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the-finch-address · 3 years

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Tag: Word Find

Tagged by @sharraus! Thank you!!

tHO isn’t at the stage where I can find half of these words in a comprehensible state since most of it is Draft 1 gibberish. So instead I’m using the opportunity to write something new for each prompt; some being canon from the book and others just standing as an excuse to write the characters interacting. Bc of this the length got a bit......Out Of Hand. Sorry about that. Putting it all under the read more so I don’t bombard anyone’s dashboard

> Prompt: Work [Note; This occurs years before the plot begins]

Vestiel ran his fingers through the grass and picked at early yellow blooms. The harsh clang of metal against wood echoed around him, the sounds of the forest easily lost behind it.

“Can we go home soon?” he whined, “I’m so hungry I could eat a bear.” His bottom lip is brought between his teeth, and he waits. Clang. Clang. Clang. “Please?”

The axe stills. Andi turns, wiping the sweat from his brow while fitting Vestiel with a look. Magpies trill in the wake of his silence, the flutter of fallen leaves following the breeze. Andi straightens his back. “Silas won’t have finished dinner yet, lad, the sun’s still well up the sky.” He answers, looking annoyed, “We’ve plenty of light to finish this up first. Fill the baskets if you’re so restless.”

He reaches for the axe again. The disappointment must have shown on Vestiel’s face, though, since the tool remains lodged, and Andi continues to look distracted. He knew the boy was too young to understand how important this work was, how it kept them warm and fed. He couldn’t blame a child for prioritizing an empty stomach over harsh and thankless labor. Still, that morning’s storm had downed too many trees to not take advantage of. It had to be done.

“Tell you what,” Andi resigns himself, a weary smile lifting his eyes, “I’ll let you do a few strokes, but Vestiel-”

The boy is already up and on his feet, dandelions forgotten in the sunken spots of grass where his legs had crossed, “You mean it?” He brightens, “I can do it all by myself?”

“Listen to me,” Andi lifts a hand, demanding attention, while the other remains on the hilt, “you’ll start with the axe wedged in and bring them down together-” he offers a stern look, “--and I don’t want to hear any complaints. This is your first time, I don’t want you lopping off a toe or, North forbid, a whole foot. You need a feel for the tool before you do anything else.”

Vestiel acknowledges this with a hasty nod, the muttered agreement of “Yeah, yeah, sure” crossing his lips, hand already reaching for the axe.

Andi comes between him with a harsher expression than before, eyebrows raised expectantly. Vestiel lets out a sigh.

“The axe will start in the wood. Got it.” The impatience hasn’t fully left his tone, but it’s an improvement, and Andi appears content by it.

The wood is already a narrowed size when the axe is driven through its flesh. The blade settles halfway down the block and wedges itself firmly along the grain with little resistance, just on the edge of splitting. He brings it to Vestiel, who takes the closer end of the block with his left hand and the hilt with his right.

“Now, you’ll want to bring it down towards the back of the splitting block,” Andi starts, “Make sure you do so with both hands together, or you’ll only-”

Clang. Vestiel opens his eyes, already knowing that Andi is going to ring his neck for having closed them in the first place. All is forgotten at the sight of the severed wood, though, and he can’t help but be excited with the results. It isn’t perfect by any means, but it’s his, and he’s no less proud of it despite his brother's hand-holding. He looks to Andi in hopes of praise.

“Mother’s grief, Vestiel, have some patience!” Is the chastised response he receives instead. “You couldn’t have at least waited for me to finish?”

Vestiel makes a sour face. “I did it fine, didn’t I?” He retorts, “Isn’t that good enough?”

Andi raises a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose, a long and tired breath escaping him. After a minute of patience himself he’s able to give Vestiel the reaction he was looking for. A smile, small but proud. “It’s not bad for your first time,” he says, “but you’re going to need more practice, and patience, than that if you want to hack apart whole trees in a few years.”

He extends a hand to bring Vestiel near, pulling him snug against his side. “You did well.” Andi continues, “but, lad,” his voice lowers to a stern whisper, and

Vestiel pales, “If I ever see your eyes closed with an axe in hand again, you’ll sweep the whole corridor. Twice.”

He swallows harshly and answers only with a nod. The pride blooming in his chest doesn't falter.

> Prompt: Weather

The evening sky flashes white, casting shadows across paintings framed in gold and goblets of silver. Across the room, Caprice of the North hunches over a desk painted in candlelight. He draws a finger across the map in study of its various routes and borders, frowning. Behind him, thunder crashes down. He flinches. Pitiful.

Shaking away the thought, the young deliverer refocuses. His back arches further towards the desk until braided locks of gold spill over onto the wood. Especially now, as he squints in the darkness of his shadow, does he wish this dreaded storm had chosen another night. It brought a miserable chill to his bones despite the grizzly pelt draping heavily over his shoulders and brought an ache to his bones.

Lightning comes again, its brilliant light cutting into the room with the swiftness of a sword’s blow. Capri anticipates it this time. When thunder claps against his window he’s decisively ready for it, his knuckles gone white against clenching fists. He can’t stop their trembling no matter how tightly he’s squeezing.

A knock at the door sends him out of his skin.

Like a sharp wound, the anticipation drives him into a panic. Young flesh grasps aimlessly for a new frame to stretch into, finding nothing but mortal bones. By the time the door swings open he is straightened, remembering a human form, begging the drum within his heart to settle.

Silence greets him. A form approaches from the doorway and draws towards the light, illuminating their features quick enough that Caprice’s hand stills where it rested on the hilt of his sword.

“Dove?” He relaxes and lets himself breathe, forcing air into his lungs with more effort than is needed. “I thought you were with Eivind."

“He was needed elsewhere,” Dove signs. His hands portrayed a sense of disappointment where one couldn’t be seen in his expression, brown eyes seeming indifferent.

Caprice looks away shamefully, “You didn’t have to come,” he says.

“I wanted to.”

His gaze again lifts to meet the other with only a grunt, reluctant to answer in words for fear that his voice might betray him.

Light consumes the room with blinding force and concurrently Caprice’s hand reaches blindly for the edge of the desk to ground himself. It’s silly, he thinks, ruined pride staining his cheeks red. Internally he’s counting the seconds as they go by, steeling himself.

Dove reaches for him--

Capri recoils just as thunder cracks and booms overhead. The approach was too quick, well-meaning as it may have been. Dove understands the reaction. He reads Caprice as well as the noble reads his sign.

The thrashing of rain fills the aching silence and neither of them dares interrupt it. Seconds pass by without distraction until Dove again extends his hand forward. He moves slower than he has to under the young emperor’s weary gaze as though addressing a wounded animal.

When Caprice notices it’s not without backlash. His eyes turn hard, looking fussed. His nails dig into the wood beneath them until angry lines form on the underside of the desk and pain shoots up his fingers.

Dove’s palm settles over his hand, squeezing.

He flinches but can’t bring himself to shake the man away. The silence between them stretches on unbearably after, broken only by the rain. He releases the desk and turns his palm face up, intertwining their fingers wearily. “Thank you.” He whispers.

When the thunder comes this time, he doesn’t flinch.

Prompt: Help

Vestiel’s heartbeat thuds like thunder roaring inside his ears. He stares with too much intent at the earth beneath his worn shoes, doing his best to concentrate on the hole boring over the space near his toes.

Much to his dismay, Fannar-Haise appears to notice.

She carries herself past the snow huts and politely cuts through the crowd, stepping lightly around the fire and between celebrants, their songs alight with a different kind of flame.

Vestiel can’t hear them past his own thoughts. Get out, get out, get out. He forces some semblance of greeting out as she approaches but can’t manage to look her in the eyes. It’s hard most days, but especially now.

“Enjoying the party?” She asks, making no mention of the answer being pretty obvious. The smile on her lips is pitying, judgemental at worst, he just knows it. He can’t bear to lift his chin and see. If Andi were here he could explain himself easily but, as it was, he was going into this situation alone. Completely, utterly alone.

“Yeah,” he lies, “just tired from all the traveling.”

It’s a witless excuse and she knows it. Instead of pointing it out, though, she only offers a shake of her head. There’s a lot to say about communication and Fannar-Haise considers herself an expert on the subject. She watches him fumble about; the trouble in getting his tongue to do its job sticking out to her as sorely as the restless, rhythmic tap of his hand against his hip and the blatant avoidance of eye contact. It answered her question more than his words could, and that was okay.

“You’re overwhelmed,” she nods to herself this time, having seemingly come to a conclusion all on her own, “Let me help. You don’t have to answer with words, a nod will do just fine. Can you walk?”

Vestiel squints at the sole of his shoes, looking confused, then apprehensive, “I’m-”

Silence. No matter how hard he pries, not a single word comes loose from his tongue. The thoughts are there and plentiful, excuses and apologies, maybe something more, fastened tightly like honey coating his throat and hidden away between his ribcage, leaving him breathless and useless.

His chin tilts upward, lips parting, but he can’t manage it. Instead, he allows himself the nod she had been looking for.

“Good. That’s good. We’re going to go somewhere quiet and after that you can tell me what you want to do. Can I touch your hand?”

She patiently waits for the resulting, albeit cautious nod, and takes his hand within her own.

She guides him past the bustling scene like this. As they reach a distance where the noise has muffled he finds it in himself to speak again. It’s slow, at first, allowing his mind time to find the right words. “How did you know?”

Calmly she turns her gaze from the sky, not looking directly at him but rather just past where he stands. There isn’t a soul there when Vestiel follows her gaze over his shoulder, but he’d only half expected one. Andi had learned with time not to stare too long; something told him Haise was just as quick of a learner.

“Call it a hunch,” she hums, “I’ve experienced my fair share of things, Vestiel. This isn’t new or strange, it’s just you.” She pauses to face him, eyes still averted. He returns the favor and looks at her nose like it’s his only salvation, seconded only by the sight of his snow hut in the distance and the soft murmur becoming of the crowd ever fading behind them.

“Besides,” she continues, “these celebrations aren’t a requirement by any standard. They’re here to bring happiness. If something causes you to be unhappy you have no obligation to stay. If you need to step away, I will understand. We will always understand.”

Vestiel doesn’t know what to say when they reach the entrance. Despite her words, he can’t help but feel a wave of guilt wash over him for having both left the celebration early-- a celebration of his arrival, no less--and now, leaving their leader at the door.

She picks up on this, too.

“I’m going to head back to the others for a while longer. You can join us if you’re feeling up to it, or you can stay here and get some rest. Don’t overthink it, okay?”

Her warmth is everything to him, more grounding than a hole in his shoe could ever be. He wants her to know, wants to find the right words to explain how much her actions mean to him, but there isn’t an easy way to go about it without making a greater fool of himself. He answers with a weak smile and a simple, “Okay”, the best he can offer in way of thanks.

She matches his smile and bids him goodnight.

Prompt: Hope

The scent of leather tanning above flame clings to his nostrils. It fills him with a sense of despair unlike any other, weighing different from the miserable few weeks he’d spent mourning Andi, even. Putrid, a nauseating sort of agony like snakes writhing and tearing at his stomach. Burning. Burning. Burning.

The forest was ablaze. That was all he could possibly know, here in the dark. Shadows drove past him in a stampede of bodies carving through the night, survived only by a name and footprints worn into the poaching grounds.

He scares awake. Stars wink faintly above him, hidden behind the morning sun.

“Bad dream?”

Tupelo’s voice startles him a second time from where he lay, their trek up the hill all but forgotten until that point.

Vestiel slowly drags himself into a sitting position with a grunt of effort. Sweat collects at his jaw, cold against his cheeks. He licks his lips and tastes salt.

“A fire, just to the north of here-- tonight maybe--the forest, the people-”

Tupelo tends to the campfire, looking drained. It was suddenly apparent neither of them had slept well. “The forest?” they ask with a shake of their head, “Not to the north, yet.”

“Yet?”

Vestiel draws his shirt away and uses the

bottom corner to dry his face. Goosebumps still clinging to his arms, the memory remaining like a fresh wound.

“You don’t have to believe me,” he says, “I can’t explain it to you and if I do, you’ll just think I’ve gone strange. I’m only asking that you take me north of here.”

He reaches for the map tucked inside his rucksack, spilling a few more items in the process, “It shouldn’t be too far off from where we’re going already. I’ll show you.”

Tupelo is quick to rest their hand against his wrist with a sympathetic, albeit calm look on their face. “We’ll go.” They assure him, pointing to the north. “If it’s important.”

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It quickly becomes evident that Tupelo is just as ill-equipped for this kind of travel as Vestiel. For as nimble as they are the hill obviously called for a different kind of strength. The original path would have taken them up and around, but this new direction was a straight shot to the north, uphill for the better half of it.

Tupelo watches Vestiel out of the corner of their eye, checking up on him every now and then as though waiting for Vestiel to change his mind, or hoping he’ll get around to it if they climb for long enough.

However, Vestiel remains steadfast in the endeavor, eyes locked on the horizon. He’s certain of what he saw, having learned to trust the dreams long ago, and he had no plans to stop now. The smell of burning flesh still lingered undeniably.

“We’re almost there.” Tupelo breaks the silence.

“Finally,” he gasps, “I don’t think my legs can go on for much longer.”

He can feel it already. The weight of the earth shifting beneath his feet, a familiar pressure that seeps into his bones, pungent smoldering inside his nostrils once more. “It’s right over here,” he drags himself the last few feet to the summit, “It’s-”

Dead. Every tree, every blade of grass, the entire opposite face of the hill lie dusty and black, an empty expanse of burnt trunks where the forest should have been.

Tupelo comes up beside him.

“What happened here?” Vestiel gasps in disbelief, “I was sure-- my dreams have never lied, not once before. Were we too late?”

“Your soul tells stories, not prophecies.” Tupelo answers, “Father told me you can hear them.”

“Them?”

“The spirits,” they gesture to the barren woods, “they speak because they know you will listen. Come.”

Vestiel follows their lead. Dry grass crunches underfoot as they descend the hill. Patches of green pop up here and there, but aren't constant and don’t compare to the full weight of the forest that should have been in its stead. It’s a sight he feels the need to grieve over as though his own soul were tied to the scorched land. The thought scares him.

Tupelo steps ahead and crouches to their knees, hands smoothing over a ring of stones that would have gone unseen had they not brought attention to it. Wordlessly, they pull the canteen from its strap and let the remainder of its water drip out.

Vestiel inches closer now. He kneels beside the other, “What is it?”

Tupelo sits back on their heels, palms opening to show a young sapling, green and healthy, standing tall, small as it may be. It rests in a forgotten graveyard.

“A tree?” Vestiel reaches for it and thumbs carefully along the juvenile bark. “What is one tree to an empty field?”

Tupelo cradles the sapling fondly. “Hope.”

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I'm tagging @faenova @squid-scribe @zmlorenz @ashen-crest @henrike-does-writing-sometimes and @sharraus (can I tag the tagger? I'm doing it anyway)

Your words are Drenched, Gather, Cradle, and Howl

#finch writes #tHO #vestiel #andi #capri #tupelo #haise #dove #tag game

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downtonabbeyrevisited · 5 years

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Series One - Episode Four

The fair has arrived at Downton and with it another 47 minutes and 58 sections of madness. This was always going to be a tough episode, given that it follows the finest hour that British broadcasting has ever produced, but it does give us a real idea of what Downton Abbey viewing is going to be like from hereon in. Every plot point gets four lines or five minutes of total screen time (whichever comes first); the hint that Mrs Patmore is going blind gets a single line and there is a fleeting glimpse of Carson counting some wine. But there are some lovey arty shots of Downton and it’s grounds and it all goes a bit Ang Lee’s ‘figures in the landscape’.

The poster for the Downton Village Fair advertises such delights as “Find the lady” and a “helter skelter” but it’s the “and other various other amusements” in fine print at the bottom that intrigues me: what’s the betting it’s a Laser Quest? Thomas takes this as an opportunity to further string Daisy along and take shots at William along the way whilst the latter rolls out his mediocre piano playing again. Mrs Patmore tries and fails to drop the hint to Daisy that Thomas is on another bus but this falls on deaf ears. Daisy later goes on to proclaim that Thomas has “lovely teeth” and I’d never noticed it before Daisy, but he does. Throughout the episode Thomas descends to bullying William and in doing so introduces Dark!Daisy (a tag I’m heartbroken to see has not yet made it’s way onto AO3) and solidifies Mr Bates’ role as emotional supporter/defender as he rams Thomas up against a wall, bringing the ‘Body Slam’ count to two in five episodes which seems like an awfully high ratio for a show based on a very much glossed over view of the past.

Matthew, presumably taking a break from being Downton’s answer to Sarah Beeny, has also come to the fair and delights us all with a rather ineffectual tossing of balls at coconuts. Mary joins him and it turns out that they both have appalling aim. It’s a metaphor for everything and they are clearly made for each other. Later in the episode they will enjoy the world’s longest and most deliberately framed handshake but Mary’s mind is elsewhere. Kamal has remained very firmly with me for nine years having only seen a 2D rendering of his 3D form, so I can only imagine the sorts of things running around Mary’s head. But the guilt trip continues and I’m already at the stage of willing everybody just to chill. out. Given that all involved actually held it together on the night in question, the meltdowns now seem a bit late. Mary’s cry of “I’m a lost soul to you!” is a tad dramatic and I think we (Cora, the viewers, my dog that ran into the room thinking someone was being attacked) could live without it to be honest. There are plenty of fish in the sea Mary, and you’ve just go to choose one that doesn’t mind your dabbling with the vestiges of the Ottoman Empire and can adequately drive a car, in what can only be described as perfect motoring conditions, without crashing it.

Also at the fair is Mrs Hughes and her alter ego Elsie. When asked if he was going to the fair, Carson’s eyebrows shot up in horror at the thought but maybe if he knew that smooth talking man of the people Joe Burns was around, he might have had a slightly different reaction. As it is, Carson doesn’t go and Elise goes to a pub to learn just how very 100% totally available Joe Burns is. Elsie receives a rather roundabout proposal before Joe demonstrates that he is yet another Downton character with appalling hand/eye co-ordination. However he perseveres and his victory at the ring toss is declared in a truly weird voice by an out of shot character (Seriously, watch it back: it’s haunting). Upon her return to life as Mrs Hughes, Thomas remarks that she was looking “sparkly eyed” and within seconds, Bates is there to admonish him. That man can move fast when he needs to. Later in the butler’s pantry, Mrs Hughes and Carson have a heart-to-heart with Carson looking steadily more uncomfortable whilst Mrs Hughes fondles a scarecrow. As the only montage that I can remember in Downton’s history shows, Mrs Hughes turned down Joe and Chelsie fans everywhere breath a sigh of relief.

Whilst Matthew may be making his mark in the Abbey, his mother is not one to be outdone. Molseley’s hands have done something bizarre and in the twentieth century version of googling an innocuous cough to find that you have cancer, Cousin Isobel almost immediately hands him the diagnosis of erysipelas that requires some convoluted treatment that Molseley neither wants, or as it turns out, needs. Violet quickly brings the medical scores to a draw with Isobel as she makes up for the early dropsy debacle by correctly diagnosing Molseley with a Rue allergy. Clarkson, you can tell, is holding back the urge to do a little dance.

The arrival of Branson and the entire geopolitical and cultural struggles of the Irish people creates a stir both upstairs and down. On day one he’s got his eye on the Earl’s library (although I can’t imagine that Robert has all three volumes of Das Kapital) and by day two, he’s eating in the wrong place and taking digs at the charitable efforts of the Abbey. But little does anyone know that King Julian has big plans for Branson and the smile that he gives as Sybil talks about women’s rights is very much the thin end of the wedge. Branson says that he is “quite political” before handing Sybil some pamphlets that he has collected about the vote. I do love Branson but he is the sort of person that I can totally see mansplaining things on Twitter. By the end of the episode it’s already escalated to Branson looking slightly creepily through a window as Sybil cosplays as Jasmine whilst the upper echelons of society look on mystified.

Romantic declaration of the moment

I’m giving this section over to Anna and her cold. Mr Bates appearing with a tray was rather lovely but does pose some questions:

How did he go up all those stairs balancing both the tray, his presumably still quite mangled leg, the cane and the rest of his person?

Did he go out in the dark with a pair of secateurs and cut those flowers?

My only answer to those two questions is that fellow romantic Branson must have helped him: headcannon accepted.

Expressive eyebrow of the week

This award goes to the Earl this week for his reaction to Carson declaring that he would rather be put to death than work in a tea shop. The typically repressed English upper class “quite so” that escapes Robert’s lips is followed by a look of bemused alarm. If he were Fleabag, this is when he would have broken the fourth wall.

Runners up prize goes to everyone’s face at The Trousers™ and Violet v. The Swivel Chair.

Wait, what?

“One can’t go to pieces at the death of every foreigner, we’d all be in a state of collapse whenever we opened a newspaper” Yet more evidence that Violet is the love child of Nigel Farage and Ann Widdecombe.

“I have to go cap in hand to Mary Queen of Scots!” Lesley Nicol is having far too much fun playing Beryl.

“It seems unlikely, a revolutionary chauffeur” Is Sybil aware of what period drama she is in?

“If you don’t change, you die” Or you do change, Matthew, and you die anyway.

“I won’t always be a chauffeur” is stated with some confidence which seems odd given the fact that when Branson stops being a chauffeur, he hates it and will indicate at any given moment this to the nearest available character.

”I took a lover with no thought of marriage. A Turk! Think of that!” I do Mary. Quite regularly.

I’m doing this rewatch on quite a fancy TV and as such I’m being afforded all sorts of visual delights that the resolution on my 2010 screen failed to yield. Perhaps the most troubling of these is that Thomas is going slightly grey at the sideburns. I would insert some pun about using ‘Just for Men’ here but I’ll leave you all to make up one yourselves.

“If she’s got a boyfriend, I’m a giraffe” This seems like an analogy lost somewhere in translation. It has smacks of Gino D'Acampo’s grandmother.

youtube

#Downton #downton abbey #downton rewatch #Downton movie #downton abbey movie #dan stevens #Matthew Crawley #Mary Crawley #Isobel Crawley #thomas barrow #thomas branson #sybil branson #Charles Carson #elsie hughes #john bates #Joseph Molseley #allen leech #rob james collier

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canyousevmyheavydirtysoul · 6 years

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Cape Town. (Part 4) (Ryan Ross x Reader)

~26 days until the guys leave~

It was a lovely day in Cape Town; the sun was shining, there was no wind and the temperature was perfect. You and (Y/B/F) decided it was a great opportunity to take the guys on a boat ride, hence, the six of you were strolling through the scenic docks of The V&A Waterfront.

“Woah, is that a motherfucking pirate ship?” Brendon marvelled, mouth falling open as he looked on in awe at the vessel docked a few feet away.

“Yep,” you replied, a small smile playing on your lips at the clear excitement displayed on the singer’s face, “It’s called the Jolly Roger. It’s the only authentic pirate ship in the whole of South Africa.”

“Wanna ride?” (Y/B/F) smirked and raised one brow suggestively, prompting you to elbow her in the ribs.

“What?” she whispered to you, feigning innocence, “You can have fun and I can’t?” She shot you a wink and moved to join Brendon, who returned her smirk.

“Hell yeah!” he beamed.

“Let’s go then,” (Y/B/F) encouraged, grabbing Brendon’s hand before running off in the direction of the pirate ship.

You rolled your eyes and shook your head at your best friend’s flirting before sighing and motioning to the rest of the guys to follow them. They all reluctantly shuffled along and Ryan picked up his pace slightly so that he was walking alongside you.

“Please tell me that there’s no, like, Titanic ship that he’ll force us to go onto, too.” Ryan groaned, tossing you a hopeful look.

You giggled and he smiled at the sound.

“Don’t worry, I think this is as bad as it’s going to get,” you reassured him, but cocked your head a moment later, ”for now at least.”

“HURRY YOUR LAZY ASSES UP,” Brendon demanded, dramatically waving his arms in an attempt to get the four of you to join him and (Y/B/F), who were already seated on the ship. Well, she was seated. He was bouncing up and down like Tigger on crack.

You and Ryan shared a look that said ‘why are we even here’ before hurrying to take your seats.

As soon as the boat was relatively filled up, jovial pirate music started to play and a crewmember dressed head to toe in pirate gear appeared overhead, on the top deck of the ship.

“Ahoy, mateys! Welcome aboard the Jolly Roger!” the pirate extended a lively greeting which was met by raucous applause, most of which came from Brendon.

The pirate then proceeded to continue his introductory speech but you were too disinterested to pay any attention, so you slouched down in your seat and absentmindedly rested your head on Ryan’s shoulder.

The unexpected gesture made Ryan tense up and his eyes widen; he had no idea how to react. He had no problem with it, obviously, but he wasn’t sure what to do. Did he put an arm around you? Did he rest his head on top of yours? He was clueless.

His reaction wasn’t unnoticed by you, and you immediately lifted your head and shifted away, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” you said sheepishly, casting your gaze downwards at the wooden floor.

“N-no,” he stuttered, eyes growing even wider as he turned his entire body to face you, “I didn’t mind.”

You arched both brows, “Are you sure? It kinda felt like you minded,” you chuckled awkwardly.

“What? No,” he defended, “Are you talking about me tensing up? ‘Cause that was only because I’m not used to having pretty girls lay on me,” he hesitated for a moment, thinking, “Like, at all.”

You shot him an incredulous look, “I don’t think I believe you.”

He scoffed, “Do I look like Brendon to you?”

You pursed your lips and narrowed your eyes as you scanned over his face. “No,” you answered, smiling slightly, “You’re cuter.”

The shock on his face was evident, amplified by the way his mouth fell agape at your comment. Before he could think up and speak a coherent response, the ship hit a rather notably sized wave, making the vessel rock, and catapulting Ryan out of his seat and onto you.

The poor boy nearly died from embarrassment, and tried to recoil as quickly as possible.

“I’m so sorry!” he apologised, not sure whether he should help you sit back up, or if touching you would only make everything worse.

“It’s okay; I didn’t mind. It’s just that I’m not used to having pretty guys lay on me. Like, at all,” you shrugged, a teasing look on your face.

If Ryan didn't know how to react before, now he was completely dumbfounded. All he could manage to do was offer you a shy smile.

Somehow, even through her Brendon-filled trance, (Y/B/F) was able to pick up on the flirty exchanges between you and Ryan, which resulted in her marching over and wedging herself on the bench between you two.

“I think the FUCK not,” (Y/B/F) said, bringing her hands down to emphasise the ‘fuck’.

“(Y/B/F)!” you scolded through gritted teeth, glaring at her and motioning to the abundance of little humans on board, “There are children present!”

“Oh, sorry,” she covered her mouth before turning to the guitarist, “Ryan, close your ears.”

“Are you actually joking right now?” you frowned, growing annoyed at your friend’s unnecessary behaviour, “Go away.”

“You go away.”

With a groan, you threw your hands up in the air before moving to grab Ryan. “Fine, we’ll go.”

(Y/B/F) tried to grab you but you were too fast. “Shit,” she mumbled under her breath. “Brendon!”

Upon hearing his name, Brendon – who was now clad in a pirate costume and clutching a sword – whipped his head around just soon enough to spot you and Ryan heading for the jetty – since the ride had just ended and the boat had now docked.

With a dramatic war cry and without hesitation, Brendon lunged forward, jumping from the top deck and landing right in front of you and Ryan, who both stumbled back in shock.

“I think the FUCK not,” Brendon said, bringing the sword down to emphasise the ‘fuck’.

“Brendon!” Ryan huffed, “You need to stop.”

“No, you need to stop.”

“Okay, this is absolutely ridiculous,” Ryan shook his head and tried to push his way past his bandmate, who wouldn’t budge.

“Brendon,” Ryan said calmly, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, “If you don’t move in the next five seconds, so help me God, I will feed you to the fucking sharks!” he growled before realising what he said and glancing over at you, “Sorry for my language, (Y/N).”

“HA, I’d like to see you try,” Brendon wheezed.

Ryan was about to explode, but luckily Spencer and Jon sidled up next to him, Spencer placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“As entertaining as this is,” Spencer remarked, “Can we go on a real boat now?”

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Jon asked with a sceptic look at you and Ryan.

“Oh ye of little faith,” you retorted, patting Jon on the head, “Watch this.”

You strutted over to (Y/B/F) and Brendon, holding out two tickets and pointing your head in the direction of the boat your group was gathered in front of.

“These are yours,” you explained, “Spencer’s waiting for them to print out the rest of ours. You can go ahead so long.”

Without any hassle, the two of them happily took the tickets and boarded the sunset cruise boat while the rest of you held back.

As soon as the two of them took their seats, the boat jerked forward and began to disembark. Confused, Brendon and (Y/B/F) stood up and made their way to the edge of the boat, looking at the four of you still standing a the ticket booth with huge smiles on your faces as you waved them goodbye.

“SON OF A BITCH,” they exclaimed in unison.

You gave a content sigh as you spread your arms out on the metal railing of the boat, drinking in the picturesque sunset. Ryan was standing next to you, and you could feel his eyes fixed on you. When you turned to look at him, you noticed that he was smiling.

“What?” you chuckled nervously.

“I’m just… glad that we can actually spend time together without those idiots,” he explained, taking a few small steps closer to you.

“Me too,” you concurred, grinning up at him.

With the melting sun’s rays hitting his face just right, he looked angelic, and you felt yourself being blinded by his beauty. He felt the same, and the way that he was leaning in showed it.

“(Y/N) I know we don’t know each other that well – I mean, we literally only met less than a week ago – but I feel this connection between us and the more I spend time with you, the stronger it gets. Oh God, this is really cliché, isn’t it?” he rambled, anxiously fiddling with his denim jacket.

You nodded. “Yeah, pretty cliché. Lucky for you,” you took a step closer, “I love clichés.”

It was way too soon to try and kiss you, Ryan knew that, but he still made the move, reaching out to touch your cheek and carefully guide your face towards his.

Unfortunately, Brendon and (Y/B/F) must’ve been praying real hard, because right before your lips could connect, Jon came stumbling over, clutching his stomach and looking rather pale.

“Guys,” he moaned, walking over to stand right next to you two, “I don’t feel so hot-“

His sentence was barely finished before he doubled over and retched, right in the middle of you and Ryan.

“Uh oh,” he grimaced.

_______________________________

Thank you for reading x

Taglist:

@darknessdancing

@raversam

@username-number-01834

@moosesmoose

@underscoredarcy

#ryan ross #ryan ross x reader #patd #p!atd #panic at the disco #panic! at the disco #emo #music #band #bands #Band Members #band member imagine #EMO TRINITY #emo quartet #imagine #imagines #fanfic

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elizabethhamilton1780 · 7 years

Text

Because She Can

A/N: Most self-indulgent fic ever. Also my first Hamilton fic. I planned on having this be a one chapter fic, but it ended up getting too long. Because I’m trying not to lose my nerve, I haven’t really proofread it so let me know if there is any huge errors. I’m posting the first half now and working on the second. Enjoy!

They said no.

Eliza wasn’t sure what she was expecting. She had been warned. Multiple times, in fact. By her father, with whom she ran over her presentation with multiple times. By her older sister’s new fiancé. Her ex-husband had even warned her when she had begrudgingly approached him for advice.

“It’s a beautiful, admirable thing you’re doing, Betsey. It’s an amazing cause.” he had said. “But banks don’t see those things. They see only profit. What they’re going to gain from a potential loan.”

She hadn’t wanted to believe him. He was a liar, a cheater. What did he know?

She had tried to raise money the conventional way. Benefit dinners, fundraisers, schmoozing her way and the Schuyler name through fancy galas. Without a well-known and established foundation name behind them, no one in the city was going to donate anything substantial.

Her heart aches, thinking of the terrible house the children were living in. The loose floorboards, the doors that never seem to completely shut. At minimum, six children to a room, with two beds.

“Mrs. Hamilton,” John Wakefield, the head of the bank, and a friend of her father’s said after a short pause.

It had been over two years since the divorce and people still call her that. “Oh, um. It’s Schuyler now. Again. Miss Schuyler.” Eliza babbled, over explaining herself. Something she had been known to do.

“Well. My apologies, Miss Schuyler.” Mr Wakefield said, tipping his head graciously. It made Eliza’s stomach tighten. It was a better alternative to the pitying look she had grown used to. “But, as I was saying. We admire and fully support your cause, but without a proper foundation behind it, the bank cannot…” She tuned the rest of the rejection out.

She had worked on this presentation for months. She had really thrown herself into the organization after the divorce was finalized. She lived, ate and breathed for these children. She wanted their lives to be as amazing as they possibly could. Not everyone in the system was as fortunate as herself and her two sisters. Just because they wouldn’t grow up in a traditional family, doesn’t mean they couldn’t grow up in a real home.

She’s brought into the present as a heavy taxi horn sounds. She feels tears form in her eyes and fall down her cheeks at a steady pace. Her heels click against the New York City pavement, the ridiculous pencil skirt she was wearing making it hard for her to walk as quickly as she wanted to.

She rips her shoes and skirt off as soon as she’s in the safety of her own apartment, her small but usually steady hands shaking as she rips the cork off her last bottle of wine. She sets it down on the countertop, opening the cabinet that contains her wine glasses. She quickly abandons that idea and takes a long sip straight from the bottle, tears continuing to fall from her eyes.

Her phone starts ringing, her older sister’s dazzling face and smile appearing on her screen. She sniffles and ignores it, taking another large gulp. It took a solid three minutes before her phone was blowing up again, all texts from the group chat with her sisters

How’d it go?! AS

Lizzy. AS

Eliza. AS

Betsey. AS

Angie. She’s clearly not able to answer at the moment. PS

No. She’s reading our messages right now. My Liza senses are tingling. AS

Christ, Ang. Bets, call us once you get the chance. Love ya xx PS

They said no. ES

Oh, love. I’m so sorry. AS

Want me to come over? AS

Eliza swallows roughly, thinking of her current state. Wearing nothing but her panties and ridiculously itchy lavender sweater. Mascara tracks undoubtedly rolling down her cheeks.

No. I need to be alone. ES

I’ll text you tomorrow. ES

We love you. PS

I’m here if you need anything. AS

She puts her phone on silent and curls up on her sofa, hugging the bottle to her chest. She feels ridiculous. Why is she so upset over something she knew was going to happen? ‘you know why.’ A voice screamed inside her.

Alex’s face flashed in her mind. His brown eyes were wide, large purple bags under them. He looked sick and horrible. A wreck. The last of her things were shoved inside the heavy duffle bag hanging over her shoulder. Alexander’s face had become blurry with her own tears.

Before she could respond to his pleas, Angelica had wedged her way between them. She was taken under her mother’s strong arm and led to the awaiting elevator.

That was three years ago. To the date. It was like some mock anniversary- Eliza tried to forget about it. But every year the same image pops into her mind.

Her phone buzzes again. She doesn’t look this time, instead taking another long drink from the bottle.

George Washington deciding to run for president. That’s how their downfall started.

He had been gone more and more, being the head of his former boss’s campaign. For every night he spent at home, he was absent for three. She didn’t mind, not really. This was a huge opportunity for Alex, for their future family.

“It’s going to be worse.” He warned her after a particularly sweet reunion. His hand rubbed up and down her bare back, his voice hoarse and tired. “When he wins the primaries. Which he's going to.”

“Mm. The campaign isn't going to last forever. I can deal with a few more months if you can.” Eliza pressed a few kisses to his shoulder, her arm slung around his middle.

“You’re just…” Alexander had sighed, unable to form his thoughts, tilting her head up for a long kiss. “perfect.”

And things were fine for another few months. Until the campaign smearing started happening.

Washington’s opponent had accused Alexander of embezzling funds, all those years ago when he had worked as the then Secretary Washington’s right hand man.

“Can we really trust Washington? Look at the man he’s appointed as his head campaign chairman. A liar, a thief of our own government?!” He had raved on and on about how Washington and his entire team couldn't be trusted. Eliza had been horrified, watching the news coverage.

He evidently had enough evidence for Alexander to be thoroughly examined, a bunch of CIA agents had raided their New York home as Eliza looked helplessly on.

“Did you really… did you really steal, Alexander?” Eliza had asked after he had finally been able to fly her out to D.C., her teary voice muffled by his chest.

“No. I didn’t, Liza. You have to believe me.” His voice cracked, the stress of the past few days finally breaking him down. She believed him immediately, without question. And then proceeded to distract him with one of the few ways that had never failed her before.

After a few crazy long days, all charges and allegations had been acquitted.

The public had been puzzled, the story had taken so many twists and turns. Alexander decided that he needed to face this head on. He was going to give a speech.

“You don’t have to stay for this.” Alexander swallowed, his shaky hands clutching at Eliza’s knee as they ride from the hotel over to the press conference.

“I want to. I’m going to be here to support you. You aren’t alone in this, Alex. I won’t let you be.” She had pressed another sweet kiss to his lips.

They both ignored the half sob that escaped Alexander’s chest. Eliza didn’t think much of it. Nerves, she blamed it on.

‘I love you.’ he had mouthed to her before he takes the stage, the camera flashes blinding even Eliza who had been instructed to wait backstage.

After a brief introduction, his speech began. “Everyone is wondering what on earth Senator Newton was able to get away with such harsh allegations. And I’m here to clear the air and give a well deserved explanation to the American people and to our future president Washington.” There’s a pause while the audience cheers. “ Whose campaign doesn’t deserve the blow it received based on my younger self’s stupid decisions. The charges against me come from a connection I once had with a man named James Reynolds. I became well acquainted with him five years ago while I was serving under Washington…”

Eliza couldn't breathe.

An affair. He had an affair that summer she had gone abroad with her sisters. He had proposed before she left- only a week before, in a vain attempt to get her to stay with him.

Maria Reynolds. She went to college with them, Eliza would soon discover in a later conversation she would have with the recently divorced woman.

She graduated in English the same semester Eliza had graduated with her own degree. She married James the semester before, after an unplanned pregnancy. The relationship turned south. She recognized Alexander standing behind Washington on a news article. Desperate for help, the young mother waited outside the treasury building for the familiar face to appear. He was lonely, she was lonely. He didn’t say no. It continued for a month- until James Reynolds had found out.

Be it because of his connection with the Schuyler family, or his job at the treasury- Reynolds had assumed he had money. Blackmailed him for nearly half of his yearly salary. Alexander would later say he paid with no hesitation. “Anything to keep you from finding out. Anything to keep you unhurt. Anything to keep you with me.”

About halfway through her husband’s confession, she felt a gentle but strong hand placed on her shoulder. “Eliza.” Eliza hadn't turned to look at the source. She ran.

She didn’t know where she was running to. Anywhere but there. Anywhere away from her husband’s calm voice as he casually and publicly explained an affair.

She found an abandoned hallway, sinking down to the floor, sobbing into her knees.

It was Washington, who found her. He held her while another fresh wave of tears hit her after seeing the man she had teasingly referred to as her father in law while introducing him to her parents a little over a year earlier. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Is all that he could manage.

While the officially proclaimed President Elect Washington was preparing for his inauguration, the self proclaimed Elizabeth Schuyler was preparing to divorce the love of her life.

She ran out of wine.

She wasn’t anywhere close to being done with drinking away her self pity. After cleaning herself up the tiniest bit, by pulling on a pair of loose ripped jeans and a baggy cotton shirt, she finds herself in a bar.

She felt ridiculous. Here she was, thirty years old, sitting in a bar with drunk college students surrounding her, toasting to the end of midterms week.

This wasn’t like anything she had pictured her life being. No babies, nothing to show for her hard work. No Alexander. Damn him. He ruined everything.

Why did she miss him?

She takes another sip of the Manhattan cocktail she had just ordered, looking at the clock behind her. 12:30 am. He’d be awake.

“Liza?” The sound of his voice makes her go weak at the knees. She’s suddenly very glad to be sitting down.

“I miss you. I miss your kisses. I miss when you’d kiss my thighs.” The words come tumbling out before she can stop them.

A beat of silence from the other line. “Are you drunk?”

Okay. Not the reaction she was expecting. “Don’t you miss me?”

“You know I do.” He says after a short pause. “Everyday. Who are you with? Peg or Ang?”

“No one. ‘M by myself. And…” She pauses, looking at the bartender, squinting her blurry eyes to find his name tag. “Liam the bartender.”

“You went out drinking by yourself?” He sounds appalled. “That’s not like you. At all. Are you-?”

“The bank denied my loan. For the orphanage.” She interrupts him, feeling a fresh wave of tears fall over her.

“Sweetheart. I’m so sorry.” His voice was soft. He means it.

“No, I. It’s stupid. I knew they were going to say no. Being paid back with money from benefit dinners and donations is a ridiculously preposterous and sketchy thing for a bank to do- I just. I hoped they would have seen the pictures of the kids and the home they live in and maybe wanted to help? I just. I don’t know how I’m going to face them on Monday, I- oh, god.” She covers her mouth as another sob escapes her lips.

“Oh, love. It’s okay, I promise it’s going to be okay.” Alexander’s voice fills her ears, making her heart soar and sink at the same time. How is that possible?

It takes a couple minutes of listening to his words for her to calm down.

“I’m sorry.” She says, wiping away her leftover tears with a napkin Liam the bartender had placed in front of her. “For calling you so late.”

“Don’t ever apologize for that. I’m always going to be here for you.” The serious sincerity of his voice frightened her.

“I. This is ridiculous. I can’t believe… I’m in a bar, alone at this hour.” She laughs bitterly.

“You’re a grown woman. If you want to go to a bar and get shit faced drunk, you’re allowed to.” She can just see his crooked grin through the phone.

“I’m thirty-two. Way too old for this. I should be emotionally stable by now.” She winces at the wrecked sound of her voice.

“I’m thirty-four and I still do the same. Keeps us young.” There was that stupid grin again.

“You’re a bad example.” she says.

“Perhaps I am.” Alex allows and then she can hear something that sounds like papers rustling. “You okay, though? Really?”

“No. But I’ll get there. I just needed… a night of self pity before I figure out our next move.” Eliza sighs, running a hand down her face. He hums but doesn’t otherwise respond. “I really do miss you.”

“That’s just the booze talking, Betsey,” Alex says sadly. “You’re going to hate me again in the morning.”

“I could never hate you.” She frowns. “You broke my heart,” she pauses when she hears his sharp intake of breath. “Very.. publicly. I should hate you. But I don’t. I still love you.”

Nothing but a beat of silence on the other line. He clears his throat. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

“Well, I just did. Don’t you love me too?” She says, a teasing tone to her voice.

“You know I do.” he sighs.

“Say it, then.” Eliza challenges.

Another pause. “I love you, Liza. More than anything.”

She sighs happily, leaning her chin on her hand while her elbow rests on the bar. “Show me how much, then.” When he doesn’t reply, she frowns. Maybe she needed to clarify? “I mean… I want you to come and make love to me, Alexander.”

On the other line, a sharp intake of breath. “Please, Liza. Please don’t do this. Don’t make me say no to you.” Alex says weakly.

“Well, don’t say no then.”

“I can’t.” He says. “I can’t make love to you. Not when you’re like this.”

“Like what?” Eliza frowns, her mind a drunken haze. She doesn’t understand what’s so wrong with her idea. They were divorced, sure. But they both admitted their love for each other. Didn’t that mean something?

“Drunk. This is just the alcohol talking. You’re going to wake up tomorrow and hate me again.”

“Drunk Liza has always been more honest then sober Liza. You know this.” Her frown deepens. She starts to fiddle with the straw in her drink clumsily, her hands needing something to do.

Alex snorts. “Drunk Liza also almost gave Lafayette a strip tease in college. She most definitely would have if her sober boyfriend hadn’t intervened.”

She closes her eyes. “Please. Please, Alex.” Her voice sounds so pitiful even to her own ears that it hurts her.

His voice is hard. Perhaps even a tad bitter. Snappy. “I can’t. Not when you can’t give consent. I don’t want you to hate me even more than you already do.”

She sniffles, the red-hot iron of rejection burning a hole in her barely put together drunken heart.

“Have Liam the bartender call you a cab. Go home and go to bed, love.” His voice is much gentler when he speaks next.

“Don’t have the cash on me. Spent it all on my drinks.” She frowns, rummaging through her purse.

“Let me get you an Uber, then.”

“No. I can walk.” She throws the six extra crumbled up one dollar bills onto the counter, stumbling out of her chair.

“Walking?” He asks, his tone incredulous. “Are you crazy?”

“What happened to me being a grown woman?” Eliza counters, smiling. Perhaps she would have the last word tonight.

“Even I try to avoid the streets at night,” Alex says after taking a deep breath. She can just picture him running his hands through his hair as he always did whenever he was frustrated and trying not to lose his temper. “And I’m like, twice your size.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’ll be fine.” She lets out a breath as the cool night air hits her lungs.

“Eliza, you can’t walk home this late drunk.” He says impatiently. “Let me call you a damn car.”

“Umm…” She pretends to think about it. “Um. No. Night, ‘Lex.” She hangs up the phone with a small, triumphant giggle. She showed him.

Her phone immediately starts vibrating again. She doesn't have to look at her phone to know who it is. She ignores it. Until the damn thing continues to vibrate incessantly, so much so that she ends up throwing the annoying contraption into her bag.

She makes it to Central Park before she relents. Her feet were starting to hurt and she’s fairly confident she doesn’t live anywhere near here anymore.

“Hi.” She says into the phone, slumping down on the nearest bench.

“Finally.” Alexander sighs, his voice full of relief and frustration. “Where are you? I’m coming to get you.”

“Okay.” Eliza chirps happily. Alexander was better than any car he could have sent.

“Where are you?” He asks again after a beat, the definite sound of a door slamming shut in the background.

Suddenly she’s scared. An irrational fear picks up in her drunken mind. Was he mad at her? She was only joking. Why did it even matter to him? They weren’t married. Hell, they were barely acquaintances nowadays. Distant acquaintances who are forced to be civil and interact in public as they were still apart of the same social circle.

“Elizabeth.” He speaks again, that familiar harsh tone of frustration seeping through.

The use of her full name is like a dagger to her heart. Similar to the feeling she would get as a young girl when her parents would use it. “You called me Elizabeth.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. She’s surprised Alex even catches it.

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” He finally snaps. “Where the hell are you?”

“It is… my name. I’m just never called that. It’s usually Eliza. Liza, Betsey. Sometimes Bets. Even Lizzy.” She swallows. “I hate being called Elizabeth. It’s too formal. Especially from you, considering…” our ten year relationship, she thinks. She knows Alexander will know what she means. It’s always been like that with the two of them. And it has been that way since the beginning. With Alexander calling her by her full name, it just reminds her of all she has lost. It hurts way more than it should.

Alex lets out a small sigh. When he speaks again, his tone is much softer. “Okay. I’m sorry. Please, please tell me where you are so I can help you get home. It’s late and I need to make sure you’re safe, baby.”

She inhales sharply. Baby, he said. He called her baby. It’s been two years. Her life is completely different than what it was then. She’s single, not a mother but instead head coordinator of a failing organization, the organization that brought her and her two sisters to her parents. She’s back at the orphanage, piss drunk on a Thursday night and she is no longer married to Alexander Hamilton.

The tears form in her eyes and roll down her cheeks in a single sweep. Her hands tremble from the cold, the tears making her phone stick to her face where it was pressed to her cheek. It’s cold, dark and she has never felt more alone.

“Eliza?”

“I don’t know!” She sobs, her other trembling hand covering her mouth. Tears continue to run down her cheeks at an alarming rate. Mournful sobs escape her chest, wracking her body. She barely hears Alexander’s frantic reassurances.

“Oh. I. uh. I-It’s okay. Shh, love.” Alex says and Eliza can just imagine the look of terror on his face. He’s never been good at comforting. All he knows how to do is yell and punch whoever was the cause of the tears. (That’s why it was so difficult him after the Reynold’s debacle. He couldn’t exactly punch himself in the gut, though it seemed he already had.) “It’s okay, baby.” The pet name made Eliza sob harder.

It took what felt like hours for her to calm herself down. She sniffled once more, using the sleeve of her sweater to wipe away leftover tears. “Central Park. South end, by the museums.”

Alex breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay. I’m on my way. Want me to stay on the phone?”

She hangs up instead of answering, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. She suddenly feels as drunk as she is. She eventually pulls herself up from the bench, making her way to the street where she would be easily visible for Alexander to see her.

It takes five minutes for him to find her.

“Eliza.” She hears behind her. She turns and her breath is once more taken away. She runs (more like stumbles) into his arms, burying her face into his neck, ignoring the small “oof” sound he makes. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” He says after a moment. She can feel his hesitation as he wraps his arms around her small, trembling frame.

He smells like he always does, like coffee and a faint bit of cologne he puts on every morning, the same one he’s been using since his early twenties. He’s beautiful and she’s missed him so much.

Eliza reluctantly pulls away to really look at him and a small gasp leaves her mouth as she does. His hair, his beautiful black locks of hair that used to hit his shoulders, is now gone. It’s clipped short on the sides, a bit longer on the top. “You cut your hair.” She says after a moment, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Alexander smiles a bit, nodding. “I did. Needed a change.” He gently unwinds her arms from his neck, shrugging off his own coat and helping her into it. “That bad?” he asks with a laugh at her still shocked expression.

“No. It’s different. But I like it.” She clings to him again, wanting to be closer.

“Let’s get you home, hm?” Alex says, once again prying away from Eliza’s surprisingly strong grip. The pair starts walking in the right direction of her apartment. He ends up having to wind an arm around her waist, mostly because she stumbles three times in about two feet.

“Mind telling me what’s got you so upset?” He asks carefully after a few blocks. Eliza tenses up but relaxes after Alexander squeezes her gently. “It’s more than the bank denying your loan.”

Eliza swallows roughly, looking down at her feet. Her hand is clutching Alexander’s that lays on her hip, the other holding loosely onto the strap of her purse. “You called me baby.” She admits in a small voice.

“What?” He asks.

“You called me baby. I loved when you called me baby. It made me sad, thinking of all we’ve lost. It’s been three years, you know. Since I left you. And it’s like, a hole in my heart. It’s been there since the elevator door closed.” Drunk Liza is as honest as she is clumsy. She stops walking, and Alexander does too, a deep frown on his face as he stops to face her.

“I miss it. You calling me baby. I miss you.” She frowns, matching his expression. She surges forward suddenly, their mouths meeting in an awkward, blessed kiss before Alexander yanks away. Tears immediately form in her eyes again. The drunken woman attempts to turn around and run away from her ex, embarrassment and hurt flowing through her veins.

“Hey, hey.” Alex frowns, barely catching her wrist and pulling her back. “Liza, look at me. Baby. Baby, please look at me.” She sniffles but obeys. Her almond-shaped eyes were full of tears, what little makeup she hadn’t cried off smearing.

His slightly trembling hands cup her cheeks, thumbs stroking her cheekbones, his dark eyes wide, earnest. And sad, Eliza can see sadness. “Fuck, you have no idea how hard this is for me. How hard it is to say no.” A small sob escapes her lips. “Shh. Please, Liza. If you were sober, a-and not in emotional distress, I would say yes in a heartbeat. I’d book us a room at that ridiculous bed and breakfast you loved on the Oregon Coast. I’d kiss and make love to you for hours at a time, days even.” He laughs tearfully. “God. If I had even the slightest inkling that you’d be willing to take me back, I’d do anything in my power to prove to you how much I love you.” Tears were streaming down both of their cheeks. “But you’re not in that position right now, Liza. And I refuse to take advantage of you. I’m not going to do anything that might make you hate me more than you already do.”

Eliza swallows a sob that was climbing up her throat. She nods once, wiping away her tears once Alex lets her face go. He hesitates before he takes her hand and laces their fingers together. That was safe.

They walk in silence the remaining few blocks. Eliza mumbles a small hello to the doorman, Alex following her inside to the elevator. “Stay?” She asks meekly, turning to face him while she waits.

He offers her a small smile, squeezing her hand. “I can’t, babe. Remember what I said earlier?”

She nods, biting her lower lip. She really didn’t want to be alone.

“You’ll be okay. I promise. You’re not going to spend the night alone.” He lets go of her hand once the elevator doors open. “I love you, Liza. Remember what I said.”

Eliza frowns a little, watching him start to walk away just as the elevator doors slide shut. It takes a bit of effort but she manages to find her keys which were hidden at the bottom of her bag. Before she can unlock the door, it swings open. It’s Angelica.

It’s her dear, sweet protective older sister. Her dark skin is bare, with no makeup, yet it still looks flawless. Her beautiful, curly locks are pulled back into a messy bun that only she could make elegant. She’s wearing leggings and her “Woman’s Place is in the House and Senate” shirt Peggy had given her as a present last Christmas. She’s so beautiful, strong and everything Eliza isn’t.

“Oh, Liz,” Angelica says softly, her eyes tender and worried.

Eliza sniffles and launches herself into her big sister’s arms. She’s in her thirties and still needs her sister like she needs air. She needs her as much as she did on her first day at the orphanage all those years ago.

The earliest memory Eliza has is of the tree. She was five years old.

There’s a big oak tree in the back of the home. She remembers curling up under its shade, the other children running around and playing. She remembers the rustling of the green leaves.

She remembers wanting to go home. Funny, now she doesn’t remember the home she once missed dearly.

“What’s a chink like you doing here?” Someone had asked her.

She didn’t reply. She didn’t know what she was doing there. She hugged her knees to her chest and hid her face.

They nudged her with a foot. “Come on, chink. Why’re you here? Huh?”

“Leave her alone.” Someone’s sharp voice spat.

Eliza had looked up, startled. The boy seemed to be startled too.

The girl who had come to her defense glared ferociously at her bully. Her curls were tight and kinky, pulled into two pigtails. She was wearing a red sundress and Eliza remembers thinking how beautiful she looked.

“I-I was just playing.” He stammered.

The girl was holding a little girl’s, who couldn't have been older than two years old, hand. The little girl was sucking on her other hand’s thumb, her eyebrows pulled together in what appears to be a glare meant for the boy.

“Yeah? Well, don’t. Leave, Austin. Or I’m going to tell Miss Windham.” She glares at him until he’s out of sight, her expression softening when she looked at Eliza. “Come on, Peg.” She pulls the girl along, sitting down next to Eliza. “Hi! I’m Angelica. And this is Peggy.”

“Hello,” Eliza said weakly.

“What’s your name?” She prompted, offering a kind grin. It was infectious. Eliza felt the corners of her mouth turn up.

“Elizabeth. But I like to be called Eliza.”

“Liza!” Peggy says suddenly, giggling.

“Liza works.” Eliza smiled at the little girl, whose short curls framed her round, adorable face. Her shirt was a bright yellow. It reminded her of the sunshine, which is exactly what little Peggy seemed to radiate.

“Well, Eliza. We were just going to go and swing. Wanna come?” Angelica asks, standing up and pulling Peggy with her.

“Sure.”

From then on, the three girls were conjoined at the hip. Eliza remembers how they all slept on the same bed, shared clothes and walked to and from school together. No one could get them to be apart for more than five minutes at a time.

She remembers being shocked when Miss Windham had called them all into her office after dinner. “Girls. We have some news. Good news.” The old woman had smiled kindly at the three little girls who sat in front of her desk. “We’ve found a very nice family who wants to adopt you. All three of you.”

(Eliza would later learn that her parents had only wanted one and had asked about herself. They had been warned about her attachment to other two girls and decided that they had more than enough room and money for more children. They had always said three was their “number.”)

The girls stared blankly up at the woman.

“They’re coming to meet you all tomorrow and sign the papers.” She continued on. “You’re going to have a home. Isn’t that amazing?”

That confused Eliza.

A home? She already had a home. She didn’t understand the other kids’ jealousy and snide remarks.

She only knew only how kind Mr. and Mrs. Schuyler were.

Mr. Schuyler had a loud, booming laugh and an infectious grin. He made Peggy laugh so hard she nearly spat out her milk. She liked him and his laugh. She also liked his mustache.

Mrs. Schuyler was gorgeous. Her long, blonde hair was beautiful. Eliza wanted to touch and know if it was as soft as it looked. Her pearl earrings were gorgeous, her smile kind.

Eliza decided she wouldn’t mind leaving her home to find a new one with the Schuylers. She knew that both Angelica and Peggy agreed.

As long as she had her sisters, she wouldn’t mind anything, she thought.

Eliza wakes up with a funny taste in her mouth and a pounding headache. Her sister hands her a bottled water and a few aspirin. She takes both gratefully, resting her pounding head on her knees. She recounts last night in one long rush.

Alexander.

“How did you-?”

“He called me. Alex did.” Angelica says, stroking Eliza’s messy hair away from her face. “I had John drive me here while he picked you up.”

Eliza stays quiet, her hands picking some lint off the sleeve of her sweater.

“Are we going to talk about last night?”

She groans. “No.”

“Then don’t talk. Listen.” Angelica says, frowning. “It’s almost been two years. You haven't been on a single date since then- not for lack of trying. Both Peggy and I have set you up on multiple dates- Stop it.” She frowns, yanking the pillow Eliza had used to cover her ears. “Shut up and listen. It’s been two years and you still say his name in your sleep.”

Eliza swallows, blinking away tears that form, startled by how quickly they appeared.

Angelica sighs. “Look. I’m not going to lie. I hate him. I hate his fucking guts and I wish I could wrap said guts around his throat and-!”

“Ang.”

“Point is. You love him. And he loves you. I didn’t believe it until last night, Bets. But he loves you. He had every opportunity last night to fuck you.” Eliza’s cheeks flush, remembering how desperate and clingy she was. “And he didn’t. He didn’t because… he told Mulligan once that if he were to be lucky enough to get another chance with you, he’d do everything he could do to make right by you.”

Eliza sits up with a glare. “You were the one who told me to divorce him.”

“I know, love. Because I’ve always known you deserved better. “ Angelica says and Eliza huffs and lays flat on her back, glaring up at the ceiling. “And what he did to you… that’s just. Not okay. But with two years and neither of you going on a single date…”

“He hasn’t been on a date either?”

“Not according to Herc, he hasn’t. And Laf.”

“Oh.” Eliza takes a deep breath, ignoring the blossom of hope that forms in her chest.

“I. I stand by what I said. I don’t think it was a mistake for you to divorce him. It put the bastard in his place.” Angelica sighs, stretching out beside her sister on the bed. “But I don’t want to ever see you like you were last night ever again. I want you to be happy, Liza. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And I think for you to truly be happy, you need to listen to yourself.”

“Listen to me?” Eliza changes her stare from the ceiling to Angelica. “What does that mean?”

Angelica hums. “Remember what mom and dad said when you told them you were majoring in Social Work?”

Eliza snorts. “How could I forget?”

“Mm. So you listened to them and changed majors. Only to be miserable your entire freshman year. When did college become fun for you?”

“My Sophomore year. When I switched majors.” Eliza realizes quietly.

“One example out of thousands.” Angelica rolls onto her side to really look at her sister, pillowing her head on her hand. “You asked me what I thought you should do. And I told you to divorce him. Man cheats on wife, wife divorces man and becomes happier because of said divorce, or so the story goes. That’s how it usually works. People feel happy after grieving. Empowered. And so you did. You got a divorce because that’s the way you should have felt.”

Eliza swallows, breaking eye contact.

“But the thing is, Liza. I’m not you. I can’t tell you what’s best for you because only you know that.” Angelica continues. “You need to stop doing what I and your brain thinks is right and start doing what your heart thinks is right. You have the absolute purest heart, Elizabeth Schuyler. The best one I know. It’s never going to fail you.”

- - -

Eliza ponders her sister’s words during the next few days. She stays alone in her apartment, ordering pizza, watching movies and looking at photos of puppies from the closest animal shelter.

It’s Sunday night when she finally get’s the courage to text him.

Thank you. ES

Glad you’re safe and hope you’re feeling better. AH

When Eliza goes to work the next day, Charlotte, one of her closest friends on the board, tackles her with a hug as soon as she enters the office door. “I took two days off work, Lotts. Not a month. But hello to you too.” She says teasingly once she’s released.

“You’re a miracle worker, Eliza. Truly.”

“Didn’t you get the email? They said no.”

“The bank may have said no, but look.” Charlotte stands at her computer, pulling up the foundation’s financial statement. “Someone donated 250,000 dollars.” She squeaks before Eliza could process the numbers.

“Oh my god.” Eliza felt dizzy.

“I know!” Charlotte exclaims. “That’s like, double what we asked the bank for.”

“Who in the hell donated a quarter of a million dollars?”

“We don’t know. It was anonymous.”

Only it wasn’t. Eliza knew exactly who donated it.

Her head ran through the numbers. The work they could do with that chunk of money. They could get the kids new beds- fix the stairs and maybe even update the basement.

After another celebratory hug, Eliza retreats into her office and dials the number she knew by heart.

“Hello?” Alex answers for once. She had been expecting his secretary. His voice sounds cautious.

“Hey. Sober Liza here.” She smiles a bit, biting into her lower lip.

He laughs. “Good to know.” A brief pause. “How are you?”

“Better.” She admits. “Just needed some rest, I think.”

“I’m glad.”

“What about you?” She asks.

“I’m a lot better after hearing your voice. I uh, was worried.”

“I know it was you. Who.. donated the money.” Her heart beats faster.

He coughs awkwardly after a pause. “It’s a great cause.”

“A quarter of a million dollars, Alex? Really?”

“I had help, I promise.” He says weakly. “People at work… Burr even chipped in.”

Eliza sighs. “I just. You have no idea how much this means to me. To the kids… I don’t know how to even begin to thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m happy to help. Like I said, great and meaningful cause. And the fact that you and your sisters met there, it’s just. It’s a special place and it needs to be kept alive…” He babbles.

“Are you seeing anyone?” She blurts out.

“No.” He answers. “I. Are you?”

“No.” She smiles a bit.

“Oh. that’s.. good. I mean, shit.” Alex huffs awkwardly. “It isn't good, I want you to be happy. I just meant-!”

“Come over tonight?” She interrupts him. “I’ll make dinner.”

“I’d love that.” And Eliza can just hear the hope in his voice. “I’ll bring some wine.”

- - -

They take it slow.

Just dinner the first night, no matter how badly Eliza just wants to roll around in bed with him. No, they were going to do this right. She makes him his favorite pasta dish.

They text all the next week until Saturday when both of them are finally free. They see a movie. Some romantic Nicholas Sparks movie that Charlotte had insisted was good. And it was decent until the main character cheats on the other. She can feel Alexander stiffen in the seat next to her and can just see his mind running a million hours a minute.

She hesitates before she takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. She feels like crying once she feels the familiar spark she always felt with him— and even more so when she sees the look of wonder on his face. “Let’s get out of here.” She offers him a small smile and he nods jerkily, following her out of the theater.

They take a walk instead, holding hands the entire way. He buys her a hot chocolate from the little coffee shop down the road from his firm, insisting it was the best. She refuses to agree with him. Her mother’s homemade recipe was simply without a doubt, the best hot chocolate, she insists. Though she has to admit, watching Alexander laugh and talk animatedly across the table from her, this one was pretty damn good.

They start seeing each other every day after that. Even if it’s for a quick dinner at Alexander’s office, they make time for each other. He walks her home after a late dinner on a Tuesday night. He sheepishly asks for a goodnight kiss, his hands stuffed in his peacoat pockets that he had only just stolen back from Eliza’s apartment. She had rolled her eyes fondly and pulled him to her with the lapels of his jacket.

“I’m doing this right.” He insists later, after a short but sweet make-out session on her sofa, when Eliza had teased him for asking. “I’m not going to fuck this up again. We’re going at your pace and I’m happy with whatever you’re willing to give me.”

“Even if I decide I never want to have sex again? Become a lifelong virgin?” She smirks a little, moving closer so they were face to face again, her arms around his neck, Alexander’s forehead on her own.

“Even then. I mean it.” Alex pouts, pulling away from her grip when she scoffs. “I’ve seen what life is like without you, Eliza. I have no desire to live it again. Even if it means no sex for the rest of my life.” He wasn’t lying, she could see it in his eyes.

Eliza feels her heart melt slightly, putting a hand on the back of his neck to beckon him closer. She presses a series of sweet kisses to his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip before she pulls away, nuzzling into his neck. He pulls her into his lap, resting his chin on her shoulder, humming happily.

“I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t become a lifelong virgin, though.” He says after a moment, laughing when Eliza smacks the back of his head lightly.

Four months into this relatively new but old relationship, their former intimacy makes its way back to them. She’s dreamed and thought of making love to him again from pretty much the moment the divorce papers were finalized. One last night, she always thought. So when she started dating him again, she assumed she would be ready for the physical side of the relationship. Which is why she was surprised with herself when she blanched.

They were kissing lazily, some Hallmark movie playing in the background. His lips tasted like the chocolate cake they had just had, a bit of wine from their dinner a few hours before. The kisses grew more heated when she had taken it upon herself to climb into his lap, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers running through the shorter hairs on the back of his head. His hands slid naturally from her hips to her ass, hesitating before he squeezed slightly, making her gasp.

She kissed him desperately, then. Feverishly. Her nails raked lightly over his clothed shoulders. It wasn’t until he had begun to lift her shirt up that she panicked. She had tensed up, her hands gripping the soft cotton material of his tee shirt.

To his credit, he had stopped immediately, dropping her shirt from where he was pushing it up. His hands were held up almost in a mock surrender motion. His eyebrows were furrowed, worried. “Did I cross the line?”

She swallows roughly, shaking her head. Maria’s beautiful face filling her mind. He touched her. He kissed and made love to her. On their bed. In their apartment, they had shared together since junior year of college. They had left that place for over two years by the time Alex confessed- but it still burned.

Before she knew what was happening, she felt tears rushing down her cheeks. Alexander’s eyes widened and he reaches up to wipe them away.

“Don’t touch me!” She snaps, stumbling off his lap.

“Okay! Okay, I won’t.” Alex stands up from the couch too, his hands still up in the air. “I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

Eliza swallows, getting a hold of herself and the tears that she wanted to cry out. “I met her, you know.”

“Who?”

“Maria.” His eyes widen comically. “She’s pretty.”

“Not as pretty as you.” Alex says, frowning. “When did you..?”

“A month after the speech.” She coughs. “I wanted to be sure… I was getting the whole story. I wanted to hear her side too. I can’t believe you used her real name.”

“I. It needed to be real. Honest.”

“Yes, well. You had our place and myself covered with security. She had nothing.” Eliza glares. “I wanted to be sure she was okay. It wasn’t just our life you were ruining. It was her’s too.”

“I know.” His expression looks defeated. Ashamed. “I didn’t know what to do. Washington couldn't lose the race because of me- I needed to be honest.”

“You could have used a fake name. You could have given her that. A warning, at least. A chance to get out of town. Jesus Christ.” Eliza lets out a breath, sitting down on the love seat, opposite side of the room from Alexander.

“I helped her get a divorce. Or, Aaron did. Shortly after things… ended.” He says after a short pause.

Eliza nods, pulling her knees to her chest. “I asked her questions. She had no reason to lie to me. I figured she’d be honest.”

Alexander hesitates before crossing the room to be closer to her. She doesn’t tense up, so he takes that as an okay. He sits down on the edge of the coffee table in front of her. “What did she say?”

Eliza looked down at her watch. 2 o clock, it read. She wasn’t late. Maria must have arrived early. She approached slowly, her heart clenching when she truly gets a good look at the woman. She was even more beautiful in person.

Her brown hair was perfectly curly, flowing down her back. Her makeup was perfect, lips a pretty pink that stood out against her dark skin. Her brown eyes were wide when she sees Eliza. She stood up immediately, her expression unreadable. “Mrs. Hamilton.”

“Call me Eliza, please.” She swallowed roughly, sliding into the booth across from her. That name made her sick now. “Thank you for meeting me.” Though her voice was flat. She sounded anything but grateful.

“”s the least I could do. I… you have no idea how sorry I am, ma’am.” A deep frown settled on her lips. “I am. I’m so sorry.”

Eliza felt tears brimming in her eyes. It was still so fresh at the time. The hurt. Her wound was still bleeding out.

Maria cuts to the chase.“I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking clearly. James was horrible, abusive. I didn’t go to him with the intention of sleeping with him. I needed help. I was so scared and I wanted to be loved and Alex- your husband… He was lonely too. I could see it. And so I kissed him and he didn’t say no and it. It got out of hand. It was a distraction, for me. He gave me the money I had originally asked for after the first meeting. But my daughter had gotten sick so I used it to get her to the doctor instead of buying plane tickets.”

Maria swallowed, her hands clutching a hot mug of coffee. She looked as uncomfortable as Eliza herself felt. “He kept calling. I only sought him out the one time- I’m sorry.” She frowns, seeing Eliza’s expression crumble.

“No.” Eliza looks down at the table, taking a deep breath. “I asked for honesty. Continue.”

“He’d call and I’d stop by on my way to work- I worked a night shift at a diner- for a quick round, usually. I only slept over once.” She pauses when the waitress comes over to ask Eliza if she needs anything. “James came back three weeks in. I had dropped Susan off at a friend from her day caretaker’s house for the night. I thought I’d be working, but it had been slow at the restaurant all day, so my boss called and said I wasn’t needed. So I called him. Your husband, and I invited him over. But then James came home, and five minutes later, Hamilton showed up.” She swallows, Eliza remaining silent.

“It didn’t take him long to figure things out. He blackmailed him. And then tried to sell me for money, like. ‘I won’t tell anyone and I’ll let you fuck my wife if you give me money.’ The money he always spent on drugs.” She laughs bitterly. “Anyways. He didn’t continue, obviously. We had one last night- we didn’t really even do anything, he just gave me a contact sheet for a lawyer who said he’d help me. But James kept pressing for money, threatening. I assumed he paid James off because I never saw or heard from him again. Until recently. And it was on TV.”

Eliza’s quiet for a few long moments. “Did he ever… talk about me?”

“Only once. And I had to ask. I just asked where you were and. He said you were in Europe and how much he was missing you. And that he didn’t want to talk about you because of obvious reasons. He… kept you separate. In a locked away box, almost. I didn’t ask anymore because I was worried that if I did, he’d think too much about you and would stop.” The woman’s honesty was startling. “I don’t know if this is better or worse, for you. But he only ever said your name. While we were messing around…” She trails off. “I remember being jealous of you. Not because of him, specifically- but because you clearly had someone who loved you.”

“She told me her side of the story,” Eliza says finally, looking up at Alexander.

“I am sorry. For what the speech probably did to her.” Alex says. “But it had to be done for the campaign. She was… collateral damage.”

“And I guess our marriage was too, then.” He said nothing but squirmed slightly in his spot on the coffee table. She stared at him. He opened his mouth to speak again, probably to defend his actions, but she interrupts him. “You’re… not sorry, are you? You don’t regret it.”

Alexander’s expression turns incredulous. “I regret it more than anything in my life Eliza. It cost me an entire two years I could have spent with you. We lost so much time because of that stupid summer.”

“You regret the affair, but not the admission. Not the speech.” She says, still not quite meeting his eyes.

“I regret the speech hurting you.” He says, clearly hesitant. His hand hung in the air for a moment, before moving to rest on her knee carefully. “I regret not telling you about Maria the moment you returned home. I regret not having the opportunity to grovel at your feet to beg you to stay with me like I would have. I have plenty of regrets, Eliza. I’ve hurt you so badly, I know, but… I don’t regret the admission. It was what got Washington into office- I didn't want the campaign to suffer because of mistakes I made as a dumb twenty-something-year-old.”

Eliza’s glare increases. “Get out.”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“Get out. I need to be alone.”

“Eliza-” He reaches out for her.

“Get. Out.” She glares at him, tightening her grip on her knees.

Alexander rushes to obey. Eliza never uses that tone and he didn’t want to overstep, even if his instincts were screaming at him to stay and convince her, Eliza knew. He never liked to be alone after a fight, she doubts that had changed. He shrugs on his jacket. His eyes are sad, panicked. “I love you. Only you. I never loved her.”

“I know.” She says softly, her eyes tired. “I know. And this isn’t. I’m not breaking up with you. I just need…” she doesn’t continue. She isn't sure what she needs. She just knows she can’t be around him right now.

Alexander nods, his eyes still worried but less panicked. “I’m sorry.” He grabs his jacket, turning to open the door. “Call me. When… when you’re ready. I love you.”

She nods once, looking down at her legging-clad legs. When the door is shut, she rolls onto her side, still curled up in the fetal position. Tears roll down her cheeks silently as she stared at the vase that sits on her coffee table. She lasts five minutes before she's digging through her purse to find her phone.

I love you too. ES

- - -

They text constantly throughout the entire week. Eliza doesn’t invite him over and Alex doesn’t push, something she’s grateful for. He gives her space. It’s a stark contrast from the Alexander she remembers. The one who would sleep on the floor outside her door after a fight like a Labrador. She had tripped over him in the middle of the night, as she was cold and lonely and whatever they were fighting about paled in comparison to that. She had smacked her head on the wall on the other side of the hall. It even left a tiny dent.

Alexander had insisted on taking her to the hospital, even though she knew for a fact was fine. It was comical watching her at the time boyfriend explain the incident to the doctors. She was sure they looked crazy. Alex was still wearing his suit and tie he had worn to his internship while Eliza wearing her pink pajamas with donuts scattered around, a fluffy grey robe to top the ensemble off.

She was fine, of course. They were sent home essentially right away. The cab ride was deadly silent and so was the trek up to their shoebox apartment on the fifth floor. It wasn’t until she saw the dent on the wall that she started giggling. Alex was exasperated but relieved that she didn’t seem to be mad anymore. They snapped a photo of the moment, Alexander kissing Eliza’s cheek with the dent right above their heads.

She giggles a bit into the gray sleeve of her cashmere sweater, at the memory. She was in her office, her long dark locks of hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She was wearing her glasses today, not wanting to be bothered with contacts. She wonders if she could ever find that photo again…

I forgot to pack my lunch. ES

Oh? AH

Mhm. And I’m hungry. ES

That’s a hint, Alex. ES

Is that permission to come and see you? At your work? AH

Yes. As long as you have food. Please xx ES

Give me an hour and I’ll be there. AH

Love you. AH

“She’s right in there.” Eliza can hear Charlotte’s voice, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor get closer and closer. She knocks once before her round, happy face appears in the crack. “Hey, Liz. There’s someone here for you.”

“Let him in.” Eliza says with a small, fond eye roll after she mouths ‘hot!’ at her. She beams when she finally comes face to face with Alex, a bit amused by his unsure posture. One of his hands was holding a drink carrier, the other a to go bag.

She takes the bags from him, setting them down on her desk. She cups his cheeks, his skin cold from the spring breeze outside, and pulls him in for a quick kiss.

His face is bewildered when she pulls away, eyebrows knitted together.

“What?” She laughs.

“I thought you were mad at me,” Alex says. “I prepared myself the whole walk over here to be yelled at and instead I get a kiss. I don’t understand?”

“I don’t either. I don’t know what happened the other night- I don’t understand it. Any of it. We have a lot of… Shit, for lack of a better word. We do. We have a lot of shit we need to get through because I don’t know how I feel about this. About anything. All I know for sure is that I love you and I want to keep trying to figure everything out with you.” She says, winding her arms around his neck. “If you’re willing. That would be enough for me.”

“Anything, Liza. As long as I get to be with you.” Alex says earnestly, hesitantly wrapping his arms around her waist. “It’s all going to be under your terms, you know. Everything. I’m not in any position whatsoever to be asking anything of you- sex especially. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even touched your shirt.”

“It’s okay. It wasn’t just you, babe. I… well, I didn't show any warning signs. I don’t even know why I reacted like that.” She admits sheepishly. “I’m working on it.”

“You haven’t forgiven me.”

“What?” Eliza frowns. “That’s not-”

“It is true, and it’s okay,” Alex says, interrupting her. “I hurt you, baby. I hurt you enough that you left me. All that doesn’t just get swept under the rug because we start dating again. You know?”

Eliza nods once. She smiles sadly after a moment. “Guess I’ll work on that, too.”

“We’ve got nothing but time,” Alex promises, one hand tipping her chin up, pressing a few short kisses to her lips. “I promise.”

“And I’m holding you to that promise.” She pulls him down for another kiss before pushing him away once more and unpacking their food. They sit and eat in a comfortable silence, their legs tangled together under her desk while they enjoyed each other’s company.

He finishes his meal before her, wandering around her office while she continued her work, examining the different knickknacks and photos. She looks at him through the corner of her eye, noticing the photo he was looking at. It was of herself and her two sisters holding up their newly signed adoption papers on the front porch of her childhood home.

“I’ve never seen that before.” He informs her, lifting up the picture frame to examine the photo more closely.

“My mom just sent it to me the other day.” She smiles a bit, leaning back in her chair. “It’s been an hour. Don’t you have that meeting with Burr?”

“Nope, actually. He canceled. Don’t have anything until three.” He says dismissively, turning to the other wall. “Are these all your kids?”

The wall was absolutely covered in photographs. Half were real photos, the other half pieces of artwork that the children had made her. They were mixed together to form a collage of sorts. It was Eliza’s favorite thing. So many beautiful, young faces beaming at Eliza when she had taken the photos herself. Being the chairman of the organization, she and Charlotte weren’t expected to interact with the children. They both loved to, anyways. It reminds them of what they’re working so hard for.

“Mhm.” She moves across the room to stand by him. “His name is Jack. That’s Christine. She’s Lily. Jon, Erik.” She points out a few of the children on the wall. She can name every single one of the children on the wall- even though the number isn't that large, it’s something she prides herself in. She loves those kids dearly and if it were possible- she’d adopt every single one of them.

“Sorry. This must be boring for you.” She realizes a few moments later, her nose crinkling.

“No, no,” Alexander reassures her, taking her hands in his. “Don’t apologize. I love watching you talk about your work. Your eyes and face light up- it’s cute. I love how much you care about these kids. Makes me wonder how different my life could have turned out if they had someone like you running the homes back in St Croix.”

Eliza smiles sweetly at him, his words making her heart jump. “It makes me happy to hear that. Your story was always a part of my motivation too, you know. I don’t want anyone to have to go through that.”

“The world is a better place because you’re in it, Elizabeth Schuyler.” Alexander pulls her into his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around her and resting his chin on her head. “Mine especially.”

- - -

Eliza was on a high.

Alexander had kept true to his promise. He took a few days off work (a miracle of itself) and took her the Oregon Coast. They spent their long weekend taking walks on the beach, finding seashells, sand dollars and exploring cute shops. She finds a few knick-knacks and things for her family, feeling content and happy every time the day closes.

On the third night of their vacation, they made love.

It came on suddenly, the urge she felt coiling in her stomach. They had shared a bed plenty times in their new relationship. She was by now well accustomed to falling asleep with Alexander snoring in her ear again. But it felt different that night when he climbed into bed. She hadn’t been subtle at all when she rolled on top of him. He stared at her blankly, his hands glued to his side. He didn’t want to overstep again.

“Liza. Are you sure? I can’t exactly go anywhere if this goes wro-” He was cut off by his own groan when Eliza had moved her hips deliberately. There wasn’t much time for protesting after that.

They spent their last vacation day in bed, becoming better acquainted with each other’s bodies once more. That was probably Eliza’s favorite day of the whole vacation.

Returning to New York was a bit of a chore, but Eliza was happy. For the first time in what feels to her like forever. She even informs her parents of her new relationship, feeling nothing could bring her down.

Her father is as supportive as he always is. A bit bewildered, but supportive. Her mother, on the other hand… She had loved Alexander. She had accepted him into the family right away, introduced her to friends as her son even before they were married. She was even angrier then Philip when the Reynold’s scandal came to light.

Her voice was light and airy, a tone that meant she was displeased but was willing to move on. Eliza and her sisters had heard it plenty of times over the years. “Bring him with you Easter weekend.”

Alexander was rightfully terrified and tried in vain to come up with excuses why he couldn't leave the city that weekend. Eliza had heard none of it, and that’s how they ended up on the train ride to Albany.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Alex,” Eliza says as she feels the train start to calm down. “Honestly. My family are reasonable people. And if I can forgive, so can they.” She squeezes his hand reassuringly before she stands up.

“Easy for you to say. You know you’re in Catherine Schuyler’s favor.” Alex grumbled, hitching their shared carry-on bag over his shoulder.

It’s Angelica who comes to pick them up. After a customary Schuyler sister reunion, consisting of them screaming while holding each other and causing a small scene, the eldest sister looks at her former brother in law. They had been close, had known each other for a few weeks before introducing Eliza to him. They related to each other more than anything. So much so that Eliza briefly wondered early on in their relationship if Alex had chosen the wrong sister. He hadn’t.

The two of them were like fire. They challenged each other and pushed each other to be better. They went to law school together. They burned red hot and could do a lot of damage to each other if needs be. Eliza had seen a glimpse of that during the divorce where Angelica had represented her. It was almost as if the affair had hurt Angelica more than it hurt herself, some days.

“Alex.” Angelica brings Eliza out of her reverie. “Hey.”

“Hello, Angelica.” Alexander nods a bit nervously.

Angelica turned straight back to her sister and threw an arm around her shoulder, leading her to the car. Eliza sees Alexander let out a sigh of relief. It’s not exactly a warm welcome, but it’s a nice start.

“Peggy was just arriving when I left to pick you guys up,” Angelica informs the pair, Eliza looking happily out the window as they made their way to her childhood home. “Apparently she has a new girl.”

“Oh? How exciting.” Eliza smiles, happy for her younger sister. Things seemed to be falling into place for all of them. She shares a happy glance with Alexander through the rearview mirror, getting a nervous half smile in return.

They pull into her parent’s winding driveway and she can just feel her boyfriend’s anxiety rise. They all three climb out of the car and Eliza presses a reassuring kiss to his cheek before unloading their suitcase from the trunk of Angelica’s car.

Her parents and sister all file onto the porch, a huge smile gracing Peggy’s bright face. “Liza!” She dashes down the steps, acting more like the sixteen-year-old girl Eliza will always think of her as, and much less like the actual twenty-nine-year-old woman she is. They embrace tightly even though they had seen each other only a month prior.

Peggy didn’t even pause to think before she launches herself into Alexander’s arms, shocking both her family and Alex. He pauses before wrapping his arms around her and squeezing back lightly. “Hey, Peg.” A fond tone seeped through.

“Hey, bro.” She grins as she pulls away. “Welcome back. I won’t hesitate to murder you if you hurt her again.” Her tone was awfully cheery. “And I’ll get away with it because I happen to have a kick-ass lawyer whose already agreed to defend me.”

“It’s true,” Angelica calls from the porch, shrugging modestly.

“I don’t doubt it,” Alex reassures her, taking Eliza’s hand when she offers it. Peggy leads them onto the porch.

Eliza embraces both of her parents, whispering “Be nice,” into her mother’s ear before pulling away.

“Mr. Schuyler-” Alexander starts after clearing his throat.

“Oh, please. Call me Philip, son.” Her father dismisses his formality with a wave of his hand. “If our Liza has accepted you back, so can we.” He shakes Alexander’s hand, his usual kind grin on his face.

Alexander visibly relaxes and offers a sheepish smile. He turns towards Eliza’s mother. “Catherine, I’m so-”

“Mrs. Schuyler will do,” Catherine says politely, but the venom in her voice was almost tangible. There’s a beat of perhaps a bit of uncomfortable silence. Angelica smirks while both Philip and Peggy grimace sympathetically. They’ve all been the target of Catherine Schuyler’s wrath at one point or another and all know how scary it can be.

“Mom.” Eliza gathers her bearings, frowning. Her mother pats her shoulder comfortingly.

“Everything’s alright, dear. Let’s all head inside, yeah? A storm’s brewing, best not be out here when it arrives.” With that, she spins around on her heels and saunters inside the house.

Eliza turns to face Alexander, an apologetic look on her face. “Alex-”

“I deserve it.” He says instead, frowning and shaking his head. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” He offers her a small, half-hearted smile. She gives him an unimpressed look before she kisses his lips- he was an unfortunately good liar, but Eliza could typically read right through him. Alexander sighs, slinging an arm around her waist. “I may not be okay, but I do deserve it. I deserve everything she throws at me this weekend.”

She leads him inside her large childhood home a bit warily. She had a feeling this weekend was going to be a long one. She was already missing the crowded yet safe and secure city they had left behind.

Dinner was a tense affair. One full of awkward small talk, long stretches of silence and plenty of pleading looks from Eliza to her mother to please let up.

Alexander escapes as quickly as he can after dinner, babbling out an excuse about some conference call he absolutely had to take, even if it was well after office hours.

Once he was safely out of earshot, Eliza turns to her mother. “Seriously-?”

“I’ll go get dessert,” Peggy says, her tone a bit too high to be natural- the poor beam of sunshine had never dealt well with contention.

“I’ll help.” Their father was quick to follow his youngest daughter’s example. Angelica rolled her dark eyes at their retreating figures, staying put, her slim arms crossed over her chest, fully content to watch this spectacle unfold.

Eliza watches her mother expectantly, raising an eyebrow.

Catherine Schuyler sighs, folding her napkin delicately in her lap. “I don’t understand what you’re referring to, darling.”

Eliza stared at her for a moment. “You��re joking, yes? Please tell me you’re joking.” When her mother said nothing, she laughed humorlessly. “You’ve like, gone out of your way to make my boyfriend feel uncomfortable and unwelcome, and when you weren’t doing that, you were ignoring him. When I agreed to spend the weekend here, I was told that everyone would be respectful-”

“I’ve been nothing but respectful, Elizabeth.” Eliza groaned at the use of her full name, hiding her face in her hands. “Do you realize what you just called him? Your boyfriend. A man you were once married to is your boyfriend. Need I remind you why he’s not your husband?”

Eliza stared at her while Angelica intervened. “Mom, really?”

“No. She needs to hear this.” Her mother said stubbornly, not even glancing in her eldest daughter’s direction.

Eliza felt a flash of irritation. “You don’t get to decide what I need anymore, for god’s sake I’m thirty-two years old-!”

“He cheated on you, Eliza. He cheated on you and still proposed to you. He didn’t think to share that bit of information with you for years into your marriage and then only decides to do so publicly and only because his ass was on the line-”

“I know this!” Eliza snaps. “I fucking lived this, mother, I don’t need to hear it again-”

“Let me finish.” Her mother snaps back. “Not only did he lie to you for years, he only came forward to save himself, for crying out loud. He didn’t take your feelings into consideration at all. He dragged you to that event to let you listen to his astonishingly detailed recount of his affair. He did all of that to you even when you just had lost a fucking baby for crying out loud-”

“Mother!” Angelica snapped just as Eliza flinches back as if she had been slapped. It’s only then that Catherine softens. “I’m-”

“What baby?”

All three heads of the Schuyler woman spun around, Eliza’s eyes widening in horror.

Alexander takes another step forward, an unreadable expression on his face. “What baby is she talking about, Eliza?”

“I. I don’t,” Eliza looks between her mother, sister, and Alexander.

“Liza, did you not tell him?” Angelica asked after a few moments of stunned silence.

“What baby?” Alexander demanded again, his voice growing hard. “Eliza, what baby?”

Eliza stands up calmly, the entire room silent. She approached Alexander slowly, folding her arms together over her chest.

“What baby?” He asks again.

“I’m sorry.” She says, her voice soft. And then, she did what any other respectable thirty-two-year-old woman would do.

She ran.

#hamliza #alexander x eliza #eliza schuyler #eliza hamilton #hamilton fic #my fic #alexander hamilton #hamiliza

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faequeen40 · 6 years

Text

Feathers

Chapter 2 aka Where Haggar decides to further fuck up Lotor’s shit post rescue.

The first piece for my Birthday Bomb!

Agony.

Agony was all she could experience for the first few moments after she pulled herself from the twisting ether of the universe’s collective quintessence. It was but one way for druids to travel and no one was better at navigating the swirling corridors than Haggar herself.

It was a way to teleport instantaneously, to leave behind the weakness of the flesh temporarily in order to move from point A to point B.

If not for that particular talent, she wasn’t sure how well her escape from Team Voltron would have gone.

She had been so close. Her claws had rested upon the Blue Paladin’s throat. He had been at her mercy! The others were about to bow to her whims, to give themselves up in an act of misguided camaraderie and love for one another.

And then that blasted Blue Lion had shoved her face through the wall and the Blue Paladin, the weapon that Lotor had spent so much time lovingly crafting, threw her like a rag doll.

His spirit had not been cowed. There were no fractures in his soul in that moment. He had faced her down with a fierce snarl, uncaring of the way her claws had ripped at his already scarred throat.

If anything, Lotor had only made him all the more dangerous. When she did get her hands on him, it would take a long, long time before she could break him down to a point that she would make him useful.

And with her Emperor’s health in such decline, it would be a long while before she could garner the forces to lead such an ambitious endeavor.

With grasping arms, Haggar dragged herself over to the nearest wall, black blood smearing the grimy floors of Lotor’s flagship, the wounds at her shoulder and hip continuing to bleed sluggishly, even as the quintessence that made up the core of her very existence worked tirelessly in heal her.

She was a being of nearly pure quintessence now, one with the void of those who existed beyond the scope of mortal comprehension. Such wounds wouldn’t kill her.

Oh no. Far from it.

But they were painful, both physically and in the blow they dealt to her pride. She had let herself grow cocky and assured in her success. She had depended on the faulty services of others, even if those others were her druids, her children as it were.

She had forgotten the prowess of the members of Team Voltron. Haggar had blissfully looked past the fact that those warriors had been the ones to incapacitate her beloved Emperor.

It was a foolish mistake and one she would not be prone to making in the future. She would remember the fierce skill of her Champion that wonderfully sculpted tool of warfare. She would not suffer another wound at the hands of a weapon she had created.

And then the half-breed. She would do well to remember the desperation a mate bond could inspire and the strength it could fuel. He would not find her as easy an opponent the next time they met.

There would be another meeting. She guaranteed it. The plans for the Blue Paladin had not changed. Lotor had given her a glorious taste of a gift, a weapon for her people that could potentially take Voltron down.

Permanently.

She would learn patience from this encounter. Millennia without true opposition could make one weak when it came to actual confrontation.

Voltron had already been most useful in changing the way things were done. Every encounter with them grew her understanding by leaps and bounds. Particularly in that of quintessence and her pet project with the Robeasts.

And the humans themselves…

They were so extraordinarily adaptable in comparison to many of the other races that found themselves beneath Galran rule. The Champion had taken to the weapon she had created like a fish to water. The alterations to the Blue Paladin’s genetics could bear all kinds of fruit.

What she wouldn’t give to have a larger pool to draw from…

Her experimentation could lead to the death of resistance for all time.

The thought bolstered her and she rested against the wall of the hallway, breaths little more than wet wheezes as her body redirected energy and quintessence to the injuries she had suffered. The wound at her hip was painful, almost unbearably so.

The half-breed had nearly wedged his blasted luxite blade into her very bones. Such an injury did not heal easily and even the slightest movement taxed it. Her persistence in fighting against the Champion and the Altean whelp did not aid in her current predicament.

She felt a snarl curl over her lips at the thought of Altea’s poor lost princess and she curled her claws tightly. Allura had nearly cost Haggar everything when they had attacked Zarkon’s flagship.

Between her and those traitors, her precious prodigies, the Druids of the Four Directions were no more. Her power to experiment with Robeasts was put on hold until she could adequately train new ones to take their place.

And after this fiasco, such an endeavor would be time-consuming. More so than she had previously thought. Thordis had been one of her first picks and now thanks to Lotor’s lax security, they were dead.

The Altean child would get what was coming to her. Haggar swore it. She would bind the Princess in chains so heavy that even the hope of escape would be burdened. She would be a symbol of the death of the resistance. A symbol even greater than her current figurehead status.

A child Queen without a kingdom to return to. It was so tragically poetic that Haggar couldn’t help but smile.

As the burn of agony slowly ebbed from the wound on her hip, Haggar couldn’t help the way her thoughts turned to wayward Prince of the Empire. Even if Zarkon was well enough to command, he had still requested Lotor’s return, if for no other reason than to solidify his hold.

But the brat had done little in the way of real help. It came as no surprise that he was banished almost as soon as he had begun to act.

His preoccupation with aesthetics was almost as bad as Zarkon’s obsession with the Black Lion. Perhaps this would tame the Prince a bit.

A wicked smile crossed Haggar’s face and she pushed to her feet, ignoring the burning in her shoulder as she glided down the halls.

This was an opportunity. An opportunity so rare that she had not even thought to hope for its arrival.

If she was correct, the Blue Paladin had not left this ship without getting in at least some form of revenge, and if not him, then the Red Paladin would not be convinced to leave without some sort of recompense.

Lotor would owe her.

He would owe her his very life.

No longer would he be content to flaunt his strength in her face. No longer would he ignore her council.

Because it would no longer be council.

It would be an order.

A life debt to a Galra was more serious than anyone could understand. And he would owe her one so great that it would consume all that arrogance he wore like a cloak.

It didn’t take long to find the mess left of him.

She blasted the faulty control room doors open without a second thought, the blinking metal splayed wide and smoking as she stepped through.

Immediately the stench of blood and viscera assailed her and she wrinkled her nose, turning her sickly yellow gaze to crumpled heap of Galran Prince left against the wall.

Blue black pooled around his body, remaining eye half-lidded and glazed. The whole left side of his face was gouged and grotesque, a mess that even made Haggar’s stomach turn.

She padded closer softly, eyes searching out the rest of his injuries. The caved in plates on his chest dripped with more blood and she huffed out a sigh.

A Galran blaster then.

The Blue Paladin had been the one to take vengeance.

A perfect shot to the chest with a faulty blaster and then the eye.

A trophy perhaps?

For a sharpshooter as accomplished as the Blue Paladin, it was somewhat ironic that he chose to partially blind his captor.

Haggar could appreciate some irony.

“Mother…?” Lotor croaked, voice so weak it was little more than a whisper.

Haggar frowned, containing the strange ripple at the core of her being that reacted at that almost pleading word.

She was no mother.

She was Haggar, witch of Zarkon and destroyer of worlds. She was made of quintessence and stardust, the anger and fury of thousands of thwarted souls shrieking in her veins.

She was more than a mother.

“You are mistaken, Lotor.”

Lotor’s remaining eyelid fluttered briefly, a hint of lucidity returning to his gaze. “Haggar….I take it…that you failed?”

A snarl curled over her lips and she stepped closer, taking no care to be gentle with her steps. Pointed shoes dug painfully into Lotor’s sprawled legs and he groaned. “No thanks to you. You couldn’t even properly break the human. You were too concerned with your ideals of aesthetic and your own wants that you grew distracted. You were foolish, Lotor.”

“A reprimand…on my death bed.” Lotor chuckled, “I cannot say….I expected any less.”

“Death bed? Oh no.” Haggar smirked, a brief flash of panic crossing the Prince’s face, “You won’t be dying here, Prince Lotor.”

“I prefer…death’s embrace over…anything you might…offer.” Lotor hissed, trying without success of pull away from her.

“I don’t think you have much choice in the matter, Lotor.” She sniffed, crouching in front of him, their faces level, “Because you will not be dying here. Your life will continue from here.”

“I don’t want your help.” Lotor growled, “I refuse…to owe you a life debt.”

Haggar pressed a hand lovingly to the unmarred side of Lotor’s face, a grin pulling at her lips. “We’ve had more than enough of what you want, Lotor. From now on, things will go as I dictate.”

Quintessence sparked from her hands and danced across Lotor’s skin, a slapdash patch-job blazing into existence.

There was no saving his eye.

But she had crafted replacements before. They were always better than the limb before.

He howled as her magic went to work, the quintessence under her command mending as quickly as she dared in her weakened state.

Lotor wouldn’t die.

Not just yet.

She had plans for him…and his precious trophy.

Happy flipping birthday to me!!

#holyshitiwritefanfiction #voltron #songbird #haggar #lotor #birthday bomb

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calcinators-blog · 7 years

Text

Two Irons (Part 11.)

I should have known better.

Before where you stood, the unresponsive body of Nines had all but confirmed that you had succeeded. Your inner voice threw itself against the trap of your skull as it tried to free itself from confinement. I should have known better– scraped away with each echo.

One hand latched over your mouth to unsuccessfully muffle your sudden sobbing. The other wound itself around your body to both keep yourself whole. It did nothing to deaden the separation you were stunned into

Though your imagination been running farther and farther away from you, seemingly helping you retreat from a difficult reality, you could not have prepared yourself for the louring scene of Nines draped over a chair you frequently sat in while tethered to your second desk. Limp appendages drooping like the poppies you imagined under the General’s feet.

Just when I thought I could feel no more pain, a new kind takes its place.

You were not shorn of the intent of a stormtrooper. You understood that going planetside while adorned with their body armor was no different from bargaining with fate, whose gluttony had claimed a seemingly immeasurable total of lives. It only added insult to heinous injury knowing that Nines had been blissfully unaware of the dangers lurking within the base, what you had both considered your surrogate home. Unlike battles he had seen, he was unaware of what had been brewing around you as the General and Commander readied themselves.

He was, without a doubt, blind-sighted. A casualty of your own personal war. The body-count swelled and you had thrown yourself to the wolves in exchange for nothing.

This was the very thing you had set out to obviate; you had been tricked into placing your head in the guillotine. Yes it’s safe, no it won’t hurt you while all while the weighted blade traveled ever closer down the stock to acquaint itself with your neck.

There was no protection from the apparatus, there was no protection from the First Order.

Finding a great pain in your lungs at the movement of your lips, you falsified sound, “How dare you die on me.” Dare. The word itself dug a trench to be buried by the lullaby of silence. Death hid in the quiet of the room, swirling around you. Laughing.

Gods, Nines... You were supposed to be safe.

Your recent negotiation with the General had not withheld the mistral. All that was left was a final gnashing of metallic teeth, wilted red petals, and an entire universe that derived pleasure from working against you.

But sound, of an origin unknown, wedged itself into the lethal motionlessness of the world existing outside you. It hadn’t been a page over the comm systems, lacking static or patois. It hadn’t been a knock on the door either, you being a little too distressingly familiar with the sound of knuckles, fists, and boots, against the impenetrable barriers. And even as you ruled out the most obvious of sources, you waited to hear it again to confirm that it had possibly been that of a deep inhalation, which one often makes, while deeply asleep.

Another stifled sob, both of your hands returning to your sides.

“Nines?”

Craning your neck, to observe some indication of change on FN-2199’s still body, you prayed that the sound would make itself known once more. Straining your ears, you watched the pot boil, condemning all idioms that advised you nothing would happen. You felt as if, if you were to wait patiently, he would wake up– you would wake up. Turning your gaze over his face with impossible submission, hardly straying at all, his lips parted to snore. Again.

And it goes without mentioning: dead men don’t snore.

FN-2199’s head rolled on his neck, lazily, obliging you with a hearty snore for the third time. Setting all previous thoughts aside, you could now recognize the likelihood that he had been severely overrun by fatigue, worn away from a day full of simulations, trying to achieve perfection in combat. He was directly under Captain Phasma, after all. The only dead he had been, was dead asleep.

Holy Mother of Meteors. I’ll kill you for scaring me like this.

Though his breathing had mended you, with your head restored to its proper place on your neck, you were still chalk-full of adrenaline. Channeling what you could, attempting to discard the superimposed dread, you picked up his discarded helmet from off the table and tossed it in his direction.

The thing, colliding at his chest with a dull thwack, rolled apologetically into his lap and then further to the floor as he jolted back into his body, all limbs moving in different directions, becoming animate and flushed with life. Red lashes lifted like blinds allowing light to filter in. Flecks of amber, which muddied and cluttered up the blue, were caught somewhere between the space of surprise and sleep.

With his voice crackling, proving that he had likely been waiting for you for some time, he asked, “Hey... A credit for your thoughts?”

“Shoot,” your words were strangled by a tug-of-war between anger and sadness.

“What the crink was that for?” His tone was unmatched by sheepishness about his face. He had expected to find you, only not drenched in tears and cut down by shock. His voice changed drastically to fit your expression the next time he spoke, practically tripping over himself to respond, “You didn't come back to the table so I had to make sure you were okay!”

Between following the breadcrumb trail, finding a dead body, passing out, nearly breaking both hands, negotiating with the General and betraying the Commander, there was no opportunity. Your voice flattened as you explained, saving the story, “I couldn’t make it back.”

To put it lightly. Nines, if you only knew. What’s it like to be “okay” again anyways?

“I understand. You probably already know that... er, somone was uh, well... something happened to someone earlier here and I was running around like a dweezer thinking it might have been you.” He assured you with both hands up to gesture as he spoke, finding the words awkward and unnatural.

Matt had a funny way of changing you. As you looked at your friend, who in turn looked at you with genuine concern, you felt undeserving of his kindness, especially considering that you were keeping all the terrible details to yourself. You swallowed down descriptions of how you had seen it all– the hallway, the trooper, the Commander’s bed, the General swelling with impatience– everything.

Nines kneaded his shoulders, explaining as he massaged, his torso locked by sleep and intensified by maintaining the uncomfortable position, “Matt left as soon as you did. I was almost worried he followed you.”

As badly as you wanted to tell him that he wasn’t wrong to hold onto his claim, you understood that it would serve to stir him, to force him to react or rebel. You couldn't jeopardize his safety.

“I, um...” Nines cut into your thoughts. Pushing himself out of the chair then nervously setting it back under your desk, he spoke to you all the while, “... I need to tell you about something.”

You had a very clear idea what it could be about, yet acted otherwise. The General, besides being capable and dangerously intelligent, was also annoyingly efficient. If he had figured out how to hold up his end of the deal, it would not be unheard of that Nines would have already been informed.

“You need to tell me what, exactly?” You hardly felt the need to prepare yourself for what he would say to you. Your best guess involved him telling you he would be stationed for patrol on harmless planets; something ordinary or routine. Ultimately, something safe.

Nines heaved a great sigh, leaving you to silently marvel at your friend’s remarkable seriousness. It only occurred to you to pay attention to how he picked at words, struggling to take the helm in conversation, that something could have been wrong. There was something in the way that his eyes tried to signal to you without him actually speaking that filled you with unease. Opaque, filled with surreptitious ideas and plots, the likes of which would cause storms.

“Captain Phasma pulled me aside after training...”

Snared with birdlime, there were no wings to lift you from the moment. You stood solidly in place, waiting. His voice, the way he paused to search for the right words worried you. He wasn’t ever this careful in speech.

“She told me that... Well, she didn’t tell me much actually but she did mention something about me getting reset.”

Reset.

The terrible echo.

A reset was the most extreme form of reconditioning. All of what made him more of an individual and less of a serial number would be stripped from him, washed away with sophisticated apparatuses. Living was cruller. Loosing memories of the people he had grown to care for, of his accomplishments in training, of unpolluted air passing through his helmet; he would loose it all.

The immense burden, the levy of responsibility attached to that word– reset. The echo again. The General had found something worse than death. He prescribed death without dying. Nines would forget you.

You had caused this, the cascade from bad to worse. You whispered, “Not you.”

Solemn in how he stood before you, his face on the very border of shame as if it was something he had done to himself, he was entirely speechless for once. His fate was final. Irreversible. Worst of all, from your lapse in judgment.

There was no telling if you had made the less critical of errors. Time would tell, time you couldn’t afford to waste but allowed it to tick away between you and him.

“I guess I pissed off the wrong people, huh?” All at once, he looked like himself all over as one corner of his lips tugged up into an endearing lop-sided grin. That’s all it took for him to be restored, as if he hadn’t just fractured the planet with the news. It was just so like him to bypass grief. Nothing stuck to him.

“They can’t do that to you!“

There was no way that Nines could have accepted the providence of a turncoat. Grinning again in the face of the accusations, he was not visibly afraid. And maybe he had already accepted it, but you hadn’t.

“They can. So, they will. But it’ll be okay.”

What would be okay? Loosing you?

He could gauge that you were struggling, that you were conflicted. He could taste the coppery bad blood, the bruises around your heart. He knew you had things you couldn’t say so he continued to beam without prying.

“Got anything to drink around here?”

Shesharillian vodka, in a chest by the window.

You could stand and splutter, avoiding looking at him too closely, or you could do as he would and oblige the request. The latter was necessary, a strong drink to keep your conscience at bay.

You had obtained the substance while offshore, in celebration of earning a modest sum of credits after you completed basic training. While visiting a lofty, aristocratic community on a small remote moon, with a name in a language you couldn't speak without butchering, you had been perusing for some extravagant purchase to make just because you felt you had deserved it. While a great number of beautiful trinkets had caught your eye, none had spoken to you like the bottle had, with its pearlescent details and clear crystal decanter.

As you bust the fastener, unscrewing the margaritaceous cap, you were thankful for a honeyed fragrance but would have drank the cheapest, most vile liquid regardless. Its luster meant nothing to you, just as the gleaming stygian floors did. What good was aesthetic appeal now that everything was falling apart?

Having none on hand, you skipped out on glasses, just as intent to pass the bottle between each other. The first swig was his, which he accomplished without his face twisting. As he passed it to you, you experienced astringency and blaze of the distilled liquid as it first met your palate. Just as soon, sweetness chased away the initial unpleasantness.

Refraining from commenting before you had a taste, with a gentle shrug he laughed, “I’ll be kessled. That’s potent. You don’t realize what it’s doing to you until you’re on the floor.”

Funny, that’s the same as the General. I didn’t find him a threat until he perverted the deal. Now look at us, it’s the last supper and I don’t even have glassware for the occasion.

You avoided talking about anything too serious and he knew you well enough to understand when it was time to change topics. As the bottle got lighter, so the narratives increased in extravagance. Expertly, he steered into and out of stories– some you’d heard hundreds of times, some you'd never heard at all. The fables would dissolve into bouts of laughter, a sound you had almost forgotten you could make.

You drank both the vodka and each word that poured out of him with the warmth in your throat spreading. You had to remember it all, each characteristic gesture and the tempo of his voice in beat of his narratives. You had to keep it with you.

The vodka was strong and it allowed you to tolerate the dread of the evening as it slipped from you. In the process, the drink allowed you to forget about what happened before and what would happen after. You were orientated in present moment, without fear, fortified by each time Nines grinned. He was brave. His end was just on the horizon but he looked to the dawn without concern.

After much back and fourth, the conversation turned a new corner; he held a different tone in his voice, of amazement. With his words reduced, a level just above a whisper, he mentioned that he’s had dreams of a planet full of green. The words were just for you, private and secret, and you inched in closer. He explained the planet is nothing like backdrop outside you’ve been waking up to for the past few weeks, it’s like how you had described your home: overgrown and lush. He says you might have inspired his head to piece it together. There are trees taller than trees can grow, the ground is twisted with roots and leaves. There’s a giant body of crystalline water next to a fantastic looking castle, dressed in flags and banners.

“That sounds incredible.”

“I’m finally free there, you know.”

I remember free.

It didn’t strike you then, to question his use of the word.

His voice crumbled as he asked you to come with him to find the planet. The air between your bodies, fully electric, swirled and crackled. Your eyes only had to slightly narrow with skepticism before his shoulders shudder with contained amusement. He straightened up and assured you it had been the vodka talking– not him.

“But would you go?” Nines held the bottle up to the light, swirling the remaining liquid, watching it chase and splash up the sides.

Even if he were testing you, even if he had been kidding, you assured him, “Absolutely.”

His eyelids dropped over his eyes, the last genuine smile growing then reducing, having obtained exact response he was searching for from you, “I know you would.”

The hour of veto hung heavy on your limbs and weighted you where you sat. You both lied to each other, that you felt fine and that you had not at all felt even remotely as inebriated as you had become, drinking so much with nothing but a suggestion of stimcaf from earlier.

You told him that you’ve always enjoyed having him around. “You’re like my brother.”

Touching. His mouth twisted in response, becoming suddenly soft-spoken again, “Before you get me crying over here...”

He got up to go. Not out of stories, just out of time.

With your heart heavy, you pulled him in for an affectionate hug. Contact was welcomed but at the cost of it also being remarkably difficult. He squeezed you back, staving off tears and any signs of his sadness with a nervous chortle.

This is really it. Really.

Speaking low, words slipped over your shoulder in your embrace, “Whatever happens, don’t forget who you are. Before all this. Remember you’re better than this. Then them.”

What are you talking about?

You knew Nines had a marginally better tolerance for alcohol than you, from indulging more frequently, but you couldn’t fixate on the phrase for long. After he released you from his grip, it took a few blinks to fully process, but he moved into the open doorway, helmet in tow. “I’ll see you around.”

Out of habit. You both saw each other daily, for longer than you could recall especially in the murky, swirling miasma the alcohol produced around you.

“See you.”

And as all things had been lately, the separation created by the durasteel door felt exactly like a guillotine.

Your small refresher unit was within a few paces of where you were left standing. Stumbling over, holding the walls as you did to guide you along, you awkwardly managed to reach the sink. Uncapping the bottle, you watched the transparent fluid spatter down the drain while coating the room in its strong perfume. Setting the empty container to the side, you caught a good look at yourself in the reflective surface facing you. As suspected, your cheeks were rosy and there was a glazed expression about you, all accompanied by a dull burning in your throat.

A slow blink, you found you were the same. Another blink, you were nothing but tears, collecting and brimming in your eyes. Dragging your forearm over your face, more tears replaced the ones you wiped away.

You knew you were alone. You knew that neither the General nor the Commander could derive any personal satisfaction from the devastation, as it was your own gaze before you and not theirs. The feeling had never been more intense, you promised yourself to find a way to leave.

Eventually falling into bed, eyes puffy from the sudden surge, you dreamed about FN-2199, FN- 2187, and the green planet.

To your frustration, the employee common area was the same as it had always been.

You kept searching for signs of mourning but there was nothing save for pristine tabletops and the rich, bitter smell of caf brewing. You cautiously eyed the propaganda slapped up on the wall, teamwork posters and reminders. Today felt like the first day you looked at them with complete objectivity.

FN-2199 was missing. You expected it, braced for it, and were still taken off guard. Even still, you could hear his howling laughter, desperately trying to place him there. You saw him in every trooper that walked in and allowed yourself to feel crushed as each helmet was removed.

“I heard about FN-2199... Nines.” The sympathetic voice of Lieutenant Colonel Zack came from over your shoulder. Glancing over, he held onto a tray of food with two cups of steaming stimcaf, presumably for the two of you.

You had nothing to offer but a sad nod as he acknowledged; at least you would be saved from an explanation. He offered a sympathetic shrug in return, biting the inside of his cheek before offering, “It’s just their way.”

I know. That’s why I can’t stand it.

Motioning with another head nod, he singled out a place for the two of you in a quiet corner, removed from the chatter of the long tables. He handed you a mug that you wrapped your hands around with the hope that it would tame the pounding in your temples that you had woke up to. The vodka crudely reminded you of how you had gone overboard. The last few sips would have entirely done you in; you would regard dumping the remainder as the only informed decisions you had made recently.

“I want you to know, I never thought Nines was a bad guy.”

“I know."

The Lieutenant Colonel didn’t believe anyone was truly bad. Maybe not even Kylo Ren, which almost stuck you with annoyance. He cared so much for other people. He should have been cold.

He took another sip, gave another sigh, then glanced around the room in a calculated manner, as if to survey certain points. Surveillance? In a suddenly low voice, he leaned in, mumbling, “How much do they know?”

Wait.

“They?”

He pulled back, sipping the coffee inconspicuously, “That’s the only way to explain it. I think they know.”

Lost still, as if stuck in a script that you had forgotten the lines to. “Know what?” Your voice became a harsh whisper.

Zack looked at you grimly, eyes surveying you over the cup. He cleared his throat, holding a hand over his mouth, “Know about it. All of it. I’m not sure but I have a feeling they found out we’ve duped them.”

You did your best to not leave your jaw unhinged. “Duped? How?“

“The psytech says they barged into his office, demanding to see his files. That’s the first time that’s happened.”

“Dr. Thos?” The one shred of information the General had given you had proven to be useful yet. You counted the happy accident as another smart decision.

Zack was stunned at the drop of the name but he pressed on, still trying to cover his mouth as he shushed you, “Don’t say his name so loudly!”

You set your cup down quickly, caf nearly splashing over your hand in momentum. “Can you just tell me what exactly is going on?”

After a few false starts, he attempted to explain, “FN-2187 was the first but he’s not the only one.”

Has Zack gone over the falls or did he just insinuate he has the information that Matt had me chasing? I must be dreaming or still massively intoxicated.

A page over the comms for the Lieutenant Colonel stole him away before he could elaborate. He assured you, standing and smoothing the front of his uniform, that he would give you more information once he came back. “They have the worst timing, don’t they?”

Leaving promptly to not inspire suspicion, he left his tray sitting forgotten with you, appearing outwardly collected as he weaved through the tables and bodies.

Tired, volatile, and too many things at once, Matt entered to take in his place as if on cue. Your lip curled, territorial; he wasn’t supposed to be here, the General was supposed to have sorted this out. Argus-eyed, you followed each of his movements as your heartbeat gradually became audible. You could feel the need to run before he could find you. But he found you first.

Pinning you where you sat in seclusion, his shuddering eyes grew behind the lenses of his glasses. No burning, no hate. You still weren’t fond of the feeling of his presence and how it obscured all space he occupied.

Suddenly afraid of what he might have picked up on– “I’m always listening”– you imagined shutting the impenetrable doors around your brain, as if that could keep your thoughts away from him. Preparing to resist, to be frozen or to be thrown around, you readied yourself as best as you could

But that was it. You blinked and he became lost, swallowed by a wave of ivory-plated bodies. Had you imagined it?

Menial work was impossible with it still hard to focus, if not more so, from the accumulation of everything. You had waited for the Lieutenant Colonel to return but understood whoever had paged him had kept him still. Not to mention after seeing a certain person, as brief as it were, you had no interest in staying put.

Tapping away and plugging in figures at your console, working at less than half of your usual pace but just enough to say that you had, your office remained the same but you felt different about it. The walls were weakened, the chair fought to hold you, and your thoughts were a cycle.

Don’t think about Matt... Don’t think about Kylo Ren... Don’t think about Hux... Don’t think about Nines... Don’t think about Matt... Don’t think about—

A sharp, sudden knock echoed throughout the space. Lieutenant Colonel Zack was right about the timing of the officers. Of course, the sound was not without you thinking of how you had acquainted your hands upon the door to the Commander’s private quarters.

The mortar and pestle of your knuckles to the hatch was not a feeling that you would soon let go of.

You pushed yourself away from the desk, willing yourself to the control panel to unseal the door you had diligently locked. Not for a moment had you been expecting any visitors, work-related or otherwise though you decided if it happened to be Kylo Ren, you would contemplate confession. All in the same thought, you knew if it were him, he would not have the restrain to knock and let his arm drop to his side. No. You would hear the scouring of plasma and unchaste, unholy howls.

As the durasteel peeled away, you were met with a sneer and red hair neatly pulled back. Accompanied by two achromic bodies, the General had come exclusively to wallow. Navigating the environment of your deal with meticulousness, he found a way to come first and set you into your place. Restoring his crown, with you at his feet.

You resisted the urge to punch him, square in the face. You began to visualize red spilling down over his philtrum, over his lips and chin. Red on his gloves, from cradling his likely broken nose. The red dwarf poppies again, flourished by violence, red as blood.

Lovely.

Your hands burned. Itched. You looked down to see more of the same red, blooming without pause. Hate set deep within your shuttering veins, blue turning black just beneath your heated skin. Hate that stole you from yourself, that transformed you into this. Hate that had began to trigger your imagination, as you prepared for idle words, to be snookered and reduced by whatever he had the audacity to say.

Uncharacteristically dilatory with his proceedings, unaware of how you trembled, he finally spoke. “See,” giving you an arrogant laugh, the words were sweet, “I’ve kept my word. Everyone is safe from Kylo Ren.”

Presenting himself in an uncharacteristic manner, his forehead appeared slick with perspiration, though unevenly, as if it were dabbed with a cloth or the sleeve of his uniform. Pallor slipping into or out of flush glowed quietly while his ghostly nephrite eyes smoldered; you knew all too well he was hiding a fire in his belly by his unfastened appearance alone.

He clicked his tongue, using a voice that attempted to scold you, “I’ll advise you to refine your demands next time. Anything less than airtight and you’ve already lost critical pressure, whether you notice it or not.”

It was true. You had been so focused on surviving that the rules of the hostile game had slipped your mind. Instead of exoneration, relieved of Matt’s presence, you had become the focus of both men. The General had not been perceived as a risk and you had understood his potential too late.

Ambient pressure was lost; the vacuum of space was no longer a gentle beauty but stuck in peril– as were you.

Ruefully, your inner voice unfolded and spoke to you once more.

I should have known better.

#general hux #matt the radar technician #kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren fanfic

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