what Eren’s college life had been like. He hadn’t really thought to ask, with all the other shit that Eren’s been involved in for his whole life.

“what makes you think i’m seeing anybody?” Levi had replied, splitting pizza crusts in half, in fourths, in eighths, and into unidentifiable amounts. Farlan’s phone vibrated against the surface of the end table beside the loveseat. Levi had made an effort not to think about the silence of his own phone.

“you’ve been checking your phone every fifteen minutes,” Farlan supplied, pulling at the pop tab on a half-empty can of lemonade.

“and,” Isabel had continued, because they’d been having conversations like this for the better part of a decade, “you’re different. you’re out and doing stuff, you’re not always at work, you’re not as morose—”

“i was never morose.”

“you’re not as morose,” Isabel had said again, with emphasis. “you don’t have to be seeing anybody.” A shrug, awkward against the cushions. “but if you are, we’d wanna know.”

“yeah.” An agreement, practically obscured by a swallow of lemonade. “like, everything about them. who they are, what they do for a living, what they look like, what their astrological sign is, what their future goals are, if they went to school or not—”

Farlan’s had vibrated for the second time, and then a third time in quick succession. That time, Farlan had glanced at the screen of his phone, and had elected to ignore it. Whatever other things that he’d wanted to know had been placed out of sight and out of memory, lost to a distraction. Levi had been relatively grateful that he hadn’t continued.

Besides, it’s not like he was seeing anyone anyway. But if he were—

“i’m not seeing anybody,” Levi’d told them. Farlan’s phone had vibrated again. “but i have been spending time with this guy i met.” Something absolutely identifiable had twitched in the cage of Levi’s ribs when he’d said that, its leaves reaching for the sunlight even as late in the night as it’d been. Even so, he’d avoided labeling it, choosing instead to breathe it out, tasting a reminder of frost-covered moorland.

Isabel had pushed herself upright, her eyes near to glowing. “oh? how’d you meet him?”

Levi had considered his response long in advance—sometime after Halloween, when the thing in his chest had been nothing more than a seed. “we met at work.”

“office romance?” Farlan had said, absently, checking his phone for the second time, as it had vibrated once more.

“no. more uncomfortable than that.” Levi’s lips had twitched, a little. He’d wondered what Eren would think of this story. “he’d shown up to identify a body.”

Isabel had laughed to the point where it was more-or-less a shout. “classy! really classy.”

“we didn’t exchange numbers that night.” A deadpan delivery, one of Levi’s favorites. Isabel hadn’t stopped laughing. Farlan’s phone had become a nonstop buzz in his palm, until he’d lifted it to his ear and muttered into the receiver. “we’d run into each other a couple more times. that’s just where i’d met him. you asked how we’d met.”

Isabel had curled over one of the throw pillows in her laughter, trying to muffle it against the fabric there—at least until Farlan had reached for her shoulder, his face losing color in slow degrees, his lips going thin with the force of whatever was being spoken into his ear.

“you know this is my night off, right?” Farlan had said. The atmosphere had shifted in a hairsbreadth of time, quick enough to give the three of them whiplash. From where he’d been sitting, Levi had been able to hear the response only in the form of an intone that had been bordering on frantic. The words had been unintelligible. “how likely do you think it is?”

Another response, whispered into Farlan’s ear. The glow of the birthday candle had seemed suddenly ominous against Isabel’s cheek.

“okay,” Farlan replied. “i’m on my way. i have to stop home first, but i’ll be there as soon as i can.”

The call had ended, then. If the situation had been any less tense, any less unsettling, Farlan’s face would be pinched enough to make jokes about. It’d been the same face he’d made at lackluster grades, or the smell of cigarette smoke. But as it stood, it had just been unfortunate.

“levi, i will owe you literally the best birthday party in the world,” Farlan had said, standing upright and tucking his phone into his back pocket in the same motion. “and, in return, you will owe me all of the details that you were just getting into.”

“i don’t owe you shit. but i’m busy day-of, so you’ll have to make it up to me at new year’s.” A pause. Levi and Isabel had stood up in the same motion—Isabel, adjusting the cushions on the loveseat; Levi, closing the pizza box and blowing out the candle. Smoke curled in looping wisps, disappearing before it took shape against the lights on the ceiling. “is everything okay?”

“some chaos over at the waterfront.” Farlan had grabbed his coat from the floor, tucked out of Levi’s sight. Elsewise, he’d have been scolded for it. A mess. “the city’s department headquarters has been getting calls for the last hour or so, and they think it might be related to all the other weird shit that’s been going on.” Farlan had looked at Levi, his eyebrows arching halfway up his forehead. “like the bodysnatcher.”

“this had been a new record for you,” Levi had said to hide the fact that his mouth had gone dry, that his tongue had become deadweight in his mouth. “you hadn’t talked about work all night.”

“shut up.” Farlan had rolled his eyes, Isabel sighing loudly at his back. “i’d made a promise not to.”

“i’m sure you did.” Isabel’d had to stand on the tips of her toes to be seen over Farlan’s shoulder, and from what Levi could see of her face, it’d been flat with discontent. “come on. i’ll walk you guys out.”

Something had been starting, somewhere. Maybe by the waterfront. Maybe somewhere else.

Wherever it was happening—whatever was beginning—Levi had been able to feel it in the roots of his teeth.)

“I’m sorry,” Eren says, dropping his hands away from his face, clearing his throat against his voice’s persistent rasping. “You got into a lot of trouble because of me. Again.” His face twists into a grimace, and Levi blinks himself back into the graveyard, hunching his shoulders against the cold. Eren’s magic still smells close enough to taste, depending on how deeply he breathes. When Eren continues speaking, it’s almost too soft to hear. “You know, I really wish you hadn’t done that—getting in the way like that.”

“So what was I supposed to do?” Levi’s tone is sharper than he means it to be. It makes his tongue feel like iron sits there. “Let you get impaled?”

In this half-light, Eren is leaning into his faerie blood. There isn’t quite enough warmth in his skin, yet—not outside the fever, anyway.

But Levi’s watching the way Eren’s face moves and can see the process already beginning, the shift back toward the center. He’s straightening his spine and shifting his weight between his feet. His limbs are trying to go loose, even though they’re stiff with the chill and with adrenaline.

yeah, actually, is what Levi expects him to say. But Eren only sighs, pushes his hands through his hair, and looks at him. For a moment, pain hangs from his cheekbones. But it’s there and gone again as Eren sniffles in the sleet. “Let me walk you home for your trouble.”

Even though it’s different than what Levi had expected, it’s just nonchalant enough to mean that he was right—because what Eren is going to do is this: his smile will come easier this time, and it’ll look just spry enough to be normal. It’ll rub out the shadows underneath his eyes a little bit, blending them into the darkness in his cheeks. He’ll say something a little bit funny, redirecting the topic of conversation entirely. And then he’ll drop Levi off at his apartment, will smile again and look exactly like himself, and he’ll go home and pretend like this never happened. He’ll show up at Levi’s doorstep on his birthday and his bruises will still be there, and his lip will still be split, and his knuckles will still look battered, but he will say nothing except happy birthday. you’ll never guess what tricks i can show you.

Eren will call himself a terrible liar, and it might be true—but he’s a master at keeping the truth to himself.

Levi knows that, if he lets this happen, he’ll be blinded by it, and it’ll leave an awful taste in his mouth.

all the time, he reminds himself, again. eren does shit like this all the time.

There’s probably a metaphor that could go here, about how Levi wants to hold Eren down to the earth for just a second, instead of letting him keep going on this merry-go-round that never really seems to let him go. There’s maybe something he could say about how nights like this are unfair, about how this feels exactly like the moment that Levi had seen him outside the morgue, hunched over his knees. He could tell him about the roots that Levi feels in his lungs, overwhelmed with this feeling, this thing, this phenomenon with a name that’s earth-shattering in its vastness.

But there’s nothing that feels adequate to describe all the things that Levi finds himself thinking about. So instead, he says, “how about you stay at my place for the night?”

Eren breathes out a sound that might be a laugh. “What?”

“You sound terrible, you look about as good, and what’s going to happen is, you’re going to walk me home, like always, and something just like what happened ten minutes ago could happen all over again.” Levi’s eyes never leave Eren’s face. Something flickers underneath the surface of Eren’s expression, like the skin of a fish. “Maybe I just want to keep an eye on you.”

He can see Eren grinding his teeth in a way that makes him wonder what sort of way out he’ll think up. And yet, when Eren opens his mouth, he says, “okay.”

“Uh. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Eren nods. His hair is starting to stick to his skull. “Okay. I need to call Connie, though. He’ll think I’m dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Could’ve been.”

Eren looks at him, and the smile that he gets is—disorienting. It’s nothing at all like any he’s seen on his face before. “Yeah. Could’ve been.” When Eren breathes, it sounds a little like popcorn. Levi can’t tell if it’s because of all the running he’d done, or the scare he’d had, or what. “Thanks for keeping my shit together, Levi.”

That feels… cryptic. He’s not really one hundred percent sure what that means.

“Shut up.” The thing in his chest shifts in a breeze far warmer than the air around him. “Call Connie so we can get you a hot shower so you don’t die of pneumonia or hypothermia or worse.”

“Sir, yes sir.” Eren steps away, pulling his phone from his back pocket. Unlike his hands, or his face, or his body, the phone is entirely unscathed. There’s probably a spell on it, and that enchantment probably doesn’t translate to organic matter.

Levi watches him go, holding his phone to his ear. He lifts his arm to rub at the back of his neck, a giveaway at feelings of embarrassment, or feelings of shame. He might be getting a lecture, or he might be having to explain himself. Whatever’s coming out of his mouth, it looks less-than-comfortable.

It’s a brief phone call, and it’s late-enough-early-enough that the city has gone quiet in its entirety, except for the distant sound of police sirens, wailing far out of sight. Eren’s footsteps against the cold-and-soggy grass is the loudest thing on the street.

“Ready to go?” Levi asks him, arching his eyebrows at the cowed look on Eren’s face.

“Yep.” He rubs the back of his neck again, scattering water as he shakes his head. “I have been praised on my judgment to stay at your place instead of walking home. By report, I ‘sound like I crawled out of a dumpster, and Ymir and Historia sounded upset when they called more than an hour ago’, and so on, and so on.”

“Yikes,” and Eren laughs, a shadow of what it would sound like if he weren’t suffocating on the cold air. “Come on. Time to go home.”

Though they’re walking toward the edge of the cemetery, Eren isn’t looking at it. His eyes are far away when Levi says that, and they’re tracing a shape that Levi can’t see. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go home.” It’s an echo of what he’d told his mother, shortly before, but it sounds different, or sounds like it means something different.

Their feet hit concrete and they keep their pace. Eren doesn’t ask which direction to go in. His head is cocked in one direction and then the other, as if he’s listening to something. His hands splash softly when he rubs them together for warmth.

“Do you want your jacket back?” Levi’s question comes out on a cloud of white. The only time he’d seen Eren’s do that was when he hadn’t been himself—when something else had been speaking from his throat.

“Nah,” Eren tells him, glancing at the way its sleeves are bunched up at Levi’s wrists. “Just in case, you know.” A pause, just long enough to glance either way before crossing a street. Levi’s shoes make more sound than Eren’s do, like he’s walking next to a ghost. Eren clears his throat into the space between one footstep and the next. “I think I scared you, earlier.”

“Earlier when? The whole graveyard thing, or the you passing me the knife thing, or the Sluagh thing, or—”

“I get it, thank you.” Eren wrinkles his nose, kicking a loose piece of pavement down the street, like a rock skipping over the surface of a pond. “I meant—I mean before I barfed. I think I scared you.”

Levi thinks about that, for a moment—feels the reminder of the way a stone had sunk to the bottom of his stomach when Eren had looked at him with eyes that weren’t quite right, had spoken to him with a choir of noise and dissonance. And he replies, “that’s not the scariest shit I’ve seen.”

Eren laughs, and it could be a perfect copy of all his other ones, if only it were louder. “I guess not.”

Levi continues, even though the conversation would be fine if it were left there, “I’m glad you recognized me though. You looked—out of sorts? Like you were a couple of crayons short of a box.”

Eren snorts, this time his breath manifesting itself in front of him. “I probably did. But I’d recognize you anywhere. Obviously. No magic tricks needed.” Eren’s gaze leaves warm thumbprints against Levi’s cheeks. “Who else would be dumb enough to walk up to some jackass in the middle of the street, at nighttime?”

“Like I would do that for just anybody,” Levi says, and this, this feels normal. This feels like all the other talks they’ve had, like all the other nights they’ve spent fucking around and drinking coffee and watching movies. This is solid ground, and Levi can’t feel any ice cracking beneath his feet. “Please.”

Eren grins at him, tilting his body just so to bump their arms together. He still looks tired, and he still looks messed up, but—he’s the same person he’s been as long as Levi’s known him. Somewhere behind them, he’d thrown away the veneer that he’d been gathering the pieces for, stitching it together with shaking hands.

Levi feels giddy, for a second—like he’s a lot younger and a lot less grumpy than he is.

There are so many questions on his mind, hiding beneath all that giddiness. Questions about Eren’s mother, about the way they’d spoken to one another, about the way she’d looked at him and held his face like that. He has questions about the selkie he’d talked about, about the aquarium, about the way Eren had looked at him when he had-and-hadn’t been himself. There are countless questions, all varying in importance and level of need, and if Levi were to swallow them all at once, they’d choke him.

But right now, they’re good. The two of them—they’re good. There are creatures in the street, laughing with one another as they get closer to more active parts of town, and the two of them are good.

These questions? They can wait. They can wait until this goodness is less brittle, until Eren’s fever goes down, until the sun rises and sets and everything is just a little farther away.

But there is one question Levi chooses to ask, and he smiles when he does.

“So, how do you feel about bagels?”

His smile grows when Eren looks at him like that, when the streetlamps gather in his irses to make the green of his eyes look like a starscape. “I don’t think anyone has ever said anything so beautiful to me.”

When Levi laughs, it tastes like a mixture of things—Eren’s magic, and something with a name.

But he doesn’t name it yet.

(Dawn had been breaking when Levi had rolled out of bed, his throat sore and parched from the cold-as-shit night they’d had. The curtains had been drawn wherever a window was open, the only light coming from a plug-in nightlight in the hall bathroom, and the fluorescent light in the kitchen, just above the sink.

The bagels had sat on the kitchen counter, less than a quarter of them having been eaten. Despite Eren’s enthusiasm, he hadn’t touched a single one. He’d asked for a shower, and a towel, and standing in the middle of Levi’s living room, it’d looked like the night had been catching up with him.

If Levi had blown air against his face, he’d probably have fallen over.

Eren had taken a spare set of Farlan’s clothes, tucked in Levi’s guest bedroom from who-knows-how-long before, and he’d showered, steam seeping out from underneath the bathroom door.

Levi had been able to hear Eren humming to himself, but only just.

From there, he’d fallen face first onto the couch, and had fallen asleep. Levi had found himself surprised that he didn’t snore.

As far as Levi could tell, in the barely-interrupted dimness of his apartment, Eren had still been sleeping—except it was too quiet, here. Even under all the sounds of traffic, of the water still moving through the pipes, of his neighbors walking on the floor above him, it was too quiet here.

Levi had carried his glass of water and had placed it beside the closed pizza box, still sitting on his coffee table. The smell of candle smoke had long since vanished.

Eren’s head had been tilted to the side, his right arm draped over the side of the sofa, his left tucked under his chest. Levi had draped a blanket over his shoulders before he’d gone to bed himself, and the fabric had moved as Eren had inhaled, burying his face into a throw pillow that had to have been more-than-a-little uncomfortable.

But in the moment where Levi had found him, the blanket had no longer been moving.

Eren’s face had turned a deep gray-blue, his eyelashes brought into sharp relief against his cheeks. The fevered darkness that had been tucked away in their hollows had disappeared, replaced instead by the general wanness that was apparent on every other place where Levi had been able to see his skin.

Though he’d known, crouched as he was by Eren’s face, that Eren had died sometime between falling asleep and when Levi had gotten up, he’d checked away, holding his fingers in front of Eren’s nose.

Levi had felt nothing against them. From so close, Levi could see dried saltwater flaking under his nose, caked at the corners of his mouth.

Eren had drowned in his sleep.

Levi’s knees had cracked when he’d stood, and he’d felt bile rising up in his throat. It’d be embarrassing, certainly, if Eren had woken up to find him throwing up. It’d be twice as embarrassing if Eren had woken up to Levi throwing up on him.

So Levi had swallowed, surrounded by a half-awake city, his apartment, and the corpse of someone so important that the thing growing between his lungs had shaken violently, had threatened to stop his breathing.

He’d ruffled Eren’s hair, once. It was soft underneath his fingers.

“see you when you wake up, kid,” Levi had told him, and his voice had cracked only slightly. He’d considered it a win, at the time, dropping himself onto the loveseat across from him, turning his water glass between his hands.

He’d been unable to stab this thing, of course, had been unable to swing his body in the way of this, hadn’t even known this was coming—and he should have. He should’ve heard it in Eren’s voice, should’ve known by the fever, should’ve known by the way has skin had been unable to determine what shade it was trying to be.

But he hadn’t.

And so, as a result, all Levi’d been able to do was sit, and worry, and wait.)

#ryssafic #shingeki no kyojin #snk #ereri #eren jaeger #levi heichou #farlan church #isabel magnolia #carla jaeger #dead on arrival #faerie au #faereri au #a bitch is BACK #a bitch DID IT #sorry everyone!

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snowqueen-68 · 4 years

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Happy New Year!

“God, this is unbelievable, this shit only happens in movies!” And to think only ten minutes before she’d insisted to Bryan that there was no way this would happen. “So much for credibility.” Lily rubbed at her face with both hands and pressed herself back against the wall, if Lucien or his boys came around the side of the house they would see her but from where they were right now there was no way they could see down the hallway. She had a few moments of respite to think, to plan, staying where she was not an option. “Think Lily, think,” she said making a fist and pounding it against her forehead. It didn’t help. “Damn, damn, damn,” she whispered to herself. In her gut she could feel her time running out and nothing, no plans formed in her head. Talking to Lucien wasn’t an option, Lucien didn’t talk. He did his job and that was that, and the jobs her father assigned to Lucien weren’t negotiations. Lucien kidnapped, broke legs and killed, that was it. Nausea roiled in Lily’s gut at the thought and any chance of putting together a coherent plan fled. At this point, she thought, her best option was just to run though where and how far she had no idea. There was no way of knowing exactly how many men Lucien had brought with him, she’d seen three but there could be dozens more depending on how angry Emmett was and Lily guessed that her father had to be very angry. He didn’t use Lucien unless he had to, and, as if to emphasize the point, all of Lucien’s minions looked like they might actually wrestle with the World Wrestling Federation. “Awesome.” She’d never seen these goons so before, though, so they to be German; tall, blonde, pale-skinned and built like fireplugs they looked the model of Nazi thugs. “Bet they have blue eyes too,” she muttered, “but please God never let me get close enough to find out!” Leaning forward again, hands on the cold tile floor, Lily chanced another peek around the corner. Relief made her limbs shake when she saw that they were still clustered on the deck talking. Lucien as pale as his minions but standing a full head shorter than any of them and with neatly coiffed brown hair instead of blonde. Lily shuddered, “Ugh, he’s creepy.” Classically handsome, Lily had always found Lucien to be smarmy, oily, fully aware of his power and too highly convinced of his charm. “Well, thank god it looks like that hasn’t changed,” she muttered dryly as she watched him throw a hand up, and point it down the street, towards the corner. One of the thugs, a brunette like Lucien, whose broad build towered over his boss’s and who appeared to think that tattoos were acceptable replacements for clothing, nodded and trotted off in the specified direction. Lily’s eyebrows rose in question. If Lucien was directing his men to the corners of the street maybe he wasn’t sure she was home. They hadn’t seen her and with her car in the garage, all he could do was post lookouts and loiter around waiting for her to show up. “Well that’s a win for garages with no windows!” she whispered to the hallway and watching as another of the thugs, this time one of the blondes, moved off in the opposite direction from his buddy, towards the other end of her street. Lucien was covering all of his bases. “Of course, that’s what I’d do too I suppose but one more gone means one less here and that’s good for me.” And I’m talking to myself, lovely. But her nerves felt torn, jagged and talking out loud made her feel less vulnerable and afraid. She watched a moment more as Lucien continued to speak intently to his remaining man. He had a plan, and Lily knew her time had run out. Turning, ideas finally forming in her head, she scurried back, still on hands and knees, to her bedroom. As plans went it wasn’t a very good one and Bryan certainly wouldn’t approve but it was all she had at the moment. Moving as fast as she could, like a crab scuttling for the safety of the water, Lily raced to gain the cover of the far corner of her room. She grabbed at the receiver, and tucked herself back into the tiny space, her belly raw with urgency. “Bryan, I have a plan,” she hissed, keeping her voice low. As predicted Bryan was not pleased. “No, no, no and again no,” he said, his voice rife with frustration, “You stay put, you hear me? We’re almost there. Just stay down and out of sight…” “I can’t Bryan. I can’t JUST stay here. He sent Lucien, you know what that means. He’s not fucking around. You were right, ok, you were right and I’m sorry, but I have to get outta here.” Outside heavy boots could be heard stomping past her window, a shadow darkened the light and the glass rattled as someone tried to open it. Lily pushed herself deeper into the corner, holding her breath, her heart pounding fast and hard enough for her to hear it in her ears. The glass rattled again with more force this time and Lily squeezed her eyes shut tight biting down on her lower lip so hard she tasted blood. But the window held, the lock staying fast and the shadow vanished. Lily let the air out of her lungs in a whoosh. “There’s only two of them here at the house right now,” she told Bryan not bothering to elaborate further, she had no time and now, faintly she could hear someone rattling at the outer door, the one that led into the shared foyer of the house. “They’re trying to get in. I am gonna make a run for the forest. I’ll hide there and wait for your guy or gal or whatever…” The outside door gave way and thudded against the inside wall of the foyer. There was a pause, and a moment later a voice sounded, loud, outside in the garden again. Lucien. Calling for his backup. Footsteps pounded on the cement walkway and someone shouted again, in fast, unintelligible German. Lily spoke some German but not enough to understand what was being said, not when it was muffled and heard through a wall. “Time’s up,” she said, whispering into the phone, “I gotta go.” “God dammit…,” Bryan started to say but Lily hung up, cutting him off. She crawled over to the window so that she was directly under it and, taking a risk, popped her head up under the curtains, to get a quick scan of the back garden. It was empty and she could only guess that Lucien and his remaining thug were now at the inner door of the house, the one that led directly into her flat. Sweet mother of God, she prayed, please let me have locked it. Please, please, please. She heard the voices of Lucien and his remaining goon in the foyer, arguing from the sounds of it but in German so she had no idea what they were saying. Clearly, they were convinced they were alone in the three apartment flat because they made no effort to keep their voices down. Her inner door, made of thick glass and hardwood, rattled, just as her window had, and Lily winced slightly expecting to hear the sound of glass shattering. But the glass and the door held. The feeling of desperate urgency in her gut grew and keeping her eyes locked on her right, in the direction of her flat entry, Lily reached up and with shaking hands unlatched her window, pushing it open wide, careful that it didn’t bang against the outer wallTaking one more second to listen, making sure the two men were still occupied with her locked front door, Lily stood and risked a full look out of the window. Empty walkway greeted her and without further thought she scrambled and crawled out the window, her tennis shoes landing softly and silently in the snow beneath it. Once through the window, she ran, springing away from the house, and sprinting through the snow and tarp-covered space of her landlord’s garden. Her only thought at this point to reach the protection of the forest. The garden fence made of wood and barbed wire, a wire that sent cruel-looking barbs of metal up towards the sky, lay between her and her goal but Lily wouldn’t let herself consider it, she didn’t let herself stop. She raced towards it with no hesitation, grabbed the top of a post and pushed at it with all of her might, gaining height and using one foot on a taut strip of wire to aid her. The wire sagged but held and she let her momentum and the post push her up and forward. At the top, one of the spikes caught the material of her jeans in one knee and she almost tumbled back into the garden, on the wrong side of the fence. Panic gripped at her and she brought her other hand down on the top wire of the fence to push at it, to get her body over the top, to help her to the other side. It worked but her hand caught a barb, the same hand already injured by hot water. It came down hard on a spike, penetrating deep into her skin. The sudden pain produced an explosion of color that danced around her head, momentarily blinding her. She bit down hard on her lip hard to keep from crying out as she tumbled off the fence onto the meadow side blood flowing freely into the snow. Tears of pain welled and threatened to spill as she rolled to her feet clutching her wounded hand to her chest. The pain tore through her fear and she allowed herself one glance at the puncture to reassure herself that the barb from the fence wasn’t still lodged in her hand. It wasn’t and relief so strong it made her dizzy flooded through her. She pressed her hand against the soft material of her sweatshirt, to slow the flow of blood, and then turned to move as fast as she could towards the forest. A straight-out sprint was out of the question, her feet sank ankle-deep in the undisturbed snow hindering her progress pulling her back even as she tried to move forward and panic rose again making her heart thunder so hard she could barely breathe. She cursed the snow and her slow pace as she fumbled and stumbled across the field praying there were no deep ruts or holes hidden in her path. The last thing she needed right now was a twisted or broken ankle. Blood trickled down her palm, tickling her wrist and staining her shirt and she tried not to think about the lost blood or the fact that the wound needed to be bound. Passing out would be much worse than a broken ankle. A broken ankle she might be able to work with but if she passed out she was lost… she shuddered at the thought and pushed it away. “Come on Lily come on,” she gritted her teeth together and plowed on, tamping down the urge to look back over her shoulder, to check and see what exactly what was happening back at her flat. Shouts and curses rose on the air letting her know they’d discovered her escape, maybe even spotted her and she risked a glance over her shoulder. Two men struggled together at her open window, each one pointing at her, shouting and trying to climb through the window at the same time. Behind them, Lucien’s head popped into view every few seconds as if he had to jump up and down to see past his two companions. Lily choked on fear and something that might have been laughter. If the situation weren’t so scary it would be funny. She didn’t wait to see what happened next, didn’t wait to see if the men or Lucien would make it through her window. She knew they would it was only a matter of time. Frantic now with fear, Lily turned back towards the trees, working hard to move faster through the snow, legs burning with the effort. The raised shouts and yells of Lucien’s thugs reaching her across the meadow. She gained the trees and did not stop, plunging in amongst the birch and pine, not slowing but running blindly dodging and weaving through the trunks. She had to put as much distance between herself and Lucien as she could, it would not take long for Lucien and his minions to get out her window and follow her, to find her tracks, and the blood in the snow. The only thing she could hope to do was run until she lost them in the trees or until she found a good place to hide and wait them out, wait for help. She hoped Bryan was right and his people were on their way. Lucien, she knew, would never give up hunting her, he would never stop looking for her, returning to her father without the ordered prize in tow was tantamount to a death sentence. “Ok so I’m just gonna hide, I can do this, I can do this,” she told giving herself a little pep talk and bounding up a rise in the forest floor, still holding her injured hand up to her chest. She paused briefly at the top to get her bearings, panting hard, her breath coming in great puffs of white in the cold air. Though her body barely registered the frigid temperature, the injury in her hand was a different story and as she plunged down the other side of the rise, another wave of dizziness assailed her. The forest spun around her in a blur nearly bringing her to her knees, and she bit back nausea. She had to bind her hand now rather than later if she didn’t slow the bleeding she might as well just hand herself over to Lucien without a fight. Ducking behind the trunk of a large ash tree and ignoring the throbbing pain in her hand, Lily stripped her sweatshirt off over her head. Then tucking it between her knees, her teeth chattering loudly as the cold air bathed her suddenly bare skin, she pulled her arms through the sleeves of her red tee, her core warming her chilled arms enough so that they could slip off the black tank she wore underneath the t-shirt. The blood from her wrist trickled in a steady flow down her belly and she had to push back panic. She’d never been injured like this before, not when alone anyway – alone with no help. – and she had to work hard to push away An image of her unconscious body bleeding out in the snow rose unbidden and unwelcome – That helps nothing, Lily she told herself and shoved the image away focusing instead on quickly wrapping the thin material of her tank around her bloody hand and wrist, wincing at the sight of the jagged wound. It definitely looked like it was going to need stitches and possibly a tetanus booster. “If I get out of this alive and free,” She said to herself, the pressure of the makeshift bandage easing some of the pain and she drew in a deep breath, the oxygen clearing her head. Tucking the end of the wrap in on itself so it would not slip off her hand Lily clumsily pulled her sweatshirt out from between her knees and dragged the garment back over her head, not caring that it was now inside out, with the logo facing her chest. Leaning back against the rough bark of the tree Lily rested for a brief moment, she didn’t have much time she knew but the muscles in her legs appreciated the break. Suddenly the sound of a shout way too close to her for comfort brought her springing off her tree, head weaving back and forth as her eyes scanned the forest ahead of her, seeking a new path, another avenue of escape. Another shout sounded this time accompanied by the rush of running feet and Lily pushed away at the despair that threatened to overwhelm her, forcing herself to spend an extra moment or two focusing on finding a way of escape instead of just rushing blindly through the forest again. After a few seconds of searching a path, slowly revealed itself as she studied her surroundings. Her eyes widening not only at its existence but at the sight of the footprints on it, the footprints and the packed snow. Snow that up to this point had been undisturbed and deep enough to make the going tough and exhausting. The path and the footprints disappeared deeper into the forest. At first, as she studied them Lily briefly thought that the footprints were her own, but then she realized that of course, those weren’t hers. They moved on away from her and she was still here at her tree. Quickly her fear scattered as her mind calculated the meaning of those footprints. Did this mean that others used this track? Or had Lucien’s people managed to slip around her unnoticed in the hopes that they might be able to cut off her escape? If those tracks did belong to people other than herself and Lucien and his thugs then these others might still be here in the forest. And those tracks looked relatively fresh and recent to Lily. Fresh at least since the last fall of snow. Other people meant help, she thought still staring at them, people that could help her, hide her. If she could find them. They couldn’t pose her more danger than what was closing in on her from behind. She pushed away from her tree and ran again, new hope giving her strength. But she’d waited too long, stayed still too long. Lucien and his men caught sight of her again and someone shouted, “There she is!” The crashing and pounding of solid footsteps increased behind her. With her hand now bound and the blood prevented from flowing freely, Lily was able to move faster and she stuck to the path, the compacted snow on the path assisting her speed. The late afternoon still held some lingering light and the heavy clouds overhead had not yet released their burden of new snow, a fact for which Lily felt extreme gratitude. The light illuminated the path enough so that she could see to leap over fallen tree trunks or dodge around exposed roots and low brush. She wouldn’t be able to keep this pace for long she admitted to herself as she stumbled up yet another rise, this one the steepest she’d climbed yet, her lungs screaming in pain, her legs burning, the injury in her palm throbbing. But she had few more good sprints in her, hopefully enough for her to find help. At the crest of the rise, she paused to check for the footprints and saw that they continued down the hill and around a bend in the path to the right. Where it went after that Lily could not tell, the trees ahead were too thick. Then just to her right, something whistled past her to slam into the trunk of a tree, bark exploding all around her and Lily screamed, high, shrill, and sustained the sound echoing through the forest. Bloody Hell! They’d shot at her! Looking over her shoulder she saw Lucien charge into view, not looking at her but shouting angrily at one of his companions, as he reached out to try to grab at the man’s weapon.

#original work romance

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oceanmastertrash · 5 years

Text

the tides know our names- 14/?

Summary: After losing the throne to his brother Orm is working with Arthur to try to help Atlantis move forward. A few months after this Elara, part of an ancient order of prescient Atlanteans known as Tidewatchers, has a vision of Orm’s death. Predicting and reading the future through the tides of fate has never been easy but Elara is in for the challenge of a lifetime working with her former king to save his life.

Part: 14/?

Word Count: 4,057

Warnings: action and violence

Read on Ao3

start from the beginning

“I still don’t like this,” He finally sighed, returning her gaze once more. “But I’ll trust you to get us out of this.”

Elara did her best to hide her surprise and gratitude. She could tell this was not an easy feat for him and she wanted so very much to make sure he knew she didn’t take this for granted. She wanted nothing more than to bask in this moment, in this very high compliment of his trust but there wasn’t time for that.

She couldn’t help but smile only a little at him as she did her best to move forward with their discussion, “Okay, so we’re reasonably sure that he’s after you, but since we’re not sure how he’s tracking us, we’ve got to come up with some sort of way to lure him to where we want him to go.”

“You’re suggesting one of us lead him away and the other be waiting to attack him?” He clarified. If he was going to go along with this ludicrous proposal he wanted to be sure they did it right.

“Exactly. But I could use your help fine-tuning it, you’re better at this sort of strategizing than I am.”

She was flattering him and he knew it, no doubt trying to soften the blow of him agreeing to her idea or perhaps thank him for trusting her. And while what she said was true, she wasn’t exactly useless in such strategizing. With her knack for patterns and predictions she had skill all her own.

He leaned forward, shooting her an almost teasing look, “Let me guess, you think you should be the one to lead him to the ambush?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him, “Yes, because it would be foolish to have the injured tidewatcher be the one attacking instead of the seasoned warrior.”

He just barely kept an eye roll contained. She was laying it on thick but he didn’t mind as much as he should.

“Alright, I think the key here is both to distract and mislead him enough so he doesn’t notice it’s just you he’s tracking while finding a more advantageous spot for an ambush of our own. Think you can sense that from here?”

She cocked her head, “That’s not the traditional use of the tides but it’s worth a shot.”

She closed her eyes and Orm couldn’t help but stare at her, trying not to second guess his decision to trust her. He wanted her to be right and wanted this to work out but he didn’t want her to get hurt even worse. She was one of the strongest and smartest people he knew but there are somethings that just came down to chance and chance could never be trusted.

Elara looked to him again, “I think I’ve got something.”

The cave system led out to series of cliffs and winding paths down to shore. If Elara could get back above the cave system onto the forest floor proper, she could stand a better chance at attracting the attention of the tracker. Meanwhile, Orm could continue through the caves to the cliffs and attack the man from there. Orm also comforted himself that if he heard any explosions or signs of a fight from up above he could climb out of the caves and come to Elara’s aid. It wasn’t a perfect plan but it would have to do.

They found a smaller section of cave ahead of them where the roof was much lower and there were ledges that Elara could could ascend to get up above. Wariness was seeping through Orm as he ran through the plan in his mind again, looking for any way to better guarantee success but he knew they’d already done the best they could. All that was left was to act before they lost their window for surprise.

Orm just couldn’t shake this sense of dread at them splitting up. While it wasn’t especially productive, he felt responsible for her and could only assume that it was a hold over from being king. As king, he’d been responsible for the safety and well being of a whole kingdom but since his flight from Atlantis, his purview of citizenry had been reduced to a kingdom of one. Travelling with Elara was nothing like ruling a kingdom and he would be a fool to try to command let alone rule someone like Elara, but that compulsion to protect had not gone away. Right now, that impulse was especially strong considering she was only up here in harm’s way on his behalf.

He knew that this was their best shot at getting out of this scrape but he wasn’t sure what he would do if something serious happened to her when he wasn’t there to watch her back. As a ruler and a warrior, he’d always prided himself for his ability to distance himself from his emotions to make the hard calls. And yet, doing the same now was harder than it should be.

Elara, meanwhile, was rechecking her bandages which Orm had expertly dressed, and feeling out their path and plan in the tides for any last minute adjustments. She was confident in her decision and in her plan but the execution of it was still daunting. She and Orm had left behind their people when they’d left Atlantis, and something in Elara resisted the idea of splitting from Orm. It felt like once they separated, she’d be truly alone. Elara had to take a breath to steady herself. She had to believe in herself, in Orm, and in the tides to see them through.

She looked to Orm now, trying not to overthink things. He met her gaze calmly and gave her a small nod, as if to reinforce his trust in her. He trusted her enough to believe they could get through this. It was a small thing, but it helped. It made her feel like, even if they were not going through this next bit of their journey together, he was with her in this struggle.

“Give me a boost?” She asked him, tilting her head up to the hole in the roof. There was no point in asking if he was ready, they had to be.

He knelt down, making a cradle with his hands to give her a step up. She put her foot in place and then grabbed onto his shoulders to leverage herself up, she then very slowly, careful of her injured side, stepped from his hands to the next ledge up. Once his hands were free, he extended one against the small of her back to keep her from tilting back while he held the other out in case she started to tip.

Cautiously she climbed the small rocky outcropping until she stood on the forest floor, looking down to see Orm down below. She wanted to tell him to be safe but worried he might find it condescending, instead she just raised a hand in farewell and said, “See you soon.”

He nodded, swallowing down anything else he might say and simply repeated her, making it sound more like a promise. “See you soon.”

Elara gazed down at him for another few seconds before straightening her back and turning away from the hole to begin her trek to the ambush spot. They needed to be quick about things now.

Following suit, he turned to follow his own path in the tunnels, careful to make as little noise as possible, finding small comfort in hearing the rustling of leaves and the snapping of twigs as Elara made her own way up above. For the first part of the journey, he could walk roughly parallel to her and could hear if anything went wrong but in some places the tunnels veered away and deeper under the surface.

Orm could still see because he was used to seeing in the depths of the ocean, but he didn’t linger long enough to make any comparisons between the two. He was swift and efficient, prioritizing speed over everything else. This risky plan would only work if he either kept pace with Elara up above or beat her to the rendezvous point. His tactical mind was always planning several steps ahead and prone to envisioning the worst so that he could plan around it but he was very careful to keep those possibilities out of his mind’s eye.

He couldn’t properly strategize what he would do if he was too late but it wasn’t something he could wrap his head around and still be productive. Following his earlier advice to Elara, he just focused on his breathing as he navigated the winding path she’d laid out for him. He’d worry later.

Elara, meanwhile, was having perhaps more difficulty with her path through the constantly changing and rocky terrain due to her side constantly hitching and stinging with the exertion. The one benefit to their plan was that she didn’t have to worry about how much noise she made. In fact, it was best if she attracted some attention.

The tides gave no indication of pursuit but they had a different energy than she’d felt throughout the rest of the day. Earlier all she’d been able to feel was an angry, uncomfortable buzzing. The tides had been oppressive and intent on making her aware of the threat, but now, while they still hummed and remained taut with the presence of the hunter, it felt less threatening. And that, abstract as it may be, enforced to her that she’d made the right call with this plan. The swells of the tide felt more manageable and it made her feel like they could get through this.

As their paths diverged she found herself latching onto Orm’s tides as she felt him on his own path. She tried to tell herself it was just a precaution but there were nerves there that were hard for her to name.

If this had been a week ago when they’d first come to the surface, she might have expected him to make a beeline for the ocean and return to Atlantis, but she didn’t fear that from him now. He seemed to show real concern and even at times, a deference for her gifts. She liked to imagine that he might care for her but even if that wasn’t the case, he was smart enough not to try to go his own way in this situation, especially considering how against the idea of splitting up he had been. No, they would find each other again.

Even as she thought this, she felt the tight thread of their attacker pulse with his approach. She quickened her pace, it would not do for him to catch up before she was at the appropriate point. Orm seemed to be right on track, but she had to speed up.

Elara’s main concern was that she could sense the approach of the attacker but she couldn’t be completely sure if he was following her or Orm and it was difficult to narrow in on that particular pattern while maintaining her current speed. She let everything go except focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and the tides around her. In this focused manner she could feel the intent of their pursuer and tried to use that to hone in on their location. This, again, wasn’t the traditional use of the tides but sort of a variant of the battle tides Zult had taught her.

And there, there he was, following her progress and closing in. The tides showed that the man had caught her trail would probably catch up with her in less than five minutes. But that was too soon! She didn’t think she’d get to the cliffside rendezvous point for another ten minutes. She dropped the thread of the tides and put all of her efforts into increasing speed. If she could just get their faster, maybe Orm would hear the commotion if she was attacked.

With this in mind, feeling the tension getting tighter around her, she thought of one other option though it was a long shot. Tidewatchers could communicate by mentally manipulating the tides around them and sending images or feelings to other Tidewatchers. If this had been A’bree or Calysa, she wouldn’t have hesitated but she wasn’t sure if Orm would even feel it or know what it meant if she tried to send him a message the same way. Back when she was a novice and first instructed in this way, it had felt exceptionally foreign and hard to pick up in the beginning. It was a skill that had to be honed meticulously through extended awareness in the tides and how their patterns naturally flowed.

Only because they’d had such a heightened awareness and prolonged exposure to each other did Elara even think it stood half a chance. She kept it simple, focusing more on emotions like urgency and danger and then wrapped them around the image of where she saw the attacker catching up with her and then sent them down the tides to Orm. She kept up that routine while running until her side ached. Her injury begged her to slow down but she had to give herself every chance she could for this to work.

She’d been at this grueling pace for a few minutes when she heard the crashing behind her and knew she was almost out of time. She scanned the forest around her for any coverage she could find. The terrain had become hilly and pocked with boulders in places where the tunnel system met the forest floor. She couldn’t hope to make it to the original ambush spot but she could at least make herself less of an easy target. Ducking behind the boulders, she pulled her knives from her boots and strategized.

She covered what distance she could, trying to stay out of view while constantly sending her message along the tides to Orm. The crunching of the underbrush grew louder until she no longer felt like she could risk leaving the cover of the trees and rock formation she was leaning against. Like it or not, this was gonna be where she had to make the most of things. About 12 feet ahead of her was a sudden opening to the caves beneath which would be her goal for her plan. It was a bit of a drop, about 20 feet so she had a reasonable chance of injuring or delaying him if she could throw him in there.

A slight rustle on the other side of her cover told Elara her time was almost up. She focused on her location and her connection to Orm, this time sending the word “hurry” down the line and prayed he could interpret what she’d sent. She adjusted her grip on her blades and tensed for the fight. Then he was there, a man all in black, passing right beside her with his large, unwieldy cannon, his eyes fixed ahead, searching for her. She did not wait.

Elara leapt for the man, and used her one chance at surprise to rip the cannon from him and toss it as far as she could behind them. Then she swung a dagger with her other hand. She may have stripped him of his weapon but he was far from helpless and blocked her knife easily enough.

She tried again with the other blade and managed to graze his arm before he knocked her back. She stumbled against the rock she’d hid behind but was quick to launch herself off it, aiming to move them closer to the hole.

The shock wearing off, and showing anger at the wound, the man switched to the offensive. It was only through the tides that she was able to keep up with him. She wasn’t especially short but he had several inches on her and with her exhaustion, she could feel the disadvantage more. She’d been trained to use her size to an advantage against large adversaries and she would be using every trick in the book she had. At least he wasn’t so very large. While tall, he was lean, but also built and knew how to fight.

He was quick to catch one of her knives mid-strike and wrest it from her. She allowed him to push her back by several feet because it took them closer to the pit. She tried to keep aware of the small hole behind her, lest she fall in it herself, but it was all she could do to keep up with him. She was worn out already from her hurried trek here and her side burned with each strike and dodge. If the man was tired from his pursuit of them at all, he didn’t show it. His blows were relentless and while she avoided several, he still got in several good hits.

He swung with her knife to her right and while she was able to block it, he surprised her with a sucker punch to the left, hitting her right where the splinter had struck. Air gusted out of her and she couldn’t help her wince of pain.

She didn’t know if he’d known about her injury before but from the way his eyes lit up as he saw blood begin to seep through the bandage, he certainly did now. In any other situation she would have sighed. She didn’t need to be a tidewatcher to know this was going to hurt.

He was a skilled fighter and his strength and size were enough to nearly overwhelm her. She tried her best to protect her side but he still got in another good punch. Her only consolation was they were getting closer to the cave opening but with each strike dealt and dodged, she began to worry she wouldn’t have the strength to get him down there without falling in herself.

They were probably 5 feet from the hole when, while attempting to dodge a vicious kick from the man, Elara stepped back only to lose her footing on the uneven terrain and fall to the ground, sending the knife she had left, flying from her grip. The man made for her with his blade so Elara made a quick roll out of the way, dislodging rocks around her. One rock skittered and fell straight in the hole.

His eyes followed the movement and seemed to finally notice the pit, his eyes narrowed and then fell on Elara with vicious anger as he seemed to grasp her plan. He brought his foot up as if to stomp on her and she clenched her fists and held her bent arms in front of her and, grunting, shoved his foot back with the backs of her forearms.

The action temporarily threw him off balance enough for her to scramble to the side, sitting up from where she’d fallen. She made to sweep his legs out from under him to bring him to her level. He barely sidestepped her kick but was knocked a bit closer to the pit with the move. Before she could try again, he dove for her again with her knife. Using her angle to her advantage, she struck him in the wrist from below and he lost his grip on the knife, sending it up and out of reach. It was too far to be of use to either of them now but at least she’d managed to keep him from using it. They were hardly evenly matched as they were but it helped to tilt the scales just a little bit more in her favor.

Barely deterred by the loss of the dagger, her then brought his arm down on her shoulder. She barely managed to remain sitting but was too distracted by the pain to search the tides for his next move. He continued his lunge with both his hands extended. Before she could block, his hands were around her neck. Her hands scrambled at his, but could find no purchase against his gloves.

“Where is he?” the man finally spoke, grunting as he held her.

Some distant part of her brain commented on the stupidity of starting an interrogation while choking her, but the majority of her was focused more on staying alive.

She made no effort to answer him. Even if she did have full use of her respiratory system, she wouldn’t breathe a word about where Orm was to this brute.

His grip was of steel as she choked and gasped against his grip. She then made to claw at his face, but he was too tall and his arms too long for her to reach his eyes. Finally, her vision beginning to swim, she brought her knee up as hard as she could against his groin.

Finally, he faltered, wincing. It was enough for her use her other leg to kick one of his legs loose, knocking him to the ground beside her. Elara barely had time to catch her breath as the attacker fell. Winded and aching as she was, Elara held no illusion that she could knock him into the cave at this point, she just had to get away from him.

She turned over, crawling blindly forward before trying to stand. The man recovered quickly however and grabbed hold of her ankle, dragging her back down.

She tried to kick back behind her but he avoided it quickly enough and was soon upon her, shoving her onto her back roughly. And then he was on top of her, one arm crossed across her shoulders to keep her down and his knees restraining her legs, lest she try kicking again.

Her hands scrambled at his arm as he brought his free hand down on her injured side. She yelled in pain.

“Where is he?” The man repeated.

She responded by trying to punch him before he moved to hold both her hands down.

“Where is Aquaman?” he shouted, clearly frustrated.

That made Elara pause in confusion, croaking out, “Wait, what?”

The attacker never got a chance to elaborate as he was suddenly thrown off of her. And there was Orm, punching him squarely in the face.The man made to sucker punch Orm in the gut but Orm dodged it with ease. Elara’s sense of the tides was lessened by her weakened state but she could have sworn she detected a storm of rage radiating off of Orm.

Through a combination of fatigue from his bout with Elara and Orm’s strength of battle prowess, the attacker’s reactions were more sluggish, barely blocking or landing any hits against Orm. He leaned back, looking like he was winding up for a strike but Orm beat him to the literal punch, landing a hit right in the man’s face.

Blood blossomed from the man’s nose and before he could recover, Orm hit him hard in the stomach, effectively winding him before landing another face punch. Elara could see the exact moment consciousness left the man, a second before he swayed and fell to the ground, unconscious.

Careful of her injuries, she sat up and just stared at Orm, some emotion she couldn’t name filling her. He turned slowly to look down at her, holding out a hand to help her up.

Taking his hand, she couldn’t stop her voice from cracking, both from feeling and pain as she said, “You came.”

He pulled her up swiftly and surely, the motion only straining her side slightly. Once standing, she didn’t think, she just stepped forward and hugged Orm. He tensed immediately in surprise but, as her arms wrapped around him, she could feel it as he relaxed into her before, hesitantly, he brought his arms up to return the embrace.

She wanted to ask if he’d heard her through the tides, wanted to say how scared she’d been, but instead she just whispered against his shoulder, “Thank you”

He tightened his hold on her just slightly as he said, “You’re welcome.”

Author’s Note: So sorry this one took so long. I’m so bad at writing fight scenes so it was a struggle. Logistics are hard y’all. Anyway, many thanks and hugs if you’ve made it this far on this journey. Comments are love!

#king orm x oc #orm x oc #orm marius x oc #king orm #orm marius #tidewatcher fic #the tides know our names #oceanmastertrash

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makeste · 5 years

Text

BnHA Chapter 154: The Inevitable

Previously on BnHA: Even though the previous chapter ended with Deku arriving to punch Overhaul in the face, the majority of the chapter somehow was spent getting up to that moment which we’d already gotten up to! But finally it happened, and Aizawa, Nighteye, and Deku burst onto the scene. Nighteye gave Mirio a big ol’ hug and told him he did so good, and it was one of the few highlights of this arc, and so deserved. Deku and Aizawa went to apprehend Overhaul, but one of Overhaul’s Endless Minions woke up and used his quirk to basically paralyze Aizawa, so that Aizawa in turn was forced to blink and Overhaul was able to reactivate his own quirk. He proceeded to straight up murder his loyal right hand man and fuse their bodies together to form some kind of grotesque monstrosity, but like, it’s not even the good, interesting kind of grotesque. It’s just the same old Overhaul with some extra demon arms that’ve got big claws on ‘em, and now his mask is fused to his face like a demon bird beak as a bonus. Whatever. Nine seven chapters to go.

Today on BnHA: Overhaul revels in his new power-up and taunts Mirio a bit, mostly just to make sure everyone knows that his quirk is gone for good. Nighteye tells Deku to take Mirio and Eri and get them to safety while he holds Overhaul off. He thinks about everything he taught Mirio and how strong he became and how proud he is of him, and that all he wants to do right now is protect him and Eri. As Deku hauls Mirio and Eri away from the carnage, the narration starts talking about how Nighteye spent so much time desperately trying to change the futures he saw, but that it never worked no matter what he did. In spite of this, and in spite of knowing that his actions are merely “drawing out the inevitable”, he continues to fight Overhaul until he is brutally impaled on some more spikes. Enraged, Deku turns back, leaving Eri with Mirio, and activates One for All at 20%.

(As always, all comments not marked with an ETA are my unspoiled reactions from my first readthrough of this chapter. I’ve read up through chapter 185 now, so any ETAs will reflect that. Posting this a few hours early since I won’t be able to later this evening.)

fun fact, Fallen Angels/Jaimini’s Box doesn’t have this chapter translated on their site. in fact they don’t have any chapters translated from 154 all the way until 167. I can only assume they were getting as sick of this shit as I am. can’t even blame them for bailing

so Mangastream, that leaves just you. the brave souls who stuck it out till the bitter end. you guys are the real heroes academia

unfortunately the FA scans were also the cleaner scans, so now we’ll have to deal with these kind of dark, smudgy-looking pages. on the bright side, if you squint you can almost pretend like what’s happening on the page is actually interesting

sorry to rag on you before you even get started, chapter. but let’s not kid ourselves here

so Overhaul says he’s in a bad mood but “this is a little better”

and the text is all “that form... grotesque!” but again, it’s just his normal form with a couple extra demon arms. nothing we haven’t seen from Shouji or Tokoyami. do you guys remember Shouji and Tokoyami. good kids. wonder whatever happened to ‘em

Deku is like clinging to one of the floor spikes and trying to assess the situation

oh?

if Aizawa gets a one-on-one fight with that guy it had better be sick as hell. do NOT fuck around with my Aizawa fight. I will not forgive you

(ETA: does it count as fucking around with my Aizawa fight if we don’t even get an Aizawa fight. given how they probably would have managed to make even that inexplicably bad, it’s probably for the best that we didn’t get this in the end.)

Overhaul is monologuing about how germophobic he is and how this is the first time he’s been pushed to this point

oh shit he’s bringing out the big guns

did Mirio even know that his quirk was gone forever? up until this point he had no reason to assume the effect wouldn’t just be the same as with Tamaki. he really drew the short end of the stick. poor baby

oh here’re the rest of the bullets

-- excuse me, they’re the ones dragging this out?? WHO WAS IT THAT ORDERED HIS SUBORDINATES TO CREATE A NEVERENDING MAZE OF MEDIOCRE SECOND TIER VILLAINS

now he says Mirio has gotten all his friends mixed up in this and that they’re all gonna die

why does he keep taunting Mirio even though he’s already basically out for the count. still sore about how badly he fucked you up huh buddy. you prick

Mirio is all

um, yes way. he was torturing a six-year-old on a regular basis just to make no-quirk juice. he doesn’t even have a deep-seeded reason for it as far as I can see. he’s just in the mob and wants to make money. and even his boss was all “dude I get that you wanna make bank, but that plan is too fucked up even for us.” but he went and did it anyway

so yeah, I don’t know why anyone’s surprised that he’s cool with callously murdering his own subordinates, or why that of all things would somehow be the straw that broke the camel’s back

here comes Deku again!

did he throw that spike at him? nice

he caught it, and it did nothing, but still. nice

he’s grabbing another one! and thinking of Mirio!

stab him in the face Deku. do it for senpai

you know who I miss? fucking Stain. I miss him so much. I’ll never say a word against him again. that’s a lie but my god it’s like how you weirdly appreciate George W. just a little more after dealing with Trump. even though W. was just the worst. still so bad. but like, it gives you a new sense of scale and an understanding that no matter how bad things are, they can always get just a little bit worse

anyway, Deku’s diving in still but Overhaul is creating more spikes, this time from his hands

they’re crumbling upon impact with Deku’s kicks, but he’s thinking that if it weren’t for his iron soles he’d have been done in just now

I’m sorry are those things not impressive? what else do you need? he’s got smarts too, for what it’s worth

what in the

was that another one of his stamps?? Nighteye is such a freak

yep. look at this

take that bitch. I’m gonna sign for you like a package from Fedex

we’re now flashing back to a conversation they had while running in the hallway for those five long hours

“don’t you DARE fucking break your bones again you little punk”

Nighteye’s asking what Overhaul did with Aizawa

oh shit this is the first interesting thing Overhaul has said in ages

(ETA: so what a surprise that absolutely nothing came of it)

yeah, I bet he’s interested. oh shit. so now he’s whisked him off to the “VIP room.” what’s in there, caviar and high-stakes poker tables?

you guys. Nighteye is piiiiiiiiiiiissed

yeah for real. because he used the permabullets even though he only had five of them. I was wondering about that too

now Overhaul is disintegrating his two right arms. what are you playing at now

look how fucking weirdly Nighteye dodges

the hell kind of dodge is this

Overhaul is thinking he’s not particularly fast, but that his movements are similar to Lemillion’s. “so this guy’s the teacher...”

Nighteye’s flashing back to Mirio’s internship when he explained to him that by accumulating experience he would learn how to predict people’s actions and move accordingly

I’m so sorry this asshole took your son’s quirk Nighteye

all right so now Deku’s reached Mirio and Eri and he’s asking if they can move

Mirio’s all “no sweat” ffff

ffffffffffffffffff

baby sweetie honey nooo shhhh. don’t apologize for being sad that he forcibly destroyed a part of you. something that was unique and that you worked so hard to perfect and that was going to lead you toward your dreams. fuck. you’re allowed to be fucking bummed out kiddo. it’s gonna be okay

so Deku’s grabbing them all and he’s kicking open the path that Overhaul just tried to close up again

and now Eri is clutching at him and crying ffffffffffffff

THIS IS NOT OKAY. HORIKOSHI!!! COME THE FUCK ON. WHAT IS THIS

and Mirio’s looking back over his shoulder as they retreat, and he seems to have seen something troubling oh shit

this is all very interesting, but I thought he could only do one person a day? I still don’t fucking get how his power works in combat

(ETA: as the next page clarifies, I guess he used it on Overhaul and that’s how he saw himself and Deku dying at Overhaul’s hands. and this must mean it’s been more than 24 hours since he used it on the babysitter guy. and this is also why it takes him a full day to die afterwards, so that he can live just long enough to look into Mirio’s future one last time. ...fuck me why am I thinking about that noooo)

OH SHIT!?!?

WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. “THE INEVITABLE”!?!?

WHAT THE FUCK

DID THEY JUST FUCKING KILL NIGHTEYE WHAT THE FUCK

AT THE VERY LEAST WE ALL AGREE HIS ARM IS GONE, YES. STRAIGHT UP NO LONGER GOT A LEFT ARM

HOLY FUCK

AHHHHHHH EVERYTHING JUST SUDDENLY WENT BLACK

AND HIS EYES ARE LIKE

I’M FREAKING OUT!!?!?!?!?!

DEKU’S LOOKING BACK TOWARD THE SCENE AND HE’S TOTALLY BUGEYED

OVERHAUL IS SENDING SPIKES THEIR WAY

HOLY SHIT DEKU!?!?

OH SHIT

DEKU BE CAREFUL OF YOUR LIMBS!! ALSO YOU’RE THE BEST, HOLY FUCKING SHIT

even Overhaul has abruptly stopped his endless spike attacks and is now resorting to cautious trash talk

oh shit

CALL BACK TO THE ALL MIGHT PROPHECY OH SNAPPPPPP

DEKU YOU ARE SO COOL JESUS CHRIST THIS WAS SUCH A COOL MOMENT. I FORGOT THE MANGA COULD DO THAT

WAS IT WORTH 900 CHAPTERS OF BULLSHIT? AND MIRIO LOSING HIS QUIRK? AND NIGHTEYE FUCKING DYING FUCKING JESUS CHRIST? NO

BUT GOD IT’S SOMETHING, AND THAT SOMETHING IS ADMITTEDLY PRETTY COOL

I swear to god if he loses even with this. just...

just remember Deku. Nighteye literally died for this shit. probably. oh my godddddd

no bonus. because I’m pretty sure the next omake is supposed to go with tomorrow’s chapter. it’s really hard to figure this out tbh. but I guess I should be grateful that we even still have translated omakes right now, since even that will come to an end once we hit chapter 167. enjoy it while it lasts I guess

#bnha #boku no hero academia #overhaul (bnha)#midoriya izuku #sir nighteye #toogata mirio #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #makeste reads bnha #well at least we're in the home stretch now #just one more week and we can say goodbye to all this misery #remember everyone #before we throw this arc away #we should thank it #this is because the arc taught us that we do not like to read arcs like this

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foolsdiamond · 6 years

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Big Ol’ McCree Get Together

Big Ol’ McCree Get Together - Ao3

Summary: Hanzo accompanies his fiancé Jesse to his family reunion. Cute domestic fluff as Hanzo meets with his new family and starts his own with Jesse.

_______________________________

The air in the barn was hot and humid. The reek of moldy hay and dirty animals stuck in the air like a dense fog, dulled only by the warm cider and jack-o-lanterns. The cows mourned the warmth and safety of their barn as they bemoaned their misery outside the doors. The whole barn was massive; it had a fully fleshed out second story, for visitors or travelers to stay and for Jesse when he finally found the road back home.

This time, when the McCrees got together, it’d been a good two or three years since the eldest son Jesse had made his way on time. He scarcely showed himself anymore, and he liked it that way; while he loved his family with all his heart, they just didn’t agree on a few too many issues for him.

McCree leans on the sturdy oak table laden with three-days labor of food and feast, his hand linked tightly with the strong, calloused digits of his wealthy companion. Jesse tosses a gentle look at Hanzo Shimada, whose nose is crinkled at the intense smell and sea of people.

“You look like you took up Keith’s offers for a cow pie,” Jesse suggested. Hanzo turned his attention to his partner, trying to relax his face.

“I’ve never experienced this many stenches simultaneously, even after the grueling boatride,” Shimada responded. They both tightened their grip on the other’s hand.

“I reckon you know more words than I do. At least, you put ‘em far more eloquently, more than I ever will.”

Hanzo smiles warmly and tugs on Jesse’s arm gently; he leans in to receive the gentle whisper. “Your words are beautiful, as they are yours.”

In a heartbeat, the calm between the pair gets interrupted. A young boy runs from beneath the table, forcing himself between Hanzo’s legs, and gets followed by a tiny little girl. Shimada catches himself easily, but the eldest McCree kid peels away to chase after his little relatives.

“Mario, you can’t just attack a guest like that! Olivia, you keep fightin’ like that and you’re gonna have to face me one of these days.” The two kids squeal gleefully as they get caught, scooped up by the grisled cowboy’s strong arms, and relax comfortably in his familiar grip.

“It’s Paul, Jess! He goes by Paul now.” Olivia chimed, pointing at Paul accusingly.

“ Sí, Jesse. Me llamo Paul ahora. ”

“Don’tchya mean ¿te llamas Paulo? ” Jesse piped in, but his littlest brother shook his head. “Alright. Paul or no Paul, I’ve got some fight left in these muscles if you keep harassin’ yer little cousin. Same goes to you, Olive.”

The two whined, reluctantly agreed to not engage a 23-year-old man, and wandered off to harass Gran’mama. Hanzo rested his hand on Jesse’s shoulder to silently catch the other’s attention, who leaned up into the touch as he straightened his back.

“You have a large family, Jesse.”

“Aw, it’s pretty small for how long we’ve owned this plot of land. Some people got enough cousins and siblings to populate a whole town to themselves. Half of us can’t even make it to the yearly gathering anymore,” McCree responded most humbly. He gently slides Shimada’s hand down until their fingers lace together once more, squeezing confidently. The shorter man offers up a happy smile from the gesture.

“Why has your family dispersed so drastically?” he asked.

Jesse paused, glancing around. Of course, it doesn’t seem like anyone’s paying much attention, but he can feel burning stares from his mother’s favorite chair. McCree decides to tug Hanzo to the door and out into the cool night air. His boyfriend is easily led away from the dizzying smell and overwhelming population in the barn.

“Jesse?” he offered, once they were far enough that only the moonlight illuminated their faces.

Jesse stared hard at his lover. It was still so foreign to say… his lover , his partner, his boyfriend and fiancé. He stared at Hanzo Shimada, whose warm charcoal eyes offered nothing but concern and support; whose muscular arms opened up for an embrace, a hug tight enough to squeeze out all the tension in his bones. He let himself melt into his boyfriend, let the anxiety eating at his appetite dissolve into the solid mesa beneath their feet, and let the unease in his gut untwist. The two breathed synchronously for what felt like a fleeting hour.

“Is it because you’re gay?”

“I wish it were that easy, Han. I wish I could just say my family hates me for havin’ a taste in men, but I’m not gay. I like boys an’ girls. They hate me for not pickin’ sides,” Jesse started, his tone solidifying by the end of it.

“There’s more to it, clearly,” Shimada offered.

“It’s hard to talk about with you,” Jesse finally pleaded after a long pause. He’s certain he’ll get the brunt of Hanzo’s offense now, taken aback by his boyfriend’s lack of trust, uncertain whether he can handle a relationship with such a big secret--

“Then tell me why it is difficult. So that I may ease whatever anxiety it is that prevents me from helping you.”

“Hanzo,” McCree starts, pulling away from the warm hug to cup both of Shimada’s hands with his. He savors the warmth of the foreigner’s palm on his. “The problem is you’re gay.”

Now he looks offended. Well, mostly confused, a little hurt, a little stupified. Jesse squeezes Hanzo’s hand tightly, then drops the grip altogether. His sweaty palm slips from Shimada’s, and he uses his real hand to unbutton his shirt.

McCree peels off his clothes, layer by constricting layer, and the look on Hanzo’s face fades to total understanding. He rests his hand on Jesse’s chest as the cowboy is about to peel off his tank-top. He ignores it, removing the garment anyway and breathing deeply, now that his lungs have a little space. Shimada leaves his palm resting onto McCree’s bare tit, chest swelling with a few deep breaths.

Hanzo slides his hand up to McCree’s shoulder, the other on his hip, then falls forward and squeezes the cowboy tightly. The last of Jesse’s anxiety fades with that hug, and he squeezes his boyfriend back just as tight.

“I do not understand,” Shimada said quietly.

“Well,” Jesse starts, leaning his face into Hanzo’s shoulder and breathing, catching his thoughts. His lover leaves him with complete silence and all the time in the world. “Let’s just say, I wasn’t born as a man. But I am one, now. My Paw taught me to shoot, and my Maw taught me to cook; I started wearin’ pants when I was 12 ‘cause I kept tearing up my dresses in the brush.

“I found me a gang by the time I turned 15. They were rowdy and wild and hungry, but they believed me a boy, and they trusted my aim like I trusted theirs. Wasn’t until I got caught by the sheriff at 19 that I finally got my way out.”

“But,” Hanzo trailed off.

“Well, a few things happened to split the family. Part of ‘em supported my decision, part of ‘em didn’t. Most of my aunts an’ uncles moved out to the nearest city, my Paw’s remainin’ family refused his decision to accept havin’ a gay son, a few of ‘em have died through various means. Maw’s takin’ care of my four siblings, along with three of my youngest cousins.”

“So it is not entirely your fault, at least. You made it seem like your decision--” Shimada began.

“It wasn’t really a decision,” McCree interjected.

“Your… gender?” he offered, met without objection. “You made it seem as though your gender were the sole reason causing your family reunions to dwindle down to tiny gatherings.”

“I guess that’s how it always felt. Maw definitely don’t like her eldest kid decided to run off with a gang of rough boys and abandon her with all the young’uns,” Jesse said.

Hanzo finally released the tight hug and Jesse forced himself to relax, the duo staring at the dying light of the barn. Seems tonight’s feast is finally getting cleaned up, and they’ll have to wander back before they lose their only guide to shelter.

“I don’t think they hate you as much as you feel, Jesse. You have a large, supportive family, who thrive off of their love for each other. I think they miss you,” Hanzo finally said as his arm slid around McCree’s waist. The cowboy bent down silently, retrieving his shirts and slowly sliding into his constricting undershirt. A gentle squeeze from his boyfriend stops him with his arms and head still stuck inside. Jesse grunts in confusion.

“We are about to sleep, yes? Alone?” Shimada asked.

“Mhm. My room’s been moved to the upper floor of the barn, so we most likely won’t get disturbed. Bright side of never comin’ home on a predictable schedule, I reckon,” McCree chuckled. He slithers back out of his undershirt and decides to just button up his outermost shirt, up to the throat, and folds the rest of his clothing over his arm. He holds out his wooden hand for Hanzo, who delicately wraps both of his around McCree’s with an amused grin.

The only one who hasn’t cleared out of the barn by the time Jesse and his partner return is his eldest cousin, herding the cows back in for the night. McCree decides to leave his clothes with Shimada and help him out.

“They left you all alone, Marshall?” Jesse grinned.

“I reckon it’s the credentials. Now that I’m Sheriff Marshall, they figure I can handle herding twenty cows into a lil ol’ barn,” his cousin laughed.

Hanzo stayed back, somewhat obscured by the midnight shadows, watching the two work. Marshall has a curled mustache and a smooth jawline, but he could be taken for his cousin’s double if they tried.

After the last cow finally wandered into the barn, Marshall rested a hand on the doorframe and extended the other to Jesse. He paused, offering up the wrong hand for the shake, but his only good hand; looking a little embarrassed, the older McCree switched hands to shake proper.

“You oughta find time to visit more, Jesse. You and I never get to talk and catch up,” the sheriff said.

“That’s a mighty difficult request. It ain’t just that I’m not available to come home, y’know,” Jesse responded.

“Believe me, I know. I think you’re only hurtin’ yourself by stayin’ away, though. Y’oughta at least write letters--hell, drop them by the Sheriff’s office and I’ll deliver them myself, faster than any postman could ride!”

The two laughed a good spell before finally pulling away. Marshall McCree turned to the house; Jesse quickly got to Hanzo and threw an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders. He dragged Shimada closer to Marshall, waving his free hand around.

“Hey, Marshall! You met Hanzo yet?” Jesse hollered; his cousin stopped and whirled on his heels with a grin.

“Can’t say y’ever introduced me. Who is this dapper oriental?” he asked, grabbing Hanzo’s tattooed arm to examine it.

Shimada paused, tense, before tugging his arm out of the sheriff’s prying grip. He tucks his arm behind his back casually.

“My name is Hanzo Shimada. I am Japanese ; I traveled here with my brother after we left our family,” he said. Marshall, thankfully, looks embarrassed to have offended his cousin’s friend, and tucks his thumbs into his belt loops.

“Mighty fine to meet you, Mr. Shimada. How’d you meet Jesse here?”

“Han and I met out in Cal,” Jesse started excitedly. Hanzo leaned into his partner, who relaxed and cleared his throat. “Continue.”

“My brother Genji and I were new to the country. We passed through Angel Isle legally, happy to have each other. When times grew harder, McCree rescued the two of us, allowing us to travel and stay with him. Once we were established, Jesse and I continued to talk while my brother began to wander for work. We’re engaged now, and have been wandering together for three years.”

“Three years, y’say?” Marshall asked, looking bewildered. “I swear I seen Jesse single since then.”

“Well, we used to both have horses, ‘til I sold my girl to buy an engagement ring. We didn’t always go everywhere together,” Jesse piped in.

The sheriff stares intently at Hanzo, now that he has a better idea of who this foreigner is. He seems satisfied with the introduction and pats his shoulder good and firm, with a light chuckle. Hanzo smiled, genuinely, and shook his hand again.

“G’night, boys. Catchya at the breakfast table,” Marshall waved and wandered into the farmhouse.

Jesse and Hanzo migrate to the top floor of the barn, to McCree’s space. He has a full size bed with a hand made wooden frame, a dresser with a change of clothes, and a trunk with personal belongings he doesn’t bring with him. The foreigner politely sits on the bed and watches his fiancé undress completely; after an expectant stare from the cowboy, he mimics the gesture.

The two sit down on the first actual bed they’ve shared in a few months, leaning on each other and breathing the night air seeping through cracks in the wooden walls. A full moon peering through the window provides just enough light, the two cowboys gazing into each other’s loving eyes. In full silence, the two gradually shift, sliding beneath the blanket and pressing warm skin to warm skin. A hard jaw rests in the crook of the other’s muscular neck, with calloused, dirty hands stroking lovingly over tender pectorals. McCree pulls the blanket tightly to his chin, and Shimada pokes his nose over the edge to breathe. Legs tangle and feet tickle curiously.

The pair don’t even realize they fell asleep until warm dawn rays kiss the pillow. Jesse groans, trying to roll over and nearly throwing Hanzo out of bed--which of course stirs him awake as well as he clings on to stay in the warmth. McCree pauses, clutching his lover tightly and breathing in the sweet smell of his hair. He plants a kiss on Shimada’s forehead, and he reciprocates by pecking around the younger man’s beard.

A fresh change of clothes for both of them is sorely appreciated. While McCree slides into his new clothes happily, his partner struggles; his pants are just a little too big, his socks fall down, his shirt hangs loosely off of his broad shoulders. Shimada tucks his overshirt in and snaps on a vest to hold it in place, tightens his belt, and tucks his pants into his boots.

“How do I look?” Hanzo asked curiously.

Jesse chuckles, leaning in for a smooch while he straightens his partner’s vest. “Lovely, ducky.”

Shimada grins into the kiss, absentmindedly sliding his hands into the back pockets on McCree’s itchy wool pants and squeezing. The younger man chuckles happily and wriggles out of his lover's grip to start packing up.

“We oughta get our gear washed while we're here. And take a bath down in the creek, too,” Jesse said, grinning.

Hanzo beams back, soaking up the atmosphere. “Breakfast first?” he asked coyly, receiving a playful smack on his shoulder.

“You ain't never had a breakfast til you've had my Maw n’ Gran’mama’s. Sausage and bacon and eggs and pancakes stacked higher than New York and biscuits so fluffy you can sleep on 'em and gravy so thick y’could brush your teeth with it and fresh picked cinnamon apples and if we're real special, she’ll squeeze oranges straight from Florida, and baked peaches…”

Hanzo nods along as Jesse describes everything he loves to eat for breakfast while they walk down from the barn to the farm house. They've got more people packed at the table than they do plates. Fourteen people spaced out from age 2 to age 69 and from the Yucatan to Michigan to Japan all crammed into the large kitchen. Jesse sits on a bar stool at the kitchen counter with Hanzo balancing on his lap, with Marshall standing by them and tiny little Guadalupe sitting on the counter. They all hold hands, linking a single chain around the whole room. The cowboy breathes in the warm scent of his lover's hair while Gran’mama’s calm, creaking voice says grace.

“Dear lord above, we thank you. You provide us with food with which we fill this table, with family with which to fill these chairs, and with love with which to fill this air. Dear lord, we thank you for this meal, and for bringing our family together. We thank you for returning Marshall home safely, and for helping Jesse find his way back. Thank you Lord.”

A gentle hum of amen echos as Gran'mama McCree wipes her cheek. A heavy silence is immediately interrupted by the little kids digging in. The whole family wordlessly follows, clinking dishes and sipping drinks. They only made pancakes and bacon, but the McCree women made enough to feed their army.

Hanzo and Jesse take turns offering each other bites of flapjack, kissing fingertips and giggling. Marshall chuckles, watching one of the Alex twins wipe Guadalupe's face for the tenth time.

“You two look just like your parents,” the sheriff finally chimed in. Both Jesse and his partner turn to look, and sure enough, they're feeding each other blueberries and sharing a glass.

“You know, Jesse. I have not had a formal introduction to your family. Only those who asked last evening.” Shimada twists on his lover's lap to stare expectantly. Marshall playfully mimics him to the side; it takes the 2-year-old smearing his milk-soaked sticky pancake concoction onto his eldest cousin's pristine mustache to make Jesse’s poker face crack.

“Alright, alright! Hop up,” he finally says, playfully pushing Hanzo off. Of course he catches himself ( gracefully, too ), then stands on the footholds to hover over the heads of the whole McCree family. Jesse picks up his glass of hand-squeezed orange juice and rings it with the handle of a clean spoon. Everyone looks up, and Alexander--one of the twins--reaches up to refill his cup. He stares, allowing it, and takes a sip.

“Everyone, I have done a dreadful sin by not formally introducin’ y’all to the newest member of the McCree family. Say howdy to Hanzo Shimada, my fiancé!” Jesse said; he set his glass down and put his arm around said boyfriend’s waist. He starts pointing out faces, one by one.

“That there is Gran’mama McCree, the oldest known McCree and the hardest bitch to live out in these plains.”

“I am Marisela Martinez,” she said, bowing her head humbly. “This is my daughter Esmeralda, and her husband Elijah Keith.”

“My parents,” Jesse pipes in .

The heads of household bow politely, then start pointing out their kids.

“Austin is our big man around the house,” Mrs. McCree says while squeezing his cheek. He flushes hotly, and dad slaps his back.

“Aussie’s en route to take ahold the farm once I can't work no more.”

“My lil Bluejay, Jane.”

“And Elijah Keith, Jr.”

“Keith,” Esmeralda corrected lovingly. “And my little Paul.”

The main family sitting at the table turn to Marshall to introduce the cousins. He takes a second to notice, and quickly scoops up the tiny tot off the counter.

“This lil tyke is Guadalupe. My nephew; sister died in labor, a real tragedy. Especially after the pregnancy was forced on her. We're all takin’ turns watching him,” the sheriff starts. “I saw you fightin’ Olivia last night. She's my girl, my pride an’ joy. A real fighter, gonna be one hell of a shot when she joins the rangers. My aunt and uncle--your parents--are helping look after her while my wife travels to New York for a doctor's degree.” Olivia beams at her praise, rolling on her feet and grinning at her proud, loving father.

“And meet the quiet tag team. Alex and Alex.”

“I am Alexander, I respond to Alex and Xander,” the apparent boy out of the identical pair says, turning to his sister when he's done.

“I'm Alexandra, or Alexis. Sometimes Sandra or Sandy. Al… Aly… But I like Alex the most,” she said.

“And me. Sheriff Marshall McCree, who you are quite acquainted with.”

Hanzo stands silently, taking in all the faces and names and absorbing his new family eagerly. Jesse wonders if he feels lonely, not having Genji with him. His only place in this cluttered mix of settlers and farmhands is his boyfriend; McCree stares at his lover with all the compassion and support a man can portray with a look alone. Shimada smiles cutely and bows his head, hopping off the stool and into Jesse's strong arms.

Breakfast dissolves into a mess of conversation and oversharing, eating scraps and cleaning dishes as a family. The kids wander off to explore the farm house, eager to get started on their pre-chore play break. During the shuffling and storytelling, Hanzo ends up carrying Guadalupe, holding the child to his chest tenderly. Jesse weaves through his parents’ conversation to his partner, resting a hand onto the man's shoulder.

Shimada silently peels away at the familiar gesture, and the two stand alone in the family room with the little toddler sleeping peacefully, for the time being.

“He is so small,” Hanzo said quietly.

“Well he's a baby, Han. Whaddayou expect?” Jesse responded.

“We can't have kids…” Shimada whispered.

Jesse curled his lip and took Guadalupe from his boyfriend, clutching him to his chest tenderly. “I ain’t broke, y’know.”

“I,” Hanzo started, paused, and stared. “I would never ask that of you.”

There’s a long silence. McCree savors his fiancé’s expression softening as he leans in for a kiss. Inevitably, Guadalupe gets woken and upset, so Jesse sets him down on the floor in the hopes that a little running around will help. He just sits down and starts crying louder.

Hanzo picks up the toddler again, cooing quietly and swaying. Jesse almost looks mystified as he watches; for a minute, he even regrets running out on the family before he could help his Maw with his little siblings.

“Where’d you learn that?” he asked dumbly.

Hanzo stares at him contemplatively. “Instinct.”

“You’d make a mighty fine father, Hanzo.”

His lover beams, and Jesse feels his heart lift. They tuck Guadalupe down for a nap and decide it’s high time they get a bath, since the morning cleanup is finishing in the kitchen. McCree leads Shimada down to the creek, alone and isolated from any prying eyes, with the promise of Maw to not allow any of the young'uns to come down until they’re finished.

Jesse enjoys getting to watch Hanzo slip out of his clothes again. He gets caught up and forgets to undress himself, so he eagerly holds his arms out when Shimada moves to do it for him. The two both gawk at each other, getting to take in and examine each other’s muscles and hips and legs and body uncovered for the first time. McCree puts his hand onto his lover’s chest stupidly, and he chuckles, his whole rib cage swelling up into his touch with every breath.

The cowboy flashes a cheeky grin before he shoves his fiancé into the water. Hanzo doesn’t go down alone; he stumbles and grabs Jesse’s wrist, pulling him in, too. They hit the water with a hard splash and swim to a more shallow depth, until they can get a good footing in the mud.

McCree abandons the creek entirely, dripping wet and slowly returning to their clothes.

“I do not believe the bath is finished,” Hanzo shouted, remaining still.

Jesse grins and tosses a rock at him. He dunks under the water to avoid it and springs back up; McCree jumps into the river immediately, shouting, and retrieves the object.

“I thought you’d appreciate the soap, c’mon,” he whined.

“Perhaps you should offer it to me in a manner that does not trigger my fight or flight response,” he said cooly.

Jesse sighed heavily and leaned his forehead on Hanzo’s shoulder. The two held the position until McCree felt a tickle. He curled away from the touch, shrieking joyously as Shimada follows up. He tries to avoid it by dunking completely under the water, but those searching hands follow him.

He’d apparently released the soap when he went up to the surface to wipe off his eyes. Hanzo’s ticklish touches suddenly feel much more firm, rubbing the fat bar on Jesse’s skin soothingly. He freezes, then shifts as needed to make it more comfortable on his lover.

Hanzo rubs the cowboy down completely. Even going under water to get his legs and feet, then pops up gasping for air with his hair glued to his face and neck. It’s really, really nice.

“Are you done yet, ducky?” Jesse asked cooly. Shimada grins, chucking the soap at him with the same strength as he’d received it. That’s probably going to bruise.

McCree chuckles fondly as he slides behind his lover to reciprocate the relaxing wash. He feels Hanzo’s tight muscles loosen beneath his massaging hands, watching the dirt and grime peel away with the licking waves. The two wind up spending the better part of the whole morning enjoying each other.

They pull away from the creek and dry each other off with Jesse’s shirt, then lay back on the dusty rock, prone and alone, while the sun warms their skin.

“Jesse?” Hanzo starts, turning his head to look at his partner.

“Mmm?” Jesse murmurs, turning back. He blinks when he receives a kiss. A happy silence returns as the cowboy rolls on top of his partner, to return the surprise. They allow their hands to traverse sun-baked skin calmly. Then, slowly, McCree forces himself to his feet and tugs Hanzo up with him.

They get dressed again and return back to the house on clouds, hand-in-hand. They miss lunch, but don’t care enough to get in a twist about it.

Jesse peels away to help Marshall and his Paw out with the animals, while Hanzo helps inside with the little ones. The cowboy spends the afternoon out in the hot sun, sweating away and dirtying up all that cleaning he wasted the morning on. He and the boys wander back inside, laughing and patting each other’s backs. Dinner’s already set up--chicken and cornbread and greenbeans--and everyone’s getting seated just like breakfast.

Hanzo is sitting on the same stool as this morning, with Guadalupe sitting on his lap. Jesse stays in the doorway, watching mystified. It takes one of the twins tugging on him to actually coax the McCree over to his fiance. Shimada looks up with a blissful smile as Jesse takes his seat. Maw says grace, and the family digs in again.

“You’ve takin’ quite the shinin’ to Guadalupe, haven’t you?” Jesse asked, leaning his elbow on the table so he can prop his chin up. The toddler attempts to get a green bean stuck in the cowboy’s beard, but Hanzo peels it off and feeds it to him instead.

“Do you wish to settle down, Jesse?” he asks calmly, foolishly diverting his attention from the nibbling child to McCree.

“Like, pack up the wanderin’ and make ourselves a farm, settle down?” he said.

“Yes. I intended to save the suggestion for when we are older, or perhaps more experienced in our marriage. Settling permanently was always my end goal for America. The horseback have been an excellent adventure, but I still want a permanent residence someday.” Hanzo’s eyes are soft. Anxiety pangs hard in Jesse’s stomach as he wonders just how long his partner has kept this question wrapped up, waiting for the right moment to say it. Shimada’s staring eventually pulled his husband out of his trance.

“I can’t say whether or not I’m ready to settle down, not after so many years roamin’. I can’t guarantee I’ll stay stuck if we ever do build us a farmhouse, either,” Jesse says carefully. He definitely doesn’t want to come off as having an opinion on the matter. “Why are you askin’ all of a sudden?”

“Jesse McCree. Next month, we are going to join families. As much as I have loved my time in the McCree house, I believe you and I will need space in a new McCree-Shimada home to start our own family.”

“Family?” Jesse stares stupidly.

“Your mother and grandmother agreed,” Hanzo says.

“On?”

“When we have our own place, we may take exclusive custody and care of Guadalupe.”

Jesse freezes. He just went from daydreaming about his gorgeous boyfriend to a soon-to-be married, home-owning father. He takes a while to process the extent of the information, blanking out pretty thoroughly. Shimada waits patiently. Most people are putting their plates up to the wash.

“I reckon I could handle parkin’ my ass down somewhere if that’s the case.”

#hanzo shimada #jesse mccree #mchanzo #overwatch #overwatch fanfic #fanfiction #my fic #didi drafts #ovw #ovw fic #WHATS UP TUMBLR #ive been sitting on this draft for at least 6 months #ive had an ao3 since april #finally got the balls/impulse to go thru with it

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