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chibifuyuu · 3 years

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Levi vs. Zeke & Why Isayama Focused on that Conflict Analysis

Wanted to talk about "The Promise" (aka Levi's vow to take down Zeke) because a) I see it critiqued a lot as a narrative choice for Levi post-time skip, b) I don't think it's well understood as a narrative choice or even what it means in canon by the fandom, and c) I haven't seen people analyze it and thought why not me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So why did Isayama have Levi focus so much on the promise, and by extension Zeke, post-time skip?

1. Levi and Zeke are set up as narrative foils

This is established super early and is pretty evident even before we know much of anything about Zeke. In his introduction in the "Captain Levi" side chapter, Levi's character basics are quickly established, and one of the very first things we learn about him is how much he values the lives of his comrades and wants to make their sacrifices/deaths meaningful, regardless of any personal connection he has or doesn't have with them. We also see Levi very concerned about the Trost citizens starving in the Uprising arc, which leads Dimo Reeves to say in a pretty on-the-nose dialogue that Levi is "awkward yet kind" and trying to save Trost even though he "doesn't really have to".

By contrast, something hammered home to us very quickly is that Zeke is relatively indifferent to lives lost in his quest to achieve his goal, the euthanasia plan. That isn't to say that he's completely devoid of empathy so much as he views the lives lost as inconsequential or necessary and doesn't dwell on them because he doesn't even really understand the value of life- "I saved them, the lives of those children from this cruel world" is what he says to Levi about turning his squad into titans. There's also moments like when Colt begs Zeke to hold off on screaming so that Falco could be spared, Zeke acknowledges that pain, understands it, and then screams anyway.

We get a panel post-time skip to quickly establish that contrast right away:

This indifference is actually what drives a lot of conflict between Levi and Zeke- Levi makes it clear he doesn't trust Zeke partially because as he says to him, even if he is unsure if Zeke wants to help Paradis, he can tell that Zeke doesn't really care about Ragnako village (and keeps bringing it up because he can tell "[Zeke] doesn't have a speck of guilt... those people's lives meant nothing to [Zeke]"), that he doesn't respond to the idea that his grandparents may die, etc. Levi also responds violently to the idea that Zeke "saved" his squad by killing them. The euthanasia plan is something that is so opposed to Levi's values that these two were always going to be in conflict- it's almost like Zeke's goal is the exact opposite of what Levi fights for.

This is kind of important for the overall themes and story for a couple reasons like:

Zeke's character arc is partially developing an appreciation for life's purpose beyond procreating and the small moments of connection and joy that make up the human experience, as evident by his conversation with Armin and actions in 137; the contrast and callouts by Levi help establish early on this inability to appreciate the inherent value of life before we even know Zeke's end goal

Indifference towards loss of life as long as it fits your personal goals is kinda contrary to what the story wants to tell you via the Rumbling and protecting lives that have no value to you is treated as a narratively good thing

There's also the fact that both of them have parental/fraternal relationships with Eren. They're both protective of Eren and give him advice; Eren also in turn has sought their knowledge as they are more experienced than him in certain areas (Levi as the Survey Corps vet, Zeke as the one most knowledgeable about titan/Ackerman history), so it's a mentorship relationship, too. Eren also takes their advice and knowledge in ways that I'm pretty sure neither intended (like I doubt Levi was thrilled that him encouraging Eren to make his own decisions turned out this way...)

There's also a contrast there- Levi calls Eren a "monster" who won't let anyone stop him from doing what he wants to do early into their relationship (correctly identifying who Eren is at his core) whereas Zeke sees Eren as a victim that Zeke needs to save for a really long time (which is how Zeke ends up so easily manipulated by Eren despite being so intelligent).

2. Levi / Zeke parallel Mikasa / Eren

While the relationships are very different, Levi/Zeke and Mikasa/Eren actually do parallel each other- there's a kind of Ackerman vs. Yaeger contrast set up. Despite the different relationships, they both end very similarly: Mikasa and Levi behead Eren and Zeke respectively in something of a partially wanted mercy kill that is necessary to better the world (stop the Rumbling, end the titan curse). There are even more parallels there, like how both Ackermans experience a moment of understanding of the respective Yeager before killing them, how both of them had recently had a moment where they were thinking- for different reasons- that they couldn't kill the Yeager brother and then ended up doing so, etc., but the point is the moments appear back-to-back (137 and 138) and are treated as pretty narratively similar.

There's a lot of reasons we could speculate as to why Isayama did this- I don't think it's an Ackermans are amazing, Yeagers suck message for the record- one of them could be as simple as illustrating the similarities of the Ackermans vs. Yeagers by generation

Or it could even be because Mikasa as a character reflects Levi in many ways and her character arc is partially illustrated by her evolving opinion of Levi. She begins as someone with no appreciation for authority and prioritizing her own people/interests (usually Eren) over the greater good/mission, which is illustrated by her respect, or lack thereof, of Levi. She lashes out at him, ignores his orders and then gets saved by Levi in the Female Titan arc, then in Uprising she doesn't want to at first and can't help but be snarky about it but she shows how she's able to see a bigger picture and respect Levi's leadership by defending it to Jean, Connie, and Sasha and allowing Levi to gamble Eren to make his deal with Reeves, and by the time of the Rumbling, when Levi tells her they can't be concerned about Eren's safety, she doesn't lash out and while upset, doesn't even argue.

It's not really a surprise that Mikasa is the one shown comforting/checking in on Levi right after he kills Zeke and Levi is the one spurring Mikasa on, saying "there the only ones left who can kill Eren" before she finds her resolve to do so (and also literally clears the way via thunderspear so Mikasa can kill Eren).

3. Levi's narrative purpose- or what even is the point of Levi post-explosion?

I've seen like ten thousand posts or comments saying something to the extent of "Levi should've died in the explosion, he has no point afterwards". I completely disagree, but beyond how dumb of a death that'd be for a character that's the most featured (most "screen time"/panel time) after EMA pre-time skip and EMA+Reiner post-time skip and story contributions that Levi brings (like leadership and direction for the Alliance with Hange dead after Armin is taken), Levi as a character embodies certain important themes/narrative messages for the story. Several of them are illustrated through his conflict with and contrast to Zeke.

His desire to protect people and preserve life even if they are strangers, or even in conflict with him, is highlighted through his juxtaposition to Zeke as discussed above

"Your deaths had meaning, at last I can prove it."

The big thing about the promise is that Levi wants to make the deaths, all of the sacrifices (Erwin but also all of the recruits that charged to their deaths), mean something. All of them sacrificed themselves to give Levi the chance to take down Zeke and Levi is tortured with guilt that he didn't finish the job because he views it as making their sacrifices meaningless. The promise serves to remind the reader that Levi cares so much about giving meaning to the fallen Survey Corps members' lives.

In his intro, Levi says to the Survey Corps rando that his death isn't worthless and it's not the end of his contributions to humanity because Levi will take up his resolve, that his death will inspire Levi, and Levi promises to end the titan threat with that resolve. One could argue that the promise is to remind us why Levi does what he does, what's driving him, the pressure of living with the need to make every sacrifice worth it- and in turn how Levi views/viewed ending the titan threat, a "world without titans", as the ultimate way to prove the sacrifices of the Survey Corps had meaning and his fallen comrades' lives weren't wasted. That's important because of Levi's ending, after the titans leave the world partially because of his efforts and him having seen through that mission until the end and getting a sendoff to the fallen Survey Corps members.

His focus on the next generation

A big theme of AoT is about protecting the next generation, and all of the OG Survey Corps believed this- we see many vets die to ensure recruits survive- but we see it articulated through Levi a lot. He seems to have a soft spot for children in general (getting concerned over the starving mother and baby in Trost, supporting Historia's orphanage plan, saving Ramzi after he pickpockets him, etc.), but he is also shown thinking about "getting the brats to the sea" as the purpose of the OG Survey Corps in 136, aka serving the dreams of the future/next generation- that's part of an internal monologue that begins with Levi focusing on Zeke and the promise.

The euthanasia plan is sharply at odds with Levi's "get the brats to the sea"/next gen protection mentality given it prevents a next generation of Elidians.

The contrast of Falbi and Zeke vs. Falbi and Levi. Zeke callously calls Falbi "miscalculations" in front of them- and Levi- not long after Levi meets Falbi for the first time, Levi spends the end of the Rumbling arc with Falbi after they arrive and they're the only two with him when Zeke calls out to Levi to end his life, Levi and Zeke actually discuss Falbi in the forest, etc. There's a weird sort of arc here since Falbi admired Zeke and felt betrayed by him (and he was indifferent to them when he screamed and knowingly turned Falco into a titan, killing Colt in the process, while Gabi desperately screams for Falco) while Falbi see Levi for the first time in the terrifying staged takedown of the Beast Titan and then end up spending more time in the end of the Rumbling arc fight with Levi than anyone else and Levi's last panel has him depicted as being with them, kind of like a reversal.

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avinrydarchive · 4 years

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three doors, three souls

Author: AvinRyd Fandom: The Bartimaeus Trilogy Rating: Gen Pairing: N/A (deep, all encompassing friendship between Nat&Kitty&Ptolemy&Bart, but no romance) Word Count: ~5,300 Series: N/A “B-” He clears his throat. “Bartimaeus?”

(He's not sure where that name came from.)

The boy blinks, then shakes his head. “No, my name is Ptolemy.” He looks expectant, as if waiting for a response.

And what to respond? Does he have a name? After a moment of thought he decides, yes, he does have a name: Nathaniel. He says as much and Ptolemy smiles.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” and it sounds so right and familiar in his voice that Nathaniel aches.

Read on AO3: link

White.

Blinding white is all there is; there had been shards of it in his vision, slashes of it in his body, an aching starburst of it in his soul. Now it is all he knows. He flies through it at speed, movement with no form to move; burning on skin that is not there.

Then suddenly, everything stops.

He looks around to see the white has dulled from snow-in-blazing-sunlight to something with depth, dimension. The dimension seems to go on forever, stretching away, and in that distance there is a speck of...well, it’s hard to tell. Certainly not white, which he finds comforting.

Sensing something at his back, he turns. Swinging shut behind him in calm silence is a massive door. Its glass panes gleam in the omnipresent light, iron latticework shining dully between. There is nothing behind the glass.

Movement at his back, once again. Once again, he turns. The not-white speck has drawn very close indeed, close enough to take the form of a boy; dark of skin, dark of hair, with eyes that feel older than the years his face betrays. The child can’t be more than fourteen.

“B-” He clears his throat. “Bartimaeus?”

(He's not sure where that name came from.)

The boy blinks, then shakes his head. “No, my name is Ptolemy.” He looks expectant, as if waiting for a response.

And what to respond? Does he have a name? After a moment of thought he decides, yes, he does have a name: Nathaniel. He says as much and Ptolemy smiles.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” and it sounds so right and familiar in his voice that Nathaniel aches.

“Where are we?” Nathaniel asks, looking around once more, but Ptolemy doesn’t answer. Instead—still with that smile, warm as the sun and twice as bright—he reaches out to take Nathaniel’s hand and lead him forward.

Hand. Nathaniel then remembers to wonder about his own form. Does he look like anything in particular? He starts with the hand in Ptolemy’s: pasty pale in comparison, but around the same size. From the wrist there’s a spindly arm in the sleeve of a grey jumper. This leads to a torso occupying the rest of the jumper. Down over dark pants to smart shoes, and Nathaniel compares these to Ptolemy’s ivory kilt and bare brown feet. Looking up, he’s at eye-level with the back of Ptolemy’s head and there’s a dark fringe of hair falling into his vision that surely wasn’t there before. He’s just reaching up to fuss with it when Ptolemy draws to a stop.

“What do you see?”

Nathaniel snaps back to attention and lets out a small sound of surprise. “Um. I see three doors,” he says with some confusion, “The door on the left is dark wood with a tarnished silver handle. The middle one is dark and has a red pentacle drawn on it, but the outer binding is broken. The door on the right is plain. Just a white door. ”

Ptolemy nods and points with his free hand at the first door. “That leads back to the world you know. Step through and you can start anew with no memory of this or your life before.”

He points to the second. “That door leads to the Other Place. If you enter, you will be absorbed into the energies of that world and become a part of the spirits. One day, you might be named and summoned. Or you might not.

"The third-” he pauses and gives the plain door a hard look, “The third door leads...on. I don’t know where, for I’ve never seen what’s beyond.”

There’s a long pause, then Ptolemy turns to face Nathaniel and says with heartbreaking gentleness, “As you’ve probably worked out, you’re dead.”

Their empty pocket of space is quiet as Nathaniel considers this, then he gestures around them. His voice seems small and fragile in the excess of open space. “And where is this?”

“Purgatory. Mictlan. Hades. There are many names. I call it The In-Between.” Ptolemy shrugs and seems like he would continue, but something draws his attention back the way they’d come.

The glass-and-iron door has opened once more and something falls through. To Nathaniel it has no shape, only a lump of substance imposed on the world, but somehow his entire being shrinks from it in terror. Ptolemy goes to meet it, but Nathaniel shies away and removes himself from the doors. From this vantage he can’t hear Ptolemy’s words, but he sees the other boy reach out and the essence take form under his touch.

A horrifying apparition is soon standing more than twice as tall as Ptolemy, tentacles and horns and sickly shapes of too many limbs and a roar of abject misery. Ptolemy shows absolutely no fear, no disgust; his movements are gentle and sure, meeting the confused and desolate creature with a compassion Nathaniel knows he could not muster in himself.

They approach the doors and Nathaniel can hear Ptolemy now. His quiet question is the same but the thing’s voice, with its echoes of horror and undercurrent of shrieking cries, is too vague to make out. As soon as Ptolemy has explained the third door, the being moves towards it in a desperate lurch. The door is open now and Nathaniel leans forward, trying to see beyond and the thing turns; their eyes meet and both recoil in base terror. The thing falls backwards through the door. Nathaniel falls on his backside. The door clicks shut.

For the first time in this place of empty white, Nathaniel feels pain. A tension has wound itself in his chest and is tightening viciously; in his ears, there are echoes of mind-rending noise—crashing glass and roaring fire, the screaming and exultation of many beings too large for the world. His breath comes too fast and harsh, though a moment ago he hadn’t needed to breathe at all.

For a time he cannot measure, Nathaniel is curled up on himself in a ball, rocking back and forth, wanting desperately to forget even as he reaches to understand this horror in his mind. The understanding does not come; the oblivion, neither. When his vision comes back into focus, Ptolemy is kneeling before him, unsurprised concern in the curve of his back and lines on his brow.

“Your passing was violent,” he says, “and though it may have involved that spirit you just saw, you cannot recall a thing. Am I right?”

Nathaniel nods, tries to arrange his limbs into a more comfortable sitting position. Ptolemy continues.

“It is often that way with those who die in battle or fear. So many pass through with no memory of themselves. And some, like me, stay until they recall.”

Something about Ptolemy’s hand on Nathaniel’s processed wool jumper seems incongruous.

“You can too, if you like.”

“I think I had another name.” Nathaniel says into the quiet. Ptolemy has just returned from guiding a wandering woman from the glass door. He flops down to lie on the ground alongside Nathaniel; their heads level, Nathaniel’s feet stick out a bit past Ptolemy’s. “It was John.”

Ptolemy’s hum from his left is musical in its thoughtful way. A hand comes up, darkly contrasted with their white surroundings, and traces invisible circles in the air. “Sounds like you were a magician.”

Nathaniel doesn’t like the sounds of that. He’s seen the magicians who pass through the In-Between. He knew first by Ptolemy’s pointing them out; now he knows them by their greedy, grabby hands and sharply paranoid eyes. In a sudden fit of concern, he sits up and examines himself, wishes for a mirror that does not appear. Is he one of those unpleasant souls too?

It’s just as he’s reassured himself that no, he has not suddenly morphed into a grasping, sucking vortex of greed and narcissism, that Nathaniel hears Ptolemy laugh from beside him. Laugh. Indignant, Nathaniel turns to find Ptolemy attempting to sit up, but unable to for the giggles that shake his frame.

“What? What’s so funny?”

Ptolemy is still snickering, but has managed to right himself at last. “Nothing! It’s just that, I’m sure I reacted the exact same way when I realized I was a magician. Horror-struck gasp and everything!”

In a huff, Nathaniel turns deliberately away to face the glass door. It’s not until his pique abates that he thinks about what Ptolemy said.

There is another person with them in the In-Between, for a time. Confused and disoriented, she stares with wide, overwhelmed eyes at the doors until Ptolemy places a gentle hand on her elbow. He softly repeats the same words he’d offered Nathaniel and, like Nathaniel, she accepts.

Unlike Nathaniel, she ages from the teenager she’d arrived as to an old woman in the span of three new arrivals. Lines and circles—pentacles and runes—have tattooed themselves dark and sharp, then faded into parchment-frail skin by the time the fog lifts from her gaze. Eyes clear and sad and wise, she bids him and Ptolemy farewell before the second door. The ink on her palm matches the broken pentacle sketched on dark wood.

It’s only after she’s fully gone, the door shut silently behind her, that Nathaniel turns to Ptolemy with a serious look. The other boy seems very small, very young, all of a sudden.

He doesn’t have to say anything; Ptolemy just returns the look with a placid, “Yes. I was fourteen. It took a long time before I remembered even those years, though.”

They are quiet for a span. Then, “Why are you still here?”

“I'm waiting for someone.” Another pause. “Why are you?”

“I—” Nathaniel has to think about it. “At first, I stayed because making such a big decision on so little knowledge seemed like a bad idea, but now… I think I’m waiting for someone too.”

“Do you remember their name?”

Frustrated, Nathaniel shakes his head. Ptolemy gives a gentle smile.

“I’m not surprised; Rekyt’s name was the last thing I remembered.”

“Why, do you think?”

“Probably because it was the most important.”

“What do you see?”

Nathaniel asks this to shake Ptolemy out of one of his sullen, contemplative moods. He gets like this sometimes, in long spans between arrivals. The doors invoke a frustrated silence and so he sits, cross-legged, and stares.

He breaks the stare at Nathaniel’s question.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Who else is there?”

Nathaniel plops down next to his friend, pushing the irritatingly long hair from his face to better watch Ptolemy’s expression. Brows drawn down over dark eyes relax out of their frown, slowly. He points to the leftmost door.

“That one looks like the city gates. Alexandria’s gates, I mean. I never got to see the world through them.”

The finger shifts right.

“That one is as I once saw it, the four elemental gates between our world and the Other Place. It tempts me, I must admit.” He stops for a moment, sighs. “Rekyt might be through there. But then, I would not be myself enough to remember him. I couldn’t bear that.”

Ptolemy is quiet for a long time. Question after question pushes at Nathaniel’s tight-closed lips while the other boy practically glares at the third door.

“That one,” he finally says, “looks like the doors in Alexandria’s library. So much knowledge behind a door I cannot yet unlock. It galls me, Nathaniel. I want to know what’s beyond—I need to know.”

They sit and look together for a while. Then Nathaniel asks, tentatively,

“Do you think he’ll want to go with you? When he does get here?”

Ptolemy’s shrug is almost desolate.

“I don’t know. But I’m not sure I could go without him. We were meant to explore the worlds together you know, before I had to go and ruin it all by dying.”

This is more grim than either boy usually allows the conversation to turn. Seeming to sense this, Ptolemy shifts his ever-burning curiosity from its current, frustrated subject to Nathaniel.

“What about you? Have your doors changed? Some people’s do, you know.”

Nathaniel shakes his head and rises to examine the doors more closely. His fingers brush the silver handle of the left door.

“No, they’re the same. But I think more familiar, now. This door was one I went through often. Maybe for work? This one—”

The center door pulls him up short.

“I’m afraid of it. When I was very young, I think it was something horrible. But the pentacle is wrong for that memory.”

Ptolemy nods, pensive.

“What you described sounds like something I worked on, in life. A broken pentacle to let your spirit flow to the Other Place.” Then he brightens considerably. “Maybe you read my book! I left all the appropriate notes; maybe someone—maybe Rekyt—finished it!”

“It’s possible. I certainly recognize you. Maybe there was a picture of you in it. Always in my mind, I see your shadow and… And…”

Nathaniel feels his existence flicker and suddenly his eyes are nearly of a height with the pentacle on the center door. The long hair is gone, now cropped short against his head.

“Kitty!”

Her sheer presence in his mind bowls him over, knocks him flat—just as that punch had, when they were so young. Her memory alone takes his breath away, is light incarnate, but there’s a certain quality about light:

The brighter the glow, the more the shadows stand out

Nathaniel is the one taken to brooding by the doors, now. Maybe talking about his fears had eased Ptolemy’s frustration, for he is calmer in the silence. Nathaniel, though, stares at the doors and fights with his mind.

Dimly, he finds this sensation familiar. In life, he thinks, I often fought with myself like this. Forcing my mind to do my bidding. If only it worked now.

Shadowy thoughts and feelings swirl around two points. Kitty’s bright aura lights some of them with its shining glow, but the black hole with Ptolemy’s silhouette darkens all that come near. Why can’t he remember?

One thing he can remember whirls ‘round and ‘round his head whenever he looks at the center door:

Demons are wicked and will hurt you if they can. Demons are wicked and will hurt you if they can. Demons are wicked and will hurt you if th—

Incessantly it repeats until Nathaniel has to flee.

Last time, he’d turned from the doors and from Ptolemy and stalked off into the empty vastness. This had gone about as well as could be expected. The blank expanse of white stretched forever, but the doors never got any further away, no matter how far he walked.

This time, he deliberately paces from the three doors to the distant single one. It is the same as ever, all shining glass and dull iron.

(For all the glass shines, it never shows what’s behind.)

He’s still there, forcing his breathing to calm—he only ever needs to breathe when the fear gets like this—when the glass door swings and he’s bathed in brilliant light.

At Ptolemy's suggestion, Nathaniel has accompanied the other boy in his guidance of many new passers through the In-Between. The ritual is always the same. No one has ever tried to call Ptolemy by any name, even the wrong one like Nathaniel did, so Ptolemy gives it freely. The arrival gives theirs in return, then manifests from an amorphous collection of matter into their truest form under his touch.

This is nothing like that. In fact, it’s the exact opposite.

The soul before him is an awesome collection of light, the likes of which Nathaniel has never seen in his time here. He actually stumbles backwards, so fierce is the glow. Before Ptolemy has even approached, Nathaniel finds himself addressed by the new arrival.

“Nathaniel?”

And the shining presence is so familiar. He reaches out, almost afraid, and finds his fingertips pressed to those of an old woman. Her blistering aura collapses itself into a body much shorter than his own, much older, with an expression on her face so blindingly nostalgic he forgets to step back before she launches at him.

“Nathaniel, you absolute prat!”

He raises his arms to fend her off with a yelp of, “Kitty, wait! I don’t—”

But the protest dies in his throat when he realizes she’s dragged him into a tight hug.

The contact is novel; as a rule, he and Ptolemy don’t touch. It seems like an odd thing to even want in this place, where bodies are obviously a construct of their own minds. Nathaniel doesn’t remember having any affectionate physicality in his life on earth, either—having or wanting— but this shakes something loose in him.

His lifted arms come up to return the embrace, and for a moment he’s holding not an old woman, but a girl barely his senior—silver tresses interspersed liberally with glossy black where her head tucks under his chin. The moment ends, but the strength of her hold does not, and they don’t part until a polite cough sounds from behind them.

A deep-seated, gentlemanly instinct sparks in Nathaniel and he turns, hand at Kitty’s back, to face Ptolemy.

“Kitty, this is—”

“Ptolemy!”

The boys’ reactions are simultaneous—Nathaniel’s a put-out frown, Ptolemy’s a confused tilt of the head—when Kitty steps forward to place marveling hands on Ptolemy’s thin shoulders.

“I always knew he was a stickler for accuracy, but to see you in person... After everything Bartimaeus told me, it’s so wonderful to meet you!”

Before she can continue, Ptolemy holds up a hand.

“Wait. Before we talk properly, and we most certainly need to, I need to tell you a few things about this place.” He glances quickly at Nathaniel, then back to Kitty. “Come with me, this won’t take long.”

Holding her hand, Ptolemy leads Kitty towards the three doors and Nathaniel doesn’t follow. This is a personal revelation, deeply intimate and best only shared with one other person—definitely not to be shared with a boy who only mostly-remembers you.

Nathaniel stays behind and the name Kitty mentioned eats at him in the quiet. He’d said it too, when he first arrived: Bartimaeus.

Other names have no business in front of this first door—the dispassionate portal of glass and iron seeks only the name of the arrival and that of the guide. So who is this Bartimaeus, to be so important to not one, but two people’s afterlives?

Rather more to the point, why is one so important such a black hole in Nathaniel’s memory?

Ptolemy and Kitty haven’t come up for air once since Kitty arrived—Nathaniel leaves them to it. He is obviously missing a key piece of the puzzle the three of them make up and Ptolemy has gone so long without a confidant like Kitty. Nathaniel can’t begrudge him that.

He picks up Ptolemy’s duties fully. On first arriving, he’d been convinced this was a job he could never do; that Ptolemy’s ability to look past the strange and horrifying manifestations was fully unique. He was wrong. With the strict discipline he’s remembering was a hallmark of his life, Nathaniel firmly sets aside the gut-deep twist in his soul whenever a spirit manifests under his offered hand, and he guides them all on.

It gets easier. As different as each soul is, one from the next, Nathaniel finds it interesting to wonder what about each individual creates their form. A name is a catalyst; for some it seems to bind and chafe, for others it brings form and purpose. With all of them, though, it is not the name itself that seems to determine their form, and he marvels.

He is not Ptolemy; his manner is not the golden, shining, unconditional glow of the other boy’s. The best Nathaniel can give, the best he hopes to bring, is the truth of his empathy.

None of his arrivals choose to stay, and Nathaniel can’t decide if he’s grateful or envious. Grateful, because whatever he and Kitty and Ptolemy have, he doesn’t want to try and figure it out with a stranger hanging about. Envious, because what he wouldn’t give for that kind of conviction in choice.

The idea of choice consumes his thoughts. The hours before his death are still lost to him, but Nathaniel can feel a weight looming over them—a choice a lifetime in the making, bearing down on the end of that life. He knows himself, now. He knows the Nathaniel-before-death would never have made a choice like that unless— unless…?

Unless someone had shown him how.

Except, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how deep he delves, the only teacher he’s known in that regard is Ptolemy—but not just Ptolemy here, in the In-Between.

Strange, intrusive memories now plague him constantly. London is burning, demons are exulting, and the spices of Alexandria’s markets burn in his nose?

He is alone; he is one with another. He is carrying someone; he is being carried, a passenger borne along by a presence inside of himself.

One moment, Pestilential tears burn into his vision—the next he’s squinting through a lion’s mane, tangled around his face and needing to be spit from his mouth.

Against Ptolemy’s advice, Kitty eventually approaches. She’s got that blazing look in her eyes, the one that captivated and terrified him so in life—the one that means she’s about to fix the world or die trying. He waves her off.

“But Nathaniel—”

“No, Kitty. I’ve seen what happens when someone is forced through this. It’s not a sight I wish on you.”

Nor anyone.

They are stubbornly locked like that for long minutes. Meeting her glare-for-glare feels so achingly familiar, and yet so foreign because that’s the wrong soul behind the right eyes. Frustrated beyond measure, Nathaniel tears himself away and scrubs a hand through his military-short hair.

How dare this Bartimaeus? How dare they take the best of his life and the peace of his afterlife—take them and twine them up in confusing, inaccessible memory?

The glass and iron door creaks. Nathaniel generally makes an effort to project calm when he approaches the arrivals, and he makes the effort now. Only, it’s not working. A scowl still draws his brows in as the great door swings open, and it only starts to fade at the sight of the ragged, bedraggled essence that tumbles through.

Nathaniel has seen spirits like this before, stretched thin and weary. Many spirits he’s guided have immediately chosen the second door. This kind, though? These are the least threatening, and they always choose the third door.

(he always imagines their trailing rags of essence twining into braid-y patterns, like cables on a cardigan)

Even with his ire simmering so close beneath the surface, Nathaniel crouches just a bit to reach out a hand to this newcomer. He doesn’t know what he expects—never knows exactly what to expect—but suddenly images flash in his mind before the spirit takes form.

(frail and gasping, a frog pooling iridescent fluid over marble tile)

(the weakest whirl of sulfurous smoke, dim yellowed eyes peering out)

(a slime-composed pyramid, edges barely defined and smelling distinctly of fish chowder)

He reaches out.

They do not touch, exactly. They are apart, and then, all of a sudden, they are not.

Nathaniel has not had a body in an immeasurable amount of time, but suddenly he remembers the feel of it—remembers the wonder of another experiencing it as a structure of delicate construction—remembers the rush of exhilaration even as that rush fills him anew.

It rushes out of him just as quickly, a sandstorm of iridescent intent stealing out of him on a breath he hadn’t remembered holding. No longer connected, he and the spirit face one another as it takes form at last under his hand.

(His hand has blisters now, never allowed to scar over.)

Both a whirling vortex of night-sky-stars and a glowing conflagration, the spirit materializes—the melancholy of the mutilated Other Place, ripped off and alone, melded with a blinding love of the human soul. It is a humanoid silhouette, Nathaniel’s height and build, with a familiar outline of curly, Macedonian hair, and an aura around darkness that’s bright as noonday splendour.

“And to think, I thought you would be the last thing I saw before dying. Beats me how you managed to be the first thing after the fact.”

(It doesn’t echo in his head-heart-soul like before, but the voice rocks Nathaniel to his core anyway.)

Nathaniel laughs—right and sure and fully himself at last, he laughs. He laughs, and then he replies,

“As if I’d ever let you have the last word, Bartimaeus.”

Kitty appears beside Nathaniel, an amused grin quirking her lined face as she eyes Bartimaeus.

“You’ve changed. I’m surprised we all actually made it here, since you seem to absorb all of our best traits into yourself as soon as we die.”

If any features were readily available, Bartimaeus would be rolling his eyes. As it is, he steps forward to ruffle Kitty’s silver hair in a familiar manner. In that moment they are three—a solid, stable shape—bound together by a love that none of them could have reached on their own; a love that originated not of them, but outside of them.

That love thrums, an invisibly golden light pulsing with a tension multiple eternities old. Kitty and Nathaniel glance at each other, nod, then step out and away as one.

In the opening they make stands Ptolemy—small, somehow shy and looking suddenly different. All his ageless wisdom has fallen away and brown hands grip the white linen of his kilt. His scholar’s pallor has deepened to a wan, sickly thing and he’s shaking on unsteady legs. His swallow before he speaks is both visible and audible; he has to struggle past it before croaking,

“Hello, Rekyt.”

Bartimaeus says nothing. He doesn’t say a thing, but steps forward with purpose, two long strides carrying him forward—carrying him close enough to kneel before the boy and pull him by the shoulders into a tight embrace. Then he says something, murmurs it into the dark curls above Ptolemy’s ear, but it’s too soft for Nathaniel and Kitty to catch. As is right—it wasn’t theirs to hear.

For his part, Ptolemy is definitely crying. His face is buried in Bartimaeus’s shoulder and he’s shaking like a leaf—full-body shudders wracking his frame as his arms tighten their grip. The usually warm-but-slightly-guarded Ptolemy has never been so vulnerable in front of Nathaniel, not even that time in front of the doors, and the older—younger?—boy blushes.

Awkwardly, Nathaniel touches Kitty’s hand and makes to turn them both away, but a voice calls him back. Bartimaeus.

“A couple thousand years in Purgatory hasn’t cured you of your emotional constipation, Nat? Get over here, both of you.”

He still doesn’t move, and Kitty has to physically drag him, pull him down to join their friends—friends, he has friends—in a puddle on the ground. Like time, and physicality and everything else, temperature doesn’t really exist in the In-Between, but Nathaniel is warmer than he can ever remember being in life. It burns like a supernova in his chest.

They are all four in front of the doors—Nathaniel next to Kitty next to Ptolemy next to Bartimaeus.

“What do you see, Rekyt?”

A very long pause then, a bit bemused,

“Well, you. All three of you, all in a line just like we are now, but without me. So, a mirror that’s somehow got busted?”

Nathaniel and Kitty look just as confused as Bartimaeus sounds, but Ptolemy starts to laugh.

“What?”

Ptolemy only laughs harder, managing to get out,

“Rekyt, you are such a sap!”

“Am not!”

“You are so!”

“Oh yeah?” Bartimaeus crosses his arms, looking supremely offended, “How’s that?”

Ptolemy is still snickering, but has gotten the actual gales of laughter under control. With a valiant attempt at his usual serenity, he points to the left-most door.

“That—”

“Nathaniel,” Bartimaeus supplies promptly.

“—is the door back to the world of humans, of earth and sky and boundaries.” Ptolemy’s finger shifts, “That one—Kitty, right?—leads to the Other Place, and this last one…”

As if the implication has only just caught up to him, Ptolemy pauses, an unreadable expression on his face as his directing finger starts to lower. Nathaniel smoothly picks up the thread.

“The last one leads on. No one knows what’s behind it—an adventure into the unknown, you might say. Ptolemy’s right, you are a sap.”

No one speaks for a long, long while; each lost in their own thoughts. Then, Bartimaeus sighs,

“Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I’ve about had it with bouncing between the first two.” A gentle hand on Ptolemy’s shoulder. “What do you say? Should we bring these kids along on our long-postponed adventure?”

It’s as if a weight has been lifted off of the boy. He reaches up, tugs the hand off his shoulder and laces their fingers together. Eyes on the door, he reaches back unseeingly for Kitty’s hand. He finds it offered freely.

In her turn, Kitty reaches for Nathaniel as they step towards the plain, white door, but Nathaniel doesn’t take it. Kitty—dear, stubborn Kitty—digs her heels in and they all look back.

“Nathaniel,” she says, voice brooking no nonsense, “What are you doing?”

Nathaniel glances at the iron-and-glass door, then to the three, then back to his friends. A weight seems to be lifted off of his shoulders as well—a choice finally made.

“I’ll be along.” His smile is serene, scabbed and blistered hands clasped behind his back. “You three go on, it’s not like I don’t know where to find you.”

Kitty does not drop Ptolemy’s hand, but drags the other two back with her as she steps directly in front of Nathaniel, glaring up into his face. Before she can speak, though, Nathaniel continues,

“I know I didn’t exactly keep my last promise—”

“Too right, you didn’t!”

“—but I will, this time. I swear it.”

Tears are bright in Kitty’s eyes, choking up her voice and making her hands shake. Ptolemy squeezes her hand as he steps up beside her.

“He’ll catch us up, Kitty. After all,” the boy shoots Nathaniel a sly grin, “he knows we’ll come looking for him if he doesn’t. If we walk enough worlds, we’ll eventually make it back here to drag him along, if need be.”

His voice has the bite of a threat, but Nathaniel knows Ptolemy now—knows that under his friend’s teasing is approval. There should always be a guide.

Bartimaeus taps Kitty on the shoulder.

“Budge over, you two.”

They do. Bartimaeus steps forward, places hands on Nathaniel’s shoulders, and leans down to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“Don’t be too long.”

Kitty and Ptolemy are suddenly there too, arms wrapped around him in tight hugs. Nathaniel nods, suddenly choked up himself. He remembers this feeling—the last thing he felt before the end. To be loved so much by even one, let alone three... It nearly breaks him.

“I will, I promise.”

The three draw back. They look at him, long and steady, then Kitty turns first to face the white door. Ptolemy is next, excitement clear in his bearing. Last to turn away is Bartimaeus, lingering to look back at Nathaniel.

Nathaniel’s expression is soft, not quite a smile.

“Go on. I’ll see you all soon.”

And they do.

The door clicks shut behind them.

Movement at his back, and he turns. The door of glass and iron swings silently open on invisible hinges. Nathaniel walks to meet it—through the flat, quiet whiteness of this dimension. A fall of essence imposes itself upon the space, tumbling through the door.

With a soft smile, a starburst of white burning in his soul, he says,

“Hello. My name is Nathaniel.”

fin

#The Bartimaeus Trilogy #the bartimaeus sequence #bartimaeus #Nathaniel #Ptolemy #bartimaeus trilogy #AvinRyd #fics of ryd

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blancheludis · 4 years

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Tagging: @tokky231

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers Characters: Tony Stark/Steve Rogers, James Rhodes, Pepper Potts, Bruce Barton, Steve Rogers Chapters: 32/?, Words: 177.126

Summary: Tony meets his soulmate under the worst possible circumstances. It is not just a kidnapping gone wrong. It turns out Steve and his gang picked him on purpose and they want some personal revenge. If only he had managed to say the words written on his soulmate’s arm before they threw him back out into the streets.

—

A week passes in which Steve is completely alone in the base. He wakes up alone, checks their channels for new jobs alone, eats alone, trains alone, goes to sleep alone.

By the third day, the atmosphere becomes too oppressing and he begins wandering around New York, walking streets he knew as a child, venturing into places he has never been. He visits the Metropolitan museum but leaves when he feels too lonely amongst the mass of people moving through the rooms.

Bucky does not answer his phone, Clint is chasing Natasha, Bruce does not stop by again. So much for talking about their situation with the team.

Steve does not know what to do. A decision has been made for him, or so it feels. How can he choose between a team that has mostly already left him and a soulmate he let walk away?

Things will calm down, he is sure. They will come back and then they will talk. Maybe they will laugh about the ludicrousness of him thinking they were going to split up just like that. They just have to sort out their own problems first. It is all right if they do not want Steve’s help with that. He would not want them talking him into anything concerning Tony too. Except, maybe, he does. At least someone to talk to.

Steve puts up his drawing stuff in the gym where they have the best light. It makes a nice contrast, he thinks. Violence versus art. With Natasha, he knows, they are the same thing. He makes quick sketches of all of his teammates, but the first person he puts on canvas is Tony. He just hopes that is not a sign.

He paints and paints, more than he has in months. It calms his thoughts as much as it makes the constant, low-key humming of the soul bond more bearable, more like a melody in his head than a message from Tony.

When Sam calls, Steve tells him everything is fine.

The news tells him that, in an apparently bold move, Tony made Pepper Potts the new CEO of Stark Industries. In the picture they show, Tony is smiling, surrounded by his friends. Right at the border of the picture stands Thor, back in the action.

By the seventh day, Steve knows what he will do. It does not matter so much whether it is wrong or right, but the waiting is making him crazy. If nobody is willing to give him an answer, he has to find his own.

He opens their group chat, then thinks better of involving the team in DC at this point. This is already a mess. It will be better to contact them when he has a plan of action.

Avengers assemble, he writes.

Then, he waits.

One by one, they all come. Steve does not greet them but sits in the safety of the office and watches the camera.

Bruce is first, which does not surprise Steve at all. After a quick glance into the kitchen where he puts the kettle on the stove, he disappears into his lab. They do not have any cameras in there, but Steve does not want to see what happens there anyway. He is afraid that Bruce is slowly packing up his things.

Clint and Natasha come in next, walking shoulder to shoulder as if they expect someone to attack them in their own home. In stark contrast to that, Clint is whistling and carrying a stack of pizza boxes.

Last is Bucky. Steve tells himself it does not mean anything, that Bucky just was the farthest away from the base. He is not losing his best friend on top of everything else.

They are all here. That is what matters. He repeats that like a mantra in his head.

When Steve comes into the kitchen, they are all seated around the table already. He pretends not to notice that Bucky and Natasha sit as far away from each other as possible, while Clint and Bruce studiously avoid looking at each other. How far they have fallen. If Steve were not so tired, he would cry at the sight.

They all look exhausted, although they carry themselves differently with that. Natasha is slouching elegantly, and if Steve did not know her, he would have missed that she is ready to jump up at a moment’s notice, either to fight or flee. Bruce is wearing a shirt that is too big for him and appears to try to take up as little space as possible as if he could just fold in on himself and disappear. Bucky has not shaved in a few days and his hair is unkempt, pulled up in a messy bun. Clint is bright-eyed and skittery, itching for something to happen.

All of this spells disaster.

Steve takes his time filling a mug of tea for himself and raises the pot to ask whether anyone else needs more too. Bruce refuses with a smile, the rest just waits for him to speak. No one told him this would be so awkward.

This kitchen has never been so silent. It was always filled with banter or good-natured fights about food or missions. Living here has felt more like a college dorm than a vigilante base. At least until everybody stopped talking to each other.

With measured steps, Steve walks to his chair and looks at all of them for a long moment before he sits down. His bones are brimming with the kind of restlessness that makes it hard to not jump into action immediately. He has thought long about this, though. For a whole week, he had barely anything else to do. It is time.

“A lot of things have gone wrong lately,” Steve says, settling back while he meets all of his friends’ eyes. They are listening, even while appearing not very receptive.

“No shit,” Clint mutters with a snort that is filled with derision more than amusement. He does not aim it at anyone in particular at least.

Steve is going to lose them before he has even said his piece. Clint has a talent for riling people up and making every situation unsolvable. Although that might be unfair. None of them has particularly stellar people skills. Not even with each other, as evidenced by the past weeks.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t start another fight, Clint,” Steve says sharply. It takes more effort than it should to stay calm. He has not made his decision easy, so he wants to get this over with.

Clint’s lazy grin softens a bit. “Aye, Captain.” He mock-salutes, not quite done stirring up trouble yet. “Please depart your wisdom on us about what is going to happen next.”

Steve wonders where the Clint from last week has gone. The one without the cruel edge to his tone and the unwillingness to play by the rules even for once. It might have been scary to hear him talk about leaving, but this Clint here is already two steps out of the door.

He is not asking a lot of them, just that they behave like adults and think about the future. If change is inevitable, they need to sit down and do damage control. They owe each other that much.

“I have talked to most of you.” He looks at Bruce, Clint, and Bucky in turn, then settles on Natasha with a question in his eyes. “You have all basically said that you’d be in favour of dissolving the Avengers.”

Part of him expects at least Natasha to protest, to raise her eyebrow at him like she does when she thinks they are behaving particularly stupid. Instead, she inclines her head, not quite an agreement.

“That not what I said,” Clint pipes up again, although the curve of his mouth has gone flat as if he is only now realizing that this conversation is serious.

“I’m paraphrasing,” Steve counters, then takes a deep breath. This is happening. “The matter with Stane pushed us all into disarray. We fought with each other instead of standing strong. We opted to run when things got complicated.”

The words get stuck in Steve’s throat. He did not expect to have to hold a speech. He thought his team would fall together the way they always do when needed.

Instead, he is met with four waiting sets of eyes, watching him get worked up over something that might appear very clear to them already.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, just barely keeping his shoulders from slumping.

“Perhaps you are right,” he says, feeling the truth crawling out of him with painful slowness. “Perhaps we need a break from this to see what else is out there for us.”

Silence meets him, but it feels different than before, almost like the sullen bravery has been sucked out of the room now that he said what they are all thinking.

“What does that mean?” Bruce asks, gentle even while sounding strangely unaffected. It does nothing to keep the cold from spreading through Steve’s chest.

This is it. All the thinking he has done over the past week pales to the reality of sitting across from his friends and watching them slip away from him.

“It means I’m tired,” Steve admits, aware that is not what Bruce was asking. It is the truth, however. “Tired of things going wrong and of everybody being gone all the time. For the past week, I’ve been the only one staying here.”

He cannot tell them how that felt. How lonely it is to walk past empty rooms, to be met by silence everywhere. Steve has not been truly alone since before he met Bucky. All these long days and weeks he spent in his bed, too sick to go outside, found an end when they became friends.

With the Avengers, none of them was ever truly alone either. Especially in DC, they are too many people for that. But even here, someone was always making coffee or training in the gym. Clanking and muttering could always be heard from Bruce’s lab. Someone was always available to talk.

The loss of that hurts more than the idea of stopping to fight the good fight. Steve might have dedicated his life to helping others, but it is slowly eating him up that he cannot even save his team, much less himself.

“I didn’t think we needed to tell you where we are at any given time,” Bucky says, ripping Steve out of his musings.

The breath Steve has just slowly regained gets knocked out of him again. He expected that protest from Clint. That it comes from Bucky just hurts.

“You don’t.” Steve almost adds an apology but stops himself. He is not here to blame his friends for what is happening, so he will not apologise for them taking it that way. They have done nothing else but heaping blame on each other in the past weeks. “But there’s not much sense in being a team when we can’t stand being in the same room together, right?”

Bucky flinches and even Clint drops his eyes. Steve cannot feel any satisfaction at that. This is his team. In a way, it is his fault that they are falling apart. He was too focused on his own problems to properly listen to theirs. Perhaps they all felt they had nowhere to turn to.

“We just need some time,” Bucky argues with just a hint of irritation in his tone. His eyes are narrowed, looking darker thanks to the badges beneath them.

Nobody else nods or shows any sign of agreement.

Steve holds up his hands, gesturing at them to stay calm. “I’m not claiming anything else.” He takes a deep breath, wondering how to tell them the result of his week of thinking, how to convince them that he is not abandoning them after he complained that they were all doing the same to him. Closing his eyes briefly, Steve blurts. “I’m going back to college.”

Where the silence was sullen before, it is not shocked, full of disbelief. Either at the sudden change of topic or the miserable conviction in Steve’s tone.

Steve has to drag up his eyes from his hands to gauge his friends’ reactions. The mild approval on Bruce’s face, underlined by a small smile, is no surprise. He has always pushed them to further their knowledge. Natasha and Clint share a look Steve cannot decipher but then they nod at him. Worst is the wide-eyed stare from Bucky, not quite betrayed but utterly caught off-guard.

“You what?” Bucky demands like he cannot believe that Steve would not be right here, waiting for him until he is ready to come back.

For decades, it has always been the two of them, but this only encourages Steve to go through with his plan, no matter what. He does not regret organizing his life around Bucky’s needs, but they do need to venture out alone every once in a while. This is their chance to build something separate from all the grief they have been through.

“College,” Steve repeats firmly, squaring his jaw in case anybody wants to question him. “I will get my art degree.” Somewhat softer, he adds, “We’ve got enough money to help all of us to go in a new direction. That doesn’t mean we won’t try to help anymore. But maybe it’s time to be more than just Avengers.”

That just hurts to say. It has never been just. They threw all their talents together to do something good. And they did. For years. All roads end at some point. If he has learned nothing else during this mess, it is that there are always new roads to walk too.

“Stark made you an offer,” Natasha speaks up. It is impossible to interpret her tone. She does not look disapproving but meets his eyes straight on. If anything, it is like she expected this to happen.

“We talked,” Steve admits stiffly. “But he is no more responsible for this than any of you. Any of us.” The last thing he needs is for them to put the blame on someone outside of their group, especially Tony. They have done that once already.

Natasha shakes her head slightly. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything.” She sounds like she means it, too.

Surprise has Steve forgetting to appear collected. He feels his mouth go slack as he stares at her. “You don’t?”

It is one thing to accept them going separate ways for now, but Steve thinks that, had any of them talked to an outsider before clearing things with them, he would not take it so calmly.

“You’re right,” says, seemingly impassionate, and shrugs. “We’re done.”

Finally, some restlessness spreads through the room. Bucky has taken to glaring at Natasha, while Clint is shifting in his seat as if he wants to add something but, for once in his life, is holding back. All the pretty words Steve has thought to say, and she outs it like that.

Done. Like there is no going back. Like this is it forever.

“And you’re not just saying that because you’re avoiding Bucky?” Bruce asks, putting his finger on a wound Steve has momentarily forgotten exists.

Natasha’s expression shifts into something very cold. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and her eyes are hard, turned on Bruce without blinking. “You know perfectly well I can keep business and personal matters apart.”

As if he has waited for this cue, Bucky jerks forward, smashing his metal hand on the table. The impact has their mugs clanking and tea spilling out of Steve’s.

“Well, I can’t,” Bucky growls, brows drawn together. “We need to talk.”

Tension is hanging in the air, almost thick enough to cut. Steve expected them to fight but not about this. Not about whether or not they can still stand to be in the same room together. His grief is a visceral thing, pressing on his ribcage so that every breath is laboured.

Natasha opens her mouth and it is obvious from the way she holds her shoulders that she is going to refuse. Whatever might have been going on between them, whatever trust there ever was, she will reject it.

Next to her, Clint leans forward, puts a hand on her shoulder as if to hold her back, and says, “Yes you do.”

It will forever be fascinating how well these two work together. Clint, with the shortest fuse possible and no patience whatsoever to hide his feelings, and Natasha, who is always holding back, never showing all her cards.

Natasha turns to Clint, nothing gentle in her face. “Do you want to hold my hand while we do, too?”

Flashing a grin, Clint shakes his head, unconcerned with the threat of violence exuding from her. “Nope,” he says cheerfully. “I need both my hands to shoot a bow.”

They keep looking at each other for a moment longer, communicating something they do not want the others to be privy too. If Steve had not been watching them so closely, he would have missed the way Natasha’s posture softens just so.

“All right,” she then says, still like she is pressured into something she does not want to do but wants to get over with quickly if she cannot avoid it. “I prefer to do this without an audience. Come on, James.”

James. That is new, too. Steve wonders whether that is just another tool to distance herself from them. He does not have time to think about it, however, because Natasha pushes away from the table, in the process of getting up.

“Wait,” he calls, noting the urgency in his own tone. “This is it?”

All of them turn to look at him. Natasha and Bucky with blank stares, Clint and Bruce with varying degrees of pity.

“What else do you need?” Natasha asks, her brow arched.

Steve is sure she does not mean to sound cruel. She simply has a task before her that she does not want to avoid any longer. Still, the moment they get up from this table there is no going back.

“I thought –” Steve says and trails off. He called them here. He wanted a solution. Now that they agreed to what he said, can he really protest that?

“You wanted us to put up more of a fight so you could back out,” Bruce explains with utter calm, neither pity nor judgement in his tone. “But we agree. We need this, We’re not out of the world, but we’ve been taking care of other people’s problems for too long.”

Because dealing with their own is too hard. Because they have something wonderful if fragile here. For too long, Steve has identified himself as nothing more than an Avenger. These people are his family, but he has always thought of them as his teammates first.

“What are you going to do?” Steve asks, slowly because he is afraid his voice will break. His throat is clogged with emotions, burning all the way down to his core.

He watches as Clint and Natasha exchange another look without offering any information. They will stick together as they have done for years. Perhaps they even have something lined up already. People with their kinds of talents are always needed.

“I have a job offer at Stark Industries,” Bruce says. He sounds wary, probably worried about what Steve will say.

It is no mystery who made that offer. And, yes, it stings that his soulmate would ask Bruce to stay while making demands of Steve. He understands it, however. Bruce has been on Tony’s side for longer than any of them, helping him and respecting his wishes when Steve did everything but.

Steve nods at Bruce, trying a smile that probably comes out mangled, but Bruce answers in kind, accepting his gesture.

“Of course, you do,” Clint mutters, but he, too, does not sound mad, just teasing.

Slowly, the tension is dispersing, all because they decided to take a break from each other. Steve has to remind himself that they had a good run, that their friendship is not worth less just because they are experiencing some bumps.

“I might pick up ballet again,” Natasha offers suddenly. Even her expression has melted into something softer.

“We won’t go dark if you don’t either,” Clint says, hiding a serious promise underneath his smile.

It looks like everybody is on a better path already. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Steve says, “Never.” He means it with every fiber of his being.

“Great.” With that, Natasha does get to her feet and looks expectantly at Bucky. “If you would, James. I have an appointment later I cannot be late for.”

Bucky stands immediately, his expression still grim but Steve knows him well enough to see the hope fluttering over his face before he shuts it down. They walk out together, and Steve can just hope that Bucky did not say anything to his question of what he is going to do because the answer hinges on this conversation.

He knows he is not going to get on with his life if that means leaving Bucky behind. Not in the way he wants to, at least. They have been through too much together to now be impassionate about each other’s fate. He is going to wait and intercept Bucky when he is done talking to Natasha. They will figure something out then.

Silence hangs between them again. Steve waits for Clint and Bruce to make their excuses too and leave him here. Instead, they remain seated. Bruce is looking at his hands, while Clint is watching the door. At least until he turns towards Steve, his expression more vulnerable than Steve has seen in years.

“You did good, Steve,” Clint says in a measured tone, tasting each word. “All these years. With us. Couldn’t have asked for a better leader.”

He is being serious. That registers before the actual sentiment does. Here Steve is, sitting with Clint at one table, who is known for questioning every order and starting fights just for the fun of it. And he is telling Steve that he has performed well as the leader of this group they all seem entirely too happy to leave behind.

“Apparently not good enough,” Steve replies, failing to sound nonchalant. His jaw is clenched and it takes him several seconds to relax it.

Clint grins, immediately looking more like himself again. “Better stop while you’re ahead.” He cocks his head to the side. “But honestly, Steve. This isn’t your fault. We were all messed up before you got your hands on us. If anything, you made us better.”

But not good enough for them to want to stay together. Not good enough to trust each other with their problems. Not good enough to stick this out.

“He’s right,” Bruce chimes in before Steve can argue. He manages to sound earnest much better than Clint, if mostly because he is a bad liar. “We all grew a lot here. You made me believe that I can still be more than what Ross reduced me to.”

This feels too much like an ending. Steve knows it is one, of course, but not like this. They are all telling him goodbye. They might be saying we had a good time, but what he hears is we can’t get away from here fast enough.

Maybe he was a fool for expecting them to protest, to tell him that nothing would break them apart, especially nothing like this. Steve has sent out applications for college but he was fully prepared to withdraw them. He just needed them to want to stay. And they do not.

He is not sure what to do with that. What to do with himself.

Seeing them like this, barely talking, all caught up in their own problems, tells him they are right. This is not sustainable. But.

He will need to talk to Sam, explain to him how everything went wrong so quickly. Then he needs to find an apartment and somehow live the rest of his life. He is not sure whether he can stand this.

“Thank you,” he tells Bruce and Clint, briefly meeting their eyes. He wants to say more but worries to break down before them. “I need to talk to Bucky. I’ll wait for him in my room.”

He flees.

---

Half an hour later, someone knocks on Steve’s door. He hesitates to call out because he is afraid that it is not Bucky but someone else telling him that Bucky ran out on him. Considering their track record lately, it would not surprise him.

“Come in,” he calls nonetheless. What is one more bad thing heaped on the giant pile?

The door opens and it is Bucky coming in. Steve does not bother to hide his relief, especially when he notices that Bucky walks like a lot of weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He joins Steve where he is sitting on his bed and they shift to face each other like they have done a thousand times since they were children.

It is nice, this moment before they start talking, when they can still pretend that nothing has changed.

Steve remembers with a smile how they made plans before they joined the Army, before they grew up to be people they barely recognized.

“How did it go?” Steve asks, watching closely for any change in Bucky’s expression.

One corner of Bucky’s mouth just barely lifts as he stares at his hands. “We talked.”

His taciturnity is nothing new, so Steve waits. Pushing for more will only end with Bucky clamming up completely.

“Nat doesn’t believe we’re soulmates,” Bucky finally continues, still not looking up. He shrugs as if it does not matter.

Irritation sparks through Steve like a rush of sudden energy. Despite the bleakness of the past week, this rouses him from his exhaustion.

He cannot believe it. Natasha likes to pretend she is aloof and nothing can touch her. She cares, Steve knows that. She cares and she loves them. So how dare she reject Bucky, who has put his trust in her, who she has presumably opened up with.

“So what?” Steve snaps, forgetting all about allowing Bucky to take his time. “She’s just going to leave you? After all you’ve been through together? After all these years of friendship?” The frustration he kept bottled up for weeks is now bursting to the surface. “Let me talk to her. I know she doesn’t like letting anyone talk her into things but perhaps I can make her see reason.”

“Calm down, Stevie,” Bucky says. For some reason, he is smiling, looking amused at Steve’s indignation.

What really interrupts Steve’s ranting is the name. It has been ages since Bucky called him Stevie. That tender relic of their childhood. Warmth blossoms in Steve’s chest, followed by the shameful thought that, if Natasha does not want Bucky, chances are greater that he will come with Steve.

He shakes himself to get that thought out of his head. That is not what he wants. His happiness means nothing if it comes at the cost of Bucky’s.

“I want you to be happy,” Steve says, hoping he has never given Bucky a reason to doubt that.

Bucky bites his lip, and says, “I told her I’m not convinced we’re soulmates either. And that it doesn’t matter because I love her anyway.”

Several seconds pass in which Steve is trying to make sense of these words. Love, he thinks. How did that happen? He loves Bucky. He loves the entire team, and he guesses the same must be true for the rest of them too. Otherwise, they would have fallen apart much sooner.

Bucky telling Natasha that he loves her is a development he did not see coming. Yes, they were close. In some ways perhaps even closer than Bucky and Steve or Clint and Natasha. But both of them are so repressed when it comes to feelings that Steve expected anything but that to be the result of their conversation.

“Fate is bullshit for people like us,” Bucky continues when Steve simply keeps staring at him. “Perhaps we’re soulmates, perhaps we’re not. What does it matter? I trust her and I love her. We can make something good out of that.”

He sounds so convinced that Steve’s heart aches for him, wanting nothing more than for this to work out.

“We?” Steve asks quietly, almost afraid of the answer. “She agreed?”

Bucky shrugs, but his expression tells quite clearly he never saw that happening either. “She apologised for running,” he says, almost chuckling with incredulity. “We’re both not good with feelings. But we’ve had each other’s backs before this and we’ll keep doing that now.”

So something good has come from this mess. Steve is not selfless enough to say that it was all worth it – him ruining things with his own soulmate, Tony almost losing his life, their team breaking up – if only Bucky will be allowed to keep this, but it is a close thing. This is what they have been searching for the entire time, after all, a life worth living.

He reaches out and clasps Bucky’s shoulder, relieved when Bucky does not pull away. This is real.

“What are you going to do?” Steve asks, both because he wants to know and because he wants to avoid questions about Tony.

“Natasha has been talking to that FBI agent Coulson,” Bucky says, not showing what he thinks of that. “Clint and she are going to meet with him next week. Perhaps work out a job.”

That is another surprising development. Steve has never gotten the chance to ask Natasha or Clint about how they know Coulson or why they had dealings with the FBI without ever telling them about it. He almost did not believe it when Tony told him, but since nobody came knocking on their door or kept asking uncomfortable questions about the arrow wounds Clint left behind, there had to be some truth to it.

Now it seems he knows what Clint and Natasha will be doing after this. Considering their sometimes unconventional methods to solve a job he is not sure how well they will do with getting back in government employ, but if Coulson has been following them, he knows what he is getting into.

“And you want that?” Steve asks, his worry spiking again. “To keep living this life?”

Bucky’s entire body moves as he shakes his head in a very empathetic no. “I’ll stay with her, but I’m done hunting people.”

Steve tries to take the relief in Bucky’s voice not personally. The Avengers were the best way for them at the time. Whatever else happens, he is not going to let anyone talk him out of believing that. But perhaps he has overdone it. Perhaps he has been dragging Bucky along for too long, never seeing his best friend suffer.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, stretching out his hand as if to touch Bucky, but he is not sure whether that would be welcome.

“Sometimes you’re really stupid, Stevie,” Bucky says and catches his hand, squeezes it hard. “You probably saved me with this stunt. And it was good.”

Relief floods through Steve, easing the nausea nesting inside his stomach. Letting go is one thing but getting told that he was wrong to pursue this all this time would be quite another.

“While it lasted?” Steve asks nonetheless, not sure how to ask whether Bucky regrets this.

“Of course,” Bucky asks without hesitation but does not let go of Steve’s hand. “Nothing lasts forever. You of all people should know that.”

Steve does, but this is different. This is something he built to last. Something to carry them when they could not do so themselves.

“It’s hard to let go,” he admits, staring at where his hand is held by Bucky’s.

“Wouldn’t have been good if it was,” Bucky replies with a smile in his voice. And truly, when Steve looks up, Bucky’s lips are pulled up, making him look much younger than he did for the past weeks, not weighed down as heavily anymore.

“But we –” Steve begins, then tries again. “If you leave with Natasha.” He trails off, gives up. He cannot even get the words out to ask whether that means the end for the two of them too.

“I’m not leaving you,” Bucky says, still able to read Steve. “If Nat is going to work for the FBI, we’ll probably look for a flat here.”

There goes Steve’s slight hope to move back in with Bucky, to not strand utterly alone in this city – or wherever life brings him. “That serious already?” he asks, trying for a humorous tone despite knowing it will fail.

“No need to ease into it. We’ve basically been living together for years,” Bucky answers, slightly chiding. Then he leans forward, appearing more cheerful now that they have cleared this up. “What college do you want to go to?”

Considering that Steve had still thought he would not go at all because his team would hold him back, the question catches him off guard. Tony is in New York, and if Bucky and Natasha will be staying here too, the answer is obvious.

“Here, I hope,” he says, putting some effort into sounding like he knows what he is doing.

It does not fool Bucky, of course. He is kind enough not to mention it. Then, however, he asks the second worst thing. “He’ll give you a chance then?”

There is no use in pretending Steve does not know that he means Tony. Who else would Steve hope to keep in his life other than the people who just gathered in their kitchen and gave their goodbyes?

“Possibly,” Steve says and falls silent. There really is nothing else to add.

Tony asked him to choose and Steve has. More or less, at least. The Avengers are disbanding and Steve will stay. He just hopes that is enough.

“And that’s good enough for you?” Bucky asks but sounds as if he knows the answer. He looks sad, eyes dark with something unsaid.

That is enough to rouse Steve. “If you’re trying to talk me out of –”

Bucky pats his hand, effectively cutting him off. “On the contrary,” he says earnestly. “I believe this will be good for you. You always need to be in control. It’ll help to let go once in a while.”

Steve cannot remember the last time he was really in control. It was before they took the job to steal Tony’s USB drive. Perhaps even earlier than that, before they started chasing jobs, always needing to keep busy.

“Well, prepare to have me crashing on your couch if all of this goes wrong,” Steve tries to joke. He manages to smile but it feels too tight, too fake.

“I love you, Steve,” Bucky says and his smile is bright and honest, embracing Steve like home.

“Love you too, Buck,” Steve replies quietly, grateful. “Just tell me if you need me.”

Nodding, Bucky lets go of Steve’s hand. It does not feel like as much of a loss as it could. “Only if you do the same.”

Maybe not everything has changed. Maybe they are ready for a new chapter in their lives but that does not mean leaving everything of the old one behind.

“Stay here tonight?” Steve asks, almost managing to do so without fear of being rejected.

Without the slightest bit of hesitation, Bucky nods. “Take your blanket. My bed is bigger than yours.”

Yes, Steve thinks, maybe everything will be all right.

#stony #fanfiction #soulmates #tony stark #steve rogers #slow burn #avengers #i'm sorry everybody seems to be a jerk #i was super tired while writing this #and one of my fish is dying #my writing #ao3 #leave the gun on the table

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silence-burns · 6 years

Text

What Defines Us //part(1/3)

Fandom: Fantastic Beast and Where to Find Them

Summary: Based on: “Imagine Newt and Tina find barely alive Credence after his encounter with MACUSA and Grindewald, and decide to help him hide while the widespread search is conducted. They can’t get him out of the country, so they find him a safe place to wait it out. The best they could think of while feeling the MACUSA’s breath on their necks was the house of the former Auror, you.” by @thefandomimagine

Word count: 1,920 Genres: action, mystery

[Masterlist] [Part 2/3]

You didn’t like it.

The unpleasant tingling in the tips of your fingers was urging you to move them closer to the wand, even though you could defend yourself and the mansion just as well without it. Your pulse was slightly too fast to be considered normal. You felt it in the air - the soft suggestion brought by the cool wind wrapping up in the branches of the leafless trees. The whisper of your subconscious was telling you to prepare. To observe. To feel what was to come. It has never fooled you and that’s why you had survived all those years in the battlefield, always trusting yourself and your hunches completely.

And now it was making you doubt your decision.

When Newt came to you, he looked hounded, as if someone was after him, right around the corner – you knew that look well enough to recognize it immediately. He has been your old (and slightly extraordinary) friend, one of the very few you still had, and your immediate impulse was to fight whoever was hunting him down.

He calmed you down with a weak, sad smile though, but instead asked for a somewhat different favour.

“I can’t tell you any details right now, because I’m out of time, but there is this boy - he is seriously injured and exhausted and I need to hide him somewhere, just for a few days,” Newt whispered to you, still looking over his shoulder in a dark, empty valley he choose for the meeting. “Please, I know that the spells you’ve casted over your home would stop literally MACUSA and I don’t have anyone else to ask for such a thing…”

“Who is after him, Newt?” you asked firmly, sensing what he was trying to cover with carefully selected words. You’ve interrogated far too many people not to see through it.

The tall man licked his lips nervously, in a manner that has been betraying him for years. He was nervous and agog – a rare state for a light-hearted dreamer like him. At that point you were determined that whatever his problem was, it was not a joke.

“MACUSA,” Newt whispered almost inaudibly, not able to look you straight in the eyes.

He was aware of the events and reasons that made you leave the Magical Congress and cut all the ropes tying you to it. It felt like a punch in the face and he knew you felt furious that he tried to hide it from you.

“Why would I…” you muttered through the gritted teeth but he stopped you quickly.

“For exactly the same reasons as you left MACUSA! They are wrong about this boy, believe me! They made a mistake once and they are making it again. Trust me, I beg you. They cannot find him.”

You closed your eyes, regaining your composure. The bitter, dusty memories that Newt’s words brought back to life made you wince for a moment, but it was neither a time nor a place to dig up the old wounds. It was over for you.

“Is that why you urged me to meet you in person?” you asked with a perfectly calm voice. Calm as the sea right before the storm that could shatter any fool disturbing it at the wrong time.

“Yes, I’m pretty sure MACUSA would try to track any call I made with magic. Please. This boy has no place to go. I won’t let them hurt him again.”

Newt was not lying, you saw it in his eyes. The steel gaze of someone who knew they stood no chance over the people on the other side, but would die fighting for what they believed in. Newt has always been a dreamer. And dreamers die first in the battle, with faces lightened up in their final vision.

You have seen too many buried bodies of the people dying for the better cause, the people who you couldn’t save from themselves.

But you tried. You tried every time.

You lifted your head, giving the man a steel-hard gaze.

“Bring him to the mansion. I am not promising anything, remember that. From now on, I am the one in charge. If I get even the slightest hint of…”

“I know, I know, I love you!” Newt embraced you, hugging you in awe a little too tightly for your liking, but you couldn’t help a small chuckle over the sudden change in his mood. He looked like a massive weight was removed from his shoulders.

“You’re crushing me,” you said, awkwardly patting his back with your free hand.

“I’m sorry! I promise, you won’t regret it!”

At that moment, seeing his pure happiness, your decision didn’t felt like a mistake.

But after a few hours, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. You were aware that no matter what you did, you couldn’t redeem your past. It was a pathetic thought to try and exchange one life over the dead haunting you for years. It couldn’t fix anything. Nothing had the power to change the past that drastically. And yet, there you were, trying not to make the same mistake again. Deep down, you knew it was the only thing you could do. Your conciousness would eat you alive if you left the ones in need again.

You kept looking through the window. A light rain was trickling along the glass. Where were they?

You clenched your itching hand over your walking stick. On the days like this, you could almost feel your leg shattering again.

You felt them right before they teleported in front of the gate keeping your mansion secure. Newt’s magic was well-known for you and you could easily recognize him even from the distance. You made the gate crack open with your will, breaking the guarding spell just a little so that the man could come in with this ‘boy’ of his. And a woman. He mentioned a woman. Her name was Tina and she worked for the MACUSA. You remembered her just briefly since you had exchanged maybe a few words while you still were their hound. Back in your days, she was just an assistant. She grew up. You felt old.

You muttered a swear under your breath, moving to the old wooden door to hold them open. From the hallway’s windows you could see their effort in dragging the figure bathed in way too many clothes. The path from the gate to the door was long, but pavement at least saved them from floundering in the mud. Their spell-casted umbrella dispelled in the hall.

“Is anyone following you?” you asked sharply, your subconsciousness grumbling gloomily at you.

“We’ve lost them just a minute ago, but they won’t leave us alone for long!” Newt gasped weakly, completely out of breath.

You led them to one of the many rooms in the dark, empty mansion, which you have more or less prepared for the new resident. The person they carried didn’t move when they laid it down on a bed.

“So go and let your tail find you,” you hissed, almost casting them out. “They can’t get suspicious about this place!”

“But…”

“Go. Contact me when it all calms down,” you ordered Tina who must have remembered you too, because she didn’t even question your decision. She grasped Newt’s arm, giving the boy one last look before she teleported them both out. At least she wasn’t problematic.

You were left alone with a shuddering rag. All you could see on him was black, his hair, clothes…

“Are you alive?” you asked, perfectly audible in the suddenly deafening silence. He didn’t even flinch.

If they have brought you a dead body, you would kill them on the nearest occasion. It wouldn’t make any difference – one or three bodies to deal with…

The body curled up on the bed muttered something, but remained unconscious. You sighed, already regretting your decision. How were you supposed to take care of anyone? You agreed to guard, not to bring back from the brink of death. But it was too late to change your mind after you gave Newt a promise.

You leaned your stick on the bedside table. You placed the limp body further on the bed. The boy was abnormally light and emaciated.

You didn’t want to pry too much, but had to examine his state. Under the sleeves you saw the white bandages, which you had almost missed because of how pale his skin was. It contrasted strongly with his black hair, giving him a ghost-like look, especially with his sunken cheeks and long eyelashes casting deep shadows. You made sure he wasn’t bleeding from any wound, because given his condition, it wouldn’t take much time for him to bleed out. He was weak as a newborn kitten. And cold.

You took off some of his wet clothes, most of them completely bedraggled. You smelled a slight, metallic odour of blood, but from what you’ve seen, his injuries were mostly taken care of, probably by Newt, who had to heal and patch up both himself and his creatures too, forever eager to use their claws and fangs while having fun. He didn’t have much time to stop all the bleeding, though, and some of the bruises looked very nasty. You muttered a few words about Newt’s irresponsibility and recklessness, but reached out over the boy, making magic softly flow through your fingertips. You didn’t want to interfere too much, because magic could be as helpful as dangerous.

The boy without a name was bruised and cut. You were almost sure his injuries were made by spells, you’d know those burns anywhere.

But besides them, he has also had many much older scars and bruises. You didn’t investigate it further, it wasn’t your job after all. After you healed him, you brought a thick blanket, tucking him in the best you could. With a mere look, you started a fire in the chimney on the other side of the room. There wasn’t much you could do right now besides keeping an eye on the spells guarding the mansion in case the tail following Newt and Tina found out about their stop.

The rain poured from the grey clouds. You took your stick and went out of the room, casting a spell before closing the door, that would warn you if the boy opened them. Never trust anyone, especially if your friend was too busy to give you even their name.

Newt would pay for that. Sometime later. If he didn’t get caught.

You headed to the kitchen. The soft ripple of the rain couldn’t cover the tapping accompanying you on your way, just like it didn’t for the past years. It was almost like the ghosts of your past followed you on every step you made, constantly reminding you of the things that could not be forgotten nor forgiven.

It was a long time since you did a good deed. You wouldn’t mind if it made you feel a little better, to be honest.

[Masterlist] [Part 2/3]

#credence x reader #credence x you #credence/reader #credence/you #newt x you #credence barebone #newt scamander #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fbawtft #credence imagine #newt imagine

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