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wildroseofarran · 3 years

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When it Finally Hits || Captain Issott || January, 2021

Leslie: {Text from Leslie} Do you need me today on the ship?

Tristan: {Text from Tristan} For working, no

{Text from Tristan} For kissing? Always

Leslie: {Text} That's all I am to you. Lips.

Tristan: {Text} You're the whole world, sweetheart

{Text} That being said, it's not a pressing need but I do need to make a couple new nets if you wanna help

Leslie: {Text} Making me swoon.

{Text} I'll be right there baby

Tristan: {Text} Bring your most heavy-duty gloves

{Text} And wear something long sleeved

Leslie: {Text} Heard

And he would be on his way after finding his most worn flannel. A yellow and brown piece with a hole in its sleeve.

Tristan: When Leslie arrived, he'd find Tristan sitting on top of the ship's cabin surrounded by a massive unfinished net. He wore a plain blue work shirt and his hair was piled messily on top of his head to keep it out of his face as he worked, kept in place by what appeared to be a pencil and some fishing line.

Leslie: Of course it was. The man looked the part. He wished for a better memory, to bring his camera more often to capture moments like this.

"Where's Oliver?" he greeted, climbing aboard.

Tristan: Tristan looked up with a grin. "Hey, you! He's off selling our catch for today and hopefully gouging Bonnie for it. Watch your step, there's twine and rope everywhere."

Leslie: "Been years since I did this. You're gonna have to show me, or lemme watch for a little." He didn't mind either. He settled by his side and stretched.

"Much as I love Myrtle, I'm ready for this new chapter in my life."

Tristan: "We can do both," he said, clearing the heap of finished net off his lap so Leslie could see better. "Did you tell her all our plans? She upset?"

Leslie: "Kinda sorta. I couldn't tell. She wants her niece to take over but she doesn't see a restaurant. She sees work she doesn't want. So hearing I'll be gone by next year doesn't sit well."

Tristan: "Is there someone else who she'd trust to take it over?"

Leslie: "She'll try other family. When that doesn't work, I dunno."

Tristan: Tristan thought for a moment. "Do you think she'd trust someone who wasn't family?"

Leslie: "Me, and as much as I love her, I don't want it."

Tristan: "Can't imagine this place without the Pearl Pond. Makes me wanna find a worthy candidate for her."

Leslie: "We can do that. Net first, then the Pearl," he smiled.

Tristan: Tristan grinned and nodded. "Hell fuckin' yeah. I'll ask around, see if anyone's particularly good at cooking seafood."

Leslie: "Could steal Peter's chef," he chuckled. "I know a baker. That's all I've got. Chefs are gobbled up in Edenton."

Tristan: "If I know one thing for certain, it's that Pete would fight us both to the death before he let us take Bobby." An exaggeration, but only slightly.

"We should teach Logan how to cook seafood. She'd be great."

Leslie: "She burns pots on a regular basis. How she makes jams for cakes or fillings for pastries I have no idea."

Tristan: "She understands how to control the heat in those scenarios. There's always a thermometer in the jam and stuff telling her what to do. That's what we need."

Leslie: "You two have gotten close."

Tristan: "She makes damn good cake."

Leslie: "She needs many friends."

Tristan: "I think she's got a good few with all the jobs she has. Or if not friends then potential friends."

Leslie: "She has you now. I know what that means."

Tristan: Tristan smiled. "I'm nothing special. I just do what I can." He held up the net and examined his work. "Like make nets that won't devastate what puts food on my table."

Leslie: "You can never say that you're nothing special. Not ever. You're magic."

He pulled at the net, held out with both hands to check progress.

Tristan: He chuckled. "There is that. A magic prodigy even."

The net still had a ways to go but what had been completed was holding well and strongly. The twine it was composed of was made entirely of organic materials; no synthetics to be found anywhere.

"How's it looking?"

Leslie: "Looks like I'm not nearly as good at this as I thought I was." Which was an exaggeration; he'd always known he was shit.

"Is this all for today?"

Tristan: "It's like anything in life, just takes practice. And yeah, this is it apart from cleanup."

Leslie: "That's what I've been telling you and Charles. My words have been turned against me."

Tristan: Tristan laughed. "Yep! They sure have. They're good words though, and true. You'll be a master net maker before you know it."

Leslie: "The scars on my fingers are not the same kinda scars, baby."

Tristan: "They show you've been through some shit, as have we all. Some people just go through different kinds."

Leslie: "Majority of these are kitchen related, I promise." Though a few were from spells.

Tristan: "Comes with the territory. It's like making a mess when you cook. If you don't have at least a few scars, have you really cooked?"

Leslie: "They fade, eventually. Always do." He smiled softly. "Is it terrible of me to say I'm glad yours don't?"

Tristan: Tristan smiled and shook his head. "Nah, it's not terrible. Do you like that they add to my swarthy sailor vibe?"

Leslie: "I do, actually. My kind, we don't keep our history on our skin. I value each one you have."

Tristan: "There aren't any magical folk with scars? Is there such thing as a magic scar?"

Leslie: "There are. Just not Verbena. And yeah. They exist. Seen some absolutely... unforgivable ones."

Tristan: "So it's not anything good that leaves magical scars, huh?"

Tristan looked down at his hands. They were covered in gloves but underneath were thick callouses and puncture scars from many a crab and hook. Scattered among the tattoos and sun-given freckles on his body was more of the same. Old cuts, old burns, thin scars, raised scars.

He barely noticed them after living with them for so many years, but seeing them through Leslie's eyes, he could find an appreciation for them.

"You know I used to worry my hands were too rough for you?" he mused, smiling softly.

Leslie: "I think there are, but they'd have to be very rare." Permanent disturbance to the body, the opposite of healing. It had to be truly horrifying or truly beautiful.

Leslie looked up from the net. Noticed Tristan's gaze.

"We did a lot of assuming."

Tristan: "We did, didn't we? Glad all that's over and that you don't mind my caveman hands and that they make me have to carry around a tin of Nivea like Mrs. Pennyapple."

Leslie: "What happened to that woman," he laughed. But! that wasn't what was on his mind now. "I love feeling those sandpaper hands all over me. Those hands right there? I want them on me when this net's finished."

Tristan: "She grew up on a farm! And I'm pretty sure she still helped her family work it up until she married Mr. Pennyapple. Maybe even after that, who knows."

Tristan laughed softly and leaned over to kiss his witch. "Just you wait, babydoll, they're gonna be alllll over you."

Leslie: "Keep that up and the net'll have to wait," he laughed through his nose.

Tristan: "You say that like it's a bad thing. We've got all the time in the world for net making."

Leslie: Leslie arched a brow. "Keep that up," he said again.

Tristan: A wicked grin and another kiss.

Leslie: And just like that, Tristan had a man straddling his lap. Arms resting on his shoulders.

Tristan: He laughed and wrapped his arms around Leslie, pulling him in for more kisses. Yes, perfect. He'd had honest intentions of making the net together but feeling Leslie up was better.

Leslie: True to his word, he wanted to feel those rough hands against bare skin. Going so far as to tug at his sweater in silent plea. He did not account for current weather, and what the cold had done to Tristan's hands, hissing and writhing at his touch.

"Ah, fuck!" he laughed.

Tristan: "Sorrysorrysorry!" Tristan said around another laugh. Leave it to them to get carried away and forget they were outside in January.

He moved his hands away and tried rubbing them together for a bit to warm them. "The one time I'm not a space heater."

Leslie: "Bring em back. Warm up on me." He didn't mind a bit of discomfort.

Tristan: "They're freezing, gimme a second." Friction could only do so much but it did help a little.

He still winced when he touched Leslie's warm skin though, kissing him in apology.

Leslie: "Tight." And he in turn would hug Tristan's head, fingers disappearing into his hair, messing up what had been neatly tied.

Tristan: If Leslie wanted tight, then he would be hugged tight, both for closeness and for warmth.

"Careful, don't poke yourself with the pencil I shoved in the rat's nest."

Leslie: "You have hair supermodels envy. 'Rat's nest'. Pfft."

Tristan: "It's all tangled," he chuckled. "My hair tie broke so I made the pencil bun but it kept coming loose so I threw some fishing line in there."

Leslie: "Oh, Luna, look what you did," he laughed, looking over Tristan's shoulder to examine the crime scene of tangled hair. Already set to work on detangling.

Tristan: “Never gonna get it back to supermodel levels without a comb. I think I’ve got one in my office somewhere.”

Leslie: "I'll get it in a minute." He would much rather use his fingers for as long as he was able. Addictive, is what it was. As was much of Tristan's company. "You'll just have to have me in your lap a little longer."

Tristan: “Nah, that’s all right. I’ll go get it when you need it.”

Tristan grinned and nuzzled Leslie’s cheek. “Well, shoot. I guess I’ll just have to put on a brave face. Whatever will I do with such a beautiful witch in my lap?”

Leslie: "You'll be still," he laughed. "Or I'll...accidentally...tug...when I don't mean to."

Tristan: "We definitely don't want that," Tristan said with another chuckle. "Does feeling you up count as being still? I think it does."

Leslie: "Rub those rough hands all over me."

Tristan: "Don't mind if I do."

Tristan slipped his hands beneath Leslie's shirt, running them up and down his back, massaging gently.

Then, with a particularly self-satisfied grin, those hands dipped into the waistband of Leslie's pants.

Leslie: "Now, merman, those hands are gonna distract me something fierce." And had already, accidentally pulling just a little too hard on the next tangle.

Tristan: "Ah, that's okay. Work is more fun when there's a distraction." He'd never been tender-headed anyway; a couple of tugs on his hair wouldn't hurt him.

Leslie: "I prefer music over hair pulling, but that's just me." One more knot to go, and all would be well. "How do you let it get this bad?"

Tristan: "It was an act of desperation after the hair tie broke. It was tangle-free when I left the house, honest."

Leslie: He loved that hair more than his own. Probably why he was so determined to detangle. All was well with a final finger comb. Back to a loving assault of kisses and neck nibbles.

Tristan: He hummed, nuzzling Leslie any time he was in perfect reach. "All's right with the world again. Thanks, doll. Still want the comb?"

Leslie: "I'm your comb." He offered his lips. Arms returning around his neck. "Should get back to the net, though."

Tristan: "You're the most beautiful damn comb I've ever seen." He took those lips and kissed them until his lungs screamed for air. The net could wait.

Leslie: Such demand and urgency from Tristan's lips caused a firming ache between his legs. An inadvertent roll of his hips. How did they even get to this point? Did he care? He was too busy trying not to smile into their kiss.

Tristan: If they weren't so out in the open with the potential of Oliver or someone else coming along at any moment, Tristan would've undone Leslie's pants and given him some relief.

"Just you wait until I get you home," he murmured, kissing his way across Leslie's jaw.

Leslie: "Keep that up," he grinned, ready to threaten this as well. "We gotta - the damn net," he laughed.

Tristan: "Oh, I will. I'm gonna eat you right up." Just a few more kisses to that beautiful neck.

"We'll get there eventually." Kiss. "Gotta get you a netting needle." Kiss.

Leslie: Another roll of his hips. One intentional and lingering. A soft noise in Tristan's mouth.

Tristan: Tristan hummed and pulled Leslie's hips closer, encouraging him. He was having a hell of a time prioritizing the net over this precious witch in his arms.

Leslie: "Uhn, baby... we gotta..." Something. Another. And another roll. If Tristan weren't careful, they would have a mess between them. In broad daylight.

Tristan: "Hmm?" He didn't have it in his mind to be careful. His thoughts and his senses were all centered around Leslie, but what little brainpower wasn't devoted to him figured that as long as they were both clothed, everything was fine.

Leslie: Leslie had just enough sense not to dry hump his boyfriend to oblivion, but friction relief was a constant burden to his senses. He offered his tongue to their kiss, forgetting what it was he was going to say.

Tristan: Tristan wouldn't have minded one bit if Leslie had dry humped him to oblivion; in fact, he was actively encouraging it with his roaming hands.

But he was perfectly happy to have his brain turned to mush by Leslie's intoxicating kisses in lieu of that. Hell, he wasn't even feeling the cold anymore, much less thinking about the task at hand.

Leslie: All Leslie wanted was to feel Tristan firm against him. To offer the same sanity reducing friction and enjoy the little noises which would follow. The feeling of those leathery hands as he'd felt the night before.

But the sky grumbled, and the wind whistled through the ships and the deck and between them, waking him from his daydream.

Tristan: Of course the moment Tristan stopped feeling the cold it decided to assert itself again, along with the ominous looking clouds slowly growing darker overhead.

He heaved a great sigh and pressed one more kiss to Leslie's lips. "I think that's Mother Nature throwing a bucket of cold water on us, sweetheart."

Leslie: "I think so, too." Or a druid in a sour mood. He didn't know of any mages with an agenda here. Not that he knew everyone.

"Back to the net, then?"

Tristan: "Guess we better," he chuckled, indulging them both with just one more tiny kiss. "All right, lemme go get you a netting needle. Got some below deck."

Leslie: "Aye aye, captain." First, climbing out of his lap without tripping.

Tristan: Tristan sighed mournfully as Leslie left his arms. If he didn't need a new net as badly as he did, he'd be putting the whole thing off and taking his witch home.

"All right, back in two shakes. Don't have too much fun without me."

Just as he got to his feet, the wake of a motorboat tearing out of the docks caused the Adriana to rock suddenly. Unable to catch his balance in time, Tristan stumbled over the net that, without him realizing, had tangled itself around his feet, and was pitched headlong into the freezing water below.

Leslie: Leslie had turned towards the cabin when he heard the unexpected splash. Looking back over his shoulder to a man no longer there. His heart leapt to his throat for only a second. Not the first time someone had gone overboard on this ship.

"Not about to beat Oliver's title," he called, walking towards the railing. "You're supposed to have the best sea legs!"

Tristan: Any other day, Tristan would've emerged from the water roaring with laughter at his own clumsiness. It had happened before.

But it wasn't happening now. The swarthy, tattooed captain of the Adriana wasn't coming up for air. He was still below the surface long past the admittedly impressive capacity of his lungs.

The shock of the cold water had made his body tense and freeze up. He tried to swim toward the surface but his arms and legs refused to cooperate, as if something were paralyzing him.

Leslie: Leslie hadn't bothered to count the time; he knew the capacity of those lungs. Tristan's nickname wasn't at random. But something was wrong. He should have resurfaced by now. Calling to a man underwater was useless. If Tristan was going to emerge he would have.

Leather boots were argued with a grunt, tossed carelessly before throwing himself overboard.

Tristan: Had he hit something on the way down? He hadn't felt anything. But then what was this horrible pain in his limbs and his neck that felt like he'd been tossed around in a washing machine?

Tristan made one more effort, one more push to get himself to the surface. His lungs couldn't hold out much longer. They were screaming in their desperation for oxygen, still shocked by the cold.

It felt like an age passed while he struggled in the water. His skin burned with something that was probably cold. He was so tired....so tired...

Leslie: Leslie could hardly see a foot in front of him. Not for lack of trying. The water stung at his eyes. This was approximately where Tristan should be. His lungs weren't nearly as strong like this. Had he meditated before he could have held his breath for an hour, but in his panic...

He felt at the water, swam deeper. There, near the underside.

Tristan: The freezing temperature of the water and Tristan's own weariness had gotten the best of him.

He was struggling still, but only slightly. The pain and the burning and the desire to breathe were too much to fight all at once, he had to give in to one of them.

In the end, he'd given in to his lungs. He gasped breath back into them which had brought relief so intense he hadn't questioned being able to do so.

Was this what drowning was? Pain and relief. More pain than relief. So much more. Something was moving toward him; he could see a shape through his blurred vision. Keeping his eyes open was too hard.

He just breathed.

Leslie: Tristan was grabbed by his arm, looped to his right as he headed for the surface. Calm. Just keep calm. Too focused on his own burning lungs and the additional weight he hauled to notice what had happened. He would assess when they could both take a breath.

Tristan: Something was grabbing him. Someone? Someone.

Tristan couldn't tell who; he could only tell that he was moving and imagined that whoever or whatever had him, they were dragging him into the murky depths to meet his maker.

His exhausted brain didn't register the approaching light as anything but the comforting hallucination before death until his head was breached the surface.

The pain, cold, and oxygen-deprived desperation slammed into him all at once with brutal force, leaving him gasping and flailing and trying to call out.

Leslie: He couldn't think of words as he resurfaced. Only to breathe as he hoped Tristan would. He needed to get him to shore first. They were almost there. When his voice finally returned, all he could say was, "Calm, baby! It's okay!" He had to breathe to yell, so that was a good sign at least.

The first sensation of shore on his fingertips, every muscle in his body relaxed.

"What happened, baby?"

Tristan: Reaching dry land should've eased some of Tristan's distress, but he continued to struggle and gasp and the reason why was blatantly obvious.

Tristan hadn't been wearing a jacket when he went into the water, only his work shirt. At some point it had come partially unbuttoned and askew, leaving part of his chest exposed to reveal what appeared be slits on either side of his throat and patches of iridescent scales on his skin.

Even as Leslie watched, those slits would slowly start to close, improving Tristan's breathing and causing him to cough up a good bit of sea water.

Leslie: Tristan was placed flat on the shore. One hand holding his weight by Tristan's head, the other pressed underneath Tristan's shirt, just shy of his scales. Finally able to assess, his eyes were wide in awe and confusion. This man he had called merman for years was in fact...

Things he had been unable to feel, a wealth of new information. He had to steady his adrenaline filled body, calm his mind to better analyze.

"It's okay," he whispered. "It - It's okay. Slowly, baby."

Tristan: Tristan didn't hear Leslie, not fully aware of his surroundings yet. He was shivering hard, breathing still erratic despite his now clear lungs. All he could register was biting cold wind lashing into his skin and the ominous rumble of thunder signaling an oncoming storm.

Leslie: "Tristie, can y - you say something?" The wind was finally getting to him. Adrenaline could only carry him so far. Now his body was shaking. He could only imagine what Tristan was experiencing.

Tristan: He heard Leslie that time. Tristan turned toward the sound of his voice, able to make out the shape of his boyfriend despite his blurry vision and eyes still stinging from the salty water.

He managed a head shake. Speaking was a no go, his teeth were chattering like there was no tomorrow. They needed to get dry and get warm.

Leslie: Leslie was afraid to move him. With his scales, his gills... He searched for more. Felt at his hands and - his feet. He needed to see them.

"Okay," he breathed. "Okay..." Carefully, he pulled Tristan to his chest. Squeezed him close and struggled to his feet. He had to get them back on the boat at the very least.

Tristan: Although at first glance it appeared like the patches of scales were scattered at random, there was a pattern to them. They didn't cover the whole of Tristan's skin, however, and now that they were out of the water they seemed to be disappearing.

But his arms and his legs--sore though they might be--were still very much there.

Tristan had recovered just enough strength to cling to Leslie for all he was worth and had just enough will to try and force himself to stop shivering. Reality was, slowly but surely, coming back into focus.

He pointed. Ship was that way.

Leslie: "I know," he managed, voice as gentle as it was strained. Tristan wasn't normally heavy, but circumstance had knocked the wind from his chest and the strength from his arms for an effortless journey. Another tired scan of their surroundings. There were people, but occupied by their to-do lists, deep in conversations, music, left to their own devices on their own boats. Two arguing in a car too far away to detail their expressions. Little beyond the way of flailing hands and sharp head movement.

They could make it without being seen. So long as he kept his pace.

To the warmest room. They were in desperate need of towels. Tristan was placed on the nearest sturdy surface.

"Be right back, baby."

Tristan: The captain's cabin was the warmest place on the ship only because Tristan had put a space heater in there to make it comfortable in the winter months. And hell if it wasn't going to come in handy right now.

The sturdiest surface that was free of clutter inside the cabin was his chair; not ideal, but he was more than glad to huddle into it. He nodded at Leslie and closed his eyes.

Towels would be found in one of the storage compartments on the deck, along with an extra set of clothes that Tristan kept just in case.

Leslie: He couldn't feel his fingertips. He realized in his grab for towels that he couldn't feel his toes, either. Both clothes and towels were placed on the desk.

"Let's get you outta these clothes."

Tristan: Tristan opened his eyes as he heard Leslie's returning footsteps and made to stand. He needed to get the heat going before anything else.

Leslie: "What are you doing?"

Tristan: His throat felt too raw to speak so he pointed at the heater instead. Luckily it was only a couple of steps away from his chair because his legs felt like Jello.

Leslie: "Sit down and work on your shirt." He would deal with the heater, and anything else that might bring Tristan to his feet.

Tristan: He sank back into the chair. He wanted so badly to protest but he was too tired.

The buttons were a safer bet.

Of course, that meant looking down at his chest and the moment he did, seeing the fading but still very distinct scales covering his skin.

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?

Tristan practically tore his shirt off in his panic to get a better look at himself, nearly falling off the chair in the process.

Leslie: The heater had just been switched on when Leslie heard the clumsiness of panic.

"Baby! Baby, it's okay. It's okay. I promise." But only he knew. What little he knew was still a mouthful. A towel was draped over Tristan's head. Face firmly held in both hands.

"Tristie, look at me. I un-understand your panic, but you're not dying. There's nothing wrong with you."

Tristan: Nothing wrong?! Tristan may not have been able to move with Leslie holding his face but he could still raise an arm and point to it and say, "Scales!" in a voice that sounded like he was recovering from a sore throat.

"Why scales!?"

Leslie: How to even begin. Hazel knew more about them. Kelly probably knew even more than she did.

A frozen hand covered Tristan's heart.

"You're very late to the party, or someone put a very powerful spell on you when you were little. Maybe before you were born. I can't tell you that. What I can tell you is that... your nickname... was a little too on the nose."

Tristan: Nickname? But...

Tristan looked at Leslie in desperate confusion before it clicked that Leslie hadn't meant 'Tristie' or 'Captain'.

"Wha--....no. No no." He shook his head. Leslie couldn't be serious. He couldn't possibly be serious, that was impossible.

Leslie: "I wouldn't lie to you." Drying Tristan's hair helped serve to warm his skin. On his knees, he began to pinch and kick off his socks.

"What do you know about your father?"

Tristan: Leslie wouldn't lie to him, and he liked to think his own eyeballs wouldn't lie to him, but the thought that he could be--no, it was impossible.

"Barely anything." He uselessly cleared his throat. "It's not--he can't--no. No."

Leslie: Now that his own feet were bare, he began with Tristan's shoes and socks, using the second towel for gently drying and warming his skin. He needed to see what else was happening, but more than that, they needed to get warm.

"Your pants, babe."

Tristan: Trembling hands clumsy from the cold undid his jeans and eased them off. Tristan tried not to look at his skin. The sight of those scales was more than he could handle right now.

Hell, for all he knew he had drowned and all this was a hallucination he was having in the back of an ambulance. That made more sense than suddenly being a merman.

Leslie: Leslie forced himself back to his feet for more towels and any extra clothes left for himself. The door was shut behind him upon return. The wind having stripped any warmth he had managed to accumulate.

"No matter what happens, I'm with you, Tristie."

Tristan: The storage bench only had one set of clothes, but there was another set in the galley that Tristan had left at some point when he'd stayed on the ship overnight. The frayed jeans and work shirt weren't the warmest, but they were clean and dry.

Leslie would return to a completely nude Tristan hunched over with his head in his hands.

He sighed. "I don't even know what's happening now, Les. I don't..." Another sigh.

Leslie: Finally, Leslie began to work on his own clothes, still clinging to his goosefleshed body.

"The only explanation I can think of I've said. You're not in any danger. What this is, is... it's what you are."

Tristan: "Is it even possible to do that? To--I don't--suppress what someone is? Is that even the right--ugh..." He rubbed his face.

Leslie: "Can be. Every species has magic. What you are is no exception."

The last of his clothes, his underwear, was pulled from his shivering body. The nearest towel used to warm his legs and between them.

Tristan: Tristan looked up with another sigh, staring at nothing for a few long moments until Leslie's shivering brought him to his senses.

Silently, he reached for his boyfriend and pulled him into his lap. Here he was stuck in his head when there were more important things to focus on.

He bundled Leslie into a towel and wrapped his arms around him, just...holding on for dear life.

Leslie: They could keep each other warm far better than the ragged clothes on the desk. He buried his cheek against Tristan's neck and simply existed. No matter his optimism, this was Tristan's journey, and it was only just beginning. All he could do is support him. But right now, right now they just needed to get warm.

Tristan: He had no idea how long they sat there, only that it had been long enough for his body temperature to return to normal and for the...stuff on his skin to go away completely. He had to deal with it eventually but for now seeing his skin look the way it was supposed to just brought relief.

Tristan pressed his lips to Leslie's hair. "How do you feel?" he asked. The long stretch of silence had brought the healing sore throat quality back to his voice.

Leslie: Dry, but still feeling almost every ounce of winter. The heater did little to shake the events from his skin.

"Like I'm still cold, and I wanna take you home. Just wanna be buried in bed with you, naked." His eyes had yet to open. "How are you feeling?"

Tristan: Tristan kissed Leslie's head again. He couldn't begin to vocalize how he felt because he had no idea. "Jury's still out."

Another kiss. "We need to go home. Eat. Do nothing for a good long while."

Leslie: For the witch, keeping busy was healthy. Movement was constant. Things to do, people to help, progress in his own life and that of others. Right now, he wanted none of that. He craved silence and Tristan's skin-to-skin contact. He wanted nothing more than to be where Tristan needed him. Right now, that meant forcing himself from his lap to dress.

"I'm driving."

Tristan: “You’re still cold. I’ll drive.” Tristan followed suit and got up to dress. “You can bundle up and keep getting warm.”

Leslie: "No. No way. You just went through so much. We'll crank the heater all the way."

Tristan: “You went through it too.” But he wouldn’t argue. He probably should’ve but he felt deflated and defeated in a dozen different ways. He just wanted to be home.

Leslie: "When you didn't come up..." No, not here. They weren't finished getting dressed. He could pour his emotions when they were in a better place physically and mentally. That in mind, now dressed, he excused himself to find his boots, still where he had yanked them off in desperation.

Tristan: Remembering how he had struggled in the water, how he'd seen and heard stories of it happening to other people, Tristan could imagine the fear Leslie had felt. He'd give anything to be able to take the memory of that away.

He finished getting dressed and gathered his things, meeting Leslie back on the deck once he made sure everything was locked up.

The keys were offered. "Let's go home."

Leslie: Leslie was staring down at the offensive water, leaned over the port beam railing. Shoulders hunched and head down. His left boot barely tied. It seemed for a moment he hadn't heard. Finally looking up when he was able to shake his thoughts.

"Away we go."

Tristan: They both seemed to be stuck in their heads today; Tristan didn't blame either of them.

This fuckin' day had been as changeable as the sea.

As Leslie had suggested, once they were in the truck Tristan cranked up the heat. He'd spend the ride back to the house leaning against Leslie.

Leslie: If only he could manage resting his head against Tristan's and having a proper eye on the road. He wanted his arm around him. He wanted him close. They would have to wait until home, which wasn't far. His body was still uncomfortably cold.

Once home, there was nothing but his single objective. Their soggy clothes forgotten in the back of the truck. Tristan was all but pulled through the driver's side and towards the house.

Tristan: A fresh wave of relief washed over him the moment they walked through the door. They were home, they were safe, there was nothing to bother them here.

He made sure the heat was on as he led them upstairs, shedding his clothes along the way in a practiced manner.

Leslie: Leslie nearly stumbled in his attempt to remove Tristan's jeans. Just a hair too small for his hips, anyway. He was grateful for their nudity, and the inviting blankets he began to crawl under as soon as within reach.

Tristan: Tristan crawled in after him and immediately pulled Leslie into his arms and wrapped himself around him. He needed to get his love warm, he needed him close.

Leslie: Easy to ignore the cold when there was nothing to compare it to. Tristan's nearness revealed just how frozen he still felt. It was as though nothing could shake it. It seemed deeper than physical. It had been fear and adrenaline.

"I think... it's safe to say... your ship needs a few more upgrades."

Tristan: Tristan squeezed him tighter. "I'm sorry for scaring you. I'll put in more railing this week. I promise." He kissed Leslie's head. "I'm so sorry, baby."

Leslie: "What? Don't apologize to me. You're the one with a whole new life."

Tristan: "I scared the hell out of you. Damn near gave you hypothermia."

Leslie: "I'd do it again. You would for me."

Tristan: "In a heartbeat." They couldn't get much closer than they already were but Tristan was damn well going to try.

"I love you."

Leslie: "I love you." They were safe. Tristan was safe and spooning. "Do you wanna talk about it? What happened underwater?"

Tristan: "I know I need to, and I will, but I don't want to. Not yet." He burrowed his face against Leslie's neck. "Just wanna be here with you."

Leslie: "I'm not going anywhere." He hugged Tristan's arms to his abdomen and shut his eyes.

Tristan: At some point cuddled up under the covers with Leslie, Tristan had fallen asleep.

He had no idea how much time had passed but by the time his stomach had woken him, the sun was almost completely set and it was dark outside. It had been early afternoon when they'd gotten home.

"Les?" he said groggily.

Leslie: It hadn't been long before Leslie had joined him in sleep. No nightmares, although they had been expected. What he had was dreams of Tristan's ship, and of iridescent scales beneath the surface. Something he could feel with his fingertips, leaning over Tristan's dock. Impossibly smooth in one direction. He knew opposing would cut his finger.

It was Tristan. Gorgeous, but, where was his face?

The witch buried his face against the pillow. Teeth began to grind.

Tristan: "Les..." Tristan hugged his witch closer and started kissing along his neck and shoulder. Although to be fair, they couldn't get much closer without melding together.

"Wakey wakey. We've gotta eat, baby."

Leslie: "You're wet," he murmured.

Tristan: "M'all dry now. We're home in bed." More kisses, everywhere he could reach. "Gotta feed ourselves and the noodle."

Leslie: Something about his statement struck Leslie with a jolt. "Fuck. My - My blood sugar." So wrapped up in what had happened, and the cold, the emotions, he forgot something so basic. He was exhausted and he knew now why. Yet still he sank into the sheets again, eyes falling closed, hand against his forehead.

Tristan: Fuck.

"Fuckin' fickle fuckin' day," he groaned, untangling himself with great reluctance and getting to his feet. "Be right back."

There was a meter in the bedside drawer but food required going downstairs, so that's what Tristan would do.

They'd have to cook or order in here in a bit but for now, some fruit and baby carrots and tea would do.

He returned a few minutes later with the food and Opal dangling from his arm.

Leslie: Leslie had nodded off again. The day's ordeal was only partially to blame why he couldn't keep his eyes open. He told himself to sleep it off, but he'd negotiated the same as a child. The reason he had been so adamant to master meditation to suppress the need for insulin. All flown from the window in the moment.

Tristan: Tristan would kiss him awake again, and for good measure, would set Opal down on the bed to scamper around.

"Gotta eat, baby. I've got tea and carrots and a banana and some blueberries. We'll get some proper food here in a sec. Want takeout?"

Leslie: Kisses reawakened his witch, blinking as though stirred for the first time.

"Banana," he managed before yawning. Opal demanded his attention. She would have to wait. Stacking pillows against themselves to lean against. "I'll eat wherever you pick. How'd you sleep?"

Tristan: He waited until Leslie was upright and comfortable before handing him the banana, placing everything on the bedside table in the meantime.

"I don't even remember falling asleep. Guess that's a good sign. You?"

Leslie: He began arguing with the skin of the banana, taking a bite before answering. "I think I dreamed of you. Feels like I had that dream before."

Tristan: Tristan crawled back under the covers and leaned against Leslie. “Was it a good dream?”

Leslie: "I think so. I saw... scales. Your scales. Just under the water. My hand barely submerged touching - your tail. I think it was your tail."

Tristan: What little magical knowledge Tristan now possessed knew better than to discount a dream like that.

"You dreamt that I turned into a merman?"

Leslie: "I think... Maybe it was just today." He hardly ever remembered things said in the twilight of unconsciousness.

Tristan: "Yeah, maybe." Tristan nuzzled Leslie's shoulder, pressed a kiss to it. "Or maybe it was a premonition of things to come. Can't help but wonder why it happened now."

Leslie: "I've only ever had them when awake. Just like - like when something on the tip of your tongue is remembered." Speaking of. "I need my insulin."

Tristan: "Yes, you do. And I need to make us something to eat." Tristan got up again. "Come on, doll."

Leslie: "Right." He'd finish the banana, first, or he was never getting out of this bed.

Tristan: "How about I bust out the grill pan and make us some salmon and spinach salad?"

Leslie: "That sounds like the best meal of my life."

Tristan: Tristan smiled and kissed Leslie's cheek. "And you'll get it. Want me to carry you down?"

Leslie: "I can - You're the one that went through trauma, baby!"

Tristan: "You're the one who needs insulin!"

Leslie: "I'll be fine, I promise!"

Tristan: Tristan squinted. "I'll feel better once we're eating. Kinda want potatoes too. Potatoes comfort me."

Leslie: "I'll make some roasted. It'll take a while."

Tristan: "You're gonna sit your butt down, is what you're gonna do. I'm cooking tonight."

Leslie: "Do you remember a few hours ago?"

Tristan: "Diabetes trumps merman....ness." Fuck it, he was going with it.

"It's insulin time. Come on, fuzz noodle," he added, scooping Opal up and draping her over Leslie's shoulder.

Leslie: Opal's tiny cheek was given a kiss, carefully making his way downstairs to the kitchen. Insulin was non-negotiable, but so too was cooking, if he was going to have any say - which he would fight for.

Tristan: Leslie would get a say, but Tristan wasn't about to let him do any of the heavy lifting, so to speak.

"You can chop potatoes but I'm taking care of the rest. Salmon and salad are quick."

Leslie: "We can let the salmon marinate while the potatoes cook." With the injection out of the way... he would concede to his role as sous chef.

Tristan: "Okay, deal. What do you want on this salmon? I was thinking some lemon and dill, maybe some spice?"

Leslie: "What kinda spice?" His mouth was practically watering at the thought. "We still have carrots? Thinking some carrots with this, coriander, honey, lemon, mint, parsley, and pomegranate."

Tristan: "We have...." Tristan poked his head into the fridge. "A single carrot and about half a bag of baby carrots. Also, I was thinking chili powder. Just a little, nothing crazy. Also also, please no honey. Only sweet potatoes have any business being sweet."

Leslie: "So no pomegranate, either?"

Tristan: “Pomegranate is okay. Carrot, too, if you end up wanting to use them.”

Leslie: "Hmm." He looked at the potatoes again. Constructing the dish in his head like a painter with a canvas. "Scratch it all. Black pepper, the compound butter with rosemary, sea salt. Keep it simple so the salmon shines."

Tristan: "Okay," Tristan chuckled. "How about this, we'll put the pomegranate and carrots into the salad. Hell, even the honey, we'll make a vinaigrette."

Leslie: "Boy, I sure do love you," Leslie smiled.

Tristan: He kissed Leslie's cheek. "I love you, too, doll. Gonna make a bitchin' salad for you."

Leslie: "Your heart is too big for your chest."

Tristan: "If anyone's heart is too big for their chest, it's yours. Oh, was that a yes on some spice for the salmon?"

Leslie: Tristan was given a smile. "Sure! Could use a tingle on my tongue that isn't ice cold."

Tristan: Speaking of, "You still feeling chilled at all? I can turn the heat up some more."

Leslie: "Maybe a sweater. Ooooone of yours?" he grinned.

Tristan: "Your wish is my command." Another kiss. "How about the light gray one?"

Leslie: "Oh, hell yeah." He watched Tristan a moment. "You alright?"

Tristan: Tristan nodded. "I think so yeah. Mind feels...tangled, but I guess there's no helping that. Well, dinner will help a little."

Leslie: "Is your mother going to faint?"

Tristan: "Nah, she's not a fainter. If I know her as well as I think I do, she's gonna be fuckin' pissed. Not at me, at him."

Leslie: "Sounds too good to be true, and that's coming from the witch in this house."

Tristan: "Maybe that's wishful thinking. The fainting thing. I know for damn sure she'll be pissed because I'm fuckin' pissed."

Leslie: "I don't want to place you in the same category as were-creatures, but this feels... I don't have anything more to relate to. Fae doesn't sound as similar."

Tristan: "Don't were-creatures need the full moon to transform?" His brow furrowed. "Is there a full moon tonight? Does pre-emptive transformation happen ever?"

Leslie: "To my knowledge, but there are always exceptions to everything."

Leslie looked around and back, counting days in his head. "Not yet. Soon, though."

Tristan: "Guess that's something to think about," he sighed. "Lemme go grab you that sweater."

Leslie: "Kay, babe." He'd finish prep in the meantime. Put the kettle on for some tea as well.

Tristan: Tristan returned a few moments later with the sweater. He'd briefly considered putting underwear on, deciding against it. He wasn't going to be frying anything so there was no danger of hot oil getting on any sensitive areas.

"All right, doll. Let's get you bundled."

Leslie: "This feels one-sided," he pointed out, slipping into the sweater arms first. "Gonna make some tea. Earl gray, herbal...?"

Tristan: He chuckled. "Didn't feel like putting anything on. Thought about it though."

Tristan began gathering things for vinaigrette. "I want earl gray but it's too late for caffeine. Let's go with herbal."

Leslie: "Is it really that late?" Perhaps another reason why he was tired. It didn't feel as though they had slept long, and yet the stove clock didn't lie.

Tristan: "Doesn't feel like it should be but yeah. It's dark out. We slept for a good long while."

Leslie: "You needed it."

Tristan: "So did you. We both got uncomfortably close to hypothermia today."

Leslie: "I didn't suddenly become something pent up for an entire lifetime in minutes."

Tristan: "But you did jump in to save me. We're on this journey together, baby."

Leslie: "Of course we are, but this isn't the same as the craft. I can only walk so far on your path."

Tristan: That made Tristan feel more than a little uneasy and...lonely almost. None of this was sitting well with him. If he dwelled on it too long it would make him sick to his stomach.

"So, what do we want in this vinaigrette besides the honey?"

Leslie: Leslie had stopped what he was doing. Both hands on the counter, watching his boyfriend intently.

"Um, some white balsamic, salt, pepper, oil - talk to me. What are you thinking?"

Tristan: He got a bowl and a whisk. "I don't know. Nothing. Everything. I just..." He sighed. "I don't know, Les."

Leslie: "I don't expect you to know what those thoughts mean. I just want you to spill them on me."

Tristan: "I don't know what I'm thinking. I'm just fuckin' pissed and wishing I'd stayed in bed this morning."

Leslie: "You have a right to your anger. Your father, whoever he is, he should have had the decency to stick around."

Tristan: "He should've had the decency to do a lot of things, like fucking wrap it if he knew he already had one foot out the door."

Leslie: But I don't think you should regret what you are, he wanted to say, but that was asking too much of Tristan tonight. He was jarred and overwhelmed and while optimism was Leslie's middle name, there was a time and place for even that.

"I'll whisk. Can you put the potatoes in the pan?"

Tristan: Tristan nodded. “Yeah, I got ‘em.”

This was good. Methodical tasks were always good when someone felt like they’d been tossed around in a blender mentally. You got to pretend everything was normal for a second.

Or at least until you went to wash your hands, and more scales appeared on your skin.

Leslie: Tristan was lingering over the sink. Had Leslie looking from his shoulder, waiting to see what was going on.

Tristan: He was staring at his hands, where a smattering of scales had appeared the moment his skin had become wet. They didn't cover the whole of his skin; they seemed to taper off in some sort of pattern extending to each fingertip, leaving his palms bare.

Leslie: That was a few seconds too long.

"Babe?"

Tristan: "I'm fucked," he whispered.

Leslie: "What?" He walked over, hand placed on the small of his back.

"Oh." His lips felt as tight as his stomach. He took some nearby paper towels and wadded them, took his hand and began to dab.

Tristan: "I'm fucked," he said with a humorless chuckle. The scales faded as his hands were dried but his problem only grew. "I'm completely and utterly fucked. He fucked over my mother and now he's fucking me over too."

Leslie: Leslie tightened his arms around Tristan's waist, chin resting on his shoulder.

"It's a horrible day, baby, but you're not fucked. We'll figure this out. I promise we'll figure this out."

Tristan: "Aren't I? How am I supposed to do my job, Les? How am I supposed to exist in public if every time I get wet this--bullshit happens to my skin? Am I supposed to wear gloves and pants and long sleeves for the rest of my life?"

He sighed and scrubbed at his face with his hands. "I'm gonna kill him."

Leslie: "I'll ask around, see what we can do." We, he would continue to say, because the last thing he felt Tristan needed was to feel alone. "I'll do everything I can. Just one step at a time."

Tristan: "I'm still gonna kill him. He knew. He knew what was going to happen the second he got her pregnant and he ran off instead of bothering to tell her. What kind of sick son of a bitch does that?"

Leslie: "It's not right," he agreed, swaying once, twice, squeezed his middle again.

"But we can't do anything about the past, baby. But we can help the now."

Tristan: Tristan sighed and closed his eyes, letting himself lean back against Leslie. Felt like he was doing that in more ways than one.

“I’m sorry. This is misdirected anger, you don’t deserve it.”

Leslie: "Yell if you want. I'll let you punch me for a buck," he grinned, trying his best for some levity in this heavy atmosphere. "I'm doing my best to understand."

Tristan: Tristan turned in Leslie's hold and wrapped his arms around him.

"Can't ask you to understand when I don't understand either. We're both in the dark."

Leslie: Both hands buried in Tristan's hair and squeezed. Fuck. What more could he do to help him, he wondered.

"One step at a time. Food right now."

Tristan: He took a deep breath. "Yeah, food. Gotta get you fed before you get sick."

Leslie: "Stop that. I'll be fine."

Tristan: "You will be after this salmon and these potatoes."

Leslie: "Well, let's get back to it."

Tristan: "Right. What's going in this salad?"

Leslie: "I... forgot," he laughed quietly, with effort.

Tristan: "I know we said the carrots and pomegranate."

He gave Leslie a final squeeze and walked over to the fridge. "We've goooot....baby spinach, romaine, cucumber, blueberries, a questionable looking onion, tomato, broccoli, artichoke hearts..."

Leslie: He just wasn't hungry. He knew he had to eat, but his appetite had diminished some time before he jumped into the sound.

"Um... okay. I'll - Potatoes first! Then the salad."

Tristan: "Potatoes, yes." Rosemary compound butter, salt, and pepper went onto the potatoes while the salmon sat in its marinade. Mugs were grabbed for tea, water put on to boil.

And sprinkled in there was affection for Leslie and for Tristan's own sanity.

Leslie: Potatoes, salad, salmon. Some semblance of normality for Tristan, and that's all that mattered. The food didn't matter, and what an odd feeling coming from a chef.

He pulled his chair closer, sitting thigh-to-thigh and sitting a bottle of wine center of the table.

Tristan: Tristan smiled and wrapped an arm around Leslie, leaning in to kiss his cheek. He fully intended to stay that way for the whole meal; he needed that closeness.

"Wine, tea, and salmon. We're having a very fancy dinner."

Leslie: "That we are." He caught himself eating in silence. Well aware that he wasn't being himself. He just had a lot on his mind, and he could only guess what Tristan was thinking.

Tristan: For his part, he was doing his level best to think as little as possible, choosing instead to focus on the meal they'd made and Leslie's nearness. Tomorrow he'd think about his situation and his deadbeat sperm donor and make plans to do something about it.

Right now he just wanted to exist in the right now.

Leslie: Leslie could certainly exist. That's all he wanted as well, until it was Tristan needed him. This was not the first time 'we' came before 'I' in a relationship. His family, his coven, Myrtle, Tristan. But Tristan had been different for some time now. This 'we' was not the same. A deeper responsibility than he thought himself prepared for, and only to grow with the potential of Ruby and Ester. Was he ready for this? To be without the independence he'd come to rely upon in order to give whenever and wherever.

What was he even thinking? He looked up from the dishes and forgotten how he'd even gotten to this point.

Took Tristan falling into the water to see how much their relationship had grown. How much he had changed. Moving into his home, preparing for the possibility of children. No more Peter Pan.

How long had he held his breath?

"Tristie?"

Tristan: Not wanting to confront his issue any more tonight, Tristan donned gloves so he could help Leslie with the dishes. It was just as well. He was probably going to have to wear them until he went toes up.

Did that count as resignation? Maybe a little. But there wasn’t much he could do about it just now.

He looked over at Leslie. “Yeah? You okay?”

Leslie: "Yeah. I uh... I dunno what I was gonna say." He wasn't sure why Tristan was next to him, or when that happened, either. A one person job, unless he wanted nearness. In that case, Leslie bumped hips and offered a smile.

Tristan: Tristan smiled back. “I love you, you know. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you weren’t there today. What I would’ve done. Thank you.”

Leslie: "I don't like the thought of you going through it alone, but I think... I think you would have been alright."

Tristan: “Maybe, maybe not. Just makes me that much more grateful that you were there, and that you’re here putting up with my...freak out.”

Leslie: "I'm not 'putting up with' anything, baby."

Tristan: He kissed Leslie’s shoulder. “I’ll never have enough life to deserve you.”

Leslie: "Maybe start a new life as a poet," he smiled.

Tristan: Tristan chuckled. “Maybe. Mama would like that.”

Leslie: "So we're telling her I'm a witch and you’re a merman all in one sitting?"

Tristan: "Do you think it's a good idea? Would it be too much?"

Leslie: "I don't know her as well as you do."

Tristan: "It's a lot to process," he sighed. "....Should we get her drunk first?"

Leslie: "Ha! No, baby, I don't think that's a good idea. Maybe start light. The world is magical... and then her son is magical."

Tristan: "And then we pour the bourbon, got it." There, a faint glimmer of his usual sense of humor.

Leslie: And his smile was given in kind. "Wanna go for a walk?"

Tristan: "I do. Guess I better go get some pants and shoes on."

Leslie: "Same..." And it just dawned on him, wondering how it was going to look and feel the next time Tristan took a shower.

"You still... have sea water on you."

Tristan: Tristan nodded. "Yep. Salt in my hair, too. Showering is now a source of bullshit instead of relaxation," he sighed. "If I'd known this morning's shower was gonna be the last one I would ever enjoy, I'd've stayed in there for an hour."

Leslie: "We don't know that, baby. We'll take one together after the walk. Deal?"

Tristan: Another nod. There was no avoiding the shower situation; might as well bite the bullet.

"Deal. Let's get some clothes on. Would it be weird to walk with a blanket wrapped around us?"

Leslie: "I won't complain. I don't think anyone will see us. It's pretty late." But this town was bigger than it seemed. Maybe. Not that it mattered to him, but perhaps to Tristan.

Tristan: His concern was more about the mechanics of walking while bundled as opposed to someone seeing them. People in this town saw far weirder things than them every day.

"Good. I don't have it in me to be cold any more today. We'll just walk carefully."

Leslie: "I have a king size quilt we could walk in? Pretty roomy, but a little heavy. How's that?"

Tristan: "Perfect. I'll take a heavy blanket if it keeps us warm."

Leslie: "I'll get my shoes on." After a quick kiss.

Tristan: "I'll get everything on."

Which meant shoes, a sweater, and pants. Underwear? He didn't much feel like it. Besides, they'd have a quilt to shield them from the cold.

Leslie: For Leslie, the largest sweater he owned, loose and faded in color. Whatever shoes were nearby - the man didn't match.

"Ready?"

Tristan: If Tristan's mother had taught him anything, it was that matching was vastly overrated.

"Yep. Got the keys. You got the quilt?"

Leslie: "That I do, sailor." He held his arms out, holding the quilt like heavy wings.

Tristan: Tristan walked into them and immediately sighed in relief. Perfect.

Annoyed as he was at his current situation, he couldn't not take them down to walk by the water. It was his whole life, his safety blanket.

Fuck if he was going to let some deadbeat take it away from him.

Leslie: The blanket was shared almost equally, giving a little more than half to Tristan without thinking. He wasn't going to say anything. Sometimes, silence was the best medicine. And nearness, he thought, wrapping an arm around Tristan's waist.

Tristan: Silence and nearness were exactly what Tristan wanted and needed. Apart from some answers, maybe. He couldn't get any tonight, and maybe not tomorrow, but he was determined to get them. He and Meg damn well deserved them.

"When should we go see her?" he asked once they were making their way back.

Leslie: "That's what's been on your mind?" His pace slowed to a near crawl. "Depends on what you want. If you want her to learn with you, or show her when you're in better understanding."

Tristan: He didn't much know what he wanted. Only that his mother deserved to know exactly what that bastard had done to her. "One of the things on my mind, yeah. Also wanna talk to Luke Graham. Maybe it's best to do that first."

Leslie: Leslie's brow knotted. "Peter's brother? What for?"

Tristan: "Because he works with a private investigator and I want his number."

Leslie: Not even twenty-four hours. He wasn't sure whether or not to admire or worry. Both felt right.

"Okay."

Tristan: "I'm gonna find him and fucking kill him. But first I'm gonna get some answers."

Leslie: "First, I just want you to breathe."

Tristan: "Literally or?"

Leslie: "Both. Both would be good for you."

Tristan: Tristan took a deep breath. Hell, he'd take two.

"I'll call Luke tomorrow."

Leslie: "Alright." He wasn't going to stop him, but he was going to follow every step, should Tristan need a place to lean.

Tristan: "Or we could go to the pub for lunch. Bobby's making shrimp and grits."

Leslie: "Lunch and then Luke?"

Tristan: "Chances are we'll be able to kill two birds with one stone. I think tomorrow he works at the pub."

Leslie: "Years, and I still dunno the schedule there."

Tristan: "Don't blame you. It's loose at best. Not even the menu is set, I only know what Bobby's making when he orders fish from me."

Leslie: A small smile. "The epitome of casual. Didn't like all the fighting there used to be. Seemed to chill after that one guy died."

Tristan: "Guess the deputy and sheriff reading Pete the riot act over and over finally worked. He only punched the assholes, though."

Leslie: "Surprised he wasn't sued."

Tristan: "One made a lot of noise about it until Pete pressed charges. Dude had broken a table and some chairs and felt up Mira Harley."

Leslie: "So he's been lucky," he laughed. "Mira... blonde?"

Tristan: Tristan nodded. "Yeah. Charmaine's baby sister. You know her, she plays the piano down at the St. James. Dude had Mira all the way in his lap with his hands up her shirt when Pete knocked him out."

Leslie: "Oh! Right. What a fucking tosser." There were a few exceptions to his opinion of a firm right hook.

Tristan: "If anyone's lucky it's that asshole. Never seen Pete so close to killing a man."

Leslie: Leslie swallowed hard and nodded, eyes to the ground. "When you think you're just, you're the most dangerous."

Tristan: "You ain't wrong. Charmaine was even closer to killing someone than Pete was. Like those poor girls haven't had enough to deal with already."

Leslie: "I don't know their story."

Tristan: "Daddy was in the Navy, died overseas before Mira was born. They moved back here, mama remarried then ran off with a biker. Left Mira and Char with their stepdad. He was a decent man before Brenda left and he set up camp at O'Charlie's. Stepped in front of a train and left them all alone."

Leslie: "Sounds like you just described a very heavily written novel by some... alcoholic sorting their demons."

Tristan: "He was. Personally, I don't think Brenda was worth throwing away his entire life. God only knows what ol' Eddie saw in her to begin with."

Leslie: "Why remarry if you're just going to leave? For the children? That's so..." His connection to family was too tight not to be riled. Blush warming his cheeks with emotion. The blanket was tightened to his chest.

Tristan: "I've always wondered that. They were married for like...four years before she ran off. Don't know what changed but my mama says they seemed happy before the biker."

Leslie: "I'm not about to blame a biker for her choices."

Tristan: "Takes two to tango, doll, but you're right. You can leave a spouse but you don't leave your kids. Saddest thing is, Eddie couldn't have loved those girls more if they were his own flesh and blood. Brenda just..." He sighed. "She had too strong a hold on him."

Leslie: "How do you know so much about them?"

Tristan: "Partly from mama, partly from Mrs. Pennyapple, and partly from Mira herself. Found her crying down by the docks one night, lent her an ear and a shoulder."

Leslie: Leslie sighed. "You're a good man."

Tristan: "I just do what I can. I know how she feels," he added with another sigh. "My old man didn't leave against his will like hers did, but even so. I was raised by a single parent."

Leslie: "We don't know why he left. I'm not sure what you're going to find in the next few weeks..."

Tristan: "I know why he left. He was no hero like Jack Harley or a depressed drunk like Ed. He's a goddamn reckless deadbeat."

Leslie: "I understand why you feel that way right now."

Tristan: "I've felt that way my whole life, this just confirms it."

Leslie: "He could have gone off for unfinished business and that business killed him."

Tristan: "He better hope it did."

Leslie: "Baby..."

Tristan: Tristan took a deep breath. "I know."

Leslie: "I know what anger can do, and I understand it feels good to ride that emotion, and you deserve catharsis but, don't let it be all you have."

Tristan: "Right now it is. I don't even know his name, Les."

Leslie: "She won't tell you?"

Tristan: "The name he told her was fake."

Leslie: "Now that's... curious."

Tristan: "Couple weeks after mama told him she was pregnant she went to see him, found his apartment cleaned out. Asked the manager where he went, manager had no idea who she was talking about. She figured he'd told him a fake name, too."

Leslie: "Typical of... not human...beings." Another sigh. "Ready to go home?"

Tristan: He nodded and leaned against Leslie for a moment. "Yeah, I'm ready to go back to bed."

Leslie: Leslie paused to rub up and down Tristan's arms. "Bath first, then bed. Maybe some more tea."

Tristan: "Gonna need a shot of whiskey in that tea."

Leslie: "You got it, baby."

Tristan: He nodded. "All right. Let's head back." He couldn't remember dreading a bath since he was a kid and taking one meant he had to come in from playing in the yard.

Now here he was, a grown ass man afraid to walk into his own bathroom.

Leslie: They needed the cleanse, and more importantly, they needed to assess the extent of this change. Perhaps it was unlike his endearing pet name, and something else. Something manageable. They wouldn't know until submerging, literally and figuratively.

The walk back, Leslie offered his hand.

Tristan: Tristan took it and gave it a grateful squeeze. One thing was for damn sure, he wasn't ready for a bath. Not after the day they'd had. A shower would have to do until he worked up the nerve to fill the tub and get in.

Would he sprout a tail? Would he be able to breathe? What if drying him off didn't return him to normal, what then? Would he just have to live in the tub?

He heaved a long sigh, remaining silent the whole walk back.

Leslie: Leslie slowly raised their hands to his mouth, kissing at Tristan's knuckles as he filed each what if and maybe of doom, thoughts the witch had already considered, which was why he would rather a bath, should anything dangerous happen without concern of a nasty fall on top of sprouting fins and gills. He could only encourage so much.

"What's a spell you wanna see?"

Tristan: Tristan offered Leslie a small smile. He wished he could absorb some of that Leslie hope and optimism. "Got any to make me waterproof?"

Leslie: Leslie would continue in such manner until some level of absorption took place. Just another layer of strategy.

"I know something kind of?"

Tristan: "I'll take anything, honestly. It'd be nice to have an alternative to covering myself up entirely when I work." If he could work with some sense of normalcy then he had it made, and he had to be able to work. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life in gloves but by god he would do it if he had no other choice.

Finally back at the house, Tristan swallowed his dread and went upstairs for some clean clothes.

Leslie: "It would cover all of you, the spell, so you'd still need your iron lungs. You'd still need to keep to yourself. If I'm remembering correctly, it leaves a sheen-like film over your entire body."

Leslie followed behind, slowly stripping along the way until naked.

"No matter what we see, you know I love you?"

Tristan: "I would settle for it covering my hands and my arms." In other words, the parts of him Oliver and Murphy could see when they were working and that had the highest chance of getting wet on any given day.

Tristan waited until they were upstairs to strip, tossing his clothes into the hamper.

"Yeah, I know," he said, smiling softly. "And I love you."

Leslie: "I can't change the spell, baby, but it's something to consider. If you want to learn, you'll have to work on meditation."

Naked and vulnerable, one considerably more than the other. Leslie mirrored Tristan's smile, albeit briefly. "I'll get the water started."

Tristan: "It'll probably be a while before I can do that worth a damn," he sighed. "But I'll try."

He grabbed some underwear and a t-shirt from his dresser.

"Water started? I thought we were just showering."

Leslie: "Didn't I say bath?"

Tristan: "I thought I said shower. Did I not say that out loud?"

Leslie: "What do you want, baby? I'm saying bath to take it slow. Literally dipping your toes in."

Tristan: He considered for a moment. "I don't think I'm ready to sit in a bath just yet. Showers are quicker."

Leslie: "We don't know what's going to happen," Leslie said gently.

Tristan: "I won't be wet long enough for another disaster. Navy shower."

Leslie: "Then I'll stand by."

Tristan: "Okay."

Tristan took a deep breath, both to calm himself and to stall. He didn't want to shower but he knew he had to, and the sooner he did, the sooner he could get used to it and learn how to deal with it.

He took Leslie's hand and led them back downstairs to the bathroom. Maybe he had to do this, but he was glad he didn't have to do it alone.

Leslie: Leslie followed behind, silent for the time being. Debated on jokes, but otherwise, felt conversation would only make things worse. Had circumstances been reversed, he knew he'd be rather deep in concentration, consideration all of the possibilities. He wished he would take a bath. Sit on the edge of the tub and allow his feet to soak. So concerned that Tristan was about to hurt himself, but, that's what he was for, to catch him.

Tristan: He would only let go when they reached the bathroom. His clothes would be put aside, the bracelet he always wore taken off and placed on top of them.

"All right. Time to face the music."

Tristan started the shower and used the moments it took the water to warm up to make one last effort to steel his resolve. He'd stalled long enough. He just had to do this and let the chips fall where they may.

Closing his eyes, Tristan stepped into the shower. Within moments the pattern of iridescent scales appeared on his skin, running up his arms, across his shoulders, down his back. They littered his sides in an artfully random sprinkle, fading at his groin before covering his legs almost completely.

Leslie: "You'll be alright." But, with that concern in mind, he made for the linen closet for a few extra towels. Just in case, he told himself. One for optimism, but circumstances such as this outweighed and overruled.

The witch couldn't help but near as the iridescent scales returned. They were... like his dream. He could kick himself. He understood visions and omens. Lived them. Why he ignored this as a mere fleshing of his beloved's pet name...

"Lean back, just a little?"

Tristan: Tristan had yet to open his eyes. He was trying to figure out if he could feel anything weird happening to his body without the visual of what was happening on his skin.

“How bad is it?” he asked, doing as he was told.

Leslie: "You're fine, baby," said softly. "Just wait a moment." Waiting to see if there would be any other changes, particularly around the groin. He looked up, also watching for gills, and the possibility of Tristan choking.

Tristan: So far so good. There was no indication of Tristan’s gills emerging on his throat and his breathing remained easy and steady.

His scales seemed to become more prominent the wetter he got but otherwise, everything was normal.

Leslie: He understood this was what Tristan needed to feel safe, but not knowing was only itching Leslie from the inside out. He could fall just as he had today, caught in the rain, a simple spill; they needed answers. Tristan needed to understand his body.

"It's not the same. I mean," he looked back up, "your throat, it's not - not the same."

Tristan: "It's n--what?!" Feeling a sudden rush of panic, Tristan felt at his neck. He probably should've opened his eyes to get a look at himself but he just squeezed them tighter.

"I don't..." He felt at his neck again. "It feels fine. What's wrong with it?" Aside from the definite feeling of scales.

Leslie: "You had something on your neck when I pulled you out. It's not there now. Maybe fresh water is different. Maybe not being underwater means something. I don't know. We're learning, baby."

Tristan: "Yeah, I guess we are." So far they'd learned he'd be able to shower semi-normally for the rest of his life. That was one hurdle out of the way.

Tristan felt around some more until he hit scale. He ran his fingers over them in one direction, then another. "These don't feel like fish scales. They're smooth both ways."

Leslie: "What kinda... fish is like that?" He couldn't think of any, despite his profession. His focus too narrow at the moment, too absorbed in Tristan's well-being rather than his culinary knowledge, which compared to the fisherman was all he had.

Tristan: "No fish I've ever pulled out of the water. Feel more like...reptile scales." He felt for more scales on his arm and lightly pinched a bit of skin between his thumb and middle finger, using his index to feel at the scales. "Yeah, these aren't your typical fish scales. Do they look the same as before?"

Leslie: "Pretty much the same. Didn't get a good feel before. Wasn't a forefront thought at the time." Leslie sat up then, taking Tristan's face in both hands to kiss. "It's okay to look," he whispered.

Tristan: "Right. The whole almost drowning and then teetering on the brink of hypothermia thing." He wouldn't be forgetting that any time soon, that was for damn sure.

His only warning of the incoming kiss was Leslie's touch, and Tristan leaned into it immediately. "Not just yet," he whispered back.

Leslie: "Okay." He wouldn't argue. Only gently encourage. "I'll wash you down. How 'bout that?"

Tristan: "Best offer I've heard all day. Scales won't hurt you, promise." Which had been a definite fear. "Smooth both ways."

Leslie: "Didn't feel anything when I carried you." But again, he hadn't looked for it. Probably wouldn't have felt anything after that dive.

Finally, Leslie climbed in front, gently guiding Tristan back a foot. "Hold your arm out. Test spot for soap."

Tristan: Tristan did as he was told. With two hurdles over with, they still had this one to go. He could still get in the shower and get wet in the shower but could he actually shower?

The test spot would indicate that yes, he could.

Leslie: A bar of soap passed the test. Now for shampoo and conditioner. Anything Tristan used was going to be tested, even excusing himself from the tub for shaving cream.

Tristan: After each product Leslie tested, Tristan felt at the patch of scaly skin. He wanted to know more about it but still wasn't brave enough to see it. And in any case, it didn't feel like there was anything new to learn; scales felt the same each time.

"It's like they were designed for this," he muttered to himself.

Leslie: "Immunity to cleaning products?" His smile reflected in his tone. "Maybe so. Gonna wash your hair now." Now that it seemed safe.

Tristan: Tristan tilted his head back. "More like adapted to them. Makes sense, natural selection is a very real thing. If you've gotta blend in with normal people to stay hidden, you need to be as similar to normal people as possible."

Leslie: "Mm," was all he could manage. He lathered and massaged at Tristan's scalp, breathed in deeply, and contemplated the situation. "Humans adapted to forget... pretty much everything. Push it aside. Not believe in it. Probably why - " he paused, staring at nothing in particular. "No, that doesn't make sense."

Tristan: He felt some of the tension ease out of his body as Leslie washed his hair and massaged his head with those magical healing hands. This situation was untenable but his witch was keeping him from losing his mind.

"Probably why what?"

Leslie: "Probably why you feel the way you do, I wanted to say, but - well, you're part human, no matter what this is."

Tristan: "Maybe I'd feel differently if it was like magic, you know? That didn't get thrust upon me against my will, without me knowing. You've been there to guide me and teach me. With this? I literally got tossed into the deep end of the pool and it damn near killed me. Then there's the whole separate issue of it being my sperm donor's fault."

Leslie: "I get it." To the degree he could manage. "Had my parents kept everything from me, I wouldn't... I'd feel distrusting. We still don't know the whole story. Only half. I reserve... 10% judgement."

Tristan: Tristan heaved a long sigh. "Distrusting is right. I feel that and a hundred other things. Can't tell you how much I would rather have been bitten by a radioactive fish or something. Then at least it would be my own damn fault."

Leslie: "Fish version of Spider-man? Piranha-man." His smile was tired and somewhat forced. Not that Tristan could see it. "Not really up-to-date on comic heroes."

Tristan: "I could live with being thrust into being Piranha-man." Living with this, that remained to be seen.

"It's your turn."

Leslie: "What about me?"

Tristan: “To get your hair washed.”

Leslie: "Oh! Gotta open your eyes."

Tristan: “I will in just one sec.” First he had to rinse all the shampoo out of his hair and slather some conditioner in there.

Only then would he open his eyes, keeping his gaze resolutely on Leslie.

Leslie: He could tell Tristan he was alright until his throat was raw. It would make no difference. So, for now, he simply smiled, patient.

"Okay?"

Tristan: Tristan smiled and nodded. “I’m okay, baby.” And even if he wasn’t, he’d fake it until he made it. “Duck your head.”

Leslie: Leslie was obedient, making no fuss in any measure as his scalp was pampered.

"I have no idea what we're doing after this."

Tristan: “Right after this? We’re gonna finish showering and dry off. I’m gonna comb my hair, or let you do it if you want to. Then we’re gonna head upstairs and get into bed. I’m gonna hold you as tight as I can, kiss you, and we’re going to sleep. And in the morning, things will be better.”

Leslie: "Yorkshire pudding for breakfast? Some... poached eggs and tomato from the backyard. Maybe... something with plantains for lunch."

Leslie, now blind, leaned forward to kiss whatever part of Tristan he could.

Tristan: Leslie’s lips landed on Tristan’s nose. “All that sounds great,” he said, smile evident in his voice. “I love your plantains. And you. So goddamn much.”

Leslie: "I feel it." His own smile evident in his tone, though less evident on his face, scrunched to prevent the shampoo on his eyelid from penetrating.

Tristan: "Good." Tristan guided Leslie under the spray to rinse the shampoo out. "Keep those eyes closed."

Leslie: "Heard," said through a yawn. "So when I open my eyes again, are you closing yours?"

Tristan: "I'll keep 'em open for you."

Leslie: "You mean on me?"

Tristan: Tristan chuckled. "You're the best thing they could possibly look at."

Leslie: "I appreciate it, but I know what you're doing, baby."

Tristan: "Taking baby steps, sweetheart. Been looking at my hands in your hair this whole time and I haven't freaked out."

Leslie: "They're still beautiful hands." He paused. "I know that's not what you wanna hear, but my optimism is relentless."

Tristan: "One of us has to be. Maybe one day I'll see them the same way you do."

Leslie: "It's been less than twenty-four hours."

Tristan: "In other words, every reason for optimism, right? Gotta have hope."

Leslie: "Absolutely. What you are isn't wrong. How you learned is."

Tristan: “Ain’t that the truth,” he sighed. “I really could’ve done without the shitty afternoon we both had.”

Leslie: "I'm always ready and willing to jump into a frozen ocean for you."

Tristan: Leslie was pulled back in kissing range. “Right back at you. Here’s hoping neither of us ever has to again.”

Leslie: "Well, I know you'll be alright, now." A soft kiss later, he felt at his hair for any remaining soap.

Tristan: Tristan did an inspection of his own hair, making sure all the conditioner had rinsed out. "I wash your back, you wash mine?"

Leslie: "Mhm." Washing Tristan's back would be more inspection than actual washing, but it too couldn't be avoided.

Tristan: He may not have been fine with what was happening to him or be comfortable in his own skin or even want to look at himself, but Tristan felt comfortable with Leslie touching him. Inspecting him. Washing him.

It made everything seem more normal somehow. And safer.

“Feels kinda different. Not weird, just different.”

Leslie: "Like a fever, kind of different, or something else?"

Tristan: “A different sensation, when you touch patches with scales.”

Leslie: "Is it numb? I mean, less feeling than normal?"

Tristan: “Not quite. It feels kinda like when you touch your elbow. The skin is a little thicker but you can still feel it.”

Leslie: Sort of what he'd been imagining. Tristan was better with description. "Sounds... protective."

Tristan: “Guess it must be. Might feel different if I’m fully wet like I was when I fell.”

Tristan crouched down. “Gimme a leg.”

Leslie: "What - What?" Leslie laughed from confusion.

Tristan: “Them legs need washing too. Gimme one.” Of course, washing was just an excuse for touching as much of Leslie as he could.

Leslie: "I can honestly say, no one has ever washed my legs before." So he held one up, pressed his foot to the tile for balance and let Tristan be his first.

Tristan: “Then I can honestly say, no one has shown your body the proper appreciation.” Or the proper reverence. Anyone who didn’t have to physically restrain themselves from touching Leslie at all times was stupid or blind or both.

Tristan kissed just above his witch’s knee carefully lathered the length of the first leg before giving the same treatment to the other.

Leslie: Leslie could feel that this was more than a washing. Had his suspicions for some time, the way Tristan stared at him. It was the same stare for years that he had somehow ignored. No longer, he thought, watching his boyfriend admire freckled skin.

"I love you."

Tristan: Tristan gave Leslie an adoring smile and kissed his thigh. "I love you too, baby. Turn around for me."

Leslie: He would obey. Hands loose at his sides, forehead to the cool tile. This was how Tristan coped, he realized. He tried to think of another instance with a similar reaction. Probably his mother, or Oliver. He wondered why, then didn't want to think about it.

Tristan: The gentle ministrations would continue as Tristan washed the back of Leslie. A kiss placed on the underside of each cheek, on each shoulder blade, and directly in the center of Leslie’s back.

“All clean.”

Leslie: Leslie hadn't expected to hear and then feel Tristan lowering to kiss there. It made him smile for sheer surprise.

"You're very thorough."

Tristan: “I pride myself on it,” he said with a grin that Leslie would be able to hear in his voice. “All of you deserves to be kissed.”

Leslie: "I can turn around now, or want more of my back?"

Tristan: He chuckled and pressed one more kiss to Leslie's back. "You can turn around. Ready to dry off and get snuggled into bed?"

Leslie: "Ready to turn." He wondered how much of himself Tristan had observed, or had he been so determined not to look at all, ignoring the glisten in his peripheral.

"I'll get the towels."

Tristan: Tristan hadn't gotten a good look, but he wasn't putting all his effort into looking away either. He was trying to...accept the bits of himself he could see and not try to move so he wouldn't see any of himself because that was weird and impossible to maintain.

He straightened and shut off the water. "'Kay. I'll be here squeezing out my hair."

Leslie: His towel was draped over his head and shoulders. Like a babushka, his mother used to say when he was a child. Tristan was given similar treatment, gently pulled by the fluffy towel into another kiss.

Tristan: He hummed happily, grinning at Leslie when he pulled away. "I feel...a hell of a lot better than I did before we showered."

Leslie: "Then it's been a success."

His own towel was used to aid in drying Tristan's skin. Scales? It seemed a delicate business.

Tristan: Like he had before, Tristan took a moment to take stock of new sensations. The scales didn’t feel fragile but it was probably best to err on the side of caution. Just in case.

“Still so weird.”

Leslie: "Mhm." Lastly, his legs. Less than a rub-down and more of a careful pat. He would wait, on a single knee, watching the transformation as though for the first time.

Tristan: He closed his eyes again. This time instead of doing it to avoid seeing himself, he did it to see if he could actually feel his skin change.

No such luck. Just like when he’d gotten in the shower; one moment scales, next moment gone.

Leslie: Leslie traced a patch of scales with that very thought in mind. Curious if that rough-sensation Tristan had mentioned would change instantly to usual sensitivity.

Tristan: The sensation itself was more gradual. As the scales faded, normal sensation came back. "Definitely weird," he said mostly to himself, rubbing at his arm. "The little kid in me wants to ask where they go when I'm not wet, but I'm guessing it's just magic?"

Leslie: "What I turn into is magic. You'd have to ask a were-creature. Someone born to it like...you."

Tristan: "You wouldn't happen to know any, would you?"

Leslie: Leslie bit his lip, looked at himself in the mirror.

"Mhm."

Tristan: "Am allowed to ask who or did you promise to keep it under wraps?"

Leslie: "I'll ask what he wants. To play messenger or maybe talk to you. I'll keep you anonymous, too."

Tristan: "Thanks, doll. Appreciate this and everything else you've done for me today."

Leslie: "Don't need to thank me, baby."

Tristan: Leslie was pulled in for another kiss. “I know. But I’m doing it anyway.”

Leslie: He nuzzled, inspected for any lingering patches. Satisfied, he said, "Let's get you warm."

Tristan: “Let’s both get warm and get in bed. Ready to cuddle you until morning.”

#When it Finally Hits chapter #leslieeissott #tristanseger

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ikesenhell · 4 years

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Welcome Home

GLITTER & GOLD, CHAPTER 8 AND THE FINALE. You can find all other IkeSen/IkeVamp works of mine on my page. NOTES: AT LONG LAST. We reach the end. Thank you all for hanging in there with me. HERE @chezzkaa COME GET YOUR JUICE. TRIGGER WARNINGS: drowning, panic-inducing scenarios. Smut!

---

It took some jiggling on his part. The door was pretty well fused. Whoever fastened it in the first place meant business--and when he finally managed to kick in the steel frame, they finally knew why.

“Holy shit,” Masamune whistled.

It was once a standard workstation and supply closet. Whoever got to it afterward--no doubt after the blast and the worst of the fallout--had transformed its contents. A skeleton lay on a cot in the corner, cradling a pillow to its chest, apparently the victim of only old age and the gentle slip into death’s embrace. Around him, piled high on shelves and stacked across the tables, were the supplies of an old world.

“Seeds,” she read, picking through a drawer. “These are more valuable than gold. They’re native to these parts. I haven’t seen some of these ever, just read about them.”

Masamune opened a box. “Water filters, Life Straws, radiation tests--”

She cradled her face in her hands and released a laugh. It echoed in the tight quarters. “That was the whole point of the damn ship. It was a beacon. It was leading people here for supplies.”

“See the ship, go for the source,” he mused. “Find the projector, get the coordinates, come here, get supplies that could kick start your settlement all over again. This man must’ve put in blood and sweat to get all of this together.”

“And we--” She threw her hands in the air, frustration and anger and relief and sorrow blending together. “People died for this.”

Masamune cracked open another box, revealing a huge stockpile of medical supplies: antibiotics, bandages, testing kits. True. People had died. He thought about all of the skeletons in the bottom of the well, of all the vanished and missing people. His father swam in his mind’s eye. If he held his breath and focused hard enough, he could still feel his father’s embrace.

“Yeah,” he said. “They did. But people are also going to survive because of this. And that’s what we have to move forward with. My dad’s death is what got us here. That’s what I’m going with. He didn't die for nothing. He lead us here in the end. I’m sticking to that.”

She gave him a tender smile, brushed the hair back from his forehead, and kissed him.

---

Going down was one thing. They still hadn’t sorted out the most important part: getting back up. They returned to the highest room, the door to the stairwell up leaking water.

“How bad do you think it is?” She asked.

“I mean…” Masamune sighed. “Wish I was better at math right now.”

“Mm?”

“I dunno. Mitsunari could probably calculate how much of the lower levels could fill with water and drain out the interior or some shit before it started getting dangerous.”

She fixed him with a wide-eyed stare. “That’s smart as hell on its own.”

“Not if we don’t know how much space we have to work with, Kit.”

“Even then.” She paced around the room. “We can drain the upper level into the lower level, as long as we keep all of the doors open. We didn't close any of them further down, so we’ve got at least that to work with. If it gets too high, we can bail out into the central chamber. Without cinder blocks on our feet, I imagine we could probably tread water over to some ladders. There has to be a service ladder out there.”

Masamune chewed his lip. So soon after almost drowning, he wasn’t keen on getting back into the water. But… well, they didn't have a bevy of options, did they? There was always the chance that the others would track down where they were, but could they figure out they were in the well and still alive?

No. Probably not. In their shoes, Masamune wouldn’t assume anything of the sort.

“Alright.” He gathered her into his arms and kissed her forehead. “I’ll open the door over at the stairs. You stick by the main chamber door, okay? The second the water starts really rising in here, you punch that button and get out of here. Hold onto the cinderblocks for support until you can get out.”

She eyed him balefully. “You’re giving me the job you think has the highest rate of survival.”

He knew she was too smart to fool, so Masamune just shrugged. “I made a promise.”

“No.” Fixing him with an intense frown, she gripped his hand. “We’re doing this together. We get out together.”

Masamune sighed. “Kitkat--”

“Don’t ‘kitten’ me right now.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “We’ll drain the stairwell together. You’ll need the support from the cinder blocks for that, too. If you get washed down the lower chambers, even if it turns out alright, you could drown regardless. We’re getting out together.”

He hadn’t considered that possibility. Finally caving, he grabbed her wrist and kissed it. “Dunno how I can say no when you pout like that. You got it. You’re calling the shots.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Together they set the scene. Masamune scraped the cinder blocks into place by the stairwell, wrapping the rope around his hand for support and bracing her into the wall to keep her secure. She flushed at his chest pressed to hers and didn't complain until he shot her a finger gun.

“You’re a disaster,” she moaned, swatting at his arm. “Be serious.”

“Figured you might want a little comic relief before we possibly die.”

“Masamune!”

“I know. I know. I’m awful. Ready?”

She inhaled and wrapped her hands around his wrists, swallowing hard. “I think so.”

Now or never. He considered again if this was the only way. Once again, his mind came up blank. The only way out was up. The only way up was through the water. The only way through the water was this.

He inhaled hard and shot a silent prayer to his father.

“Alright, Kitten,” he murmured, groping for the button. “Hang on to me. Three, two, one…”

The button clicked ominously, and the door rattled to life. Water gushed a torrent through the sparse opening. It was a small mercy that it didn't open too quickly; Masamune barely managed to brace against the pressure that crashed through now. She gasped and clung to his shoulders, wrapping her heel into the doorframe to stabilize them. The waterfall roared past them and down the open stairwells, shoving its merciless bulk inside. He could feel their makeshift weights scraping away from them, threatening to take them both with it.

Plan A was failing. They’d never considered Plan B. Masamune raced through his options. If the weight went, then he did, and so did she--

“Hang on to me,” he commanded, wrapping her arm around his neck. “Hold on tight, as tight as you can.”

It was a testament to her trust that she did without question. There would only be a fraction of a second to move. The door was still sliding upward, and when it was really and fully open, the pressure would be too intense to even risk this stupidity. Clasping her face tight into his chest, he urged, “Take a deep breath. Hold it tight, no matter what.”

He felt her lungs fill, his own alongside her. Two hearts, beating in sync. She won’t die. Not here, not now. All of the things he’d never let himself imagine about the future played in his mind’s eye--a house, Waŋblí Hoȟpi thriving as they watched on, the smell of bergamot in her shop and waking up tangled in her arms every day as they grew old and she only became more and more and more beautiful--

Deep breath. Don’t let go.

Masamune trusted her to hold onto him and used his free hand to grab into the door opening. It took all of his strength. The water threatened to peel him free, but he held fast. With a loud yell of effort, he pulled them both forward into the rushing tide, under the half-open doorway and into the current. Pull! With as much force as he could muster, he slung his arm to the side and caught hold of a pipe, yanking them into the space beside the door, trapping them against the pressure there. All of the merciless water crashed against him. It rushed up his nose and down his throat, choking him.

Don’t let go. Don’t let go. Crushing his panic, he wrapped his arms tight around her body and waited.

Seconds later--seconds that felt like hours to his frantic lungs and wheeling brain--the water level lowered and he gasped for air. At long last, it dipped below his collarbone, freeing them both.

“Damn,” she coughed. “How did you know that would work?”

“I didn't,” he admitted. “Just that the other way definitely wouldn’t. Are you okay?”

“Yes.” She shivered in the cool stairwell, but nodded, still holding tight to his chest. “Yes. I’m here with you.”

“Good.” He meant it. His sinuses were killing him from all the water, his throat raw and his muscles burning, but Masamune still stroked her hair. “That’s all I need.”

---

The rest of the walk up was almost uneventful. They passed through soaked rooms that time forgot, office chairs settled in heaps by doors. Near the top, they located the source of the leak. One of the viewing room windows was cracked. He was too tired to comment on it or care. Instead, they laced their hands together and moved forward.

Finally--after what felt like centuries--they neared the hatch to the top. Masamune inhaled hard and hefted a loose piece of pipe over his shoulder.

“Do you think they’re still out there?” She asked, visibly nervous.

“Dunno. We ain’t really got options, do we? It’s been hours.”

She appraised the ladder. There weren’t any other options. Someone had to go up first. Masamune rubbed his thumb over her cheek and planted a kiss on her mouth. “You know I’d do anything for you, right?”

Would he ever get over the shine of her eyes when she looked at him? Cupping her hand over his, she leaned into his palm. “Stare down a ghost ship that haunted you for most of your life, fist fight some cultists, almost drown, all on my account, if I’m remembering correctly.”

He shook the pipe meaningfully. “I’ll fight ‘em again, too.”

“Stay alive,” she urged. “Please. There’s so much more I want to do with you. There are ten thousand places I want to go with you, so many firsts…”

In any other circumstance, he would’ve made a raunchy joke. Now--now he just nodded. “I got you, Kitten. I’m sticking around just to see that through.”

The space in his hand was cold when he withdrew, the ladder rough and rusty on his palm. His boots clanked hard on the rungs. Would the hatch even open? That was a good question. Masamune fiddled with the draw back and found it responsive. Where would this even deposit them? Back into danger? Straight into a fire fight?

Fuck that. He was staying alive. He was staying alive for his dad, for all the people that drowned before them, and for a future with her.

Masamune drew back the latch and snapped out of the hole.

The orange rays of morning stretched in the sky, blue-grey clouds drifting by. Over the cornfield came the sharp sunlight. What a terrible vantage point. It blinded him; cupping a hand over his good eye, he winced and braced himself, charging out of the hole to keep from losing the advantage of surprise.

“What the hell--!”

Everything swam into view. The well, the house, the red truck. At his feet lay the body of the older man that had sacrificed them to the water only hours ago, and standing before him--

“Hey!” Masamune laughed, swinging the pipe to rest behind his neck. “You guys tracked us down!”

Nobunaga physically restrained Ieyasu from attacking him, Mitsuhide releasing a low whistle of shock. Hideyoshi sat heavily on the lip of the silo and cradled his head in his hands. Even the Takeda-Uesugi party was there, looking equally surprised.

“Wow,” Yukimura managed. “We--we thought you were dead.”

“Nah.” Masamune reached down into the hole and helped her out, bracing her wobbly legs against the hard earth. A cool breeze rushed around them. He could smell the far-off mountains and the prairie grass, the clean air. She shivered and he pulled her tight, rubbing her arms to warm them. She was safe. She was safe, and that was all that mattered. “But I tell you what--we’ve got a hell of a gift for y’all, that’s for damn sure.”

---

They weren’t allowed to help with retrieving the items from the silo. Ieyasu all but banished them back to the bedroom in the little yellow house, his unbridled rage the surest gauge for how honestly afraid he’d been. Nobunaga stopped by just to let them know that the items in the Ark were invaluable, that the Takeda-Uesugi and they were working out an arrangement to split them between the two settlements and prosper, and then to order them to rest.

“Shit,” Masamune laughed, barely pausing from wolfing down the breakfast Hideyoshi had thrown together. “Are we doing orders? Didn't know we were a military outfit now. Should I call you ‘sir’, too?”

Nobunaga smiled that imperious, impossible smile. “Perhaps. That would fit.”

Truth be told, Masamune didn't need anyone to order him to rest. His body screamed for it--and, more importantly, she looked utterly exhausted. They collapsed into the bed upstairs together only seconds after changing from their soaked clothes, limbs tangled and limp. When he woke, the sun was high in the sky and streaming through the curtains, her mouth pressed into his chest.

Wow. He carded a hand through her hair in silent reverence. He’d traveled all over the nation. He’d seen impossible things and incredible mountains, forests and oceans and lakes, and yet--here, in his childhood home--she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on. She stirred under his attention and his heart swelled.

“Hey, Kit,” he murmured. “Still tired?”

She scrunched her nose and murmured assent.

“Go back to sleep, then. You ain’t gotta go anywhere. We can keep sleeping.”

But she shifted nonetheless. Her hand danced up his collar and neck, rested on his cheek and pulled him in. Would he ever get tired of these lips? Masamune didn't think so. She was impossibly gentle, thousands of good memories and promises of the future hanging on her mouth. He could taste them on her tongue, his own brushing against hers. She moaned into him and his whole body flushed.

“Damn, babe,” he chuckled, flirting his fingertips over her shoulder. “Can’t make those sounds if you want to keep sleeping.”

She smiled and hooked her fingers into his pajama waistband. When her eyes fluttered open, they took his breath away. They were like the deep earth of the vast plains, the lifebringer in this land. “I was going to keep sleeping, but then you just had to wake me up.”

“Wake you up?” Electric sparks of desire pulsed in his stomach. Masamune buried his nose in her neck and lapped along her skin. “You were the one that kissed me.”

“Damn. I guess I got caught. My ruse is up.” For all her words, she didn't seem too sorry. Her hands tugged at his pants, revealing the curve of his hip to cool air. “However will I be punished for my lies?”

Masamune laughed softly against her. “Punished? Is that what you want?”

“Not exactly.”

He didn't need her to clarify. They both stripped each other instead, exchanging slow, long, tender kisses, his thumb trailing all over her until she gasped and wriggled and blushed. Her waist curved perfectly into his. His arm fit like a puzzle piece in her lower back. When he thrust inside her, the leg she slung over his shoulder rested comfortably there. All the thousands of miles he’d put between him and Waŋblí Hoȟpi, and here she was, the other half of him.

He would never run again.

“I love you,” he murmured, pressing her hands back into the bed with hers. She curled her fingers tight into his. “I’m never letting you go. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Her kiss was grace itself. All of her soul was there. He could feel it, singing through her breath, as if he were sanctified. How wrong she was. She was the sanctified one. He felt it in the gasp of her breath and every sweet beat of her heart.

“I love you too, Masamune Date,” she murmured. “Welcome home.”

#ikesen masamune #ikemen sengoku #G&G #glitter and gold #glitter & gold #my writing #Welcome home #smut tw #drowning tw #Ikesen post-apocalypse #post-apocalyptic

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esquissers · 4 years

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◟ believe it or not , i am indeed a mess & unfortunately , you �� are being introduce to me sFKSDFJ . in all seriousness , i'm cc , nineteen from the cst tz with she / her preferred pronouns . this is a new muse that i've pulled a little bit of inspo from other muses , but i'm trying :) something :) ( not ) new ! pip is a cute lil nickname but she's ... not cool , to say the least . pls LIKE this if you'd like to plot & i'll come to you , or , lmk if you prefer plotting on d*scord !

stats / wanted connections / pinterest

━━ ( jung jinsoul + cis female + twenty-one ) oi , have you seen philippa ‘pip’ bae around ? she lives in flat 17 in bedroom 4 ? i was meant to meet them this morning at bean me up before our lecture but she didn’t show . no ? well , shit . if you do see them , can you tell them i’m looking for them ? they’re a 3rd year architecture student from nafplio , greece & you’ll know it’s them because they might just remind you of gold framed glasses left in the library , playing the sims on your laptop during lectures , a wall full of half-finished pencil sketches , lemon water , climbing onto rooftops & the dream of building something better if that helps at all.just be careful , she can be a little machiavellan , hubristic & arriviste sometimes . —- oh don’t look like that , they’re usually erudite , habile & tactical most of the time .

𝓲. 𝕒𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕕𝕘𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥 .

full name : philippa bae / bae soo ah nickname(s) : pip , suah , pippa age : twenty - one gender / pronouns : cis gendered female / she / her / hers sexuality : bisexual / biromantic hometown : nafplio , greece major : architecture inspo : annabeth chase , regina george , macey mchenry faceclaim : jung jinsoul

fun facts : doesn’t talk about her dad but will mention every chance she gets that he’s ex mi6 , can speak almost six languages but doesn’t speak any of them ... u know ? , major abandonment issues & for what , can whistle for hours without stopping , carries around multiple sketchbooks on her person at all times , is mean :( takes out unresolved anger on everyone around her , got kicked out of the library her first year for starting a fight with a librarian , loud opinions ; mean words , is really good at drawing / painting but only Sketches because painting is reserved for ‘ pure inspiration ’ , should be an art major but doesn’t think she needs a degree in drawing

aesthetic : drowning just below the surface of an ice cold river , being unable to hear the birds chirping in the morning due to the irrevocable anger , breaking pencils because you’re pressing down too hard , wind so cold it feels like it’s cutting into skin , a lone glacier wandering the abandoned waters , a forgotten lighthouse in the wreckage of ships it failed to protect & friends are family despite the way you treat them .

𝓲𝓲. 𝕔𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕟𝕚𝕔𝕝𝕖 .

mom doesn’t get much of an explanation , why her lover swerves in & out of her life so jarringly . instead , she’s given a child , someone that looks a lot like the suave man who visits every few months from business & tells her that she loves her . he’s the first one to call philippa ‘ pip ’ & it only sticks because she lets it , even if she hates the name almost as much as she hates him .

pip loves her dad , maybe a bit more than the upset mom who always watches over her & ruins her fun . dad , he teaches her different languages & how to find a killer on the big , intricate maps he brings homes . he’s the one to gift her a sketchbook & a box of special pencils , the one to encourage her to build a world made of lead & her imagination .

he doesn’t stay for too long ever , but he always returns & she always waits for him dutifully . mom knows now , but she won’t tell pip anything . all she does is make sure pip knows how to fight dirty & how to make sure her underhand stings . ‘ women fight differently , soo ah , ’ she tells pip . ‘ your dad – you’re different from him . you have to learn things differently . ’

there’s only so much mom can put up with . pip wakes up one day to find a note from her mom ( written in korean , the one language she struggles with learning despite her ancestry ) that reads that she’s gone . she’s done & that her dad brings too much into her life that she can’t deal with . he’s not the man she thought she loved ; & apparently , neither was pip . she wasn’t enough for her mom .

pip learns quickly she’s not enough for her dad , either . thirteen years old , multi-lingual & left in the world on her own . dad sends money & he sends letters , mostly though , he sends empty promises . ‘ i promise you’ll understand one day . i promise i’ll explain . i promise i love you . ’ but he doesn’t show up & he doesn’t come to collect . he sends her a passport & tells her to live the way she wants .

online , she finds a good enough school that’ll get her where she wants to go in the future . she completes courses while running from a past she doesn’t know anything about . strangers ask her where her parents are , she learns how to lie . men ask her how old she is , she learns how to con them into working for her . women ask her why she isn’t love , she learns how to wage wars & win .

seventeen , pip has spent time all around europe on her own . her dad still sends money , but he doesn’t send letters anymore . she stopped replying a while ago , but he still signs the bank statements with a heart . on her ‘ graduation ’ day , she gets a gift in the mail – a sketchbook , a box of special pencils & a letter – explaining everything .

dad’s a spy , he’s dangerous & lethal & he has enemies that don’t know of her existence . mom was paranoid & abandoned , left to her own devices so she left . he tells her everything except why he never came to get her , why his life was more important than hers & why he didn’t love her enough . she burns the letter , along with her sketch of him .

she forgets what he looks like , she forgets what mom looks like & she rids her mind of them . eighteen & in paris , accepting her dad’s gracious checks ( which , shouldn’t be made on a spy’s salary , but she won’t complain ) when she decides it’s time to go back . one year wasted , she’s spent in paris drinking wine & bedding lovers .

small town , obscure location & a good reputation . larnswick university welcomes her in with open arms & there’s her fresh start , even if her past will never get away from her .

𝓲𝓲𝓲. 𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕡𝕠𝕤𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 .

exterior . she’s ruthless , a wolf loved by a silent god of war that watches her fight battles . raised by a silent war , she knows that in order to get things done , she has to make the first move . outgoing , courageous & always prepared , pip’s nothing short of a monstrous war general , comparable to hurricanes that rip land apart because it’s in the way . blunt , sharp & cutting , she’s no stranger to fighting dirty & hurting with words . any words can be used to describe her , except maybe civil , or kind , or gentle .

interior . lonely & a little bit scared of an earth that never wanted her . when is it going to open up , take her away because she doesn’t really belong ? always the one to end things so she doesn’t get hurt , she’s never vulnerable because that’ll end badly . non committal , it’s surprising she’s stayed in this place for too long – she’s spent five years of her teenagehood running from place to place . selfish & cunning , pip comes first , because that’s what she’s learned to do to survive .

midway . talented , tactical & intelligent . there’s a lot of talent in her fingers , the ability to mimic life with a few pencil strokes . she possesses a need to build something permanent , something better than the life she’s lived & she doesn’t know why , she doesn’t know if it’ll bring her joy – perhaps just buying a cottage by the sea will fulfill her life . pip is talented , gifted by apollo & cursed by ares .

𝓲𝓿. 𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟 .

◟ uwu , tysm for reading this my favorite people ! all my wc are on the page linked above , but if nothing strikes u we love brainstorming in this house ! love u all & can't wait to write / plot w u !

#theflats:intro #・。 ◟ 𝒑𝒊𝒑 ┊ development .#OKAY THIS IS REALLY LONG OKAY #also ::: this might be dif. to view on the theme & if it is add /mobile to the end of the url !

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some-cookie-crumbz · 5 years

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Heya crumbz, I actually had more of a fluffy kidge request if that's okay! Keith is obvs a huge softie (hiding inside a toughie), and you write softie Keith so well 😭 Could I request Keith maybe reflecting on memories of his father/thinking about the father he wants to be as he's watching his first baby being born? I feel like this would be a huge moment for him, because it's the start of his own family.

YOU’VE DONE SUNK MY BATTLE SHIP!!! SOFT, SAPPY DADDY!KEEF IS ONE OF MY BIGGEST WEAKNESSES, ANON!!!! AND ALSO THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR LIKING HOW I WRITE HIM!!! I’m so happy that I’m able to write the character believably and enjoyably!!!! xD

For months, Keith had been turning thoughts over in hishead, waiting for this moment to arrive. And now, as his shaky hands grippedthe little steel scissors to snip the cord, the room filled with the sounds ofnewborn wailing, a part of him felt like he hadn’t prepared nearly enough forit.

When Pidge announced she was pregnant, he’d been thrilled. Hemade time to go to every doctor’s appointment, eager to see how their baby grewand developed. He got misty-eyed at the first ultra sound where they could seethe shape of a new life taking form. As the pregnancy continued, he pushedPidge to take more time to rest and relax, taking to maintaining the household onhis own. He didn’t want her to overexert herself, after all. And as the dayswent by, his mind turned over what it was going to be like; or, rather, what hewas going to be like as a father.

The idea of a family was one that he’d always dreamed about,for as long as he could remember. Joining Team Voltron gave him a family thathe could rely on, but there was a part of him that still wanted one to call allhis; a life with a partner who loved him as much as he loved them, a few kidsand a happy life all together. He still remembered the moments with his ownfather, for the few years that they’d had, and how those memories were ones heclutched to in his darkest and hardest moments.

He remembered how, even with how rambunctious Keith couldbe, his dad was always patient with him. He could only recall one time his dadhad yelled at him, but it had been for good reason. Keith, almost five years oldand feeling rebellious as ever, had squirmed his hand free of his dad’s andtaken off running across a crowded supermarket parking lot. “Keith, stop!” Hisdad had bellowed, his voice as loud and jarring as thunder during a storm, thatit caused him to freeze up immediately.

A car had rushed by, so close the wind current from itnearly toppled his dazed little form over, but then he’d been scooped up andspoken to in a much softer voice.

That was how his dad approached everything; with patienceand kindness, since it worked better with Keith. Keith, looking back, knew hewas a temperamental and difficult child. He saw how his antisocial behavior hadnegatively affected his dad just as much it had to Keith himself. His dad,however, had never once shoved these facts into Keith’s face. He’d nevershouted or yelled or hit Keith in frustration. No, he always stayed calm andused a delicate voice. And if Keith himself was feeling volatile and flusteredabout a situation, his dad would take the time to calm him down before theytalked about the problem.

He had loved how there were points where he could just joinhis dad as he worked on something and start pestering him questions about thisor that.

That was the kind of father Keith knew he wanted to be themoment Pidge told him she was pregnant. But now that she was here? I wasn’tsure he’d prepared himself for parenthood enough.

A small giggle came from beside him and he jumped just abit, the warm hand of the middle-aged nurse settling over his hand. “Slow andsteady now, okay?” She said, voice soothing and soft. He swallowed and nodded,moving the scissors through carefully. With the cord cut, the doctor and othernurses moved to finish getting the squalling newborn cleaned up and swaddled.

He stepped back to join Pidge again, sliding one hand underher back while offering the other to her, offering to help her sit up a bitbetter. She was still flushed and breathing heavy, but her eyes were brightwith tired excitement, taking his help and looking over to where they could seethe medical team working. The nurse from before approached them after a moment,carrying their daughter bundled up in a little blanket, the infant stillletting out little cries of protest and distress. Keith let Pidge’s hand slipaway as she moved to hold her arms out to take her. “You’ll want to make sureto support her head. She won’t have the best head control for a few weeks,” Thenurse advised as she helped Pidge cradle the newborn in the crook of her arm.

“Hello there, troublemaker,” Pidge cooed, her voice takingon the soft and delicate note he’d only heard a handful of times himself. Shecarefully pressed their daughter into her chest, leaning back into the pillowsand smoothing her hand along her back. She pressed a small kiss to the wisps ofdark hair along the top of the infant’s head before looking over at Keith witha huge, satisfied grin.

He smiled back as the nurse politely excused herself,promising the two of them that a specialist would pop in to go over the endsand outs of what they needed to know with them once they’d a bit of down time.As they waited, she calmed down, her little wails slowly tapering off, staringaround at everything with big and curious eyes. Keith reached out and gentlystroked one of her plush cheeks with a thumb. “Amber,” He said softly.

“Huh?” Pidge hummed, perking up and looking at him.

“She’s got your eyes,” He mused without lifting his gaze,hoping that would be a good enough explanation.

“Amber… I like it,” Pidge said, cutting her sentence off abit at the end with a yawn.

He looked up at her. “Do you want to take a little nap whilewe wait? I can hold her,” He offered.

She perked up and nodded, carefully shifting. “You haven’thad the chance to hold her yet, have you?” She asked.

He shook his head as he rose and leaned over, carefullylifting her. Amber only let out one small cry as she was moved, when she was inthe open air, but seemed to be content once Keith had her cradled against hischest. He paused to press a quick peck to Pidge’s forehead before slipping backinto the chair beside her bed.

It didn’t take very long for Pidge, exhausted from a mix ofthe labor and lack of sleep she’d had in the last few hours, to pass out. Hewatched her doze off before looking back down at Amber, her bright eyes stilllooking around curiously. “Everything’s so new and interesting to you, isn’tit?” He chuckled. Her shifted to focus on him, blinking slowly before lettingout a small noise that almost sounded like a squeak. “Don’t worry, soon enoughyou’ll be big enough to interact with all the cool stuff in the world. Just needto get a little bigger, first.” He mused, reaching down with one hand tolightly poke her on the nose.

She stared at the offending finger for a moment and, as hemoved to pull his hand away, she reached out and set one chubby little hand onhis finger.

He could feel his heart skip a beat in his chest beforemelting. He shifted, gently curling his finger so he could stroke the top ofher hand with his thumb. A part of him realized then, in that hospital room,that he’d give anything to keep the small bundle in his arms safe. It wasdifferent than the passion that drove him in his younger years; a passion thatcame from his own moral beliefs and dedication to his responsibilities as aPaladin. This was something that burned twice as bright inside of him, but in away so different that he wasn’t sure he could put his finger on it.

It was reminiscent of how he’d felt when he realized he wasin love with Pidge, but it was still something entirely new. It almost feltlike something was finally settled inside of him, as if her being here finallygave him some kind of purpose he’d never known he’d wanted. “I wonder if thiswas how my dad felt, when he held me?” He mumbled softly, a dull ache hittinghim at the thought.

There were so many things he’d always wanted to ask his dad,but never had the chance. But, somehow, he almost felt like he could feel hisdad there with him, reassuring him.

Amber didn’t answer him. Instead, her gaze just flitteredbetween his face and his thumb.

He smiled and leaned down, gently pressing a kiss to herlittle nose. “I love you already, and I always will. I’m always going toprotect you, Amber,” He whispered.

#crumbles grumbles #Keidge #Kidge #Peith #Kidgemas #my fics #Keith would be the Soft Serve Ice Cream of Daddies #And anyone that disagrees can fight me in a Denny's parking lot.

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moiraineswife · 5 years

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A Dream of Spring - A Yester Fic

I’M BACK!!! Back with a gay vengeance!! I’m all caught up on campaign 2, and the result is this fic!!

Title: A Dream of Spring

Summary: After Yasha confessed the sad truth of why she left her home, and what happened to her wife, Zuella, Jester uses her creativity and her new magical paint to make something to cheer her up. Jester's POV, some introspection and insight, and a smidge of Jester's thoughts on the rest of the Nein. because Jester is insightful af, in her own way, and I wanted to tap into that.

Teaser: “Do you- Do you think Zuella would like me?” Yasha thought for a moment, her features softening as she did so, “I think that she would,” she said, finally. “She liked things that made me happy. And you make me happy, Jester.”

Link: AO3

Jester bounced onto her bed, legs crossed, and pulled her sketchbook towards her. She would have to draw for the Traveller all she had seen with Yasha, and the lightning ball, and how she had looked up in the mast, storm winds whipping her hear around her, those huge big skeletal wings blossoming behind her. It would be awesome, and she knew the Traveller would appreciate it, but she had something to do first.

Careful as she could be, Jester pulled out her special pot of paint and the special paintbrush they had found on the ship with the grumpy guy, and the deckhand she had so beautifully tattooed.

Tongue between her teeth, she began to create.

She concentrated as she had never concentrated before. This was important. She had to make it perfect. Every line, every detail, every stroke of colour was expertly crafted as she allowed the process to carry her away, as it had done so many times before.

This time, though, she kept herself anchored on Yasha.

She thought of her eyes, mismatched as they were, and the emotion in them when she had spoken of her wife.

A lot of people thought Yasha looked really scary with her big, bulging muscles, and that crazy huge sword she had. Jester had always thought there was something about her that looked sad. Now she knew what that was. But there was a softness in her, too, even after everything she had been through. It was in the eyes that you could see it, and Jester drew on that as she painted feverishly.

Halfway through her blooming masterpiece, she heard a familiar voice in her ear.

“What are you doing here, my Jester? Is this another gift for me?” The Traveller had come to her.

He had always been drawn in by her intense bursts of creativity. When she was little, he had told her there was power in it, in her imagination, her drive, her focus and passion. Now that she had her magic paint, there really was, and Jester knew just what to do with it.

“No, it’s not for you, Traveller,” she said, not looking up from what she was doing, but he expected that, so it was okay. He knew her, knew how consumed she could get by her painting. “I hope you don’t mind, but my friend Yasha is feeling sad right now, and I want to cheer her up.”

“Not at all. This is a great gift you have, the gift to make people smile, and feel good about themselves, about you. You should use it. But never forget-“

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” she cut in, shaking her head and smiling, knowing what he was going to say. “You’ll always be my favourite!” he could be silly like that sometimes, always asking her that. He was her best friend! He had to know that by now.

“Very good,” he said, silkily, lightly caressing her hair with his hand. “Paint something pretty for me when you’re done, won’t you?” He said.

“Of course!” she replied brightly.

“She’s lonely, you know, my friend Yasha,” Jester explained as she painted. “She needs someone to be her friend, like I needed you when you found me,” she thought he would be pleased by that, how well she had learned from him. “I suppose she has her Storm Lord,” she mused, suddenly thoughtful, absently chewing on the end of her brush while she worked. “But I don’t think he seems very friendly if you know what I mean,” she added, continuing.

Jester cocked her head to one side, screwing up her memory, trying to picture exactly what she was painting in her mind’s eye, making sure she had every detail.

As she did, she continued to talk to the Traveller. He liked hearing all about her, he always had, even when no-one else had listened to her, he always had. She could tell him anything.

“Beau told me she was lonely when she was little, too,” she went on quietly, feeling sad as she thought about it. Her melancholy seemed to bleed into her piece as the bright blues, and turquoises of Beau’s robes began putting colour into her work.

“I think we’re all lonely, and lost, in different ways,” she said, softly. “Yasha lost her wife, and her home, and her tribe and just everything before the Storm Lord found her.”

She darkened the colour of her paint, and began using it to create shadows, and depth to her piece. Without that darkness, the drawing looked false, and hollow. When she had been little, she had only wanted to use the brightest of colours, without the ones that made her feel sad, the dark, cold colours. But she had grown up, and she knew now that life, like her art, needed that darkness, and those shadows, were necessary to make the bright colours pop and matter.

“Caduceus’ home is sick,” she went on,” and the colour softened as she thought of her new firbolg friend. The soft pastel greens and pinks melded with Yasha’s dark shadows, lightening them, and gentling them.

“He’d never even left it before!” she exclaimed, trying to imagine what it might have been like to live her whole life in a graveyard full of dead people, trying to find the beauty and the creativity in that. But Caduceus had done it, she supposed, he’d done it well.

“He lived his whole life just in that graveyard, I mean, even I got to see Nicodranus when I was little. The world must feel so big to him, even though he’s quite big, the world is much bigger. He must miss his home, and his family, just like I miss my mama.”

She frowned slightly as she thought of her mum. She was glad they had helped her, and taken care of the mean guy that had been harassing her, but she was sad they hadn’t been able to spend more time together.

Taking a deep breath, she made herself keep talking to the Traveller about her friends, rather than feeling sad about her mother. “Fjord lost his ship,” she said, and the soft pastel greens she had started with Caduceus darkened, and the deep sapphire blue of the ocean began to bleed in. “And he lost all his crew, and his friends, and he doesn’t seem to know what to do now,” she said, drawing out sweeping wave-like shapes of green, and blue, and gold.

“Nott drinks quite a lot, because she’s afraid a lot, and that makes her feel brave,” she went on, the deep, rich ambers of her favourite liquors, and the mead they’d bought, and the bright golds, and silvers of the coins and trinkets she loved so much.

“Sometimes I think about what might have made her so afraid that she had to leave her home, and her clan, and everything,” Jester went on, shaking her head, “She’s so little, but she tries to take good care of all of us, and I wonder if that’s because no-one ever really took care of her.”

“And Caleb...” she said, sighing softly, “When I look into his eyes, I see ghosts,” she murmured, shivering slightly, in spite of the bright burning yellows, and oranges, and reds of his fire now filled her painting. “I don’t know who they are, or what happened to them, but they obviously haut him, and hurt him quite a lot.”

“And then we all lost Molly,” she said, sadly, as the lavender of his skin poured from her brush, followed by the whole rainbow that had been contained in his coat, and his laugh, and his love for soul, finally breathing real life into the piece. “He was a good man, a good friend, I liked him a lot. I still think about him, and get sad about him. But I don’t think he’d approve of that, so I try not to be but...It’s hard sometimes.”

She took a deep breath, moving to finish the piece, the details, drawing on everything she was thinking, and feeling.

“Losing people is hard. Sometimes I think maybe my mama was right, and I would have been better staying at home, where it was safe, and I couldn’t get hurt by people leaving, like she was...”She trailed off, thinking about all of her friends being sad was making her sad.

But then she brightened, a smile sparking across her face again, “We all needed a friend, and that’s why we found each other, and we’re all better now that we’re together.”

She looked down at what she was making, and though it made her sad, she was pleased that she could do it, and that there were friends in her life to do it for.

“Thank you,” she said in a small voice, looking up for the first time since she had started, “For helping me to find them.”

But he had gone.

The room was empty, but she knew he had heard. He was always with her.

Smiling, Jester redoubled her efforts and watched the paint glow before it popped into existence. She stared down at it, and smiled, proud of herself.

Getting up from her bed, she crept out of her cabin and along the hall as quietly as she could so as not to wake the others. When she got there, she saw a pale glow flickering from under Yasha’s door. She was still awake, as she had hoped.

“Yasha?” she called softly, knocking on the door. “Don’t worry, it’s only me, Jester, I promise I’m not a scary lightning ball in disguise!”

After the events of the day, she felt Yasha might need that reassurance. But then, if she was a scary lightning ball in disguise that would be exactly what she would say.

Yasha didn’t seem to share that particular worry, however, because all she said was, “You can come in.”

Jester pushed the door ope, wincing slightly as the old hinges creaked. Avantika really hadn’t taken good care of her boat.

A single candle was flickering on a low table. Yasha was curled up, knees tucked against her chest, gazing out of the window at the distant storm that was disappearing into the distance. Lightning flashed, illuminating her face, making her look momentarily like some kind of heavenly angel that had gotten lost and begun walking among mortals. Then it passed, and she looked just like Yasha again.

When Jester sat down on the bed beside her and said, “I have something for you,” Yasha turned to look at her.

Jester thought her eyes looked red, as though she had been crying, but obviously she wasn’t going to say that. She didn’t think there was anything wrong with crying, especially if you were sad, but she knew Yasha would be embarrassed and she didn’t want to do that.

“You do?” Yasha said, blinking owlishly at her.

“Well,” Jester said, biting her lip and considering the matter, “I suppose technically it’s for Zuella? But it’s also for you to give to Zuella so...”

Having successfully confused herself into a corner, blushing, Jester thrust the flowers at Yasha without warning.

Yasha stared down at it while Jester chewed harder on her lip, suddenly hit by a wave of uncertainty about whether or not she had done the right thing.

She watched Yasha trace the edge of one of the delicate blossoms with a large finger, her touch surprisingly gentle. She could see grief, and sorrow, and something like awe in Yasha’s face, but she didn’t know what that meant about her gift.

Unable to bear the silence any longer, Jester burst out, “Do you like them?”

Yasha looked up at her slowly, away from the bouquet in her hands and blinked.

“I- Where- How did you get these?” she asked, frowning in confusion.

“I used my magic paint,” Jester replied in a small voice.

“You did that- You made this for me?” she mumbled in quiet disbelief.

“Should I not have?” Jester said, “Oh! Oh, I made you more upset, didn’t I?” she exclaimed, clapping her hands over her mouth, “I was trying to cheer you up, I thought it would make you happy, but-“

“No,” Yasha interrupted, quietly but firmly, “No it did, I just...I can’t believe that you would do this for me.”

“Well of course,” Jester said, reaching out tentatively and placing her hand on Yasha’s shoulder. “You’re my friend, Yasha,” she said, reaching out and squeezing her hand. “So you like them?” she blurted out, unable to stop herself.

“I do,” Yasha said, softly, still touching the delicate flower blossoms with wonder, “Thank you, Jester.”

“You’re welcome, Yasha.”

Then she saw Yasha frowning slightly, picking through the bouquet and examining the different types of flowers in the bunch. She bit her lip, hoping she would notice what she had done.

“These are...Molly’s flowers, aren’t they?” she said, softly, “From his tattoo?”

Jester nodding, growing more serious, “Yes, all the ones that were on his tattoo. I thought, maybe, this way, you could take him with you when you go to see Zuella next. I thought you’d like to tell her about him.”

A soft, sad smile tugged at Yasha’s lips as he nodded and said, “Yes, I would. I do not think she would know what to make of him.”

“He was a lot,” Jester agreed, nodding again, “But he was good, and he was your friend.”

“He was. He is,” Yasha said.

“Maybe!” Jester burst out, “Maybe they’re together right now, Zuella and Molly. And he’s, like, reading her fortune, and showing off with his swords, and making her laugh?”

“Perhaps,” Yasha murmured, slowly, “Yes, I would like that.”

“Then that’s how it is,” Jester said with finality.

“You really believe that, don’t you?” Yasha said, quietly.

“What?”

“The best. About everything. And everyone,” Yasha said, looking al ittle baffled by this attitude.

“Well, sure,” Jester said, shrugging, “I mean, I could think the worst all the time, but that would just make me sad, and I don’t like being sad. I would rather be happy!”

Yasha was smiling softly, “I would tell her about you, too, Jester.”

Jester gasped, delighted, clapping her hands together, “What would you tell her? I mean, you’d have to tell her I helped you get some flowrs, and that I’m a really great cleric, and about the Traveller, and my painting, and that I’m really, really pretty, and really cool, and like, one of the best people you know, and-“

“You are one of the best people I know, Jester,” Yasha said, softly, but so sincerely that she stopped mid-flow.

“I mean, I do not know very many people,” Yasha added, frowning slightly, “But I think even if I did, you would still be one of the best people I know.”

“Thanks, Yasha,” Jester said quietly, for once not able to think of anything else to say. “Do you- Do you think Zuella would like me?”

Yasha thought for a moment, her features softening as she did so, “I think that she would,” she said, finally. “She liked things that made me happy. And you make me happy, Jester.” She smiled softly, picked up her book, and began carefully tucking all of the flowers inside.

“I’m really sorry that she died, Yasha,” Jester said, softly. “I bet she was really cool.”

“She was,” Yasha said, nodding, half-sad, half-happy.

“And I want you to know, too,” Jester went on, more serious than she’d been so far, taking Yasha’s hand between both of her own as she spoke. Yasha blinked, looking a little surprised, but did not pull away. “I know that you lost Zuella, and then we- we all lost Molly,” her voice faltered a little bit, but she kept strong, and said what she wanted to say. “But you’re not alone.”

Yasha’s expression softened a little as she said this, and that gave her the encouragement to keep going.

“We’re all here, me, and Fjord, and Caleb, and Nott, and Beau, and Caduceus, and his tea,” Yasha smiled again. “We’re your friends now. And we can’t bring Zuella or Molly back, and we can’t replace them or anything but...But you’re not alone.”

“I wanted to be,” Yasha said, softly, “For a very long time, I wanted to. I did not want people close to me again. Molly changed that for me. I think he knew that I needed people again.”

“He was a pretty smart guy about things like that,” Jester agreed.

“And he brought m to you all, and I will always be grateful to him for that,” Yasha went on. Jester had never heard her speak as much as she had done today, but she knew that she needed this, too, and kept herself quiet, letting her talk. “Even though he left...” She trailed off for a moment, swallowed, then went on, “He taught me that no matter what has happened in my past, I cannot let it stop me from living now.”

Jester nodded, “I think Molly taught us all that,” she said. “And,” she added, resting her head gently on Yasha’s shoulder, and looping her tail around her waist and squeezing gently, “I don’t think that Molly or Zuella would want you to be sad about them forever.”

“That is true,” Yasha nodded. “Zuella would want me to be happy. That was always what she wanted for me.”

She smiled and awkwardly gripped Jester’s hand, half squeezing it, half shaking it, her calluses rough against Jester’s skin.

“And I’m glad the Storm Lord saved you and brought you to us. Hey!” she exclaimed suddenly, making Yasha jump a little, “Wouldn’t it be cool if, like, the Traveller and the Storm Lord knew each other, and they were like best friends, and they talked about us, and they were like, we should totally have Yasha and Jester meet and be best friends, too, because that would be really cool!”

“That would be really cool,” Yasha agreed in that slow, solemn way of hers.

They both smiled together for a moment, then Jester, suddenly serious again, asked, “Are you going to be okay?”

Yasha rested her other hand on top of her closed book and said, “I think so, yes. Thank you for everything you have done for me, Jester. For the flowers, and, and for listening.”

“You’re very welcome!” she said, “And,” she added, leaning in and speaking behind her hand, as though they were both spies, or something, “If you ever want an awesome tattoo, you just let me know because I’m, like, totally an expert now.”

“Are you really?” Yasha said, seeming genuinely interested.

“Yeah!” she exclaimed, “Orley has been teaching me for like a whole week now, and I was a complete natural, and an awesome artist to begin with, so yeah I’m amazing already!”

“Well, I think that I am okay with the ones I already have for right now,” Yasha said, seriously, “But if that changes, I will let you know.”

“You have tattoos already?” Jester gasped out.

“I do,” Yasha said, her eyes twinkling slightly, “Ask me tomorrow and I might show them to you.”

“Okay!” Jester said, feeling excited for that already, “I guess we should really sleep now, huh?” she added, suddenly realising how tired she was.

“It is very late,” Yasha said, “And it has been quite a long day.”

“Yeah. But if you need anything else, though, you just let me know, alright?” she said, trying to sound stern, and like Nott did when she was taking care of everyone.

“I will. Thank you, Jester.”

They both stood, Yasha hovering awkwardly, half-lifting her arms, then dropping them again, looking unsure.

Jester, however, knew just what to do, and bounced forward, saying, “Oh! It’s okay, Yasha, you don’t have to be shy! You can hug me if you want to! I’m a really great hugger.”

She didn’t give Yasha time to do more than open her mouth before pulling her into a big bear hug. Yasha stiffened momentarily, as though she had again forgotten what contact that wasn’t driven by violence felt like. Then she relaxed and patted Jester awkwardly on the back.

“Well, good night, Yasha!” Jester trilled, brightly, moving towards the door.

“Good night, Jester,” Yasha replied, quiet and composed.

Jester paused in the doorway and said, with a rather mischievous smile on her face, “I got some really great honeycombs in town today, and tomorrow, wer’re going to eat them both for breakfast to cheer you up some more! So get ready for that!”

And with that, she closed the door to Yasha’s cabin and skipped back to her own, satisfied that her work here was now done.

***

#critical role #critical role fic #yasha nydoorin #jester lavorre #yester #jester x yasha #cr2 #yester fic #my fic #the traveller #the mighty nein #nott the brave #caleb widogast #fjord #beauregard #caduceus clay #they're all mentioned/meta'd on by jester soooo!#ENJOY Y'ALL

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thegreenfairy13 · 5 years

Text

Growing Up Together

This was written for the @dwsecretsanta for @jemsauceonice, who wanted Tentoo x Rose being domestic, a big revelation and a party. It turned out less fluffy than I originally intended but it's absolutely a happy fic. I hope you'll like it.

Happy Holidays!!

“Do we really have to go?”

Rose glances at the mirror, sees the man standing behind her. His hair is mussed, standing up in all possible and impossible angles, face still flushed from a recent shower and freckles visible quite prominently.

Heaving an exhausted sigh, she inspects the crossed “Cs” decorating her mascara much longer than exactly necessary. Not answering, she starts applying her lipstick. It’s a matte rose color, matching the natural shade of her lips. A couple of years ago, her make-up used to be over the top: too loud, too shrill, too much. Now, it’s more sophisticated, toned five notches down and truly elegant.

Rose Tyler has grown up. Her life forced her to. Despite what one could think when being faced with the petite blonde, the woman standing in front of the mirror is a fierce warrior. She had been in the center of a battle more than once, has faced the extinction of entire planets, has fought and bleed for the salvation of countless species more times than she can count. Rose Tyler broke through the walls of the universe to save all of creation but she had been selfish, too. If she’s being entirely honest, she fought for this universe and all the other universes to be with the man standing behind her. The one who’s currently pouting like a three-year-old child about to taste broccoli for the first time.

She never thought it would be easy when he promised her to accompany her to her universe, to live an ordinary life without a ship that could travel through space and time and the lack of adrenaline rushing constantly through his veins. She never thought it would be so hard, either.

It’s no use denying the Doctor is bored out of his brilliant mind living on the slow path. He’s tied down to one planet when the whole universe used to be at his beck and call. The ordinary world is much less terrifying than one would believe, it’s mundane and days tend to develop certain routines.

He’s a teacher now at the university and working in research for Vitex industries. Now and then some aliens would visit Earth but mostly, it’s peaceful. Constant imminent threats are a thing of the past, and the Doctor is struggling to adjust to this life that consists of family gatherings, meetings and fine dinners in exclusive restaurants.

Rose misses the old adventures, too. But unlike her Doctor, she has adjusted. This new life, at the side of her father, offers new opportunities, new chances to do good, to have some impact. The Doctor can’t see that, yet. But she can see it. Sometimes you don’t have to save an entire universe or a planet, sometimes just making the life of one human being better suffices - it has to.

Maybe it’s something entirely else, Rose muses. When the Doctor previously would jump in to save the day and move on, leaving anyone behind to deal with the consequences without ever looking back, he’s now condemned to observe the effect of each of his actions. Be they small or big.

“Honestly, Rose,” he carries on. “Wearing a tux is bad luck. Bad things happen when I’m wearing a tux. Like, a war would start or aliens would try conquering the Earth, again, or…”

“I bought you tailcoats,” Rose interrupts. Giving him a pointed look, she turns around. It’s the expression she usually has reserved for stubborn Daleks. Seeing it directed at him, the Doctor swallows heavily.

“I’ll look like a penguin,” he laments weakly.

“Everybody loves penguins,” Rose shots back, already slipping into her dress. It’s made of black velvet, high necked but short enough to show off her well-formed legs. The mixture of sexy and chaste convinced her to buy it. She smirks when her Doctor’s jaw slackens.

“They are cute, Rose. Cute! I’m not cute, I’m a time-traveling alien, defender of the multiverse, number one race driver on Gelemitanta six but not cute.”

“Right, you’re adorable,” she replies, giving him a tight grin while sliding her left foot lasciviously into her heel. She can see his cheeks burning, eyes following her movements wholly enraptured.

“Please, it’s going to be so boring. Pleasant, empty conversations on numbers, company’s performance, politenesses being exchanged to the point of pain and plans to increase profit. That’s downright torturous. We could go out instead, stargazing on the Mehir-hills. Today, we’ll be able to see some shooting stars. Not that they are shooting stars but remnants of the war from 567/omega. Rose, can you imagine the Merkerans and the Helphaistons conducted a war over a movie?! Their kings disagreed over the cast of the leading role and dragged their people into this pointless argument until I stepped in. Uh, or we could go into a movie. There’s a new Ryan Reynolds film. You like the actor, don’t you?” There’s a little manic light shining merrily in his eyes, the one that tells her he's out for adventure - or just being evasive on doing something domestic. God, how he hates that word. Domestic.

“You don’t know if that war ever happened in this universe,” she replies. The moment the words have left her mouth, she knows it was a mistake saying them. Her man’s shoulders slump and a defeated expression crosses his face. It’s like all the energy he’s constantly vibrating from is being drained.

Rose squints, trying to calm herself down. He’s being like that since arriving in what he still calls Pete’s world - peppy one moment, depressed the other. He’d do anything not to entangle himself too much with the ordinary world. Sometimes, he’d sweep her away for gorgeous dates, sometimes he’d whine and pout.

The TARDIS coral given to them by the other Doctor wouldn't grow, probably never will and the realization slowly sinking into this Doctor, is outright painful to watch. Actually, she’s terrified it will drive them apart.

Straightening her shoulders she turns to face him. Pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his nose she says, “please, it’s important we show up at the Vitex Christmas party.” Biting her lower lip and giving him her best puppy eyes, she convinces him to cave in. She wonders how long he’ll still relent before buying a surfboard and a jeep and leaving her behind. Tonight, the trick still works.

The Christmas party is like everything Pete does: over the top. He’s got ice sculptures, crystal decorations, desserts decorated with gold, tons of caviar, champagne that is worth more than Rose’s first car, rare wines, and cigars worthy of Winston Churchill. Pete greets each of his guests like old friends, remembers all the names and is - unlike her Doctor - the politest man one could imagine. Naturally, her Doctor has absolutely no understanding for such behavior. To him, these people are traitors, corrupt and only care for their own profit. Of course, he’s right to some extent but during the years Rose has spent hopping through dimensions and navigating the enterprise along with her new found father, she gathered a new understanding about what it means to have a legacy worth fighting for. Vitex will live on long after Pete is cold and dead. And it’s not just that. There are jobs on the line too. Thousands of people rely on the enterprise doing well, entire families live and eat thanks to Vitex products.

Besides, the Christmas party isn’t only about exchanging pleasantries - it’s also meant to introduce Rose officially as the future vice president. Unlike a few years ago, Rose isn’t riding the high moral horse, she’s overlooking certain flaws in Pete’s guests, arranging herself with the mistakes they made and probably will make. But it’s alright, cause the bigger picture matters and not some small detail, right? Plus, growing up also means to compromise, to accept that the world wasn't black and white but all shades of grey.

Of course, her Doctor would not ever share that train of thought. In this regard, he's still like a child. And as much as she loves him for being him, she also loathes that unforgiving streak of his.

As a reaction, he wanders off like she used to do all the time. And of course, it’s the port that catches his interest. And of course Pete only just offers the finest, sweetest there is to be found. Eyeing him suspiciously, she observes him drowning two glasses quite quickly. He's halfway through a third one, when Rose strides over, laying her hand on his. “It's quite heavy,” she warns.

The Doctor downs his glass, directing a wide grin at her. It’s all teeth and lacking any warmth. “I’m a Time Lord, Rose,” he chides. “I can metabolize alcohol much better than humans,” he scoffs. “Besides, that’s only wine - hardly more exciting than water.”

Rose leaves him be, frustrated, climbs the podium to hold her speech. Looking down at the crowd, she sees him dancing without restraint, black bow tie already hanging askew. Dipping back a gorgeous blonde woman, he earns himself a couple of scandalized hisses in the process.

The Vitex heiress should be jealous, yet she isn’t. It’s not his fault. It’s hers. She has changed so much while he is still the man he used to be, the one she literally loves more than the universe.

Finding his eyes in the crowd, the other woman still in his embrace, she starts holding her speech. “A few years ago, I would have never felt being worthy or being ready of being given the chance to manage a multinational company. I would not have been worthy of being given that chance. Yet, I was lucky enough to meet people who would believe in me. My father Pete, of course, my mum Jackie but above all - my Doctor.” Swallowing heavily, she directs an insecure smile at him, fidgets with her earring that is much smaller than it used to be.

“He met me when I felt worthless, when I was worthless and he gave my life it’s meaning back.” Holding his gaze, Rose makes sure he knows she’s being sincere, not only giving a show for the investors. Noting he’s still holding the other woman, his hands drop to his sides and he takes a step away from her, starts straightening his bow tie. “

“He showed me what I could be and what I could achieve. He’s the best man and he gave me a life I would have never had. Unfortunately, I can’t give my man the life he deserves in return.” Rose’s voice wavers as she says those words for she knows they are true. Her Doctor, the man who cherished his freedom above all, is now being trapped and it’s her fault. She should have known he could never be happy on only one planet, should have dragged him back to the TARDIS, should…

Sobering up and holding back the tears, she pushes through the last few sentences. ”But thanks to him, I can lead my dad’s company into the upcoming decades, I can make sure all our employees will have secure jobs and with our combined efforts, we can work on preserving this planet we all live on. Thank you!”

On unsteady feet, she makes her way down, right into her man’s waiting arms. He looks solemn and Rose thinks that must be it. He’ll confess that living with her was a mistake. Readying herself for the heartbreak, she sucks in a deep breath. Scooting a hand through his luscious hair, the Doctor opens his mouth yet is being interrupted by someone congratulating Rose on her promotion.

“I didn’t like your speech,” he then blurts out. “You were never worthless, not even when working for Henrik’s.”

“I know you’re unhappy,” she interrupts. “Don’t deny it.”

“I,” he swallows, looking away. “I miss my old life. And I’m being rude and I drink too much when I shouldn’t.”

“And you dance with other women,” Rose notes.

“Woman,” he corrects. “It was only one.”

“For now.”

“But I'm trying.” Holding up one hand, he silences her. “I'm not a good man, Rose. I did terrible things in my life. And you have to stop believing you're not good enough. For you are.” Stepping back, he gives her an admiring once over. “Look how far you've come. How confident you are. You have grown up, evolved while I'm still struggling.” He barks out a humorless laugh. “Nearly a thousand years old, me, but you are the adult.”

“And where do we go from here?” Rose wants to know, voice small.

“I don't know, Rose. But wherever, I want to go with you. I guess, what I'm trying to say is, I want to grow up with you. Want to grow old, if you still want me, that is.”

Getting down on one knee, he produces a small black box from his pocket and Rose's heart stops. “I guess what I'm trying to say is, would you marry me?”

She nearly can't hear him over the applause crashing over them and the roaring in her ears. Still frozen in shock, he slides the ring on her finger.

“I sincerely hope that was a yes,” he mumbles anxiously.

“I crashed through the walls of the universe to be with you,” she says, still frozen, in lieu of an answer.

“And I turned human,” he retorts, mouth twitching.

“So.”

And then they both double over in laughter, irritating Pete's guests thoroughly but not caring about them at all. They were engaged and whatever life would throw at them, they would manage it together.

#dwsecretsanta #Jemsauce #Tentoo x Rose

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sevenrelics · 6 years

Text

crystal lashes - 1.1k

Happy Pride! 🏳️‍🌈✨

Send in a ship & a prompt and I’ll write a drabble!

Taako prides himself on being fantastic at everything he does. That does not, apparently, extend to ice skating.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Taako hisses through clenched teeth, fingers dug into the pockets of his regrettably more fashion than functionality geared coat. The ground is dangerously icy, and the snowmelt leaking through his high-heeled boots (again, terrible choice) is soaking him to the bone. “This really a thing humans do, Barold?”

Barry rolls his eyes, though a smile flickers on his lips. “Yes. And it’s not limited to humans, either,” he says, with a pointed glance at Davenport. For a little guy, he whirls across the ice with surprising speed.

“And if the lake collapses in?”

“It won’t,” Barry insists for what must be the third time in the past half-hour. “And if it does,” he adds, which does nothing to quell Taako’s nerves, “I promise we’ll drag you out at least third.”

“Thanks, Bar—“ He pauses mid-sentence, blond braid swinging behind him as he pivots to glare at his brother-in-law. “Third? Third my ass, Barold, I’m coming out first or you’re all getting a bill for my new boots, plus emotional damages.”

Unperturbed, Barry snorts, more understanding than he has any right to be. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. No one expects you to be perfect on your first go.”

Taako huffs, and ignores the hot flush that creeps up his neck at being so known. Even after a century, it still comes as a shock. “Yeah?” he asks, leaning over to tug on the delicate white leather skates he’s bought just for this outing. He might be a little averse to the activity, but it’s an excuse to purchase new shoes. More importantly, Lup wanted to try this out and damned if he’s not giving his sister the best Candlenights he can. “Well you’re all gonna be fucking surprised, then, because I—“

He takes one step on the ice, and tumbles, swearing vividly as he goes down. It takes several tries to pull himself up, tottering on unsteady feet. “Don’t,” he inhales, rubbing his hands together in a desperate ploy to gain back a little heat. “Even think about it,” he hisses as Lup skates around him, snickering. She’s unsteady, though she can manage to stay upright for more than two-fucking-seconds, which aggravates Taako to no end.

“You have fire magic!” He spits, teetering in what he hopes is at least a slightly threatening manner in her direction.

“Tough luck!” She calls, and he can still hear her cackling as she spins away.

Making a valiant attempt to chase after her, he advances a grand two feet before slipping again. He braces himself for the impact of the hard ice below, only to be steadied by a strong pair of arms that wrap around him. Taako‘s knees buckle, and the figure behind him fumbles to keep them both upright.

“Having trouble?” Kravitz asks, gingerly turning Taako around to face him.

Taako doesn’t deign to give a verbal response, as he swivels, shaved ice spraying from beneath his skates. Once situated, he pulls the loose strands of blond hair whipping at his face back. God, this isn’t his forté. From across the lake, Lup catches his eye, and Taako hopes that centuries of being in each other’s company allows her to gauge how much he is absolutely not interested in doing this again, and if it were literally anyone else who’d asked him to, he’d be at home with a homemade hot chocolate and seventeen blankets.

She winks.

“Not a damn word, Krav,” he insists, and Kravitz’s breath crystallizes in the air when he laughs.

Arm looped in his, Kravitz glides forward on the ice, slowly at first, then quicker when Taako manages to skate alongside him— albeit, still clinging to his proffered arm. He’s graceful, the way he moves on the ice making Taako look like a three-legged cat beside him, though he never comments on his lack of skill.

Then, Kravitz lets go.

Taako windmills his arms wildly, and injects as much venom as he can into the look he shoots Kravitz. It doesn’t take long for him to abandon any pretense of skill, digging the blades into the ice with force in a futile attempt to ground himself.

“It’s just like dancing,” Kravitz calls, and the quickly thickening snow does nothing to mask the insufferably excited grin on his face.

“Don’t know if you remember, kemosabe, but we aren’t the fuckin’ best at that either!” Taako snaps back, the words lacking any real bite. It’s true— Kravitz’s style happens to be several centuries old, and Taako isn’t quite as hot on the dance-floor as he is in the kitchen. It doesn’t stop either of them. Kravitz glides backward, beckoning with open arms for him to follow, and Taako grimaces. He can barely make it a yard without falling—there’s no way in hell he’s making it the twenty feet it’d take to return to the safety of Kravitz’s side.

“You’ll learn! This was one of my favorite things to do in life,” Kravitz chuckles. Taako bares his teeth in response. The words are meant to goad his stupid, bleeding heart, and he hates that it works.

He puts a tentative foot forward, and tunes out the lake around them.

“I used to skate on a lake near my home as a child,” Kravitz encourages, his words light with what Taako hopes are happy memories. Another step. “Winter was always my favorite season.” A few more feet, and through the frost clinging to his lashes, he can make out the pattern Kravitz's headband: little black birds. Almost certainly a gag gift from Lup. “I suppose that's why the Astral Plane’s temperature doesn’t bother me so much. Besides the fact that I am, well, dead,” Kravitz muses as Taako draws closer. He’s covering ground quicker than he’d anticipated and hasn’t even fallen once. This isn’t so bad, he thinks. Of course, that’s when his legs decide it’s the opportune time to shoot out from beneath him. By the time he’s steadied himself, he’s covered a dozen feet in mere seconds. He wobbles the last few, arms stuck firmly out like wings as he mutters curses (some magical, some mundane) under his breath.

“Fuck,“ Taako groans, chest heaving with undue exertion as he collapses into Kravitz’s arms.

A shockingly warm hand threads itself in his already messy hair. “I’m proud of y—“

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Waving off the gentle praise Kravitz murmurs in his ear, his cheeks burn as he buries his hands in his pockets. “Why didn’t you tell me you like the cold? We vacationed at the fucking beach, my man!”

“It made you happy,” Kravitz states simply, and Taako resists the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes at the utter selflessness of it. The least and most selfish men in the world walk into a crystalline laboratory, he thinks, and the memory tugs his lip up in a half-smile.

“Precious,” he drawls, hooking his arms around his boyfriend’s neck. “Alright, gimme some, Bones. I’m fucking freezing.”

Kravitz obliges, and when their lips meet, the cold is nothing but a memory.

#we're all in denial about the hot weather #taz fanfiction #taz fic #taz balance #kravitz #taako #lup #taakitz #barry bluejeans #fluff #please leave a tag or reply if you enjoyed!!! i love seeing what everyone has to say !#this is yet ANOTHER scrapped section of the major fic in the works. i Promise it's coming soon!

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arieltorrance · 2 years

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file. headcanon. › regarding. character study. › subject matter. muse tracks , part four.

a sunny place for shady people — misery! look at our ship , look what the iceberg just did while we had all hands on deck. how did you mange it? now we’re sinking again. where do your fuck ups end? just because i was a friend , you took advantage since i let you in. i’ll keep moving forward with a grin , leading everybody off a cliff. // stick to the plan , all of us know that we’re damned. and if you hold out your hand , nobody’s reaching back. all my effort was a waste of time and all of this was failure by design. // can you hear me calling? this is your last warning , storm clouds keep on forming , god this shit is boring. leave it up to me––– you are just so weak , love. the bad times are waiting at the door and i think i like them more. [ 1 ]

carry on — falling in reverse. i’m here to say goodbye. no spell or prayer you try will bring me back to life. so look me in my eyes , sing me lullabies , hold me ‘til it’s time. // i don’t miss the way it hurts ; a blessing , it’s a curse for better or for worse. like a child i have learned everybody waits their turn. like a phoenix , i will burn. oh this is it and i can feel my breath slowing. and my heart is beating weaker from the pain of not knowing. so kiss me on the face and wipe your tears from your eyes. ‘cause this is goodbye. // who we are is determined by the scars. death is like a one way ticket to a distant star. all we are is a cosmic dust that scatters free. with no sense of direction , we’re just wandering. // gravity don’t mean that much to me. now i’m floating near the atmosphere , no shackles on my feet. and i know i may be already gone , just promise you’ll stay strong and carry on. [ 2 ]

i fell — wicca phase springs eternal. i don’t sleep ‘cause my head’s on fire. i hate creeps and i hate liars. you want the grave kept secret that i never tell , i’m up in heaven but i came from hell. i fell , so did you. // it doesn’t matter what came before , it felt pain and i wanted more. oh , i’m not settled until i’ve done it all and right. i split my head open again last night. // i came from death , i’m dead and torn up flesh. i painted my face white and then it turned out red. i came from nothing and nothing is where i’ll return. you lit the match now watch it burn.

sick — vrsty. hands around my neck , manipulate me ‘til i choke , got nothing left. dig your nails deep into my chest. // step out of the dark. my body’s burning and i know you love to watch. massacre me and call it art. // stay away–��– my body’s broke from the games you play , anything just to make me sick. on the edge of a knife , i found my sanity. if it’s blood that you like , you’ll be the death of me. just an inch from my life , take all that’s left of me. cut me up just to scratch an itch , anything just to make me sick. pull the pin just to hear it click.

tethered — badflower. she’s younger than she looks , but she’s old enough to know the nature of this world. and so the story goes. // then speech becomes a slur. she’s talking to some creep , uncomfortable as hell but too polite to leave. then lines begin to blur , there’s something in her drink. she stumbles to his car and no one says a thing. oh , my love , you’re so young. // down the rabbit hole , she wakes up in his bed. confused about her heart and bruised between the legs. but she’s too afraid to leave or bite the hand that hits. she tells herself it’s love , then plays along with it. oh , my friend , you’re still young. // abused at seventeen , some unrelenting creep––– the father of her son. // some might say she’s able to get back her normal life. when you love someone unwillingly you leave yourself behind. you’re hiding in the bathroom and you pray for better times , say you’re gonna leave him there and find a better life. [ 3 ]

[ 1 ] a sunny place for shady people is very reminiscent of her friendship with bubba when she was apart of the saints. she feels like if he truly cared about their friendship , he would’ve done something , anything to stop syd from doing what he did and hel from what they did. [ 2 ] carry on is how i imagine her message would be to friends and loved ones should she ever die before them. given the nature of her life , danger of her shine , etc. it’s a very plausible situation. [ 3 ] tethered nearly perfectly mirrors her origins in the toxic , abusive relationship with sydney. if you equate drugging her drink to his charm and her naivety clouding her vision from seeing who he truly is , it perfectly fits. she was seventeen and he was twenty–four , twenty–five. and in her alternate timeline she did end up having his child , but a daughter.

#headcanon.#hc : muse tracks.

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onceuponaprincessworld · 6 years

Text

CaptainSwan One-shots Recs p.12

Hello CS Fandom, this in my 12th list of One-shots, thank to CSJJ, CSLB and to all those amazing writters this list is again long. It also contains some old ones, but there are just too wonderful not to read. And of cource because I couldn’t fit all of those in one list, there is at least, one more coming. Ok, definitely there are more lists coming. Hope you enjoy!

If you are intrested you can find my other lists here.

Promise, @xemmaloveskillianx

Killian Jones, EQ’s second-best bail bonds person, has been a thorn in her side since he strutted into their offices with his stupid hair, stupid elf ears and stupid British accent. She’d hate him if she wasn’t so hopelessly crazy about him.

Lost Luggage, @nowforruin

Emma regrets her decision to go along on the Nolan's ski trip when Killian's luggage shows up but hers doesn't. She regrets it even more when they're the only two whose flight gets in on time...or does she?

Smoke and Mirrors, @lifeinahole27

Tweaked from the prompt “I was burning scented candles and fell asleep. You’re my neighbour who bashed the door down when my smoke alarm went off.”

Two-Day Shipping, @high-seas-swan

Come in we’re open! Jones Brothers Bait and Tackle Shop. All Emma Swan wants is a beach chair and a quiet place to use it. Here’s hoping Storybrooke’s Bait and Tackle Shop has what she is looking for.

Ends, Ways, Means, Risk, @blessed-but-distressed

Sheriff David Nolan is stepping down, leaving his two best deputies to decide between themselves who’s going to replace him. Will it be his daughter, Emma? Or Killian Jones, the guy she’s been sleeping with on the DL? Both of them want the job. But with just 4 days until the public announcement, how far will they go to get the other to back down?

Handprints On My Soul, @hookedonapirate

Leaving home and a career as a roller coaster engineer on a whim with his six year old daughter was one of the last things Killian Jones wanted to do. But after falling in love with someone he’d met online to find out he’d been catfished, it seemed like the best idea. It seems even more appealing when Emma Swan, musician and bartender at a charming Irish Pub, enters his life… even if his brother and daughter have to be the ones to help him realize it.

Cup’ing Treatment, @welllpthisishappening

It takes, exactly, one piece of French Toast, a small army of Stanley Cup protectors with impossibly white gloves and a few moments on a slightly rickety swing set for him to realize.

Killian Jones wants to marry Emma Swan.

Liam and Elsa are never going to let him hear the end of it.

Glitch in the System, @pirateherokillian

Emma isn't all too familiar with the world of online content creator conventions, and finds out the rough way how intense the gamer crowd can be when she has an unpleasant encounter with 'The Captain' of popular youtube trio 'The Brothers Jones', Killian Jones. Written for Captain Swan Little Bang.

36 Questions, @wellhellotragic

They say all it takes is 36 questions. 36 questions between you and a complete stranger and suddenly you’ll both fall madly in love with each other. 36 agonizingly personal questions that force you to reveal your deepest darkest secrets. Well, that, and 4 minutes of staring into the most devastatingly blue eyes you’ve ever seen.

Knowing Little Notes, @accio-ambition

Emma Swan doesn’t do kids. Or, more accurately, she hasn’t done kids. But when a friend in need asks her to do kids - more specifically teach them - Emma dips her toes into the education field. Her first foray into substitute teaching is for Mr K. Jones, who proves to be a great asset in this whole “learning to teach” thing. It helps Emma understand what her friends get out of the job: that the best life lessons sometimes come from students and a nice little note.

Decking the Halls and Slippery Falls, @hollyethecurious

CS Holiday AU based on the prompt: I just wanted to put Christmas lights up but I ended up falling off the ladder and crashing into you while you were delivering something to my door but oh god you’re hot. With a dash of snowed in, loss of power, and keeping each other warm to boot!

Letting the Fates Decide (and other fairy tale nonsense), @msgenevieve447

She's tired. Tired of answering stupid questions, tired of looking at beautiful travel books but never actually going anywhere. Her best friend just wants her to be as happy as she is, but Emma knows there has to be something more out there for her. All she has to do is find it. Or, as it turns out, let it find her. Captain Swan AU.

Checked Out (Tales of Storybrooke Vol. 1), @mahstatins

Emma doesn’t get the appeal of romance novels. If only the library assistant was so easy to dismiss.

When In Venice, @word-bug

Killian Jones was one story away from establishing himself as a successful writer - that is what his publisher said and he completely believed it. He knew he should be pouring his heart out but his muse had other ideas, it seemed.

Emma Swan used to love her job but the monotony of the routine had finally caught up with her and she no longer enjoyed the job she once loved.

Can the two lost souls find what they were looking for when they meet each other at a restaurant and end up striking a deal that could change how they were?

how not to meet your neighbor…, @startswithhope

Here’s a bit of modern AU nonsense, starring Killian and Emma…

Long Nights, hayleybop123

I run the night slot on campus radio and some jackass keep calling in to insult my music taste and request high school musical songs instead.

Untitled, @hook-come-back-to-me

I’m a government worker and I had to seduce you for a case but I’m starting to like you legitimately.

First Snow, @secret-captain-swan-blog

"It’s just starting to snow the day that Killian Jones meets Emma Swan for the first time." // In which Emma and Killian meet and save each other during the first snow of the season. (A Lieutenant Duckling-ish Fic)

The Bookstore Pirate, @mryddinwilt

It's Emma's first Christmas with Henry and she is desperate to find him the perfect gift. Which is how she ends up in a pirate themed bookstore talking to a complete stranger about the stress of gift giving. Captain Swan Modern AU that's kind of like a non-cursed AU. One-shot.

Hat Trick, @bookstoreromantic

When Killian Jones, the Rangers’ star right-winger, breaks his hand after blocking a shot, Emma is tapped to get him healed and back on the ice.

to Learn to Expect, @effulgentcolors

"But it's the way Killian puts an extra foot between them and the way he clenches his now empty hand into a fist at his thigh that makes her eyes sting worse than the allergy she had throughout the whole first month of being Princess Emma of the Enchanted Forest."

Still Get Jealous, @resident-of-storybrooke

Killian knows Emma still has some walls up, but what if these walls contains secrets Killian can't handle? tumblr prompt: Could you do a prompt with jealous!Killian or jealous!Emma? Anything else is completely up to you but maybe (please!) can you include Victor Whale (!) and Liam?

the men they want to be, @alexandralyman

Captain Charming ficlet - David notices something has changed for his son (in law), as Killian and Emma prepare to welcome their first child.

you are not on my list, @rouhn

Emma has a list of things she wants to do with her boyfriend 2017. Now she only has 11 days left and after breaking off with Walsh she has no hope of finishing it by herself in time. But her best friend, Killian, has other plans.

Take Me Out, @seriouslyhooked

Reader requested CS college AU oneshot where Emma and Killian are lab partners and she’s been waiting for him to get his shit together and ask her out, but it’s the final class of the semester and Emma has grown tired of waiting. My reader didn’t give a me a song for this one (just specifically asked that there be some very slight angst before a fluffy end) but I think it couples pretty perfectly with a song that I really enjoy, ‘Take Me’ by Aly and AJ.

Packing Poles, @forestiyari

#cs ff #cs rec ff #cs rec fic #cs rec ff #cs fic rec #cs ff rec #cs rec list #my rec list #captain swan ff #captain swan fic rec #captain swan fanfiction

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pingo1387 · 3 years

Note

'time' for the writing wip game

This got pretty long so it’s under a cut!

From A Dream Whose Name I Dare Not Mention

“Did I lose track of time?” he muttered. “It was noon just a minute ago . . . wasn’t it?”

The man smiled. “You are the first man I’ve met in a long time who would say something like that, Roronoa Zoro. Very well.”

He charged and swung his sword down at the same time as the man, and they passed each other, and for a moment they stood there, facing away—

Zoro turned and snatched the flung item from the air just in time. He opened his palm to find another warm, shiny object.

“About time you got something through that rock head of yours!” Sanji snapped. “Hurry it up!”

The man raised one arm and swung it at Zoro, who dodged just in time. With clumsy handiwork, he ran forward and sliced, cutting him down. As he did so, Vivi’s face came to him in a flash, and he fell to his knees. He spotted a shiny object on the ground next to him and took it with weak fingers.

“This can’t be heaven,” he said, placing a hand on his white-sheathed sword; as awful as his skills were at the moment, they were better than nothing. “Have I been dead this whole time? What a cliché twist.”

Zoro stepped forward and caught her just before she hit the ground. Giving himself no time to wonder how he knew to do such a thing, he looked at Enel.

Zoro tilted his head. “That woman, Robin . . . she was on the ship with me and the others. And it looks like it’s been a long time since all this happened. So . . . we must’ve succeeded in getting her back. I may not have that, but I think I can trust those other guys, and if this woman’s important enough to them to go through all this for . . . then that’s what I have to do. And that’s why it’s not ridiculous at all.”

He looked around again, and then back at this huge man who had nearly killed him (he was certain he had nearly died at that time).

A violin came flying from the crowd and Brook caught it just in time. The music started up again. Brook raised the instrument to his shoulder and dragged the bow across the strings, producing a sound like a banshee being strangled.

When Brook returned, he shrieked in surprise, for he found himself on the same ship as before, but this time it was hurtling down a mountain river like a roller coaster, with everyone clinging to the rails and masts so as not to be hurled off.

Sea mist sprayed all around them, obscuring their views for some time. When the clouds finally cleared, the ship made a mighty splash into the end of the river, coasting into open sea; someone had the sense to drop the anchor, slowing them until they came to a halt portside of a cliff. A few crewmembers vomited overboard, and several collapsed to the deck, but soon cheers filled the air—they had made it at last.

“Aye,” the man said after a moment. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” His eyes moved around the crew and came to rest on Brook, and he grinned after a moment. “Brook, old friend. Do you remember me?”

That same evening (so it seemed, for time had no real meaning in that place), Brook stayed away from the raucous drinking Yorki and Crocus and the others were participating in, and sat on the low part of the cliff’s edge. Laboon floated in the water next to him.

Yorki sighed. “Listen, knucklehead, you’re Laboon’s favorite. Everyone knows. He might listen to you this time.”

Yorki gave him a bitter smile. “Give it time,” he said. “You’ll find out sooner or later.”

Brook raised the old violin for what seemed like the fiftieth time, and for the fiftieth time, he could only pluck out tuneless sounds.

The doctor bowed his head, surrounded by the crew, who stood in stunned silence. Brook’s memories between leaving Laboon and this time had been spotty, filled with flashes of sailing through bad weather and good weather alike, running through jungle and city, and now—

The Rumbar Pirates, under Brook’s clumsy command, had been sailing for some time (at least a year, Brook guessed) after Yorki’s passing. It was smooth sailing, and Brook had collected a few more shiny objects, which were pocketed with the rest.

“I really lost track of time, going through all that,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not that I expect anyone to have a watch, but . . .”

“Got that right,” Zoro said. He grinned. “Do you have any stories to pass the time?”

“I think . . . I must have spent a very long time here.”

“I wonder why I spent a long time in this place,” he mused aloud, going to the ship’s steering wheel at last. “This fog is thicker than molasses, true, but even sailing in a straight line should . . .”

Brook stood and went to take a proper look at the island. He was sure his ship could not have moved very far, even in all that time (however long it had been), and yet . . .

Brook stared into space, leaning against the railing of his ship. He sensed that some time had passed since he had departed Thriller Bark; his shadow was still missing, so he couldn’t yet leave the Florian Triangle. But it seemed he could not meet that island in such thick fog . . . and therefore, to pass the time . . .

He followed the three down the rope ladder and landed upon the deck of the Thousand Sunny, where he came face-to-face with everyone for what felt like the first time in a very long while. Looking around, he noticed everyone appeared different—but Zoro was the same as he had been after returning from his door.

By the time Brook was running into the maze of the castle, having explored the grounds to no avail, there had been several distant commotions and shouts, leading him to think that the Strawhats had landed upon the island.

Ryuma readied his sword with a dusty laugh. “Is that so? I hope you’ve improved since last time. I would like a challenge.”

“That little whale,” Brook said. “He’s waiting for me. Even if he’s also died by now, I promised to return. I have a duty to go back there one more time, don’t I? No matter what I may look like.”

“I . . . must return to Laboon,” Brook said, voice hollow. He clutched his ribcage, beginning to understand. “It’s as Luffy-san said. Despite that I do not know why I must keep this promise, or why I made the promise in the first place . . . if the person I was before all this fought this hard for his word, I will do the same in his honor.” He stared at Ryuma with some rudiments of defiance. “This is perhaps the third time you’ve asked me ‘Why,’ Ryuma-san. Desist and let us duel.”

Brook’s next memories came by in a blur, and he watched like an outsider as he retrieved an enormous salt bag and proceeded to watch the Strawhats fight until Moria was defeated at last. The shadows flew into the sky and Brook watched Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, and Robin begin to burn away, only to have their shadows returned in the nick of time.

He removed the Tone Dial from his head, ignoring another shocked yell, and pressed the button to replay his memory. Despite that his playing that time, too, had been horrendous, the melodies and voices flowing out were beautiful, and one of the voices was—

“Certainly,” Brook said, making a miraculous recovery and sitting up. He reached over and pulled Chopper into his lap, holding him with stick-thin arms. “Why, I’m sure that, were you not affected by this Nightmare Syndrome as well, you could devise a cure in no time.”

The memory faded again, this time around Kaya’s soft, sad smile.

“That was us,” Luffy said after successfully swallowing the food this time. He laughed. “We actually came here looking for a proper ship. D’you know where we could get one?”

“Yes,” Nami said. “She’ll be disappointed if you stop visiting her after all this time.”

“You came here last time, too.” Luffy sat next to him. “But that was after you punched that butt-ler.”

Just in time, several of them went flying back the way they came, and Usopp looked behind him. Zoro and Luffy stood there, breathing hard.

The children looked crestfallen. “Why?” Onion repeated. “’Cause, ’cause they’ve always called you a liar. And this time you were telling the truth. They’ll think you’re so cool!”

“Nami?” the saw-nose fishman said. He grinned. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to betray us after all this time.”

But holding up the glowing ball, heavy and light at the same time, showed him nothing new in the darkness. He tilted his head and lowered it again, staring at it and holding it close to his chest, trying to push the warmth inside of himself.

“He also picks the worst time for lies, it seems,” Brook added, but Sanji, preoccupied, did not notice.

“With your words, idiot! What have we been saying to you all this time?!”

“Usopp-san!” Brook exclaimed, seeing him still standing there as the bear-like man approached with all the time in the world. “Usopp-san, please run!”

Usopp found himself in total darkness again. This time, no Cheshire Cat appeared before him, and this time, there was a door with a key and a glowing object in front of it. Usopp frowned and picked up the glowing object.

and criticisms. And yet—and yet, he wanted to know. But his throat was paralyzed, the words weighing on his tongue and making it impossible to speak, and by the time he thought he could do it, could force the words from his

There was a man in the restaurant, a man thin and shaking and on the brink of death from starvation. Sanji watched as he was treated with disdain, tossed out of the dining hall in spite of his weak threats, and without knowing why, he found himself walking into the kitchen, and rinsing and boiling a cup of rice, and chopping vegetables—and chopping his hands in the process, but every time he thought he’d lost a fingertip, he looked down and his hands were clean.

Luffy turned and grinned at him, and as he rushed towards the pirate crew, he tossed a glowing object back at Sanji. Sanji barely caught it with clumsy hands, and he shoved it into his pocket, not wanting to look at it this time.

Sanji walked next to him, and then ran to keep up. All the while he stared at Luffy’s face, so determined as he muttered reassuring things under his breath, and at Nami’s face, flushed with fever and lips cracking in the cold. Maybe the pang in his chest at that moment was pity, but it was gone in an instant, as if he’d merely been sitting wrong and fixed his posture. Had he chosen to reflect on the feeling, he wouldn’t have had the time, for at that moment, the snow from the mountain ahead began to bear down on them.

Sanji thought. “Yeah,” he said, truthful this time. “I know. I don’t understand, but I know.”

Sanji felt something in his hair and plucked it out. He examined the shiny object, and barely had time to stow it away before the memory blurred around him, twisting and turning like the view from a roller coaster.

From Sealed with a Kiss

“Faintly as tolls the evening chime . . . our voices keep tune and our oars keep time . . . soon as the woods on shore look dim . . . we’ll sing at St. Anne’s our parting hymn. . . . Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast . . . the rapids are near, and the daylight’s past . . .”

“Faintly as tolls the evening chime,” he sang idly, “our voices keep tune and our oars keep time! Soon as the woods on shore look grim, we’ll sing at St. Anne’s our parting hymn! Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, the rapids are near, and the daylight’s past! The rapids are near and the . . .”

Law turned the jacket this way, and seeing it was similar to his coat, he slipped his arms in, one at a time, before pulling the front closed, fiddling with the buttons until he managed to slip one into its hole. He felt the pockets and slipped his hands inside, wiggling them around. The coat just barely covered his thighs.

A delicious smell wafted towards him, and he sniffed the air. It was surely meat, but it was something he didn’t recognize—no time for that now.

“Good time to start, because I’m all out of meat. I’ll bring it out in a little bit!”

“Fur coat,” Robin repeated. She glanced at Luffy again; he was busy passing his finger through a candle flame on a shelf, grinning every time he succeeded.

“I’d love to ask you questions, but . . . there’s not much time.”

Right on time, the door in the back flew open, and someone strode out. It was a man, taller than Robin and hair painted light and shaved short on the sides. He wore weather-inappropriate attire from top to bottom and his shiny hands were covered in grease.

“Dunno,” Luffy admitted. “I go there all the time, but I usually run. Also, I have no idea how to tell time.”

“Time? Use the sun.”

“Telling time.” Luffy glanced up at the sun. “Like, right now it’s not right above us, right? But we know it’s not morning, which means it’s past noon. Noon’s when it’s right above us.”

“Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time,” Law continued, trying to match Luffy’s tempo.

He narrowed his eyes and sat up, leaning forward and straining his ears just in time to hear Usopp say in exasperation, “What do you mean, ‘Him?’ Your friend Law.”

“I’ll show you!” Luffy exclaimed. Usopp hung back in a cloud, the spotlight taken from him, and Law went back to the stove, far more prudent of the front this time as he craned his neck again to stare into the pot.

“Sometimes I don’t have time to cook, or I run out of firewood!”

He became so distracted with watching the steam rise and condense that he didn’t realize it was time for food until Usopp tapped his shoulder and said, “Hey, move, I ought to put out the fire.”

Law stared at them as they clopped along. After a moment he turned his gaze forward again, taking his time gazing at the street and people around them. Folks of all shapes and sizes milled about, some clutching their hats in a hurry, others stopping in their tracks to examine something, others entering the buildings surrounding them.

“Okay, yeah. Brook, I’ll come back another time to talk about work, I promise,” Luffy said. He hurried after Law, flinging the door open and sprinting out.

Luffy seized the small wheelchair handles and dashed down the street. Law reached behind him and clutched Luffy’s arms as the chair bounced up and down the old pave at high speeds, sending him into the air for seconds at a time. A loud whistle, much closer than before, reached them as Luffy skidded to a halt.

The pulling on Luffy came again, and this time Law allowed the foreign hands to take Luffy from him. He watched Luffy’s trembling form as detached hands held him, and detached hands wrapped a long, long strip of cloth around Luffy’s neck, and felt his forehead, and felt his chest. Someone said something, and then Luffy was gone, being carried by another person, away, away, away . . .

“Then you mustn’t worry. When the time comes, you can track them down, and find your coat.”

“I smell the ocean,” Chopper said, lowering his hands from his nose. “And something else . . . okay . . . okay, it’s a little better now.” He rubbed his nose and bowed his head. “I’m sorry for being rude. I have a sensitive sense of smell. You must’ve spent some time at the beach before coming here.” He blinked back tears and took in the wetness of Law’s shirt, pants, and chair seat. “Um—”

“Someday, you’ll learn who’s nice and who’s not, and then you know who you shouldn’t waste your time on. Trying to make friends, I mean.” Chopper suddenly covered his face. “Oh! I’m sorry if that was out of line!”

From Two Households, Both Alike

Kilo raised his arms, and the rocks flew into the air once more. This time they hurtled towards Aubergine—but they stopped short, hovering in a threatening circle around him.

Admiral had just turned around when she was struck with a harsh jet of water. By the time it died down, she had gone down on one knee, battered and bruised.

Admiral stood on shaking legs, bringing one back and raising her arms to her head. Aubergine eyed her as the air trembled around her, energy gathering. She closed her eyes, and then they flew open as she lunged forward, flinging the concentrated blast to Aubergine, who couldn’t even run in time to avoid the attack.

“Hey, I’m not mad at you guys,” Zoro said. “I’m sure we’ll do better next time. It’s just one battle, and it’s not like we lost.”

“Yeah, I’m not mad at you guys,” he said with an encouraging smile. “We didn’t exactly lose, and we’ll do better next time. Speaking of which, I’ve agreed to meet that guy tomorrow night for a rematch.”

“We can’t leave it like this, Nami-san,” Sanji exclaimed as Brie wandered over to join Franky’s Croconaw and Poliwhirl. “One of us has to win this time.”

Sanji sat next to him and released his own Pokémon. After assuring them it wasn’t time to battle, Brie sat next to Admiral to meditate with her, and Admiral cracked open an eye to check on her for only a moment before closing it again; Aubergine sat next to Kilo, silently judging him, and Cerise settled down to nap next to Sanji.

They fell silent for some time, listening to the rain beating a tattoo outside, and the river rushing as it swelled.

Zoro pulled his hood over his head, tugging it down to hide his face. “So it was love the whole time,” he said, voice muffled. “Damn it.”

“I won’t fall asleep this time.” Zoro grinned up at him. “Gardevoir.”

By the time the trainer with the straw hat wandered into the cave, the old man was beating Franky into the ground as quietly as possible.

“Not only is it powerful, but now, next time she levels up, she’ll evolve!” Usopp ran a finger over Betty’s head, petting her. “And I think Betty’s close to evolving, too!”

Zoro jumped when his Pokénav beeped. He glanced at Robin and Usopp and held up a finger, hurrying away to another part of the caves. Since anyone could overhear a call, they’d promised to contact each other only in emergency or at an agreed time.

“Can’t be late if we didn’t set up a time.” Sanji stared at him in disbelief as he continued, “Either way, I need to head back.”

“Oh,” Sanji said, catching his breath. “Right—um, we stopped fighting. Seemed a waste of time to draw over and over.”

“Better luck next time,” Robin said, smiling.

Sanji sprayed his head and sighed in relief, tossing the bottle. “I’ll get you one next time I’m out. Archie got carried away, that’s all. He was pissed I went on another walk.”

“Right—Cerise, to Fallarbor,” Sanji ordered. Cerise took off properly this time.

“Perk up!” Nami said, punching his shoulder. “You can finally face off against that asshole you talked about, and win this time!”

“We’ll get you next time for sure,” Usopp threatened, pointing at Sanji and Franky as Nami rejoined them and Robin came out from around the corner. “Team Magma forever!”

Chopper stuck out his tongue at Magma and Aqua one last time before following Luffy into the ashy forest of Mt. Chimney.

“You take these,” she said, shoving them at Sanji. “We’ll relay it. We can use your Pokémon to take one across the water at a time.”

“Sure,” Zoro said at the same time Robin said, “I don’t.”

Cuddlebug passed under Robin’s face in the darkness, his rings glowing in the eerie, magma-lit darkness of the hideout cave. Robin held him in her lap as she spoke, and Zoro and Usopp sat in front of her, Zoro repeatedly checking his Pokénav for the time, and Usopp biting his fingers, staring at Robin.

“Winter is the time for scary stories,” Robin said.

Their conversation was put to a halt as they stalked Sanji directly to Route 118, where Nami made Franky carry her across the shallow water. From there he turned left at Mauville onto Route 110, dodging the Oddish and Electrikes in the tall grass—like most of Team Aqua (and Magma), he preferred to walk or ride on his Pokémon rather than ride a bike. Meanwhile, Nami had to physically stop Franky from inventing a super-fast bicycle right there and then. They argued for so long they almost lost track of Sanji, but remembered their mission just in time and caught up to him on Route 103. He passed through Oldale Town, and then Route 102, and then Petalburg, and finally—

“You weren’t. I told you the wrong time on purpose because I knew you’d get lost on the way. You were right on time.”

Sanji pulled away slightly to laugh. “Alright, sure. Maybe next time I’ll make some and bring it to you.”

“I saw mochi one time at a seaside town,” Zoro said. They went down the vines, Brie bringing up the rear, and as they landed on the tiny island again, Zoro took out a pen and knelt in front of the sign, writing something. He capped the pen and stood, pocketing it again. “It had a beach and a market. I think it was north of here.”

A noise made them look over, but it was only Chopper glaring at them, and Robin turned back to Luffy and let his shirt drop. She pulled down the neck this time and found something over his heart: A faint pink circle, perfectly symmetrical.

From Your Princess Is in Another Castle

A long, long time ago, in a strange and faraway land, a big, bustling town thrived. It was a town whose citizens all lived long, happy lives, and was said to be lovely and prosperous. But one day, tragedy befell this wonderful place. A great cataclysm struck the town and its people.

Nami snatched up the bag and smacked him one more time for good measure before leaving the broken-down shack with Brook close behind. “Who are you, Luffy?” she said, tossing him his coin purse. “Be more careful.”

“Oh?” Professor Frankly said, lowering the book and squinting at Franky and Nami. “You look very suspicious, but if Gabriella trusts you, I suppose it’s fine. She’s one of my best students, you know. I remember a time when—”

“There wasn’t much information on this in our research, but it did come up once or twice,” Gabriella said as Nami held out the Map again. It glowed when she moved it closer to the lower level, so she made a beeline for the stairs close by. “This place might have existed hundreds of years ago, as a city that came before our modern time.”

“Seriously, I think Nami’s right,” Franky said. Luffy’s face fell. “Cheer up, I bet there’s nothing in the town at all. We’ll go see that dragon in no time.”

“Is this a bad time?” Usopp asked, standing in the doorway with Nami.

He broke into a jog. Nami and Usopp paced him, smiling at each other over his head. Tall grass brushed their calves as they ran, some of it flattened as if a small tank had plowed through, and in no time at all the three of them stood before the great doors of Hooktail’s castle.

“No time to waste,” Usopp said, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. He stumbled, making Usopp stumble. “Our friends are probably making their way to Hooktail as we speak.”

Hooktail took in a deep breath and breathed fire on her attackers, ridding the room of the mist Nami had created. Luffy leapt out of the way just in time, and Franky grabbed Nami, rolling to dodge. Usopp and Kory inched along the wall, trying to find a place where they would be out of the danger zone.

“I made it up here a long time ago, and I fought that beast,” Kory’s father said, hugging his son in return. “But it played a trick on me and ate me up. I stayed alive by eating pieces of my clothes and bits of whatever Hooktail swallowed. How long has it been? How is everyone?”

Thank you for playing!

#writing adventures #excerpt

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kivrinengle · 7 years

Text

One for Sorrow

one for sorrow

Sorrow is too small a word for it - for the tragedy that devours his family in one terrible night, leaving only Percival, the last sad remnant of what had once been a family. Tragedy, they call it, in hushed whispers: so sad, what happened to those poor people. Sorrow is an insult, a thing too small to stand in the face of murder and destruction and the end of the world.

But sorrow is a beast with teeth of iron, and they rip at his mind and his soul until there is little left of humanity or even sanity. It screams in his head, echoes of all that he has lost - family, home, safety, future - until all that is left is Percy, last sad remnant of what had once been a person. Sometimes, he is not even certain that much remains.

two for mirth

It strikes him, as he is dragged away from his target by armed guards, that this is probably exactly how his family would have expected his attempt at revenge to go. There had always been a fond, gentle mockery of his tendency to mess things up because he was so deeply buried in his studies or his work. He had been known to walk into walls or fall into ingenious practical jokes set by his younger siblings. Mother would have shaken her head, hiding a smile, and Father would have taken him aside for a quick speech on the need to keep a clear focus on the things that were in front of him. They wouldn’t have been surprised by his latest failure.

It is simply typical of him, he muses, strangely absent from himself as he is unceremoniously hauled toward a building that can only be a prison. And that is a startling reassurance, and one that he had not even looked for - that something of who he was Before has survived.

He laughs at that - a bitter, broken thing, creaking with disuse. He has not laughed in months - years - decades? - not since the end of his world. There is nothing amusing in any of it. There might be nothing amusing left in all of Exandria. But Percy laughs, and thinks it is possible that he might still exist.

three for a death

He has seen so much death that sometimes he is not sure he will ever get the smell of it out of his nostrils. He has been up close and personal with death several times since the first time it came calling, and he imagines he is now immune to it. The deaths of sailors at sea had never broken through the fog that surrounded him - not the almost-friend who fell overboard in a storm, nor the cook, dying slowly of infection from a bad burn. Even the sudden, sharp loss of a tiny cabin boy who ought never to have been aloft passed over him like mist before the bow of a ship, and he breathed through it and felt nothing. Death had come too close, and bore him no terrors, now.

Or so he thinks.

But there is a cat in the dank prison into which he is thrown, and somehow, Percy becomes almost fond of the battered old thing. It creeps through the bars of his cell to attend to the vermin, and sometimes he wakes from fitful slumber to find it curled up against him, the one spot of warmth against the chill of stone and iron chains. He hardly remembers warmth or softness. The rumble of the cat’s purr does something inside his chest, and Percy finds himself saving bits from his horrid rations to try and tempt the cat back, to ensure one more moment of warmth and connection.

And when he wakes one bitter morning to find the old cat curled up in his lap, cold and still, Percy realizes that Death is not through with him. He pets the tiny, stiff corpse with absent fingers, and lets the tears spill down his cheeks. He wouldn’t mind if death came for him now, but for the revenge he had promised himself on his family’s murderers. He is not afraid of it.

He still weeps.

four for a birth

Percy had been almost present at the births of all of his younger siblings. He had waited a few rooms away, keeping pace with his father’s anxious pacing, and had gone away and made pompous notes in his pompous diary about the event after the fact. The only birth he did not remember was his own - which was as it should be, of course. No-one ought to remember their own birth.

He prayed, in the end, in that prison cell - for something, anything, to give him guidance, to show him a way forward. Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III had never held with deities, or faith in anything other than what he could see and touch. The shattered fragment that remains of him is no longer certain of anything, and addresses a prayer to parties unknown.

Something happens.

His new life rushes in on him before he is prepared for it, all violence and blood and noise and chaos. He seems to find himself yanked from the familiar surroundings of his cell with hardly more than a word (though that seems unlikely, when he thinks back on it later. His new companions never do anything without talking it over to the point of absurdity.) A huge, terrifying someone claps him hard on the back, knocking him to his knees as his legs tremble from hunger and disuse, and someone else pulls him back up and urges him forward, wrapping a warm cloak around his shoulders.

“Don’t worry,” one of the newcomers says soothingly. “It’s all much worse than it seems. You’ll be regretting meeting us in no time.”

And Percy is dragged forward into a new life, a new family, in the strangest sort of rebirth that he could imagine. He hates to imagine which of the deities might be responsible.

five for silver

“Yes, you’ve explained about the weapon,” one of the dark-haired twins tells him patiently, some time after they’ve escaped his prison. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. He’s better now, truly he is, but he still loses time, or finds himself in places without knowing how he got there. It’s not his biggest problem. “We get it. It’s very important, and we shouldn’t touch. But you’re not answering the question.”

The other one pops up, and Percy spends some time wondering if this is, perhaps, his mind playing tricks on him. That happens sometimes, too. Are there really two of them? “Yes, darling,” this one says, more wariness than warmth in the tone. “We’re not asking anything difficult - just your name.”

They have no idea how difficult that is. His name was something, once - almost something of importance. Now, it is the only thing of value he has left. He is likely the only person remaining in the world who even knows it. He’d gone by something on the ship - not his real name, he knows - but he cannot remember what it had been. It hadn’t mattered.

His hand slips to the weapon at his side, finger tracing over the names engraved in five of the six barrels. Names have power, he knows; he doesn’t trust any of these people.

A tiny figure is by his side when he blinks his way back from thought, and the face of the little gnome is serious. She doesn’t try to touch him. He appreciates that.

“You don’t need to give us anything,” she murmurs, the words almost lost in the chatter of the group. “Not if it matters to you. But we kind of need something to call you.”

“I could name ‘im,” the goliath puts in cheerfully. “I’m really good at names.” The gnome gives Percy a wide-eyed look that tells him he doesn’t want to take the goliath up on this offer.

Percy stands up, not without effort, and wanders across the campsite. They all give him space, watching him warily; they do not know what they have brought into their midst. He makes his way slowly to the nearby stream, lowering himself to his knees at it’s edge. He feels like an old man these days, battered by a weary life. As he leans over the water, still and clear here in a tiny pool that has collected by one bank, he doesn’t know the face that looks back at him.

His hair is a singular shock of silver, standing up at odd angles, looking nothing like the boy who had stared at him from his mirror back at Whitestone so many years before. He hadn’t seen his reflection much since; had gotten good at shaving without benefit of a mirror aboard ship, like the other sailors. The pale, silvery ghost who looked up at him from the water looked right, though. This was what the last survivor of Whitestone ought to look like.

But he didn’t look like Percival.

“Just-” he muttered, shaking his head when he realized several of the group were standing around staring at him again. He’d probably lost time again, off in his own head while his hands shook and his body stayed frozen. “Just call me Percy.”

six for gold

Vex is a light, golden and glorious. She is the first one he trusts - as much as he trusts anyone, now. She is brutally honest from the start, and he thinks that he loves her for that; he wonders if he even remembers what that word once meant.

“So,” she says, coming up beside him as he stares into the flames of their little campfire late that first night. He’s said that he would take the midnight watch, but he doesn’t blame her for sitting up with him. He wouldn’t trust any of them to watch his back, either; he will lie awake all night, and likely for some time to come. “Percy.”

“Yes? Hello?” he tries awkwardly after a moment passes, and nothing more is said.

“This is a bit awkward,” she says, stretching out the words in an unnatural sing-song. “And nobody else wants to bring it up, because they’re all cowards, so I sort of have to.”

“You want me to leave,” he says flatly. That makes sense, after all. He nods, already thinking of what he needs to bring when he leaves in the morning.

“No! No, no, no,” she says quickly, flapping her hands at him. “Well, Vax does, but only because he’s a suspicious bastard. I’m just…not sure that we’re the best fit for you, perhaps?” Her voice trails away, gone high and vague, and Percy frowns at her.

“How do you mean?”

She sighs, dragging her hands down her face. “Well, it’s just…” She stops, and starts again. “You seem a bit … sickly. Which is fine, don’t get me wrong! But we’re a band of mercenaries who aren’t always good at actually getting paid, you understand. And as soon as we do get a bit of gold, I barely get my hands on it before everyone’s rushing off to spend it!” Vex is so comically over-annoyed by this that Percy wishes he remembered how to smile like a person. “Anyway,” she says, breathing long and deep. “I’m only saying that we’re all going to feel really bad if you up and die on us because we couldn’t afford to look after you, so maybe you want us to take you to a village and set you up somewhere that you can rest peacefully?”

He watches her for a long moment, trying to figure out her angle, the threat she poses, the danger lurking in the shadows - and then he gives up. He is tired, and she is so honest right now that it almost hurts. He reaches into the bag at his side and pulls out his leather money bag, tossing it to her without breaking eye contact. She catches it on reflex, gasping as she glances inside it.

“I didn’t mean you needed to pay us!” Vex shoves it back at him, some strange mixture of offended and already grieving the loss. “We may be mercenaries, but we’re a bit above beating up dying prisoners for their gold, thank you!”

“I’m not dying,” he protests mildly. He gathers up the bag and holds it out to her, pleased that his hands aren’t shaking now. “I have gold. I don’t need it, I don’t want it, and I don’t know how to look after it. That was-” he breaks off. That was Vesper’s job, from the moment she turned twelve and had insisted on Father letting her take over from the bookkeeper who had been skimming money from the family accounts. “I want you to have it,” he says again after a moment. “I’ll tell you when I need some of it for my work, and you can do what you like with the rest.”

She watches him for a long time, but he knows she will take the offer, if only from the way her fingers keep twitching toward the bag. “Fine,” she says in the end, taking the bag from him gently, now. “But if I get to decide what to do with it, the first thing we’re doing is buying you some clothes that aren’t rags. Also, food. Lots of it.” She frowns at his skinny wrists, and the bag disappears somewhere about her person.

Percy stares back at the fire, and thinks he can remember how to smile if he gives it a bit of thought. He is lighter without the weight of the gold.

seven for a secret never to be told

Honest people didn’t keep secrets, Mother had told him time and again. The de Rolos had an obligation to be honest with their people, or they stood to do nothing but damage to those who relied on them. Percival had been a bit of a secretive child, though, and kept his more dangerous tinkering experiments to himself, though not without a rush of guilt when Mother looked at him knowingly.

But someone had been keeping a secret, he has decided over time. Something about Whitestone, some secret he had never been privy to, had been the downfall of his entire house. He isn’t certain whether he wishes he had known the secret or not. If he’d known, he would have blurted it out under Ripley’s cunning hands; but, then, if he’d known anything of value, there would at least have been a purpose to torturing him. As it is, he bears the scars of someone else’s secrets. He doesn’t even bother pretending he hasn’t got secrets of his own, now.

Trust grows slowly between Percy and the other members of their little band, but somehow he blinks, and it has been nearly half a year, and he has seven other people whom he trusts with his life, and who trust him with theirs. He is never going to take that responsibility lightly.

He makes himself a mental list of all of the secrets that might pose a threat to them, ranking and ordering them, and tries to work out whether he can divest himself of any of them. The difficulty is, though, that for all their prowess at magic and fighting, Percy is sometimes shocked to realize just how foolhearty and juvenile their group can be. They call themselves Vox Machina now, but the SHITS had been more honest.

How can he let them know about the Briarwoods, when Grog and Scanlan are as likely to be using their heads as battering rams to see whose cracks first as they are to be thinking? How can he share the dangerous truth of his own full identity, while he watches Keyleth and Pike get so drunk they can’t stand up, howling all their secrets to the sky in great laughing gusts of careless joy?

How can he tell anyone the secret that truly scares him - the dark monster that haunts his dreams - when Vax and Vex change moods on a dime, weaving through unpredictable extremes of emotion faster than he can keep up?

Percy burns his mental list, consigning it all to his own memory, and vows to keep his secrets.

(Two weeks later, they will encounter a haughty government employee who seeks to stand between them and the information they need, and Percy will burst out with his whole name, every aristocratic syllable of it tinged with scornful disdain that accomplishes his goals. He won’t even remember that he meant to keep it from them forever. After all, they’ll never get it right.)

eight for a wish

Cassandra had used to wish on stars. Percy remembers this sometimes, on night watches when the stars are very bright, though the skies lack the crisp, cold clarity of Whitestone nights. She had used to bully him into standing witness for her wishes, insisting on the proper form of the thing. He cannot remember any of those little-girl wishes now - just the solemn intensity of her, staring up with the determination to make the universe itself bend to her will.

Percy does not make wishes. He has learned, so well, that he is not a person who should be allowed to want things. His choices throw that up to him at every turn, his failures showing in stark relief what happens when Percy de Rolo wants things beyond his reach. He cannot protect his family, cannot kill Anna Ripley, cannot seek vengeance on those who destroyed his life. These are not things he can want - not without dark and terrible consequences.

But he cannot help but make one wish, a small, pitiful thing in the unending gloom of the Underdark, when it seems they will never find their way out again. He thinks of Cassandra, under the clear skies, and closes his eyes, and wishes to see the stars again.

Surely that is a small enough thing for him to wish.

nine for a kiss

It isn’t until both of the twins have kissed him that Percy actually pays any attention.

Vax’s jubilant embrace in the Underdark had been nothing more than wild delight at the prospect of escape, and had been mostly lost in the chaos of that flight.

When Vex kisses him, too, his brain sits up and pays attention.

Thinking is hard, sometimes. Keeping track of time, especially in the foggy bits before he met Vox Machina, is often beyond Percy. He is very certain, though, that it has been years since he made any sort of direct physical contact with another being. Certainly, people had attacked and beaten him, or dragged him around; there had been fleeting touches of healing magic or brushes in the middle of combat. He’d been hit by just about every sort of weapon imaginable.

But Vax and Vex have both kissed him, and Percy has to sit down and think about that. And Keyleth has leaned over his shoulders, and Grog has slapped him on the back until he fell over, and, and, and…

He has to put his face in his hands and breathe deeply for a while. Somehow, while he wasn’t looking, Percy has become a part of this strange, broken little family - welcomed, integrated, loved. Somehow, his defences fell so low that he hadn’t even noticed he was past the boundaries of propriety and familiarity.

Vax cuffs him fondly on the head as he passes, ruffling Percy’s hair. “Don’t think too hard, there,” he says with a smirk that Percy can just hear. “I don’t want to be responsible for cleaning up when that brain of yours explodes.”

And Percy reaches a hand up to touch where Vax had pressed his hand, awed almost past the point of thought.

He is one of them. He is someone whom they like, and trust, and rely on. They laugh and cry and eat and sleep and fight together - as though Percy is a real person, as though he is something more than human wreckage, than mere flotsam from the wreck of his life. He has anchors, now. Connections.

Family.

ten for a bird you must not miss

And there he is, standing in front of Silas Briarwood, gun burning in his shaking hands. He doesn’t dare blink, or breathe, or think too hard. There is Silas, teeth gleaming in the moonlight, and his hateful wife not ten paces away. They haven’t aged a day, even as Percy has gone white-haired and taken scar upon scar, wiping away the image of the boy they had once met.

There is Silas in his gunsights, turning to look at him with a look of sheer contempt. Had he looked at Father that way, before murdering him? Had Lady Briarwood worn such a cool expression as his little siblings fell, victims of secrets they had never known? The fuzzy darkness tugs at the back of Percy’s head, temptingly. He could fall into it, escaping this confrontation he was in no way ready for. Something was growling in the back of his mind, a feeling darker and more powerful than he was ready to handle.

But there was a shape at Silas’ feet - a dark pile of rags, hardly moving, and Vax had called them for help, and it wasn’t hard to put facts together. And if Vax was down, and the rest of them were converging on this courtyard together, Percy knew with cold certainty that his chances of losing another family tonight were too high to bear. They were not unarmed children now: but there was Vax, down and still, and Silas looming over him like oncoming death, and Percy swallowed and breathed deep to scream out his hatred to the sky

And he took a breath and steadied his aim

And pushed aside all thoughts of Death, coming to visit him again, and breathed again, until he only had room for one thought:

You must not miss.

And Percy took his shot.

#critical role #percival fredrickstein von musel klossowski de rolo iii #critical role fic #kivrin writes #yeah no I'm totally ok why do you ask?#new fandom oh god I'm scared

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