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snippychicke · 4 years

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Aftermath--Three

Chapter Three is here! The last of the set up chapters, after this is mostly just...fluff.

No warnings, I think. A surprise waits inside, however.

First | Previous

Otto had spent most of his adult life working for the commission. A few time jumps to different eras and decades, but mainly staying somewhere in the 1960s since it seemed the more precarious times. Nuclear war liked to develop at the drop of a pin, and even the most well-meaning change could spell Armageddon thanks to trigger-happy Americans and Russians.

(Though a few times it was the UK and France. And once China, which the rest of the world hadn't realized had nuclear weapons until it was too late.)

But no matter where or when he was, he was with his brothers. Oscar might have mingled with the civilian population once in a while, but he, like Axel, either had other responsibilities or would rather relax at their temporary home than deal with the locals.

He wasn't used to civilians and their quiet, dull lives. Granted, Lorelei often had her radio on to break the silence if she were home, and the grainy black and white TV was usually turned to the news. (She also had a habit of chattering while changing the dressings on his eye every morning and every night. Even if half the time her southern drawl made her words hard to understand, her tone and lit were pleasing to listen to.)

It was still dull, with nothing but the pain to distract him from his thoughts. Losing Oscar had been hard enough, the wound still fresh on his heart. Even now, he expected his younger brother to try and ambush him just to get a reaction out of him. Or hear him trying and failing to sing to the more upbeat music on the radio, stumbling over the English words.

Then he lost Axel; his last memory of his older brother being of his hands around his neck and Axel's face twisted in both rage and grief of not controlling his actions. Otto found himself praying to some unknown power that Axel was out there, somewhere, carrying on.

Otto feared if their position had been reversed, he wouldn't be strong enough. He struggled as it was, but the thought of finding Axel gave him strength. Believing his brother was out there gave him the motivation to keep trying to regain his strength.

And startling Lorelei was becoming decent amusement as well.

"Why are you doing pushups?! Shit, your eye is bleeding again!" (It often did at inconvenient times, leading to her fretting like a mother hen. She wouldn't rest until he allowed her to fuss to her heart's content. )

"Why are all my kitchen knives impaled in the garage wall?" (Relearning to aim with just one eye was becoming a chore. And he gave in to the need to take a break just as she returned from work. She quickly forgot about the knives as soon as she saw he was bleeding, again, and about five seconds from passing out.)

"Jesus Mary and Joesph, I swear Otto, you may not be a serial killer, but you definitely have a screw or two loose!" (He swore she hadn't dusted the cobwebs from her ceiling in decades, but considering how small she was compared to him, he couldn't wholly blame her. To his amusement, she tried to steal the feather duster he had found, jumping pathetically to try and reach it as he held it out of reach. It reminded him of Oscar, and then it wasn't quite as amusing.)

It wasn't that he was getting soft towards her; it was simply that he had a sense of honor. The reverse of an eye for an eye; she had been kind insane enough to help him. The lengths she went to and fussing over him as if she genuinely cared, made him feel indebted to her. He could tell Raymond didn't trust him, giving him a dark look when he visited every day.

But he couldn't harm her. He had no reason to (and it certianly wasn't because she tried so hard to show him kindness. Like when she tenderly brushed his hair away from his forehad when she feared a fever. Being so careful during dressing changes, her voice soft and soothing, her touch gentle. She quickly picked up on his body language and did her best to distract him when his thoughts got dark.)

It was nearly two weeks before he was feeling well enough to think about leaving seriously. Two weeks no sign of Axel. He kept an eye on the news for anything bearing his brother's mark, but there was nothing—no trail for him to follow, making him antsy.

The longer he stayed, the farther Axel was. (He refused to believe there was any other reason. Axel was out there. Somewhere.)

It felt a bit wrong to leave when Lorelei was at work with nothing more than a note saying thank you on the kitchen counter and assuring the small room was in perfect condition (or as best as could be, considering the old worn everything.)

It took him a while to find the small cat house, feeling like it was halfway across the suburb of south Dallas (or it could have been that he wasn't quite up to strength just yet.) The ragged curtains were still drawn shut; a few of the cats lounging in the windows enjoying the sun while others relaxed on the small steps thanks to the little cat door Oscar had crudely cut shortly after they had 'moved in.'

The cats welcomed him with plaintive meows, rubbing and threading through his legs. The fact the place smelled like an unclean catbox was enough to confirm Axel was no longer using it as a base. The large bag of dry cat food was spilled across the kitchen and living room, yet the cats were far more interested in him as he searched the small house for any sign of Axel.

But every trace of their residence had been cleaned away per protocol, with not even the vaguest of hints where Axel's next destination was.

Except, for some reason, his and Oscar's bags were still stuffed in the hallway closet, packed and ready for a quick retreat, just as they had left it. The ache in Otto's chest strengthened at seeing his little brother's pack buried beneath his, the white and black milkman hat sticking out from where Oscar had quickly stuffed it before that last mission.

Otto could still remember chastening him to take better care of it if he honestly wanted to keep it, and Oscar had groaned he would fold it correctly when they got back.

Except his little brother didn't return with them that day.

Only the cats were witness to him, pulling the hat out and falling to his knees as he clutched it to his chest, biting his tongue to trap the scream of agony from escaping.

--+--

Lorelei supposed she shouldn't be too surprised when she returned to an empty house. She had noticed a restless shift in Otto for the last few days. The kind she had seen before in others that had stayed with her to recuperate before they too moved on.

At least he was kind enough to tidy up after himself (was it embarrassing that he was a better housekeeper than her?) And he had even left a piece of paper saying thank you that she pinned to her fridge.

She knew Raymond would be relieved when he found out he had left. Even though Otto proved he wasn't about to hurt either of them, her soul brother was about as distrustful as could be when it came to him (granted it was somewhat earned.)

But she was going to miss him and his odd antics. Like how he had sat at the kitchen table, all of her knives laid out before him along with an old whetstone he had found somewhere in her junk drawer, and spend probably at least a few hours just sharpening the dulled blades. (Generally, after he used them for target practice.) His determination to find some odd house chore she had slacked on and finish it without so much as a word.

He had been silent, but it wasn't the oppressive silence like her father's had been, where she knew he was boiling about something (like her existence). Sure, once in a while, it would be broody or antagonistic when Raymond visited, or something reminded him of something dark in his frankly mysterious past. But otherwise, it had been amicable.

Even when she was chatty out of nerves or after a particularly stressful day, he hadn't seemed annoyed. Instead, she sometimes would catch a faint smile as she prattled on. Or even a light huff of laughter when she made a joke, and he shook his head slightly because her jokes were usually terrible puns.

"Oh, I'm an old biddy," she sighed to her comatose patient the next day, setting up another saline flush along with the IV antibiotics. "Here, I keep telling everyone that I'm fine being by myself, yet here I am getting attached to an absolute stranger. I should just get some cats, huh?"

The man was silent, which she expected. The doctors had just been in to check the healing stump of where his leg had been. Which meant the nurse had dosed him with plenty of pain meds just an hour before. Partially to help negate the pain from the procedure itself, but also so he wouldn't try to grab the nearest person as a hostage.

That encounter still left many of the other nurses hesitant to enter the room. It had been the day after the John Doe had been brought in the emergency room, found by a couple of hunters just outside of town with a traumatic amputation of his left lower leg.

One minute he had been asleep (or assumed) as the doctors discussed treatment plans, and the next, he had jumped up, grabbed one of the nurses, and had a ballpoint pen pressed against her throat while swearing something in an odd language as everyone scrambled.

What was with white-haired men and being violent? Granted, she had never seen Otto like she had the John Doe, his pale blue eyes wild with both rage and pain.

Which was why restraints were now strapped to the remaining three limbs. The straps rattled against the metal sidebars as John Doe stirred, making Lorelei pause. His young face was twisted into a grimace, and she moved to brush his forehead out of instinct.

"Bror?" He mumbled, making her stomach twist in guilt. She didn't think her rambling would wake him.

"Shh, it's okay, hun. Just get some rest," She smoothed his messy white hair, smiling as he relaxed back into sleep.

"Lorelei, you know you're crazy, right?" One of her fellow nurses asked as she slipped from the secured room and into the nearby nurses' station, "Going into that room by yourself. You saw what he did to Mary Lou!"

"Well, how would you feel waking up without a leg and a bunch of people hovering over you, talking in a different language," she shot back defensively as she grabbed John Doe's chart.

"Not homicidal," her coworker responded, working on her own chart notes. "I mean, I'd scream for sure, but I doubt I'd be able to move the way he did. Hell, I doubt I'd ever been that quick."

---+---

Lorelei supposed she shouldn't have been happy to see Otto sitting on the front steps of her home the next evening. She had a crappy day, her feet were killing her, and she was planning on just crashing in her bed. Yet seeing him on the cement step, two large backpacks sitting on the dilapidated porch, made the end of her day a little better.

He looked up, the bandage still wrapped around half of his face, but she was pleased not to notice any blood staining the gauze. She wasn't so happy to see the melancholy expression on his face.

She took a seat on the step next to him, feeling warmth radiate him to chase off the chilly December air. She wasn't brave enough to look at him, and instead plucked a piece of dead grass from the lawn. "Don't tell Ray, but you make a decent house guest. Not many men clean up after themselves, let alone fight me about dustin' or sweeping them cobwebs out."

She peeked a glance after a pause and felt relief to see a faint smile on his face as he focused on the dusk colored sky. "I won't ask what you've been up to, as long as it ain't gonna be bringing any police around here."

"No," he answered her joking comment gravely.

"Kay, good." She tore at the blade of grass some more. "So... Are you looking for a place to stay, or are you just here to say bye for good?"

This time he did meet her gaze. His dark eye looked haunted, and she could see the telltale marks of crying by the red rims and puffiness of his lids. Her fingers ached to reach out and try to soothe the crease around his good eye, to bring some sort of comfort, so she shifted to sit on her hand instead, hoping he would think her fingertips were cold. "Because like I said, you're a nice house guest. You do your own share of the chores, and you can stay as long as you like. Just no more using my good steak knives as darts, you got me?"

"Yes," he answered solemnly, making her heart jump. "...Do you like cats?"

His question surprised her for a moment before she smiled. "Yeah, I do. I was just telling my patient that I should get a few."

He nodded his head without elaborating further, though she swore there was a thoughtful expression on his face as he watched the last glimmer of the sun fade away.

The silence this time was broken by her stomach growling, earning an amused glance from Otto as she blushed. "Right. Well, I'm hungry,' she hurriedly jumped up and offered her hand to him. "Shall we?"

He accepted her hand, the callouses firm against her skin. It still surprised her how tall he towered over her. "Let's see; I have fish sticks or hot dogs. It's up to you…."

---+---

Lorelei woke the next morning to a blank and white angular-face cat kneading her pillow; its purr a deep growl. As soon as the cat realized she was awake, it butted its head against her as a greeting, its purr becoming louder.

"Where did you come from?" She asked as she sat up, allowing him to crawl into her lap. The cat, of course, didn't answer but continued to knead her lap. She picked up the cat and descended the stairs, following the smell of sausage and the quiet mewl of other cats. A group of them were sitting expectantly at Otto's feet, jumping when he would toss a piece of an egg at them. All of them boney and looking as if he had found them wandering the streets.

"Dare I ask?" She asked, shifting the cat to protect her modesty as he glanced over at her. She didn't miss the quick once-over before he shrugged and returned towards breakfast.

"You said you liked cats."

Living with him was going to be fun, Lorelei decided as she allowed the cat down to join its brethren at his feet and instead shuffled towards the fridge. "True. I did say that." She just didn't expect so many. They were all weaving around him, eager for a treat, which made it hard to count, but she swore there were at least a dozen. "So… do they have names?"

"Bebis."

She waited for him to elaborate and frowned when he didn't. "Are you saying they are babies, or that they are all named Bebis?"

"Both," he answered, shooting her a quick half-smile as he flicked another piece of an egg at them.

"Oh no, that isn't going to work. I mean, I fully agree they're babies, but they need their own names." She busied herself with setting up the kettle for coffee, trying not to think how easy it was moving around each other, or how much happier she felt compared to the last two days.

It was the cats; she decided as one jumped up on the counter to pester her. Definitely the cats. She blushed when she noticed Otto watching her out of the corner of her vision as she baby-talked to the small tabby that looked like it hadn't eaten in weeks.

Just the cats.

Next Chapter

#the umbrella academy #tua #tua swedes #tua otto #tua Oscar #tua Axel #otto x reader #the umbrella academy fanfic #jason bryden #fic: aftermath

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orthodoxydaily · 3 years

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Saints&Reading: Sat., Feb.6, 2021

Commemorated on January 24, May 24_by the New calendar

St. Xenia of Petersburg, fool-for-Christ (18th c.)

She was born about 1730, and as a young woman married an army colonel named Andrei, a handsome and dashing man fond of worldly living. When she was twenty-six years old, her husband died suddenly after drinking with his friends, leaving Xenia a childless widow. Soon afterward, she gave away all her possessions and disappeared from St Petersburg for eight years; it is believed that she spent the time in a hermitage, or even a monastery, learning the ways of the spiritual life. When she returned to St Petersburg, she appeared to have lost her reason: she dressed in her husband's army overcoat, and would only answer to his name. She lived without a home, wandering the streets of the city, mocked and abused by many. She accepted alms from charitable people, but immediately gave them away to the poor: her only food came from meals that she sometimes accepted from those she knew. At night she withdrew to a field outside the city where she knelt in prayer until morning. Slowly, the people of the city noticed signs of a holiness that underlay her seemingly deranged life: she showed a gift of prophecy, and her very presence almost always proved to be a blessing. The Synaxarion says "The blessing of God seemed to accompany her wherever she went: when she entered a shop the day's takings would be noticeably greater; when a cabman gave her a lift he would get plenty of custom; when she embraced a sick child it would soon get better. So compassion, before long, gave way to veneration, and people generally came to regard her as the true guardian angel of the city."

Forty-five years after her husband's death, St Xenia reposed in peace at the age of seventy-one, sometime around 1800. Her tomb immediately became a place of pilgrimage: so many people took soil from the gravesite as a blessing that new soil had to be supplied regularly; finally a stone slab was placed over the grave, but this too was gradually chipped away by the faithful. Miracles, healings and appearances of St Xenia occur to this day, to those who visit her tomb or who simply ask her intercessions. Her prayers are invoked especially for help in finding employment, a home, or a spouse (all of which she renounced in her own life). A pious custom is to offer a Panachida / Trisagion Service for the repose of her husband Andrei, for whom she prayed fervently throughout her life. Saint Xenia was first officially glorified by the Russian Orthodox Church outside Russia in 1978; then by the Moscow Patriarchate in 1988.

Luke 6:17-23

17And He came down with them and stood on a level place with a crowd of Hisdisciples and a great multitude of people from all Judea and Jerusalem, and from the seacoast of Tyre and Sidon, who came to hear Him and be healed of their diseases,18 as well as those who were tormented with unclean spirits. And they were healed.19 And the whole multitude sought to touch Him, for power went out from Him and healed them all. 20Then He lifted up His eyes toward His disciples, and said: Blessed are you poor, For yours is the kingdom of God. 21 Blessed are you who hunger now, For you shall be filled. Blessed are you who weep now, For you shall laugh. 22 Blessed are you when men hate you, And when they exclude you, And revile you, and cast out your name as evil, For the Son of Man's sake. 23 Rejoice in that day and leap for joy! For indeed your reward is great in heaven, For in like manner their fathers did to the prophets.

Galatians 5:22-6:2

22But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness,23 gentleness, self-control. Against such there is no law.24 And those who are Christ's have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires.25 If we live in the Spirit, let us also walk in the Spirit. 26 Let us not become conceited, provoking one another, envying one another.

1Brethren, if a man is overtaken in any trespass, you who are spiritual restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness, considering yourself lest you also be tempted.2Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.

#orthodoxy #orthodoxchristian #ancientchristianity #originofchristianity #spirituality #holyscriptures #gospel #sacredtexts #wisdom

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multifandomfanficreclist · 4 years

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Avengers/Marvel Fic Mass Post

The Fool in the Mirror - Steve/Bucky - https://archiveofourown.org/works/16457597/chapters/38540813

The Avengers, SHIELD, and the world at large have underestimated the pain that Steve Rogers is in.

The night after a near brush with a suicide attempt, Steve discovers the world of support omegas, and in his desperation for relief from the battlefield of his brain, demands to have one.

Enter Bucky Barnes: retired marine, millennial, amputee, brother, son, and support omega. He maybe, just maybe, can help a broken alpha heal in the twenty-first century.

Mokusatsu - Clint/Bucky/Steve - https://archiveofourown.org/series/1001244

Clint Barton has been strung along from abusive relationship to abusive relationship all his life. Not that he would use the word “abusive”. He would argue that, as a sub, he was born to take whatever it is his dom feels like throwing at him.

But even with that attitude, he’s nervous about his current situation. Trapped in a bureaucratically mandated relationship with not one but two doms is going to be difficult and dangerous. Especially since these two doms are both members of the Avengers themselves.

He hopes that whenever he disappoints them, they’ll have at least a little pity on him, even though he knows he won’t deserve it.

The Inverse - Peter/Wade - https://archiveofourown.org/works/14901540/chapters/34513938

Deadpool doesn't have to try very hard to hide his second gender anymore because ever since Weapon X, no one in their right mind would ever believe that Wade Wilson was an omega. It doesn't matter anyway, because Wade knows no Alpha would keep a male omega. No alpha WANTS one, much less one that's as scarred and unstable as he is. . . Apparently, Spiderman was born to break every rule Wade has ever known.

Flight Ready - Clint/Darcy - https://archiveofourown.org/works/7353286/chapters/16702690

Clint:

“I got a call a few years back about this kid in a circus who seemed to be a step or two above the usual carnie. Problem was, the kid disappeared on me. Got a bump on my radar two states over with a couple of police reports about a Winged One pegging assholes with pellets and a slingshot. Then you disappeared again. And that really pissed me off. Because I need people who can sight a prick at a thousand yards and bean him in the ass with a pebble.” Fury drank his coffee and frowned at it. “That is really shitty coffee.”

Darcy:

“I’m not waiting for a soulmate. I’m not wasting my life waiting for someone who might not show up until I’m ninety,” Darcy snapped.

A Clint x Darcy AU with wings, soulmarks, missed connections, and, of course, falling in love.

The Tipping Point - Steve/Bucky - https://archiveofourown.org/works/19763158

When Steve opens the door, Bucky is standing on the other side, a few feet closer than he’d been the night before, and the cat is sitting back upon his shoulder.

“Hi, Bucky,” Steve says, smiling like this is a normal thing to be happening to them.

***

Bucky shows up at Steve's door a week after he pulled him out of the Potomac. He brings his cat with him.

Eventually, they stay.

Lucky in Love - Clint/Bucky - https://archiveofourown.org/works/17230013/chapters/40516820

Clint is only a couple of sips into his cardboard cup of coffee, his brain barely out of neutral, which is probably why it takes him so long to realize that some damn psycho is trying to kidnap his dog.

Excerpt:

“I’m not some charity case,” Bucky says pugnaciously.

“I didn’t think you were,” Clint answers back readily enough. “I mean, I can tell you’re fucked up for sure, but of the two of us, I’m probably the bigger disaster. My sleep schedule is shit, and I drink coffee straight from the pot. I sing in the shower even though I’m deaf as fuck. I have arrows everywhere because I’m an archer — did I tell you that? And I was raised in a literal circus, so I’m not exactly domestic. Let’s see, what else?” He squints down at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah, I won the building in a poker game with the Russian mafia and every once in awhile they show up and try to take it back, but usually I handle it, no problem. Uh...”

Clint happens to looks up and Bucky’s eyes are wide, his mouth hanging open. Clint’s hand freezes where he’s rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed. Yeah, when you put it all out there at once, it doesn’t sound so good.

A Mask of My Disguise - Bucky/Darcy - https://archiveofourown.org/works/7215742/chapters/16375378

He didn't think much of her at first. She drank bubble tea every day for Christ's sake. But he won't make that mistake again--not when her taser stares down his nose.

"I really hope you didn't think I couldn't handle myself."

It’s Just the Nearness of You - Steve/Bucky - https://archiveofourown.org/series/579796

The growl started as soon as Steve stepped through the cell door.

Steve was barefoot and empty-handed, dressed only in sweatpants and a tank top. He spun in a slow circle to show there were no weapons tucked into his waistband or hidden at the small of his back. No threat, his lowered gaze and open palms said.

It was a lie, and the other man in the room knew it. Steve’s body was weapon enough.

(Post-CA:TWS Bucky catches up on gentle skin contact, courtesy of Steve.)

Flag On the Play - Gen Steve Tony - https://archiveofourown.org/works/5024848

Steve is haunted by a phantom pain he can't explain, and isn't sure how to ask for help. Fortunately, Tony is pretty sure he knows what's wrong, and how to sell the Avengers on fixing it.

Sidereel - Steve/Bucky - https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646137/chapters/41611757

“…The modern viewer must remember that prior to the 1960s, soulmark portraits were the ultimate in taboo. But one can see how an artist like Captain Rogers would feel compelled to pick up his sketchbook…

...Captain Rogers never did a self-portrait; we can only speculate who his soulmate — or soulmates — might have been."

Franklin, Hannah. “Howling Commandos Leave their Mark in Portrait Series by Captain America.” Newsweek, July 9, 2009.

Yes, Captain - Steve/Bucky - https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670411/chapters/3546059

Starts pre-Serum, in which Bucky takes seriously terrible care of himself because he’s trying to stifle the feelings he keeps having for Steve. Steve gets so pissed that he flat out orders Bucky into eating and sleeping and they both quickly realize Bucky loves being ordered around, but their new-forged domestic bliss is quickly damaged by the encroaching war.

“Yes, Captain,” Bucky sasses, when he’s capable of speech again.

Steve stills. His head tilts very slightly. Not shocked, not angry. Considering.

Bucky feels adrenaline flood through his body. This little punk is ninety pounds wet, and Bucky is absolutely frozen in his chair intimidated by him.

Oh don’t you dare look back, just keep your eyes on me - Bucky/Darcy - https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670266/chapters/8113752

Darcy is thirty feet out of Stark-cum-Avengers Tower when she starts craving cinnamon rolls--the sticky-sweet iced-up old-fashioned kind, yummy and messy and dripping gooshy icing all over your mouth and hands and down your yuuuup, yup, that is a super, super fertile omega that she is smelling, holy shit is it ever.

“Jesus Christ,” she groans in frustration, then follows her alpha instincts (and, more easily and importantly, her nose) to go track them down. They’re in the middle of New York City; middle of the day or not, not checking on somebody who smells like that is, like, the ultimate dick move.

#avengers #marvel #fanfic #fanficrec #stucky #winterhawk

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notapaladin · 5 years

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Demon AU? Demon AU. Because if there’s one thing I love more than vampires, it is some demons. References an AU version of book 5 (The Kindred of Darkness), mild angst ahoy.

There was a demon in her garden.

Lydia slipped her glasses on, the better to make out Ysidro’s features in the moonlight. Seated and alert, he resembled a beautiful young man, nearly statue-like in his stillness, with his loose hair floating lightly around his collar in the night breeze. Only occasionally, when his magic slipped—or when he felt able to relax—could she see the fangs, the claws, the glow of his yellow eyes. And only when he was alone with her and James could she see his edges blurred with shadow, wisps of the freezing primordial darkness that made him bleeding off into the air.

She knew that the shadows behind him unfolded into wings. She knew that he devoured mortal souls, that holy ground burned his feet like acid.

She flung herself into his arms, and his wings came around her like a shroud. “Simon!”

“Mistress.” His voice was dry as ever, but the arms he wrapped around her were solid as a bank vault, and she shivered as his cold nose brushed her ear. “How fare you and Miss Miranda, now that the curse is broken?”

For a long moment, all she could do was cling to him, tucking her head against his neck. Damned he might be, but the mere reminder of what they had been through—what her daughter had been through, when the forces of Hell had deemed them in need of a “warning” that had put her toddler in unwakeable slumber—left her unable to even contemplate the idea of leaving the circle of his arms. Finally, she whispered, “We are well. James is with Miranda now, but…we felt your arrival. I was—afterwards—we didn’t know what became of you...”

She didn’t need to lift her head to know his lips had twitched into the suggestion of a grimace. She still had nightmares of him on the tower, wings ragged holes in the starry sky as he clawed at the demon that had tried to kill her. “Your perimeter of holy water is weakening, though it will keep out the lesser hellspawn well enough.”

A sensible woman, a righteous woman, would have smote him. Would have called three priests and a rabbi to arm themselves and destroy this Count of Hell before letting him into her household, into her arms. Would have cried Get thee behind me, Satan, at the first mention of her husband’s unwilling deal with a demon, never mind in all the years since.

Lydia pulled away just far enough to look him in the face and asked, “Would you like to come inside?”

He smiled at her, and the tip of one fang showed. “Of course.”

The house was dark and—this late at night—quiet. The servants were asleep, and Lydia felt oddly like a thief as she crossed the door to the kitchen without making a sound. Simon, of course, had no need for the gaslight she turned on low so as not to break her neck on the stairs. When he slipped a hand into hers anyway, dagger-sharp claws gentle as moth wings, she had to turn her face away lest he see her blush as she twined their fingers together. The last time she’d held his hand had been in a Russian crypt, half-frozen to death, with holy water seeping under the door. Then, she’d been afraid for her life and that of her unborn child, and now—thanks to this man, this demon—she and Miranda were safe many times over.

He eats souls. I’ve seen what happens to those the demons eat. I shouldn’t trust him at my back.

But I do.

As she turned at the landing to the nursery, she looked down at their joined hands. She could barely see them; shadow seeped from his long fingers, melting with the gloom. The first time she’d seen it, she’d inquired whether demons dissolved in sunlight, and he’d abruptly metamorphosed back into a creature of crystalline hard edges and stiff snobbery. Demons, he’d explained, only revealed their true forms in times of safety—in other words, for a sensible demon, never.

The nursery was an oasis of calm. Miranda was asleep; by her side James was gazing at her tenderly, broken ankle propped up on a chair. As Lydia entered the room, he lifted his head and smiled tiredly at her. “So you found our demon.”

“James.” Simon nodded at him; after a moment in which Lydia watched James’s gaze shift away, the demon crossed the room to him and clasped his forearm. When he spoke, she could see his fangs. “Are you healing well?”

He glanced at his heavily splinted ankle. “As well as can be expected.”

Simon’s expression didn’t change, but his outline grew noticeably sharper. “I have offered to eat Millward, I will remind you.”

Lydia knew he would do it. She had seen him shed the human shell he wore like a coat once, and remembered with a shudder her confused impression of teeth and wings and scales.

Judging from the grim set of his mouth, James was remembering it too. “Ysidro.”

He half turned away, glancing down at Miranda. She didn’t stir, even when he reached down to smooth down a strand of fine hair with one claw. “His zealotry might have left your daughter an orphan and Mistress Lydia a demon’s dinner. Such a thing is...unacceptable.”

Lydia felt like screaming. None of this—none of this!—would ever had happened if you hadn’t dragged us into your world, if you hadn’t demanded that James help you. She said nothing.

James’s eyes were cold. “And if we had stumbled too close to your demesne? If we were strangers, and you had deemed us in need of such a warning?”

Ysidro was silent.

Lydia bit her lip and let her gaze drop to the floor. He would have done the same. I know he would have. He probably would have done worse; it’s well within his capabilities.

Her husband took a breath, closing his eyes. “But...you did save us. Thank you.”

Ysidro stood like a statue carved in marble, movement only in the flicker of his sulfurous eyes from Miranda’s sleeping form to their faces. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I will no longer involve myself with your affairs, if that is what you wish.”

No, she thought desperately, and then yes. To be free of all thoughts of demons and angels, to have a normal life where she and James and Miranda could all live peacefully…

To never see Simon again.

Helplessly, she looked at James—who had gone quiet, eyes shuttered, and she knew he was weighing the same options. Demons could never be trusted fully; their continued existences called for death and pain. Once cast out of heaven, they could never be redeemed. And yet…Simon was their friend. Had been their friend for nearly six years. She remembered picquet on the train, walks on the Embankment, late dinners at the Cafe Royale. She knew James was thinking of the same.

By the time he opened his mouth to speak Simon was gone, melted away into the shadows.

#james asher vampire novels #barbara hambly #The Vampire OT3 #those who hunt the night #the kindred of darkness #paladin writes stuff

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a-confused-turtle · 6 years

Text

Meekness and Throwing Chairs

Fandom: Star Trek

Request from @ potterheadwhoviantrekkiewarstrsh : “ Hi can I make a request that the reader is Russian and is best friends with chekov but has a massive crush on McCoy but the reader is really stuborn and is often sarcastic to the doctor and it is obvious that the two (McCoy and the reader) are in love with each other thanks your last McCoy fix was amazing and the recent poe dameron one too”

Pairing Characters: LeonardMcCoyxReader, Chekov, mentions of Scotty

Words: 1600+

Warning: None? Maybe a curse word? Threat of mild violence? Maybe slightlly OOC Leonard?

Author’s Note: I might’ve used this gif before but I think it suits the story. So, to be honest I’m feeling a bit self conscious about my writing in this one... This one I just had a hard time getting out? I don’t know - things have been weird and hard in my life the past few weeks. But, it’s my birthday tomorrow! So yay. Okay, I’ll stop rambling now. Plz read the story and be gentle...

“For the last time, I’m not in love with him, Chekov,” you groaned, staring moodily at the food in front of you, “And if you insinuate such a thing one more time I’ll have to find a more creative use for my chair. And you know how creative I am.” To punctuate your threat, you turned your keen eyes to his boyish face menacingly.

It wouldn’t have been the first time you’d thrown a chair at your best friend, which was actually remarkable because in The Enterprise they were all securely attached to the flooring.

Chekov chuckled at your feistiness, though his eyes declared that he’d heard and was heeding your warning. “All I’m saying is you can be surly and abrasive, try to be a bit more hospitable and you might get somewhere…”

“Maybe I’m just surly and abrasive around you. And, oh of course, I’ll be the opposite of myself, because that’s the person I want McCoy to fall in love with. Not the real me of course, couldn’t have that,” you growled back, eyes about rolling out of your head in your annoyance.

Your threat clearly vanished from Chekov’s mind as he smirked ear to ear.

“Don’t you dare look at me like that, or I’ll-”

“See you do love him.”

“Chekov-”

“You want him to fall in love with you, said so yourself in your mocking-yet-truthful-somewhere-deep-down voice.”

Before your sharp tongue had the chance to spit a scathing retort back, your simultaneously worst nightmare and most lovely dream interrupted. “Y/N, what’s Chekov done now to get you all riled up?” He drawled casually, striding up and leaning against the table the two of you shared. Somehow you wanted to violently kiss the delicious smirk off his face, and he was the only one that seemed to inspire these confusing thoughts in your head.

You rolled your eyes and turned your head to face the doctor with amusement, or a least feigned amusement while attempting to conceal your panic stricken insides. “What’s it to you, doctor?”

“Never seen you blush before,” he replied, flicking a finger in the direction of your face before his eyes settled there. That bright, glinting gaze made you want to squirm, suddenly self conscious about that mess you called your hair and not to mention the skin he’d indicated…

“Oh please, I’m not blushing. He has been annoying me though,” you scoffed, attempting to turn back to your lunch, “What did you really need, McCoy?”

The doctor smirked a bit more, but luckily didn’t press the subject and instead answered your question with that lovely southern charm, “Just came to check up on my favorite engineering officer, but don’t you go telling Scotty that, and remind you that you’ve got a check up in the med bay this afternoon.”

“Good thing he reminded you, you’d completely forgotten hadn’t you?” Chekov snickered.

You sent a pointed glare his way and then returned your eyes to McCoy. “I’ll head down to your neck of the woods right after I tell Scotty all about your little betrayal, darlin’,” you declared, imitating his accent with surprising accuracy - it was a stark contrast to your russian one.

He chuckled at you, shooting back, “Alright, darling. See ya, Chekov.”

You couldn’t look at Chekov once McCoy strolled away, not with how your cheeks burned. There’d be no denying that blush, it was as if your entire being flushed that pinkish-red. Normally you had a handle on that sort of thing… What was the deal lately?

When you couldn’t avoid it any longer, you carefully flicked your eyes up only to be met with an even more offensive smirk. “Shut up,” you warned, eyes flaring viciously.

“Going to throw your chair at me?”

“Don’t tempt me. You know I will.”

Not long after lunch, you’d almost forgotten about the appointment, again, but quickly headed out of engineering and up to the med bay. The whole way there you kept fidgeting with your hair, or your dress, really anything to keep your hands busy, because you were nervous. Nervous as hell and you couldn’t pinpoint why. It was just a check up, a follow up on your healing wrist. A couple months back there’d been an accident and you’d broken it, but it wasn’t a big deal, not in the slightest. The added time spent with McCoy felt like the big deal…

Inside the med bay, you waved at a few people you knew and they offered smiles and waves in return. Then, McCoy strode seemingly out of nowhere and whisked you away to one of the back rooms. He’d smiled warmly at you and you noticed he hummed a little as he walked. That made you smile to yourself.

“How’s it been feeling?” He asked, referring to your wrist as you sat down.

You offered the appendendage to him, which he took gently. “No change. Aches sometimes, but feels back to normal for the most part, I think.”

McCoy listened to your answer, before returning his attention to your wrist for further examination. His hands were a bit cold, and yet soft against your skin. You couldn’t help considering how he looked rather handsome when focused on something. Well, maybe a bit more so than usual… you’d always thought he was good looking. That wasn’t a crime, nor a reason to get all flustered. Neither was how your stomach flipped a little, excitedly almost, when he was around. No, not at all. Chekov was completely wrong about your feelings for McCoy right?

You truly had been your normal surly and abrasive self around the doctor the entire time you’d known him, but once Chekov started mentioning the way you gazed after him when you thought he wasn’t looking at you, or the way you’d find excuses to imitate his accent, or even the way you never threatened to throw your chair at him… Your best friend seemed to have opened your eyes and you couldn’t figure out how to close them again…

“Now that can’t be,” McCoy said, breaking you from your thoughts, “You’re not blushing again are you?”

Instantly, your heart seemed to stop as your mind raced for some retort. “I haven’t the faintest what you’re talking about,” you attempted.

McCoy grinned and turned back to his console beside the room’s examination table. “You know, you’re beautiful when you blush, well not just when you blush, but…” The man trailed off as he finished entering a few things into the interface and turned back to you.

Your eyes widened in surprise, mind too busy considering if you’d heard right or were simply going mad to realize McCoy had paled nervously.

It’d been your look that made him regret the words… He hadn’t really even planned to say them, but somehow he was feeling daring and they’d slipped out. “Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that-”

“Do you really mean that?” You squeaked.

“Yeah, I did. I do. I guess I’m feeling a bold today. Well, more so than usual,” replied McCoy as he reached up to rub the back of his neck shamefully.

Your eyebrows raised in surprise. “Well, I’m feeling a bit meek today.”

He cautiously raised a hand to your forehead. He would’ve expected you to slap him, throw a chair, or really do anything else but this. Those borderline flirtatious, witty remarks were your trademark, not meekness…

“I’m fine,” you sighed, but made no move to throw his hand off.

“Are you sure about that? Are you really feeling alright? How long has it been since you’ve thrown a chair at someone?”

“Oh, that’s it. Withdrawals, quick find me a chair,” you replied sarcastically, even half smiling slightly.

McCoy returned a larger grin, his aim with that comment fulfilled. “Is that really the problem, darlin’?”

You groaned at first and then once McCoy had settled himself, sitting next to you, you replied, “No, the problem… that would be, you…”

It was the doctor’s turn for his eyebrows to fly halfway up his forehead.

Paying no mind, you kept your eyes on the floor and pressed on, “I can’t seem to keep a clear head around you lately. It’s quite irritating you know.”

“I’ll try to stop being so distracting,” he offered, clear satisfaction laced through his voice.

You snorted and rolled your eyes. “Sure you will.”

He bumped your shoulder with his playfully. “I don’t think I will. I kinda like you all flustered over me. That what Chekov was poking fun at earlier?”

“Yep, the bastard. You know what he’d say right now? He’d pull some line out, like ‘Oh, did you know that actually it was a little old woman in Russia invented whiskey?’ as some daft ploy before he whisks the woman away for a drink.” You scoffed, shaking your head a bit.

“I’ve heard him use that line. Works well from what I gather,” McCoy affirmed, and leaned closer to you, whether consciously or not.

“Is it working now?” That surprised you more than him, and yet it also didn’t surprise you at all. Such a sentence sounded more like your usual self.

He nudged your leg with his own, prompting you to finally meet his eyes. His had mischief behind them, which both scared and excited you. “It’s definitely working.”

“That so?” A fresh surge of blush swept across your cheeks and neck.

“Yes, well that and all the blushing,” he replied, grinning ear to ear.

“Oh, shut-” you hadn’t the time to finish before he brought his lips to yours sweetly. “Up,” you finally uttered once he pulled back though he kept his hand gently cupping your face.

“Hmm,” he chuckled, “What was that? I don’t think I heard you…”

You laughed, not even fighting the goofy smile dancing across your lips. “I said-”

Once again he silenced you with another kiss, one more forceful and passionate than the last. Of course you didn’t mind that one bit. No, you could get used to that and McCoy, well, he was going to make sure you did.

Tags: @enniaram

#leonard mccoy fanfiction #leonard mccoy x reader #leonard mccoy imagine #leonard mccoy fluff #Leonard McCoy #Star Trek Fanfiction #star trek fic #star trek imagine #star trek beyond imagine #star trek fluff #chekov #star trek mccoy #mccoy x reader #mccoy fanfiction #mccoy star trek #leonard mccoy fanfic

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ael-xander · 6 years

Photo

Healing Journal

Wakanda-- Months before Thanos

Ael stepped into the lab, shedding her knit cap, dropping her medical bag. “Shuri, I’ve been with the Jabari for weeks now since T’Challa has been named King of Wakanda, what’s going on?”

“You asked about the broken white boy I’ve been working on. I’ve got most of the programming isolated, but I think I’ll need your specific abilities for part of this.” Shuri frowned as Ael looked at the medical records. “He’s been wiped multiple times, Ael. Worse, they used multiple drug combinations to keep him controlled along with their version of the super soldier serum.”

Ael looked up. “Oh. Oh!” She stood up and went to her back, fishing out her vibranium and platinum torc. “You have to leave when I do this. This is not negotiable, Shuri.” Noticing the frown on her adopted sister’s face, Ael sighed. “Look, I know this ‘broken white boy.’ I promised a while ago, if there was a way for him to be cured, I’d make sure to keep the vulnerable away when we did it. Ubhuti would kick my ass if you were hurt.”

“Do you think I would be less upset if you were hurt, nenkuku yamanzi?” Ael spun, spotting her adopted brother, T’Challa standing there with a tall, blond hair, bearded man. Ael greeted T’Challa and the man with the traditional Wakandan greeting.

“Ubhuti, we both know I’m not in the ruling line. I’m the White Owl, healer among the tribes. Captain Rogers?” Ael looked closely at the man next to T’Challa. “You’re here for your friend. He’s in good hands with Shuri.”

“And you, if I’m to hear both King T’Challa and Shuri both. I’m just Steve Rogers now.” He put out his hand. She shook it, amazed at how gentle his touch, yet how much he held back. Just like Bucky, the Winter Soldier. This made it even more imperative to do what she promised Bucky a few years ago.

“They often overstate my abilities. I’m a simple healer, Captain Rogers, Steve.” Ael glared at T’Challa. “Especially T’Challa. You need to take Shuri out while I work. She can remotely monitor from her backup lab.” She ignored them, removing a couple of items she needed, including a small item she kept specifically of Bucky’s all these years. She pulled up the cryo-tube and started the process. “Well? I’m not joking. What I’m about to do isn’t for the faint of heart, Ubhuti. If you won’t clear the lab, I will put you all under. Your call.” Ael folded her arms across her chest.

Steve looked to T’Challa. “What does she mean by putting us under? I need to make sure Bucky is still himself when he comes back.”

T’Challa growled, then pointed to Shuri, “Hamba, udade. Akufanelekile ukulwa naye, kungekhona ngoku. She’ll only put us asleep and have the Dora Milaje take us out, Shuri.” Shuri stomped out as he turned to his friend. “Steve, Ael is a healer of power. She’s not like any healer you’ve seen before. You will let him remain. That’s my order, White Owl.”

“Then he sits out of the way. I will not tolerate interference, T’Challa. Shuri did amazing in clearing most of the crap out, but now, it’s time to heal Bucky.” Ael caressed the man’s face, a slight smile on her face. “I owe him a lot, Ubhuti. In fact, so does SHIELD. They just don’t know it. The Winter Soldier fought his own programming many times, and when he did, I met him, helping him through those times. This time, we will succeed, isn’t that right, James Buchanan Barnes?” Ael placed a hand on his heart, another on his forehead, spoke softly, a golden hue surrounding them both.

“Stay here, Steve. I must attend my sister. She will try to disobey. Ael will be weak when she comes around. Please don’t let your friend harm her. She is my sister of my heart.” T’Challa left the room as Ael started singing softly, an old song, one that Steve remembered from long ago, back in the forties.

*****

Ael sunk deep within Bucky’s mind, calling to him with the song. It was their trigger, letting each other know they were close. She heard him calling her name, his words a mixture of Russian and English. Finally, she found him in the last place she expected, a small home outside of Amsterdam. “Bucky? James? It’s Ael.”

“Come in, I’m okay, for now.” The door opened and she entered. She gasped at the haggard looking man before her. She put her hand up to Bucky’s face. “Hey now, no crying, tselitel'.”

“What did they do to you?” Ael concentrated, her mind taking in the pain, the memories of what Bucky lived through, the fight between him, Tony Stark and Steve Rogers. “That was not your fault, Bucky! The Winter Soldier program was in operation. SHIELD tried to get someone to stop both of the Starks from going out that night, but they wouldn’t listen! This wasn’t your fault. If you didn’t kill them, someone else would.”

She hugged the soldier to her, letting him hold her, letting her work her magic, her healing on him. She knew that soon, he’d push her away, but she also knew that she was prepared this time to go the full distance since Shuri deactivated the programming. When Bucky pulled back, Ael smiled up at him. “Hey, I brought something for you.” She pulled out a picture from her jacket. “You told me to hold onto this until it was time. It’s time, Bucky. Time for the cure.”

Bucky looked at her. “You’re sure?” She nodded and gestured to the couch. “It’s not going to be easy. I have to heal and rectify the good and bad, but yes, the programming is gone thanks to my adopted sister, a genius that makes Stark look like a baby.” Bucky’s laughter was all Ael needed to hear.

Sitting next to him, she started. “Look at the picture of you and Steve. He’s waiting, you know? When you wake up, he’s waiting near me. He’s been in Wakanda waiting for you to be healed. Let’s begin and make your friend a happy man.”

Bucky nodded and Ael started singing, touching his face from the third eye, to his lips, to his temples, even his chest, emphasizing each memory, good, bad, indifferent, putting them in order, helping them to be just memories, none that could harm him, nothing that could give him nightmares as she took all his pain, all the suffering from him. This she would do for the man who hurt so many, yet when he could, saved so many others. That was their secret.

He fought his programming for years on and off, when he did, she would help save his intended victims, relocating them, giving them new names, new identities, and convincing those who ordered the hits that they were gone. Ael would not let him keep the guilt any longer. He deserved to live free and clear, to be the warrior and patriot she knew him to be. Finally, she kissed him gently, causing him to open his eyes. “Hey, there, handsome. It’s almost time to wake up in the real world. You ready?”

Bucky inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “I’m still missing my arm, aren’t I?” He looked to where his left arm was wrapped around her. She nodded. “Yes, but if I know my sister, Shuri, I won’t think it’ll be for long. How do you feel, Bucky? Still having Winter Soldier sensations?”

“None. I mean, I feel the strength, the power, the stuff that Steve spoke about being Captain America, but none of the bad aspects anymore. What did you do, Ael?”

“What I’m mean to do, Bucky.” Ael kissed his temple. “Wake up, time to come home and see your friend. Wake up, Bucky.”

********

Ael bent over Bucky, kissed his temple, “Wake up, Bucky. You have someone waiting to see you.” His eyes fluttered open and she smiled softly. “Hey, handsome, welcome back to the world. I think you have a friend waiting to say hello.” She released his restraints, gesturing to Steve Rogers. Stepping back, Ael grabbed the desk, her knuckles going white. She’d overdone it, but it was worth it. She placed the picture of Bucky and Steve into Bucky’s hand as Bucky stood up.

“Steve? What are you doing here?” Bucky looked back at Ael, who gestured for him to go to his friend. He looked to his friend, hesitant, but happy.

“Bucky! You’re okay?” Steve stepped forward, grabbing Bucky and hugging him. “You’re back, right? Completely you again?”

“Yeah, whatever they’ve done, no more impulses from anyone else but me.” Bucky turned to Ael, but she was carefully making her way out the door, giving them time alone. “She’s not okay, Steve. Ael took away all the bad shit. She’s in agony right now. We can’t let her just go like this.”

Steve looked at his friend, then to the doorway. “You sure?”

“Trust me, I know this woman. I owe her my life a few times over. She’s not just a healer, Steve. She’s an empath. She takes your pain as her own.” Bucky turned to the door as Steve did, both going after Ael.

As they went through the doorway, Ael started to turn a corner, then slid down, her legs going out from under her. She tried to stand up, but her legs kept giving out as Bucky and Steve rushed to her side. She waved them away. “No! You two have much to talk about. I’m fine. I just lost my balance.”

Bucky turned her chin to have her look at him. “Lozh', tselitel'? Ael, you know better than to lie to me.” He gestured to Steve to pick her up. “She has a room somewhere, I bet. Is T’Challa around?”

The King and Shuri rushed to them. “Dammit, Ael, I’ve told you before to not do this to yourself. You cannot drain yourself to this level, especially when you won’t go to the Order for teaching.” He nodded to Steve and Bucky. “Thank you, both. Follow me, I’ll show you to her room. My sister is a stubborn one.”

Ael glared at T’Challa. “Not any more stubborn than you, Shuri or Nakia. Okoye has been updating me on your latest adventures, Ubhuti. Not to mention what M’Baku had to say.” Ael laid back against Steve’s shoulder. “If you could please put me down, I can walk, Steve.”

“Your brother would kill me, so no.” Steve and Bucky followed the royal siblings into an elevator and they emerged into a corridor where Ael suddenly went very still. “T’Challa, no. I refuse this. Let me go room with the Dora Milaje.”

“You have a perfectly acceptable room, Ael. You will use it.” T’Challa pointed out the door with a white owl on it. “Please, Steve. This is her suite. Ael hates being here because then she’s taken care of.”

“Treated like a sacrificial cow.” Ael grumbled, as Steve placed her on the blue couch in her rooms. “Thank you, Steve. Ubhuti, I’m not staying. If the rumours I hear are true about war coming, I need to go home.”

“Where’s home?” Steve asked.

“New York. I’m a nurse practioner there. There will be so many people at risk, I can’t just leave them.” Ael stared out the window. “I know I owe my life to Wakanda too, brother, but I’ve paid my debts.”

T’Challa nodded. “Yet, you will always answer the call, as you always do.” He pointed to the bracelet on her wrist. “Shuri provided you with the newest toy of hers?”

“Did I have a choice?” Ael smiled. “Shuri loves giving me tech. In turn, I give her what she needs to keep people healthy here, healing crystals.” Ael pointed to the pile sitting on the table. “Those are for Shuri. I spent time collecting them and prepping them while I was here. They’re ready for what comes.”

T’Challa nodded. Bucky leaned over Ael, kissing her cheek. “We will talk some time soon, Ael. You took on too much.”

Ael sighed. “Sure thing, Ingcuka.”

The others left the room, leaving Shuri and Ael alone. Shuri sighed. “He is a white wolf, isn’t he? Will he be okay?”

“He needs time to adjust to people and to real life. You can help with that, Shuri.” Ael stretched her arms over her head. “I have to get out of here. Ubhuti cannot keep me here.”

“You have a new flitter. Nakia and Okoye made sure you were given one after all you did in the south and in the mountains.” Shuri made a face. Ael laughed. “Ael, seriously, you do more than is necessary.”

“I’m the face of the family, Shuri. You all are the royals from afar. I’m the one who cannot inherit the throne. I’m the little white child who almost got eaten by the Wakandan panther.” Ael slowly stood up, making her way to the kitchenette. “I go to the tribes to cement relations because healers cannot be touched.”

“They’ve tried to kill you.” Shuri stomped her foot. “T’Challa still hasn’t forgiven some of the tribes for that, even when father did.”

“T’Chaka was smart to do so. In turn, I gained their respect by not turning over who hurt me. But I also made those men impotent, so they could not procreate their hate further.” Ael smiled. “Sometimes the power of the healer is what people believe can be done. In my case, it’s the fact of what they’ve seen me do, even at my own cost, Shuri. It’s what keeps peace.”

“Don’t like it. T’Challa says it’s selling your soul, even if he renews it every year at mother’s wish.” Shuri sighed. “I want you here because you want to be here.”

“I do want to be here. But I also serve where I’m needed, Shuri. Just like you and the other Wakandans are now doing. I just started earlier than you, that’s all.” Ael kissed her sister on the forehead. “You are a brilliant woman, Shuri. One day, you will make a brilliant queen. But let’s hope it won’t be for many years to come, right?”

“Right.” Shuri smiled and helped Ael to make some food, knowing that her sister would be leaving soon after, before T’Challa could deny her. “You know he’ll be pissed.”

“That’s why I have you and the Dora Milaje to run interference.” Ael smiled. “Otherwise, I’d have to fight him. That wouldn’t be fun nor fair for anyone.”

“You’d lose.”

“No, actually, I’d win, Shuri.” Ael looked out at the sky. “I’d win because unlike my brother, I’m willing to do whatever is necessary, including cheat to make sure I’m free.” Ael looked at Shuri. “I have to get home. Gram is dead, has been for a while now. But more importantly, something keeps telling me, I need to go home, I need to be in New York. I need to heed this, okay?”

Shuri nodded. “But if we need you?”

“I will be here. You are family, just like Shelly, Bast, Reed, and Sue. Family before anything and anyone.” Ael hugged Shuri. “This I swear. I just don’t know why, but this is important, sister.”

“Then I’ll set you up with some goodies to help you.” Ael smiled and nodded. Shuri went out of the suite and Ael looked around. Soon she’d leave, and the sooner she left, the safer it would be for everyone here.

“

#fanfic #original fiction #original character #black panther #bucky barnes #everett ross #marvel #MCU #Avengers #captain america

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best-left-hook-jones · 7 years

Text

It Is Not Yet Evening (7/?)

Summary: Historical AU. It is 1917, and with the Russian empire on the verge of collapse, Emma - a former maid for the Imperial family - means to escape the imminent revolution and start a new life in London. Desperately fleeing the Bolsheviks and armed with fake documents and a new identity, she sets out to find the mysterious man with the power to grant her her freedom. But the road to Moscow is a treacherous one, and a chance encounter with a wealthy British businessman may change her life forever.

Words: 30,189

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7

23 km South of Vyshny Volochyok; March 14th, 1917. 12:45am.

Emma had feigned sleep when Killian had entered the cabin twenty minutes later.

Twenty minutes after absolutely and resolutely nothing had happened.

Perhaps it had been childish, but she hadn’t been able to bear facing him after the near kiss in the hallway, and by the sounds of his footsteps wearing holes in the flooring outside, neither could he. So she had sat, wringing her hands in her lap and trying to muster the courage to say or do anything. Leaving was not an option; she was still in need of the money that came with her task and there was clearly no reason to fear him making any sort of unwelcome advances against her. He had been the one to back off first, after all.

But the question was why.

While she chastised herself now for her stupidity, it wasn’t as though the evening had gone poorly. In fact, she had to admit that she had been rather enjoying herself until the night had taken an unexpected turn. He had wanted to kiss her, she had been sure of it. The heat in his eyes, the small parting of his lips as his gaze had flickered down to her own. She had only been kissed a handful of times - and most of those were stolen kisses from her youth, when a celebratory atmosphere and the gentle words of the kitchen boy had been enough to sweep her off of her feet. But as out of practice as she might have been, Emma was sure she knew the signs, and in that moment Killian Jones had wanted her.

For a cruel moment she allowed herself to think that he had been intentionally playing with her, a sort of payback for her teasing at the table, but she quickly shook it off. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t been because of that. He had been a good listener and she was sure that he hadn’t feigned his interest in her tales about happier times at the palace, even if most of the details had had to be tweaked. It had been difficult to find topics that were entirely safe to discuss without compromising her identity, but as the evening had wore on she had found a sort of rhythm. Her words had flowed naturally off of her tongue and she had allowed herself to be immersed in the memories of hot summer days in the palace gardens, evening strolls through the hallways with Granny and morning breakfasts with Ruby. Despite the homesickness she had felt at points, their conversation had been cathartic and she had been glad to share her tales with someone.

He had not revealed much about himself - he had mostly asked questions about herself - but she had learned one thing of importance; he had loved and lost someone dear to him. Milah . Seeing the tattoo on his wrist had admittedly shocked her; she had never seen anyone of his wealth and rank bear one and certainly not one of personal significance. Though she had been eager to know more, she hadn’t asked; just because he literally wore his heart on his sleeve did not mean it was a story he wished to share with her. As someone who kept more than her share of cards held close to her chest, she understood that, and she had kept that knowledge at the back of her mind throughout the rest of their dinner together.

If she was honest, her thoughts had flickered to the scrawled ink name moments before their near kiss. Part of her had wanted to test - to know - what role this woman still played in his life, if any. She liked to think that the Killian Jones that she had come to know over the past few hours would not have kissed her if there was a woman waiting at home for him. If his reaction were any proof, she couldn’t rule it out.

But something in her gut told her that that wasn’t the entire story. This was not a man who was struggling with the temptation of an affair. Whoever this 'Milah' woman was, Killian truly loved her and longed for her. It was not a move made out of lust, but one made out of longing for another. It was the only truth that made sense.

He had said that the tattoo was a remembrance for someone in his past, but Emma was not so naive as to think that that meant that the past was still in the past. She had seen the same haunted look before in Victor, the court physician. Dr. Whale had always been kind to her and the royals, a faithful servant to the empire and one of the cornerstones in the battle for the tsarevich's health. But he had ghosts of his own, and his often came in the form of his two eldest sons who had died in the last war. He had never spoken to her about them, but word had made its way through the palace as it often did and she knew how much the loss tormented him, even now. No one ever doubted the doctor’s dedication to his work or to the family, but Emma sometimes wondered if there was another reason for Victor's long hours of study, constantly attempting to find a way to heal without end. Emma had thought the pursuit extreme, but it had seemed to settle his mind. And whatever helped ease the loneliness and sorrow for even the slightest moment had to be good, did it not?

Perhaps that had been all that the moment had been to Killian; not a heated urge to scratch an itch caused by close quarters on a long train ride, but a momentary longing to soothe an ache in his heart.

The thoughts swirled in her mind as she considered everything anew. When they finally settled again, she came to a decision; it mattered very little why Killian had backed off. It only mattered that he had and that they had stumbled upon another boundary that would now need to be respected. There was no reason to discuss it; the 'nothing' that had happened could remain just that.

And so she had closed her eyes and evened her breathing when the sound of the door sliding open had filled the otherwise silent cabin. She had heard him step into the room, his footfalls cautious and uncertain as he made his way to stand just in front of her.

He blew out a long sigh, the scent of rum strong on his breath. It seemed he had decided to dip back into his stash while out in the hallway. She couldn’t really blame a man for turning to his second vice when the first failed miserably. Emma had known many alcoholics in her time at the palace, and their stories all seemed to sound the same; it was far easier to forgive oneself when you no longer remembered your own name.

The sound of a heavy coat being slung over a hook near the door followed next, and she heard him kick off his shoes before the creak of the leather seats let her know that he had moved to the bench across from her. Even with her eyes closed, Emma could tell the moment that Killian dimmed the oil lamp between them, the last bit of light that she had been able to make out through her eyelids snuffed out. There was silence again, and Emma worried that he was on to her little deception. Worse, she worried that he would call her out on it, forcing her into a conversation she dearly wished not to have.

But no such comment came, and before long, the man’s breaths began to relax and deepen into a light snore. Emma waited another few moments to be sure before cracking open an eye. The oil lamp hadn't been entirely extinguished as she had thought, the small flame left burning giving off just enough warmth and light to make out the features of her companion. Sure enough, he was passed out in the seat across from her, his lips slightly parted and his body relaxed.

Even though Killian’s suggestion to rest was well advised, she wouldn’t. Her mind was too full, the leather seat covering too unfamiliar beneath her. Instead, she watched the man sleep, his head pillowed on a jacket that he had tucked between himself and the window. It was amazing that he was able to sleep with the heavy rocking of the train. She had never been one to sleep, even on the few excursions she had made by train with the imperial family. She was always keenly aware of every knot and rivet in the tracks, jostled awake by even the smallest of tremors.

Her companion, on the other hand, seemed quite capable of finding himself comfortable no matter how cramped the conditions. It could not have helped matters that he had fallen asleep with his leather satchel wedged between his right side and the window, the bulky item no doubt digging painfully into his side. He would awaken sore if he remained like that, she was sure.

With a sigh she scooted forward and with one hand, slowly inched the satchel out from under him, careful not to disturb him. With the other hand, she stuffed her own wool shawl in the space where the bag had been, feeling victorious and satisfied when the man immediately snuggled in closer to the soft bundle.

She sat back again in her seat, the bag resting heavy in her lap as she watched him settle back into a deeper sleep. The bag was heavier than it looked. It appeared well-loved too, with the likely once fine leather now covered in light scuff marks. She could tell where someone had attempted to clean it in spots, where the colour seemed slightly more rubbed and faded, but it was the large, metal insignia adorning one of the flaps. It was round, about the size of her palm, with three stars arranged in a vertical line down the middle. Though it might not have been as lavishly intricate as some of the designs she was used to seeing decorating the imperial officers, it was clearly a symbol that held power and it was clearly military. On the backside of the flap was a single name, engraved in gold letters of looping scrawl; JONES. Well, at least there were no surprises there.

It was strange to think of the man in front of her having any association with war. That was not to say that he did not have the physique for war - he did. He appeared tall and strong and, despite the borderline alcoholism, perfectly healthy. But his face wasn’t covered in half healed scars and his hair was longer than was suitable for uniform. There was a kindness and a tenderness about him that didn’t fit her vision of the bloodstained and battle-hardened soldier.

Of course, there was a way to find out more; the answer was sitting in her lap. All she had to do was open it. He was asleep, after all, and it might be the only chance that she would be given to learn more about her travelling companion.

She waved and clicked her fingers in the air between them to ensure that he was well and truly asleep. When there was nothing, she opened the bag and began her search.

The inside of the bag was neat - extraordinarily neat. Whoever Killian Jones was, he was clearly a man of discipline and orderliness, someone who took great care of his possessions. It fit, given the evidence of his military past. Everything in the bag seemed to have its own assigned place, right down to the small blue ink pen poking up from one of the inside pockets.

Most of the items in the bag were fairly standard, she discovered. A book about navigation, a bottle of pain medicine, some papers with the date and times of cargo shipments, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, a small jar of toothpaste and a comb. She was only relieved that Killian hadn’t been awake to witness her blush furiously at her delicate handling of his undergarments. The shipment ledgers did not reveal anything of interest either, though she did note that most of the payments seemed to be made in ports in Petrograd and London. She had to scoot closer to the lamp to read the mix of bold printed letters and delicate scrawl. Many of the cargo shipments from the Admiralty Shipyard bore Killian’s signature, and those that remained unsigned had small notes scribed in the margins.

Emma was by no means an expert in espionage, but from the looks of it, everything at least appeared to be in order.

“I never took you for a thief.”

Emma jumped so high in her seat that she was lucky not to have dislocated something. Her head snapped up to find piercing blue eyes staring at her from the bench across from her. He hadn’t moved from his spot, his head still tucked into his makeshift pillow, but there was no sign of sleep in his features now. He had clearly been watching her for a while now. Emma’s heart nearly stopped in her chest.

“I am not a thief,” she breathed out, the nerves in her voice evident.

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the satchel still grasped in her hands.

She couldn’t think of a single word to bring to her defence. “I was just…”

“Just trying to see what kind of man I really am?” His voice was harsher now, his anger no doubt building from the look of guilt on her face. “Try something new, love. It is called ‘trust’.”

“I am sorry.”

“That you were caught red handed? I am certain you are.”

“For betraying your trust,” she continued, ignoring his quip. “You took a chance by allowing me to share your cabin and I abused it. It will not happen again. I am so very sorry.”

Emma rushed to replace everything in the satchel as it was before, but it was made more difficult by the slight shaking of her hands. She did blush as she replaced the clothes, and though she racked her brain to remember the exact location that each item had been in when she had removed them, she was sure that at least some were inevitably going to be misplaced. It only helped fuel her shame as she wondered how much angrier he would be at the disorganization.

When everything was at least back in the bag, she fastened the flaps shut and handed the bag back to its owner. Killian accepted it with a harsh tug, shoving the bag into the seat next to him. Instead of tucking the bag away, he opened it again, his eyes flickering to hers as he checked and rechecked the contents. He had moved out of the range of the light, and Emma could no longer make out the flurry of emotions on his face. Emma sat back, avoiding his gaze as she chewed on her bottom lip. It was a moment later that she heard Killian let out a resigned huff and toss the bag back on the seat.

He had turned back towards the light and Emma quickly looked up to examine his face. Although he seemed relieved to find his possessions relatively untouched, there were still obvious traces of annoyance in his face.

It made her flinch. She had made a terrible mistake. She had spied on him and learned only that he seemed to be as truthful and honest as he appeared. How many times had she blasted him for making their arrangement personal? Chastised him for asking for answers to questions that he had no business knowing? She was a hypocrite, plain and simple. He would make her leave now, she was sure of it. Why would he not? She had betrayed the abundance of trust he had shown her by inviting her into his cabin, sharing his meals, and offering her pay for a job that she wasn’t entirely convinced he needed done. Leave it to her to treat an act of kindness with suspicion and distrust. She deserved to be kicked out, left to spend the rest of the journey in her third class carriage with the rest of the thieves and vagabonds.

Emma sat, eyes shut tight as she waited, resigned, for the words to come. She only hoped that he would be kind and that he would not ask her to pay for her half of the meal they had enjoyed together. She would not fault him if he did, but she wasn't sure she would be afford it. Even a quarter of the meal would have set her finances back a ways, and she hadn't meant to be so careless with her money so early on. She was barely hours away from home and she was already struggling to pay her debts.

But when the words of eviction never came, she opened her eyes. Killian had shifted back into his previous pose, his coat once again tucked against the window to keep the cold at bay, but he wasn’t asleep. He was reading, the novel that she had found in his bag now clutched in one hand, his eyes focus determinedly on the words in front of him. She was sure that he was having trouble making out the words in such dim light, but he made no move to illuminate the flame further and she did not mention it. Other than the slight tightness in his brow, there was no trace in his posture that an argument had just taken place.

Even though his gaze was pointedly elsewhere, Emma squirmed in her seat. What was she meant to do now? The prospect of sitting in awkward silence for the next dozen hours was infinitely worse than sitting alone, she thought. She needed to say something. She needed to fix things. So she asked the first question that came to her mind.

“You are not going to sleep?”

“Are you hoping to catch me unawares again?” He snapped back without looking up, though his tone held much less fire than it had before.

“That was not what I meant.”

This time he did look up, disappointment and resignation clear in the blue pools of his eyes.

“Perhaps instead of worrying about my own sleeping habits, you should return your attention to your own,” he advised, with a sigh. “You cannot expect to accompany me the entire journey to Moscow without resting.”

“So I can - er - that is to say that you are not going to…” She was stuttering, she knew that, but she couldn't help her surprise. Was he truly letting her stay?

He looked at her curiously, his head tilting to the side and he took in her confusion. “Did you think I was going to ask you to leave?”

She blushed at how easily he had read her. “I was not sure,” she admitted. Her confession seemed to startle him, as though the thought that he would dismiss her so easily was somehow offensive to him. Given what she had learned about his character, perhaps it was. Emma watched his eyes flicker between her own as he looked at her anew. She wasn't sure what he was looking for exactly, but when he spoke again a moment later - his voice soft - she thought he hadn't found it.

“Perhaps, then, we are in more trouble than I had realized.”

There was a pregnant pause where no one spoke, the weight of the confessed distrust and wariness hanging between them. It was a far cry from the laughter and joking that had taken place only a few hours before, and Emma hated that she had been the one to sully that. He was still staring at her intently, but now there were hints of sorrow mixed in with the lingering anger in his eyes. She had disappointed him, and in more ways than just her snooping, it seemed. The knowledge that she had given him a reason to distrust her - that she had brought him any discomfort at all, really - sat heavy in her stomach. Granny would have been disappointed in her.

Her parents would have been disappointed in her.

Killian turned his attention away from her then and began reading his book. Emma had been a maid long enough to recognize a clear dismissal when presented with one. In any other circumstances she would have flushed at his rudeness, but given that she was largely at fault for his sour mood to begin with, she said nothing.

This was not how she had envisioned the trip going. It should have been a cut and dry job for her, something that provided her with the cash that she needed. Nothing more. But now she had complicated things by being nosy - the one thing that she had argued against from the beginning - and she only hoped that with the morning would come forgiveness. If not, she would need to prepare herself for hours of silence and solitude.

But there was no use in worrying over that now. She had made her bed, and it was time to lie in it, even if she knew that Killian’s advice to rest in the literal sense was likely futile. Still, she would try, even if just to appease him. He did not appear to be trying to sleep again any time soon, and perhaps if she pretended long enough he would get his wish and she would doze off for a while. So Emma sat back in her seat, tucking her legs up underneath her as she settled into a position that mirrored Killian's. She brought up her coat around her neck and tucked her head into the large folds, shielding her face from the man across from her lest he find out that she had also been feigning sleep. Emma wasn’t sure - or willing to find out - what his reaction to that would be. Peeking through her eyelashes, she looked out the window and prepared for the long night ahead.

There was nothing to see given the late hour, but every so often she could swear she saw flickers of lights from towns in the distance. It was impossible, of course, given the restrictions on fuel, but she felt the exhaustion of the day overtake her and her mind clung on to the thought that somewhere out there were houses where families with full, warm hearths lay cozied together in a large bed, blissfully uncaring of the storm that raged around them. She could almost see it in her mind’s eye. Perhaps the children were snuggled in between their parents, wool socks pulled up high to keep out any cold that the hot fire missed. She hoped the children had gone to bed with full bellies tonight, but even in her imagination she was doubtful. The husband would have kissed his wife goodnight hours ago, she thought, and though he would hear her complaints and teases about the prickliness of his beard, in the morning he would wake to a steaming cup of tea from the samovar.

Emma let the scene wash over her, her body relaxing as the face of the nameless wife flickered between a stranger’s and her own. Even the spark of envy in her gut towards the fictional lady was not enough to dull the visions, and soon her mind was deep into memories of her childhood and her secret dreams for her future. Every so often, the sound of a page being turned entered her awareness and, almost on cue, the scene would change again. The visions danced across the inside of her eyelids like scenes from a film, though they were vibrant in colour, sound and smell. Slowly, she felt the last of her tension give way and, for the first time ever, she let the rocking of a train lull her to a deep slumber.

Emma was already long asleep by the time the locomotive pulled in to the next station, the black puffs of smoke blending seamlessly into the night sky. Although the train would only be at rest for a few minutes, the dark figures that had been waiting on the platform for hours for its arrival were quick. They emerged out of the night like ghosts, nodding sharply at the train attendants as they boarded the sleeper train. The attendants only nodded back, stepping aside to allow one of the groups of the armed men to pass.

The first pair of boots clambered up the short steps at the front of the train to where the conductor was waiting, hat in hand.

“Good evening.” The conductor’s voice was firm, a clear attempt at establishing his authority of his visitors. It may have been regulation to allow the military men on board, but it was still his train and he wasn’t prepared to hand over control so easily. It a sentiment that was quickly brushed aside by the military officer before him.

“Your passenger and cargo lists, conductor.” When the conductor hesitated, gearing himself up to remind him just who it was that was in charge, he added, “Quickly now.”

After another moment of indecision, the conductor relented, shuffling over to gather the requested papers. When they were handed over, the officer turned away without another word and marched back out into the small hallway and down the steps to the platform where the rest of the unit remained. The papers were divided up between the awaiting men, who quickly scanned the pages, their eyes squinting against the dark and snow. The papers blew and shook in their hands with the wind, but not a single man said a word. The leader of the group waited as they read, the flicker of a lighter briefly illuminating his dark features as he lit a fresh cigarette.

Another moment passed as the soldiers finished their pages one by one. When the last man had signaled their readiness, the leader threw down his cigarette butt, crushing it into the snow using the heel of his boot.

“Let’s us begin.”

#Captain Swan #cs au fic #ouat fanfic #cs fanfic #IINYE #It Is Not Yet Evening #captain swan ff #cs ff #nextfewwords #captain swan fanfiction #ouat ff

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crowleyaj · 7 years

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Maroni

Fourth story for 9 Days Christmas Writing Challenge. Look, I’ve crossed the word count limit again, haha! Almost by a thousand! But it’s worth it!

Hannigram. Post-TWotL. In compliance with all of my other stories, in which they live in Austria (that was before we knew of Cuba okay?). They visit Wiener Christkindlmarkt.

Christmas. For most people, it was time of family gatherings, happiness, thankfulness, forgiveness, selflessness, and wishes come true, among other things. As other things, you could count shopping, baking, and colourful lights, for instance, but that belonged elsewhere.

For certain people, Christmas meant the time to crawl out of their hideout outside civilisation for a moment and enjoy the enthralling beauty of the crowded metropolis where no one could recognise their faces among a million tourists and passer-bys.

And it was also time of miracles.

It was relatively safe, Hannibal assured Will. Although, the alarming relatively at the back of his mind wouldn’t leave him to rest until the trip was over. He still was not hundred per cent certain if it were a wise decision to show themselves to the world as of yet.

The pink and not yet entirely healed scar marking Will’s cheek lurked from beneath the edge of his beard, waiting for people to notice. The image of it reflected in the car window, and Will could not stop thinking about what it had reminded him of.

It was a souvenir from the night they had vanquished the Dragon, forever there, forever disturbing. The beard covers it almost entirely, Hannibal said. People are always in rush, they will not catch sight of it, Hannibal said. You are beautiful, Hannibal said.

Hannibal talked a lot. It was his profession. Did any of that help, though?

They passed a sign announcing they had entered the city of Vienna. They couldn’t very well turn round and go back to their cabin in the middle of snow-covered Alps now. At least it would be dark soon. That was promising.

As if Hannibal smelled the concern on Will’s mind, he averted his gaze from the road before him, and turned to the man in the passenger seat.

“Stop burdening your mind with possibilities that will never occur, Will.” He knew what he was thinking of. He saw it in his eyes, probably. “Focus your mind on the good things.”

Good things. Easy to say. His mouth stretched into a half-smile. “Sometimes, you are too optimistic for this world.”

“There is only truth on what I say,” he replied in a second, matter-of-fact. He had to look back at the road. There was a semaphore and a shining red on it. “There is no need to worry.”

If you think so, crossed Will’s mind. He did not say it aloud. For awhile, he remained silent, and then he said, too as a fact, “You’ve missed your gourmet stores and liveliness of the city. Ever since we’ve arrived here.”

A green light replaced the red one. Hannibal set off again. He clicked his tongue. “Yes, I have. But that is not the point.”

“Then what is?” Will turned to look at him for the first time during the ride. Hannibal’s eyes were nothing but concentrated.

“It’s Christmas, Will,” he answered as though it explained everything. These days, it did.

Why are you suddenly playing Silent Night? You don’t like the song. It’s Christmas. Why do you want to go cross-country skiing? It’s Christmas. What do we need spruce branches for? Decorating them. It’s Christmas.

“Momentary abreaction will only do us good. Going to the markets, buying something for the sheer pleasure of it, walking among the lights – that all can make us forget about our onerous life and remind us what it used to be like to live a regular one.”

“We never had a regular life, Hannibal,” Will pointed out. They couldn’t have, even, not with the jobs they have chosen. And well, everyone knew who Hannibal Lecter was. Anything but regular.

And he, of course, had a reply to that too, “Then it can remind us what it would be like to have one.”

He was right. Damn right. Life on the run was more than difficult; they had to create aliases and fake credentials, they had to constantly look over their back, they had to live in the shadows, never going further than to the nearest grocery shop, and only for a while. The lack of FBI offices in Europe did not mean they couldn’t be watching. This was their first trip since the escape.

Tall skyscrapers of the modern UNO Stadt shining in afar and lots of tower blocks in the vicinity changed the dull view from the windows into a tiny bit more interesting one.

“I guess you’re right,” admitted Will, albeit still feeling unsure. He shifted in his seat nervously. What if—?

He really did not want to think about it. He focused on the buildings outside instead. He loved European cities and landscapes and how different from his home yet still the same everything looked.

We’re just tourists, he told himself. Just tourists. No one will pay attention to two more men in the crowds.

That comforted him enough to stop reflecting about what might or might not happen. His mind felt like empty, then.

The hum of the engine accompanied by the view was oddly relaxing.

Hannibal parked their car right in the centre, after he bought a ticket. He has found a spot near Maria-Theresien Platz.

“You must live, Will,” he told him when getting off, sensing the reluctance radiating from him. Yes, he must live. And that began here.

He got off the car as well. For the first time in a while, he took a deep breath of the sharp winter air that burnt his nostrils as he inhaled. The wind was no lighter than the Alpine; it winnowed his hair in all directions. He felt the need to wrap himself up in his coat and scarf tighter. But he couldn’t.

Hannibal locked the car with a beep. He looked round himself, eyes narrowed.

The square was unusually busy for a Wednesday – but then again, it was one of the places that drawn tourists the most for its abundant Christmas market famous all over the world. There were families, couples, friends, all tootling around, observing, chatting, buying decorations or sweets, drinking punch.

There were also armed policemen, after the Berlin attacks. Yes, they had heard about that. No, Hannibal definitely had said nothing about eating terrorists killing innocent people instead of putting them to prison, if they were captured and dealt with at all. Will tried not to look at them, not to raise any suspicion. But what could ordinary Austrian policemen know. Nothing.

He could recognise several different languages, too. German, mostly, but he caught a snippet of a dialogue between two French people and heard Russian from somewhere behind them. A group of English tourists just passed their car. There were also many people speaking in various Slavic tongues, which Will could not know, but Hannibal surely would.

(He did. They were Polish and Czech or Slovak, he informed him. He was not sure of those two for the similarity of the languages, he informed him. Will did not care.)

“Come on,” Hannibal prompted him by putting a hand on the small of his back. He was used to that by now, touches. In public. If he were gentle an unobtrusive.

The hand lingered for a little longer. Will could feel the spot warm. He told himself to relax and at least put on a feigned smile for the audience.

The almost visible Christmas spirit filling the air penetrated his body to the bones with every step toward the first punch stand, and helped him significantly. The incredible smells of foods and drinks wafting from all sides even more so.

“The day is all yours, Will. Do not hesitate to buy whatever strikes your mind, if it is a pointless trinket or a kilogram of sweets with too much sugar you know I would strongly disapprove of. You deserve it,” Hannibal said, and it was unlike him more than anything he had ever said before. “Just for today.”

Will got an idea – and for the first time, he felt excitement about being in Vienna, for he did have a general idea of what he could find there. And what Hannibal disapproved of.

The fear retreated to his subconsciousness; nonetheless, it was omnipresent, perpetual. It won’t go away.

Yet somehow, “Spoiling me, are you? Fattening me up with sugar so you could shove me in the oven and make a roast of me?” Will joked, and earnestly laughed. He was painfully aware he was playing with fire, because he knew what he was alluding to, yet he could not help himself. That sentence was straightforward yelling make a cannibalistic joke á la Hansel and Gretel, you know you want to. And he couldn’t shut it up.

Dark jokes were a part of their eternal game.

“Yes, because that is all I desire, my dear.”

Will returned to the accustomed tense state. At that moment, only God knew what was on Hannibal’s mind; he pronounced the response in absolute seriousness. Will dared not to look him in the eyes, fearing of what might reflect in them. He laughed, and watched Hannibal’s mouth twitch into a smile as well.

“Anything, you say?” he asked as he came to senses. It was hard to think of what he might want. Everything and nothing.

“Indeed,” he affirmed, looking at each stand’s goods himself. Nothing seemed to have caught his attention for long. “But keep on mind there still are many other places we are to visit later.”

Even so, a promise was a promise.

When they approached a stand selling kitschy glass ornaments, he decided they had to have that one shaped like a sitting golden retriever to decorate the bundle of spruce branches in a ceramic vase Hannibal had brought as substitute for a proper tree. And since Hannibal had said they had had enough of money to spend, he took one proud silver stag as well. It reminded him of Abigail.

Hannibal did not stay behind. He bought some incense at a stand near the Kunsthistorische Museum. Old memories, he said. He purchased the finest Chinese green tea, because the shop in the village nearest to their habitat had only sacheted one that tasted like dust and fustiness. And when he set foot near one of the stands with piles of home-made bratwursts, he actually engaged in (rather long) conversation with the butcher in fluent German.

Will did not understand much of it, but from what he caught, they were talking about the right spices and what parts of certain animals were the best to make the most savoury sausages.

For a moment there, he wondered whether Hannibal talked about animals or it were metaphors created by his twisted mind he had fed him and his colleagues for so goddamn long.

So much for inconspicuousness.

The worries hidden in the back of his mind began to creep into his thoughts once again. He did not like it whatsoever.

He stepped closer. “Let’s just go, Hannibal. I want to go,” he whispered, putting it as subtly as he could, although the rising trepidation was still audible in his voice. Only he could hear it.

Hannibal apologised to the butcher, said few last words, and bought four bratwursts of two different kinds. He did not blame Will for wanting to go. He knew that he needed time, that he felt strongly uncomfortable still.

They moved on, leaving other customers greedy after sausages to their business.

A woman with a basket of red roses suddenly appeared from nowhere, and crossed their path. She muttered something very fast, attempting to coerce them to take a flower. It appeared innocent – except she would want money right after she would shove it in their hands. Will knew, Hannibal told. Pathetic.

He had told him to never take the rose, too. Nonetheless, now facing it himself, he did not hesitate to take the reddest of roses he could find. He promptly handed the woman a 2€ coin. Will thought it for foolish, and wondered what made Hannibal change his mind so suddenly – until he was being handed the flower with a heartfelt smile.

“For you, Will.” He blushed. Honestly, blushed. He was quite wordless at the moment.

He accepted it, and smelled it as an automatic gesture upon receiving a flower. It did not smell like roses normally did at all. It was winter; it was raised in a greenhouse, obviously.

“Thank you, Hannibal. Not just for this,” he waved the rose in the air, “for, you know, listening to me.” Because frankly, the rose was more of a nuisance than a pleasure. He had nowhere to put it, and it will probably die before they return home.

Did he call the cabin home, now? He did not know what it was. What this life was. Something not yet labelled, undiscovered.

Hannibal gazed into his eyes more intensely; it made Will slightly uncomfortable. He has gotten used to those eyes, but a minute of ceaseless eye contact was a bit too much to bear. His brain told him to look away, look away, look away.

He did not.

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice was so soft. He actually found himself being fond of how his name sounded rolling on his tongue. “Do you not realise I would do anything for you?”

He did. Oh, he did, and it hurt. He could not describe why, exactly.

“Let’s just go somewhere else,” Will said after a second of silence. He evaded the answer to that question on purpose. He feared what answering it might change.

He began to walk toward the road in front of them, and that felt like a stab to Hannibal’s heart, even if he did not intend to do that.

Hannibal caught up with him, and together they walked to the city hall where the biggest and brightest market took place. Will did not allow Hannibal to slip his hand into his this time. He was afraid.

On the way, they got hungry. It were hours since breakfast, after all. Hannibal knew everything, tasted everything, and Will was a case of the opposite. Everything was quite new to him – Christmas markets in New Orleans or Washington really were not the same.

He wished to try a bite of everything, once the anxiety allowed him to relax again.

Being familiar with all tastes of Vienna, Hannibal resorted to a stand with steaming baked potatoes that informed everyone of the place of their origin by fifty metres, that delicious the smell was. His grandmother used to make him the same dish when he was little, and he has always eaten it when visiting the markets to honour her memory. He told Will that too, this morning.

The same stand also sold Maroni, baked chestnuts. Will had those before, so he obtained a cornet to occasionally steal a piece from while looking for something richer to eat.

Upon an offer of a piece, Hannibal confessed he hated baked chestnuts. That was a first – mark the day, everyone. Really, there were only few things on this world that man would not eat – cup soups or frozen vegetables, for instance – and learning that specialty was among them made Will laugh nearly as much as the roast joke.

“If you really hate baked chestnuts, then I dare you to eat one.”

Will meant it, the look in his eyes told so. Oh, how the roles have reversed.

“No, Will, I am not eating one,” he refused. He was stubborn. So was Will. This could go on for a very long time.

They slowly moved along the rows of stands, carefully dodging other visitors. Will sighted a place where they sold large pretzels of all flavours. The pizza ones looked especially appalling; he would buy one only to have Hannibal complain about his feeding habits of a typical American. Takeaway and fast food snacks above a proper hot meal as he had, he would probably say.

But first, “Yes, Hannibal, you are, and I dare you to. You have to.”

When he received only something as an exasperated pout, Will tried different tactics. “Not a while ago you said – I quote – I would do anything for you, Will. That includes eating a damn chestnut when I tell you to.”

He was actually surprised with himself for an unexpected ability to say that with a solemn face.

Well, that was a bulletproof argument. Hannibal seemed to have no other option than to accept his fate and put that thing in his mouth obediently. He reached for the cornet in Will’s hand, and pulled one nut out.

“Why do you hate them, actually?” Will wanted to know. He took one as well, and made ridiculous yum-yum sounds while chewing solely to annoy him.

“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “I haven’t the faintest idea.” Then, he put the chestnut in his mouth, and bit. The look on his face spoke for itself. A wide smile reached Will’s eyes and beyond.

Will waited for him to swallow, and only then proceeded forward, to the pretzel stand. Hannibal followed hot on his heels with one word “Satisfied?”

The answer to that was simple. “I will be after I buy this giant pizza pretzel and a sugar apple on a stick.”

If the point of the trip was to make them forget about the scars on their bodies and souls and pretend they had a regular life for a while, they could call the mission accomplished as they stood at a small wooden table with a shoe-shaped mug of mulled wine (Will) and a very strong plum-and-chocolate gourmet punch (Hannibal; and it was its actual name) that warmed their gloved hands and looked at the glowing light decorations embellishing the trees that contrasted the dark night sky so wonderfully.

#9dayscwc2016 #hannibal #hannigram #*fanfic #fanfic #christmas #will graham #hannibal lecter

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